Ryu Viranesh
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Ayla descended the stage to muted applause, ignoring the stares and half-hearted fanfare in favor of the familiar seat at the end of the bar. The barkeep - old Vincent tonight - gave her an appreciative glance and set her usual poison down on the counter. One day she was going to have to kick the habit, but right now she needed to steady her nerves. There was still a second set to play, after all.
The young woman shook her head, but downed the glass in a single drag, setting it off to the side as her eyes wandered the common room. The Fluted Flask was packed to the gills, as was virtually every other inn and tavern in Bren. The Championships always attracted massive crowds, and after a year off the fans were flocking to the city in droves, all of them overeager to bear witness to the coming bloodshed. Not like a bunch of battle-hungry freaks would know how to appreciate a little fine art. Ayla thought bitterly, glaring over at an especially rowdy table that had yelled through most of her prior performance. If only looks could kill.
“Tough crowd tonight, huh?” Old Vince was back, polishing a glass and looking thoroughly apologetic about the whole situation, though she suspected that the latter was an act for her benefit. Ayla gave the barkeep a cool look, jerking her head towards the increasingly intoxicated groups of revelers and letting out a very un-ladylike snort.
“Tough? I doubt a single one of these sots was even listening.”
“Wouldn’t say that.” The bartender gave a glance down the bar, drawing her attention to a dark-haired man seated near the opposite end of the counter. “Gentleman over there was paying very close attention to your playing.”
“Him? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
“I’m sure he couldn’t.” Ayla muttered, hands tightening to fists as she considered the man, his chin resting idly atop his hands. He wasn’t making a fuss like some of their other patrons that night; if anything he seemed bored by the whole spectacle. Had he really come here just to leer at a pretty girl? The young woman was on her feet before she could stop herself, pausing only to take a deep breath before she leaped down from her barstool.
Vince set down the glass he’d been cleaning and eyed her hesitantly. “Where’re you going? Your second shift’s not for another hour.”
“Oh, just to have a little chat with my admirer.” The girl winked at the barkeep. “I mean, if he really was paying attention, then I’d love to hear his opinion on the show.” Vince shook his head but made no move to stop her, continuing his futile attempt to get the tumbler clean as she turned away from the counter and slipped into the crowd.
The Fluted Flask normally catered to a more upscale clientele, but the Tournament crowds had convinced the owners to open the doors to anyone that happened to wander past, so long as their coin was good. As such, while it was normally possible to move through the common room unimpeded, tonight Ayla needed to push her way through the mass of bodies in order to make any headway at all. It seemed an eternity before she finally stumbled free from the press, her normally well-coiffed hair now tousled and frowzy. The young woman reached up to guide several red strands out of her face and cast around for her target, finding the man only a few steps away.
Ayla stood straight, hands hastily correcting whatever else felt out of place as a result of her ordeal before she moved in for the final approach. Now that she was so much closer, she could see details which were too fine to be conveyed at a distance: the dark blue hue of his shirt, the bright red highlights visible within his mane of darker hair, the… scarlet gloves slipped over his hands? How in the world did I miss those? The girl stared, transfixed, and only a timely nudge from a passing merrymaker saved her from making a serious faux pas.
She blushed, glancing hastily to both sides and letting out a sigh of relief when it seemed that no one had noticed her. Still, it was only after she felt the color fade from her cheeks that she finally tapped the gentleman on his shoulder.
“Excuse me, sir.”
A jolt went through his form, head lifting from its perch as he turned to regard her. It took less than a moment for recognition to flash through his green eyes. “You’re the performer from earlier.” There was a slight accent to his speech, a notable overemphasis on his f's which clearly signaled that the stranger was not from around these parts.
Ayla smiled, dipping into a curtsey. “I’m happy that you recognize me. I was just wondering what you thought of the show, since you seemed to be paying such close attention.”
