Battle Royale

[Landen]

The event was going to be massive. Landen had been putting up flyers throughout Corone for a battle royale. The event was going to be epic or at least such was the plan. He felt pumped up to say the least. More so, he had waited for what seemed like a millennium. The day had finally arrived. He was heading over to the Citadel as this very moment. Moving at a much quicker pace then he traveled at before. The male was nearly running to get where he was going…

As he arrived at the giant open circle of cobblestone where many fighters hung out and sparred from time to time. Landen ran straight to the monk as he wrote his name down for a match. Looking up at the monk in without even a wrinkle of imperfection in his clothing he spoke, “I’m here for the battle royale.” Landen spoke a hurried fashion. His voice a bit high pitched. To say he was ready was a understatement. He would have marked days on a calendar had he had one to do such. Without needing a guiding hand or a gesture of coming forward, he walked past the wooden stand toward green portal as soon as it opened up. Jumping though the green light he arrived amazed at what he seen next.

Landen had been placed in the center of the stone arena. Every corner of the room had a symbol to which represented a basic element carved into a massive pillar. The center of what he was sure was a fifty foot in diameter room he a wooden spinning arena. There was nearly twenty foot slowly rotating wheel of craziness for fighting. He noticed quickly that nearly every three second he heard a tick and the wooden circle on the floor would rotate roughly three foot. This would make a huge difference in the experience of this battle. Landen would stand to the side at this looking around at the four walls. Each wall seemed to tell a story of previous battles of both losing and great victories. He wished they could talk to him. The stories each wall had to tell he betted was a wild and well remember story for being’s of that time period.

After he finally took a moment to let the scenery sink in he replaced the random thoughts of different art work, stories on the walls, and extra bits of craftsmanship. Landen’s face turned serious from this point forward. His attire was as he normally wore. His light colored blue jeans, purple and white button down long sleeve shirt and nike shoes. Landen pushed a hand through his black head of hair as pondered what he should do next. Before his brain could process what to do next a simple group of text appeared on the wall.

“Landen, Izvilvin, Rosie Vs Aelin Valth, Vendredi, Elite Optic”

This Landen assume was the other embers in the fight. Although he had no idea how to tell who was on his team just from a name on the wall. Just as he wondered this the green portal begun shining bright once again.


(OOC:I did not add redford's name yet. I'm still making sure we can get another for him to join.)

[Hailwing Of The Citadel]

"B-B-B-B-But I'm sorry!" cried the youth.

Towering above him with eyes as angry as only a parent could achieve, the boy's Father did all he could to contain his fury. His boy, little Fraser, with his drippy nose and wooden practice sword, had signed up for the battle royale advertised this month at the Citadel. Little Fraser often spent time at the Citadel, watching the adults as they went to and from battles. His Father knew that idolizing the fighters was incredibly common, for he had done the same as a lad.

But Papa Fraser pulled up his belt and settled himself. He'd let this go on far enough - it was of course possible for children to register for battles and practice against fully grown men, and Little Fraser had done exactly that. Fencing lessons at nine years old sounded fully reasonable at the time, but the thoughtless whelp had signed up to a multi-person melee! Regardless of what happened, Little Fraser would be returned to him physically alive and well, but the idea of his boy being pummeled into dust and scarred for life was out of the question.

Papa sighed deeply. This event was heavily advertised, spectators would be able to watch using the Citadel monks' portals.

"Can't you do something?" he asked, exasperated. He and his tiny compatriot were by one of the many desks, speaking to an attendant. "My boy is nine years old, he just started class three weeks ago, he didn't know what he was doing when he signed up. Don't parents have to sign a waiver for kids this young, anyway?"

The monk, bald and wearing long beige robes, pondered it for a moment. "If you can find a replacement..." he began, and Papa Fraser was already looking about.

There were plenty of fighters around, speaking to one another or psyching themselves up for a coming battle. Papa observed a bearded barrel of a man, at least six and a half feet tall, with a double-bladed battleaxe on his back. The idea of Little Fraser coming to a brief end due to such a blade!

Beyond the din and near the entrance of the lobby, statues stood. An idea came to his mind, for Papa Fraser was something of a knowledgeable man, and studied wherever he went. These were stand-ins, really, representations of warriors whom individual fighters could elect to face in an arena of their choice.

"One of them!" he exclaimed, turning back to the monk and pointing excitedly.

Pondering again, the monk considered the idea. "Which one?"

"Any!" Papa Fraser bellowed, and his frustration brought attention from many of the nearby gladiators.

A moment passed between them, a pause deliberately lengthened by the monk, who found their exchange amusing. Finally, he declared: "Very well."

Papa Fraser, relieved, nearly backhanded his foolish son for almost getting himself killed.

Just moments later Hailwing appeared in the Citadel arena, surrounded in swirling blue lights which took him from lifelessness into reality. He blinked and stretched, adjusting to life, and peered over to see Landen just meters from his side.

