Claire was sitting in her room upstairs getting ready to go to bed while Samuel was downstairs by the dining room table, playing a game of Fisherman's Gambit, a single player game using a deck of cards. Just as Claire was about to fall asleep, a loud banging sound came from the front door. She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, and heard Samuel open the door, greeting someone with a somewhat nervous tone.
“Tibarro! My… Is it already that time of the month?”
The stranger stepped inside, his boots tapping on the floor echoed through the house and a black mist followed, creeping throughout the rooms. Claire considered taking a peek at their visitor, but she sensed a terrifying aura about him, and decided to stay upstairs.
“It is my friend. Do you have the money you owe?”
“I’m afraid not… We-”
“I’m sorry… Did you say that you DON’T have the money?”
“Yes. I-”
“If you remember our deal, you must pay up. One way, or another.”
“P-p-p-please. C-c-c-can’t we come to some agreement? You know I have a daughter.”
“I have had many clients before that are like you. I respect your type, but business is business. If I show mercy to one client, then all of them will ask for mercy too.”
“N-n-n-n-no… No!!!”
Samuel’s screams filled the house as Claire heard flesh being torn apart, bones being snapped, and wooden furniture being broken to pieces. Afraid to find out what happened, Claire slowly tiptoed downstairs to find the remnants of Samuel’s corpse, lying across a broken table, the visitor nowhere to be seen. Her heart was beating the fastest it had ever beat before, and she had no idea what to do. Samuel was always there for her, and now he was gone. Streams of tears fell down her cheeks.
She continued to cry next to Samuel’s body for a couple of hours. Eventually, she started to feel enraged. She was mad at what happened. Mad that this visitor killed the only person she could call her father. Mad that she didn’t do anything to help him. Mad that she could have prevented this interaction.
Soon after Samuel’s death, she vowed to get revenge on the man she heard Samuel call “Tibarro”. For the next decade, Claire remained on Nerotomea, and spent her time practicing her hydromancy and brooding in taverns. On the occasions that she would get drunk, she would lose control over her abilities, often leading to lots of furniture breaking. In order to protect other patrons, local bartenders would offer her free food as long as she didn’t consume any alcohol in their establishments. Claire accepted these offers so that she could spend more time practicing her magic instead of working for a meal everyday.
One morning, as she was walking to find a quiet place to practice, a hooded figure stopped her.
“Claire Finlocke, can I have a word with you?”
Claire paused for a second, suspicious of this person’s intent. She knew that while most people looking for unearned money resort to stealing or robbery, some go around directly asking instead.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have any money on me.”
As she turned to walk away, the hooded figure spoke again.
“I am not asking for anything. I was looking for you to give you an offer.”
Claire turned back around. “What is this offer?”
“I come from another world that people call Avelaide. I have heard about your story, your quest for revenge, and how you have been training for the past ten years to grow stronger. Back in the world I come from, a tournament is starting soon. I believe this could be a great opportunity for you to test your skills to see how far you have improved.”
“Someone from another world? Seems pretty suspicious,” Claire thought to herself, “although a tournament to test my skills might be very beneficial”
“How can I trust you?”
The hooded figure grinned, pulled out a pearl-white amulet, and said, “I don’t have any way to make you trust me. You either accept the offer or you don’t. The choice is yours.”
After a minute of contemplating, Claire finally decided. “I’ll go.”
“Perfect.” The hooded figure’s amulet started to glow. “Once you arrive in the world of Avelaide, I will not be there to guide you, but if you ask around for the Tournament of Champions, you will be pointed in the right direction.”
Soon after the hooded figure finished speaking, the amulet shined even brighter, until everything around Claire was white light. After a couple of seconds, the light faded and she was standing alone in an open field. Looking around, she noticed a village.
“Welp,” she thought to herself, “I guess I better start asking around.”
We currently have 15/16 champions for the tournament and 1.5 days left for submissions. I will kickstart this competition with a little more lore for everyone! Thank you to @Tommia for the amazing set symbols: -------
Chapter One - The Tournament of Champions
“So she’s really gone?”
A man and a woman sat at a glass table on a grand balcony at least five stories high. Dressed in extravagant attire, they gazed out towards the orange light of sunset that painted the sky as they slowly ate their food.
“It appears so,” the man responded, “None of my scouts have found a single trace of her since the last Tournament of Champions.”
“And the priests?”
“Their power has weakened substantially,” the man said.
There was a knowing silence for a moment. The last of the glowing sun disappeared behind the hills, leaving its resonant orange light in the sky.
“It’s funny isn’t it?” the woman started sharply, “Knowing that we’re all doomed, but we still try and change our fates anyways?”
The man chuckled sadly.
“The abyss is coming, isn’t it?” the woman asked, “The prophecy is, after all, a hundred years overdue.”
“You mean Moktatactus, right?”
“The abyss has been gaining more prominence in the last few months. One fifth of our scouts have been killed by abyssal monsters in the past few months. That’s evidence, if anything.”
The woman shook her head. “If-”
“When.”
“Right…when…this happens, we’ll need a protector, right?”
The man nodded. He squeezed the silver pendant on his chest. “Yes.”
“What if…we lured Friyena back to us?”
“Lured?” The man looked confused.
“You know, host the Tournament of Champions again.”
“What!?” The man knocked his wine glass over in surprise. The crystal shattered immediately. “The tournament hasn’t been hosted for over fifty years. And the last one? It ended abruptly with strange ties to the abyss.”
“What other chance do we have?”
The man smiled weakly. He then got up abruptly. The last of the orange light had disappeared into the dark night sky. He walked quickly inside and descended down to the servants quarters of the castle.