The man had the good sense to look away, his mouth twisting into a pronounced frown as he glanced down at the counter. “Well, it…” He paused, a hiss of breath escaping from between his lips. “You played remarkably well. The quality of the tone was evident even amidst all of the noise, and you managed to maintain a stately bearing even while expressing the sincerest joy or the most crippling sorrow. It was a truly deft execution of one of Nackt’s finest cello pieces.”
The girl blinked, her jaw slackening in surprise. “You’re familiar with Nackt’s No. 1?”
He turned to face her once again, hesitantly meeting her eyes as he flashed a brief smile. “I played violin when I was younger. As such, I’m familiar with most of his string concertos, even though it’s been a long time since I’ve played one myself.”
Ayla slid into the chair to the man’s right, her head unconsciously moving from side to side. “You’re a musician.” The words were redundant, a faint flush working its way back onto her face. “You were listening because you actually appreciate music.”
“At this point I think a ‘former’ should be appended to that title, but yes, I do still enjoy the skilled performance here and there.”
The young woman giggled. “It’s not every day that I meet a customer who knows what it means for a performance to be ‘skilled’.” She straightened up, folding her hands in her lap. “I’m Ayla. It’s a pleasure.”
The man lifted a hand and slashed it through the air, his subdued laughter joining her own. “Please, the pleasure is all mine. As far as a name, you may call me Cyril.”
“I may call you that?” Ayla joked. “Is there anything else which I may call you then?”
“Anything but a musician.” Cyril grinned, a brief glimpse of yellowed teeth all she got before the expression vanished. The amusement in his eyes, however, survived.
She leaned forward, taking note of the fact that he seemed to move an equal distance further away. That type, huh? “So Cyril, what brings you to Bren at this time of year?”
“The Tournament, what else?” He returned his chin to its place atop his hands, his whole body seeming at last to relax. “It seems that the rumors of its popularity are more true than I could have imagined.”
“Well, yes.” The woman frowned, eyeing the foreigner with a puzzled expression. “I wouldn’t have expected you to be the type that enjoys watching bloodsport though.”
“Oh.” Cyril’s eyes flicked over to the side, his hands clenching more tightly together. “I’m not.”
“That doesn’t make sense! Why would you be here for the tournament if not to watch it?” Ayla didn’t realize that she’d raised her voice, and was only conscious of the fact after she noticed the stares being sent their way.
Cyril flinched as if struck, the added attention seeming to make the man wilt beneath her gaze. Yet his tone was steady as he spoke, a shred of resolve showing through from beneath his meek visage. “Because I’m competing in it.”
The whole room seemed to stop, or, that was how Ayla imagined it. She was sure that only a few of the customers that filled the tavern had even heard that, much less cared enough to pay attention. But it felt as though every eye was upon her as she voiced the incredulous question. “You’re competing. In the Elemental Championships?”
Cyril let out a heavy sigh, lifting his head to nod. “I am.”
“Why?”
The man fell silent for a time, turning to glance behind the bar. “Have you ever,” he began, slowly, “made a decision which you wish with all of your heart you could take back?”
Ayla remained quiet, staring at the side of Cyril’s head with an intensity that might unnerve him were he actually meeting her gaze.
“I’m here because the only way to undo what I’ve done is with a wish. It won’t get rid of the consequences, but maybe it will help me sleep at night.”
Amid another patch of silence, Ayla stood up, sparing the man one final glance before she turned to walk away. “It was nice meeting you, Cyril.” The words were cold, any hint of the warmth which she’d developed towards him gone. Vince gave her a look as she stalked past him, disappearing into the back of the tavern.
When she went on stage again later that night, she turned her head when she caught him watching her. She was sure that he’d do the same. Still... The young woman frowned as she drew her bow across the strings, throwing herself into the performance with all that she had. It was still nice to know that there was somebody out there listening.
*****
"Hey, what's that tune you're humming?"
Cyril started, drawn out of his reverie by the sound of the tournament attendant’s voice, the young, fresh-faced boy looking all too eager given the hour. “I’m sorry?”
