The air was crisp and the sun setting. What was once a deep blue sky, a color parallel only to that of the nearby sea, was now streaked with wide bands of orange and red across its expanse. The Sun’s decent was slow, as if it refused to allow the grip of night to clench the area, so darkness was far from captivating the horizon. Beside the pristine beach and far from the soft gurgling of minute waves foaming at the shore, was a flat expanse. Purposely pressed land. It was shaped in a rough rectangle and free from burden. The ground itself was hard rock covered with a thin layer of dirt, years away from granulating into sand. Bordering the clearing were specifically placed seashells from the nearby landscape. On one side were cowlicks of bristly grass, sparsely growing in the sand-filled soil. Feet from the spread were rocky inclines freckled with trees and patches of forest, but their presence wasn’t intimidating; instead, they acted like shields of preservation for the peacefulness of the region.

But the balance of the soothing calls from the gulls and the gentle sloshing of the waves would soon be disrupted. The Eastern Coast would play host to a different tune, that was bound to break the glass of peace. The Grand Ardian Tournament had scattered itself across the map of Ea, and installed a particular pair of competitors along the private shore who were to fight amongst each other and become one step closer to the celebrated prize. Vaudeux found himself in a similar situation months before, nervously approaching a clearing, with the weight of a grand sum of gold luring him the whole way. He was able to put himself in the competitors shoes, their lust for prize and fame. He had been hindered by such emotions previously, up until he had won himself. Since then, he had consented to the adulation of those who had heard of his triumph and had tasted the sweet juices of his new wealth. Now he was playing a different game. His rival had called his attention to observe as he held his own event. Feeling his skill in the arena was adequate enough reason for his presence, he agreed; even if the thought bored him somewhat. Nevertheless, he could keep an eye on the budding warriors around him at the same time.

From the distant luscious incline, a broad and bronzed figure strode his way towards the flat arena with purpose. His gaze was fixated on the spot, determined to reach their destination. He was early, to be there to meet the contestants. One by the name of Godfrey and the other who called himself Grundy. No name sparked any particular interest in the half-breed, and instead were unfamiliar if not comical. His interest would be a hard egg to crack, and was likely not to be roused until blood was drawn. Vaud was tied to his duty to uphold the rules, but he was not looking forward to sitting back and watching others fight unless it was interesting.

There was a sizable boulder lined to the center of the arena, specifically requested for his observation. If he had to force his attention through something, he would at least sit through it. A reasonable distance away from the edge of the arena, Jupiter stopped and swept his cloak fluidly from his back and laid it upon the boulder. The rock was hard, but at least he could make it more comfortable. There he sat upon the stone, like it were a throne, keeping a watchful eye for distant figures approaching their fate in the arena. He kept his face neutral around the competitors, as not to give away anything, and watched them size each other up, perhaps subtly-perhaps not. When they were finally standing about, tension gathering, he flinched out of his daze and waved lazily over to the competitors, saying smoothly,

“When you’re ready, please begin,” Then added in an undertone, “And end this boredom.”

The scent of saltwater filled his nostrils, an almost overwhelming smell for the man who now approached the makeshift arena on the Eastern Coast. After all, he was accustomed to a different environment, was far more familiar with the rustling of leaves than the lapping of waves, the feel of thick, black dirt beneath his feet instead of this infernal, shifting sand. The tall figure slowly made its way down the flat beach, his footprints leaving a crooked path in the white sand. The telltale signs of his elven ancestry were apparent after a cursory glance. The spiky blonde hair that just reached his eyebrows did nothing to hide the slightly-pointed ears and the fine, almost sculpted features of the Quendi. The almond-shaped eyes, dark green and constantly scouring the horizon, as well as the light, lithe frame, were the final clues as to his race. The tall elf wore a loose white shirt and baggy black pants that rustled in the soft eastern wind. Over the shirt he wore a black faded black vest, the thick fabric well-worn and scratched in several places. He had no weapons besides the shortbow strung over one shoulder, a full quiver of arrows strapped onto his left hip. Solomon Grundy sighed and looked out over the sea, pausing for a moment to enjoy the view. These waters were less-frequented by merchants and other sea-goers, and because of it, much cleaner. He felt as though, given time, he could be comfortable here. Like his home in the forests of Yomenïampa the Eastern Coast was unadulterated by the filth of large cities and huge populations. But hopefully he would be able to return to his homeland soon. It all depends on who I'm facing...

