RE: =EC 2019= Grand Arena (Full Version)

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roseleaf320 -> RE: =EC 2019= Grand Arena (8/29/2019 20:13:06)

“Nigh… do you think every soul can be saved?”

Though the battle raged on at the Arena’s heart, a bubble of silence seemed to shelter the Angel and Performer as they knelt in the rubble of Light’s Pillar. The question, so uncharacteristic, was the only thing able to break through the quiet. Bassareus was unsure what answer he expected, or what answer he wanted. He still wasn’t even sure if he believed in souls. But, with all that he had experienced in such a short time… it seemed worth asking.

As her eyes locked with his, Bassareus felt a shiver run down his spine. Her fingers danced through the air, a golden trail fluttering behind them. A shimmering question mark.

Even Angels don’t know.

Though she was mute, he felt as if he could hear her voice as she pointed a finger towards the center fight. Go, Bassareus Laverne. Finish what you have started. As Nigh stood up and began to retreat, he felt her gift in his hand, its brightness unhindered by the absence of its creator. If even she was uncertain about an afterlife, how could he even hope to guess? How could he be sure that this arrow would somehow help him? His ribs were broken, his back bled without ceasing, chunks were missing from his skin and his head throbbed from overuse. He was in no state to continue a brilliant show. Perhaps trusting Nigh was the only thing he could do.

Grasping the arrow with both hands, he thrust it deep into the center of his chest.

Tendrils of light ripped into his body from the tip of the golden rod. They wrapped around every organ and began to compress, each feeling as if they could rupture at any moment. Already on his knees, Bassareus clutched his chest and keeled over, thrusting his face into the sand. A violent scream echoed in his ears, his brain not even registering that it might be his own. Air was forced out of his lungs as they contracted, his face went hot as blood left his pressured heart and rushed to his head. Everything inside him screamed that he was dying. Nigh hadn’t given him a gift - she had killed him.

Yet, his senses slowly began to return. The tendrils loosened their grip and began to dissolve, small particles calmly coming to rest inside bones and blood. A gasp for breath revealed that Bassareus could move his chest normally, without the stabbing pain of fractured ribs. Blood still dripped from his back, but the deep aches and strain that had weighed him down had disappeared. The Angel really had meant to heal him… she had told him to go. To fight. And it seemed there was one less fighter in the mix, as the Pillar-less Energy Paragon strode through the crimson sand towards her exit. Though so many Pillars had fallen, the armored bear of Ice stood strong and menacing. The Lord of Ice has stayed by my side while so many others have been abandoned. He understands my rightful place in the center of the show.

If the Lord of Ice wanted a show, Bassareus Laverne couldn’t dare refuse. Dropping his arms low, he created a long and narrow path of ice that stretched towards his remaining two opponents. With graceful confidence, Bassareus stepped onto the platform, his feet forming two horizontal blades which held him up without cracking the floor beneath. He gently pushed off with one foot, ice scraping against ice as he began to slide forward. As he passed, the floor behind him fractured and flew upwards, returning to his body only to be sent back out in front of him. A constant stream, a flowing dance, leading him towards his destination as he grew faster and faster. The vulture and the eyesore. They were all that was left now. Neither could hope to duplicate the true performer on this stage.

As he advanced, Bassareus could make out the shape of a dark cloud, blocking the path between himself and Arro. With the Championships too close to their end, he couldn’t waste even a second- so he thrust himself into the storm without faltering. A protagonist is nothing without his challenges, after all. Though he held his breath to avoid inhaling the toxic air, he did not close his eyes, which were abruptly hit with an agonizing burn that caused tears to stream down his cheeks. He couldn’t afford to close them, not even for a moment, as he approached his target. The stinging reached his back next, eating at the wounds which Nigh’s blessing had failed to heal. But still he did not stop, and he began to morph the left side of his body into a series of menacing spikes. Almost there…

With a flamboyant spin, Bassareus launched himself from his icy platform, returning the last of it to his body as he leapt toward his female competitor. The woman who had ignored him completely- such a rare occurance which would only grow more common as Bassareus Laverne grew old and faded from the memories of those who had once adored him. With no guarentee of salvation, not even from an Angel, he would die and become absolutely nothing.

