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TripleChaos -> RE: =EC 2023= Spike Arena (7/26/2023 23:56:03)
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Time.
Time remains frozen, an unbreakable law brought to its knees.
Nothing but Ezkeraz’s thoughts are in motion.
By all means, he shouldn’t be stuck–Every one of me!–here. It just doesn’t make sense, it’s not–It’s impossible!–something that should be–It breaks every rule they–possible.
Ezkeraz takes a deep breath and holds it in his chest. Trying to think in this place is a challenge without a strong will and a significant degree of focus. His chest falls as he lets the air go. Or it would, if he could move even a single muscle.
His eyes remain agape, gazing upon this prison that surrounds him. Upon a backdrop of darkness, countless stars like pricks of light swirl as if carried by the current of a river. In contrast, he is suspended motionless in space, unable to even close his eyes.
Even a fool could tell that this is no normal place he has found himself trapped within; If he was actually mingling among the stars in the sky, why are they moving in such a strange pattern? What is holding him fixed in place? There is no worldly logic to this space. Thus, like any other impossible phenomenon, there must be some kind of magic conducting this reality. Given the environment around him and the condition he is in, Ezkeraz could conclude that this must be a prison.
He is familiar with all manners of sealing, binding, and imprisoning spells—even if he hasn’t the faintest clue as to what makes them work. Maintaining the stability of the timeline frequently leads to detaining anyone or anything whose existence would violate that stability, since trying to erase them entirely takes a great deal of effort. So he has worked with associates that assist him with such magic on many occasions.
Associates... Who was the one he worked with the most? Ezkeraz strains to remember, but to no avail. His thoughts are a mess, out of order and missing pieces. It’s as if his state of mind is stuck in a single moment, captured when he was surprised, or–It just doesn’t make sense, it’s not–confused. His face remains still even as he attempts to squint in focus. He doesn’t need to remember names right now. He needs to find–I need to find a way out–a way out. Then, when he gets out...
... When he gets out? Patience is a useless skill when you’ve been deprived of everything, with even your time taken from you. A second or a century could pass and Ezkeraz would have no way of telling. No sigh passes his lips as he continues to explore his thoughts.
* * *
Nothing but Ezkeraz’s thoughts are in motion.
By all means, he shouldn’t be stuck...
In a single overwhelming instant, he could feel again: The heat of the sun on his cheeks, the weight of his armor, the air in his lungs. He gasps as he lurches forward, regaining his balance. As he takes a step forward he can feel another sensation fade slightly, a suffocating... presence... as if his thoughts are overlapping with many, many others in a space the size of a pebble.
The feeling of relief passes shortly, and Ezkeraz realizes he is standing in the middle of a bustling street. Despite stumbling, people still pass by him, paying no mind to a stranger appearing from thin air. At least from his perspective. Could this still be a part of the–Could this still be a–prison?
Ezkeraz winces, that crowding feeling still lingering. It was hard to recognize it inside that magical prison, but it is a familiar sensation: As if another person was speaking in your mind. Where he was from, it was rare for a person to experience this sensation even once in their lifetime, with a few exceptions. Ezkeraz was one of those exceptions, as were all the people he worked with.
In fact, from a young age, he has been surrounded by people that all share the same talent. He lived at a sort of temple, something similar to a religious order. Everyone there was taught the truth about their talent: Those voices are not imagined, they come from far, far away. From another version of you that could be close or far, similar or not at all like yourself. That’s the end of what Ezkeraz remembers from a few lectures at least.
Most of those in the temple continue their studies, trying to learn more about the nature of “timelines” and “the multiverse.” Though for Ezkeraz, lectures put him to sleep and he lacked book smarts. Instead, he chose to become a fighter, dedicating his life to preserving the stability of all timelines. Hrmm... Why does he feel so strongly about duty if he didn’t learn it himself?
Ezkeraz takes a deep breath. He should wait until he’s on death’s door before letting his life flash before his eyes. He’s been standing in the street for a while now, and some of the street vendors look like they're working up the courage to ask if he’s alright.
