TormentedDragon
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Hidden away from view of the crowd, the tournament’s administrative center is abuzz with activity, people running this way and that with orders and missives, conversation shifting back and forth from logistical problems such as crowd traffic, waste management, news dispersal, and enchantment costs to speculation regarding who would be chosen this year. As the time passes, the attention gradually drifts towards the upper tier of the room, to where the Director sits.
She cuts an eccentric picture, clad as she is in bell-studded white leather armor, her left arm sheathed in scale mail, the right half of her otherwise silver hair dyed a vibrant purple. Her attention is divided between the screens upon the wall opposite her seat, each displaying the action as it occurs in each arena, and the eight colored orbs that lie upon the table in front of her. She watches, and waits, fingers drumming upon the table, memories from six years past running through her mind.
Her fingers stop, shoulders straightening - there’s a change on the screens, a flash of multi-coloured light, and the orbs in front of her light, one by one. She nods, and rises, as all eyes turn to her and all conversation halts. “The Lords have Chosen,” she says. “Make ready for the Finals.”
The room erupts into a flurry of activity, and she turns from the table, disappearing through the back door. The Architect awaits in the room beyond, his eyes zeroed in on the diagram laid out before him, a hand idly running through his thick black hair. She snorts as she moves to his side, taking a quick glance at his latest creation. “Care to focus on the present for a moment?”
The blue-eyed man glances up from his work, a wry grin on his face as he turns to face his superior. “If you should wish it, ma’am,” he responds in mock anguish, his voice adopting a more serious tone before he continues. “I expect that the choices have been made, then?”
She nods, gesturing at the screens that ring this room as well. “Our announcer’s on his way by now, and the Chosen will be waiting. You’re sure the gates will work?”
The Architect mimics her nod, the certainty in his eyes telling her all that she really needs to know. “Absolutely sure. They performed perfectly during my test run this morning. The new announcement system is up and running as well, so we should be set to go.”
She grunts in acknowledgement, eyes sweeping the consoles below the screens, and the blinking magical lights they bear. “Well, it’s all worked so far, so fingers crossed that nothing breaks in the meantime. And here’s hoping he doesn’t forget himself and insult one of our Patrons, either.”
He laughs, unable to control himself any longer, one of his hands lightly tapping against the edge of the nearby table. “He’ll be fine, don’t worry. He knows he’ll have both of us to deal with if he so much as looks at the Lords wrong.”
She snorts, but nods. “Aye. Eyes up, though, we’re starting,” she says, pointing to the screens, and he cranes his eyes upward and leans back against the table, eager to watch this year’s Grand Finals unfold.
The arena is large, with rows upon rows of seats for spectators above a perfect circular field of red sand. The crowd slowly gathers to watch the incredible displays of sorcery and swordsmanship. The wealthier viewers sit in front-row seats, surrounded by armed bodyguards and personal mages, while the commoners are forced to watch the bloodshed from a more considerable distance.
The air is filled with anticipation, excitement, and the buzz from the invisible protection fields the guardian mages produce to keep wayward projectiles, metal, magic, or otherwise away from the crowd.
Such petty protective magics are not the source of the persistent buzz of voices, however; rather, the murmur on everyone’s lips concerns the eight pillars - or rather, their absence. The incredible manifestations of the Elemental Lords' power, and incarnations of the Lords themselves, no longer grace the arena sands, and likewise missing are the gates. Indeed, the arena looks distressingly empty, consisting of naught but the rolling red sands and the bare arena walls.
As the muttering reaches a fever pitch, a silver platter descends from the sky to the arena sands, bearing a single, familiar passenger - the Champion of yesteryear, bearing the circlet of tin he won upon the skin of his bald head. He, too, cuts an odd figure, arms clad in iron armor, his torso bare, his voluminous trousers black rather than orange to match the grey pallor of his skin. Not all wounds heal, it seems.
His cocky grin remains the same, however, as does the strength and humor of his voice. “Welcome, welcome, people of Bren and beyond, ta this year’s Tournament!” he shouts, arms outstretched, his head nodding vigorously at the crowds’ cheer. “It be my great honor to be your host, your announcer, your Master of Ceremonies, and to introduce to you the Lords’ own Chosen!”
He flings a hand to the north, one finger outstretched, and the screens on the walls come to life, each displaying the same image, as the sands where he points begin to rumble and shift.
A terrifying visage emerges from the sands below, the baleful eyes of the fearsome gorgon staring out from a nest of writhing vipers, thorned vines twisting their way down the creature’s torso and long sinuous tail into the sands below. So lifelike is the statue that more than a few of the audience avert their gaze, fearing to become stone themselves.
As the Pillar appears, so too does a gate right before it, a freestanding archway composed of floating squares and triangles of steel, a single perfect sphere at its apex. The space within warps, and the Chosen’s way is opened.
“For the honor o’ Earth, Chosen by Ol’ Father himself, the alluring aerial acrobat, Gabriel the Graceful!”