Unless he won.



Chewy905 -> RE: =EC 2019= Grand Arena (8/31/2019 11:47:29)

She felt the Lord’s favor vanish before the criers announced it. Before the flashes of light, the pillar’s transformation, and the eerie howl of a champion denied. It was a feeling of nothingness, similar to how her voice had felt. Something that was there, there no longer. The force of the favor tearing away from her soul drove her to her knees as she collapsed into the sand and glass, paying no heed to the pain the shards gave as they shimmered against her barrier. The past year rushed through her memory. Hours of training every day. So much pain. Her duties at the church abandoned to chase after a silly boon from a competition she had no place in. And at the end of it all, she had gained absolutely nothing.

But the despair was slowly replaced by comfort. She had failed. And that was okay. The Lords would continue to run their game. The champions would continue to fight, and kill, and wish. The cycle would go on until the end of time.

Nothing can stop the will of the Lords.

So just accept it.


Acceptance.

Acceptance of her duty, failing. Acceptance of a world of bloodshed. Acceptance of sins, ever present, existing to be forgiven. Acceptance of Maled Con, and his great murder.

The showman, the Paragon of Ice, the lying aggressor, Bassareus Laverne, knelt at her side, her golden arrow still in his hand. The cheers of the crowd and the clashing of swords and energy and wind and shadow faded away as he quietly, tentatively, asked a single question:

“Nigh, do you think every soul can be saved?”

Every soul. Even the souls of men like Sark Ynet, who revel in the brutality of their work. Souls of men like Maled Con, who killed because they thought it was their right. Souls of men like you, Bassareus Laverne, who pretended to care about my mission, only to spill blood on these sands. Can they- you- be saved?

She looked at him. His torn clothes. His bloodied skin. His bruised ribs. The light of pain radiated off of every inch of him. Anyone that can go through that much torture and still even consider spiritual redemption had to be capable of being saved themselves. Right?

But… maybe not. He had just taken her blessing, then tried to kill. It had backfired and almost killed her. If he could be saved, he had a long way to go.

Nigh locked eyes with the bleeding showman, her blue meeting his black. She held up a glowing finger, and drew in the air with the spell that would usually create her magic circle. A glowing, golden, question mark. She pointed towards the center of the arena. Go, Bassareus Laverne. If you want to be saved, prove you are capable of it for yourself. I can do it for you no longer.

Nigh rose unsteadily to her feet and strode off through a field of shattered diamond to her gate, pushing the showman’s screams of pain aside. He had accepted her gift. Hopefully,he would bear it and bring forth a peaceful result when the curtains close on the Lords’ stage. Though to her, it hardly mattered anymore. She passed through the gate and out of the arena without glancing back.



He was waiting for her right on the outskirts of town. Nigh had no way of knowing if he had seen her compete, but his sad smile told her that he must have known, somehow. They needed no words. His head was tilted down slightly, his gaze unable to meet hers as he warred with his sin. She stepped forward and gripped his chin lightly, raising his eyes to meet hers, and gave a comforting smile, a slow nod. A pure white hand was offered. A hand black as the void accepted. An embrace, a flap of wings, and the pair left Bren forever. They would seek a land further, far from the enigmatic will of the Lords. A land without the Church of Voices, without tales of “The Senseless Wraith”. Two pasts, two histories, left behind forever to find and forge a new one together.

Perhaps, they would succeed.



Apocalypse -> RE: =EC 2019= Grand Arena (8/31/2019 23:37:09)

Cracks of thunder accompanied the two blows, the stormcaller falling back after she received a taste of Arro’s fury. As a result, Morrigan’s vengeful blade fell awry of its mark, carving a harrowing rather than fatal wound across Sark Ynet’s side. The old wolf, face and chainmail dyed crimson, fell to a knee. Had Arro not intervened…

“He would have been slain.
She had an opening.
And Now He Lives.
Good, now he can be ours.