“Sam, go, now. Spread the word all across the plane. We will be hosting the Eighteenth Tournament of Champions. By tomorrow this city will be the home of the greatest fighters this plane has ever seen.”
Just updated my character intro with links to the Cardsmith cards. Navor's textbox is a bit squished, hence why I made him in MSE initially, but he does have a version on Cardsmith now. Also I updated Got your Back to include artist credit.
I just put my stuff under @Tommia 's in a similar format. I also threw in some bonus cards of my own. The links are imbedded in the art just like my prior entry.
Prologue It had been three years since she’d woken up.
Three years, five months, and fourteen days to be precise, but it felt much longer. It had taken nearly the first third of that time to simply relearn how to walk and to feed herself, much less how to carry out her craft. Each moment of those years was a ponderous one, scraping by with the grace of sandpaper on wet wood.
To be sure, it was mercifully re-learning. Muscles snapped to attention and the proper eye focused instinctively when prompted. Forms and strikes rose to the front of the mind easily enough. The trick was in convincing the other side of the body to match pace, flow, and force.
She rolled her shoulders uncomfortably in her dark cuirass as she paced down the thoroughfare. The leather was warm to the touch thanks to the afternoon sun in the cloudless sky. She grimaced, longing for shade to hide in. Her usual line of work kept her mostly to the shadows - wise assassins don’t operate in the open.
“Ma, what’s wrong with her face?” She turned to see a young boy tugging at a woman’s skirt, finger outstretched toward her. Her left hand instinctively reached up to trace the long scar that ran from her forehead across her nose to her chin. The boy wouldn’t have any way to know, but the jagged crease continued all the way across her shoulder and down to her hip. The skin was darker along her left side – Ari’s side – and the eye was a deeper shade of blue than the one on the right.
The mother quickly swept her son behind her as they hurried down the road. “It’s rude to stare,” she chided the boy as they brushed by. The woman furtively met her gaze for an instant as they passed.
She felt hot blood pound behind her forehead as she stared angrily at the ground. Teg Midon had claimed his work ‘a miracle.’ He alternated between calling it ‘stitching’ and referring to it as a proper resurrection, but he was clearly proud of his macabre project. “Reuniting a soul with its own body is hardly impressive,” he was fond of chortling. “Rescuing two souls in one body, now that’s something.”
She exhaled slowly, silently counting in her mind as she forced her clenched fists to open. He didn't save me. He didn’t save either of us, neither Ari nor Lucine. We are both dead. She surveyed her gloved palms, one slightly larger than the other. Whatever we are now is something else, and that 'something else' will have justice.
Sighing softly, she approached the marked table. Though slight of build, the registrant carried himself with an air of artificial import. He glanced up, straightening in his chair as she stopped in front of his heavy wooden desk. He quickly looked her up and down, taking note of the blade strapped to her hip. “Are you here to register for the Tournament?”
She nodded curtly. The attendant regarded her a moment longer through heavy copper spectacles. Seeming satisfied, he pulled out a piece of parchment and began to write. “Miss, I’ll need a name.”
“Ozge.” Her voice was raspy and quiet. Two months, she thought - it had been two months since she had last spoken to another living creature. Teg Midon was hardly one for conversation, and when he did speak it was only either to bark orders or celebrate himself. Even giving this assignment he had only offered a minimal amount of information. Enter, win, await further instruction.
The diminutive scribe tapped his quill to his chin and shook his head. “My apologies, I’m going to need you to spell that.”
Ozge’s left hand fell to the hilt of her sword as she steadied her breathing. This was the first step toward justice.
Becoming thirteen years of age, she was finally ready to accept her role as the Spear-Bearer. She did not feel ready, however, After the passing of her mother, the other nobles rushed the Spear-Bearer to receive her position. So there she stood at the ceremonial altar, preparing her speech, her eyes blurring with tears as she remembered seeing her mother standing there to read the same speech.
But something was different from before. The room was emptier, older, and closer to death. The Spear-Bearer felt uncomfortable, as if some unseen force held a stasis over the chamber. Finally, the eerie silence was broken as a consul rushed in, carrying a hastily wrapped sword in linen cloth.
“Young mistress,” he said, pulling out the spear, “With the touch of this spear, you are hereby the High Queen, the Spear-Bearer, and the Protector.”
“We got more champions than intended, my lord. We were able to cut them down to this list of 17 competitors but this last decision has been tough.”
The king frowned down upon the servant from his tall throne.
“Give it to me,” he said in a rough voice.
The king looked at the list. He muttered a few names under his breath and after a long moment of consideration, he pointed at one name.
“This one- this contender must leave,” the king said, “Call the others into the hall. You must leave Aki in charge while I am away. I have matters to investigate with the queen.”
The king rose from his throne and exited the room.
With that, the grand doors of the throne room opened up dramatically, allowing sunlight to pour into the large room. First an energetic puppy pranced in somehow holding a long silver sword in its mouth. Next, a young monk trudged into the hall with twins right behind him. After the twins came a Druid surrounded by snakes and a water mage, being sure to keep her distance from the odd Druid. Then a solemn soldier walked in, more focused on the ring in their hand than the grand room itself. Then, came a timid squire walking as fast as he could away from a bloodstained rogue behind him. After this pair, a ninja followed. The masked figure’s eyes rested on the sword held by the monk before they continued farther into the throne room silently. Then a seemingly paranoid assassin entered the throne room. Her hand was hovering over her thin sword in case of any disturbance. A girl dressed in lavish gold ornaments holding a large book of spells entered next. There was some odd aura about her that pushed the other contestants away when she entered the large room. Two odd creatures followed next: a dragon-like abomination without wings and a large viashino from the outskirts of Avelaide. After these creatures, which had attracted the attention of the entire room, entered bickering twins and an oddly dressed shaman. Finally, a seemingly normal looking knight and warrior stepped foot inside before the grand doors closed behind the champions.
