The finals will begin Friday at 12 AM EST. Good Luck!
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The finals will begin Friday at 12 AM EST. Good Luck!
“Lornius,” Chumley said to himself, marching down the main drag of a dingy, half-abandoned city on the edge of the continent. “A place that knows how to keep its secrets. A place the world forgot.” A drunken transient fell in his path, and Chumley daintily stepped over him, ignoring his pleas for spare change. Traveling through this worthless plot of land, he had gotten used to the jobless, the homeless, and the witless. He remembered a day when he would have stopped to share the Good Word with the fellow before moving on, but those days were past. Lornius did things to a man… bad things, things that only God would forgive, and even then only just barely. Chumley passed a crowd of men, straining to make their way towards a rusty gate marked with signs that were too blackened with age and grime to read.
”My boy,” Chumley called out to a gutter rat who was chewing a wad of tobacco for sustenance, “Are all those fine gentlemen headed towards the finals of the Lornius Corporate Challenge?” The child looked at him for a few seconds and then turned to spit a jet of slimy liquid before replying.
“Is that the tournament that nobody showed up for?” he whistled through the open space where a younger boy had knocked out his front teeth with a dead cat. “No, I think they’re all catching a ship out of here to see the next round of The Cell!” Chumley nodded sagely and continued on his way, tossing the boy a metal slug. “He won’t find out it’s a dime for a few minutes at least,” Chumley thought to himself, chuckles rumbling in his chest. He had received the slug as change after buying a lobster dinner in the town that turned out to be poorly disguised goat flank.
He continued along the street, seeing no businesses but obvious fronts for organized crime and bingo parlors. An old Jewish man approached him, locks swaying, muttering something in Yiddish, but Chumley slapped him away with a swift backhand. Openly, he blamed his dreary surroundings for his recent ill-temper, but deep in his heart he knew that wasn’t the real reason. Before him loomed the finals round of the LCC, and he had no idea why he was in it. As far as he could tell, he had no discernible talent for fighting, everyone he had met in this wretched place except for Ranger hated him, and he kept losing his battles. A woeful lack of preparation for or knowledge of what lay ahead blackened his thoughts and sickened his soul. He didn’t care if he won; after all, he had entered the tournament almost by mistake, signing a sheet of paper that he thought was a petition to re-legalize dueling. Now, ironically enough, he was locked in mortal combat without end.
“Oh direct characterization,” he laughed to himself. “What innermost thoughts won’t you reveal?”
Ahead of him, where the street dead-ended for no reason in a muddy, lopsided cul-de-sac, another milling mass of men was gathered. Chumley was more irritated by the poor design of the city than the prospect of pushing through all these people. The whole place was an amalgamation of half-measures, half-jobs and half-baked ideas. With great effort, he had managed to dig up a map of the continent, but it seemed to have been drawn by a buffoon who had no sense of scale or geography, and explained nothing about the place to him. Sighing heavily, Chumley reached the edge of the crowd and began nudging his way through, excusing himself profusely at each sneer or disgusting look. After a few fruitless minutes, a young lad, dressed in a burlap sack with a rope for a belt, leapt up and shoved a sheet of paper and a quill in his face.
“Sign the petition?” He barked, and Chumley, repulsed, signed the thing just to get him to back off. “Thanks so much,” the lad said. “For signing the petition to eject Chumley from the finals of the LCC!”
“WHAT?” Chumley cried, grabbing the boy by the ear and twisting it. Yelping, the young man squirmed and kicked, knocking down people all around, until an incredibly old man with ‘In case of heart failure, do not resuscitate’ written on a sign hanging from his neck, appeared, leaning on two canes and giving Chumley an evil look.
“So it’s you, is it?” He said, acidly. “Perhaps you don’t remember me. I am the Assistant to the Sitting Supervisor of Harrying, Accusations and Treatises, of the Althanas Purity Society.” Chumley did some computations in his head as he released the boy and smiled.
“So I guess that makes you the ASSHAT?” he quipped anachronistically. Dead silence responded. Even the crickets stopped chirping. A man began sobbing quietly in the distance. The old man sneered.
“You’ll find jokes don’t fare well here,” he said, coughing up part of his lung as dry as Sahara sand. “And yes, my society has been circulating a petition to eject you from the tournament for some time, now. Your actions have been a disgrace to the LCC and you don’t belong in it! What with your singing, your dancing, your ‘comedy’ routines. Who do you think you are, Bob Hope?” Chumley gave him a blank look.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand the reference,” he said, and the old man cringed.
“Just as I suspected!” he crowed. “You’ll go to any length to ruin one of the best tournaments ever!”
“I read that in the promotional materials,” Chumley replied, nodding and pulling out a brochure with ‘Lornius: Its Sights and Smells’ written across it. “But I stopped by the Cell a few days ago and I must say, it was a lot better than…”
“SILENCE!” Cried the old man, swinging at him with one cane. He moved so slowly that Chumley actually felt pity for him, and didn’t dodge the agonizingly glacial blow. Like a feather falling on a pillow, it touched his shoulder, and he sighed, resigned, and pretended to be in great pain, moaning and wailing while clutching at his unwounded arm. At that moment, a vast shadow spread over the surrounding crowd, which had shrunken somewhat in boredom. Chumley looked up to see a hot air balloon descending overhead, a rope ladder extending down from the basket. Guy Baptiste had once again come to the rescue. Grinning, he reached up and grabbed the lowest rung.
“Excuse me, my merry men,” He replied. “But I have music to make and dances to dance in the final round of the LCC!” With that, the hot air balloon rose into the air, and the crowd began muttering in astonishment.
“I think not, Chumley!” Cried the old man before collapsing into a coughing fit. But it was too late. Whether he deserved it or not, Chumley was headed for the spectacular finale of a series of forfeited battles. The balloon sailed over hill and dale, through misty fog and between blinding rays of sunlight, between flitting doves and sharp-eyed hawks. Chumley hung in space, introspecting like only an elephant can introspect, thinking about life experiences that really showed the depth of his character. “People always said I was a one-trick pony,” Chumley muttered to himself, remembering once in school when a bully had slapped the back of his head and insulted his clavier playing, “But they’ve always been wrong. And this is my chance to prove it, once and for all, to all of them. Those bullies can’t chase me out of here.”
A surging feeling in his chest alerted the elephant to the fact that the place and time of battle had arrived. As if he, too, felt this call, Guy Baptiste began manipulating the machinery of the balloon, bringing it slowly down from the sky to the earth below. As the balloon neared the ground, Chumley released the rope ladder and hit the ground with a dull thump. Hearing the thud, Guy shot a jet of flame into the silk pocket of air above him and sailed off into the sulfur-tinged sky.
“What, praytell, is this?” Chumley muttered to himself, looking around. He was standing on some kind of wooden platform, its edges shrouded in shadow, no light penetrating the murk surrounding him, nothing visible beyond arm’s length. The elephant had the feeling, not for the first time in this place, that he was utterly alone. All feelings were dashed from his mind as a blinding light struck down upon him from above. Guarding his face, Chumley winced back, his mind reeling, but dared to look between his arms at the scene before him, which had burst into livid color. It was still difficult to see beyond the halo of the spotlight, but he could tell what lay in front of him well enough for his penumbra of loneliness to shatter as a swelling feeling of belonging and certainty flooded his consciousness.
“Why, it’s a concert hall!” he thought to himself gleefully. And indeed it was, albeit empty. He stood at the conductor’s spot, teetering on an old soapbox. Dozens of chairs, instruments laid delicately across their seats, ringed him at his back, and hundreds of empty rows stretched out before him, balconies and presidential boxes hanging from the walls, lights dangling from the ceiling. The curtains were drawn, the air was pregnant, and the room was expectant.
“I wonder how Guy lowered that balloon through the ceiling,” Chumley thought to himself. “No matter. Ranger will soon be here. And with him… the Sons of Terrinore, whoever they are.”
