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Ryu Viranesh -> =EC 2014= Finals Arena (9/11/2014 20:00:04)
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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.
The man-in-question is on the edge of his seat, a few stray locks of his jet black hair sweeping down over his face as he peers at the table in front of him; the coloured orbs that lie upon it remain dim, despite his considerable attentions. Letting out an exaggerated sigh, Marcos returns his gaze to the monitors across the way, taking note of how the engagements had shifted. He was just being impatient; his first year as full EC Administrator was going swimmingly, so there was no reason for him to be so on edge. And yet… he scowls, shaking his head and forcing himself to focus on the interplay of the combat displayed on the screens.
The Handyman appears much as he had the prior year: same clothes, a white shirt and yellow vest set against the black of his pants and his coat, and same expression, a stern, yet vulnerable look that emphasized just how conflicted he could be on the inside. This gaze is now directed squarely at the screens, analyzing the continuing carnage and waiting for the moment which they all knew was soon to come.
Suddenly, a familiar multi-coloured glare dominates the monitors, Marcos’ eyes squinting shut as he feels his excitement begin to rise. He cracks them open moments later, glancing down at the table to find the eight orbs alight and faintly humming. It’s time. The Architect practically leaps out of his seat, his voice already audible as he strides down from the dais above. “Look alive everyone, the Lords have made their selections. Put all Finals-related systems on standby - remember, everything gets set in motion the moment I step out onto the sands.”
Marcos quickly makes for the doorway, only to find his way blocked by a familiar head of red hair, the figure interposing her body between him and the exit. Not now Clara, he grumbled inwardly, but instead chooses to take a more diplomatic route with the girl, hoping that she might listen for once. She was a sedulous worker, but was perhaps a bit too passionate about being friendly, particularly at inopportune moments. “Clara, whatever it is, can it wait until after I announce the Finalists? Since I really don’t have time right now.”
The girl grins at him, her teasing expression only succeeding in coaxing yet another scowl out of Marcos, the look eliciting a few tinkles of laughter from her lips. “It could, yes,” she began, still giggling, “but I thought that you might like to know that you have a message. You’re to meet the sender under the sky, and it’s signed ‘T’.” She smirks.
The Architect opens his mouth to retort, but just as quickly clamps it shut as those last words leave Clara’s lips, all of his worries about the Finals momentarily gone from his mind. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, sound itself blurring together as a singular thought fights to the forefront and rises from the chaos. It couldn’t be her… could it?
Suddenly he was back in reality, Clara waving a hand in front of his face; he stumbles backward, shaking his head slightly. “S-sorry about that. Must have just… spaced out.”
The girl puts her hands on her hips and raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think most people blush when they space out, lover boy.”
Only then did Marcos realize just how hot his cheeks felt, averting his gaze back to the screens across the room, thankful that no one was looking his way. He started to chew on his lower lip, considering his options. He couldn’t just abandon the Finals, even though the thought was growing more and more tempting by the minute. Someone needed to announce the Chosen… his gaze snaps back to Clara, meeting the attendant's smirk with a wicked grin of his own.
“You know, you’re right, Clara. I shouldn’t keep the sender waiting, since I know how painful it is to wait for a reply that you think might not come. To do that though, I’ll need someone to take my place as announcer.” The Architect saunters smoothly over to the girl, placing a hand on her shoulder as he grins down into her eyes. “As of this moment, that person is going to be you.”
Before she could possibly voice any objections, Marcos turns to face the rest of the room, his loud voice echoing to its every corner. “There’s been a change in plans - due to some unforeseen difficulties, I’ll be unable to introduce the Finalists. However, Clara has been kind enough to offer to do so in my place, so plans will proceed the moment her feet touch the sand. Understood?”
“Yes!” the room responds in chorus, Marcos turning around just in time for him to catch sight of the glare Clara was shooting him. Still grinning, Marcos yells out a “Good luck” and a “You’ll do fine!” before he dashes down the corridor, taking the turn that would lead him to the outside world. The outside world and the beautiful sky that he was to meet her under.
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 single figure seems to step through the very wall of the arena, her sandaled feet touching down lightly on the scarlet sands. The young woman can only be described as beautiful, her form wrapped in a simple white gown that perfectly accentuates her every aspect. Her red hair has been exquisitely done up, a long braid running most of the way down her back, fluttering ever so slightly in the breeze. Yet her most enchanting aspect is her eyes, the pair of luminous turquoise orbs capable of charming the audience all on their own.
She stares up at the crowd, many leaning forward as her strong soprano voice suddenly fills the air, carrying clearly to every ear in the arena. “Ladies and Gentleman, I’m proud to welcome you to this year’s Grand Melee - the final round of the vaunted Elemental Championships!” A cheer sweeps through the gathered masses, all of them eager for the bloodshed to begin. “It would be my pleasure to introduce you to those whom the Elemental Lords have chosen as their own Hands this year. Those warriors who will struggle to earn the title of Elemental Champion.”
The girl slowly draws her right arm upward, an index finger pointed to the northernmost quarter of the arena. Screens all around come to life, making sure that none would miss the majesty of the spectacle that was to come.