“I can’t enter? What do you mean I can’t enter?” a female voice shouted.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but only sixteen champions are allowed in the tournament. You, unfortunately, are the seventeenth on our long list.”
“What?”
Disbelief struck the fortune teller.
“I was destined to be involved in this! I saw it myself!”
“I’m sorry, madam, but you are mistaken. You are not going to be one of our champions in the tournament.”
A man jumped off the tall roof and landed silently next to the fortune teller.
“Come on, Nyrine, we should go.”
She nodded grimly before turning away from the locked throne room doors and walked back down the gravel path.
—----------
Inside, the champions were all grouped together in the center of the throne room. A blood red carpet ran along the stone floor to the steps that led up to the throne. The throne was made up of silver, though there was a figure made of black steel on top of it- a peculiar design.
A young prince entered the throne room from another door in the far corner. He seemed to be in his early twenties, judging by his young face and styled hair. He wore armor that was clearly too big for him- every step he took resulted in a large clunk on the stone floor that echoed throughout the entire throne room. An advisor, named Byrre, accompanied him as they walked towards the grand throne.
The prince climbed onto the throne and laid back in a relaxed manner.
“Wow, it feels so nice to sit up here,” he whispered to his advisor.
“Aki! Now is not the time! Remember your parents’ instructions. We’re here to put on this tournament!” Byrre scolded him.
“Why is it so important anyways?”
“That’s not important- your parents were clear this is an important matter to them, so will you please act mature for once??”
“Ok, fine, fine.”
“Welcome, everyone to the eighteenth tournament of champions! Congrats to all of you here because you have been selected by my father, the king of the Rosakel empire, to compete in the Tournament of Champions. I am Aki and to my right is Byrre. We will be the judges of this tournament until my parents return to the castle.”
There was a weak cheer from the crowd of contestants. Byrre descended down the flight of stairs to the champions and handed out papers and keys to the contestants.
“These are maps of the city and room keys. This map gives you a detailed description of everything this wonderful capital has to offer. Your rooms will be located northeast of the city plaza next to our wonderful Rosakel Park. In the park, there will be designated training grounds in multiple different areas such as the lake, forest, meadow, and cliffs for you to train. There are multiple arenas located throughout this large city, and contestants will be notified which arena they will be fighting in one day prior to their match. Matches will be posted shortly on the notice board in the Grand City Plaza. Thank you again and congrats for making it into the Tournament of Champions!”
—----
The king and queen were dressed in ragged cloaks as they left the castle.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” the king asked.
“We must,” the queen responded finally, “But first, we must find Nyrine. We need to know what she saw.”
@SMPrague Unfortunately, the road for Nyrine in the tournament ends here. However, I still have some plans for Nyrine- would you like to collaborate with me on those? You had an amazing intro, just like every other contender here, so this was a really tough decision for me.
To the remaining contenders, here the map of the city:
The youth sat down on the bed in their room, exhausted both mentally and physically. The journey to the town had taken the better part of a week, with nary a break besides stopping to sleep for the night. "Hey, you there? You've been quiet for ages now." The youth reached into their bag, dug out the tarnished helmet, and set it on the nightstand with a quiet clank. They stared expectantly at the rusted antique, as though the ghostly knight would show himself at anytime. "Come on, no one's here."
The helmet briefly rattled before emitting a soft golden glow, and a trail of light emanates from it, becoming wider as it gets farther away before taking on the details of a knight. Unlike the last time he had shown himself, his sword and shield were nowhere to be seen. "Well this certainly seems to be a much cozier abode for my squire than the cold hard earth. I trust the journey to the city went well?"
"Well, I'm here, aren't I?" The youth gestured to the room with a frustrated motion. "And you're entered into one of the biggest tournaments around, now. Officially." The youth lays back on the bed with a groan of relief. "That's what you wanted, right, was to see how the world's changed? This tournament has people from all over, what better chance for exposure than that?" Syr Cedric stood silently, watching his squire attempt to rest. "While I am dubious of the efficacy of this tournament's ability to expose the world to me, I shan't dare turn down such a glorious challenge." The spirit glowed brighter with his enthusiasm. "However, there is no time for rest. You must learn what you can about the others. Barring that, I still wish to see the town itself. And there is the matter of your training as well." Cedric crosses his arms. "You won't gain anything from laying here while the sun shines. If you wish to truly make something of yourself, you cannot afford to be sedentary."
The youth groans and sits up. "Fine then, I'll get out there, and you can relax here, I guess." "Nonsense!" Syr Cedric laughs deeply. "You shall bring me with you. My oath, after all, is to protect you. How will I do that if I am not with you? Here's what you'll do. You will carry my helmet in your bag as you wander about the town, gathering what information you can. Though I frown upon underhanded tactics, keeping me concealed until my first battle gives us the element of surprise, which is an incredibly effective tool. And then, if we are ever alone, we may spend time in the training field honing your abilities as my squire." "How do you know about the training field?" "I was silent, not inert. I've been paying attention to everything you've been told." "Then why did you keep me waiting in here?!" "I cannot always be at your call at any given moment. In dire circumstances I will aid you, but you must be able to be independent and operate on your own. Now, let us be off to use the day to its full extent!" With that, the knight's light spiraled into the helmet once more, leaving just the squire in a room staring at a rusted piece of metal.
"Ugh, fine then." They grab the helmet and stuff it into the bag, and sling the bag over their shoulder. "Maybe I should sell you off anyways, with how obnoxious you are," they mutter under their breath as they exit the room, off to see the town.
