Wurzag smiled happily, wiped the sweat from his brow and took a step back to admire the results of his efforts. If everything went according to plan it would all work like a charm. It probably wouldn't, these things never did but then he would have to improvise and the half-orc was good at that. Confident that his preparations were complete Wurzag sat back to await the arrival of his guests. As he relaxed he congratulated himself on his choice of venue which was about as far removed from the jungle as it was possible to get. Without flying anyway.

Or a boat.

He had spied the tower on the horizon during several of his visits to the plains, but had never been curious enough to investigate. Now that he had, the effort was paying back in dividends. It was close to Lomedor, easy to find, did not suffer from torrential storms and was blissfully free of flying insect menace. While Taurerosa had made for an excellent arena it had left the half-orc with a distinct dislike for all things jungle-related, bat-shaped or wet. He had seen more mud and wild-life in twelve hours than any other year of his lifetime, it was entirely unnatural. Wurzag lay back on the grass and looked up to the square tower-top. The second round of the tournament would be decided on that small, unwalled arena and what a battle it would be!

He idly wondered where his magistrate partner was, but the dark man had explained that the fellow was the Guardian of Stars and was thus not governed by the dictates of any mere mortal. The half-orc was inclined to agree and there was an incredible number of stars to manage! Wurzag wondered how any individual, even an immortal, could hope to keep them all in line. How did he know when they were all doing what they were supposed to be doing and if they were going in the right direction? They all looked the same!

His train of thought was disrupted by the rattle of cart-wheels as a pair of black carriages clattered across the rocky ground to the relatively flat area at the tower entrance. "Looks like it's time to go to work Froat!" The half-orc rumbled to his lupine familiar, "let's get too it!" He ambled over to the sinister vehicles and waited as their occupants descended, mentally putting names to faces.

The House of Black Flame, allegedly comprised of the formidable guardians of shadow and fire. The black robed figure could only be the minion of darkness, but his partner was none other than the well-dressed pretty boy from the banquet. Wurzag frowned and quirked an eyebrow. "Must 'ave chosen some sort of champion to fight for 'im," the half-orc muttered, "busy fella dat Guardian of Fire." He looked over his shoulder at the tower and then back at the approaching team. "Probbly fer da best anyway, a ten hunerd foot tall fella would never get inside der."

The second team, the House of Twilight had also descended from their coach and were striding purposefully toward him. The first, a graceful elven maiden had an imperious look about her that Wurzag would have found insulting had she not carried herself with such dignity and poise. The weapons and shield were clearly not just for cosmetic effect. The half-orc assumed she must be Sister Ayre. Her partner was no less distinctive with his unusual hat perched comfortably atop his grizzled features. Sartana-Kun, Guardian of the sun was not as Wurzag would have imagined. He had pictured someone brighter, more dazzling, less grumpy. Still, he mused, appearances could be deceiving.

"Nice hat," the green-skin beamed as the two teams faced off, "I'll 'ave to get me one of dem." He looked from Black Flame of Twilight and back again and noted a certain air of tension. "Er, right den," he hurried along, "we all know why we are 'ere so lets move it along eh? Gud! Now den, see dis tower?" He hiked a thumb over one shoulder, "da first team to get get both members to da top an 'old it fer a minute is da winner." He looked back and forth between the two teams again.

"Got dat? Both of yez need to get to da big square bit on da top an 'old da uver team off for an 'ole minute." He grinned happily, "Course, if both of yez manage to get up der den yooz is just gonna 'ave to fight it out to be king of da castle." He turned away and started toward the door then paused and spun on his heel, "Oh yeah," he continued with a chuckle, "An none of dat cheeky flyin' up da outside nonsense, yooz gotta come up da inside or yooz is out! Discamwolified! Yooz got dat?" There was no pause to allow for an answer. "Gud!" He finished and covered the rest of the distance to the door. He flung the portal wide and listened for a moment to steady drip, drip, drip of water within before spreading his arms wide in a gesture of welcome.

"FIGHT!"

The carriage had attained a comfortably smooth clip as they sped across the grasslands of Salquedor, in the opposite direction they had traveled to reach their previous match. The interior of the simple yet effective vehicle was strangely quiet. The lack of conversation made the pounding of the horse’s hooves on the hard ground seem amplified tenfold. Xoco had been able to nurse up the nicks and scratches he had received in his insane race for survival in the Underworld not a few days beforehand. He and Jupiter had won their first match handily, defeating a pair of mortals to claim a victory that all but guaranteed them a share of the prize money. They still had two teams to fight through to reach the top, and this next one promised to be a much more difficult pair to dispatch.

He was happy that Obsidian Nocturne was not judging this round. Instead, they had been given some orc for a judge. Rumors circulated that Vaul, the Guardian of Stars, was to be the co-host of this match. Xoco did not feel the aura of the star guardian anywhere near; at least, not yet. This pair of judges would hopefully provide a less life-threatening environment for them to fight in. Melandro von Mortem had a sadistic quality about him that caused him to fling his competitors into strange and dangerous environs. Xoco and Jupiter had hardly been able to exchange blows with the opposing team, as all four competitors had been too busy contending with the battlefield itself. He knew little of what had become of the other two competitors. Xoco cared not for their lives, but he wished that he could have had the pleasure of killing them himself, instead of running like a madman and leaving them to be consumed by the terrible depths of the Underworld.

The carriage slowed now, the horses progressing at a quick trot. The bumps and imperfections in the sad excuse for a road didn’t jostle the passengers as much at this slower speed; for that, at least, he was grateful. Finally, after traveling a small way further, the carriage came to a halt. Xoco looked out the window, only to find a never-ending expanse of grassland extending out to the horizon. Were they really going to fight here, on the open ground, in the middle of a field? It seemed so very tame compared with the secluded patch of hell to which they had been confined previously. Shrugging, Xoco nodded to his partner and then stepped out of the carriage. He turned to look behind him, and then he saw the tower. It soared above the plains around it, the largest construct for a hundred leagues in any direction. He smirked, remembering the old tournament that the drow Nafalen had hosted so many moons ago. The final match had been fought here, between Jupiter and…

…Sartana. The demon hunter caught Xoco’s attention out of the corner of his eye. The superfluously large hat and the scar across his face were unmistakable. It had been a long time since the two of them had met in combat. It seemed like a hundred years had passed since that duel in the forest; so much had unfolded between then and now. Xoco had told the demon hunter never to come before him until he was read to kill him. Now, it seemed, the grizzled, bitter man would get another chance to finish what he had started. Xoco sensed something very strange about him, something drastically different from when they had previously engaged in combat. The demon hunter carried the weight of an immense power, and yet, he did not carry the unmistakable aura of a divine being. Xoco thought back to all of the disturbances he had felt, recounting how many deities had entered the plane of mortals within recent times.

There had been Merenwen, the Guardian of Water. Oh, she and Xoco had a long history indeed. She now ran about with enough angst to kill twenty men. Vaudeux Jupiter was the Guardian of Fire, a welcome addition to the dwindling forces of evil. Vaul, the guardian of Stars, had entered the plane of mortals as well. This left only the Guardian of Sun unaccounted for. Xoco was puzzled; had Sartana somehow received the powers of a Maia, while at the same time retaining his mortality? It seemed impossible, and yet Lothlomendil twisted the cosmic balance more and more every day. Perhaps he was only the latest abomination to come forth from her madness. Xoco scowled at the very thought of such a direct defiance of the Old Laws, laws set forth by the Ilúvatar.

Traveling as Sartana’s partner was a fragile-looking Elven maiden who carried several heavy implements of war. She was probably one of the soldiers from Sartana’s demon-hunting organization, B.A.D.I. She carried little in the way of magical prowess; and yet the way she carried herself spoke of an experienced warrior. Xoco knew the weakest of the pack when he saw it; she was the target. Xoco spoke in hushed tones to Jupiter, such that the other team could not hear his quickly-formulated plans.

