There's about to be a....Glove Fight!

[Zack Blaze]

((Closed to Ranger))

"Well, this is certainly interesting," Zack said as he looked at the room the monks of Ai'Borne chose for him and his foe. Grains of sand bit at the street fighter's face like ants that threatened to strip his flesh away. The moon hung high overhead with a full glow that illuminated the dunes and ruins that stretched for miles. A cold wind chilled the brawler down to the spine despite the thick jacket that covered his upper body. "This isn't Fallien, but damn if it's not eeriely similar."

His opponent was some guy who thought he could outsmart the master manipulator with a challenge of fisticuffs in the citadel. The prize they fought for was a pair of gloves that the two tried to outbid one another for at the Auction House. The winner of the fight would get the gloves, and half the money that went towards the purchase of the enchanted item while the loser was left without their prize and with a little less coin to weigh them down. It was a true high stakes game for the two combatants.

He ran both of his hands through his hair to shake out the sand that sneaked its way onto his head. The cool wind upon his wrists was a relief as opposed to the handcuffs that the Dark Elves of Alerar kept upon him nearly all the time. He looked at his hands and saw that the cold steel of the shackles still left red imprints upon his skin, a reminder that even though he had this freedom for this fight, he was still the steam country's prisoner.

He rolled his shoulders as the sound of a rumble was carried upon the winds of the desert setting. "Let's hope this guy doesn't drag his feet."

[Ranger]

The island nation of Corone was as eclectic and rambunctious as I had been told it would be. The entire journey across the ocean from Raiaera had been filled with anecdotes and sagas of the islands storied past. Sailor’s accounts told with the roll of the dice and passing of coin fueled my imagination, the steady gait of the ship bringing us ever closer to the lands of my ancestors. Over the course of a week I had found myself wandering the major city of Radasanth with no agenda, but had plenty of impromptu activities find me instead. From tavern shenanigans with lively bards and ale bathed afternoons to discreet nights in seedy dens far from the prying eyes of the more proper, the city was a free for all buffet aligned to both the most modest of citizens and those of questionable morality. I leaned more towards the latter, but it was an afternoon at the Bazaar that had brought me to fully appreciate the culture.

Raiaera was a land filled with mousy looking high-elves so caught up in their own past glories they failed to grasp what the world had to offer. It was a culture with an underlying flaw born of near immortality, one steeped in tradition and so engrossed in habitual daily life it had become stagnant and weakened by the expected. When the world had turned upside down with the Forgotten’s rise, Raiaera had nearly fallen on its own blunted sword. Corone, on the other hand, was an ever adapting, never yielding, cauldron of differing ideology and philosophy. It was through the chaos and very spirit of humanity that the strength to weather the storms of adversity and hardship was built.

Being a half-elf, my mother’s elven culture had been all I knew, but it was my father’s native nation that called to me.

After a spat at the local auction house, I found myself standing before the hallowed halls of one of the most traditional locations in the entirety of Corone. The Citadel was a centuries old center of combat, one that was the focus of many stories I had heard of in my travels. I had been told of the mystic order of the Ai’Bron monks and their capabilities. Goosebumps followed in the wake of a shiver of anticipation thinking of the pleasure of combat I was going to experience, all for the pursuit of a pair of gloves. Only humans would be so prone to put their lives on the line for such petty reasons – and the monastic order of healers were more than willing to oblige the indulgence.

The brown robes of the Ai’Bron roamed the hallways and antechamber of the Citadel, some moving lethargically as if without a care in the world, others darting to and fro. A thick wave of humidity rolled over me as I entered, the scent of blood and sweat thick on the air. Hundreds of people filled the building from wall to wall, creating an atmosphere that was so tense it was palpable. People followed monks to long hallways, I assumed to head to the rooms to fight. Others placed bets in different sides of the room, one side for those placing wagers on the spectacles they were about to witness, the other side for warriors to place value on their prowess. If it had not been for the serpent scale gloves and a fifteen hundred coin purse already on the line I might have been inclined to take part.

Like a giddy boy sneaking a sweet tart from the table, I made my way to the nearest monk with a mischievous smirk plastered across my face. It seemed my opponent had already made arrangements for our bout, a room readied and waiting. The monk briskly scurried his way through the halls with me on his heels, I was already past fashionably late arriving.

I closed my eyes when I stepped through the threshold, light burst and faded almost immediately, magic filling the room like an overflowing mug of ale. As the gentle caress of a bright moon and the dry winds brushed my face, I opened my eyes. Gripping my guandao more tightly, I was ready to fight but the creation took my breath for a moment. It was an entirely different world. A sea of dunes swept endlessly to the horizon and beyond, and the sparkle of ancient stars was so eerily replicated it reminded me of my Bladesinger training in the Black Desert. If the sands had been tinted a deeper gray I would have believed that I had stepped into the Rin Ugarth itself. Manners forgotten in place of awe, I completely ignored the heavy-set man with whom I was to do battle.

[Zack Blaze]

The appearance of his foe caused Zack to shift his feet around and sink his form just a little deeper into the sand. Granules scattered into the air as the street fighter rolled his shoulders and tightened his hands into fists. He focused upon his fair white skin, golden locks, and ephemeral eyes and could not help but think of his opponent as some sort of fairy tale princess from old bedtime stories. The elf seemed immersed in his surroundings while Zack gauged just what strengths his foe could possibly have.

High Elf by the ears, obviously. Judging by the elaborate embroidery on his clothes, must be either a noble or a Bladesinger. Need to watch out for his voice. Straight standing posture, probably a long time soldier, or he thinks he's got this battle already won. Or both. That bow he's got on him will make closing distance hard, especially in this sand. I have to stay on my toes for this one.

The awkward hoot of a distant owl brought Zack out of his assesment and back to the matter at hand. The street fighter brought his hand up towards his mouth and let out a loud cough. The sound brought the High Elf's attention towards the warrior. Blaze shifted his feet once again to maneuver out of his grainy shackles and bounced up and down. "Seems you like the detail I brought into this place. I really appreciate that, I really do, but I think it's better we settle this matter between us before we start with the pleasantries and pastries, wouldn't you say? By the way, the name is Zack Blaze, the 'Terror of Eiskalt' and criminal convicted of genocide. You are?"

Zack brought a thumb across his nose while he continued to bounce. He needed to keep his heels above the sand rather than submerged in it. With an opponent of this caliber, the brawler knew this would be no easy match. He threw some punches and jabs into the wind and hoped his opponent was at least a bit intimidated by name recognition alone. All the while electricity began to snap and fizzle in the palms of the fighter, hidden from view by his fingers.