As his head turns this way and that in an attempt to take in his surroundings, he glances at his arms. Stretching across both his bracers are streaks of branching lightning, glowing dimly and moving as if blown by a breeze. Ezkeraz rushes to hide his arms by crossing them close to his chest, but no one around him seems to be alarmed. They must be some kind of residual magic from the prison, or perhaps from whatever spell brought him to this city. He lets go of the breath he had been holding unconsciously. He allows his arms to fall to his sides as he joins the crowds that had been giving him a small berth and begins scouting out the city.
* * *
It didn’t take too long before he heard the name of this city, Bren, from a few conversations carried by a pleasant wind. Even with his memories fuzzy, it wasn’t a name that sounded familiar. He could make a guess he wasn’t anywhere in his own world, but some of the unusual-looking people and creatures he passed were enough to erase any doubts of that. Despite that, he doesn't feel as if he has trespassed over any boundaries. It’s almost as if he’s supposed to be here.
A breeze passes through his dark hair and he relaxes his shoulders a little more. Even in strange lands, he is glad to be able to think clearly again. Presently, Ezkeraz had taken off his helmet and is sitting on a bench outside a smithy, waiting while the short man inside strikes his anvil. Now that he’s had a chance to explore the city, his “selves” have most likely spread out, which would explain why that released pressure he felt upon arriving in Bren has further been–relieved–relieved.
Ezkeraz grumbles at his own impeccable timing as he places a hand on his temple. How could something like this happen in the first place? Even ignoring all the jargon about infinities that he prefers to avoid, it should be next to impossible for every Ezkeraz to appear in the same place, at the same time. It would be like funneling an ocean through the eye of a needle. Er, no, was it weaving an ocean of threads with a needle?
“The only time I’d want one of those bookworms around” Ezkeraz mumbles to himself as he stands up. The hammering had stopped moments before, so he goes to speak with the blacksmith. They place his swords on a counter and take a seat. Ezkeraz lifts one of his swords and admires the craftsmanship. Light sparkles in his hands, the flame of the forge reflecting on the silver coins taken from his pouch. He was surprised to find out earlier that the people of this city accept the currency he has.
The blade in his grip shines true like a silvered mirror, and with both edges bearing exactly the correct sharpness for its size, it’s no challenge to appreciate this smith’s skill. It was exactly because of this that it was even harder for Ezkeraz to barely hold back a sigh. He places the coins in his hand on the counter and grabs the other sword. Before the blacksmith could humbly refuse such a generous tip, the swords in his hands flash with a faint light.
The expertly repaired weapons he was holding a moment before were gone. In their place, a pair of replicas. They were the same swords in truth, but that would be hard to discern with the dozens of chips and rust along their edges and the leather on their handles starting to unwrap.
He gingerly places them on the counter again. The blacksmith takes their eyes off the coins, looking up without a hint of humor. Ezkeraz guesses they must be thinking that they should have shoved him onto the street after the first time he pulled this little trick; Or the second, or the third. He couldn’t tell if it was his own serious gaze or if he had accidentally overpaid, but the blacksmith pushes the coins onto a plate and rises from their stool. With only a few complaints about a busy day, they return to the grindstone with his swords.
Ezkeraz walks out of the smithy, returning beside the bench but not taking a seat. The fugue from that prison is wearing off, but he still can’t remember everything. A bout of amnesia. Not uncommon for those stuck inside a magical prison. Besides the memory loss, he feels as though his prison impressed upon him a strong feeling of déjà vu. How long could it have been, inside there?
He shakes his head. He shouldn’t try to grasp questions without answers, that won’t lead him anywhere. Instead, he turns his thoughts to what he can remember and that associate of his comes to mind. After giving it more thought, he remembered how they were actually his mentor, ever since he began weapon training. Despite no longer being their apprentice, he still found himself working with them quite often. Ezkeraz’s eyebrows furrow trying to remember what they looked like, but nothing comes to mind. He does recall that they taught him almost everything he knows, and cultivated the strong sense of responsibility that drives him, all of him, to use his talents for the greater good of all timelines.