The serenity of the woods was only supplanted by the peace which touched the often troubled soul of the drow prophet. A crown of branches stretched towards the noonday sun, casting an emerald glow on the soft path underfoot. The drow’s silver eyes flickered with thought as the sounds of the noon forest barely rose to his sharp, gray-tinted ears. A worn, calloused hand slowly pushed aside loose strands of hoary hair. Ranger turned at the sound of a deer, jerking away from the broad road. Not even a smile found his face as he moved on, taking slow, light steps.
Before him the forests broke and the picturesque town of Underwood came to the sight of the drow. Time and time again he had been a visitor to the gentle town; time and time again a warm welcome had been extended. Woodsmen walked with armloads of fresh cut oak, the sweet aroma of the wood’s yet drying sap drifting with the soft breeze. Women’s idle chattered mixed with the song of the birds, slowly overtaking it as he grew closer. Small children ran without shoes through the streets, laughing and playing without heed to the world around them.
When Ranger finally came within distance of a few of the first group of women their chatter stopped and smiles replaced their faces. The drow nodded to them politely. The children noticed the approaching figure as they slowed their game, which appeared of running in circles. At first their eyes scanned the curious figure, the fresh black trousers, clean long-sleeve white shirt, and vibrant green vest foreign to them. When the bright silver flair of hair and equally brilliant eyes of the well known prophet were close enough to discern, however, the children squealed in glee.
Underwood’s denizens slowly emerged when the news of the prophet returned. Men clapped his shoulders, women gave joyous salutations, and the children clung to his legs as the others laughed and danced around the crowd of people. Ranger put his rough hands in the shaggy, dirty blonde hair of the children to either side, tossing the mop of hair about. His face was bright with a smile, the sharp cheekbones of his noble features a start contrast to the round human faces around him.
“Ranger! Welcome back!” Some called, cheering on the return of their prophet friend. “We heard much about you!” others called, “And that you were in the finals! With that elephant!”
Eventually the crowd surged towards the Promenade, pulling the drow with them as they assaulted him with titters of laughter and a cacophony of compliments. As the inside of the tavern was filled with the fine people of Underwood Ranger took his time and looked over the town that had sent him on his way to the Lornius Corporate Challenge. It looked much the same, never seeming to actually change anything.
The sturdy redwood beams and walls were still held the lackluster whitewash that they had months before. The tables well worn surfaces yet held the glossy coat that had been fresh the months prior. All in all, the dusty little lumber town was well and showed it. Ranger was glad to see it true. “So what happened? We have heard rumor from passing merchants and travelers alike about the tournament.”
“It is a long story, to say true,” Ranger commented as he picked up a glass of water that the waitress had brought him. He sipped it as a barrage of questions peaked by his few words suddenly overwhelmed him. “I will give it to you all in due time, dear friends. What do you wish to know about the most though; I will give you that for now.”
The answer was an overwhelming desire to know about the finals. Ranger sighed, but the noise went unnoticed with the clamor of the people. In truth the finals was not the interesting part of the tournament for the drow. In truth, none of the tournament itself was interesting, having but one true battle while the rest were decided by those moderating. The inactivity of the tournament and the flukes that had brought the team of Circus to the finals was not what the prophet considered an interesting tale.
But he would grant them their wish nonetheless. “The finals you say?” He took another sip with a smile before beginning. “Our opponents were the honorable and prestigious General Thoracis and the criminal Max Dirks, who formed the team labeled Sons of Terrinore.
“Between the two was amassed a pool of talent that I and Chumley could hardly hope to compare to. I will begin, I suppose, when I walked in and…
<.< -_- >.>
…the opponents we were to be facing were unimpressively late. I had walked through the grand double doors of the amphitheatre with a huff. It was mid-day on the humid island of Lornius, and despite the slightly salt-scented drifting zephyr floating from the ocean I was sweating. My worn clothes had been replaced because of the final round, the tattered rags I had been wearing having been, quote “inappropriate for a LCC finalist”. I was a pair of leather boots much like my old, worn pair. Tucked into those were my black trousers. Covering my torso was a tight white shirt, long sleeved but loose at the elbows and above that was the black leather jerkin studded with steel.
Thankfully all of it had cost half as much as it normally should have. Apparently people on Lornius took well to a finalist. But I felt as if I was cheating the good island people, knowing that it was but a farce that I and my companion had made it so far in the tournament. I am not saying that we were without skill, by any means, but it seemed that our pathway towards the match between Circus and the Sons of Terrinore was… too easy to say the least.
However, that is not the topic of discussion.
Behind me trailed a rather large man, who despite the heat and his attire did not seem touched by any perspiration. His drab brown robes swirled at his feet as he walked, and the lackluster golden amulet around his neck tapped quietly against his muscular chest. “Prophet,” he said in his monotone and flat voice, “you are too be late to the finals if you do not hurry.”
I needed no encouragement from the disciple of Hromagh, I feared that my opponents would have already arrived and began the confrontation without me. I turned on the man, stopping dead in my tracks before the final set of doors. His stone blue eyes, flecked with gray caught my own silver eyes and for a second the silence between us had a tangible weight. “You are not here to direct me, but wait till I have finished this final round and then escort me to Kachuk. If your master wished it of you to direct my steps he would have ordered it. Please, remain here until I return.”
The man, slightly dejected by the request, turned and walked up a flight of stairs to my flank. A sigh passed my tight, thin lips. At least the man would be out of the way, I had thought as I turned to the final door and passed through its archway. Before me the empty room was empty, aside from the large pachyderm acting as if he was the director of some grand performance.
Through minor cracks along the walls, and the ceiling too, light drifted in. The plaster was cracked and flaking, the bronze paint along the banisters and lining the boxes was dull with the passing of time. A smell of mold, dust, and stale air swirled about my face when I took a few small tentative steps towards my companion. My movement sent ripples of dust in a wake like a wave. With the delicate patches of light flickering through the swirling dust it was almost an ethereal, dream-like world that civilization had left behind.
“Good day Chumley,” I had called through the expanse between us. The words caught the walls and bowed inwards, refracting and reflecting just as well as the chamber would have in its older days. “I hope all fairs well with you? Our opponents are absent as per usual I see…”
Another sigh escaped my lips. Another swirl of upset soot displaced itself through the air. Impatience rose and my hands tapped the closest chair, the tips of my fingers rang against the old steel frames. Where were our opponents? Why were they late? Would it be another free round, the bloody finals, where we were allowed to pass without a fight? The questions were my only companion as time lingered.
One by one, Max Dirks flipped the dusty switches and lit the old concert hall, proving that he was not as late as he seemed. When he finished, Dirks quickly left the booth. This was the second tournament final that the former criminal had graced. In the first he participated as an unwanted guest in an ungrateful army, but this time around the glory was all for him. Or was it? The Sons of Terrinore’s reign in the tournament was bent by greed. Since Dirks and Thoracis were united at the end of the first round, they both could taste the championship on the tip of their tongues. At first it was sweet, but last round Dirks discovered a particularly sour aftertaste. The intensity of the tournament made Dirks forget why he was fighting in the first place. He was fighting to be reunited with his love, Starlynn, and only Thoracis knew of her whereabouts (as he had previously kidnapped her). Dirks was forced to help the ice mage become champion in order to find her. In his struggle with the remnants of Malice, Dirks found that he was not as detached as he thought from the life he’d thrown away for her. Until then, Dirks never realized how much Starlynn meant to him.
Dirks turned a corner, and then broke into the silent, rundown theater. For the first time in the tournament, Dirks arrived without Thoracis at his side. It was time to fight for what he wanted, and not as a pawn to complete someone else’s desperate fantasy. Team Circus stood before him. A magical elephant and an elfish cleric held the keys that would free him from all that had befallen him. It was all black and white. Beat them and find Starlynn. Lose to them and never see her again. Chumley stood proudly on the conductor’s box, a place where the elephant would feel right at home. The cleric, Prophet Nailo, was closer. He stood near near a bottom row of seats and had engaged his strange partner in conversation.
Without a word, Dirks reached his hands over his shoulders and pulled down one of his twin prevalida katanas. Over the course of the tournament, both weapons had gone from shiny metallic silver to a dull gray. The flesh of many had been rubbed clean from them. Dirks relied primarily on his swords for the duration of the tournament, which was another indication to him how much he’d changed. They felt more natural in Dirks’ hands and he was much less clumsy with them. His guns, like Starlynn, were now only something that he turned to when he had nothing else left.