A blue flame winks into existence, dancing and whirling, and splits. The two siblings continue the dance, splitting again, and again, and again, until there is a veritable host of the wispy fire spirits, dancing away around an invisible center. A bit of flame breaks from each of them and streams to the center, joined there by a touch of the red arena sands, and in the wink of an eye, the wisps now dance around a pulsing molten core, the beat of the magma heart directing the wild dance.
As the Pillar appears, so too does a gate right before it, a freestanding archway composed of twisting, golden flames in the sinuous shape of dragons, an emblem of the sun at its apex. The space within warps, and the Chosen’s way is opened.
“Picked by the hand of Fire and fightin’ for same, bid welcome to Phoebus the Anorian, the wildfire alchemist!”
A torrent of water rushes up from the sands, bearded maw opening in a frothy roar. The serpentine form shimmers and shines in the sunlight, casting an ever-shifting shadow. Two sapphire eyes open and peer out at the arena, a watery claw scratching the liquid tendrils of the dragon’s beard as the Pillar’s tail clears the sands.
As the Pillar appears, so too does a gate right before it, a freestanding archway composed of swirling, looping, thrusting streams of water, a clenched fist at its apex. The space within warps, and the Chosen’s way is opened.
“Chosen by Water and surfin’ ta the fore, throw out a cheer for the blue bruiser, the courageous kickboxer, the woman named Scylla!”
A hand reaches out from the gloom, another following suit as Darkness' creation crawls forth from the shadows that spawned it. The man, carved from the blackest onyx, stands tall over the arena sands, staring out into the crowd. The remnants of the shade cling to his countenance, distorting its features; he could be warm or cold, smiling or sneering. None would ever truly know.
As the Pillar appears, so too does a gate right before it, a freestanding archway composed of roiling tendrils of pure blackness, a skull at its apex. The space within warps, and the Chosen’s way is opened.
“Representin’ the depths of Darkness and clad in the armor o’ Death, it’s the skull-slinging, shadow shaping swordsman, Rowan Moonstone!”
A gale blusters into the arena, given form by dust, leaves, reeds, and feathers. It halts over the arena sands, its force turned back on itself, the wild wind taking shape - eyes formed of sand, legs formed of twigs, a beak of green leaves, a body of dust. A tail of reeds fans out behind the wind-shaped raptor as wings made of a medley of feathers spread, and begin to beat, stirring the air before the pillar.
As the Pillar appears, so too does a gate right before it, a freestanding archway composed of wind-shaped runes, a shield of sand at its apex. The space within warps, and the Chosen’s way is opened.
“Here at the behest of Ol’ Mother Wind and bringin’ speed, skill, and a right cutting breath to the fray, put your hands together for the man with the shiny shield, Kieran!”
One moment, all is still, and the next, there is a true pillar of roiling, driving snow, a blizzard so dense it nearly forms a solid wall. From within the driving snow, there emerges first a frozen hammer, then a hand, the blizzard slowly taking the shape of the Giant of Frost. It tugs at its snowy beard, then raises its hammer of ice in a gesture of challenge, a bellow of laughter echoing across the arena.
As the Pillar appears, so too does a gate right before it, a freestanding archway composed of ice-formed swords, daggers, and axes, with the snarling head of a polar bear at its apex. The space within warps, and the Chosen’s way is opened.
“Joining us from the frozen lands o’ the North and Chosen by Ol’ Uncle Winter, he’s big, he’s angry, and he’s got a great bloody sword; it’s Kovvi The Winter Bear!”
Without warning, a metal sphere pops into existence, hanging in the air above the sands. For a moment, it is impossibly still, seemingly inert, but at some unseen signal, blue-white lightning arcs from its surface, each fork describing a shining path through the air, until, with a crash of thunder, the tiger’s form is complete. Lightning-etched eyes blink, and it yawns, resting upon its intangible haunches.
As the Pillar appears, so too does a gate right before it, a freestanding archway composed of a riot of yellow sparks, a ball of lightning at its apex. The space within warps, and the Chosen’s way is opened.
“Hailing from who knows where, and putting it forth for the honor o’ Energy; silver, shirtless, and shockingly strange, behold the Chosen - KJ!”
A flash of light blinds the eyes of all, and as the glare recedes a familiar figure comes into view. Another man, the alabaster twin to his darker cousin, stands tall, with arms crossed. The expression of this Pillar is free from any blemish, his smile as dazzling as the sun above. Nearly hidden from view is the bloodstained sword on the titan's back, the bulk of its torso serving as the perfect camouflage.
As the Pillar appears, so too does a gate right before it, a freestanding archway composed of a shimmering weave of netting, a golden spearhead at its apex. The space within warps, and the Chosen’s way is opened.
“Hand picked by the blinding Light, as deadly on ground as she is in the air, let the stands roar in welcome for the finely feathered hunter o’ the skies, Tharala Swiftwing!”
The Master of Ceremonies clicks his heels together and drops a jaunty bow before leaping back onto his ride. He gives each of the Chosen a wave as the platter rises, and with a ringing clap of his armored hands, signals the start of the Grand Finals.
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