"Landen," he greeted. "My greetings."

[Rosie]

There was a roar in audience as each member of today’s contest walked through the portals to the arena. The audience was like a collective consciousness of on views to the fight. They roared with anticipation for the match that was soon to be under way. But for our young telepath they didn’t scream purely with their voices, their thoughts cried out just as audibly.

”And here comes our next contestant,” the announcer cried out pumping up the arena. “Rosie Algose Heurassein, the bitter sweet blossom of today’s fight!” There was a slight growl of from the stands as a small framed girl emerged onto the plain. She wore a red cloak over black colored garbs with her shoulder length blonde hair tied tight in a ponytail. There was a glare cast from her thick red rimmed glasses as she strolled up to the circular platform. She carried with her a tome of sorts and a sack hanging from her shoulder. Underneath her crimson cloak was hidden three small blades yet none would be the wiser that she was armed.

Rosie, how come they let a girl into the arena? She doesn’t stand a chance against the brutes. What was she thinking signing up for this she’s gonna get herself killed. We payed good money to see a fight, not a scrawny dandelion.

Rosie could hear the all that was the collective disapproval that plagued the audiences mind. She knew it was going to happen; it was true after all she was small. Maybe even a bit scrawny now a days living on the run. Yeah she wore glasses, yeah they looked cute as shit. But all that doesn’t matter, she was just as good as a fighter as the next run of the mill blade jockey. A cold bead of sweat dripped from her blonde brow and raced down her face as she stepped onto the rotating platform. She waved to the others that were already in the ring.

“I guess that’s all of us, its nice to meet you two.” She said in the softest voice she could. She stood about five feet and one inch and was easily dwarfed by the other two fighters. But that didn’t bother her, after all she had been the shortest of her family her whole life. She often laughed thinking that she actually had a more level view of her surrounding from down here.

It didn’t take long for here to establish psychic tethers to both the statue and Landen; it was her specialty of course. She could feel their minds race with anticipation for the others to make the field. Softly and as not to alarm her allies she communicated with them in a way she was only capable of.

Okay gentlemen listen very carefully, she sent telepathically to her allies. We are all telepathically connected thought me, as long as we keep communication strictly to thought than we will have an advantage. I will be focused on reading the other team and relaying to you what I gather, it’s not much but it may save you from taking a preventable hit.

After finishing her prefight instructions on how to fight with a telepath as you teammate she turned outward to face her opponents as the graced the field.

[Aelin Valth]

For Aelin, talk of swords and knighthood began as a dream. Childhood aspirations toward heroism began with sticks in the cobblestone path outside his home in Tylmerande. What few friends he had spent their days flailing madly toward one another with high spirits and fiendish adrenaline rushes, then returned to their scolding mothers bruised and bloody. He cherished those memories of days when all of them were young and the world seemed so magnificent.

He still remembered lashes on his arms and back from overzealous and angry strikes and the laughs that came when the pain subsided. For Aelin, it had always been just that: a dream, and nothing more. He bled for fun, but he never imagined he would bleed with real steel. It never occurred to the youth that he might be forced to face anyone in real combat.

His stern gaze moved over the battlefield with undue intensity, far more severe than anything he could manage to inflict otherwise. "Remind me again why you chose me to represent the Knights in a mêlée?" The skepticism in his voice reverberated through the small room only to be swallowed by laughter.

"You are no warrior, I know that, Initiate Valth." The Lady Bethany wore an expression of gentle mirth as she watched the silver haired boy fidget uncomfortably under her scrutiny. "There is far more to a Knight than his martial prowess, and you show a great deal of promise in ways that the others do not."

Her answer only offered more questions, but Aelin accepted it. She would not give him any better. "Very well," the Pyromancer conceded. He wore leather and cloth where most of his brothers-at-arms stood in proper plate or mail. Aelin looked every bit the green boy that most fledgling adventurers did, but he was far from robust. The weapon at his hip seemed more ornamental than imposing.

"You're certainly going to look out of place," Bethany commented with a smirk.

"I appreciate your saying so," Aelin retorted dryly.

His superior offered only a dismissive gesture in answer, and the doors behind him rattled open. The opposite team stood together already, waiting for their prey to stumble into view. Aelin could only oblige as he strode forward and closed his eyes, allowing himself to breathe. There would be no escape from this test but death.

Victory, perhaps, but more than likely death. Aelin had few delusions about how well he might do or how much use he might be to the others. Confidence was something he found in books. Understanding and knowledge where the edges of his blades. The world still seemed amazing in those pages, the way it had when he was young.

In the written word, Aelin could be anything he wanted. It was far greater than the poor reality life had set before him.

"...Representing the Order of Arcane Knights, Initiate Aelin Valth!" There were uneasy sounds from the audience when his name came, and snorts of humor when they saw the boy. A chorus of "boo!" and "get out of the arena!" harrowed the fledgling knight as he force marched himself to the proving ground.

