Round 1 Newcomer: Callan Vs Ulrich Craggenmoor

[Silence Sei]

Battle begins tonight at Midnight CST. Good luck!

[Ulrich Craggenmoor]

The heavy wooden doors closed behind Ulrich as he stepped into the first circle of the arena. The final click of their movement. Locking them behind his back. Soon, a victor and a looser would leave through those same doors. Turning from the majestic carvings that sealed his exit, Ulrich Turned to the first circle of his arena. The monks had built everything to his preference.

Even the swirling blue whirlwind, taking up the majority of the arena and stretching into the abyss of above was done to the finest detail. When He had been told that the plans would be lifted straight from his imagination Ulrich had been sceptical. Almost convinced that wires would be crossed and some of his wilder and wetter dreams would be playing out in front of him. In a battle of will power, he would not have won.

But it was not his wildest, nor wettest dream before him. It was a test of skill. A test of mettle. A test of courage.

Ulrich's stride carried him forward and he penetrated the raging blue winds as if they were the fine mist of a mid-summer morning. The tails of the leather trench-coat flew backwards as he approached and vanished through the winds.

His vision blurred for a moment and as he continued his walking pace, Ulrich arived in the eye of the vortex. Remarkably calm, surrounded by twisting, racing blue winds. In the centre of the circle. Sat the true arena. Two remarkably ornate thrones. Each carved from a single piece of akashiman red wood. A small stone table raised at a comfortable height sat between them.

Moving closer, Ulrich was pleased to note the figures on top of the chequered surface. Two rows of eight seperate pieces each. One row, the far end: ornate white pieces carved from bleached bone. And his, Carved from the deep black and purple of volcanic obsidian.

He had arrived first. So Ulrich got the choice between the pieces. And he chose black.

First move.

But it was good sportsmanship to await your opponent. So he did, leaning back into the throne, he waited. Unknowing who his opponent was or how good the conversation was going to be.

Chess really was the finest test man knew.

[Callan]

The gale was the color of a placid lake in summer: bright and blue. But placid it was not; the violent winds swirled together and apart like a thousand waves breaking upon each other from all directions simultaneously, and the Fallien that stood before them could see no deeper into them than he could into the waters of a phantom oasis from his desert homeland. His silver eyes picked up the hue of the tempest and seemed more light blue than gray. An aura of calm emanated from the lean swordsman as he observed the storm in front of him, but it took no small amount of self control to keep his full lips from curling into a smile. His body tingled. He could not help but to hope the coming battle would be as vicious as the winds, and it was battle that he craved.

When the monks told him that his opponent had already chosen the arena Callan Blacksnake had merely shrugged and nodded in acceptance. He came to the Citadel for a challenge, and what better challenge was there then to fight on your foe's terms instead of your own? As he followed the robed figure down the hall he decided that this same monk had shown him to his arena the last time he had come; although the monks looked nearly identical, Callan felt he was slowly becoming able to tell them apart. But he made no remark. Never had he seen someone act as though acquainted with a monk, and he was not sure if it was some kind of faux pas to do so. Besides, he was not usually in a terribly friendly mood when he visited the Citadel and today was no exception.

After walking through the solid oak doors and gazing long into the blue zephyr and seemingly infinite abyss above it, he made his way forward into the whirlwind. The strong gusts made his russet hair flutter. Currently longer than the tan Fallien usually let it grow, the wind caused it to forsake the hasty part Callan had pushed it into earlier. He could scarcely see his feet upon entering the cerulean void, and after only a few steps he could see nothing.

He paused. It was rather calming, in a way; he felt as though he was in that surreal state that was neither sleep nor wakefulness but the peaceful in-between. Except instead of midnight black he was surrounded by vibrant sky. In that instant of combined bliss and numbness his hand reached almost unconsciously to adjust the dark woolen scarf around his neck. The fluttering winds had pushed it askew, revealing a ripple of uneven flesh that snaked across his throat: a scar from his adolescence both physical and emotional. A moment later he realized how silly it was of him to lose his focus; his opponent could be launching an assault at any moment. Forcing his mind back to the task at hand, he trudged on a few more yards before emerging into the tranquil midpoint of the maelstrom.