Dirks did not stop until he was right next to Nailo. “I'm sorry elf, but your impressive little run must come to an end.” Without any other warning, Dirks reached to his right and grabbed one of the rotted seats. He yanked hard to pull it free from the ground and then swung it hard towards Nailo’s face. However, the chair was just a clever diversion. The real attack followed in secret. Dirks turned his body and swung his prevalida katana through the chair. It easily snapped through the seat sending shards of wood flying everywhere. But the former criminal's weapon did not stop there. The blade continued on a direct path towards Nailo's neck.
Shrouded in darkness amongst the rear seats of the theatre Thoracis Rakarth sat silently, patiently awaiting the start of the most important battle of his life. The nervousness and anxiousness that had ate at him the previous rounds was now a distant memory - he had finally broke the threshold, getting past the semi’s and into the finals - now his long coveted victory was at hand and all but assured. All that stood before him now was Circus, another of the crowd pleasing comical teams that inevitably made the finals every year. It was a shame that few people would witness their downfall. Year after year Thoracis was pitted against these teams and year after year he destroyed them, only to lose in the end due to his partner’s absence. But he was smarter this time around. He had solidified his partner, albeit through manipulation and deceit, and now that Dirks was mere moments from Starlynn he knew that he would get the criminals best.
The elephant Chumley was the first to arrive, unexpectedly dropping from a ladder that itself had seemed to come from nowhere. Apparently the stories Thoracis had heard of the elephant’s capers were to be believed. Not that any of them would do him an ounce of good considering what lay before the wise-cracking beast. Ranger was next. This half of the team Thoracis was much more familiar with. The drow cleric wasn’t exactly a nobody, but he was surely not in the same class as Thoracis or Dirks. Words were briefly exchanged between the two when the real fun began.
Starting to Thoracis’ right the theatre lights sparked to life, one by one, until eventually the final one revealed the presence of the ice mage. Lounged back in a theatre seat, legs kicked up on the seat before him, Thoracis was resplendent in new attire of his own. His freshly bleached robes reflected the theatre’s light with an almost divine aura, which only made darker the void that was created by the black porcelain mask beneath his hood. Not an inch was budged as Max Dirks emerged from backstage, wasting no time in erupting into battle. So perfect… Thoracis thought, feeling very much like the producer of the show at hand.
With his partner’s sudden, violent upheaval Thoracis knew he had an opportunity to take advantage of the situation. Still without a word or even a flinch of movement the ice mage focused on the box in which Chumley was standing. Almost instantly and without warning a massive stalagmite of ice burst from the ground directly below the elephant.
It was an excellent opening scene - the untested and incapable newcomers finding themselves suddenly overwhelmed by the battle-hardened veterans. The only question now was whether or not they had the resolve to deal with such a disadvantage. Thoracis already knew the answer though… Like Kylin Rouge and Edmund Lorisiac, Chromonon Rockskin and the demon Ter-Thok and others of their ilk that came before them, Ranger Nailo and Chumley de Rochfeltingham would fall by the hands of the ice mage.
"Ranger!" Chumley smiled at the welcome, familiar face. "Words cannot express how relieved I am to see you." He placed his hands on his hips and waved with his trunk. "I think it would not be contentious to say that neither of us ever expected to be here today. It feels suitable that I should propose some sort of toast, 'though we lack glasses, but I really am at a loss for words. If only I could sum up my motivations for fighting in the LCC in one sentence, or encapsulate my personal history with this tournament in one easily digestible plot summary!" Shaking his head at his own ineptitude, Chumley simply gazed upon the drow's face, drinking in its serenity and certainty, relishing what perhaps would be the last moment of peace for him today. Ranger's rituals and paganism had at first disgusted the elephant, but it was impossible to deny the fellow's good nature, steadfastness, and gumption. Who could forget the adventures they had shared in the tournament thus far, the trials of combat, the nervous boredom of waiting for advancement results, the quiet fear of loss and rejection, always unspoken but never unfelt.
Spots were still flashing before Chumley's eyes as a figure appeared at the edge of the stage. Through the teary blurriness, however, he could make out an armed man. As the elephant focused on the attacker, obviously one of these self-styled "Sons of Terrinore," he could feel a warmness spreading in his chest like warm syrup filling a bucket. Time crawled to a stop, all sound and sensation fading, the world once again vanishing as if an inkwell had toppled over the theater. Chumley was once again alone, but across that interminable darkness stood another man, lifting a chair from the ground. His face was slashed by bitterness, his features twisted, but his beauty was unmistakable. Muscles heaved below his clothes, a light dew of sweat glowing on his forehead. He was a vision of the human form so exquisite as to be created by a fallen god compensating for his own dark failings. Chumley stepped toward him, nearly falling from the conductor's box, drawn towards the man shoving a sword towards his only friend.
"What a long sword," Chumley muttered through his breath, suddenly caught short and gasping, watching the weapon plunge through the wood towards Ranger's back "And what magnificent penetration..." The elephant caught the plaudits in his throat, a burning anger replacing the muzzy, sublime euphoria spilling through his chest. It flamed against him, frustration at himself, upset confusion roiling within, guilt and shame and sadness licking up in unusual contortions of emotion. This strange rage was not unfamiliar, and memories, buried under more benign experiences, began flooding back. That young Mexican in Baja. The effete hat salesman in Carson City. The postmaster in Sarsaparilla Junction.
“No! Not me!” Chumley cried, time falling back into place, the world snapping into bright color. “To arms, Ranger!” An explosion behind him, a smashing of wood and a squealing whine like glass bottles rubbing against each other, nearly floored the elephant, and he stumbled, his arms flailing at the sword attacking Ranger, trying to alert him, hoping he had already sensed the assault. Whatever blast had erupted where Chumley had just stood, it marked a trap. His head still spinning with fierce conjurations of emotion and memory, the elephant stumbled into the rows of chairs and instruments on stage, grabbing for whatever he could use to defend himself. It was cowardly to leave Ranger to fend for himself, but Chumley was certain that he would be more of a hindrance than a help against the attacker. And he could not bare to look into those cold eyes, eyes that might swallow him in their sensuous depths, drowning him and dooming his partner. Snatching at two piccolos, Chumley tucked them into his jacket and pushed chairs aside, grabbing a vicious alto saxophone and hefting it like a sword. He turned around, his eyes flying over the pillar of ice sticking through the stage, waving the instrument dangerously, looking around the concert hall for his attacker. Only a few feet beyond the stage, all was indistinct, a veil of shadow made all the more impassable by the bright lights shining down from above.
“Great Seward’s Folly!” he cried. “How many sons does Terrinore have, and what evil magics will they employ next?”
It was good to see my friend and companion in good health. His long snout waved as if it had a mind of its own. Even with the looming threat of the Sons of Terrinore I could not help but smile at the man. He was a marvel, always able to put up a joyous front, so eloquent in his speech patterns and movements both. I thanked the Thayne that I had been given such a useful partner, though odd at first we had developed into a rather good team.
When the lights in the ruined theatre sparked to life I could do nothing but look overhead and turn around. A grand chandelier-like fixture hung from the ceiling, flooding the empty seats with seven tiers of lighting that came to a wide point. It was impressive, but it was far from what it probably once had been, many of the points where light should have been flowing from were black. Though my attention was snapped away when Chumley roared.
What I saw was the infamous Dirks, moving with all speed towards me.
---
“You saw Max Dirks?” one of the little boys asked. His eyes were wide with surprise and a childish grin crossed his face. Others looked a lot like him, most not believing that the man was real. In Corone he was a myth, a legend. To the drow he was the vestige of a world passing, a flickering memory on the edge of dying. “What did he look like?”
“He looked no different than you,” Ranger said as he pointed at one of the farmers. “He’s stands just over six feet, weighing probably nothing more then two hundred pounds. Though I am a bad judge of human physique, but he did not appear the monster that people tell about. He was, however, far from honorable like they say.”