(If anyone would like to interact with Syr Cedric's squire now that they're out in the town, I'm open to discussing how it'd go!)
Nimbu would like to offer healing to any of the participants with injures as a gesture of good faith, so feel free to use that snippet in your interactions or pm me for a colab.
@CassZero Unfortunately the deadline has already passed! I'm planning to be very on schedule (hopefully) and I can make sure the next host pings you before the next one. You will be missed! I loved everything you did in ToC 3 and 4!
Nimbu looked around at the odd masses seeing a mass spectrum of everything. From a sword wielding dog, to a dragon born, all the way to a snake charmer, she was impressed. She sat at the corner guarded by her two zombie guards (correct me if I'm wrong) as they had not allowed her to rake in her armies in efforts of fairness, before loudly but elegantly proclaiming with a friendly smile
"anyone that needs healing before the tournament feel free to approach me. I would hate excuses once I defeat you"
She then sat there for a while helping those who came, before promptly proceeding to her quarters with her guards carrying her belongings right behind her. Upon reaching the space nimbu instructed her two guards to stand watch outside her door while she warded every single corner of her new confines. After that she locked the doors, organized her belongings, and got to her bed.
"By winning this tournament, and getting stronger, I will be able to help more people, but if I have to maim or even kill to do so, so be it."
Miyan is open to be interacted with, though he has a rather convoluted personality that might make it hard to write/talk to him. To him, you're either interesting or not worth it. Story segment coming soon.
"Sir?" the butler called up from the lobby, "A man is here asking for you."
Ergun's father heaved a deep sigh, cracking his thick neck. "Ergun" He growled through a thick Slavic accent, courtesy of his foreign upbringing. "Go. As far as you can."
Ergun turned from the roaring fireplace, a jolt running down his spine. His hand instinctively shot to the blade at his side. "Who is it?" He rapidly eyed the door before taking a step towards his father.
Storrig Hazrith was a thick-set, broad shouldered man or draconian descent. His scales, once a brilliant ocean blue, had faded to a storm cloud grey with age. Though only fifty-four years old, he aged at a slightly accelerated rate, as all dragonkin did, a product of their fiery and volatile physiology. He sat in a massive armchair in his study, upholstered with the shaggy pelt of an enormous brown bear, calmly and rhythmically sharpening a heavy, silver and wicked looking longsword.
"Father" Ergun pressed on. "Who is there?" He emphasized each word slowly and clearly, alarmed. His father had never told his to run from a fight before.
"It doesn't matter. Get out of here now." Storrig, not one for words, stood up to his full height. Truly a mammoth of a man, despite his age, his body rippled with muscles and ancient scars. He threw off his long, furred cloak, exposing the thick leathers he wore beneath it, and pointed to the door.
"I will not run from this foe, if that is what this is." Ergun grinded his teeth. "Cognoscere hostem tuum. Know your enemy. Who is it?!"He gestured angrily at the shield hanging above the mantlepiece, emblazoned with their familial crest and motto.
"I know our mantra. There will be a time to fight. Now is the time to run." His father gripped his sword and yelled down to the butler. “Let him in. Tell him I’m in my study.” Storrig leaned in close to Ergun, grabbing his son by the collar. “I have done things, and those things have consequences. I made those decisions and I knew what would happen. I have already accepted my fate. You must accept yours. You are not ready for this.” With a powerful shove, he hoisted Ergun’s considerable bulk out the open window before whirling around to face the door, sword flashing defiantly, whisps of ghostly blue flames licking out from his jaws and illuminating his deep set eyes from within. Ergun just saw the door creak open as he slid down the manor’s steep tiled roof and dropped down into the estate’s vast garden, landing quietly on his feet. He shot one last glance up, barely seeing a flicker of blue flame through the window, then turned up his hood and vanished into the woods beyond , his heart beating wildly and a cold chill rattling his bones.
——————————————————————
Five years later, when Ergun at last returned to his ancestral home, he was greeted with ashes and dust. Of the once grand and expansive mansion, only a few blackened timbers remained. Within the rubble, the skeletons of guards, servants, cooks, maids, friends, siblings, and Ergun’s father lay still in the dust, the latter still gripping his beloved silver longsword, somehow untouched by flame, rust or time, and razor sharp. After muttering a silent prayer, Ergun pried the blade from the skeleton’s ashen fingers, wiped it clean of ash and soot, and began the long trek into the city. He would need information. And training. He paused to throw back a vial or elixir, muting the being within him. It would also need blood. And he knew exactly where to get all three.
Yotus was terrified of the sight before him. Beasts they were, monsters. With appetites that rivaled only those told in the legends of Zendikari refugees. What dark forces had entered Yotus's store?
"Can I get another bowl of this please?" Meka said, mouth still full of food with bowls piled high around her.
"Another? You've already had thirteen!?" Ushri shouts.
"Mhm, and now I want fourteen." She swallows.
"Whatever."
Yotus hurries back to the kitchen...if that thing runs out of food, he fears she might come for him next.
"I don't even understand how you can eat right now." Ushri says, pushing her half full bowl aside.
"Same way I normally do." Meka takes the bowl from in front of Ushri "With my mouth."
"Haha, very funny." she says pointedly
"Lighten up Ushri, we made it in to the tournament" Meka waves the acceptance letter in front of her face.
"How are you acting so calm right now!? We made it into the tournament. Great. Now we can get our asses kicked for everyone to see!
"Or everyone gets to see us kick ass!."
"Or we get arrested...or we die...or we get arrested and then we die!"
Meka takes a deep breath and sighs, pushing Ushri's now empty bowl away.
"Ushri..." She leans in close to her companion, eyes serious and calm for once.
"Y-yeah?"
