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Matches begin at midnight tonight CST and last for two weeks! After a hard fought battle against Odium, Tobias now much face the invisible tournament ghost! Will the strategist think of a way out or will the entity once again scare the competition away? Fight!
A world in ruin had surrounded him.
Bleak and without hope, the consummate darkness had swallowed him. Like a child too inexperienced to swim, Tobias had been swallowed by the crushing tide that swept over him. Magic that he had never tasted in life emanated from his lifeless form in droves. He faintly recalled the wails of dying men, and the familiar clash of blades. Finally, there were naught but echoes.
Beyond salvation, Tobias willed himself in vain to reach out and save even one life. Futility stayed his hand. The cold had crept in unbidden, and numbness had quickly followed. Somehow the soldier watched through lifeless eyes as the wicked temple came crashing down, as though it's perverse Priesthood had finally come to the day of judgment. But for all of his defiance and his hatred toward their actions, Tobias still felt his heart break for them.
Countless eternities would pass them by, and they would meet the same fate like a broken record, day after day. Their fate was nothingness, and the bittersweet truth? It remained a far less cruel reality than the one Tobias had been born into.
What is the power of a dream, indeed?
"How long will you sleep, Stalt?" The familiar, female voice was beyond his sight as he stirred. He could scarce contain his excitement at the scent of fresh baked bread, shooting upright in the bed. "Careful," Camille pressed his chest and forced him back prostrate. "We thought you would never awaken. Twelve days past you fell out, not a sign of illness to be seen about you. You screamed many times, and you went into fits of flailing."
It had taken all of his effort not to resist her. The light had clambered it's way back into his eyes, and his vision had returned; the sight of Camille brought a smile to his pale face. "You never worry this much" he spoke groggily, rasping evidence of disuse in his voice. "It's almost as if I'd been in a coma."
Loud and fast, Tobias' eyes widened at the stinging sensation in his cheek. "Can you be serious for once in your life?" Camille had gone from worried to angry in less than a heartbeat, and Tobias was uncertain how to respond. "There is nary a day's time before you are scheduled to compete in a tournament bout, and you are in no condition. I've ceded the task of submitting your formal withdrawal to an attendant, who will-"
"Belay that," the Captain snarled as he finally found it in himself to fight back. Her hand was firm on his chest, but their faces were mere inches from touching in a second. "I will fight, whether or not I have been asleep for nearly a fortnight. I finish what I start, Camille."
"You're in no condition," the blonde protested, desperation alight on her delicate features. If not for prior knowledge, Tobias would have never thought the woman before him a soldier. "It is unsafe, and I cannot allow it. As your superior officer-"
"Ah," he said with a knowing smirk, "but you are not my superior officer. Not anymore."
Camille gasped, taken aback by his words. She looked as though they stung as badly as her slap. "Very well Captain" she adopted a respectful, emotionless tone that reflected her desire for brevity on the topic and resignation. "I will see to it that your blade is honed and ready for use come the morrow. May the Thayne smile on your battle," she offered before muttering, "then at least someone would be."
Theirs was a curious relationship, Tobias reflected. Transcending words and moving completely through actions, his back and forth engagements with Camille reminded him of moves in chess. He pressed from one side, and she responded with a quick, efficient defense. Stalemate was certainly an apt word.
As he rose from the bed, Tobias noticed that he wore only the pants of his uniform, and his torso was bandaged and wrapped. There were no strange aches or pains in his body. His head did not burn in agony, nor did his stomach churn from sickness. The confusion of everything ruminating in his mind seemed to be the worst symptom he exhibited.
"I've had plenty of rest," he muttered, staring back at the bed. The thought of sleep had briefly crossed his mind, but twelve days worth seemed more than ample. He would take a short reprieve before the bout to come, but until then he would consider what was to come. His amber eyes slid shut as he recalled movements in his mind, replaying the events of his coma induced dream to assess weaknesses in his technique. It was to be a long night.
The next day...
Sunlight bathed the alabaster floor as it bled through the stained glass windows. Ruby light tinted his flesh in an eerie light when he strode into the sanctuary. "This is a sacred place," the Monk had told him before shutting the door behind him. "An homage to Hromagh, Thayne of Strength. May he smile on your battle."