---
I was drawing the two blades from my back just as he approached. Luckily Chumley had called me to arms when he did, for Dirks had little consideration for respect. His reputation preceded him. Without a second thought a burst of light appeared and deflected a heavy, putrid chair. Following on its tail was the dull sword that he was wielding throughout the tournament.
The dual blades clapped together at the hilt. They clashed together with the longsword, a deafening and cacophonous noise that echoed throughout the area. I did not attempt to stop the momentum, but instead allowed his blade to slip away from its intended target. As they touched I leapt away.
Tightly packed, the rows of chairs gave little room to battle between. But I jumped away anyway, giving me time to think and room to attack. The criminal was strong, his blades were expensive, and his aggression was surprising. Where the sword had contacted the twin shortswords notches were present, grooves were the higher grade metal had literally torn into my blades. It seemed the man was “superior” just like all the rumors had made him out to be.
“He’s in the back!” I screamed to Chumley, who was obviously at a loss. The human instruments were crude and held the lackluster sheen of age, but in the hands of the elephant seemed precariously intimidating. Just as quickly as I yelled I returned my attention to Dirks. “Impressive?” I asked.
I laughed as I stepped onto the two armrests between the rotten seats. Underfoot the old frames groaned with my weight and the cushions gave a cough of mildew and long since settled dust. “I would count our “run” far from impressive,” I retorted as I balanced. “We were gratefully given leave to advance through teams that were as diligent and faithful to each other as a pack of mercenaries. This tournament has been a farce since the beginning.”
I was vindictive and tired, a combination that was deadly under the circumstances. It just happened that the two decided to come to bear as soon as the nefarious rogue and his equally devious opponent began their disgraceful assault. In a split second I was pushing from my seat, bounding as if my legs were powerful springs. I had plenty of weight to push my momentum, and mixed with the grace of an elf I was probably a beautiful sight to see.
The twin swords danced through the air. The intended target was the man’s shoulders, or arms in general. Whichever I could get at without having a sword impale me was the goal.
The katana continued until it slammed hard into the prophets’ own blades. The remnants of the chair forced Dirks to turn away to avoid taking a salvo of wood pieces in the eyes. Nailo used the time to back away and balance himself on top of a row of seats. Dirks took the hilt of his blade into both hands and slowly approached the drow. His legs squeezed through the aisle, but he held the katana high to allow for a full frontal swing if need be.
Dirks listened intently as Nailo spoke. It was pleasing to hear that his opponent shared the same sentiment as he did about the tournament. When Nailo mentioned the word ‘farce,’ Dirks took a quick glance at Thoracis who was now visible in one of the far rows. It was true that the ice mage had released a monster, but Thoracis wasn’t solely responsible for sustaining it. Dirks wanted to win, but he also wanted to be with Starlynn. He needed her to be free of the monster, but couldn’t have her without becoming it. That was his excuse. He would not stop until the Sons of Terrinore were champions. That was the real farce.
“I’m glad we agree then,” Dirks replied, turning his attention back to his opponent. Nailo offered no immediate retort. He wasted no time, leaping from his position down at the former criminal. The graceful drow lowered his twin swords, attempting a full frontal slice of Dirks’ clavicle. The speed of the attack left little time for Dirks to pull down his own katana and try a deadly counter so instead Dirks relied on his strength. He held his katana flat, allowing Nailo’s swords to crash into his weapon. The inertia of the attack pressed the weapons towards the former criminal, so much so that the tip of one sword edged Dirks’ shoulder and left a small cut. Angry but unfazed, Dirks pushed up on his weapon, attempting to send the prophet flying into another line of chairs before he had a chance to land.
Suspecting Nailo to be temporarily out of the fray, Dirks turned his attention to the raving elephant, silently pulling his small steel dagger from its sheath as he did so.
It would have been foolish to believe that the battle could be ended so quickly. Thoracis knew that. It was still very agitating to see both opponents escape, albeit narrowly, from his and Dirks’ abrupt attacks. And while Chumley ran about like an elephant with his trunk cut off, Ranger managed to make matters worse by drawing first blood against Dirks. All Thoracis could do was shake his head in disgust… Was this really what he and Dirks had become?
Thoracis arose from his seat, finally, and with a great deal more anger then when he had taken it. He was not here to be bested by a team which wasn’t deserving of the finals by their own admission. Yet the first moments of battle were making that outcome seem pretty likely. Unfortunately for the members of Circus they were going to force Thoracis to take a much more hands on approach then he had planned. Making his way down the aisle and towards the stage he watched Dirks turn from Ranger to Chumley, drawing a dagger as he did so. “You better pull your head out of your ass. You know she's counting on you more then ever,” he called to Dirks’ back, half serious and half to simply try and motivate the man.
With his liviol staff at the ready in his icy left hand Thoracis pulled back his hood as he stalked toward the drow. Powerful as he was rumored to be Thoracis knew that Ranger was not really a match for him. Though smaller in stature the ice mage was undoubtedly stronger and faster then the dark elf and Thoracis was far more practiced in melee combat then Dirks was. Not only that, but Thoracis had spent nearly a quarter of his life training amongst Ranger’s people; learning their ways, learning their tactics, leading their armies. Had Thoracis any intentions on allowing Ranger to attack his moves would be easily anticipated.
The space between Thoracis and Ranger was half closed when the mage sprung forth, moving at the drow with every bit of magically enhanced speed he could muster. Twenty-five feet became ten almost instantly. Thoracis’ staff was held with an underhand grip, parallel to his forearm - a blade of ice extended from the staff’s end which was concealed by his body. A single step past ten feet and Thoracis would have disappeared to the drow. In one motion with that last step Thoracis teleported past and behind Ranger, drawing his staff up in both hands, and thrusting the blade of ice behind him. With any luck the first Ranger would realize of what had just happened would be to see the icy blade protruding from his impaled torso.
Chumley's piggy eyes flitted over the hall, still unable to pick out his second opponent. Whoever he was, he was still invisible, hidden behind a shield of darkness, peering at Chumley from afar, lurking like a ghoul, commanding ice to jump forward at his maniacal whim. The elephant turned to look backstage, searching among drawn curtains and piles of sandbags for the devilish fellow. He was, however, nowhere to be found, and Chumley felt the cold fingers of fear drumming on his spine. "Good gracious," he thought, "What if he's invisible?" The elephant drew his shoulders, holding the saxophone in front of him as threateningly as possible, jerking his head around, trying to find the rustle of a curtain, the squeak of a moving chair that might denote the approach of some unseen enemy. There was nothing. Chumley supposed that should comfort him, but if anything it only tightened panic's grip on him.
The elephant turned, watching the statuesque swordsman disengage from Ranger. Chumley felt a twinge of pity and shame, hoping Ranger had fended for himself, but those emotions fled from him as he locked eyes with the mysterious warrior, whose chiseled features and burliness were nothing if not breathtaking. And indeed, Chumley's breath was taken. He gasped, eyes widening, and felt the saxophone wobbling in his sweaty hands. His cheeks flushed as best they could, and his eyes began watering. Moving his heavy tongue, he tried to force out a joke, but all that came out of his wavering, cracking voice was:
"Do you come here often?"
Chumley grimaced, cursing himself internally, and tried not to let his luscious opponent see his inner anguish. "He must think I'm so uncool!" Chumley thought to himself. "If only he knew about my intrusion into the Cell! Drawing attention to myself like that was really cool, no doubt about that!" Drawing up all his courage, he tried again, this time affecting as much confidence as he could.
"You know, I showed up at the first round of the Cell a few days ago and I... uh... got... thrown out..." Chumley grimaced again, and retreated a few steps, his saxophone useless at his side. "So... I'm serious business!"
A disembodied voice called out, spewing vulgarities at Chumley's opponent. Some movement, a flash in the space beyond the platform, caught his eye. It was a man, rushing through the darkness toward Ranger, most likely the same who had called out. It all came together for Chumley - the ice pillar, the voice, the attack on Ranger - this man was the second Son of Terrinore! Chumley cried out, and with all his energy flung the saxophone toward where he hoped the man would converge with Ranger. He hoped Ranger would be okay, but it was more important to do what he could to help him than let hesitations hold him back. These Terrinore guys were strong, but they couldn't do half of what his team could do with a little teamwork. "You don't spell 'victory' V-I-C-T-O-R-Y, you spell it T-E-A-M!" Chumley thought to himself.