"LIGHTEN UP!" Meka yells, shaking the restaurant just as Yotus emerges with another bowl of food causing him to fumble it.
In a clean flash Ushri draws her blade and catches the bowl of slop on the flat of her sword.
"Fine." She grumbles. "No need to yell."
"Thank you!" Meka says cheerfully. She looks over to Yotus whose standing there trembling as Ushri pulls her blade away from him.
"Make it a fifteenth bowl!" She says
Yotus raises a finger, looks at the sword, and then puts his hand down before returning to the kitchen.
Audhild looked around at the grand hall. So she had been chosen for the tournament after all. She was glad. It was a pity that one of the potential contestants had been forced to step down, but the tournament's rules had been set.
The ring Kalthor had given her was warm to the touch. That was a new development - usually it was ice-cold. It had warmed up when she'd walked into the grand hall, and Audhild hadn't noticed some of the hall's features. She stole another glance around as the chosen champions were ushered out of the hall. It was nicer than anything she'd seen in Attya, even in Kalthor's tower, which was one of the nicest places she'd been. She'd never been to the capital, though, so seeing a foreign capital was unlike anything she had experienced.
Looking at the map she had been given, Audhild noticed the training grounds located near the contestant housing. She'd have to take advantage of that over the next few days. The tournament expected success, and she expected to rise to the occasion.
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Prologue part 2
Claire was sitting in her room upstairs getting ready to go to bed while Samuel was downstairs by the dining room table, playing a game of Fisherman's Gambit, a single player game using a deck of cards. Just as Claire was about to fall asleep, a loud banging sound came from the front door. She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, and heard Samuel open the door, greeting someone with a somewhat nervous tone.
“Tibarro! My… Is it already that time of the month?”
The stranger stepped inside, his boots tapping on the floor echoed through the house and a black mist followed, creeping throughout the rooms. Claire considered taking a peek at their visitor, but she sensed a terrifying aura about him, and decided to stay upstairs.
“It is my friend. Do you have the money you owe?”
“I’m afraid not… We-”
“I’m sorry… Did you say that you DON’T have the money?”
“Yes. I-”
“If you remember our deal, you must pay up. One way, or another.”
“P-p-p-please. C-c-c-can’t we come to some agreement? You know I have a daughter.”
“I have had many clients before that are like you. I respect your type, but business is business. If I show mercy to one client, then all of them will ask for mercy too.”
“N-n-n-n-no… No!!!”
Samuel’s screams filled the house as Claire heard flesh being torn apart, bones being snapped, and wooden furniture being broken to pieces. Afraid to find out what happened, Claire slowly tiptoed downstairs to find the remnants of Samuel’s corpse, lying across a broken table, the visitor nowhere to be seen. Her heart was beating the fastest it had ever beat before, and she had no idea what to do. Samuel was always there for her, and now he was gone. Streams of tears fell down her cheeks.
She continued to cry next to Samuel’s body for a couple of hours. Eventually, she started to feel enraged. She was mad at what happened. Mad that this visitor killed the only person she could call her father. Mad that she didn’t do anything to help him. Mad that she could have prevented this interaction.
Unsure of what to do, she ran off into the night.
Prologue part 3
Soon after Samuel’s death, she vowed to get revenge on the man she heard Samuel call “Tibarro”. For the next decade, Claire remained on Nerotomea, and spent her time practicing her hydromancy and brooding in taverns. On the occasions that she would get drunk, she would lose control over her abilities, often leading to lots of furniture breaking. In order to protect other patrons, local bartenders would offer her free food as long as she didn’t consume any alcohol in their establishments. Claire accepted these offers so that she could spend more time practicing her magic instead of working for a meal everyday.
One morning, as she was walking to find a quiet place to practice, a hooded figure stopped her.
“Claire Finlocke, can I have a word with you?”
Claire paused for a second, suspicious of this person’s intent. She knew that while most people looking for unearned money resort to stealing or robbery, some go around directly asking instead.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have any money on me.”
As she turned to walk away, the hooded figure spoke again.
“I am not asking for anything. I was looking for you to give you an offer.”
Claire turned back around. “What is this offer?”
“I come from another world that people call Avelaide. I have heard about your story, your quest for revenge, and how you have been training for the past ten years to grow stronger. Back in the world I come from, a tournament is starting soon. I believe this could be a great opportunity for you to test your skills to see how far you have improved.”
“Someone from another world? Seems pretty suspicious,” Claire thought to herself, “although a tournament to test my skills might be very beneficial”
“How can I trust you?”
The hooded figure grinned, pulled out a pearl-white amulet, and said, “I don’t have any way to make you trust me. You either accept the offer or you don’t. The choice is yours.”
After a minute of contemplating, Claire finally decided. “I’ll go.”
“Perfect.” The hooded figure’s amulet started to glow. “Once you arrive in the world of Avelaide, I will not be there to guide you, but if you ask around for the Tournament of Champions, you will be pointed in the right direction.”
Soon after the hooded figure finished speaking, the amulet shined even brighter, until everything around Claire was white light. After a couple of seconds, the light faded and she was standing alone in an open field. Looking around, she noticed a village.
“Welp,” she thought to herself, “I guess I better start asking around.”
End of prologue
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Introducing Claire Finlocke:
Character & Signature card
Name: Claire Finlocke
Gender: Female
Race: Human
Age: 24 (Earlier on in the prologue she is 14)
Height: 5' 9"
Plane of Origin: Nerotomea, a plane with lots of ocean and very little land
Alignment: True Neutral
Occupation: She used to be a fisherman before the death of her adoptive father
Abilities: Claire has the ability to manipulate water (Aka: Hydromancy)
Goals: To grow strong enough to avenge her adoptive father
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Chapter One - The Tournament of Champions
“So she’s really gone?”