It was surprisingly quiet here, and his cloak stopped fluttering almost immediately. Before him stood two large thrones, resplendent in their decoration, sitting across from each other with a strange stone plinth between. A man near his age sat in one. Pleasure seemed to cross the human's face as he noted the figures on the board, and Callan diverted his attention to them for a moment. He gave them no more than a cursory glance before approaching the opposite throne and taking a seat. The thought of trying to attack the man without warning had scarcely crossed the swordsman's mind; it was not much of a challenge if his opponent were dead before the battle even begun.

He looked again at the pieces in front of him - purest white nearest him and darkest violet farther away - and let a brief wrinkle of worry touch his brow, dipping the corners of his mouth into a frown momentarily. Then he resumed a look of boredom, and glanced back up towards the man across from him. He sat with his elbow on the right arm of his throne and one leg thrown over the edge of the left arm. From his slouch he gazed at his opponent for a few seconds before finally speaking.

"So, what's with the funny trinkets?" he asked, giving a rough nod at the game pieces before him.

[Ulrich Craggenmoor]

Ulrich's eyes moved with the stranger from the moment the winds parted to reveal him. All the bravado and strut reminded the Professional wizard of old bullies picking on the smaller kids at school. Ulrich had not been a large child and had been reminded of it on several occasions, all leading him to magic. To where he is now, sitting in a throne ready to take a game of chess with an allocated opponent. One which he was watching very carefully from under the brim of his hat.

His the confidant warrior sat in the remaining space and as Ulrich sat, feet down with his hands clasped just below his nose. The stranger sat, almost laying, disrespectfully across the grand furniture as Ulrich let a sigh out under his breath. A glassy stare and flat look of boredom was not what he had in mind when he had left an open challange in the citadel. But he would make do. They stared for a moment, Ulrich assessing his opponent, Callan Probably itching for some... physical exertion.

"So, what's with the funny trinkets?"

Callan requested of the exquisitely carved pieces in front of him. In response, Ulrich dropped his hat to the side of the wooden throne and leaned closer to the marble stone chess plinth. The Drab brown hair of his opponent framed a strong face built in combat. Not the mental capacity of a spell caster. It was however supposed to be both a competition and a character builder, this...game. Used to forge great leaders of men. To build relationships. Wars had been avoided by this game of war.

Ulrich couldn't believe that his opponent didn't know what it was.

"These are chess pieces. On a chess board. This is, actually, a game of chess."

He paused for a moment to let that sink in with his opponent. No fighting or any physical contact of any kind was aloud. There would be no need for it. A physical contest was too messy with vague victories occurring when one was too exhausted to continue. Chess was a competition of a higher level. Ending the instant an opponent had the strongest upper hand possible. All in all, a cleaner challenge, don't you think? The flat look from Callan spoke otherwise and in volumes. It spoke of an unwillingness the wizard hadn't expected. One that birthed another sigh from his lungs.

"I am Ulrich Craggenmoor. And If this is your first game of chess. It would be an honour to teach you the game."

He took a breath there. In part to plan the rest of the speech and in part to create a dramatic pause.

"Chess is a war game, Of strategy and sacrifice. Of reading a battlefield and Knowing when to strike. It is a game played by generals and leaders. And of course it is well mannered to know your opponent's name, Mr...?"

Callan's response was quick, curt and to the point. Ulrich had obviously not stopped speaking. The warrior offered his name from his relaxed posture on the wooden throne. One which would grow slowly more and more uncomfortable as the body would protest and soon cry out at the awkward angles the rigid arm rests provided.

Ulrich watched Callan over the top of his fingers, peaked on level with his nose. He wished to make a quick move and relocate a piece, likely his knight, to a stronger position. But first was a brief description of each piece that stood waiting for Callan's command. Their strengths and weaknesses. How those traits were represented in how they moved. Each piece completely different from another, each one individually just as strong as the rest but when wielded well, the whole became stronger than the sum of their parts and of course one piece moved per turn.

His short lesson lasted a good few minutes. The winds around and above them swirled and wrapped around them patiently for the game to begin and once Ulrich was certain he had passed over the use of each piece and how they acted on the board he was content to make his first move. He was content to start the game.