He is mine.”

With burning cinders feasting on her foot, Arro set her jaw and exhaled. She visualized the agony as a ball within her limb, diminishing in size as its energy was syphoned up her torso and diffused out to her fingertips and beyond. The pain brought to heel, the monk’s hand pulled back to strike once more at the Paragon of Darkness. A proper thrust of the fingers to the throat could lead to permanent damage and debilitation for the rest of one’s life, though Arro was far more focused on the immediate loss of breath. The panic that flooded the mind when it could not receive air. Such a technique was forbidden by the Stormfather not because of its difficulty but its barbarity; only the most prestigious and revered masters were given his blessing to use it.

“The Zephyr’s Lance…
wearegoingtolosethefoottheburnpleasetheburn-
...bit of a sore spot, huh…”

The Windsgraced would have smiled at her master’s disdain had it not been for the storm of shadows.

An onyx veil enveloped the half-elf, its churning voidstars seeking her open wounds, her open eyes, her open mouth. Gnawing motes ate away at the ankle of her injured foot as they plunged searing brands into her eyes, blurring her vision into a watery medley. Arro clamped her mouth shut to prevent further ingestion of the elder’s toxin, but was too late: the sweet aroma of overripe fruit already coated her tongue. With sight, taste, and touch all impaired by the airborne poison, Arro slid a foot away from Sark Ynet and his demonic arm. Her breath. She needed to control her breath. But first she needed to leave this cursed cloud. Arro stepped back only to falter as her leg spasmed beneath the weight. As if mocking her plight, the old wolf howled. She would be spared no quarter; every inch would have to be earned. So be it.

Retreating a careful step out of the range of Sark’s rustic spear, Arro positioned herself to place the Paragon of Darkness between her and the stormcaller. Face wet with burning tears, the half-elf fought to rein in her breath while the noxious cloud lingered.

“Do you hear them?”

Whispers. Not her own. And more than she had ever heard before. They badgered and pestered, wearing away at her already fragile focus. Teeth clamped shut as steady breath continued to elude her. Steely eyes darted to the ocean of black marring her arm. One more. She had come so far. What was one more? Tranquility within...


“-behalf of- -the seeker- -conquering many- -and wide- -I challenge- -me, stormdaughter- -you know not-
-for my clan- -my master- -who shall- -may speak- -your days- -answers to- -way passed- -have sought to-
-shall know no- -have traveled- - I seek- -raise a hand -Winds to- -the daughter- -you down- -by right-”


...tempest without...

“They’re Coming For You.
Let them come and try.
...bit of a party inbound…
noroomnoroomnoroomatall-

...and soon they would all be gone.

“Arro, the magician!”

Out of the corner of her eye - and through the haze - was the unmistakable form of the loutish performer. Bassareus Laverne strode forth on blades of ice with all the speed of a vigorous stallion. His trajectory and expression made his intent clear as day - the performer was not yet finished with his ‘little dove’.

“He Can’t Find Another Dancing Partner?
...there’s hardly anyone left…
You ignored him.”

A thicket of glossy spikes shredded the nobleman’s cloak, leaving a cloud of monochrome feathers fluttering in his wake. Bassareus Laverne took flight as he surged off the ice, barreling into the dark cloud surrounding Arro. The half-elf made to evade the drastic assault altogether but found herself thwarted before she began as another lance of pain shot up her leg. She could not be the ocean.

“He wants more? Give it to him!
ItoldyouweweredeadIdidn’twantthis-
Sow what you have reaped.

Yes. I. Will.”

So she would be the mountain.

Arro pivoted on her good heel, greeting the performer’s thorny left shoulder with her own. He crashed into the monk, their union signified by the dispersal of the dark haze via what living energy she could redirect. Icy claws tore through skin as Bassareus Laverne, his wings clipped from their collision, rebounded off of her and into the sands with all the grace of a lummox. Arro herself was sent stumbling backwards, a thousand nails stinging all along her arm. Blood dripped freely and was lost to the scarlet sands below. The monk’s fingers twitched at her side. She could move them. Barely.