But he realized with a sinking shock that he was standing empty handed in front of the most fearsome opponent he had yet met in the LCC - one who simultaneously attacked his body and his heart.
Ranger sighed as he accepted another drink. “When the blades clattered against the criminal’s own blade I recognized a problem immediately. Fortunately my weight had been enough to push the tips of my swords into his shoulder. A drop of blood blossomed in the small hole.”
“He bleeds?” The prophet laughed. The minds of children were what spread rumors about the common being great, and their adult equivalents. People believed whatever they were told, especially the simpler among them. If rumor’s persisted that Max Dirks was unable to bleed, then people would believe it. If they insisted that his partner, Thoracis, and himself had some magical bond, they would believe that too. But the drow knew otherwise. “And you hit him?”
“That’s correct,” he responded between sips. But in truth it had not been that difficult. The two men worked as well together as any other team, and the fact that they had made it to the finals attested to their personal strength before anything. “And as soon as the momentum shifted he tossed me away, using the flat of his blade.”
---
I tumbled through the air, spinning just enough to land on my feet. The criminal mastermind was before me, and to my flank was his partner. It was a horrible position to find myself in. Subconsciously I was pushing the two, moving them like pawns on a chessboard. They were almost in the position that I wanted, almost where I could use the field to my advantage.
However, instead of accosting me any further the brigand turned to my companion. I had little time to think. I sheathed a sword, and pushed my arm forward. But out of the corner of my eye I saw the other coming. It was as I had feared, trapped between the two with the elephant on the outside watching.
Instead of turning my focus on Dirks I shifted to his partner. At the end of my fingers five small balls of light had formed, it was the beginning of two attacks. But what I saw coming made me hold my breath. It was the infamous ice mage in his full glory. From beneath the mask across his face his eyes seemed to glow with the light. In his hands the staff was set low and ready, at the end a dagger of ice waiting to impale me.
Hesitation was shrugged off as an idea arose.
I charged forward, the balls of light becoming small shards. But Thoracis was hard to follow, he blinked by me. For a moment I thought the mage’s blade had pierced me and he had already passed. My eyes widened and I nearly threw myself forward, pushing off a row of chairs. An indistinct and odd noise came in report.
As soon as I turned I saw the dramatic pose that the mage had assumed, and the result of his attack. The ice shard had been struck by the saxophone, which continued on to collide into the chairs. A cloud of dust and erupted stuffing filled the air around the staff instead of blood and gore like the mage had undoubtedly hoped for. But his positioning was perfect, I could not have asked for more.
With a deft toss the shards at the end of my fingers were thrown to the ceiling. Each quickly reached the taunt rope holding the chandelier high overhead, snapping the cording with ease. A heavy groan echoed through the theater, just as every other noise had, and the seven tiers wonder quickly began to descend. The two teammates were below it, Dirks under its pinnacle and Thoracis under the outside edge.
“Chumley,” I cried, “be careful!” I was not sure how the elephant was faring, only seeing him out of the corner of my eye, but I held little doubt that he was the one hurling instruments. If he was too close to dirks or where the beastly, gaudy aberration was falling the resulting destruction could catch him.
Max Dirks tightened his grip on the dagger when Thoracis spoke. He desperately wanted to turn around and send his weapon flying into his partner’s eye. Dirks took a deep breath. No one would notice if the ice mage lost. Wasn’t it Thoracis’ curse for his partner to abandon him in the final moments of the tournament anyway? Dirks closed his eyes. Every muscle in his body was tense. “I am not a fucking pawn!” Dirks yelled as he opened his eyes. He turned his body and threw the dagger at where he suspected Thoracis to be. The dagger missed wide right and made a ‘thuck’ sound as it lodged itself into the back of a rotted chair.
Angered, Dirks quickly turned his attention back to the elephant. It was still in the pit, grabbing as many instruments as possible to use as weapons against the former criminal. Dirks shook his head. The distraught animal didn’t belong in the tournament. Starlynn would have thought it was cute. She would have begged him not to hurt it. It was a shame that he would have to slaughter the elephant to see her again. Slaughter? Dirks paused. Is this really what I’ve become? As Dirks listened to the animal speak, he realized how harmless it truly was. Nailo admitted earlier that the two had advanced on sheer luck and now the criminal was inclined to believe it.
When Chumley finished his rambling, Dirks tossed his sword to the side. He wouldn’t need it against the elephant. Dirks began to reply, but was interrupted when it threw a saxophone at him. The former criminal ducked his head and watched as the instrument flew by his face. It continued on and crashed into a salvo of ice shards that Thoracis shot at the prophet. Dirks grinned. The ice mage deserved every bit of the ice residue that flew back into his face. Dirks amusement was short-lived though as Nailo decided to become resourceful. The prophet shot strange balls of light at the ceiling. Dirks trailed them until he found himself looking straight up at a rumbling chandelier. That bastard, doesn’t he understand?
Dirks had little time to act. He immeadiately dove over two rows of seats, landing hard on the ground. His back slid against a third row stopping his momentum before bouncing up into a crouched position. Dirks covered the back of his neck as the chandelier came crashing to the ground. Though the seats were old, the sheer number of them caught the fixture as it fell to the ground. Only the small glass ends managed to find their ways down in between the rows and pricked the edges of his chain mail vest. Dirks growled as he stood, breaking through a layer of glass on the chandelier. Moments after, the weight of the fixture broke the chairs and it crumbled to the ground.
The former criminal was playing a dangerous game. On one hand, he wanted to do what was right. It was possible to win without slaughtering his opponents. On the other, he desperately wanted to hurt them both for not understanding his situation. Without thinking, Dirks reached to his chest and pulled his ‘twin’ Beretta 950 from its holster. He held the gun to the air and began to fire. The chandelier was not the only fixture hanging from the ceiling. Above the pit was the larger lighting array. Tens of spotlights were fixed onto the stage to illuminate its stars. One by one, Dirks shot at the hinges that held the fixture in place. Few bullets hit their targets, but the hard precise vibrations were enough to break the rusted bolts.
The array was already falling when Dirks stopped shooting. In fact, he wouldn’t have stopped if the gun hadn’t run out of bullets. The array slammed into the ground, cutting off the area between Dirks and his animal opponent. “Just run, elephant. This is your only chance.” Dirks called out to Chumley before turning his attention to Thoracis and the prophet. The fallen array should be enough to keep the 300 lb pachyderm from easily coming to his partner’s rescue. Dirks hopped on top of the fallen chandelier and began to run at Nailo. He was bleeding a lot more than he thought, as a trail of blood from his cuts was left in his wake. When he was close enough to Nailo, he lowered his shoulder and attempted to tackle the drow. If successful, he would begin to pummel the elf with his fists. “Don’t you understand?! All you had to do was lose.”
Much had been said of the “farce” that was this year’s Lornius Corporate Challenge. When Thoracis’ near un-defendable attack was felled by a saxophone that had been thrown by a walking, talking elephant, he began to understand why. Un-fucking-believable…
There was little time to stew over the failed attack though. Overhead was a heavy groaning, similar to the sounds that had been made to the crumbling buildings the previous round in Lyridia, followed by a call of warning from Nailo to his partner. Considering that the light in the room, especially immediately around them, suddenly became dimmer, it didn’t take a genius to realize what was happening. Thoracis bolted forward, not even chancing a glance behind him. It was just then that Dirks’ words sunk in. Damnit, don’t be the rebellious hero now… He wanted to say the words aloud but didn’t want to provoke the criminal any further. The fire was lit beneath him now. Hopefully that would be enough.
Thoracis was nearly to the stage when he heard the crash behind him. These maniacs were going to kill everyone! As he turned he saw Dirks, Beretta in hand, himself shooting at another set of lights (a far bigger fixture then the one Ranger had dropped) high above them. “What are you doing!?” Thoracis cried out at Dirks’ warning to Chumley. “God damnit!”