A man and a woman sat at a glass table on a grand balcony at least five stories high. Dressed in extravagant attire, they gazed out towards the orange light of sunset that painted the sky as they slowly ate their food.
“It appears so,” the man responded, “None of my scouts have found a single trace of her since the last Tournament of Champions.”
“And the priests?”
“Their power has weakened substantially,” the man said.
There was a knowing silence for a moment. The last of the glowing sun disappeared behind the hills, leaving its resonant orange light in the sky.
“It’s funny isn’t it?” the woman started sharply, “Knowing that we’re all doomed, but we still try and change our fates anyways?”
The man chuckled sadly.
“The abyss is coming, isn’t it?” the woman asked, “The prophecy is, after all, a hundred years overdue.”
“You mean Moktatactus, right?”
“The abyss has been gaining more prominence in the last few months. One fifth of our scouts have been killed by abyssal monsters in the past few months. That’s evidence, if anything.”
The woman shook her head. “If-”
“When.”
“Right…when…this happens, we’ll need a protector, right?”
The man nodded. He squeezed the silver pendant on his chest. “Yes.”
“What if…we lured Friyena back to us?”
“Lured?” The man looked confused.
“You know, host the Tournament of Champions again.”
“What!?” The man knocked his wine glass over in surprise. The crystal shattered immediately. “The tournament hasn’t been hosted for over fifty years. And the last one? It ended abruptly with strange ties to the abyss.”
“What other chance do we have?”
The man smiled weakly. He then got up abruptly. The last of the orange light had disappeared into the dark night sky. He walked quickly inside and descended down to the servants quarters of the castle.
“Sam, go, now. Spread the word all across the plane. We will be hosting the Eighteenth Tournament of Champions. By tomorrow this city will be the home of the greatest fighters this plane has ever seen.”
“Yes, my lord.”
It had been three years since she’d woken up.
Three years, five months, and fourteen days to be precise, but it felt much longer. It had taken nearly the first third of that time to simply relearn how to walk and to feed herself, much less how to carry out her craft. Each moment of those years was a ponderous one, scraping by with the grace of sandpaper on wet wood.
To be sure, it was mercifully re-learning. Muscles snapped to attention and the proper eye focused instinctively when prompted. Forms and strikes rose to the front of the mind easily enough. The trick was in convincing the other side of the body to match pace, flow, and force.
She rolled her shoulders uncomfortably in her dark cuirass as she paced down the thoroughfare. The leather was warm to the touch thanks to the afternoon sun in the cloudless sky. She grimaced, longing for shade to hide in. Her usual line of work kept her mostly to the shadows - wise assassins don’t operate in the open.
“Ma, what’s wrong with her face?” She turned to see a young boy tugging at a woman’s skirt, finger outstretched toward her. Her left hand instinctively reached up to trace the long scar that ran from her forehead across her nose to her chin. The boy wouldn’t have any way to know, but the jagged crease continued all the way across her shoulder and down to her hip. The skin was darker along her left side – Ari’s side – and the eye was a deeper shade of blue than the one on the right.
The mother quickly swept her son behind her as they hurried down the road. “It’s rude to stare,” she chided the boy as they brushed by. The woman furtively met her gaze for an instant as they passed.
She felt hot blood pound behind her forehead as she stared angrily at the ground. Teg Midon had claimed his work ‘a miracle.’ He alternated between calling it ‘stitching’ and referring to it as a proper resurrection, but he was clearly proud of his macabre project. “Reuniting a soul with its own body is hardly impressive,” he was fond of chortling. “Rescuing two souls in one body, now that’s something.”
She exhaled slowly, silently counting in her mind as she forced her clenched fists to open. He didn't save me. He didn’t save either of us, neither Ari nor Lucine. We are both dead. She surveyed her gloved palms, one slightly larger than the other. Whatever we are now is something else, and that 'something else' will have justice.
Sighing softly, she approached the marked table. Though slight of build, the registrant carried himself with an air of artificial import. He glanced up, straightening in his chair as she stopped in front of his heavy wooden desk. He quickly looked her up and down, taking note of the blade strapped to her hip. “Are you here to register for the Tournament?”
She nodded curtly. The attendant regarded her a moment longer through heavy copper spectacles. Seeming satisfied, he pulled out a piece of parchment and began to write. “Miss, I’ll need a name.”
“Ozge.” Her voice was raspy and quiet. Two months, she thought - it had been two months since she had last spoken to another living creature. Teg Midon was hardly one for conversation, and when he did speak it was only either to bark orders or celebrate himself. Even giving this assignment he had only offered a minimal amount of information. Enter, win, await further instruction.
The diminutive scribe tapped his quill to his chin and shook his head. “My apologies, I’m going to need you to spell that.”
Ozge’s left hand fell to the hilt of her sword as she steadied her breathing. This was the first step toward justice.
I'll post the backstory soon!
Two hours remain for entries!
Becoming thirteen years of age, she was finally ready to accept her role as the Spear-Bearer. She did not feel ready, however, After the passing of her mother, the other nobles rushed the Spear-Bearer to receive her position. So there she stood at the ceremonial altar, preparing her speech, her eyes blurring with tears as she remembered seeing her mother standing there to read the same speech.
But something was different from before. The room was emptier, older, and closer to death. The Spear-Bearer felt uncomfortable, as if some unseen force held a stasis over the chamber. Finally, the eerie silence was broken as a consul rushed in, carrying a hastily wrapped sword in linen cloth.
“Young mistress,” he said, pulling out the spear, “With the touch of this spear, you are hereby the High Queen, the Spear-Bearer, and the Protector.”
Since we have 17 competitiors, one of them will have to be eliminated, unfortunately.
