The stadium was gigantic, it seated what seemed like millions. Murmers and screams emitted from the rows, booming throughout the core. Underground, a long waiting area stood, filled with warriors from each wall to the next. At the end, was a grand doorway, opening up into another waiting area. Yet, the next room was where the opponents would remain, until they ventured up onto the battlegrounds. Unlike the ground above, the waiting hallway had existed in silence. A faint cough could be heard from another section of the room, but that was the most of it.
Marakir leaned against the wall, tapping with anxiousness. For six hours he waited on the line eagerly, suffocating from the threatening looks of the men and women around him. He was behind two others, at the end of the line. The first finished the sign-up, and drifted through the doorway, which now appeared to Marakir as the gates of heaven. The second man hesitated and fumbled with his pen. People behind Marakir muttered with anger, raising their fists with discontent. Marakir could not help being annoyed as well, but he was so close. There was no reason to stress himself any further.
Finally, after what felt like another six hours, the man finished his signing. Marakir made one swift leap to the table, and grasped the form out from the table manager's palm. He signed everything he saw, writing down every piece of information about himself without the slightest amount of doubt or resistance. Throwing the piece of paper into the man's face, Marakir grabbed his patch and darted through the opening.
Beautiful light shone through, relieving himself of the anxiousness that had dwelled within Marakir for quite some time. He spotted several people staring into a board, hung from a wall. Marakir strode over casually, and pushed his way through the group.
The paper read, "Team Line-ups". Marakir looked for his name, finally finding it after a couple of seconds. Next to his name was a few others, he read them giddily.
"John Deaengel, Pralor, Galan Coras.."
Marakir did not know how he would locate these men, but he vowed to spend the next several hours doing so.

Everytime Pralor closed his eyes, he saw them. Everytime there was nothing to hear, he heard them. Nothing he could do would save him from the images and sounds of the massacre. His family, wiped out in the blink of an eye. His life, forgotten in a heartbeat. After that the children had been rounded up like cattle and prepared for the slaughter just the same way. shrill cries of pain rang out, one after another as he stepped in line. With every step another life was taken. They walked single-file straight to the end of their lives...and he was only eight years old. What happened next threw him into a shock from which he didn't awake for a number of years. He saw his captors slaughtered before his own eyes. Nearly three hundred men, dead in no time flat, all of their immoral, malignant souls obliterated. All of their flames snuffed out by literally, one single gust of chilling air. Pralor spent the next few months hiding as patrols were annihilated by his caretaker. All of the children cowered in fright as the man who saved them obliterated living beings without a second thought. Finally they reached the place they would call their home for years to come. Ceptric's academy of Aethra Momes was not a home, but all of the orphans were more than happy to have a roof to sleep under.

This was eleven years ago, now Pralor was a trained fighter, nearing the rank of master, in the art of Aethra momes. Pralor had finished his sign up earlier in the day, and was now meditating on a bench, in the expansive area where the tournament combatants were all mingling.

Galan wrestled with his forms as he tried to untangled the strange language known as beurocracy. He signed on several lines, but eventually the extensive, daunting areas of the paper that tried and failed to inform him of who-knows-what got to him. He clenched his fist, and as it turned partially to Stone in response to his anger, the clipboard snapped in half. Growling under his breath, Galan turned the paper over to the other side and scrawled his name hastily on the blessedly blank side of the last sheet of paper.

"This is where I'm signing. If you need it anywhere else, copy it, I don't care, but I'm not looking at another form as long as I'm here!"

As he walked through the portal into the next area, he saw the manager scramble for another clipboard, looking perturbed. On the other side, he saw fighters from all over lounging, or practising, or huddled around the sheet denoting team assingments. The had learned to fight from different masters, in different situations from vastly farther away than Galan had ever been, or even heard of. He would test his might against these warriors, and perhaps the challenges he faced here would teach him what he could not learn from his master. For the one thing a master could never teach was how to surpass him. Galan gnashed his teath at the though of Quorath, his master, the most vile man he had ever met. Responsible for the murder of his family, Quorath had taken him in for reasons he could not begin to fathom. Whatever they were, Galan was determined to use that training to, one day, challange and kill the murderer. In the meantime, though, he may as well relax inbetween battles. Finding his team assignments was a priority though. Galan knifed his way to the front of the crowd in front of the sheet. He began yelling out the names on the list.

