The Palace of Isles

(IRON LEAGUE)
(OPEN)

John stepped through a portal, already bracing himself for wind. His anticipation wasn’t unfounded though, and he nearly stumbled as a gust threatened to topple him from the grass and earthen platform suspended, floating in the air. A mind-boggling distance up in the sky, the platform was grassy, clean, and well kept, illusion or not. It was one of many that dotted the landscape, some smaller or larger, but all of them within leaping distance.

Well, as long as you get a good running start, he mused, failing to resist the urge to look down.

A patchy network of clouds lay below him, drifting lazily over what he thought was an archipellago. He wondered, a little, if this place actually existed, the arena being created from some ancient discovery of islands in the sky, or if it was just some old monk’s idea to make platforms in the air.

Either way, it was an interesting place to fight in.

He backed off of the edge a little, noting that at any moment the edges of the sky island could begin to crumble, as the starting one always did when the second combatant entered. This one was larger and closer to the others as a result, but the distance grew as the island shrank, and it made for quite a leap, even for John, at that distance.

This was how the arena was, at least when he’d fought Hailwing. Each island had a ‘thing’ you see, each of them had a gimmick that made the fight interesting or downright difficult, depending on how dextrous or strong or agile you were.

The half-giant walked back to the center of the circle. He always found it a little awkward, just waiting around for his opponent to arrive. His blood was rising in anticipation, but there wasn’t anything going on yet. It was a calm he knew before battle, where peace reigned, if only for a moment.

Whoever it was, they’d be along shortly. Until then, he could only wait.

Leopold’s nerves were already a fluster storm of butterflies before his opponent emerged from the Citadel’s bulwark doors. Looking down from on high, they turned into a tirade of mosquitos pricking his stomach in response to seeing just how gigantic his sparring partner was. He frowned.

“’Just a warm up duel’ she says. ‘It’ll be painless’ she says.” He cursed his wife with several other sarcastic quotes under his breath, knowing she would be watching in the stands to ensure he wasn’t skipping bouts to head to the pub. It was certainly where he’d rather be right now.

He stood upright and his knees clicked. Whilst he felt chided by his wife and ushered into the Citadel against his wishes, she was right. She always was. It had been over a year since he’d so much as looked at his gun, lifted his spear, or thought about anything more violent than a sneeze. He needed to get back into shape, he just wished everybody would stop telling him.

The islands arrayed before him offered up ample opportunity to text his reflexes. Still, the wind that whipped through the floating isles was the least of his worries. If those fists of stone connected with him he’d be carried forty leagues and have a sore head when he woke up in the infirmary. He tried to remember what Duffy used to say about fighting someone bigger than you. Something about floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee.

“Least I have the higher ground,” he mused.

He took a few steps back from the edge of the pine tree mottled outcrop from which he observed his opponent’s entrance and checked his equipment. His pistol was holstered on his left hip. His top hat, not suitable for anything other than rainy alleyways and dinner tables was abandoned and his red hair danced in the gusts that lapse over his temporary sanctuary. He called his spear into being, and took into the confidence of his left hand. He set the butt down on the rock and closed his eyes to steel himself. Satisfied, he took a running jump and leapt clear from the island.

“Here goes nothing!”

He dropped the spear’s tip down and held it in two hands as though he meant to fall from the heavens and shatter the earth. He dropped towards his opponent’s head ant sized below in a whir of stupidity and a hint of desperation.