“Each morning, the gazelle must outrun the fastest lion. But the lion must only outrun the slowest gazelle. Neutralize the girl first; she’s the weak link. It will take both of us to handle Misirlou.” He then turned to the other team, shouting across the plains to the other competitors. “Sartana… it has been a long time. I trust that you’ve had a good hunt?” A chuckle followed his quick wit, dredging up Sartana’s certainly unpleasant memories of the humiliating loss so many years ago.

The orc spoke to the two teams. Xoco worked quickly, uttering incantations under his breath as the judge explained the stipulations of the match.

“Talos… imundi… vivi, iche, tarum, tacute…”

"Er, right den. We all know why we are 'ere so lets move it along eh? Gud! Now den, see dis tower?" The orc indicated the ancient tower with his broken attempts at English. Xoco could hardly make out what he was saying.

“Vive, incartum, domine, domine, domine…”

"Da first team to get get both members to da top an 'old it fer a minute is da winner," continued the orc. Excellent. A classic, and potentially lethal, game of King of the Castle. Xoco looked over the building as he continued his incantations…

“Narte, chartum, hondresum, vive, vive, vive…”

"Got dat? Both of yez need to get to da big square bit on da top an 'old da uver team off for an 'ole minute. Course, if both of yez manage to get up der den yooz is just gonna 'ave to fight it out to be king of da castle." Xoco looked up. That flat piece at the top was hardly enough to stand upon safely, let along fight. It would be an extremely hazardous battle; one false step could lead to a very long and very deadly fall to the unforgiving dirt below. That, and he hardly expected the old, dilapidated stones to hold the weight of four people anyways. He hoped that this match would not come to such a showdown, and yet in a way, it seemed unavoidable.

“Domine viche, Domine liche, Domine riche, Domine orust”

"Oh yeah," continued the orc, "An none of dat cheeky flyin' up da outside nonsense, yooz gotta come up da inside or yooz is out! Discamwolified! Yooz got dat?" Xoco hardly could get it, listening to this orc speak was like trying to decipher words out of the roar of a swarm of locusts. But, he got the jist of it. No flying up the exterior of the tower. They would have to fight their way to the top on the narrow stairway that ran up the inside of the tower. Very well, then.

“Domine viche, Domine liche, Domine riche, Domine Orust”

The orc moved to the doors of the old tower, pulling them open. The dank interior of the tower would provide plenty of shadow for him to utilize in fending off his opponents. The top, however, wouldn’t be teeming with his element. He would have to find a way to work around that when the time came. But for now, all he could do was finish the incantation and begin his first attack.

“Sister Ayre. Domine, Domine, Domine”

The Voodoo was complete. He discretely grasped the hilt of his longsword, waiting for the orc to begin the match. The intensity of the moment swelled up inside him, filling his chest with the white-hot lead of pure anticipation. His grip tightened, waiting as the orc paused for just a brief second, before…

“FIGHT!”

In a flurry of motion, Xoco drew his sword and took to mercilessly stabbing himself in the legs. He sank the blade into his own calves and thighs, impaling both feet before moving on to his arms. He sliced and diced with the fury of a berserker, cutting so fast that he could hardly see the blade move. For a brief moment, he stood, waiting for the effects of the Voodoo to take hold. He smiled as the wounds disappeared before his eyes, moving instead to Sister Ayre, the unfortunate target of the spell. The wounds weren’t fatal; they could be easily cured with the healing magic that both Sartana and the girl possessed. But at least it would slow them down.

Satisfied in his work with the useful abilities bestowed upon him by Raku, Xoco decided to stray from his training as a Cleric of Darkness into more conventional magic. He recited a considerably shorter incantation, followed by a brief hand movement. He directed this spell not at the slight Quendi girl, but rather at the demon hunter, Sartana. With a sudden release of energy, the Troll Curse spell was unleashed. It was a truly terrible spell, curable only by a very specific incantation. It turned anyone upon which it was cast to stone as soon as sunlight hit their skin. And on a day like this, there was plenty of that to go around. Xoco wondered how Sartana would weasel his way out of this one.

Turning his attention to the tower, Xoco darted forward, sword still drawn. He looked to Vaudeux for a moment, shouting, “That should slow them down. Come on, let’s move!” And with that, Xoco darted towards the tower doors as fast as his legs would carry him, hoping to reach the top quickly and end this match.

It wasn't a usual day. It was a pleasant day, really. But what was to come was so far removed from pleasant that it cast a shadow over the warm sun and tepid breeze that graced the grasslands. She, unlike the other contestants, had spent her traveling time readying herself. The excess baggage atop the carriage had been displaced into her seat so that the top could be used for warming up. She stood upon that training space as a sentinel, staring into space from atop the flat roof of the cart. Ayre knew where this road went, and guessed all the possible destinations. The lords of the tourney had been particularly sadistic in their choices of destinations. Either they would be in Estolad, fighting in an orphanage for abnormally pitiful and helpless orphans, or the Barrows, getting torn apart by undead in tunnels, or even the Tower. The sentinel shifted has her mind drifted back to her own fights in towers.

The ancient tower, much like any other archaic fortification was a terrible, brutal place. Each one had a history of death and decadence, where great men lived, died, and often spilled the blood of other men. Ayre had fought in a tower before, fighting step by step after the lich Harakonios. The knight-sister doubted she'd have to fight such a terrifying opponent again.

Ayre knelt down and proceeded to stretch. Going into a fight without limbering up, especially now that the competition for this tournament was the most brutal they'd have to face, unless they made it to the next match. Basic care for herself was a necessity to victory. If she damaged a muscle, the fight was as good as over.

The knight glanced down to her warhorse, the seemingly gentle mare returning the gaze with a snort. The horse was on edge, Ayre had been with the animal long enough to know its habits. She reminisced upon receiving it from the tall, lanky blonde after quite a bit of inquiry into a trainer of such warlike beasts. The elven maiden was no real rider, although the woman with one eye had commented that a well trained warhorse should do most of the work herself. She had also commented on how animals had an odd ability to detect, or at least predict, the future. Ayre had disbelieved such commentary then, but now the superstition had to ring of some truth.

Ayre stretched until she felt comfortable, and then unsheathed Windcutter. The blade unleashed a metallic melody, a song of death. The song twisted as Ayre turned the blade in a slow half-circle before her and began exercises. The initial stroke lead into a dance with an opponent none but Ayre could see. Her feet were locked in place due to the disrepair of the section of road they were entering. The horses navigated it excellently, yet the cart had no delusions. It rocked and rumbled with the intent to throw anyone who made the mistake of taking a stride to the ground. Ayre, however, kept her feet locked in place, even when she brought out her tower shield. The massive construction of mythril and sweat was a monument to Ayre's specialty, survival. Her swordsmanship was impressive, but nothing in comparison to her ability with the shield as large as she was.

But she couldn't take the construct on the offensive, as it required footwork to use properly. She paused at that part of her never-changing pre-combat routine and slid her arms into a bundle within the tower shield. The knight-sister fell to a prone position, and reached down to unlatch the door.

"Shield and sharps inbound!" Ayre shouted into the carriage. She gripped her shield and threw it gently to the floor, and listened with a little glee to the resulting clamor. Then she turned herself around, sat on the raised edge of the carriage, and gripped it tightly with her fingers. In one fluid motion, she launched herself backwards, and reversed that momentum to hurtle into the carriage. All would have gone as planned, excepting the presence of her arms. Her perfectly positioned feet fell upon a slick tower shield, and she promptly lost her balance with a squeak. Ayre crashed to the floor, and stood back up with such speed it was as thought nothing had happened.