It didn’t matter to Thoracis how innocent Chumley was. It didn’t matter if they had made it here by mistake. They knew what they had gotten into and they could have dropped out any time if they didn’t want to commit. Now Chumley was in the finals and would have to suffer the consequences. So, in conjunction with the first chandelier that had fallen and with the lighting fixture that Dirks had just shot down from the ceiling, Thoracis let loose his Ice Rain spell over the area. Now the lights would be the least of Chumley’s worries… The blunt damage from the lights would surely be less consequential as being pierced by multiple shards of ice falling from the sky. Luckily for Thoracis the massive range of the spell would likely place Ranger in it’s effect as well. Of course, that would almost certainly place Dirks in the area of effect as well. But Max Dirks would not be so lucky as to get a shout of warning…
Chumley froze as he heard his partner's warning, and watched with shock as Ranger brought a perfectly good chandelier crashing down from the ceiling. He was almost too distracted by the falling glass to make an approving glance at the attractive son of Terrinore's retreating figure, making a superhuman leap into the concert seats. Almost.
"Thank you!" Chumley called back. "But I'm safe here, for now!" The sound of shots as the chain-mail clad man rose from the plumes of dust and glass shards spiraling around the chandelier quickly changed his mind. "Good G-d!" Chumley cried. "Ranger, he has a firearm! Duck for cover!" The elephant dove behind a nearby bassoon, unsheathing his piccolos from his jacket, unsure of how to proceed. He couldn't stand another show-down with the gunman. His heart was still beating like a hummingbird's, and his gray skin was still pink and warm. Anger sat like a cold stone somewhere in the nervous mess of his chest. "Why?" Chumley thought to himself. "Why must this demonic burden be upon me? What have I done to deserve it? I'm not a pervert..." Creaking and snapping sounds overhead caught his attention, and the pachyderm looked up toward a light array that was beginning to detach from the ceiling, crashing down toward the stage. Apparently that gunman had shot the thing down.
"Now that is highly improbable!" Chumley cried out, tucking his piccolos back into his jacket. "What sort of farce is this?" He withstood the urge to jump out from behind the bassoon and tongue-lash whoever was in charge of this battle, but a sudden blast of inclement weather prevented him. Shards of ice began crashing down around him, glassy knives of hail shattering on the wood floor beside him. It was obviously some sort of attack, launched by the same frigid fellow who had caused an ice spike to nearly impale him. A shard sliced down across his ear, nicking his shoulder, and he yelped in pain, hefting the heavy bassoon over him like a pathetic umbrella. It did some good, but the shards made their way around the narrow wooden instrument, continuing to cut across his body. As the futility of his defenses became apparent, a sudden brainstorm as deadly as the ice storm raining down around him. With a fatalistic grin at the blue-eyed masked bandit whose mouth was as dirty as a donkey's underbelly, Chumley turned the bassoon vertical, catching ice shards in its narrow tube. He ignored the shards slashing at his trunk and face, cutting long, narrow slices down his thick skin, and waited until the bassoon felt heavy enough for attack.
Turning the instrument over his shoulder, aiming it like the bazookas he felt sure man would one day invent, Chumley latched his mouth over the double reeds of the mouthpiece and blew as hard as he could, launching a few icy razors at the masked magician's face. As the cool melt-water of the deadly sleet mixed with the blood oozing out from a dozen cuts over his body, Chumley felt his strength already draining away. He could see, beyond the blank face of the magician in front of him, Ranger being attacked. The hopelessness of their situation was brought into stark relief as he watched the gunman approach Ranger. He wasn’t a fighter. Getting beaten in this tournament wouldn’t prove anything, even to himself. Trying to prove his worth to the Althanian Purity Society was pointless. They would never accept him for who he was, so why even try?
"Ranger!" he gasped, short of breath after the enormous blast he had made into the woodwind. "We have to get out of here! We're no match for them!"
The taunt rope snapped and the gentle quivering of the glass reverberated through the hall, the noise dancing across the empty seats and musty air. I turned away from the devastation that was about to occur. I did not want to see the criminal mastermind, no matter how devious he was, be sliced by the panes of glass and crushed under the chandeliers weight. Instead I took cover beneath a row of seats, waiting for the inevitable.
When the crash finally roared through the theatre I was not close to prepared. It was like a heavy gale had swept through on the wings of a banshee’s scream. The clattering of the shattered glass lapped over my ears, drowning out thoughts. A hail of glass sprayed from the fallen monstrosity. A storm of broken shards dropped on my exposed hands and arm, though it did no damage. As soon as I thought it was safe I rolled out from under the chairs.
However, the criminal and his partner had escaped. Both stood resolute, one I could see a thousand small images of through the broken glass. The other had moved. I could not see him anymore, and it worried me. I turned around to look behind me, and that was when the first rap of gunfire called my attention. It was smaller than the rail gun wielded by the maniac Archibald McFeerery in the past round, but its deadly report was no less intimidating.
There was too much happening at one time, too much noise resounding through the hall. The echoes were horrible. The clamor struck itself, the lapping waves of sound collided painfully with my over-sensitive ears. Even as I looked up and watched the last bullet rip the lighting fixture from the ceiling I knew nothing was going to come of the fight. It was over in my mind.
When Dirks turned and began for me I had already conceded. His fists were clenched, his face low in frustration and determination. He was half-way when a new torrent appeared overhead. Shards of ice rained down from the ceiling thick enough to crush through most shields that I could have hoped to create. It did not stop me from creating one though, nor did it seem to stop Dirks’ approach.
Resolutely I charged away from the man, towards the far side of the theatre, the ice falling and catching my legs as I moved. There were exits along the wall, the doors having long been broken. Cracks between the door let light trickle in, and hope came along with it. The shards of ice sliced through the light, puncturing my arm and shoulders. With my free hand I began to form the strongest spell I could muster, the only ability that I thought would give me and Chumley enough time to escape the madhouse.
As soon as my fingers snapped shut and the two beams heat warmed my hands I turned. The shield on my left arm was pushed towards the nearest ice shard threatening me while my right arm started a wide arch. The pillar of white light broke loose from my hands, bounding freely towards a rather close point. As the blistering heat and powerful light spread I pushed harder. Everything in me was shoved into that pillar, all the will and strength I had.
The destruction was truly amazing.
It caught the edge of the seventh row, severing the chairs from their rusted bolts. As the spell continued it followed my wide sweep, absorbing more and more chairs into the devastation. By the time I reached the point of its dissolution a wall of chairs and rotten floor had formed before me. It was like a small wave of twisted steel, singed dust and mildew, and all the power I could muster.
Before it had even been given the chance to land, pummel, or generally distract, I was already sprinting towards the exit. Chumley was right. They were too powerful to fight; we really were no match for them. The finals for the Lornius Corporate Challenge had been rigged for our loss… or so I assumed as I turned away from the fight.
“You know, Max, everyone gets a second chance,” the beautiful half-elf Starlynn Sonar whispered into Max Dirks’ ear. She walked towards the criminal and smiled.
“What do you mean?” Dirks replied, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her close.
“We all make choices, Max, and some are to do bad things.” Starlynn draped her hands around his neck. "Even though you've done bad things before, I know you really want to do what’s right."
“It’s not that easy, Starlynn, you know, to do what's right.” Dirks lowered his head and touched his forehead against hers. “I can’t just change who I am.”
“But that’s it,” She replied softly, “You don’t have to. You have so many gifts, Max. You just have to decide how to use them.” Starlynn leaned her head in to kiss him...
---
Then suddenly a sharp pain spread throughout his calf.
“Huh?” Dirks was lying on his stomach with an ice shard dug into the side of his right calf. It took a moment before the former criminal could deduct where he was and what had happened. He was in the finals of the Lornius Corporate Challenge. The prophet, Nailo, must have dodged the tackle and sent Dirks sprawling across the floor into one of the brass statuettes that adorned the top of the chandelier. His head was throbbing. Thoracis also must have attacked when Dirks was out. The criminal waited a moment for his head to clear and then jumped up onto his feet.