Hang tight for the results!
Chapter Two - Welcome
“We got more champions than intended, my lord. We were able to cut them down to this list of 17 competitors but this last decision has been tough.”
The king frowned down upon the servant from his tall throne.
“Give it to me,” he said in a rough voice.
The king looked at the list. He muttered a few names under his breath and after a long moment of consideration, he pointed at one name.
“This one- this contender must leave,” the king said, “Call the others into the hall. You must leave Aki in charge while I am away. I have matters to investigate with the queen.”
The king rose from his throne and exited the room.
With that, the grand doors of the throne room opened up dramatically, allowing sunlight to pour into the large room. First an energetic puppy pranced in somehow holding a long silver sword in its mouth. Next, a young monk trudged into the hall with twins right behind him. After the twins came a Druid surrounded by snakes and a water mage, being sure to keep her distance from the odd Druid. Then a solemn soldier walked in, more focused on the ring in their hand than the grand room itself. Then, came a timid squire walking as fast as he could away from a bloodstained rogue behind him. After this pair, a ninja followed. The masked figure’s eyes rested on the sword held by the monk before they continued farther into the throne room silently. Then a seemingly paranoid assassin entered the throne room. Her hand was hovering over her thin sword in case of any disturbance. A girl dressed in lavish gold ornaments holding a large book of spells entered next. There was some odd aura about her that pushed the other contestants away when she entered the large room. Two odd creatures followed next: a dragon-like abomination without wings and a large viashino from the outskirts of Avelaide. After these creatures, which had attracted the attention of the entire room, entered bickering twins and an oddly dressed shaman. Finally, a seemingly normal looking knight and warrior stepped foot inside before the grand doors closed behind the champions.
“I can’t enter? What do you mean I can’t enter?” a female voice shouted.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but only sixteen champions are allowed in the tournament. You, unfortunately, are the seventeenth on our long list.”
“What?”
Disbelief struck the fortune teller.
“I was destined to be involved in this! I saw it myself!”
“I’m sorry, madam, but you are mistaken. You are not going to be one of our champions in the tournament.”
A man jumped off the tall roof and landed silently next to the fortune teller.
“Come on, Nyrine, we should go.”
She nodded grimly before turning away from the locked throne room doors and walked back down the gravel path.
—----------
Inside, the champions were all grouped together in the center of the throne room. A blood red carpet ran along the stone floor to the steps that led up to the throne. The throne was made up of silver, though there was a figure made of black steel on top of it- a peculiar design.
A young prince entered the throne room from another door in the far corner. He seemed to be in his early twenties, judging by his young face and styled hair. He wore armor that was clearly too big for him- every step he took resulted in a large clunk on the stone floor that echoed throughout the entire throne room. An advisor, named Byrre, accompanied him as they walked towards the grand throne.
The prince climbed onto the throne and laid back in a relaxed manner.
“Wow, it feels so nice to sit up here,” he whispered to his advisor.
“Aki! Now is not the time! Remember your parents’ instructions. We’re here to put on this tournament!” Byrre scolded him.
“Why is it so important anyways?”
“That’s not important- your parents were clear this is an important matter to them, so will you please act mature for once??”
“Ok, fine, fine.”
“Welcome, everyone to the eighteenth tournament of champions! Congrats to all of you here because you have been selected by my father, the king of the Rosakel empire, to compete in the Tournament of Champions. I am Aki and to my right is Byrre. We will be the judges of this tournament until my parents return to the castle.”
There was a weak cheer from the crowd of contestants. Byrre descended down the flight of stairs to the champions and handed out papers and keys to the contestants.
“These are maps of the city and room keys. This map gives you a detailed description of everything this wonderful capital has to offer. Your rooms will be located northeast of the city plaza next to our wonderful Rosakel Park. In the park, there will be designated training grounds in multiple different areas such as the lake, forest, meadow, and cliffs for you to train. There are multiple arenas located throughout this large city, and contestants will be notified which arena they will be fighting in one day prior to their match. Matches will be posted shortly on the notice board in the Grand City Plaza. Thank you again and congrats for making it into the Tournament of Champions!”
—----
The king and queen were dressed in ragged cloaks as they left the castle.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” the king asked.
“We must,” the queen responded finally, “But first, we must find Nyrine. We need to know what she saw.”
To the remaining contenders, here the map of the city:
And the story cards for this segment:
Syr Cedric stood silently, watching his squire attempt to rest. "While I am dubious of the efficacy of this tournament's ability to expose the world to me, I shan't dare turn down such a glorious challenge." The spirit glowed brighter with his enthusiasm. "However, there is no time for rest. You must learn what you can about the others. Barring that, I still wish to see the town itself. And there is the matter of your training as well." Cedric crosses his arms. "You won't gain anything from laying here while the sun shines. If you wish to truly make something of yourself, you cannot afford to be sedentary."
"Nonsense!" Syr Cedric laughs deeply. "You shall bring me with you. My oath, after all, is to protect you. How will I do that if I am not with you? Here's what you'll do. You will carry my helmet in your bag as you wander about the town, gathering what information you can. Though I frown upon underhanded tactics, keeping me concealed until my first battle gives us the element of surprise, which is an incredibly effective tool. And then, if we are ever alone, we may spend time in the training field honing your abilities as my squire."
"How do you know about the training field?"
"I was silent, not inert. I've been paying attention to everything you've been told."
"Then why did you keep me waiting in here?!"
"I cannot always be at your call at any given moment. In dire circumstances I will aid you, but you must be able to be independent and operate on your own. Now, let us be off to use the day to its full extent!" With that, the knight's light spiraled into the helmet once more, leaving just the squire in a room staring at a rusted piece of metal.