"Well, the top is free again." Ayre muttered. She sat upon one of the few free spots on her side of the carriage, and drew a cinnamon roll from her pack. The pastry, while delicious, served another purpose. It was full of the energy her body needed to function properly in an extended fight, and that was what she was betting on. She wolfed the thing down far faster than an imperious elf of her calibur would normally allow, and promptly wiped the remainder off with the back of her hand, which was rubbed on the bottom of her seat. With all vestiges of her immaculate elegance shattered, she dressed herself in her weapons of war. Her mightiest two blades hung on her right hip, while her other rested on her left. All hung off of the belt around her waist, and her other accessories were swiftly placed along her body. Her Winter's Embrace was folded thin and then tied as a bow around her ponytail. A long golden cape graced her slim shoulders, and she flicked her hair with a striking return to elegance.

"Minutes tick away." Ayre whispered as the tower rose into view. She murmured prayers to all the major deities through flickers of memory. Towers were such a terrible place to fight in, unless one knew how. Ayre had plenty of experience fighting in a tower, and even more on spiral stair cases. She hoped it had a spiral staircase at least, as ladders would sorely alter the battle. Then again, she'd be perfectly capable of shutting down a ladder utterly, as only one person could enter at a time.

"Sartana, if at such a time you need me, I'll be listening for any requests, and my tower shield will be more than happy to act as a wall." Ayre stated. She flicked a long lock of hair from her eyes before dismounting the carriage. Their opponents were exactly who she expected, the House of Self-Absorbed. She drifted over to them, completely ignoring the magistrate. Orcs did not merit her attentions, even if they had things to say. She instead slid up to her competitors, and used her drastically superior hearing to pick a whisper from the breeze.

"Assumptions are the work of fools, friends." Ayre explained sweetly. Her hearing flicked back to the orc as he explained the rules, but slid back to the guardian of shadows. She heard the unique sound of the Voodoo spell. Ayre was no stranger to it, having more experience than any other mortal at the slaying of liches. She sighed, hung her head, and muttered under her breath a slew of newly-learned sailor insults about the offending party's cowardice. She jaunted back over to Sartana, and stood as a sentinel, her free hand gripping her cloak. Her hand that held the massive tower shield worked quickly, deft finger movements capturing the grace and speed of the wind. The wind itself caught her cloak and nimbly twisted it through the air, and likely across Sartana's face. Grass danced across her legs as she waited for that one, critical moment. It came after a full explanation of the rules, and a supposedly dramatic moment. Her hand upon her cloak snapped outwards and casted the blur spell upon Sartana.

"Her soldiers strike swiftly, and without hesitation." Ayre said, in the same breath that the orc shouted for a fight. Her hand hurtled back as she grabbed her cloak and drew its folds around her. She turned to stone immediately, and the blade crashing into his flesh did not a thing to the elf with a semblance of royalty. Her stone face was twisted into a crooked half smile and intense eyes, and it softened as he withdrew his blades. Grey dust peeled off of her, even as she bolted to Sartana.

"To the sky, guildmaster!" Ayre shouted. She leapt into the air, with the full intent to piggy-back her way to the top on Sartana's drastically improved speed. Not to mention the fact she was almost embarrassingly slight for a warrior of her caliber. Either way, she would hamper the Guardian of the Sun as much as a young human girl.

(Oh, and don't worry too much about Thren unless you abuse that Voodoo spell of yours.)

Sartana's tower loomed over the BADI woods like a giant's wand, forever aglow with the magical energies of its enchantment. While the structure held a dim layer of light at all times, it seemed strengthened during the night, as if it were alive and thought itself brother to the Sun, responsible for watching the land in its kin's absence. Windows were only present several hundred feet up. From these beams of light shot, gradually dimming as they traversed the night sky. The spectacle of architecture was viewable from anywhere in Lómëdor—seen as a bastion of righteousness, vigilant even as the city slept.

In one of the tower's highest windows stood a black silhouette, gazing out into the city. Sartana crossed both hands over his chest. Lómëdor seemed to stretch endlessly into the horizon; even from his vantage point, tiny lights like distant fireflies flickered until fading into the night. Only the ocean seemed to match its length and beauty: a vast mirror of shimmering, celestial reflections. How surreal it all was—like another world. But it was here, and this was Arda. Were there others, in different realms, who saw such beauty and said the same, unknowingly alluding to this very plane..? A question the demon hunter might have posed, in his musings, if not troubled as he was. The man's multicolored eyes belied his stoic expression; they seemed dipped in melancholy, void of the brightness seemingly inherent to them. There was much on his mind. And with the tournament tomorrow, and so much at stake (much more than gold or pride), he could not afford to be distracted with this... apprehension.

Sartana closed his eyes, letting the memories of that night, far displaced from the current date, fill the black canvas of his mind. Rain complimented by thunder; everything is soaked, including Sartana, who stands over a slain demon. The shadows around him deepen. From the depths of the forest, a black being wrapped in torn robes emerges, sword drawn and emerald eyes shining. It moves towards the demon hunter with malevolent intent... Weakened from his jump through the planes of existence, Sartana's death would have been guaranteed if not for the timely arrival of Merenwen. Together, they fought the wraith named 'Xoco', but even then he was too powerful. On his last leg, the demon hunter persuaded the creature to leave them in pursuit of greater enemies. Xoco left, but not before promising that, if they ever met again, Sartana had best be willing to kill the wraith, or he himself would perish. With the next round of the tournament decided, the demon hunter's fate was sealed: he would be facing Xoco.

Xoco and Jupiter, his most powerful enemies. The fire guardian did not weigh on the man's mind quite as much; agents were watching his temple nearly every day, and most anything he did—powers he gained, armaments he acquired—became known to the guild master of BADI. Xoco, on the other hand, was as elusive as the shadows of his guardianship. Sartana had not learned a thing about the creature, beyond his name and the demigod status he currently held. In talking to Winter, a C-Class agent who fought with the wraith in the first round of the tournament, he had also learned nothing; their match, more of a foot race than anything, had required very little of Xoco's power.

The contrast! Sartana thought, turning from his window. The flames of his fireplace lit up his tanned, hard-featured face. A slight frown tipped his lips. One, as known and conspicuous as the sun, the other, an inaudible whisper in the dark! Irritated, and perhaps a bit worried, the tall man patrolled his room. Back and forth he walked, a hand rubbing his scruffy chin, a practiced, fleeting indifference in his face—slowly filling with hints of anger. Suddenly, thought lit up his eyes. From Hell he came; the pathway to Hell they guard.

Books flew about the room. Some hit walls, others bounced off the man's bed; all had been discarded in search of one. Sartana reached the last tome in the iron-bound chest. It looked ready to crumble into dust as he lifted it, flipping through the dry, crackling pages. Towards the middle he came to a newer slice of paper, wedged between pages. He promptly read its contents aloud.

“He called himself Chwannethir. Given his features, it seemed fitting enough: tall and wooden, as ents are, with a beard of stringy fungi, one 'shoulder' adorned with a firm, mushroom shoulder-pad, and a number of other critters hanging from his form. We talked for a while of the guild, his duties, and the forest's change, with the latter most subject dampening his fervency for discussion quite a bit—for reasons unknown to me. It was growing light out (as I was forced to visit at night; the sun is unbearable to him), when I said I had to leave. This upset him greatly, it seems, as he made a grab for me and I was forced to stop him with a shield of force, and flee. I believe he wished me to return to the depths of his cave with him—but as I've proven, I go where I wish, and nowhere else!” The man's voice halted. A smirk lit up his face as he reminisced about the previous guild master. It faded, though, and he continued reading to himself, eventually finding directions through the guild forest to Chwannethir's cave. He slid the paper into his pocket.