Tobias snorted. How many people were going to wish for gods to smile on bloodshed before this began? As he strode toward the middle of the chamber, Tobias noticed that it was large and open. There was little terrain to use, and fewer places to hide. Where statues and carvings did exist along the walls, they offered little cover. He felt as though the windows cast the room in eternal sunset, though it could just as easily have been meant to instill a sense of bloodlust.
His left thumb slid along the hilt of his weapon, still sheathed. At any moment, his opponent would arrive. The tactician revealed nothing of his anticipation or wariness, instead opting to wear a mask of contemplation. "Come what may," he murmured, and Tobias took a deep breath.
Next came the plunge.
Barnabas just got off that “entertainment ship” that had picked him up off a deserted island in the middle of a storm. Now he has to head to the temple at the top of the tallest peak in the city. “Great, now I have to worry about upsetting them if I don't do their rituals. “Why does these kind of things always happen to me,” Barnabas mumbled to himself as he came to the top of the hill. On both sides of the temple was strong men. “I'm guessing it is going to be an arm wrestling match. I'm so done for.” He then entered the temple and noticed that the room was open with sparse amount of decorations. There were a few strong men statues along the wall and a stained glass window that depicted a male being with the head of a bull, paws and mane in the semblance of a lion, and the body more or less of an upright bear.
Everyone looked at the door when it had opened and seemed puzzled. Barnabas decided not to be mean... this time. “I'm here for the Magus Cup. I am Barnabas Tourneymant. May I inquire that the armored man be Tobias Stalt, my opponent?”
In reverent silence, the monks sworn to the Warrior Thayne turned their gazes upon the newcomer. Brows lifted when they saw nothing, but at the mention of the opponent and Magus Cup, all fingers rose to identify Tobias. There was an abnormal veil of peace folded over a place dedicated to a deity of war, and the vague interest of Captain Stalt in the carvings waned at the sound of his name from the far end of the chamber.
Genuine surprise flashed across his face at the disembodied nature of the voice. He had expected at the very least a monster with ten heads or a Knight Captain. An invisible man seemed out of place and slightly ridiculous. "Aye," he offered incredulously, "Captain Tobias Stalt, 908th Division." His origins and allegiances seemed superfluous to the conversation beyond that, but respect and protocol dictated he ought to identify himself as a soldier.
This Barnabas fellow who bore the surname "Tourneymant" must have earned that honor in some previous setting. The lack of accolades or titles beyond what had presented left Stalt at a loss. Combing his fingers through his hair in frustration, Tobias bristled. "Beg pardon," he called to his opponent, "I don't suppose you have plans to don a more conducive appearance to our current... predicament?"
Steel sung a snake's song as it hissed from the sheath at his side, and Tobias guided the blade across his hand with familiarity. His reflection in the polished, oiled surface showed a gentle golden gaze that glowed with affection. He stayed tuned in for an answer from his opponent, and he used his hearing to place where the unseen man lurked. When the weapon finally came to rest at his side, Tobias seemed to glow in the sunlight that poured through the open door.
The evening prior had been spent on abating the symptoms of atrophy, and Tobias was thankful for the stretching he had done. Rigorous, short bursts of exercise had stimulated his body and given him most of his movement back, albeit with slight pain in the hardest hit areas. Notably, Tobias rolled his left shoulder several times to assuage the aching that still plagued him.
As the doors creaked shut and abolished the sun's rays, the pristine white room was once more bathed in bloody red. Tobias had become convinced it was not a meaningless symbolism. Beyond stretching, he had scarcely moved an inch since drawing his sword. It was best to show patience, he had learned, when adversity came upon him. Strategy existed on the battlefield, or in a conversation; the young Tactician had learned it was omni-applicable.
Barnabas chuckled as he pulled out his frying pan. "I'm afraid that the best you'll get when it comes to seeing me is this. Though If you were to focus on this spot you might be able to see a slight shimmer. That shimmer is me." Barnabas could probably laugh at the fact that he was actually aiding his opponent. Then again, twice now he hasn't had much of a fight. Just a no show and a person who forfeited almost as soon as the battle started. The only one that he actually fought in was his first battle, which he lost. He just wanted to make it more interesting.
“Now then,” Barnabas yelled as he rushed his opponent, “Lets get this started.” He swung his pan with all his might in hopes to hear the bong of metal on skull.