"John Deaengel, Pralor, ..."

He saw someone react slightly to the name "Pralor", and strolled over to the bench, sitting himself down heavily into it.

"Pralor, is it? I'm Galan Coras, and apparently, I'll be teamin' up with you for this Tournament."

The relieving voice that spoke the two names Marakir had just recently read traveled lightly through his ears. He anxiously looked for the man who had said these words, locating him almost immediatly. Marakir approached cautiously. Both warriors looked rugged-like.
"Hello, I'm Marakir. I think we're teammates in this tournament."

*The building was a titan, John had never seen anything so majestic in Outerworld, or even his home planet for that matter. In fact he hasn't seen much of anything at all, lately. Not since he had left the legendary crusade to end the reign of Seashi long ago, it was a few months in Earthen time, but it felt like a millenia to John. He only had a little bit of time to gather and enjoy the beauty of the edifice before being condemned to a subterrainian chamber.

He had been searching a long time, and here was a place that they said he would find answers in.

What happened to him?
What is this force that takes control of his body?
Why hasn't he seen her in weeks?

All were question he had not the answers to. So he had arrived here, in this bastion of hope in his search. His quest. Physically, John had adapted well to the near primitive landscapes on Ensis, his body had grown more rugged and his clothes tattered. Replacing the "old navy" and jeans he had entered the world with was now a pair of gray Shivas army fatigues and a stretched piece of white cloth with holes for his head and arms that they called a shirt. John also wore a long black cape, tied to his neck and flowing down one shoulder. He had acquired this trinket shortly after leaving the fellowship in an unfortunatly meeting with the self proclaimed mythical being, Medusa. His dirty blonde hair had grown long and unkempt, flowing in thick strands that reached halfway down his neck, and a small field of stubble gathered on his face, giving him a five o clock shadow. He wasn't even 20, and he looked to be in his early 30s...

Filling out the forms was painstaking and tedious, but John enjoyed it, it reminded him of home...shortly after turning in his information he was directed to his team. They had all gathered in a back corner of the room, and one teammate, John understood his name being Marakir addressed two teammates. This was it, strange, they were all rugged warriors, all seasoned to a strict regime of training. Was John more of a wild card, one wthout a master, one without training? One that could barely fight. Yet he was summoned to this tournament, why?

Tired of asking himself questions, John stepped toward the cogregation of teammates.

"John Deaengel, I presume?" Galan heralded. If he had not been the first to notice the last teammate's arrival, he was the first to announce it. He met the lost-looking man a step before the bench on which the team seemed to be congregating.

"Name's Galan Coras, some people call me Gargoyle." Galan allowed a ripple of Stone to course through his fingers, which then greedily lept up his arm, eager to fight again. Not yet, he chastised his power. It seemed that the Stone was more eager than ever to be released, and its presence was at once frightening and comforting to Galan. For now, it aided him in his battles, but would it turn on him some day? Was he to become like the Monster of Stone, from which he stole both this power and his name when he finally defeated it in battle? He purged such thoughts, to be persued later. There was nothing for it now.

"Welcome aboard, I guess. Looks like the gang's all here, so, best get to makin' friends before we start fightin' together."

Retreating to the bench, Galan found his spot again and lounged lazily in it. He looked around; most of the fighters nearby had condensed into their teams, but a few still wandered, lost. Were some still waiting for team assignments? Just then, an official looking man came with a new sheet for the team-assignment board. Apparently, additional combatants were still being added to the mix.

"Hmm, looks like this might not be all of us after all. Well, the more the merrier."