Dirks immediately reached down and pulled the ice shard from his leg. There was little blood. The ice must have frozen it on contact. Rather than wasting his time by reprimanding Thoracis, Dirks turned his attention to Nailo who was cowering in the corner of the theater. Another faint light was beginning to build on the tips of the prophet’s fingers and Dirks quickly found himself back where he was moments before. The former criminal was tempted to rush in and punish Nailo before the attack could be unleashed. It would only take one shot and Dirks would be reunited with Starlynn.
Starlynn…Dirks hesitated and his mind began to wander. Of course, Nailo would not know what Dirks was going through. It was absurd for Dirks to angry at him for being ignorant. How would he know? How could he know? As the light on the end of Nailo’s finger grew brighter, Dirks hatred for the prophet faded. A second chance… Dirks finally understood. Thoracis’ mind games had forced Dirks into a supplemental position. Being constantly beleaguered and forced to fight sparked the deepest threads of the former criminal’s past. It made him animalistic and primal. Physically and emotionally broken down, Dirks forgot what he was: a calculative, arrogant, manipulative gangster.
It was about time he remembered it.
“Look out, you stupid mage!” Dirks called to his partner, running at Thoracis instead of their foe. When he was close enough he tackled the ice mage, but rather than tumble to the ground, Dirks reached down and ‘carried’ Thoracis across the great hall. When the light pillar erupted from Nailo’s hand it engulfed everything that it touched with its burning wrath. At the last moment, the Sons of Terrinore jumped into one of the ground level VIP boxes on the left side of the theater. When he landed, Dirks immediately spun around on his butt, attempting to hold Thoracis down with his left hand. With his right, Dirks reached to his chest and pulled his ‘patented’ Beretta 950 from its holster. He fired once, sending a single bullet into the light pillar.
The bullet exploded on contact, causing the light pillar to erupt into flames. The rotted wooden seats were quick to catch fire as the light passed over them. The fire was not quite hot enough to melt metal or glass. Within moments, a portion of the theater was burning from the rear seats to the metal light fixture Dirks had dropped down moments ago. The massive firewall climbed nearly halfway up to the ceiling. Dirks smirked as he lifted his left hand. With the ruckus, and the fact that the flame wall ended up no where near their previous locations, their opponents would have had plenty of time to escape. All the while, Thoracis would suspect they were incinerated by the blast and assume he was now the champion. Starlynn would be proud. Dirks could only hope that Thoracis didn’t catch sight of either of them as they made their escapes.
(Permission to bunny Thoracis granted)
It was all happening so fast. Perhaps too fast. The sum result of the falling lights and Thoracis’ spell was nothing if it wasn’t chaotic. Metal, glass and ice flew in every direction, wreaking havoc on the theatre and combatants alike. Chumley seemed to take the brunt of the damage, ice shards piercing him one after another. Ranger escaped mostly unscathed; resulting in Dirks seeming to be temporarily knocked out. There was no chance for either opponent to take great advantage in the disorder though.
Chumley’s cry to Ranger had went unheard to Thoracis, but as the priest bolted for the door his plan was clear. It would be a cold day in Haidia before Thoracis simply let them escape. He moved to follow Ranger immediately, only to be halted in his tracks by some of his own ice shards which came out of nowhere, one shattering into his icy left arm and one scoring a direct hit to the cheek of his black porcelain mask. “Son of a bitch!!!” he yelled, putting a hand to his face and feeling part of his mask broken away and warm blood flowing through his fingers. Now they would certainly pay…
When he looked up a bright light was forming around Ranger. Thoracis smiled. Another attack to be absorbed by his amulet. When would they learn that their magic was not strong enough to harm him. Just as he prepared his counterstroke something collided with Thoracis, nearly knocking him to the ground and eventually hauling him into one of the many ground level audience boxes. In the confusion he had no clue what had happened until he looked up to see Dirks shooting once more into the theatre.
The wall behind Dirks lit up as if the sun itself were shining inside. Between that and the deafening roar Thoracis was quite sure that the explosion that he had not seen but knew had happened was nothing short of spectacular. He was flooded with anger as he stood, seeing most of the theatre in shatters and ablaze. Surely nothing could have lived through such a blast. Chumley and Ranger were surely done for, but not by the ice mage’s hand. The thought was infuriating.
He turned his back to Dirks, climbing out of the box and fetching his liviol staff from the ground before the fire consumed it. When he turned the end of the staff was pointed at Dirks. “You are an asshole.” It was all he could manage through clenched teeth… Both from anger and he wasn’t sure that that ice shard hadn’t broken his jaw. “You know his attack couldn’t have bested me. You interfered because you wanted to save them.” The way he spoke it seemed more a matter of fact then an accusation. “And look,” Thoracis motioned to the burning wreckage of the theatre behind him, “you managed to destroy them anyway. You haven’t changed a bit. I bet you planned to take the glory from the start…” Thoracis slumped against the far wall near the VIP box but away from the flames, “… so you could impress Starlynn with tales of your heroism through all of this.” So he could impress Starlynn. Thoracis was suddenly exhausted with the realization that it was finally over.
“You know I’m a man of my word though,” he looked up at Dirks, less angry now, smiling even at the thought of being victorious, “I’ll tell you where she is…”
The day was ending in a soft glow, sunlight framing the trees standing at either side of the road, light burning through the leaves, warm and dull like a dying match. No wind rustled through the trees or across the grass, and no clouds smeared the sky: The air was still, only broken by the random call of a bird on the branch, or the grunts of a woodchuck snuffling in the roadside ditch. Twisting and meandering, packed hard by years of wanderers, the road ducked in and out from behind stumps and boulders until it made its way inconspicuously past a small, termite bitten inn. A small toad sat on the inn's porch, watching the sun through the dust-covered leaves of the trees across the road, croaking to itself every few minutes. But for these sounds of the creatures of the world, all was at peace.
Slowly, minutely, however, other sounds began to creep into the stillness, chipping away at the natural calm until birds leapt from treetops in fright. The stomping of feet, the gasping of breath, painful wheezes and grunts of pain all destroyed the illusion that the world was naturally a place free of discordance. A figure, slightly unsteady but continually growing blob of a figure was racing down the road, winding with the dirt track's weaving path. It grew over the next few minutes from a black spot to an obviously perturbed Chumley de Rotchfeltingham, whose eyes widened hopefully at the sight of the inn. Bloodied, ruffled and breathless, the elephant stumbled to the porch, leaning against the railing and staring down at the toad with blood-shot globes.
"Hello, my froggy friend," he sputtered, "Might you be the proprietor of this fine establishment?" The toad stared back for a few seconds before croaking a response.
"Grollop! This inn has been abandoned for years." Chumley frowned, reaching up his sleeve for a blood-stained handkerchief to wipe his brow. The same story of a dozen other inns across Lornius. No one traveled these dangerous roads anymore except fugitives. And Chumley suspected that's what he had become. He glanced up and down the road, trying to forget the fiery destruction from which he had been so recently been delivered. "Hey," the toad continued, "Grollop! Aren't you that elephant?"
"Uh," Chumley said, taking a step back, his feet somewhat steadier now. "No, I don't think so, my good man. I don't know any elephants, whatever they are! Ha ha!" The toad turned, rocking back and forth on its bowed legs, and inflated its throat thoughtfully before responding.
"You're that elephant, CHUMLEY," the pachyderm recoiled at the sound of his own name, expecting the toad to unleash a tirade against him and his participation in the LCC. At the sight of his reaction, the toad nodded. "Yes, yes. Weren't you in the LCC a few months ago?" Chumley licked his lips, unsure how to respond. He decided on the truth.
"Actually, I was in it today. The final round." The toad seemed surprised.
"That's still going on?" He croaked. "Grollop! Well bless my warted soul. I thought it ended a long time ago."
"No," Chumley replied, a little relieved at the lack of an attack, but still weary. "No, it just finished today." The toad nodded and wobbled back to its original position, looking out over the road. Silence descended over the two. A bird flittered up under the awning of the porch, landing in a mud and twig nest on the rafters.