“You let this halfwit cripple you?
She was taken by surprise.
And now she shall die.”

No.

Not yet.

She had come so far.

Arro staggered as the coxcomb stirred in the dirt.

Seekers, killers, challengers…

Another crack of thunder split the coliseum. At the edge of her vision, the stormcaller and the old wolf traded blows and declarations.

Masters and acolytes, the wise and the brazen…

Her arm hung loose by her side, swinging to the gait of her swaying stride.

Her own flesh and blood, her brother Gant…

Whispers within and Whispers without end assailed her mind with a relentless passion, the dying throes of a wounded animal.

And now neither a fighter nor a mage, but a performer, a man who relied on trickery yet sauntered as a lion among sheep. Arro buried each and every Whisper, old and new, deep inside her as she fell on the coxcomb’s prone form. Her right leg pinned his left arm to the ground. What strength remained in her weeping arm held down his right. Her left knee was planted on his chest but it was her strong right hand that snaked its way around the noble’s throat to crush his windpipe. A man could be strangled. A sculpture could be shattered. Perhaps Bassareus Laverne would need both. She tightened her grip to choke the life out of her hounding pursuer. Her face was a stone mask as the performer’s eyes widened in fear.

After all.

What was one more?



roseleaf320 -> RE: =EC 2019= Grand Arena (8/31/2019 23:51:14)

Since the booming chant signaled the beginning of Finals, the Windsinger and the Cryomancer had been deeply entwined with one another. They had instantly laid eyes on each other, simultaneously deciding they would become rivals in this war for a wish. And so, despite their separation for a short time, this was how they would end. It seemed a rather odd relationship, both fighting against each other, but undeniably locked in a dance which kept drawing them closer and closer. Their bodies slammed together in an electric embrace which seemed to reverberate through the air. Blood covered the icy spikes still clinging to Bassareus’ side as they ripped through Arro’s body, and the dark cloud which had eaten at his eyes and back was dispersed in an instant. It felt as if the world itself had been waiting for this union.

The exchange sent both Paragons flying backwards, thrusting Bassareus into the sand. He lay still for a moment, stunned by the abruptness of their parting, laying like a man waiting for his lover. He was not left waiting for long. Arro pounced on top of him, a woman eager to continue their dance. In one fluid movement she had him pinned beneath her, a hand wrapping stiffly around his neck. An oddly familiar position, and yet this was the first time it posed a danger to his life. Yet again, his breath was robbed from him - a trope that seemed to be getting rather old, but was still simple and effective. Immortals don’t need to breathe. Why must this all come before the blessing?

As he struggled beneath the bleeding and damaged woman, the Angel’s last action flashed through his head, repeating itself over and over again. A question mark. Angel’s don’t know if people can be saved. Angels don’t know. The existence of an afterlife, what it would contain, whether he would be happy, all with giant question marks for an answer. It was completely out of his control, and Bassareus detested this.

But with Arro hovering over him like a lioness staring down her prey, he knew what he could control. As the Windsinger’s grip tightened around his throat, it slowly began to freeze, tiny shards creeping upwards single file to connect with those before them like puzzle pieces. From his chest crawled similar shards, sinking her knee into an increasing valley which began to work its way up her leg. Each hand transformed and morphed, one consuming the lioness’ second kneecap, the other coating her hand. As his vision began to fade, he met her eyes with his, mustering up what was left of his last breath.

“It seems we will soon both have frozen hearts.”




Starflame13 -> RE: =EC 2019= Grand Arena (9/1/2019 21:00:25)

A plunging cold, a despairing roar, and the Pillar of Ice splintered, the mist of frost melting away over the warmth of the sands.

A moment of blackness, a heartbroken cry, and the Pillar of Darkness crumbled, the shadows vanishing under the sun’s touch.

Wind sang.