That feeling of duty didn’t stop yet another sigh from escaping his chest. He was stuck in whoever knows where, after being stuck in a jail that defied reason, and he could hardly figure how he got stuck in either place. If his mentor was here, they’d probably have some quip about how younger folks hardly know what a real pinch is. Ezkeraz would enjoy spending time reminiscing, but he can’t just sit still. He turns towards the symbol of Bren, the arenas. He can feel a pull in his gut in the same direction. It also happens to be the largest structure in the city, and seems like a good place to start patching together an idea of how to get back to his own world.
After his swords were fixed, of course.
* * *
A rusty gate and coarse sandstone walls on either side surround Ezkeraz as he waits to enter the arena. A stark difference from the neater brick walls of the main entrance, where he had applied for entry. On his way to the arenas, he heard more talk of the Elemental Championship, and how the sole victor is granted a single boon. He figured that with no other obvious choices, fighting to earn that wish is probably his best bet for getting back to his world. Or at least he could use it to make sure it doesn’t get sent back to that prison for eternity.
The application process had been simple enough, and the clerks were helpful in explaining the details of the tournament being held—Although he had to settle on “energy” as an element after trying to explain his talents as simply as possible. It was a shame that they could hardly recognize his magic. Their ignorance reinforced the idea that this tournament may be his only hope to save himself.
His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of machinery whirring to life, as the grate in front of him is lifted with more creaks and clashing gears than it was worth counting. He stands before the rising gate alone, but he can’t shake–can’t shake the feeling–the feeling that… that he wasn’t alone.
It makes sense that some of him would be in the same approximate space. Perhaps they started another time or found themselves in different arenas. Either way, Ezkeraz was still glad that it was a more manageable feeling than when he was trapped.
The grate jerks violently to a halt, as if it would have loved to grind itself into scrap against the ceiling. Ezkeraz takes a step forward and a rush of warm air washes over him. The roars of the crowd he could hear before now drum on his ears with incessant fervor. Before him is a sun-scorched arena. Rust-stained sandstone walls surround the parched dirt in a wide circle, and countless metal splinters are embedded in both. The wicked spikes dispersed throughout are only a tribute to the massive sphere in the center, covered in even more spikes. He feels a force compelling him to get closer, but the directionless rage that spurs him to ball his fists tells him that it is far from the tug of fate that drew him here.
With a bit of effort, he turns his attention away from the spikes to assess his competition. Seeing no one to his right, Ezkeraz turns to his left. First is a hooded figure wearing flowing robes, gold colors accenting the black and white cloth. They are holding a leather-bound book, and underneath their hood he can just barely see one of their eyes reflecting streaks of sunlight from the many holes in the roof. The tome in their hand was already a hint that they were some kind of spellcaster, but something about their shadow rubs him the wrong way. Ezkeraz makes a note to give them more caution until he can guess how much danger their magic poses to him.
Beyond the cloaked mage, he can see a person who looks like some of those unusual people he had seen elsewhere in Bren: Humanoid, but with wings and antennae like that of a moth. Around their neck is an expensive-looking lantern, and instead of feet they have talons, with legs more like that of a bird’s. Past them is another figure, far enough to make discerning details a challenge: A petite woman with long reddish hair wearing a knee-length dress, and not holding any large weapons. More unknowns he takes note of.
Before Ezkeraz can check where the last competitor is, the arena is shaken with the sound of lightning. It strikes the sphere at the center of the arena, and once he could get a good look at it again, a towering pillar had taken its place. Composed of stone even rougher than the walls, it has yet more spikes: Pitch black and with a sharpness made more menacing by the glinting light on their pointed ends.
As his hearing returns, another blaring sound fills the arena as Ezkeraz grips the swords sitting in his sheaths.
“And so begins the Trial of the Savage. Fight or Die, adventurers, but let the Elemental Championships begin!”
...
Time.
Ezkeraz’s time is flowing once again, and his chest truly rises as breath fills his lungs.
The tournament begins, and he frees his two plain steel shortswords from the leather imprisoning them.
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