“I must speak with the ent, for both Ayre's and my sake.” Sartana said, resolved. He threw a black cloak around his form, followed by a maroon scarf and, of course, his hat, which he tucked low on his head. His weapons followed—every one of them—including his throwing daggers, which he always took care of last, placing them at different points along his clothing. With a whisper of cloth, he was gone, descending several sets of stairs and stepping into the chilly night.

The first piece of advice the demon hunter was given, in becoming BADI's guild master, was to enter the guild forest only under the more dire of circumstances. Traveling to and from his tower, situated at the forest's center, was done via a dirt path enchanted to keep the plants and beings of the place at bay. Agents were not allowed to enter. Those urgently needing to speak with Sartana were always escorted, as well as Mission Coordinators, who occasionally worked out of the bottom floor of his tower.

The woods were not normal. They were old, older even than the city; home to creatures of dark origin, and intent. Guild lore spoke of a sect of ents who had forsaken the surface world, taking shelter in caves leading to the underdark and Hell. BADI's first guild master had struck a deal with the creatures, promising to protect them and their grove, as long as they dwelt in the cave system below Lómëdor, holding back malevolent creatures intent on raiding the city. No doubt a beneficial agreement, but the ents had not been heard from in many centuries. That is, until a few years ago, when the previous guild master decided to investigate, meeting Chwannethir, and soon forgetting him. The guardian ent would undoubtedly have information on Xoco, who had received his powers from the abyss.

Sartana dropped from a high ledge, landing soundlessly atop the mossy ground below. He rose, cape drawing around his form. Meeting none of the forest creatures, save for the occasional mosquito, was making this trip quick. Such an odd shift in my luck. Perhaps-

Something shifted ahead of the demon hunter. He froze, listening. A chitinous cackle sounded over the insect calls around him, and he shifted his feet, coming up alongside a mossy tree. While there was very little moonlight in the woods, such was the denseness of its canopy, a single shard of pale light struck the grassy floor beside Sartana. He watched, with slight tenseness, as a shiny black leg crossed the lightened area, touching the ground lightly. A bulbous body covered in prickly hairs followed, to the rhythm of a hundred teeth chattering against each other.

'Giant spider', the demon hunter mouthed silently, watching the creature pass. His grips loosened on his dao and falchion, sheathed at his side and back. He pondered ambushing the creature, but quickly decided against it. It would be a meaningless encounter. Dipping under an exposed root, he pushed on, now more cautiously. Twice he met walls of silky thread, invisible save for the strands touched by moonlight. By one he found the remnants of a BADI uniform. With a saddened shake of his head, he retrieved the emblem, placing it in his pocket. Agent C-227 went missing several months earlier. Now Sartana knew why.

The night lingered on, while the demon hunter's steps quickened as he grew closer to his goal. Then they stopped. He stood in a small, grassy clearing, touched completely by moonlight. His tower was visible from the small field, but oddly enough, he had never spotted the sanctuary from his windows. No doubt the forest's illusionary magic at work. The man thought, moving to take a step forward—which he promptly halted. Tiny white flowers were spread across the meadow. They glowed in the moonlight, and elongated peddles curved upward to a point; as if imitating his tower.

“I'd best tread lightly.” Sartana whispered, moving along the edge of the flowers. At the far end of the clearing hung the mouth of a blackened cave. Ridges of dirt carved the ground around its entrance. On closer inspection, it was obvious something had made them recently. Sartana unsheathed his dao as that 'something' appeared in the cave's mouth a second later.

Chwannethir, as the demon hunter knew was the creature's name, stood at twenty feet tall; and that was hunched, with his moss and fungus covered back bent like a noodle. He was a walking collection of insects and mushrooms, and slimes, that could have been the byproduct of one or more of the free-loaders clinging to his form. The previous guild master's description of his face had been accurate: a beard of stringy, bulb-tipped plants hung from his swollen, bark nose. His limbs were as thick as tree-trunks and no doubt just as strong.

Sartana stood with his multicolored eyes widened slightly, despite his best effort to remain stoic, and unaffected by the powerful ent before him. The creature leaned forward. Not so close, aberration! He thought, taking a step back. This was when Sartana realized something: the ent was blind.

“Who be you, to enter my grove, grove; my only friend in these lonely times, times...” Its voice was a distant landslide. The demon hunter removed his hat, holding it to his chest with his free hand. “I am Sartana Misirlou, guild master of BADI. It is good to finally meet you, Chwannethir.” He answered politely, despite his rough voice. The creature straightened, suddenly, leaving the mouth of the cave—forcing Sartana to leap aside, springing up with a brandish of his curved blade. It did not approach further; only stood, a spire of decaying wood. It combed its beard with long, branch-like fingers. A number of insects were dislodged in this process.

“Yes... My name, name...” His words seemed forever spoken in a cave, chasing after one another in echoes. “Chwannethir am I called, called... Almost forgotten it, had not I, I..?” He looked down (though blind he was) at the demon hunter. “Why have you come, come..? Came the last master, many moons ago, but left, left... Even after reaching for her to stay, stay..!” Chwannethir shook his head somberly. “Not often do I talk, talk...”

“I seek answers known only to you, Chwannbethir.” The demon hunter called, confidence in his voice once more—now that he was a greater distance from the creature. “You are of the guardians of the underdark, and hell; I require knowledge of a great evil spawned within your realm.”

The ent bent over once more, its vitality exhausted. It sunk back into the shadows of its cave. “Questions, questions...” It echoed. “Answers have I, but a promise first, first...”

“What is it you want?”

“To talk!” Its voice boomed from the cave in a sudden fit. “The last left, left... Never returned! Come will you, you... to speak with me, me! Whenever Isiltelpë is at its fullest in the sky, sky...”

Sartana nodded. Then, reminding himself that the creature was blind: “Very well. Once a month.” The sides of Chwannethir's face stretched with what the demon hunter thought to be smile. “Now, my question-”

“I know what you seek, seek!” The ent interrupted, stepping into the moonlight halfway, so only his face was exposed, to float in the sable curtain of the cave. “Xoco, xoco...”

“Yes.” The man answered, curious about the creature's accurate prediction. “All you know of him.”



Isiltelpë was low in the sky when Sartana reached his tower, tired and satisfied with the information he'd received from Chwannethir. He stripped himself of armaments and plopped into bed. “That went well.” The man commented, hands crossed behind his head. He closed his eyes. Lothlómendil. Watch over Merenwen and I during our matches tomorrow, as well as Ayre and Sraxen, who accompany us. Pausing, he opened his eyes. Sartana wasn't used to praying. “But, if you're strapped for time... Look only to Mere.” He whispered, confidently, closing his eyes once more. Victory was on the horizon.

Moments later, a dreamless sleep overtook him.



Heavy thuds overhead resounded through the carriage interior, bombarding Sartana's thoughts. His multicolored eyes darted upwards, towards the open hatch leading to the roof. Leafy branches waved briskly in the sunlight. Perhaps they were cheering on his lively teammate?

Ayre. The girl was young, but absolutely brimming with potential. Even now she was an accomplished warrior—holding her own against the demon hunter, who personally saw to her BADI combat test—and wielding a tower shield as easily as a man twice her size. Ayre's sword arm was spectacular as well, with Windcutter, her enchanted blade, complimenting her defensive capabilities with an impressive offense. Sartana was glad to have her at his side both in this tournament and back at the guild.