Marakir sat beside his team. There were a couple more to be assembled, but he had felt no worry of this matter any longer. He felt a shudder travel through him. Snickers behind him, that sounded of the devil. He turned around, looking up towards a tall man dressed in a completely black outfit. Marakir's expression drowned in confusion. The stranger's eyes squinted.
"What kinda clothing is that? You look like a clown."
"..Sorry." Marakir wasn't aware of how to answer. He knew anything he said would result in his image being transformed into a fool.
"Here, was s'posed to pass these out to everyone."
The man tossed a sheet of paper into Marakir's face. Marakir was furious, but what he was reading on the paper changed his current emotions.
"Guys, we have the fighting line-ups here."
He scanned the incredibly small text, finding his name. A needle in the haystack.

---

First Battle Listings For Team 5,678:

Pralor Vs. Fryt

John Deaengel Vs. Uqi

Galan Coras Vs. Oprez

Marakir Vs. Humin'Gul

Gaerwyn Bealoc'than Vs. Drethog Kindrast

---

It seemed only a moment in time to the outside world, but to Gaerwyn it took all too long to get to the list. She had been told to exercise her power before the fighting actually started, so that she'd be more used to using it at length during the tournament. Varos would be watching the matches, which only added to the personal feeling to need to win. He was very much like a father to her, better than those noble bastards who threw her out of their house when she was only a small child. She'd prove herself to them too, oh yes...but now was not the time. She was on a team, the other members of which she felt she had to at least acknowledge, if not try to get to know a bit.

And so in almost a blink of an eye, she bent the timeflow around herself, and strode fairly slowly through the crowd, although to the rest of them she was most likely nothing but a confusing blur of color. When she returned to the normal timeflow, her breathing ever constantly calm, she stood at the front of the crowd, facing the sign, finding her team and reading the other names.

Pralor, John Deaengel, Galan Coras, Marakir...and myself. Now to find out who in the hell those people are...

She then turned to the rest of the crowd, letting them pass her to the sign now, yet she still did stand out a bit, mostly because she just sort of appeared up in front of the sign rather than being seen walking towards it first. She ignored the occasional gawk, however, and went about getting to an empty bit of ground so that she could sit. This bit of ground she discovered just outside the edges of the crowd. She sat down, leaning her back against the tree, and breathed.

Even as Galan digested the information of his first match, he heavily lunged off of the bench to again chech the team roster. He wanted to see if any new members had been added to their little team, determined to be ready to fight alongside these total strangers, if the need arose. It struck him suddenly that he knew little about what this tournament was going to entail. He was determined, now, to ferret out the little tidbits of information that would inevitably seem small until their absence cause a catastrophe.

As he approached the roster, a sudden movement caught his eye. A thin, but strong, looking woman was running through the crowd... no, not running at all, but moving at an incredible speed. Odd though; since his eyes, trained, like the rest of his body, in the agile art of Nequeo Volo were able to follow her movements, though just barely, he was able to discern the fact that she was moving at a rather slow pace, but one that carried her across the grounds with mind-boggling rapidity. What was this power, or skill, or whatever sort of ability that allowed her to defy the passage of time? It was an effective ability indeed, if used by one with the proper mind for it. Galan always found that his impatience worked well with his art, moving at speeds satisfying even to the one most anxious to act. Making it appear that others were moving slowly would be torture for him, but for a strategic mind it could be a great boon.

He looked at the updated roster, at last, and found that, yes, they had taken on a new member, Gaerwyn Bealoc'than. Where to search for this new person? He was simply going to yell it out again, seeing who responded, but his curiosity got the better of him. The time-bending woman interested him, seeing as her abilities were sort of a parallel to his own, having the same effect due to a different cause. He wanted to strike up a conversation, and, who knew, she may even have been exactly who he was looking for, though he actually kind of hoped that he would face her in combat eventually. In any case, his search allowed him an opportunity with which to start a conversation. He strolled over to the grassy area that she eventually came to rest at.

"I don't suppose you'd be Gaerwyn Bealoc'than?"

