Ronin Of Dreams
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The Martyrs wept, and a keening tone built within the confines of Spike Arena's bloodstained pit. The metallic scents of fresh spilled life grew heavy in the air. Spectators rose to their feet, at first curious and then with building excitement as they realized what was about to occur. It was time.
Suddenly, a mass of multi-coloured sprites spewed from the very tips of the forbidding monoliths. For the briefest moment they danced and glittered in the air, made more fanciful by contrast with Spike's dread ambiance. Then they dispersed, swarming with full purpose as they streaked towards specific contestants. Sprites wriggled and writhed, seeking entrance through every pore and orifice that they could, melding seamlessly into eyes and ears, diving into nostrils and mouths. They made the Chosen glow, just for a heartbeat.
Bodies grew transparent. An exhalation of effort by the strange, odd little bits of light and aether. Then the Chosen rose just off the ground, and exploded into countless little marvelous pieces, leaving nothing behind unless they willed it.
The Eight had staked their claims. Their chosen Paragons would proceed to fight a new battle in the Grand Arena. The Finals would soon begin!
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