Her warm-up maneuvers continued on the carriage roof. Sartana went through his own—but preferred preparing his mind instead. He meditated on what he'd learned from Chwannethir in their meeting. Xoco's powers, preferences, equipment, and lastly, a topic the man had been especially curious about: the wraith's history. The ent's words rang through his mind:

Always did Xoco walk in shadow. Before myself, before this forest; before Lómëdor or your guild. He is an ancient evil of great power—and greater enemies. He was cursed by a rival deity nearly six hundred years ago to walk this world as a mortal, after which he would return to his rightful place among the shadows. Fate saw that his transition to mortality wiped clean his memories, however, and at the end of his human life, having attained a powerful understanding of the arcane, he forged a deal with the spirits of the abyss to take hold his soul upon his death, transforming him into a wraith. Little did he know, this furthered his fall from deity hood for another five hundred years, after which he returned to the pantheon once more. This was shortly after your encounter. Chwannthir's last comment hovered through the man's mind, and his face grew grim. It was fate, Sartana, that saw you as his enemy, for only you can stop him. After all, only the sun is bright enough to drive away the shadows of the night.

“Fate... Hmph.” Fate was, as far as the man was concerned, a load of crap.

“Shields and sharps abound!”

Sartana snapped from his thoughts, just in time to pull his legs close, as a shield and sword fell from above. A foul mood had swept through the man. He nearly shouted to the naïve girl above, but she soon followed her armaments to the carriage interior, crashing as her foot slid atop her shield. The demon hunter's face lightened. Foolish girl. He sighed, amused. She quickly composed herself.

“Well, the top is free again.” She muttered, no doubt embarrassed. Sartana rose and closed the hatch above her. “Let it stay that way. We're nearly there.” He answered, gruffly, knowing their estimated journey of an hour and a half was just about up. A perk of his guardianship was that, as long as the sun hung in the sky, a mere glance in its direction and he'd know the exact time. Right to the second.

The girl helped herself to a tasty pastry rather heartily. The demon hunter doubted that she'd even chewed the thing. He turned to a window, wondering how Merenwen was fairing with her match, which had been scheduled to start earlier in the day. Ayre spoke up again, but her words were absently to herself, and Sartana made no response. Tree trunks broke to wavy fields of grass as they crossed into the plains of Salquedor, and a moment later, the carriage came to a halt. Ayre rose, offering one last comment.

"Sartana, if at such a time you need me, I'll be listening for any requests, and my tower shield will be more than happy to act as a wall." She offered, watching him with her strikingly blue eyes. The man winked at her. “Rarely must I hide behind walls, Ayre.”

Sunlight met the darkly-dressed man as he climbed from the carriage, ducking to nearly half his height, given his stature and the added inches of his hat. Three things struck him immediately. First, the unmistakable aura of Xoco, the guardian of shadows. A single finger in his left hand twitched, as if attempting to break free of Sartana's hold, and make its way towards the undead fiend. You'll have your chance. He whispered.

Next was a burning sense of utmost loathing and arrogance. This was no doubt Jupiter. While Xoco's presence was sensed in the man's holy hand, Jupiter's aura seemed a constant assault on his mind; it was a candle to the back of his head, a slight disruption of thought, and an utterly unpleasant condition to be under. He glanced at Ayre. Were others effected as he was?

Lastly, came a shadow, stretching over the rolling hills of the grasslands. It even slapped itself over the House of BlackFlame's carriage—which Sartana thought to be quite appropriate. Its owner, a decrepit tower, brought unpleasant memories to his mind, however, and he watched it as he would an incoming mosquito: with utmost annoyance, wishing only to get rid of the thing, and move on to more important matters. Unfortunately, this match was a rather prominent matter that needed dealing with. At its conclusion, however, he was determined to send a score of agents here to demolish the thing.

The demon hunter's eyes returned to his two opponents. They were whispering. While he couldn't pick up their words, his keen-eared partner could. "Assumptions are the work of fools, friends." She cooed, insulting the powerful entities. Sartana was surprised by her boldness. “Do not play their game.” He scolded, close to her ear. “Our rebuttals will come from the edges of our blades, and nothing more.”

Not a moment later, Xoco's inhuman voice called over the grass separating the drastically different teams. “Sartana… it has been a long time. I trust that you’ve had a good hunt?” He followed his humor with a chuckle. The demon hunter nearly called back with his own wit, noting Xoco's adeptness for hiding in cowardice, but halted himself, remembering his own words to Ayre not a moment sooner. He settled with clenching his jaw, silently cursing the monster.

Wurzag, the half-orc judging this match, went over the rules of engagement, but not before complimenting Sartana's hat, which the man received with a quirked eyebrow. This was to be a game of 'king of the hill', in which the team to hold the top of the tower for a minute first would win. If both reached the top, they'd have to duke it out—something the demon hunter thought inevitable. This brought a slight grin to his face. How he wished to show his newfound power to DarkFlame.

Sartana's hearing wasn't anything special, but his sight was; his eyes caught subtle movement in Xoco's mouth, and in the distance, carried by the wind, distinctively divine words sailed. These words were required to be spoken at a minimum volume, to ensure potential. Ayre caught on as well. Knowing the spell uncounterable by conventional means, Sartana braced himself for the match's start—as well as the impending attack. The half-orc bellowed and it began.

His companion acted perfectly. Arcane energy washed over the demon hunter; his body instantly felt lighter, quicker, as the spell Blur went into effect. He dao was already in hand, just as Xoco unleashed his spell on Ayre. It was a vicious move, which, as Sartana had learned from Chwannethir, was an ability learned under the tutelage of Raku called 'Voodoo', capable of transferring all damage to its caster over to the body of another. The guardian of shadows stabbed his limbs with reckless abandon—confident in his spell's strength. Ayre countered by summoning the innate powers of her cape, transforming into an indestructible statue. Not one attack scathed her transformed form.

Preparing to bring about his own first attack, the demon hunter became aware of another spell slithering through the wraith's lips. Given the creature's spell-casting prowess, it was not but a split second later that the spell's energies expelled from Xoco's form. Sacrificing a first attack for his own defense, Sartana raised his left hand, making five deft finger movements. With each, a white light appeared on the tip of a finger; until after five positions, a mass of light had formed on his hands, which he expelled with a swing of his arm. A 'hiss' severed the whispers of the breeze cutting through the grasslands. Xoco's spell was dispelled into nothingness.

"To the sky, guildmaster!" The man's partner landed on his back, weighing no more than a child, as far as he was concerned, and he kicked off the ground, nearly disappearing, such was his speed. Sartana had always carried a knack for sprinting in his long, lean limbs. Coupled with Ayre's spell, there would be no way Xoco or Jupiter could keep up. He passed the former, raising his hand to the sky as he did.

“Shut 'em, Ayre!” He called, confident she would know what he meant. He called upon his innate guardian abilities. Sunlight bent around the man's hand, glowing and swirling in a maelstrom of light energies. Suddenly, it took form: between his fingertips lay a ball composed of solid sun energy. He tossed it in the air, where it promptly exploded. A blinding flash ripped through the field, even carrying a bit of force, as he felt it push against the back of his form not touched by Ayre.

He was already at the doorway. Honestly, it hadn't been such a great distance to start with—only a few hundred meters—but Twilight needed every advantage it could find, and this lead was one. He grabbed the open door as he passed (slowing slightly), and slammed it shut on his opponents. Already using his free hand to rummage through his pocket, it reappeared with an Incendiary Light Bomb and two explosive potions, which, in sprinting up the rickety wooden stairs of the tower, and reaching the top, he tossed down, aimed a little ways up the stairs. They would likely hit bottom shortly before Team DarkFlame opened the door. What Sartana was really intent on doing was destroying the stairs, but injuring his opponents in the process would be a nice perk.

He skidded to a stop at the tower's roof, letting Ayre off and turning to the opening from which they'd emerged. “Time to put that shield of yours to the test!” He called with a smirk, heaving his dao onto his other am, to steady its aim. Anyone coming up would be met with short bursts of chaotic energy. Sartana would not put the full power of his weapon into effect when his partner stood in front of him, in his line of fire.