The gale roared in triumph. The breeze laughed in delight. Countless zephyrs whistled, layering their voices one over the other as the Pillar of Wind burst outward, its smiling statue lost to the silver cyclone that grew until it towered over the screaming crowds. It tossed about the crimson sands, stained dark with fresh blood, and scattered the remnants of the pillars across the Arena. Alone untouched by the tempest, the criers raised their arms skyward, and declared the Lords’ verdict for all to hear. “And so has favor been given to Arro, Champion of Wind! By the Will of the Arena, and the Judgement of the Lords, she has claimed victory. We bear witness to her final decision: the boon of the Elemental Lords!”



Kellehendros -> RE: =EC 2019= Grand Arena (9/13/2019 19:30:36)

She walked away.

That was wrong.

That was not the way it was supposed to end.

She was walking away.

Sark Ynet had thought himself angry before.

It was nothing to this.

Rage boiled his blood, seared his brain, swirled in a red haze at the edges of his vision. “Chase!” The word ripped itself from his throat, an inadequate vehicle to express the raw hate that charred his lips. Despite the vitriol, the knife-ear did not so much as check her step toward the gate. “Get back here Chase, we are not done yet!” Morrigan gave no sign that his words even reached her, and the wiry man surged after her with a snarl.

--You cannot.--

“She does not-”

--Be silent. She flees. To follow now is to forfeit the goal. To void our agreement.--

“She does-”

--Enough, o Dragon mine.-- The words were a lash, a brand pressed to his pounding temples. --Deal with the others.--

He wanted her. He wanted to watch the light fade from her eyes, to feel her gasp and shudder as the life left her body. But Houkut was right. There was time. There was... eternity.

“Run then!” He cried, casting his words at the knife-ear’s receding back. “Flee to the furthest corners of the world. Nowhere will be far enough. I will find you. Do you hear me, Chase? I will find you, and I will put an end to you! Run like the coward you are, but I will find you!”

The chanters lifted their voices again; the crowd surged to their feet with a renewed roar.

Fanfare. Noise. Distraction.

None of it meant anything.

All that mattered - the only thing that mattered - was the pugilist and the popinjay. A swift glance over his shoulder disclosed the two, locked in a parody of an embrace. Arro was perched atop the fop, sinking into his icy body as she tried to strangle the life from him.

Well and good, it would make them both easier to kill.

The jagged man lurched around and staggered, momentarily dizzy. He brushed the sensation aside, flogging his limbs into motion as each breath rasped harshly through his raw throat.

Two remained, and they would not stand between him and his desire.

Runnels of blood coursed crimson tracks down his legs, a sensation distantly felt and easily ignored in favor of the fury flooding his veins. Focus and intent narrowed, honing down to one simple fact, one unshakable reality: They were all that was left, all that remained between him and Chase.

They would not deny him his prize.

Incarnadine sand flew beneath his feet as he charged, and Sark Ynet was entirely unaware he was screaming - the wild ululating howl of a maddened beast. The grating cry preceded him as he swept the ranseur up and drove it down at the pugilist, intent on transfixing her flesh to the frigid form below her.



roseleaf320 -> RE: =EC 2019= Grand Arena (6/15/2020 17:03:24)

At first, all he heard was the sound of his breathing. Harsh, ragged, damaged. No other thought was present; just enough to tell his lungs to move, his heart to beat. He felt a pressure on his arms, cutting through the numbness that possessed his limbs, his chest, his head. Something was going on- though he lacked the consciousness to wonder what. other noises began to reach his ears. A roar, off in the distance, a hundred miles away. Much closer, a higher-pitched grunt of effort, and heavy breathing. His own breath quickened. He was wondering now. His legs began to tickle, to ache, as sensations passed by them, a coarse beadage dragged across him. Or he was being dragged across it.

Sand.

Consciousness flooded him, thoughts pushing against each other in a sea of confusion. The Arena sand. Arro. The boon! He lashed out at the arms that held his shoulders to no avail. The silhouette of Arro, the Wind’s paragon, stood tall, fading as he moved further and further from her. Sark Ynet’s limp body lay on the ground beside her, and he, too, grew insignificant. Bassareus was being dragged from the arena.

