Nightlark
Member
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"You sure you gonna go?" asked the half-drunk man sitting across from him, setting down the glass of ale onto the worn wooden table of the tavern. It was late, too late for anyone but for creatures of the dark to be up. That, and a drunk, a very displeased waitress, and a cranky bartender, both of whom did not understand why, in all of Lore, they were still up and serving two remaining guests. The acholholic's breath stank of spirits and decaying food matter, the remains of his past few meals obvious in his tangled beard. It didn't seem to matter to the strange figure sitting in front of him, who sat, impassive, unmoving. Come to think of it, the drunk didn't even know his name. The shadow to whom his spoke to did not seem to notice the question, and kept silent. "That Darkness Lord... Won't be surprised if he chose you..." He squinted at the mysterious person, or whatever he was, trying to see through the screen of darkness. "But you ain't gonna survive for more than five seconds in that cursed arena, I tell you." He hiccupped, peering at the figure again, and ordered another pint of ale. The waitress wrinkled her nose slightly, the distaste obvious on her face, relaying the order back to the bartender, who was not planning to spend his night serving and seemed ready to kick both of them out by force, his muscular arms flexing and his fists clenched. Again, the shadow made gave no response. "Hmph. Ya youngsters all think you can do it, but ya can't. Believe me." He let out a noise that sounded something like a mix of a sigh and a hiccup. "Whatever. I told ya all I know. Now get outta my sight and let me drink in peace." The figure across from him did not seem to hear this order, but after a slight pause, he stood and walked away, heading towards the exit in long, powerful strides. None of them saw the fire of determination burning in his eyes, the impassive mask that hid his emotions, even when his face was hidden in the shadows. He never showed his face to anyone. Never. In fact, all they would be able to see was a mass of darkness, in the rough outline of a human, float away. Just as he was about to set foot outside, the drunkard called out to him. "I need payment for my information!" he hollered, waving an arm wildly. The shadow paused, and seemed to turn his head slightly. "You have already been paid with the honor of sending the next Champion on his way. Be satisfied with that." His voice was soft, but deadly. As if to enforce his words, the dark screen slightly parted at his hands to show the pair of wickedly sharp knives in his grasp. Without another word, he left, fading into the night, leaving no sign that he had ever been there. Once again, the rogue set out, in search of bloodshed, but this time, not in war, but in the Elemental Championships. Kainrahn not normally have the patience to read the scroll floating above the entrance, but this time, he felt that he needed every advantage in this contest. He was up against the best of Lore, who probably would put a decent fight. As it turned out, he was right to do so. "Cellar Arena... Reflective mirrors... No healing... Hmm..." Shoot... mirrors. No chance for sneak-attacks, if the best of Lore are truly what they claim to be. Maybe a few on the careless ones. The inability to heal wounds did not matter to him; he was here to make wounds, not heal them, after all. Shrugging, he checked that his throwing knives, hidden within the folds of his tunic, were ready for use, then drew his daggers, the curved blades, like that of a Khopesh's, hidden in the shadows, and entered the underground arena. Immediately, he was struck by the unnatural dryness of the air..It was as if someone had purposely drawn every drop of moisture out of the air, but he simply shrugged. At least it isn't hot, not like the desert, eh? Surveying the area, he found that it wasn't as dark as he thought it would have been; the entire arena was lit by some type of light source. Examining the walls and pillars closely, he saw what appeared to be some type of luminous moss clinging to the stone and mirrors, then diverted his attention to the competitors. A few caught his eye; what looked like an avian hybrid, a pitch-black, towering demon, and a mage, presumably of ice, reading from a floating book. Not good. Definitely not good. Hide and strike. Slowly, he ducked to the left, hiding behind the first of two pillars that separated him and the mage, making sure to stay where he would not look, diagonal as to not be seen full front in the mirrors, staying in the shadows where his rough outline would not be easily noticed. Slinking around to the second pillar, there, he waited, considering whether or not to proceed. No allies yet... But what's the point, when we'll end up killing each other anyways? Besides, every man down means a better chance of survival for me. Refocusing, he checked on the mage again. A small blue... thing was beside him, apparently trying to talk to the mage. I can take them both out right now, or wait. Again, he hesitated, then decided just to interrupt the spell, nothing more. I can't risk battling both of them out in the open before I know what both of them are capable of. The wall of mirrors was directly behind the pair, so he drew one of the throwing knives, careful not to alert them, aimed at the mirrors behind them, and threw the knife. As soon as he let go of the blade, he'd make his way back, careful not to move suddenly and alert them that he was the one who had thrown the knife, sticking to the shadows from the pillars. Hopefully, they wouldn't see him. If they did, the best thing to do was lure them straight into another competitor and engage both parties in combat, rather than fight it out on his own. He grinned, and sent the knife flying. Time to get this thing started...
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