Abandoning waistcoat and suit coat, Vaudeux titivated a pair of loose-fitting slacks and cloth shirt for the impending fight. They were meant for mobility and were not, by any means, the garments of durability, but they would serve their purpose. Royal green draped his legs, welcoming his full range of motion, while his top, providing the same benefits, would be disposable. He couldn’t have his best attire ruined or stained, especially and potentially, with a demon hunter’s blood. His long, tanned digits traced the collar of his off-white knit, smoothing down the last piece of his lightweight battle-wear. Of course he dressed in front of the mirror, he would need the extra face-time for confidence. He already knew that he would be a spectacle, yes, the mirror could tell him that much. What he searched for was not the flawless tanned perfection, nor the scorching emerald irises, but instead his gaze quivered into his own mellowed façade, perhaps to find any disquiet that might have crept its way into his expression.

The man in the mirror stared back with unfocused eyes, eyes that were full of thought and not unease. They were focused upon Round Two of the infamous partners tournament, and the competitors still left ahead. Sartana Miserlou and his feisty partner, the elf Ayre. And he watched his transparent twin with a hard glare, as if daring him to exhale an absent breath in anxiety. His mind flashed a cruel scene, he was back at the hall feasting loathingly over the newly arrived demon hunter while holding his ruined cloak. “Ah! My friend, you appear to have something on your face.” The hunter had said. The mere thought boiled his blood. Such arrogance the fool had possessed then, how he would have liked to wipe that smirk off of the man’s unshaven face. The scene faded into Vaudeux’s fury, he was back in the holding tent, back facing the small waist-length wall mirror. Then his eyes befell upon what was left of the scar, in vein appearance, streaming its way up the left side of his neck. He scowled at the man staring back at him, why couldn’t he hide such blemishes? Such an unfortunate accident upon a pretty face. Sartana’s grave mistake would be avenged, and he would mock Jupiter no more. Today Vaudeux would fight, not only for the coveted place in the final round, but for the respect that he so greatly deserved.

Teeming with a fresh wave of hatred, his thoughts deserted the memoirs of the recent Hall encounter in exchange for the devilish tactics of his blade. It was strapped to his waist, so familiar and true to his form it was like an extra appendage. By now its pummel had adopted a smooth texture that accepted his grip in every facet of his liking. Through vigorous training, he had accompanied his clutches to the Wolfs Bane in every way he was capable. And, by now, he could anticipate its workings like a master swordsman, it was his short sword, and he wouldn’t dream of going into this fight with any other blade. His hand lightly touched its hilt, unconsciously yearning for the familiar feel of its cool metal. Once the man in the mirror gave him a smirk of confidence, the Ainur could sense the battle nearing. So, proceeding to cast his usual handsome veneer - no matter what the wear - he strode confidently out from the competitor’s holding area and onto the emptied Lómëdor streets.

There Xoco stood, anticipating the arrival of their stagecoach that would transport them to the next arena. As Vaudeux approached, they exchanged silent glances. Such was their relationship where they didn’t need words to voice their sinister thoughts. Though Jupiter was grateful, (he often found the need for conversation trivial at best) he silently wondered what was passing through the mind of the Wraith. Was he, too, thinking of their competitors? Briefly he had heard that Xoco and Sartana had a history, one of which that was exceptionally heated. Though the scenes of the past had not been elaborated on, he had fleetingly experienced a wave of particular loathing - that was not his own - when they had been told that they were to face the demon hunter. Even so, perhaps Xoco’s mind was still trickling back to their last, accomplished round. Jupiter recalled the hatred his partner had felt for the bizarre circumstances they were given, and strange tasks they had to complete. They had spent a greater part of their downtime, after that match, verbally abusing the tournament holder and his eclectic choice of battle ground. Nevertheless, up the dirt road came their transport, pulled by two over-sized mules and a bumbling hick with a lop-sided mesh hat. Great, Vaudeux frowned as the wagon approached, dust visibly encasing the innards of the animal coach. It was nothing like their first ride, sheltered in a carriage of luxury and led by a pair of gallant steeds.

Begrudgingly at best, the fire guardian approached their transport, careful not to stain his garb. Upon initially finding a seat inside, Jupiter found himself next to a sheath of straw and a dark crusty substance with a most undesirable of odors. Nevertheless he gritted his teeth in annoyance, hoping beyond hope that he wouldn’t have to endure this nuisance in length. Even if their previous trip had been a drawn out expedition, compared to their current farmer’s wagon it was; oh so short. And if the first ride was a physical bombardment to his buttocks, it didn’t come anywhere near the jostle that the farm cart possessed. By the time they had arrived in the grasslands, Jupiter’s irritation had been piqued. He threw himself from his spot in the cart to land on the hard plains, disturbing the already trodden soil into a soft cloud of dust across his boots. Striding through the dirt screen, BlackFlame appeared walking in matching dominant gaits to impressively proclaim their arrival. He would have liked to keep the spirited pace, but at the sight of their fighting grounds - he slowed.

The Ancient Tower?! He thought incredulously, feeling his temperature rise and his stomach sinking simultaneously. What was so interesting about this place that every tournament he entered in, had him fight here? Briefly he recalled how unappealing the tower had been during Nafalen’s tournament, and not much had changed now. It was still the same aged, dilapidated structure that blemished the endless fields of wheat and surrounding nature. Looking up at it in repugnance, Vaudeux took to catching up with his partner after hastily adjusting his cape - that hid the momentary hiccup in his stride - and slowed with a stop at Xoco’s side. They were staring eye-to-eye with their competitors of the house of Twilight. Catching a faint glimpse of the demon hunter and his partner, Jupiter quickly found more interest in the untamed cuticles of his sword-hand, which halted the bile of hatred that would have undoubtedly rose upon the inspection of his Sun Guardian enemy. Even so, he couldn’t help but imagine that red scarf and smug grin as the magistrate cut in with its gargled observations.

He could just barely hear the faint whispers of his ally just feet away, but knew that his fellow Maiar was working feverishly on what would be the first phase of their combined terror. Vaudeux only felt a light breeze, that swept up from the plains and gently rustled his dark locks, and stood straight-faced as if the quiet incantations were non-existent. Next came the gurgling spews, which drew his ears to the misshapen magistrate and his difficultly prattled words. It was like listening to an intelligent hog trying to speak, while being immersed in its trough. In fact, Jupiter had to stop listening in order to discern whether or not the Orc was eating something as he spoke. Then, when the dialect no longer registered, did Vaudeux finally lay eyes upon the being. He flinched - his sight instantly assaulted. Wurzag was not a welcomed vision in any fathom of reality. With its oddly colored skin and lattice-work of scars, the Ainur squinted out of disgust for the image, eager for an opportunity to keep his attention away from eye-sores and begin fighting.

His invitation arrived when Wurzag blundered open the door, pointedly showing the two teams the desired path. The scene burst to life at once. While his partner’s enchantments exploded across the open air, Vaudeux spun around the Wraith - eyeing the door at once. He had to avoid the horror of Xoco’s actions, for it was all apart of their plans. Certainly to see your own teammate gouging out their own appendages was disturbing, so he sprinted away towards the tower - determined to be the first to cross its threshold. The gap was closed soon enough with his speedy footwork, but not before a streak of bright sun cut across his path. He met the disturbance with a look of insult, how dare someone cut him off. As the door started to shut, Vaudeux threw himself at the rickety entry and used his pure bulk to staunch the slamming in mid-swing. Deltoids acting like a cushion, the door bounced away from the frame and to its opposite intended direction. And Vaudeux disappeared within the gap into a cloak of black, just catching the boots of the demon hunter waddling up the stairs. Pupils dilating, the Ainur’s sight adjusted to the drastic change in lighting just as the shallow breath of his partner baited him from behind. Jupiter turned to pass the Maiar a significant expression, then bolted to ascend the stairs first and perhaps give Xoco time to regain composure of any lost mana. The males made quick work of the spiraling staircase. Vaudeux taking each step two at a time, his form bounding up the old boards that whined in age under his long legs. He leapt upwardly with catlike grace and troll-like resonance.