“Unhand me, fiends!” His voice was hoarse, and the sudden use brought on a coughing fit. blood sprung from his mouth to join the sands below. But he continued to fight, as more hands grabbed onto his arms and chest. He tried to transform, drop from their grasps in one motion, but his body stayed rigidly human. The cloud of confusion in his mind only grew. Red sand flew into the air as he kicked and thrashed, hands and feet finding nothing but air in their attacks. “How DARE you restrain me like this! I’m not finished!”

A young woman, vaguely familiar, ran from behind to face him. She scrambled between a walk and a run to keep up with her companions as Bassareus was taken further from his stage. “You almost killed yourself,” she reprimanded, as she reached into her pocket.

“And you prevented me!” Bassareus croaked, turning away from his attempts to bite at the hands of his captors. “I was winning! I could feel it! If you hadn’t taken me I would be victor!”

“You would be a melting hunk of nothing.” For one so small and quiet, her tone could bite like a snake. “The Lords declared their victor. It was not you.”

“LIES!” His leg kicked upward towards the woman, and she sidestepped to avoid him. Her hand revealed a familiar inkwell, bright blue ink still nestled inside. The girl from Cellar’s steps. She ignored his insult and dipped her fingers lightly in the ink. As if dabbing cream on the wound, she pressed her fingers gently to Bassareus’ face, and ink began to spread across his face to fill in the holes left from ice which still lay scattered in the Arena’s sand.

“You and I both know I would not be here nursing your wounds if the Lords had chosen you. Next time, it might pay to be a bit more careful with your life. Just in case. ”

Bah. What did she know? Being careful with your life is for people too scared to live.



Apocalypse -> RE: =EC 2019= Grand Arena (6/15/2020 22:09:40)

A deviant to the last, the coxcomb managed to spout out one last flirtation as the cocoon of frost encased the two paragons in its perverse embrace. The Windsgraced responded by tightening her grip around his throat. The nobleman sputtered and choked as his air supply was cut off. Pale flesh turned blue as he struggled within her grasp. And still the ice climbed. Shard by shard, the cocoon enveloped the monk’s limbs and spread to encase her torso. The biting sensation of cold took her chest, and she gasped as the air was forced from her lungs. Arro’s body shuddered, her heart pounding.

“Control your breath, and the rest will come.
Only death awaits her.
notlikethispleasenotlikethisI-”

From the edge of the monk’s vision came motion. Arro craned her neck in its direction before the ice could restrict its movement . Bassareus Laverne would not be leaving anytime soon, and the monk was grateful for an excuse to not look at his pompous face. Lumbering towards them was the old wolf, rustic spear in hand. Cold vengeance hung in his gem-eye while violent passion burned in his left.

“You ignored him, and now you shall fall by him.
We Were A Little Busy, If You Couldn’t Tell.
...like a sitting duck…
Bah! Should have left me at the helm."

Sark Ynet’s guttural howl broke through the wailing of the Whispers. The roar lacked in volume and ferocity compared to the screams of the tempest, but the sheer primality captured within had no equal. A chill unrelated to the enclosing ice swept along Arro’s exposed skin, leaving a spattering of goosebumps in its wake. With no regard for his own wounds, the Paragon of Darkness charged. Every step must have wracked his body with pain, yet he showed no sign of hesitation. His was an old soul that had weathered great and terrible storms.

“And he shall end this one.
That Old Sag Of Skin!?
dosomethingdosomethingohpleasedo-
Don’t lose faith. Not yet. Please.”

Six whispers cried out, drowning out her own thoughts with their own dissensions. She was lost. She still had hope. She was foolish for ever coming here. She was the bravest soul to journey out from the temple. She had brought shame to the Stormfather.

Arro shut her eyes to the world around her.

And what if she had?