"anyone that needs healing before the tournament feel free to approach me. I would hate excuses once I defeat you"
She then sat there for a while helping those who came, before promptly proceeding to her quarters with her guards carrying her belongings right behind her. Upon reaching the space nimbu instructed her two guards to stand watch outside her door while she warded every single corner of her new confines. After that she locked the doors, organized her belongings, and got to her bed.
"By winning this tournament, and getting stronger, I will be able to help more people, but if I have to maim or even kill to do so, so be it."
Ergun's father heaved a deep sigh, cracking his thick neck. "Ergun" He growled through a thick Slavic accent, courtesy of his foreign upbringing. "Go. As far as you can."
Ergun turned from the roaring fireplace, a jolt running down his spine. His hand instinctively shot to the blade at his side. "Who is it?" He rapidly eyed the door before taking a step towards his father.
Storrig Hazrith was a thick-set, broad shouldered man or draconian descent. His scales, once a brilliant ocean blue, had faded to a storm cloud grey with age. Though only fifty-four years old, he aged at a slightly accelerated rate, as all dragonkin did, a product of their fiery and volatile physiology. He sat in a massive armchair in his study, upholstered with the shaggy pelt of an enormous brown bear, calmly and rhythmically sharpening a heavy, silver and wicked looking longsword.
"Father" Ergun pressed on. "Who is there?" He emphasized each word slowly and clearly, alarmed. His father had never told his to run from a fight before.
"It doesn't matter. Get out of here now." Storrig, not one for words, stood up to his full height. Truly a mammoth of a man, despite his age, his body rippled with muscles and ancient scars. He threw off his long, furred cloak, exposing the thick leathers he wore beneath it, and pointed to the door.
"I will not run from this foe, if that is what this is." Ergun grinded his teeth. "Cognoscere hostem tuum. Know your enemy. Who is it?!" He gestured angrily at the shield hanging above the mantlepiece, emblazoned with their familial crest and motto.
"I know our mantra. There will be a time to fight. Now is the time to run." His father gripped his sword and yelled down to the butler. “Let him in. Tell him I’m in my study.” Storrig leaned in close to Ergun, grabbing his son by the collar. “I have done things, and those things have consequences. I made those decisions and I knew what would happen. I have already accepted my fate. You must accept yours. You are not ready for this.” With a powerful shove, he hoisted Ergun’s considerable bulk out the open window before whirling around to face the door, sword flashing defiantly, whisps of ghostly blue flames licking out from his jaws and illuminating his deep set eyes from within. Ergun just saw the door creak open as he slid down the manor’s steep tiled roof and dropped down into the estate’s vast garden, landing quietly on his feet. He shot one last glance up, barely seeing a flicker of blue flame through the window, then turned up his hood and vanished into the woods beyond , his heart beating wildly and a cold chill rattling his bones.
——————————————————————
Five years later, when Ergun at last returned to his ancestral home, he was greeted with ashes and dust. Of the once grand and expansive mansion, only a few blackened timbers remained. Within the rubble, the skeletons of guards, servants, cooks, maids, friends, siblings, and Ergun’s father lay still in the dust, the latter still gripping his beloved silver longsword, somehow untouched by flame, rust or time, and razor sharp. After muttering a silent prayer, Ergun pried the blade from the skeleton’s ashen fingers, wiped it clean of ash and soot, and began the long trek into the city. He would need information. And training. He paused to throw back a vial or elixir, muting the being within him. It would also need blood. And he knew exactly where to get all three.
"Can I get another bowl of this please?" Meka said, mouth still full of food with bowls piled high around her.
"Another? You've already had thirteen!?" Ushri shouts.
"Mhm, and now I want fourteen." She swallows.
"Whatever."
Yotus hurries back to the kitchen...if that thing runs out of food, he fears she might come for him next.
"I don't even understand how you can eat right now." Ushri says, pushing her half full bowl aside.
"Same way I normally do." Meka takes the bowl from in front of Ushri "With my mouth."
"Haha, very funny." she says pointedly
"Lighten up Ushri, we made it in to the tournament" Meka waves the acceptance letter in front of her face.
"How are you acting so calm right now!? We made it into the tournament. Great. Now we can get our asses kicked for everyone to see!
"Or everyone gets to see us kick ass!."
"Or we get arrested...or we die...or we get arrested and then we die!"
Meka takes a deep breath and sighs, pushing Ushri's now empty bowl away.
"Ushri..." She leans in close to her companion, eyes serious and calm for once.
"Y-yeah?"
"LIGHTEN UP!" Meka yells, shaking the restaurant just as Yotus emerges with another bowl of food causing him to fumble it.
In a clean flash Ushri draws her blade and catches the bowl of slop on the flat of her sword.
"Fine." She grumbles. "No need to yell."
"Thank you!" Meka says cheerfully. She looks over to Yotus whose standing there trembling as Ushri pulls her blade away from him.
"Make it a fifteenth bowl!" She says
Yotus raises a finger, looks at the sword, and then puts his hand down before returning to the kitchen.
"Hey Ushri, when we get there..."
"Yeah?"
"Dibs on the top bunk!"
The ring Kalthor had given her was warm to the touch. That was a new development - usually it was ice-cold. It had warmed up when she'd walked into the grand hall, and Audhild hadn't noticed some of the hall's features. She stole another glance around as the chosen champions were ushered out of the hall. It was nicer than anything she'd seen in Attya, even in Kalthor's tower, which was one of the nicest places she'd been. She'd never been to the capital, though, so seeing a foreign capital was unlike anything she had experienced.
Looking at the map she had been given, Audhild noticed the training grounds located near the contestant housing. She'd have to take advantage of that over the next few days. The tournament expected success, and she expected to rise to the occasion.