John heard the creak of ice, like a dull crack reverberating through one of the maze’s walls. He came around the corner quickly, steam trailing behind. He seemed a short man to John, but then again most did. A strong, square face sported dark hair, close cropped at scalp and chin, which framed eyes that looked stern. John had seen his ilk in a hundred battles. There was a natural confidence, an arrogance, and not the kind that John enjoyed. Though, as he watched his opponent, John caught a glimpse of his equipment. His armor had a piecemeal look to it, as if he’d taken a breastplate of unknown metal from an elvish smith, and taken a silver helmet from some other styling he did not recognize.

John felt a little uneasy. Most men would flinch, some would even cower in fear at the sight of him. Not so much as a flinch marred his face as he continued onwards. John readied himself by commanding his armor, now as much a part of his body as any other. His eyesight went black for a split-second as the metal rose, coating his still-open eyes, and he saw again almost instantly. He still did not know how the metal worked, where it came from, or why he could still see and hear, but for now the fact that it obeyed him was enough.

Though, if he had learned anything by his time in the Citadel, it was to never think he had the upper hand on looks alone. He took a step forward, armor thickening a little on his hands as he raised one in greeting, and a rumble sounded from beyond the courtyard’s outer wall. The growl, if it could be called a growl, died down, and he named himself to the smaller man.

“I am John,” He voiced simply. “Shall we begin?”

The half-giant knocked one fist on top of the other a few times, which had become more ritual than confirmation that his armor was solid, but still, it marked the beginning of the fight in his mind. He approached slowly, deliberately, holding out a large hand ready just in case.