“That song. The one that you’re humming. I was wondering what it was.” The boy took care to draw out every syllable, acting as though Cyril was some sort of dullard. Who knows, maybe I am. The foreigner shook his head, pushing the thought away as he eyed the attendant.
“Just something I heard last night. Not sure what it’s called.”
The attendant seemed to accept that answer, albeit unhappily, and returned his attention to the clipboard in his hands. “So, as I was saying. You do accept the liability for participating in the Elemental Championships, correct Mr. Kovac?”
“Yes. I understand the risks.” I wouldn’t have signed up if I didn’t. Cyril had to swallow a sigh as the boy - he’d said his name was Winston - droned on about the tournament’s bylaws, without a care in the world for whether he was actually listening. The man sent a surreptitious glance down the line, observing several of the other hopefuls as they were likewise read their rights. A not insignificant number actually did back out, their faces noticeably paler as they left the staging grounds behind, reality intruding upon their dreams of glory and renown. For Cyril the risks didn’t matter. This was the only option that he had. It was his lifeline, and he was going to cling to it for all it was worth.
He’d first conceived of the idea to enter the Elemental Championships over a year ago now, on the day that bard had visited Iratov. Cyril had been down on his luck, reduced to scrounging for pennies and sleeping beneath bridges, when the breeze carried the singer’s voice to him. She sang of warriors brave and noble, of creatures wild and free, and of villains vile and wrong. She sang of the clashes atop the Arena’s sands, and of the great victories of tournaments’ past. Most importantly, she sang of the Boon granted the Champion, a wish which the Lords themselves guaranteed would come true.
It was not a decision he had made lightly. For the first few weeks he’d laughed at the very thought of involving himself in such a competition. He was a failure, one whom had run away from every hardship that life had thrown at him. No, not life. He had caused those problems, and rather than suffer the consequences he’d chosen to abdicate responsibility.
Then why don’t you man up for once and do something about it?
Cyril couldn’t say where the thought came from, but it had changed his entire attitude towards the Championships. He seized on the idea of the Boon, that it might be the way he could finally make things right. All he had to do was emerge victorious and claim it for himself.
So it was that he left both Iratov and his homeland behind, a tag-along on a caravan bound for the territories which lay beyond the Elbrus Mountains. The journey was long, much of it undertaken either on foot or by the generosity of passing strangers, those quaint country folk who were willing to carry him along to their destination. Yet when he finally arrived at Bren those many months later, he was greeted by an entirely different roadblock: there was to be no Championship that year.
It would have been easy to surrender then, to say that he had tried and slip back into apathy’s familiar grasp. To stop caring about the things that had happened and just let it all go. Part of him would almost consider that to be a blessing. But another piece of him couldn’t abide it. It was one thing to give up when he’d never really tried; it was entirely another to do so after travelling halfway across the world. It was a long shot, but he had bet on the Elemental Championships. So, if nothing else, he would see that mad gamble through to its finale.
Cyril spent the next year laboring in the towns which bordered Bren, working whatever odd jobs happened to crop up. His evenings were spent practicing his swordsmanship, these sessions drawing more than their fair share of attention in the smaller settlements. At times, it almost felt as though he had started his life over. He was on a first name basis with many of the townsfolk, and they made as much of an effort to help him as he did them. He slept in their lofts and spare bedrooms, and they paid him more than was necessary for such simple tasks. Especially at the rate he went through their tools. At times, he could almost forget.
However, he’d made himself a promise. And so with every paycheck he received, Cyril put the money toward what he was going to need for the tournament, prioritizing first weapons and then armor. By the time the date drew near, he’d not only outfitted himself appropriately, but even devised strategies to deal with some of the more unusual foes he might be required to face. Gone was the homeless wanderer whom had expected the Championships to become his tomb, in his place a competent warrior capable of respecting the challenge before him, but driven by a desire for victory. A victory which he would do whatever was required to achieve.