"First move is goverened by who has what set. Black gets to position first, but white gets to react."

He moved. With the confidence of a game played a hundred times before. Dark obsidian horseman lept up the board on it's crooked path. Pulling Ulrich's strategy out from conception and slowly into reality.

[Callan]

It took no slight amount of effort to keep a level expression while listening to the other man ramble on. Callan's quick assessment earlier had given him the distinct impression his opponent was a wizard, and after the figure repeated the word "chess" three times and paused the swordsman was damn near sure of it. In his many encounters with magicians in his quest to learn more about his odd mental powers, he'd gotten a somewhat bitter taste in his mouth for those gifted in the arcane.

While some were certainly scholars beyond measure, and others could be nothing less than prodigies in their magical craft, they almost invariably seemed to lack a sort of real, raw intelligence. Not quite common sense, just a basic helping of logic and... situational clarity. They were able to make miraculous discoveries through experiments, and were able to deduce some obscure laws of magic from something that might seem trivial to an unpracticed eye, but they rarely seemed to truly be cogent of anything outside of their internal monologue.

And so Callan continued to listen with clearly feigned interest as Ulrich explained the importance of the game of chess. When asked his name, the Fallien gave only his first name in a voice dripping with a need for combat and blood. The wizard resumed his lengthy discourse - Callan had found even the most anti-social of magicians would not spare anyone the chance to demonstrate how much more knowledgeable they considered themselves - and the swordsman resumed his empty gaze at the board.

He stifled a yawn partway through, bringing his hand first to his mouth and then making a sort of waving motion at Ulrich to signal him not to stop the lovely tutorial. Eyes wandering from piece to piece, he affected a slightly studious gaze as he was explained the movement of each piece. His brow nearly rose when Ulrich said that black moves first, but Callan forced his facial expression to stay as it was. The Fallien merely nodded and settled back into his lounging position, having leaned forward briefly while listening to the wizards instructions.

A sigh escaped his lips as the first piece was moved. Secretly he had hoped that somehow this battle would not really turn out to be a simple game of chess. Most Citadel battles in which he'd partaken had been ones of physical or magical skill, and he'd expected a tournament to be no different. Perhaps he had overlooked the contest's name - he had not interpreted it to mean a tourney only for magi. Besides, even then he would have expected fights of cataclysmic mystical strength, not chess. Being smote by a massive column of molten earth would have been preferable to this.

"Well then, the first move must be very important," he said, trying to sound like he was trying to sound erudite. He gritted his teeth and furrowed his brow in concentration, looking at each of his pieces in turn. He decided the best course of action was not to aim for a strong initial position, but one that would make Ulrich overextend himself. Callan thought it would not be terribly difficult to bait the magician, as so far it had seemed the magus had believed his every word and action.

Perhaps a minute or two later, the swordsman decided he might as well get some form of practice in so as not to completely waste his time. With a few nods, as if confirming his reasoning to himself, he shifted slightly in his chair to reach a more comfortable lounging position, and rested his hands together in his lap. Mentally, he slid his dagger out from its sheathe - now sorely tempted to ram it into the arrogant wizard's throat, challenge be damned - and let it glide gracefully through the air towards the board. He had considered accidentally scraping the fine wood of the thrones, both to further his image of incompetence and to further annoy Ulrich, but could not resist showing off a little bit himself.

He let the dagger drop unaided from a few feet above the board, only gravity affecting its fall, before catching it with mental finesse only a few hairs' breadths above the ornate game board. He pushed the small white piece in his front row second from the far left with his iron blade. After moving it only one square forward, he withdrew his weapon after considering knocking over all the pieces (on accident, of course) and began to pick his fingernails once he'd snatched it from the air with his right hand.

"That's how the, er... pond moves right? It is pond right? Sort of a silly name, if you ask me," the Fallien asked, face upturned in question as he gestured towards his pawn.

Callan had not truly appreciated how much he enjoyed charades until this moment.

[Max Dirks]

Callan advances to Round Two!

Ulrich Craggenmore is still alive in the Loser's Bracket.