Solomon sighed and started off again, remembering the map he had committed to memory earlier that day. A little further up the coast he would find the stage for his first battle in the Ardian Tournament. The scholar knew that across the realm warriors were trekking towards similar arenas in order to prove their worth in battle. Warriors, fighters, knights, wizards, wraiths... even some of the Guardians have entered this Tournament! Who are you, Solomon Grundy, to even think of actually taking place in such a contest! You're a scholar, for heaven's sake! The elf's face remained almost expressionless, betraying none of this inner turmoil. He had first heard about the tournament in Lómëdor and had felt the sudden urge to enter the competition. And now here he was, far from any library or temple, with only the shortbow he had hand-carved and a bundle of arrows he had painstakingly fletched last week. Solomon ran his thin digits over the quiver, letting his fingertips dance across the fletching, noting the subtle differences in each feather, in each arrow. Some tingled when he touched them; these were the arcane arrows he had obtained at great cost, enchanted by priests and wizards with devastating results. Knowing he had such powerful ammunition in his arsenal placated the elf, although fear still gnawed at his belly like a rabid dog. This was a place for sword-swingers and spell-casters, not an elf who found more pleasure in reading than fighting.

Solomon left the shoreline, trading the beach for the gritty soil, useless to farmers due to its saturation with sand. Further away from the gentle melody of the ocean he spied a small rocky incline, on that he knew bordered the arena where they would do battle. Solomon began to work his way towards the flattened area of land, careful to avoid the grasping fronds of bristly grass, one of the few things that appeared to grow in this setting. The elf soon reached the arena, stepping onto the firmer rock with relief. Although he had good balance, Solomon would have been uncomfortable battling on sand, knowing how difficult it was to keep your footing. Now that he was here he felt another wave of almost sickening nervousness sweep over him, although he managed to keep any sign of his discomfort from his face. But part of the reason for his nausea was not from his apprehension but rather the true reason he had signed up for the Tournament, the reason he had adamantly ignored up until this point. It started in the war. In the siege of the Obsidian Tower. You found that you liked fighting, didn’t you, Solomon? The feel of a taut bowstring in your fingers, the sight of an arrow plunging into your target to rupture organs and shatter bones... You lust for the joy of battle, the rush of adrenaline that accompanies even the slightest motion when it’s a matter of life or death. You don’t want the prize, just to fight. But even more than that, you want to feel the thrill of bloodlust, to watch your opponent fall by your hand... Solomon shook his head to clear it, hoping his opponent and the judge would assume he was trying to get the grains of sand out of his hair. It truly did get everywhere. The elf, taught since he had been found in the forest to respect life and to never take it unless absolutely necessary, wished he could banish such thoughts from his head, but knew now that he was here it would be impossible to deny. Once, the scent of musky, ancient tomes and the sight of unexplored ruins made his heart beat faster and eyes light up. Now it was the thought of the coming fight that captured him, swept him away in its exhilarating embrace. And Solomon wasn’t sure if he was saddened by the change.

He glanced around the arena, knowing that failing to notice even the most insignificant detail could result in injury or death. The judge of the duel was sitting on a nearby rock, holding himself as if he were royalty on a jewel-studded thrown. Solomon could only feel relief that this man was judging their battle and not an actual participant. He moved with an elegance and grace that only the most accomplished of fighters possessed, and he suspected that the man would react violently to the slightest sign of danger. Something about his eyes also made the elf uneasy, but the judge was not important at this moment. His opponent was. Solomon’s green eyes turned towards the man standing opposite him, examining him quickly. All he knew of this man was his name, Godfrey. His opponent was near the same height as the elf, yet his frame was heavily muscled, his bare torso crossed by a large, blood-red tattoo. What little clothing he wore was stained with blood, scars marring his pale skin. Solomon met his opponent’s gaze for a moment, feeling the hate-filled brown eyes bore into his own, empty green ones. There was a moment of silence as the combatants watched each other. The elf knew that in close combat this man would probably obliterate him. His size and apparent strength were testimony to that. The easiest way to win would be to strike hard and quickly, to keep him off-guard and at a distance. Solomon let the bow fall off of his shoulder, the polished grip falling into his curled fingers. Softly, he spoke. “My name is Solomon Grundy.” He nodded to his opponent, eyes flickering back to the judge as the man seemed to snap out of a daydream. He languidly waved one hand, appearing uninterested in the battle. “When you’re ready, please begin.” Solomon reacted instantly, missing Jupiter’s mumbled comment. His hand moved to his hip in a blur, fingers clamping on the fletching of a normal, un-enchanted arrow. He brought the projectile to the bowstring, notching the end expertly and drawing the string back in one smooth motion. It only took a moment to sight down the straight shaft, to guarantee that his aim was true. Without a second’s hesitation he released the arrow, shooting it straight at Godfrey’s right shoulder. Maybe this could end without one of them dying. But not likely. Ignoring himself, Solomon jumped back lightly, watching Godfrey as he drew another arrow. He smiled at Godfrey as he felt his pulse quicken, a small, jubilant smile. This is waht I want. This is what I need...