Pralor now found himself surrounded by people. They were to be his teammates apparently. It didn't matter to him; he knew that he wouldn't be defeated. He'd win the entire tournament on his own if he needed to.

"Stop your ignorance and arrogance Pralor. Form a bond with these people and cherish it. Only then will you realize what power is." Ceptric's voice echoed in Pralor's head. He opened his eyes and forced a smile.

"So I'm fighting first?"

Marakir smirked, and stood up shakily. As he rose, the gentle motion of a man's movement caught his eye. He glanced upward, not wishing to intrude on the stranger's practice. Yet, to his utter astonishment, his master stood before him. After exhibiting a form from the art of Drunken Boxing with ease, Qir grew upwards into a straight posture. Marakir approached, holding his giddy emotions. With a polite bow, the two began to converse.
"Forgive me. I'd lost your image within the crowds!" Marakir said, feeling embarresed to a new extent.
"Oh, quite alright. I've only come here to remind you of one thing." His master's elongated coat tail laid still around his ankles, granting the old man with the appearence of a dragon.
"Yes?" Marakir asked, revealing his excitement.
"You have the expertise to do this. Never in the seventy years of my training have I seen a student progress at your speed. Do not worry about letting me down, but instead, yourself. The only thing that will hault your growth is doubting your own ability."
Before Marakir could respond, his mentor dissapeared into the blur of the crowds. Not only his martial arts Sifu, but his father-figure as well. Such an important man graced him with such a compliment. He could feel the damp tears welling up under his eyelids. He could not help but feel incomplete, without giving a proper acknowledgment to his master's kindness.
He returned to his team, with a relieving rejuvinated feeling soaring throughout his body.

*John stood solemnly as one of his new "teammates" introduced himself. A surge of his ability, some sort of augmenting strength burst through his body His response was a simple nod and he slumped against the wall as Gargoyle left in search of the last teammate. With only the other two teammates and without the mood for formalities, he stayed quiet with nothing to say. It remained this way with an eerie silence filling the air until the other team member recieved a parchment from a tall man and spoke of opponents. John was to fight one named Uqi, a name he had never heard before, but if he were anything like many others that resided in this cursed realm he would be more than formidable. Even the god of the world he had left was no match for the power of the beings here. John had heard of Typhon's death long ago, and he cursed the fact that it was not him that had commited the task.


"So I'm fighting first?"

The other teammate, Pralor or Marakir, he did not know which spoke. John crossed his arms and sulked low, burying his face into the collar of his cape.

It would appear that way....Pralor... He responded quietly.

Gaerwyn's eyebrow arched at her name, and looked up at the man before her. He was shirtless and shoeless, something that was mildly odd for a combat tournament, but he most likely had his reasons. In any case, he was someone to talk to and, divine williing, he might be a teammate as well. After all, her was asking her specifically if she was Gaerwyn Bealoc'than, was he not? She thought of standing, but decided not to. If this person was dangerous, she would have more than enough time to move out of the way. After all, time was always on her side. A light smile playing on her face, she brushed a stray piece of white-blonde hair aside, then spoke, a lightly cultured accent with the taint of street talk floating over her words.

"It's possible that I might be. Then again, it could be possible that my name is something entirely different. I suppose it's for me to decide whether I am, or whether I am not." She then stood, looking the man up and down once, not with any other look besides subtle calculations. A challenge, but not a wholly terrible one. Were he to attack, his movements would probably be either slow and calculated or fast and reckless. Either way, she would have an advantage. Then again, one shouldn't judge a book by it's cover, and so as of yet, she couldn't gauge him. She then shook her head and laughed lightly, speaking again.

"No, surely, I am indeed Gaerwyn Bealoc'than. And since you already know my name, I feel it's only fair that you give me yours."

Galan was not off when he guessed the woman's manner to be strategic. He had never met anyone who'se manner came off to be more judgemental than hers. At first glance, she certainly seemed to be calculating to the extreme, and was already sizing him up as an opponent. Maybe when you got to know her she stopped analyzing your every move (as she was certainly doing now), but Galan thought not. It was not so confrontational an act as it seemed at first though, and, by the time she finished introducing herself he felt more at ease, though that could mostly be because, as it turned out, she was indeed assigned to the team that included himself.