A faint tremor unsettles the sands as they part to reveal the tips of branches, the rest of the tree soon to follow. Yet, this is no normal plant, the massive monument in fact made of solid stone. As though in defiance of this fact, a series of vibrant purple flowers suddenly bloom along the tree’s skyward pointing limbs, the simple beauty a welcome change from the Pillar of yesteryear.
A second, smaller quake soon follows the first, a silver statue rising from the crimson clods to take its rightful place beside the tree. The Quicksilver Guardian’s triumphant return was met with roars from the crowd, the defender’s spear held ready should it need to protect its charge.
As the Pillar appears, so too does a gate right before it, a freestanding archway composed of twin helixes of soil, a single geode at its apex. The space within warps, and the Chosen’s way is opened.
“For the honor of Earth’s Lord, the master manipulator of all it purveys, Zenz Nightwalker!”
A wave of warmth washes over the audience as a molten hand breaks the surface of the sand, the lava-formed extremity warping the nearby air into a heated haze. The nearby sand is, strangely, untouched by the phenomenon, lava continuing to flow upward as the hand grows all the hotter.
As the Pillar appears, so too does a gate right before it, a freestanding archway composed of sinuous scales, a crown of gold at its apex. The space within warps, and the Chosen’s way is opened
“Fighting for the fury of Fire’s flames, welcome the honorable Prince Makelyth, the dragon-touched juggernaut.”
A geyser erupts from beneath the arena’s surface, the rapidly rushing water climbing high into the sky before droplets begin to return to the world below. Strangely, the pleasantly warm rain leaves no mark on the scarlet sands. Were one to look closely, they might catch sight of a massive shadow passing behind the water’s veil, sometimes joined by the faint glow of a pair of large yellow eyes .
As the Pillar appears, so too does a gate right before it, a freestanding archway composed of twirling ribbons of water, bisected by a cutlass at their apex. The space within warps, and the Chosen’s way is opened.
“Chosen to represent Water’s twisting, churning tides, the Ocean’s Daughter herself, Captain Ranlae Evensong!”
Though nothing seems to appear where the Pillar of Darkness was supposed to stand, the space is suddenly cast into blackness. The sounds of a twisting, roiling… something emanating from within. Most quickly avert their eyes, the thought of staring into the blackness less than enjoyable.. Those who do continue to stare might catch sight of a stray tentacle before they’re struck by a splitting headache, the pain vanishing as soon as they look away.
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.
“Representing the depths of Darkness, the returning revenant, Sir Rowan Moonstone!”
Though the Pillar of Wind likewise cannot be seen, it can certainly be heard, gale force winds whipping around to form a miniature hurricane. The very center of the cyclone appears to be totally calm, the air within strangely fragrant, calling to mind a breezy summer day.
As the Pillar appears, so too does a gate right before it, a freestanding archway composed of barely contained tornados, topped with a faintly glowing blue rune in the shape of an eye. The space within warps, and the Chosen’s way is opened.
“Representing Wind’s fine, biting edge, the battle-mad blademaster, Julianna!”
As though from nowhere, the Pillar of Ice suddenly freezes into existence, a close-knit cluster of icy spikes jutting out from a bed of solid frost. Not even a penguin would want to touch this ice, the possibility of frostbite nearly 100% were one to touch it. The temperatures nearby drop to levels colder than the Northern tundra, more than a few audience members shivering in their seats.
As the Pillar appears, so too does a gate right before it, a freestanding archway composed of frost-touched bones and armor, a gigantic tooth at its apex. The space within warps, and the Chosen’s way is opened.
“Fighting for Ice’s wintery grasp, the massive mauler that is Kriege Thalarctos!”
A frenetic hum emanates from Energy’s corner as electricity sparks and twirls, a shaft of pure power crackling into being. The spire is surrounded by dancing orbs of ball lightning, the wisps occasionally discharging a few stray arcs of electricity, the sand below strangely unaffected.
As the Pillar appears, so too does a gate right before it, a freestanding archway composed of interlinking, sparking filaments, a single bullet at their apex. The space within warps, and the Chosen’s way is opened
“Fighting for the dynamo that is Energy, the incongruous gunslinger, Connor ‘Crackshot’ McCoy!”
The Pillar of Light slowly fades into being, its many layers shifting and flashing as the spectators get their first look at it. Light’s monument this year is composed of a multitude of constantly moving veils, all composed of a different frequency and wavelength of light. The effect is both eye-catching and yet strangely soothing, depending on exactly where one looks.
As the Pillar appears, so too does a gate right before it, a freestanding archway composed of carefully constructed tubes, light visibly passing through them, a glimmer of pure white light at its apex. The space within warps, and the Chosen’s way is opened.
“Last but certainly not least, fighting for the might of Light, the covert construct extraordinaire, Project F.E.R.R.E.T.!”
The young woman falls to silence and takes her bow, her form fading away as though it had never been there in the first place. A faint ringing then echoes above the roar of the crowd, signaling the start of this year’s Grand Finals.
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