The Eastern Coast... Just the thought of it made the pale warrior's blood boil. His embarrassing retreat from a sailor and a young archer had left him with a horrid mental scar. He hated retreat. He also hated that he has lost his longsword somewhere along the beach. He hated a lot of things at the moment, and he was glad he would get the chance to unleash his anger and malice on whoever this Solomon Grundy character was he was supposed to be fighting. He twisted his neck, making a sickening popping sound, then grabbed his crystal sword. He looked at it for awhile, and slid his hand across the flat side of the blade. Over the time he had it, the sword never dulled, and remained as sharp as the day he had found it. He had discovered the mystical weapon while he was a Paladin, and had used it several times, often from situations that would have otherwise spelled certain death for him. Now he would use it to rend the flesh of his elven adversary, and advance a level in the tournament. Godfrey narrowed his eyes as he came upon what he thought to be a horrible excuse for a ring, then spat and looked to his judge. The man looked bored, and very uninterested in the coming duel. The pale warrior had the impression that this man thought very high of himself, and it made him snarl. He hated people with inflated egos, though at times he himself demonstrated one in front of those that he thought of as being lower on the social food chain.

Godfrey looked at the rock the man was perched on, and a small grin tugged at his lips. He knew it might not bode well with the judge at making a remark, but he couldn't help himself. "So... Your highness..." He started in a mocking tone, "Where did you ever happen to find that magnificent, beautiful throne of yours? Look... It's even got some cushioning for your kingly arse! " He added with a chuckle. After a while his grin faded away and turned back into a scowl and he spat again, then shook his head. Godfrey didn't care what the judge thought of him, he was in a bad mood, and if wanted to make a smart ass remark, he would. He wasn't here for the man's entertainment anyway. He had entered the tournament for the soul purpose of getting to the Guardians that had entered. He would take pleasure in ripping them limb from limb, even if he knew they would come back again. His main goal, was the host of the tournament... The mortal Guardian, Sartana-kun. If he could meet him in battle and kill him, the warrior would draw the attention of the other deities, and show them that he was very much alive, and had returned to Arda, ready to crush, kill, and destroy any that stood in front of him in his quest for vengeance.

As he waited for his opponent he quickly took a look at all his weapons, making sure they were in top shape for the battle. He had recently sharpened his daggers and spear, but didn't feel like he needed to use them now. His opponent came into view. He was as thin as a twig, and did not have the look of a warrior about him. He looked into the sky, then snarled. "Is this my punishment for defying you gods!? This is my opponent!?" The pale warrior bellowed. He seethed, and looked at his measly adversary. He carried only a shortbow, and it made Godfrey raise an eyebrow. The man wore baggy clothes and had goofy spiked hair that made Godfrey think of him as more of a clown than anything.

The warrior was garbed in only his bloodstained kilt and sandals, and wore a deep scowl. He glanced to the judge again, then looked to his opponent who had just arrived. A few gulls flew over their heads, squawking and mocking the two warriors. Godfrey grunted, then looked straight into his opponent's eyes. He noticed the man was an elf, all the better. He felt that the elves were a delicate, weak race, and that only their dark cousins, the Drow, held any real power. The fool looks more like a bookworm than a warrior... This should be easy... He thought. Oi... He doesn't even have a real weapon... Just a flimsy bow... Coward... Godfrey hated archers. Cowards, the lot of them. "This tournament is for warriors! Not weak, cowardly marksmen! Go home... And stuff your pathetic Elven nose into a tome where it belongs!" Godfrey bellowed, jesting the Elf to go back where he came from. Godfrey had no interest in killing a weak little scholar that had no business on the battlefield. He wanted to test his might against a true opponent. He would have much rather fought a Guardian than a little elf with his little bow.

When the judge called for them to begin, Godfrey's opponent fired an arrow towards his shoulder, and he only snarled as it slammed into him, and stuck in a couple inches. His shoulder flew back, and Godfrey took a step backwards. He growled, then stepped forward again. His massive muscles kept it from going too deep, and all the projectile did was anger the pale warrior. He yanked the arrow out of his shoulder, then let out a roar. He snapped the light wooden rod in two with one powerful hand, then threw what was left of it to the ground. Blood dribbled down the massive man's ripped torso, and only made him look more voracious. He charged like a streak of white and red lightning towards Solomon. His mouth opened wide, and he bared his teeth, then jumped into the air and twirled around, positioning his crystalline sword so he would lob off the Elf's spiky haired head unless he knew how to get the hell out of the way.