Even as she looked him up and down, aparently attempting to classify him into a fighting style, he couldn't help but smile at the secret his particular magic held. His combination of agile skill and impenetrable magic mirrored hers in a way that would make a fight quite interesting, magic blocking skill, skill blocking magic. It would come down to a third factor, one that Galan couldn't be sure he had enough of. The thought interested him. When two equal fighting styles met, though for different reasons, what decided the outcome? He realized that this was something he needed to know if he was ever to defeat Quorath in combat. Using the same art, the winner would be decided through another contest; of what, Galan would have to find out. A pity he would not be fighting her... at least, not in one of the tournament's battles.

To avoid the image of him mutely smiling like an idiot being the first burned into Gaerwyn's memory, he covered by introducing himself in turn, as she suggested.

"I'm Galan Coras, one of your teammates as it so happens. You can call me Gargoyle, or by my name if you feel like it. The others are lounging on that bench over there, so I suppose you should come and join us when you're ready. We've got the schedule of fights down, but if I remember right, you're the last one up, so you've got some time to prepare if you need it."

Introductions out of the way, Galan turned to walk back to the bench, walking slowly to spite his fighting art. Or possibly to conceal it. It was a pointless endevor anyway. If he were to challenge her, it would have to be after the tournament, by which time both would have had chance enough to observe eachother fight. No secrets.... Galan reminded himself that that was just one more advantage he had to make sure he had over Quorath when the time came to decide just who was the master, after all.

A lackidasical tone spoke over the loud speaker, lowly speaking the four names of facing opponents. Marakir's brow perked, he jumped erect from his slouched position against their bench.
Could it be? The matches weren't shown to the entire audience? Was this not also a form of entertainment? If the infamous Kindel was hosting the competition, why would he not survey every match? Was his love for the arts no more then an excuse? It simply didn't make sense!
Loads of thoughts of conspiracy and puzzles engulfed the mind of Marakir, enough to fill hundreds of dictionaries. He felt his stomach plummet, and his nervousness sky-rocket. Things became more nerve-racking by the milisecond. For a moment, Marakir considered fleeing from his unusual surroundings. He looked in anxiousness at his possible enemies. All of them were staring at him, melting his leg's joints with their frighting glares. He quivered, wondering how he could stop the uneasy feelings that continued to flourish.

Galan looked up expectedly at the loudspeaker as it blurted the names of the contestants, including two of their party. When it finished, Galan let out an unexpected "Hah!" of aprehension at the start of the battles.

"John, Pralor! You guys are up already. Good luck you too, we'll be cheering you on."

Galan's future strugles set aside for the moment, he was determined to enjoy the fights and get to know his teammates. The exitement, all together upon him like one of his master's thrown clay bricks used in his training (Galan had bad memories and painful bruises from those sessions), spurred him on to find the stands where the teams could watch the bouts... as well as a food stand somewhere. Galan had hardly eaten since he had left his home, which it pained him to call as such, and even there he had had his usual "high in nutrient, low in extraneousness" meals, which translated into something that will keep you going, but tries its best to make you expell it, violently, from your system with its taste.

"Let's find the stands already. With the first fight underway so soon, everyone'll be heading to one arena or another, so now's the time to get there, or we'll be so far back from the fight that the fighters will look like ants arguing over who gets a crumb of bread!"

Galan often made analogies to animal behaviors; lapses in training with Quorath usually ment exhaustion genuine enough to keep one from moving much at all, and watching the activities of squirrels or ants becomes terribly interesting. Of course, what would interest Galan far more than ants at the moment was the fighting of true warriors. He was here to learn after all, and, having dragged his master unhapilly all this way, he had better leave with something advantageous.