"Shimmer my arse," Tobias muttered indignantly, then glanced up to see a frying pan flying through the air toward him. The plod of footfalls on marble confirmed that someone had hold of the kitchen supply. When the iron weapon swung for his head, the grating outcry of steel against iron rang throughout Hromagh's sanctuary. When the echo began to fade slowly out, Tobias thought he heard something akin to laughter. "Fuckin' gods," he murmured.
The soldier had lost all love for the divine sense of humor. Whenever forces beyond human control had meddled in his life, everything had gone to hell. He could neither confirm nor deny the existence of a greater power, but if it did exist, he wagered that his feelings would amount only to ire.
Stalt wasted no time in his riposte. When his blade slid down the underside of the pan, he expertly twisted his wrist. The blade followed the deft motion in a tight turn, and it only left the pan's surface for a fraction of an instant. Tobias had no real guideline for where to strike, but the weapon offered something of a target.
Bloody light painted the weapon as Tobias swung toward the area behind the weapon, and danced into dangerous waters. Left to right across where he estimated the chest would be. His movements reminded him of the practice dummy back in the Etherian barracks. He had spent hours dodging the haymaker strikes of the blunted practice sword affixed to the damn thing, and more effort had gone into slashing at it than anything he had ever done in his life.
This unfortunate opponent, while invisible, had brought a game familiar to Tobias. The differences were negligible. "If you remain invisible, I may kill you by accident," Tobias offered honestly, his breaths measured and voice confident. "I would prefer to avoid that."
Barnabas jumped back from the swipe and made it just miss him. “If I could I would, but it is impossible for my species to become completely visible. If you don't see the slight change that my body shows to you as I pass, that is your problem. I shall continue to fight. Just know, I will not be easy to defeat,” Barnabas said before he swung the pan again to try to hit Tobias.
Steel scythed through air swiftly, and the pan drew backward. Tobias took the opportunity to raise his weapon; the blade absorbed the impact with a loud clang, and his right arm pressed the flat of the weapon to steady it against a harder swing. A tremor shook him, but Tobias seemed otherwise unaffected. He supposed the original plan had been too hopeful. A dummy could not move or think, whereas his enemy could process in real time.
He could not see anything of the effect Barnabas had described, but Tobi knew better than to trust the word of an enemy. If the soldier were to try to focus, his opponent would gain the upper hand. As his blade fell gently away from the outstretched fingertips of his free hand and dipped toward the floor, Tobias exhaled quietly. "I have no doubt," he replied, toneless.
In a blur of motion, he darted forward. The Dwarven weapon had scarce found his side as he lashed out with it, ripped through the air beneath the pan. Tobias wore a deadpan expression, and his blade drew an elegant, erratic pattern in the air before him. He tip-toed forward, and the blade veered right. He danced out to his right, and his sword shot upward. His hips turned, and the weapon went left. A violent crescendo of movement tore free from the youth as freely as though he simply danced.
"I'll lead, then," he folded his left arm behind his back expertly, and each nimble step flowed into the next. A flurry of motion erupted from Captain Stalt, less speedy than it was graceful. The sword seemed to be little more than a silver line that darted through the air. "Since you're the crowd favorite."
The "crowd" that he spoke of amounted to no more than two silent monks, men who scarce watched as they meticulously swept the floor and polished the marble. Still, at the sight of a swordsman with any modicum of skill, a man dedicated to Hromagh could not help but to glance up. There was a quiet appreciation that rippled through the room.
"Shall I pick up the pace?" he asked, his gaze intent upon the world ahead of him. If the pan came for him again, Tobias would be ready.
Barnabas had trouble as he dodged each swing that was sent his way. The fourth swing and he held up his pan to block. The clang of metal on metal rang through the halls. I guess it is time to up our game, Barnabas thought as he started to press his own attack. The normal weight behind a weapon may not be available to Barnabas due to his body, which doesn't even weigh a milligram. However, that doesn't mean he hadn't found ways to use his strength to unbalance an opponent. "I believe we should," he said as he pushed up with as much strength as he could muster, without strain, in hope that his strength was enough to unbalance his opponent.
With a deft flick of his wrist, Tobias reigned his blade in. Their weapons touched for only a moment; his unseen adversary pressed forward, and Tobias drew back. His steel shied away from the pan as it rose, which stole away his chance for a counterattack. What he lost in offense, however, Tobias took back in preparation.