"It was rough," Chumley said, unsolicited. The toad shrugged as best a toad could. The elephant, so used to hostility, was emboldened by the amphibian's nonchalance and continued. "The whole dang show blew up in the end. Whole place caught fire!" The toad was about to shrug but caught itself on the last word and cocked its head.
"How did you get out of that mess?" it asked. Chumley chuckled, his spirit rising.
"It involved a hot air balloon," he said. "My friend Guy Baptiste, who is an expert at low-speed aerial stunts, was thankfully still hanging about..." And with that, Chumley began telling the whole story of the battle, the tournament, and his experiences in Althanas so far in rapid-fire, telling the toad things he had never mentioned to anyone else, even Ranger or Guy. At some points, he realized what he was saying, he had never even admitted to himself. When he reached the subject of the super-strong gunman, the son of Terrinore, a cold sweat broke out across his face, and he could feel his arms trembling.
"Don't ask," he muttered to the toad.
"Don't tell," it responded. Chumley chuckled uneasily and continued. It took several hours to describe the whole ordeal, from his random pairing with Ranger to his confrontations with an elephantine automaton and the Althanas Purity Society, to his short detour following Seth Dahlios to the Cell. But as the sun disappeared and fireflies winked into existence around him, and his story began to wind to a close, something began to dawn on Chumley. He wasn't as weak as he had felt in the finals. Yes, he gave up the fight, but did that make him less of a man - or elephant - than the bandit who refused to show his face? What of the gunman, whose reluctance to fight him hinted at how he might share Chumley's hidden feelings? He had stood up to every challenge that had come his way and survived them all. Looking up at the half-moon peeking over the edge of the porch awning, he smiled. He could almost see Abe grinning down at him from the sky.
"You know what, kid?" The toad ribbited at his shoulder. Sometime in the course of the story, Chumley had sat beside him, resting his arm around the toad. He looked down at the warty fellow and gave a questioning look. "You're okay by me." Chumley felt a warm pressure in his chest, like a balloon filling up, and couldn't help a grin spread across his face and a tear well up in his eye. He leapt to his feet, his weariness and wounds forgotten, and laughed suddenly and loudly, echoing against the night sky. Abe's words in the first round came back to him. Haidia! Stephen Douglas! He had a mission!
"Which way to Haidia?" Chumley cried, "Nothing's gonna stop me now!"
Max Dirks slowly climbed to his feet and took his first complete look at all damage caused by the burning fire pillar. An entire side of the theater was obliterated. Chairs and glass were spread everywhere. The air was filled with the ripe smell of burnt blood, probably Dirks’, which had been spread across the ground. In the background, Thoracis began to speak. Dirks listened to what the ice mage said, but also continued to look around the theater. The fire was beginning to die down and he could finally see the places where he’d last spotted his opponents. They were not there. They must have escaped. Dirks’ upper lip curled into his trademark smirk.
Starlynn was right. She was always right.
“She knows that I like to go out with a bang,” Dirks replied casually after Thoracis finished his taunting. He slowly turned to the ice mage, keeping a tight grip on his weapon. “So what now?” When Thoracis said that he would keep his word, Dirks’ smirk broke into a smile. It was finally over.
“Or,” Thoracis continued, “I could just keep my mouth shut. You didn’t exactly make it easy for me.”
Dirks’ smile went dry. He took a deep breath and then replied, “That amulet can’t protect you from a gunshot into your skull" Dirks slowly began to lift his gun.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Dirks. If you do that, you’ll never see her again.” Thoracis responded. The ice mage did not look at all disturbed. He was basking in the realization of his victory.
Dirks lowered his eyebrow at the ice mage. "You don’t have her, do you?”
“Oh?” the ice mage looked deep into Dirks’ eyes. When the former criminal refused to show his cards, Thoracis folded. “When did you find out?”
“You just told me.” Dirks blurted out. Thoracis laughed and then briefly turned his black porcelain mask to the ground. Before he could reply, Dirks continued, “You’re an asshole, Thoracis.”
“Of course I wanted to win the tournament, but I enjoyed breaking you down,” the ice mage hissed suddenly becoming angry. “And don’t pretend like you didn’t deserve it either.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you remember? Or were you too busy strolling around Radasanth with that hussy?” At this Dirks gritted his teeth. “You shot me Dirks, and I wanted to know why.” Thoracis had lifted his head and was looking Dirks directly in the eyes.
Dirks paused. “Is that what all of this was about?” Thoracis nodded. “All of this, all of everything?” The ice mage didn’t respond, and Dirks was nearly shaking with anger when he began to speak, but it was time to get this out. "Well I'll tell you," he began, "Your old partner, Mazrith, was hired to take me out by the Red Hand. You know, in the aftermath of that whole bazaar war stint. I learned about the plot just after the second LCC began and approached him about it.”
He took a breath then continued, “Mazrith denied he was there to kill me and told me that his ultimate goal was to reunite the Assassins of Alerar to rebuild the Alerarian Army and battle against Raiaera. Of course I didn’t believe it, so I followed him to you. After slaughtering the real Untouchables, he fed you the same crap, but all he really wanted to do was take me out when I wasn’t expecting it. The problem was you started to believe him.”
“I’m good, but even I can’t even begin to think of what would have happened if you teamed up with him. I would be finished. So I shot you…” Dirks paused, when Thoracis made a fist, he continued, “…knowing full well that the monks would revive you after the battle and that you would advance in the tournament. You were just the pawn. You deserved better than that. After the battle, Mazrith revealed everything and I haven't seen him since.”
Thoracis looked at Dirks for a very long time. The silence was only interrupted by brief flashes of light as another piece of wood caught fire below. Dirks prepared for yet another battle. But then Thoracis laughed. It was light at first, but then it picked up. Soon Dirks started laughing as well. The chorus of laughter lasted for several moments before they settled down.
“Is that all?” Thoracis asked before turning away. “We’re both idiots.” Dirks wanted to respond, but Thoracis continued. “Come on, let’s go find her together.” And with those words, the Sons of Terrinore were no more. The two friends walked away with a new title: Champions of Lornius.
(Permission to bunny Thoracis granted by Thoracis. Good battle guys)
This was the hardest fight I’ve ever had to judge. A few comments individually to each character. Chumley, your character doesn’t really fit into a battle scenario, but you still put it very well. Ranger, I thought you performed excellently and this is some of the best writing ever. Max and Thor, the sappy scene in the conclusion cost you a point in character, I found it hard to believe that Max would be so forgiving or that Thor would say those things after all the tournament. Still, you both did excellently. Onto the judging!
Circus
chumley
Introduction – 7
Setting - 7
Character - 8
Dialogue - 9
Rising Action - 6
Climax - 6
Strategy - 7
Writing Style - 8
Conclusion – 9
Wild Card - 10
Total – 77 / 100
Ranger
Introduction – 7
Setting - 8
Character - 7
Dialogue - 7
Rising Action - 8
Climax - 8
Strategy - 8
Writing Style - 8
Conclusion – 7
Wild Card - 10
Total – 78 / 100
Average Total – 77.5 / 100
Sons of Terrinore
Max Dirks
Introduction – 7
Setting – 7
Character – 8
Dialogue – 8
Rising Action – 8
Climax – 9
Strategy – 7
Writing Style – 8
Conclusion – 7
Wild Card - 10
Total – 79 / 100
Thoracis
Introduction - 7
Setting - 7
Character - 7
Dialogue - 8
Rising Action - 8
Climax - 8
Strategy - 7
Writing Style – 8
Conclusion - 7
Wild Card - 10
Total – 77 / 100
Average Total – 78 / 100
Winner – Sons of Terrinore
Rewards to be posted later.
Max Dirks gains 5000 EXP [2500 EXP (battle) + 2500 EXP (tournament)]
Thoracis gains 5000 EXP [2500 EXP (battle) + 2500 EXP (tournament)]
Chumley gains 1850 EXP [600 EXP (battle) + 1250 EXP (tournament)]
Ranger gains 1850 EXP [600 EXP (battle) + 1250 EXP (tournament)]
Rewards added.
Thoracis is now level 6!
Chumley is now level 1!
Congratulations.