Even suffer such humiliation. Cyril's nose wrinkled in disgust, a shiver crawling down his spine at the remembered discomfort. In order to prevent his… affliction from damaging the clothing he’d worked so hard to acquire, he had been forced to hire help to dress himself that morning. The entire experience had been awkward beyond his comprehension. Some of it had been his own nerves. His hands had been shaking worse than the first time he’d needed to cut a purse. More still was the sheer embarrassment he had felt at needing the attendants in the first place. It had made him feel like some sort of child playing pretend. Yet he could not ignore the conduct of the attendants themselves. How they had fumbled and grasped at his garments as though they had never seen such clothing before in their life.
The foreigner shut his eyes and counted to ten, banishing the unwanted distractions and refocusing on why he was here. The Elemental Championships. The Boon. Peace. Peace at last. Cyril took a deep breath, the jitter which had plagued his hands finally ceasing. He could hear Winston’s voice again, the lad’s speech seeming to come to a crescendo just as Cyril gave him his attention.
“... and that is why, under no circumstances, are you allowed to bring any Whirligigs into the Arenas. Do you understand?” The boy gave him an expectant look, evidently rather proud of whatever he’d just said.
Cyril managed to just barely keep a straight face as he nodded, clasping his hands before him. “Yes. Perfectly.”
“Well, then I think we’ve covered everything that you need to know.” Winston slid the clipboard beneath an arm and gestured to the left. “Follow the passageway over there down to the end to reach your Arena. You’re in Fountain this year.” He paused, seeming to straighten up. “Good luck to you, aspirant of Darkness.” With that, the young attendant strode away, likely to interview yet another possible contestant. Cyril stared after the boy, shaking his head in disbelief before he turned and set off down his own path.
It was funny, truth be told. From the stories he’d heard, most considered Darkness to be home to the wicked and depraved. The ones that used the shadows to hide their more duplicitous dealings and wouldn’t hesitate to stab you in the back should it prove advantageous. In some ways, the same could be said for Cyril, though that wasn’t why he had chosen the element. Simply put, he felt that Darkness would understand where he was coming from. It wouldn’t care about the things he’d done or why he was here; it had seen worse, had concealed things far worse than him. Cyril would be judged on the same playing field as any other, and that suited him just fine.
*
The sigils which lined the walls gave some hint to the Arena he would find at the hall’s end. A place which took to heart water’s natural fluidity, shifting as often and easily as the keys within a complex piece of music. But Cyril never could have predicted the light.
Bright, though not blinding, it took only a few disorienting seconds before he could see clearly again. Or, as clearly as the Arena would allow. This place distorted the senses. His sight was only able to extend so far before he lost faith in its accuracy, the space beyond blurring into incoherence. This vivid conglomeration of colored mist was accompanied by phantasms, shimmering illusory figures and scenes which, set against this backdrop, defied reason and formed a truly otherworldly spectacle. Off in the distance he fancied he could see the titular fountain, its surface rippling as though it too had been constructed from the water in the air.
Cyril paused at the entryway, staring out at all that awaited him. This was it. Everything that he had been working towards. Doubts flashed through his mind, little whispers and niggling worms that built themselves up into a familiar visage. Ayla stared back at him from inside the mist, wearing the same disapproving glare that had heralded her departure. Somewhere high above, a bell chimed. Cyril faced her, met her gaze this time, and strode past her into the Arena, for once unafraid of the consequences.
He felt calmer the instant he was over the threshold, as though he’d left all of his trepidation behind at the gate. Cyril’s weapons slid easily into his hands, the rasp of steel against leather echoing audibly throughout the chamber, as though it was the roar of some horrifying beast. Better they believe that than the truth.
It wasn’t long before his eyes settled upon the orc, the hulking creature just barely visible as it faded into the distance. Cyril sucked in a breath. It had to have a foot on him, probably more, yet how did the saying go? ‘Fortune favored the bold’. And this would certainly be a bold move.
The foreigner crept away from the entrance, following after his target with all the dexterity of a thief. The same skills he had applied to such great effect in Yarosburg would serve him just as well here, as he attempted to hunt the hunter. Best keep his ears open though, lest he too become the hunted.
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