The sword tapped the floor with its tip, and an echo resounded through the hall of Hromagh. Soft steps stole Tobias back, further from the oppressive object as he dragged the blade over the still shrieking floor. Sparks flecked from either side of the weapon as he found the wall at last, and though Tobias expected his enemy to follow, he had a plan.
The Spartan styled altar bore a minimum amount of decoration. Stains of visceral fluid from some slaughtered beast still lingered, and the very existence of it marred the beauty of the chamber. Tobias jerked at the weapon suddenly, whipped it up in a flash of motion, and he angled it expertly toward the levitating pan. "Your move," he called, each step woven with a quick breath.
It was difficult to do battle against an enemy he could not see. "Barnabas Tourneymant" was an annoyance that he wanted to stab more than he cared to admit. Tobias was not the sort of man who generally approved of wonton violence, but he was
vexed by impatience. The dance moved at his tempo, but he was powerless to capitalize on that advantage. "Have at you," he taunted through gritted teeth, a forced smile flaunted on his features.
With his back to the altar, Tobias felt the edge with his left hand. The young man braced himself, and he watched the pan carefully.
Now Barnabas was confused. Why did he back away from me? he thought as he began to review the Women's Pan Tournament back on the planet Varis. He had gone and watched this tournament because it was unique. The rules of the tournament was:
- You had to be female
- You had to use a frying pan as a weapon
- You must not hit a non-participant
There was one move in particular that he had seen and thought it would be the best shot. The woman had an opponent that had a lot longer arms than her so there was no way she could ever reach her without a hurt head. So what she did was she started to spin and continued to spin till her and the pan was at high speeds. She then released the pan with great accuracy and hit her surprised opponent on the head.
Barnabas grabbed the handle with both hands and started to spin. However, due to his near weightlessness, Barnabas couldn't act as a counter weight for the pan so it only made it halfway before it flung both the opposite way of his opponent and made him crash into a wall. His head and chest was hurt badly and as proof that something broke, his body started to glow red.
"There goes my advantage, and right when I needed it most," Barnabas thought as he pulled himself up with difficulty. His legs brought his body 3' off the ground and his body was another three feet to bring it up to 6'. His head was another foot which brought the entire height to 7'.
"Erm," Tobias stared rather blankly at the scene, dumbfounded by the frying pan as it flew in the opposite direction. "That was unexpected," he muttered. It was not often when his plans went so well, his opponent actually harmed themselves. It may have been a first, in fact. The body of Barnabas flickered and began to glow a reddish hue, and Tobias quirked an eyebrow. "I think joining up for this tournament has put me in the strangest situations I may ever experience."
His fingers slipped away from the altar. Tobias took a few measured steps forward, and he held out his blade. "I'll give you this opportunity to surrender without violence," the Captain offered in an earnest tone. "I can't see that you've been hurt, but I can see you. I also noticed you went flying off in the opposite direction, and it sounded like a pretty nasty impact, but that's neither here nor there," he spoke at length, more so than he cared for.
He waited for a response patiently and without any emotion on his face. Tobias kept his guard level, and his eyes scoured the red glimmer. For the first time Tobias could tell that his opponent was quite tall. "No wonder I kept missing," he muttered beneath his breath, "long bloody arms the weasel has..."
The room shone a brilliant orange-red tint now, as though fire had spread through the room when the sun shone directly through stained glass. His steps across the marble still resounded through the acoustics of the room, beneath the echo of his voice. It was a beautiful paradox: a war in a cloister of peace.
Barnabas looked at Tobias and said, "I have to agree. I am now in no condition to fight. I concede." He then placed the pan on the ground and slumped against the wall with a grunt. "You win the battle Tobias Stalt, but that doesn't mean you win the round. The judges will decide the real winner." He then looked over to the monks in the room. "Please take me to get fixed up." The monks came with a stretcher and placed him on it to take him away.
Steel slipped into its sheath as Tobias gave an annoyed grunt. He had hoped for a better opportunity to test his skill, but he had found a depressingly short lived battle. When the Monks carted away his opponent for healing, he turned to the Altar of Hromagh and ran a hand idly over its dusty surface.