The caustic quips about the Quendi did not really bother Solomon. He had heard much worse insults thrown his way in cities across the realm. The elves were often despised by other mortal faces for their longevity. Solomon, although he did not look a day over twenty-five, was actually over a century old. He had grown accustomed to being insulted for his almond eyes and pointed ears long ago. Although the whole plea to the heavens seemed a tad dramatic and insulting, he was willing to forgive his opponent for such a lack of faith in his abilities. He did not look the part of a warrior. Yet he felt a surge of pride that could match any gladiator's as he watched the arrow fly true, sinking deep into Godfrey's shoulder. His smile grew broader; first blood went to him, an Elf who should have his nose stuffed in some ancient book. The brutish warrior was forced to take a step back from the force of the arrow as blood began to drip from the wound. Almost immediately he regained that step, face twisting from its apparently neutral sneer into a glare of pure hatred. Solomon almost stepped back himself from the mere presence of the man's glare, the almost tangible force of his hatred. A beast-like roar echoed across the arena as Godfrey grasped the arrow, yanking it out of his arm and snapping it in half as if it were a twig. Blood flowed freely from the wound now, the liquid cascading from his shoulder to mingle with the tattoo that curved up his torso, distorting its smooth swirl. Solomon winced as the broken arrow fell to the dirt floor, notching the next arrow and bringing the bow up to aim. He could snap my spine just as easily. This realization killed the rush of drawing first blood. Now that Godfrey was riled up there was probably only two ways to finish this fight. Kill him or die. The choice appeared obvious.

The demonic roar ceased as Godfrey brought up his weapon, the crystalline blade glimmering in the fading rays of the sun. It was an intimidating sight to behold. Apparently unhindered by the wound in his shoulder and the blood dribbling down his bare muscles, Godfrey’s fast was twisted in a mask of fury and hatred. He charged straight at Solomon, sword held with a familiarity born of many battles. Solomon sighted down the shaft and snapped off a shot, silently cursing as it zipped over Godfrey's head to lodge itself in the ground. As the elf's nimble fingers reached for another arrow Godfrey leaped towards him, the strange, translucent sword whirling in an arc that promised decapitation. The elf reacted instinctively, throwing himself to the dirt floor of the arena, feeling the passage of the blade as it whistled through the air over his head. Solomon turned the clumsy maneuver into a clumsier roll, hitting the rock floor hard but still managing to move the opposite direction of Godfrey's vicious charge. There was a burst of pain from his right shoulder, the arm that he held the bow with. Stupid, Solomon! You can't fight as crazy as this idiot! Without your arms you're worthless! He had only bruised the skin but a single injury in his shoulders or arms would be disastrous. Scurrying to his feet, the elf grasped at another arrow, feeling the slight differences in the fletching that distinguished the type of ammunition. A smile spread across his face as he yanked the arrow from the quiver, placing it to the string and pulling in one smooth motion, ignoring the slight pang of pain in his shoulder. As he did so he skipped backwards from Godfrey, trying to get more distance in between them.

This arrow, although the same length, was very different from the ones he had used earlier. Instead of being forged from plain steel the arrowhead had been carved from a strange, translucent, sapphire material. When the sunlight struck it the arrowhead seemed to snatch the light away, holding it deep in its clear depths. There the light was twisted into a crackling ball of power deep in the sapphire depths. A single blue ribbon was wrapped around the plain wooden shaft, the fletching dyed the same unnatural hue. Solomon pulled the arrow back until his fingertips brushed his cheek, the string as taut as it would go without snapping. The blue, crystalline arrowhead was pointed straight towards the middle of Godfrey's back. The elf could feel the magic contained within the weapon, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. His voice was soft, not meant to be heard by judge nor foe. "Thunder, unleash your fury upon my enemy." The mantra was not technically necessary, but Solomon had grown accustomed to saying this slight prayer before using any of the most dangerous arrows in his arsenal. Lacking the necessary knack and obsession required to learn magic, Solomon had found the next best thing. Enchanted weapons.

With a soft sigh he reluctantly opened his hand, as if he did not wish to let go of the strangely colored projectile. Before it had even completely left the bow the arrowhead began to sparkle, lines of electricity coursing over its surface. The entire enchanted arrow began to glow with power, a streak of lightning shooting towards the elf's opponent. Before the attack had a chance to connect Solomon had drawn another arrow with the same enchantment, setting it to the string. Now, think carefully. Which way is he going to go? I doubt he'll take the hit from a magical attack like he did that first arrow. Left or right? Stop it! You don’t have time to doubt yourself! Oh, this had better be right... His forest green eyes flickered to Godfrey's left side. This time he fired the arrow towards the man's left shoulder, hoping that dodging the first projectile would force the heavily muscled man to take another attack right in the gut. Loosing the arrow, Solomon's hand shot to his quiver, pulling out a plain, un-enchanted missile. He watched the two attacks rocket towards Godfrey, crackling with arcane power, and desperately hoped one of the arrows would connect. Just in case neither did he notched his next arrow, ready to spring aside at any sign of attack from his furious opponent.