Marakir wiped away his nervous tension, thanks to Galan's response, Marakir felt as if he was actually having a good time. He doubted he would feel this way when his time to fight came, but he decided to absorb to the largest extent he was able.
"I'm gonna head up to the stands, I think the stairway is over there."
Marakir began pushing through the crowds, to approach the corner of their room.

((Sorry for taking so long to post))

After Galan headed back towards the group, Gaerwyn mentally stored his name away into her memory. He had been smiling just then, which got her to thinking there was something more to his fighting ability than mere muscle.

Fascinating..., she thought.

After taking a minute to roughly examine those of her team from afar, Gaerwyn strode with fluid grace (one had to learn it when they studied the art she did) to the group, and joined it just in time to hear the last couple of comments said. However, she did not feel like responding to them in any verbal way, and did in fact want to get to the stands, so instead she gave those who weren't going to be in combat until after a couple matches a dark look, her thoughts being expressed through it quite clear.

I'll race you. She thought, beginning to bend time again as she took deep, even breaths. When everything around her was sufficiently slow to her sight, she began to walk up the stairway that had been pointed out, finding an empty group of seats, and sitting in a fairly comfortable-looking one. She then returned to the normal timestream, and where a moment before sat no one, now sat a white-blonde haired woman with shamrock green eyes, wearing loose, comfortable black pants and a red and black leather bodice. She smirked lightly, knowing that all she would have appeared as after she had given her team the first dark look would be a blur of color streaking through the air.

Shifting her position in the seat, she pushed back a strand of hair from her face and waited for her other teammates to arrive.

Galan's perception changed, as it was apt in times of concentratin. The focus of his concentration was the woman Gaerwyn, who, after giving a challenging (that was the way he perceived all negative things) look, used her odd power and appeared to blur off toward the stands. As Galan concentrated, he, rather than have everything seem to move slower, began to move incredibly fast himself. As he moved at startling speed, he still found himself loosing ground to Gaerwyn. The realization that she was not pushing herself for speed hit him suddenly, and frightened him. His skill was used to augment his magic abilities so that he would be at least as fast as them, and then could beat them in strength. Gaerwyn, trying moderately hard to beat any persuers, was, if not by much, faster than he was; and Galan was trying more than moderately hard.

That was all the encouragement he needed. He began to feel an intense desire to reach his seat before she reached hers... but to his surprise, he did not feel malice toward his competitor. In his rivalry with Quorath, he felt nothing but hatred and contempt, the only positive feeling being one of acknowledgment of the man's superiority in combat. If not for that, Quorath would already be dead. But in this sudden outbreak of competition, Galan felt no anger, only the burning desire to prove himself superior, agains the odds as they stood. He realized that he enjoyed the feeling, as he had never let himself enjoy his training. Never had he thought of what would come after his defeat of Quorath, but, much to his surprise, Galan suddenly found that his life after that battle would be... fun.

He redoubled his efforts for speed, screaming at every muscle to pull overtime for the next few seconds... if it took more than that, it would be too late anyway. As each foot reached the ground, as happened several times a second, it became a Rock talon, gouging the ground, be it hard rock or soft sod, and giving him traction and leverage. It gave him enough of a boost that, at Gaerwyn's current speed, he slowly gained on her. He tore past other competitors, strolling lacadasically toward the arena, and caught sight of his rival again. He realized that he could not win at this rate; she was too close. Then he spied a building, the roof of which was level with the seat row that had been marked for his team, blue in color. The stone construction was too steep and tall to traverse normally, but Galan had supernormal means at his disposal. Turning his right arm into a crystaline claw, he lept toward the building and latched on to the half-way point, digging in with the Rock blades. Then, he flung himself upward onto the roof, almost loosing his balance at the edge, but regaining it and tearing off again for his seat.

He reached it in no time flat, but, as he jumped the last distance, he saw her. Sitting smugly in her seat was Gaerwyn, beating him by more than a couple of seconds, a great lead when racing at that speed. Too late to change his approach, Galan landed heavily in his seat, rocking its foundation a little. Luckily, the chairs were sturdily built, and he still had somewhere to sit. Landing next to Gaerwyn must have startled her, he thought, but, to his dissapointment, a quick glance revealed her usual (he had to assume) blank stare, though that stare was fixed on him, at least. Breathing heavily, much worse for wear than the winner of their little race, Galan at least had to keep from looking the fool, if it were not altogether too late.