Tales told of the Thayne of Strength and his children, the Dragons; countless stories that had been passed down across generations were etched into the stone before him. Though he could not understand the words, Tobias passed his fingers over the script like a child fascinated with a toy. "Hromagh appreciates strength of mind as well as body," a monk addressed him, and Tobias glanced back over his shoulder.
"You can speak," Tobias observed with a wry smile, "I was uncertain."
"We were commanded not to speak until you finished," the man explained, "but now that you are through, I can tell you more of the Lord of Power and his blessings." Tobias swiveled to face the man and folded his arms, then listened to the tale that followed. A story of origin, tales of hellfire and the forging of a world from lifeless stone, and the painting of stars onto the night sky seemed to go on for hours as Tobias drank in the mythos. "These are the words on the altar," the monk continued, "the secrets of our sect. Though you did not achieve victory through force, your thinking caused your opponent to falter, and the strength of your heart called you to offer your enemy mercy."
Tobias saw the outcome altar did bit differently, but he did not object. With a bow, he thanked the monk. "Thank you for your insight, brother," the soldier offered kindly, "perhaps one day I will meet you again."
"Hromagh willing," the monk replied. "His blessings upon you, Tobias Stalt. May your journey take you to new horizons."
Tobias turned with a smile, and he headed for the door. With any luck, another opponent would slake his thirst for improvement. Hopefully, the next day would offer him a worthy battle. When the chamber creaked closed behind him and Tobias was gone, the Monk clasped his hands and bowed. "May the wind carry him swiftly."
Thanks for completing your battle. It speaks volumes compared to those who did not find the Redemption Bracket to be worth their muster. Individual comments are below. TS is Tobias Stalt and TM is Tourneymant.
Tobias Stalt | Tourneymant
Story - 4 | 4 (TS: Your reliance on the monks for your character is somewhat annoying, particularly given the fact that canonically you are in Scara Brae being healed by a sect of former Ai'Bron monks that were discharged from the order due to their divergent beliefs and were hired by Queen Valeena to attend to fallen warriors in the Dajas Pagoda. No points lost, but I thought I'd point that out).
Setting - 5 | 3 (TS: Vivid setting. TM: Your descriptions are bland)
Pacing - 4 | 4 (Between TS' brevity issues & TM's mechanical errors, I can't really give anyone the edge here. TM: Your best post was your shortest. However, you sacrificed character and action for mechanics & pacing, which did not help you in the end).
Communication - 4 | 4
Action - 4 | 6 (TS: as I've learned more about your background in T1 and martial arts, I understand why you are so detailed w/ respect to positioning. In a writing context though, it's simply boring. TM: Your failed frying pan attack was easily the best departure I've read. It applied appropriate comedic relief and took the battle to a fresh conclusion. Good work)
Persona - 5 | 3 (TM: I don't get much feeling from Barnabas. Most of your writing is "Barnabas does this. Barnabas does that." Give me more. Describe how his feelings interact with the setting and the action around him. While I appreciate your "flashback" to the strange frying pan tournament, that sequence added more questions than answers about who your character really is)
Mechanics - 6 | 3 (TM: Watch plurals. You swapped "was" for "were" multiple times throughout the thread. You also had a number of misspelled words. There were very few run-ons in this battle though, so you both get a pat on the back)
Technique - 4 | 4 (Some basic similies, but nothing compared to the imagery of TS' last battle)
Clarity - 5 | 4 (TM: Ultimately your mechanical errors broke the flow of your writing. TS: You've come a long way since you've come to Althanas, but at times your writing is repetitive. I draw your attention to your opening paragraph: "A world in ruin had surrounded him.//Bleak and without hope, the consummate darkness had swallowed him. Like a child too inexperienced to swim, Tobias had been swallowed by the crushing tide that swept over him." Each sentence says the same thing. While you might think you're being poetic, you're just being boring. Work on your brevity and each individual line will pack a better punch).
Wildcard - 7 | 7 (I've awarded you both higher WC scores to boost your EXP output since you were the only group that completed your battle. You're welcome ;) )
Total - 48 | 42
Tobias Stalt advances to the Round 4 of the Redemption Bracket!
Tourneymant is eliminated.
Tobias Stalt earns 750 EXP and 63 GP!
Tourneymant earns 225 EXP and 42 GP!