BlackFlame had already sped up the first landing, when the heavens rained down devastation. The fire guardian had just moved to the next ladders when the first bottle blew. It warped the empty floor below, obtaining no victims in the process, except for the creeping darkness, but sending slight vibrations to the still tower. Next came another of the strangely familiar bottles, this time glittering with the passing of its brother as it came into plain sight. Vaudeux barely had time to move before it was exploding into a greater part of the staircase below. The potion then splintered, bursting out shrapnel of flames across the stairwell along with, what must have been, seared wood. Unconsciously, Jupiter shielded his face whilst being thrown against the tower’s interior walls. When his hands were removed then did he see the true wreckage. There, where the steps had once lie, was a scene of mulched wood. He coughed out debris and dust, still shaking the quakes of the blast from his form. Impatiently he waved away the splintery mist, anxious for the sight of his partner beyond the rubble. Finally, when both Maiar could catch the other’s eye, Jupiter went for the disturbed planks and quickly assembled a shaky cross-bridge across the break in the stairs. It became a long singular plank, balancing on another short thick oak to bridge the fissure. Hoping that Xoco was lithe under all that cloaked baggage, he waited until they were both joined once more before again starting up the stairs. This match was imperative to the success of their forgather.

As they sprang upward, Vaudeux anticipated the next landing by first collecting his reserve. How would they know if the other pair would not be awaiting their passage from the shadows on one of the landings? They could very well spring out of the silence and ambush both Ainurs. Somehow, Jupiter was convinced otherwise. Perhaps it was the sudden departure and hastily dropped equip that swayed his conscious; but Sartana was not one to hide in corners to catch someone off guard. No, the man was noble enough to stand his ground and stare down his opponents before attempting to slay them. What a righteous quality, that would also be his downfall. Confident that Xoco was expecting no more from Twilight, the pair rose to the top of the tower with no other disruptions to their pace. But, they did not bound onto the topmost platform, but crept. Surprise was their arrival, serving fear as an hor'doeuvre. Though he couldn’t be sure of it, Jupiter felt completely encased in the darkness of the tower, as if he was being hidden by the shadows themselves - which led him to no surprise, such was the power on his side.

They eyed their readied opponents from the opened door, and were indiscernible in the dark innards of the Ancient Tower. There, invisible beyond all eyes but his own, he clutched the strings of his element in a curled fist; where it built, to his mental commands, a trail of fire. He clutched the traces of heat like he would any matter, and stepped a giant forward stride to pursued the swiftness of his fury, hurling his fiery conflagration in a imperceptible arch through the opened door. Upon his release, he mentally drew a circle around the livening form of the elf, of which the fire could only obey. The ground sprouted stretched orange-red tendrils which sprang, roaring, around in a tight circumference to enclose Ayre and separate the woman further from the protects of her ally. And did Jupiter press himself against the tower, shielding his body from possible impending harm from the clearly visible dao - sparkling in all its crimson might.

"Assumptions are the work of fools, friends,” said the elf, Ayre. He chuckled warmly at the notion, simply impressed that this fragile mortal had the nerve to stand up and speak in such a manner to two of the most powerful beings she would ever run across. Xoco could hardly hold his tongue and leave her with the last remark. His lips parted, allowing his verbal poison to pass between them.

“Your reputation precedes you, elf. Bold and foolishly headstrong. Your blade may be true, and your will strong, but your uncontrollable mouth will be the death of you. Mark my words,” he said. It was true; if Xoco failed to kill her atop the tower which now cast its shadow over the planes, then certainly another would come along after him that could accomplish the task. He pictured her demise, brought on by her own sharp tongue and supposed quick wit. Eventually, if not today, she would throw one too many quips at the wrong person, and have her head separated from her shoulders.

He noted that Sartana disciplined his young partner for her verbal exchange. Sartana could see it too, the same things which Xoco saw. Only the demon hunter chose to try and save her from her most certain fate. He had a very bad habit of trying to change fate, trying to twist destiny according to an idealistic worldview. It was almost pathetic.

The elf Ayre was astoundingly creative in her avoidance of Xoco’s opening blows. No sooner had he spoken the final words of the incantation than she had drawn over herself a golden cloak, one which turned her body immediately to stone. He sighed slightly; that cloak was going to be a problem. He noted silently to himself that the use of magic would be necessary to dispose of her, if physical attacks would be shrugged off so easily by the effects of her enchanted cape. A strange feeling grew in the pit of his stomach; somehow, he just knew that fighting this elf would be a very frustrating process, one which would require the utmost in his skill and all of the powers in his divine being.

Not only did she use her Resplendent cloak to avoid his initial blows, she also cast a speed-enhancing spell upon her partner. Xoco could do little as he watched them zip across the planes in a flurry of motion, leaving behind parted grass and a strong gust of wind in their wake. Xoco cursed that girl in every language he knew. He turned his head to his partner, Vaudeux, as they ran across the planes after Sartana and Ayre.

“Change in plans; I shall take the utmost pleasure in rending that elf limb from limb. Her blood will teach Sartana not to interfere with our path to victory!” His voice had changed from his usual calm, cool demeanor to a terrifying, rage-induced tremor. The sound was the voice of nightmares, the destroyer of dreams, the epitome of spine-chilling horror. His eyes flared red with the hellfire that burned behind them, his face contorted into a scowl of blind hatred. He threw all caution to the wind. Xoco knew that his Voodoo would continue to work for 30 minutes, certainly plenty of time for them to rid the earth of these two meddlesome pests.

Sartana’s fingers twisted in an all-too familiar series of motions as he countered Xoco’s spell, disrupting the proper flow of energy and rendering the magic useless. It did nothing but release a serpent-like hiss into the air, which echoed over the planes for a brief moment. Xoco shook his head; how very unsportsmanlike of him. He would have at least expected something more original out of this demon hunter, who was revered for his intelligence and creativity. Such a distinctly boring and mundane counter failed to impress Xoco in the least; he had at least hoped for a little entertainment to come out of this matchup.

The sky lit up in a brilliant flash of cosmic energy, the power of the sun embodied into a ball of blinding, white-hot energy. Xoco shielded his face from the blast and dug in his heels, waiting for the effects to pass. He felt his skin sear and char as the light energy dug at him, cutting him open like a thousand sharp blades. The burns and painful wounds to his life energy halted him in his tracks, causing him to grimace in pain. His cloak tore and shredded, adding to the multiple rips and tears that already existed in the fabric. It seemed like an eternity that the white-hot energy bore down on him, trying to consume him like a hungry beast…

And then, all at once, it passed. He felt the damage leave his form, as if he had never been touched. The burns healed, the cosmic damage and painful physical wounds departing his body and moving to the target of his Voodoo. Xoco wondered how Sartana would react knowing that everything his did to hurt Xoco would instead be transferred to his partner. Either she was going to remain a statue for the duration of the fight, or he was going to have to come up with something more creative than simply lobbing cataclysmic balls of sun energy at them.

Xoco continued to run forward after weathering the blast, putting out his hand as the doors were closed. His pushed on them with a burst of magical energy, using the powers of his telekinesis to explode them open in a grand show. His actions aided those of his partner, who had thrown himself bodily against the doors. Xoco knew that he was liable to break his shoulder that way, and decided to give him a little arcane assistance to avoid any serious injury. The path of the House of Black Flame was now unimpeded, and they ran full-gate into the damp depths of the tower.

