At the heart of a desert, Duffy Bracken stood sweating in some white shirt and brown trousers, desperate to get out of the heat. Unfortunately, when he had said to the monks of the Citadel he’d like a heated battle they had taken it utterly out of context. An easterly wind offered little reprieve and kicked up plumes of sand that rolled and frolicked over the arid landscape like carefree sprites. Behind him, on the edge of the dust bowl stood five imposing monoliths, their purpose unknown saves for making Duffy paranoid. The bowl itself was two hundred feet wide. It sloped inwards on all sides save for along the northern edge, where ten feet drop separated there would be battleground from the flats beyond.
“Remember to be more specific next time,†he chided himself.
He looked skyward at the rolling clouds, white plumes of vapour set against a brilliant blue sky. He figured it was a mockery of Fallien in summer, though the shattered island was this hot all year round, the cranes flocking overhead only ventured south to Irrakam in the hottest months. Despite fighting here more times than he could remember, the bard was always impressed by the attention to detail the mons gave to their illusory creations.
“A new challenger approaches!â€
Duffy blinked. The voice shuddered the sand and bounced around the arena like a thunderstorm. He tensed every muscle in his body, ready for anything.
“Well that’s new,†he said softly.
In the northern face of the bowl a door appeared, cunningly disguised by the jagged outcrops where the dunes had collapses in the shifting whorl of a desert’s life. It was the same iron bound oak frame that marked the entrance to each of the Citadel’s fighting arenas, but all the same, it’s appearance never failed to put the bard on edge. He bent his knees and began to bounce from foot to foot, trying to ignore the beading sweat as it rolled down the curve of his spine and bridge of his nose.
With only fifty feet between himself and the door, and likely nasty death, he held on to his advantages and produced two short swords from the ether. Blue ribbons spiralled away from where Althanas briefly touched the Tap and the brief cold clasp of steel excited his sense. He cut them in concentric circles, the rush of a blade’s edge through heated air his own private battle cry. Poised like a hawk, with both blade tips pointed at the door frame, he awaited his return to the front lines and all the merry little madrigals of pain that came with it.