Eyes downcast, he let them flitter shut and closed out everything else. "It's going to be fine, Aelin," he murmured, "it's going to be just fine."

[Vendredi]

He came earlier than he had to, because in the early morn there were no crowds, and Fii was as fond of large crowds as he was of drowning these days.

Or in other words: not so much.

Earlier in the morning, he had slipped through the Citadel quietly, another head in a temple of men, another face in a measly crowd. He had spoken to a monk softly, stepped through a portal, and found himself in this chamber, alone. Early. Too early. He had surveyed the arena, taken a good long look at the disk on the floor, and then found a shaded spot behind one of the pillars to watch. He faded into the background and fidgeted with his sleeves.

For some time, it was Fii alone with his thoughts. That was before the audience had began to grew like a swelling cancer.

Fii hadn’t expected the event to be so big, or else he would not have put his name down at all.

Three days ago, he had passed by the Citadel on a whim and penned down his name for an event on a mad urge. The participants were nameless, fameless, faceless -- newcomers, the whole lot of them. The decision was made on a spur of the moment, propelled by a sense of senseless recklessness. Recklessness that had him in its taloned grips since he discovered that he could not die. Recklessness that had driven him to try things that he never otherwise would have.

The audience grew as the morning went on, from a handful of watchers in the seats to a full blown crowd. They laughed. They yelled. They were loud. Their eyes pricked at Fii uncomfortably, even though the youth was sure that he was hidden. Hellebore would have loved this audience, but Hellebore was an actress, and audiences were her trade. A good thief performed for no one but himself. You’re not much of one anymore. A thief who performed in front of an audience was either a fool or soon to be dead.

The noise frayed at his nerves. It was hard to be still. It was hard to hear his own mind.

Then the participants began trailing in one by one, and that bled his attention away from the crowd a little. He watched them carefully. A boy. A moving statue. A small girl. Another… what? Knight? This one was potentially on his side. None had looked his way so far. He was still hidden behind the pillar. That suited Fii just fine.

His fingers twitched at his side, and darted towards the dagger hilts on his belt. That soothed him and stilled his fidgeting hands. They were still waiting for another. There were six names on that list.

Time to test your mettle, fool.

[Elite Optic]

"I'm bored...Give me something to do."

Elite moaned like a puppy dog, an innate desire to find something of interest, to be purposeful and achieve something worthwhile. He leaning in low towards the bold and unfazed monk who scrolled rather causally through any listings for pre-set fights or those awaiting a duel. Elite felt like he had little patience for once, he had been stirring with nothing to do lately, and waiting for such a small smug man was irritating.

"We have a knight arriving in a few hours, who thus far has no opponent."

Elite clenched his free fist. "Too long, maybe later if I'm still bored."

"We have a young apprentice in an hour, he is looking or a three-way battle, and there's still a spot left."

Elite stood still, staring at the robed man with the same two burning eyes, as they burned a little brighter and furious, it he didn't need real eyes to display what he was feeling. Even with his large stature of hardened bone and fearsome appearance, the monk barely noticed. His eyes skimming the same script, relaxed and caring not for the beast that stood before him.

elite couldn't help but imagine the man's skull pierced on his own skull rack. If only this place wasn't so powerfully protected by the monks, an irritant such as this man would be displayed proudly on his own rear display.

Then, the heavy footsteps of a large bulky man approached form behind. The bulky man, armed and prepared or battle. Overweight, but not overly so, he looked rather taken back by Elite's apparence within the waiting room. Now stood beside one another, the man leaned against the table before the monk.

"Gord here, arriving for the battle royal. Looking at extending my winning streak!" He smirked as he tightened his belt. "I'm not...you know, facing this am I?"

The man indicated with a little head tilt towards Elite as he spoke directly to the monk.

"No, this one is looking for a battle."

Elite snarled. "You have got to be kidding me? This man is clearly ill...And fat..."

The man took a step back for a moment, a little surprised not only by its speech but its accusation of him being overweight. "I'll have you know I've won three in row!"

His hand reached out and pointed at Elite, suddenly fearless and full of confidence he stepped back towards the giant skeleton.


Elite didn't like him already. "I admire your confidence, however..."

Suddenly, by the man's own foolishness to stand so close. Elite reached out and slammed his heavy hand down on the man's head. He wobbled, his eyes crossed, then rolled back as he tipped backwards and collapsed on the floor unconscious. The heavy man slapped the stone floor with a thud, and Elite stood almost awkwardly next to the monk who remained in full view of their little argument.

"Yes, this man is clearly ill." The monk chuckled. "Please replace him."

Elite stepped over the large man, then walked down the small corridor. The portal to the arena awaiting him. He gripped the hilt of his large sword tightly, resting it across his bone rack across his back. He caught a slight reflection of himself in the shiny portal then stepped through into the arena.

Excellent, I look glorious...