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dragon -> RE: =Elemental Championships 2008= Fountain Arena (7/18/2008 18:02:59)
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The wind whispered through the blades of grass, which each, in turn, humbly bowed. It ended briefly before gusting once again, following a pattern akin to the breathing of a living thing, for it was this in its own right. It precariously strolled upon the fray of reality, going where it sought to go, and not where it was told or even politely asked to travel.
This wild essence was something with which one being commonly identified. In doing so, he was not often seen sitting or standing in any one spot for a prolonged period of time, and it was only by a twist of fate, two cents from chance, and a sprinkle of luck that the Elemental Championships were delivered to his attention. Yet, pondering the past and its predestined clockwork is not something many can endure without a side effect of insanity, so we won't dwell. For all intents and purposes to be observed this day, he was haphazardly placed before the city of Bren.
A lustful breeze licked at Vi'in Gajel's ankles, brushing like a cat in need of attention against his legs. He calmed it for a moment, but it soon resumed its bold romantic conquest of his body, gusting through his every molecule. He didn't mind, only in the greatest storms was he at home, and only in the quiet whisper of a breeze was he in the company of friends. His footsteps were lonely entities of the moment, unaccompanied by sound. He was an interesting character, something sinister was in his composure and his form, something lurked beneath his eyes, but his silence would likely betray all curious eyes and minds into focusing on their daily life, for that was his way, discreet and modest in his being.
Discreet, in a way, but Vi'in was nonetheless a warrior and one who dressed the part. If not a decrepit and careless in his dress, at least at first glance. His wardrobe was first and foremost composed of a light armor, fitted to his form with astounding perfection. The downfall of this piece was its age, for curiously enough, it was stone, and this stone was old enough to suffer the cracks and wear of any rock upon the ground. Cracks ran through it in inconsistent intervals, and one would suspect that it was a stone's throw a way from shattering completely. A poor assumption to make, but regardless, it was impossible to draw any other conclusion.
This armor was barely visible, as it dwelled beneath the shadow of cloak, and this was a cloak that moved, as if consumed in current. It was in actuality a myriad of dead leaves spiraling through some mysterious current that enveloped the figure, and every particle moved with pattern, although this pattern was for the most part unidentifiable. The cloak came together at the front, and flared like any cloth at the bottom, fluttering normally with Vi'in's movement. It passed over his shoulders and was near to dragging upon the ground, but the cloak was open below the connected "vest" at the front. It much resembled the combination of the suit of a conductor and the attire of a magician, and both roles fit Vi'in, if not in more exaggerated forms. His arms were covered by black gauntlets, and his legs were enveloped in metal the shade of night, with matching boots, and all objects were engraved with designs important only to the bearer of their weight.
His face was determined, yet soft and graceful somehow, as if the wind caressed it to an illusion. One eye was piercing crystal blue while the other was a solid black, and one could look at each and see the best and worst of themselves. It was not an experience many had enjoyed, the few who Vi'in had trusted enough to be that close.
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Vi'in walked with caution, but solid esteem, through the city, upon the main road that would lead him straight to the arena gates. Fountain arena was his destination, and he didn't care much as to his assignment, he could only imagine its beauty would create an environment akin to a stroll in the park, give or take some glimmering metal and a quick heart rate. A really quick heart rate. Nonetheless, nerves accounted for, he at least showed no signs of consideration for the battle ahead, although he knew this facade would likely last no longer than a few minutes after his arena entrance.
A breeze whistled in the windows of the buildings he passed, although he didn't so much as flinch at its highly curious and sudden appearance. It died soon after he left the area, and even by him, its playful nature caused it to veer from his course. He didn't imagine it would be playful much longer, but he knew was was not one with the power to decide this. When the arena complex came into view, the wind died suddenly, and he was alone in his final walk, save for the stream of dead leaves that still encompassed parts of his form.
Upon the visage of the arena, Vi'in was tempted to stop, but instead pulled out a curious intrument and began to strum away. The instrument was held horizontal and perpendicular to his body, and resembled the body of a bow, save for the hundreds of strings that were angled toward a small chamber toward the front of the object. He strummed it steadily, creating a melody with beauty beyond many angels voices and far past the feel of a lover's hand in your hair. The "music," which was a concoction of notes from the depth of an old soul, wafted along the air into the arena, and it was at this time that Vi'in entered. Upon his entrance, he continued playing, stepping onto the first tier of fountains. As he passed over the water, it parted from him, rolling back to its former position when he was fully over it.
The fountain arena represented the veil of peace to Vi'in, for while it was a stunning world that seemed separate from any normal reality, he knew that blood would always flow more readily than water at the end of the day, even in this haven from the mediocrity of outside beauty. He walked quietly, still without a sound save for his unique instrument, to a random place on the first level of the arena, and stood still, breathing in harmony with the music, an observer for the moment.
What he saw didn't surprise him, heavy armor, creatures of all heights and weights, and weapons with origins as broad as their owners. He was not taken aback, but merely interested, in the quick action of another competitor, from which echoed tales of ancient good and recent fall. He turned his attention to the source of echoes that rang with compassion, and another figure who could most likely be identified by his humor.
All of these echoes radiated back to him, but could be heard nor interpreted by any other who was present. Yet still the sweet notes existed, seemingly ending in the middle of motion, as if dancers collapsed with no explanation. There, but over with no echo. As if they were figures with no shadow. The day was new, the fountains intact, and all would soon come crashing down.
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