"Miss me?"

Marakir wandered, allowing his eyes to wander. The billions of eyes were staring, at him. The feathery hair upon his neck stood frozen. He tried to proceed, but his feet weighed four times as much as they had. He glanced in all angles, but nothing soothed him. Finally, with a heavenly look to them, his two teammates were seated not far before him. He dragged himself towards them, and promptly sat. He could not muster a gesture, much less a word. The match would start soon, that would help.

Her gaze became less of a blank stare then, showing a certain playful sparkle as she chuckled lightly at him. She had been watching as he approached, and had noticed his speed, although it was far more wreckless than her own, and left its user very tired indeed. Once again, she chuckled, seeing the disappointed look of defeat on his face before he regained his composure (which did not take long, to her surprise) and spoke.

"Miss me?" He said, and her response was a very natural one, if a little more than mildly taunting. But it was not a kind of taunting that was meant to hurt, simple jokingly poke fun at.

"Why, Galan, you look positively exhausted. You shouldn't tire yourself out so." She then smiled darkly. "And of course I missed you. I had to sit here all by my lonesome self waiting for you for four whole seconds. You have no idea how bored I was." Her tone then was sarcastic and feigning sadness as she put on a mock-pouty face. She was able to hold this face for only a few seconds before breaking out in a chuckle again and reverting to a smiling expression.

She then looked to her other teammate, who she didn't know yet.

"And which of the names on the roster would be attached to you? Well, since you're not on the field, you can't be Pralor or John Deaengel, so you must be Marakir, are you not?"

"Yep." Marakir responded, with a nervous grin painted onto his expression.
He stared at his "unknown" teammate for a moment. Then, leaping back into his right state of mind, he nodded assuringly.
"It's nice to meet you. You are?"
Marakir knew, for she was the only woman on their team. Even so, he had felt it was right to make things formal when it came to introductions. His master taught him to be polite, and so, this is what he would do.

Gaerwyn smiled gently at Marakir, shifting in her seat to face him more fully. She had been taught that, even in the street, when you addressed someone you had to look like you were addressing them. Doing otherwise could cause confusion, and confusion was especially fatal in the alleys that she had known as a child. Yes, of course she was gauging him, just as she had been to Galan, but after finding that it had been more than obvious last time, she tried to make this time seem more subtle.

"Well, I do believe you already know. However, for formality's sake, I'll say it. My name is Gaerwyn Bealoc'than. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

Marakir beamed, and bowed his head kindly.
"Ditto." He said, as he proceeded to take his seat beside his two teammates. Hopefully the fights would begin soon. The anticipation was almost too over-powering.

Pralor’s footsteps echoed in the empty, metallic hallway that led to the fighting grounds. His first battle was before him. He secretly wondered if Ceptric’s teachings would mean anything in a real fight. Aethra Momes seemed like a good idea in his mind, but one never knew how it would work until they tried. He had seen Ceptric use it though, and that encouraged him.

The doors flew open as he stepped into the arena. Within moments, he stepped into the ring and stared down his opponent, a young man with long red hair and a green coat.

“BEGIN THE FIGHT!” The loudspeaker screamed.


((I'll write the fight later.))

*John left the group quietly and probably unnoticed, but he was not there to make friends, he was there to get a job done. There would be time for formalities later, anyway. He strode quickly down the inner corridors that lead to the arean where he would fight this Uqi in. If he were nervous, then he would have to be very good at hiding it...

Hie cape still draped over half of his body, leaving on his right arm exposed and holding his blade, he ascended the steel elevator that led to the arena, he emerged at one end of an octagonal pen made of the same steel. The support rails slid to the ground below him and he jabbed his sword through the steel and leaned on it as he sized up his opponent...