Arro the Windsgraced, Arro the Unyielding, Arro of the Ruinous Tempests. Titles not bestowed upon her but earned. Earned every sunrise and sunset in the Howling Pits with the Zephyr. Earned with each trial atop the temple in the Skies’ Theater. In the face of buffeting winds and roaring gales, she had emerged victorious over the seekers who dared to challenge the Stormfather’s honor. She could see their faces in the recesses of her mind - those she had cast down but of whom she never had truly been free. The Coward. The Vain. The Humble. The Slayer. They pestered her at every waking hour, demanding to be heard.

Arro’s eyes snapped open.

But why lend her ear?

Deaf to the Whisper’s call to action, the Windsgraced remained still. Above the old wolf readied to bring his archaic spear crashing down. Below, Bassareus Laverne did not stir. Within, her heart pounded to the beat of a war drum, as if it alone would be enough to shatter the encroaching ice.

Without? No flicker of emotion disturbed her eyes. No sweat disturbed her brow. As the steel cut through the air and the Whispers roared, Arro took but a single action.

She breathed.

Ice cracked and splintered beneath the weight of the blow, but the spear was robbed of its strength when it kissed her skin. The power behind it surged through her, coursing through her veins and scouring for any outlet for its wrath. Such a technique was meant to nullify blows into the surrounding air but there was no air surrounding Arro. Only ice. It struck point after point in the coat of frost, unleashing all the rage of the old wolf into the prison created by the bladedancer. Crystalline shards erupted in a flurry of freezing razors. Sark staggered back, unbalanced by the sudden assault.

“Winged-
Tranq -
Temp-”

But Arro was already moving, leaping off her remaining good leg and towards the old wolf. He had tried to strike her down when he thought her helpless. It seemed only fitting to do the same. She pulled back her hand, intending to strike the paragon’s throat for a quick takedown when a flash of silver caught her eye. The spearhead . Between the impact and the Breath, it had broken off and now tumbled end over end in the space between the two combatants. A chance for a decisive victory.

Instead of jabbing with extended fingers, Arro struck forward with an open palm. One true strike while the enemy is distracted. The splintered end of the broken shaft dug into the flesh of her hand as she propelled it forward. Arro grimaced at the new source of pain but remained focused on her goal. Her breath fell in an even cadence as the spearhead pierced through the air towards its once master. Sark raised an arm to ward off the blow but was off his mark. Old and broken yet still sharp, the steel punctured through his palm and pinned it to the throat behind.

Arro stepped back, wincing as fresh sand rubbed into the wounds on her feet. She had endured worse, but that did not lessen the stinging she felt now. She allowed herself a breath as Sark Ynet stumbled in place, a look of confusion crossing his eyes as he went to move a hand that could not obey; the look of a man who was already dead but did not yet know it. Crimson bled freely and the old wolf collapsed first to one knee and then the next. Cracked lips moved but only delivered a sputtering of red - his last words would die with him. He snarled and glared at his slayer with that inhuman gaze, holding onto his fury with every shred of will left within him. But as his lifeblood flowed into the sands below, the gaze grew more and more distant until he fell a husk of broken rage.

The Whispers offered neither guidance nor hindrance, and as the crowds remained still an overwhelming silence permeated the arena…

Before breaking into an uproar.

Cheers and screams poured forth from spectators on end. They had demanded blood, and Arro had supplied. She rolled an aching shoulder, gaze idly passing over the vibrant masses. The shouting continued unabated as mages rushed onto the field. The ones approaching Sark Ynet slowed down as they approached, realizing their mission was retrieval, not recovery. They each grabbed an arm and began to drag the corpse away. His head fell to one side, that yellow cat’s eye staring as if fixated on the monk.

“Good Riddance.
A worthy foe.
WEDIDITWEAREALIVEOHTHANKYOUTHANKYOUOHTHANKTHESTORM-
Not enough fun by half.”

A series of grunts caught Arro’s ear, and she turned to see the other mages struggling with their patient. Bassareus Laverne had survived the ordeal and, judging from the flailing of his limbs and his rather colorful language, was not content to give up his chance at victory. An intimidating tirade had he not been in the process of being forcibly dragged from the arena, kicking up clouds of sand all along the way. Arro spared him a glance but looked away before he could make eye contact with her - she would not be taking any challenges for this title, but she was not above adding another mark to her victories this day. Fortunately for the nobleman, the mages seemed to have dealt with his petty kind before and demonstrated acute knowledge of their holds on him. Even now one of their number was attempting to apply aid to him. A few moments later he and the mages disappeared into one of the exits, leaving Arro alone. Alone with her Whispers.

Their praises and congratulations fell into murmurs as they argued for what to choose, as if they had climbed their way to become Champion. Arro let out a long, slow sigh. And to think it had taken her until today to realize what she wanted - what she needed from the Lord of Storms. Not her father back, not her brother back, not even her mother. A soft breeze fell across Arro’s exposed skin, causing the hairs to stand on end.

A howl tore through the center of the arena as a typhoon was given birth. It whipped and roared, scattering sands in all directions. People in the crowd reached for their hats and those in the front row latched onto the divider as the winds buffeted them. Yet no grain of sand flew in Arro’s direction, and the tempest of this storm fell like a soft breath across her. She could feel the lingering pain in her wounds fade away. The winds called to her, beckoning her into their embrace. And as she stepped forward, she gasped.

For in the center of the tempest, there were no Whispers. Only Arro and the one she called lord. A presence unseen yet felt, overpowering yet undetectable. A voice that thundered not through her mind but crashed upon her entire being.

FOUGHT WITH FURY, WEATHERED THROUGH TRIALS, I GIVE WITNESS TO YOUR RISE AS CHAMPION.

Arro let out her breath, not realizing she had been holding it. She looked up into the skies above her. Even here - in this crowded city surrounded by hills and plains - the heavens above remained vast and infinite. The earth and oceans sprawled beneath it, yet neither could hope to match the depths of the skies. Day and night rose in its domain, energy and ice were but fractions of its storms, and fire could never hope to reach its heights. Of all the elements, it was the Ruinous Tempest that encompassed and overwhelmed all. Of all Lords, there was only one that stood above the others. She had been taught to believe it all her life, but now she could see it. Hear it. Experience it.

WITH VICTORY COMES LAURELS AND GLORY . SPEAK YOUR HEART’S DESIRE, AND YOUR WISH SHALL BE GIVEN LIFE AND BREATH.

She shuddered. But she did not hesitate. “Let me be free. Let me strike my own path.”

SO YOU HAVE SPOKEN, SO IT SHALL BE DONE. YOU NOW CARRY MY FAVOR FOR ALL THE WORLD TO SEE. GO FORTH, CHAMPION. THE WINDS SHALL ALWAYS RIDE AT YOUR BACK

As quick as it had come, the tempest dispersed. Arro took in a long breath to quell her beating heart. She waited for the Whispers to come, to batter her with her foolishness. What would the Windsgraced be without the Whispers of the Winds?

And yet none came. She took in a second breath. And a third. And then laughed. Tears streamed from her eyes as she stared up into the skies that seemed so much less bounded than they had a moment ago. I am blessed, Lord of Storms. Thank you. She brushed the tears from her cheeks, noticing as she cleared them a dark strand billowing by the side of her head. She snatched it only to grimace as a sharp pain pulled at her scalp. Arro let the strand slip through her fingers where it was joined by a half dozen more from just outside her vision. Hair. My hair. The many strands drifted and wavered as if a gentle wind blew upon them. The monk allowed herself to smile. To be crowned by the Stormlord himself...no, to be blessed by none other than the Lord of Storms. No longer would she be called Windsgraced based on Whispers interpreted by others who could not hear them - no, her favor was shown by the mark left upon her brow, not in the chambers of her mind. This day she would be known as Stormblessed.

“Arro the Stormblessed!”, she called out to neither the roaring crowds nor unfathomable skies above. “Do you hear? This path, this life, I claim as my own. Today, I live.”

And as Arro took her leave of the coliseum, no Whisper answered her call.




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