Xoco reveled for a moment in the sweet embrace of his element for just a moment, before he saw two tiny cartridges fall down from above. He caught barely a glimpse of Sartana’s speeding form as he and his partner flew up the stairs with unnatural swiftness. A drip of water landed on his head just before the two bombs hit the ground, sending a bone-shattering shockwave of force throughout the bottom of the tower. One landed on the stairs, blowing apart the damp, rotting wood as if it were dust. Xoco’s eyes flinched and his muscles shot forth. His quick reflexes snatched the second one before it hit the ground, exploding the bomb directly in the palm of his hand. The force sent him flying backwards, his back colliding painfully with the walls of the tower.

Xoco shook his head to clear his vision as the wounds once again left his body, the damage lifted off of his form and carried away to his unfortunate victim. Xoco knew that she was probably still the same impenetrable statue, but, he thought, it was at least worth a try. Perhaps she would be foolish enough to morph out of her stone chrysalis and end up suddenly charred and missing an arm. It was unlikely, but it was possible. He turned his head up to the ceiling, knowing that his voice would carry to the top of the tower where their enemies were waiting.

“Careful, Sartana! You might hurt someone!” he shouted. This bit of sadistic wit was followed by a spine-chilling laugh, one which split the air around him like the sharpest of blades.

It seemed that they were done for now. Xoco smiled. It was his turn to wreak havoc now. His eyes lit up with the sheer joy, a thousand devilish schemes coming to mind. He chose one, following Jupiter up the stairs. He watched as his partner fashioned a makeshift bridge out of the fallen timbers, making the gap in the stairs passable once again. He stepped quickly across the timbers, following his partner in a mad rush to the top. All the while, he called to the farthest reaches of his element, drawing up all of the power that laid within the tower. It was full of shadows, ancient shadows that hadn’t been touched by the light of day in millennia. Tapping into the energies of these strong patches of shadow made him feel alive, gave him focus and strength.

He waited until they were creeping up the stairs, approaching the top. No doubt the other two were waiting on them with swords drawn, ready to cut them to pieces. Xoco watched as Jupiter summoned a ring of fire to separate their adversaries from one another. No doubt one of them had some manner of trickery that could overcome the attack, but that was beside the point. At least it would serve a temporary hindrance. Now that Vaudeux was finished, it was time for Xoco to unleash the power of his element upon the other two. The ground rumbled and shook as his eyes flashed over black, the raw energy exploding forth from him in an astounding display of dark might.

A great column of shadow energy engulfed the tower, swirling up into the sky in a solid vortex of unending blackness. The energy exploded as it hit the clouds, rolling along the sky in a great cloud of blackness. The enormous mushroom cloud could be seen from miles around, no doubt. His attack blotted out the sun, cutting off the demon hunter from a direct connection with his element, while simultaneously creating more shadow for Xoco to bend to his will. The rolling storm clouds of black energy crackled and seared with lightning and thunder, sending bolts of randomly chaotic energy flying this way and that. Xoco smiled as he allowed himself to be absorbed into the cloud.

He couldn’t quite see, but moreso, he could feel the darkness around him. He could sense everything, and it was a much stronger state of awareness than simple vision. He swam in the embrace of his element, swimming, swimming… floating around and positioning himself at the top of the tower.

“The judgment of the Ilúvatar shall be proven this day; my powers are far beyond yours, Sartana. There is no way to clear this cloud of blackness which now encompasses you. You may have the power of a Maia, but you will die like a dog!” he shouted. He knew it was true; his position in the pantheon was higher than Sartana’s. There was no way for the demon hunter to simply over-ride Xoco’s power; his own magical fortitude was no match for the Guardian of Shadows. Happy with his work, Xoco set about using up what remained of his mana stores. He summoned a great beast of black energy, a Shade, which blended perfectly with the column of shadows the swirled all around the tower. It was unseen to those without his abilities, but he could feel the presence, the power that emanated from the beast. He spoke to his servant in a dark tongue, one which was unknown by all but the blackest of hearts.

“Kill the elf. Send her corpse plummeting down to the ground below!” he ordered. The beast acknowledged him, and set about its work, attacking Ayre with a ferocity rarely witnessed by mortal men. Xoco turned his attention back to Sartana. It was time to deal with the pesky demon hunter once and for all. His blade left the snug embrace of its sheath, the cold steel begging to taste the flesh of the Guardian of Sun. Xoco was all too happy to oblige; Sartana’s blood would pool in the runes carved on the blade soon enough.

He swung hard, his strike aimed straight at Sartana’s neck. If successful, the blow would decapitate the demon hunter, and he would never even know what hit him.

Ayre listened to the insane ravings of Xoco her ears twitching in annoyance, knowing he still had the delusion of victory. They would be at the top far before they would be. The knight-sister allowed a smile to grace her lips, yet she had not a moment before Sartana unleashed some of his power. Her eyes shut even as the bright light pierced the area, and she buried her head into the back of his. Then came the pain, the realization that Xoco had managed to find pain in a spell that was only supposed to blind their two pursuers.

"Coward." The word slid from Ayre's lips, with all the love a snake was capable of. She gripped tightly to Sartana even as her skin broke apart. It wasn't painful in comparison to most things she'd experienced, but it was notable in how awkward it was. The pain was switched with a holy rage. She ceased being the young elven maiden on the back of a mighty demon hunter. She was the Knight Sister Ayre Reitara of the Knightly Order Reitara, the slayer of more liches than a normal man had fingers, the girl who had been trained to fight death itself.

"You have nothing to fear from one who cannot take his own wounds, nor from one who shouts about what he shall do." Ayre murmured, piping the wisdom of ages past. Blinding pain exploded in her hand, and yet all she did was squeak. It was a shock, nothing more, nothing less. It did nothing to disrupt the deadly focus she was trying to achieve in her head.

The moment they reached the top, Ayre leapt from Sartana's back. She landed upon unsteady feet, and stumbled before finding her footing. The elven knight drew a vial from her belt, the wondrous concoction known as an elixir. Deft fingers raised it into her mouth even as they trembled from the obscene amounts of pain she was in. She relieved the bottle of every little drop it had of the precious liquid. As she did so, new life invigorated her body, healing her of every last wound she'd taken. Ayre released her shuriken sentinels from her belt and cooed to them in elven. They buzzed a halo above her head even as her fingers tumbled in the exacting movements of the draconic might spell.

"There are none stronger than Her finest." Ayre stated to finish the spell. Then things happened very quickly. She dived out of a fire threatening to encircle her as it rose from no where, feeling yet more burns mar her form. The elf stumbled as she stood again, and went through exercises in her head to ignore the new pain. Then came the rising shadow, and her hand fell upon her ankh necklace even as the sun disappeared. Ayre clutched the object from her childhood close, knowing it would protect her. She'd never been scared before, and yet, there was the slightest bit of unease in her being upon this unnatural disappearance of the sun. She shouted her favorite prayer as she began her charge.

"For the Lady Life!" Came the sound, tearing from her mouth even as she began her assault. She flicked her holy fire oil from her belt and straight into the shade. Poor, poor creature. For all the concealment it had, it still walked a straight line between her and Xoco. So predictable. Its form exploded into flame, and it served as the light necessary for combat. It thrashed, it screamed, but all the while, the holy flame never failed to serve its purpose. Then came a second howl, the howl of adamantium against steel. Windcutter escaped from its sheathe with the coaxing of Ayre's hand, and she could practically feel the anticipation in the holy blade.

Flicker. The slightest bit of light caught her sharp eyes, the flames revealing a long blade hurtling for Sartana's neck. She acted without thought, and with the exacting precision of a life-long fighter. The knight paused in her charge, and brought her shield upon it in a tremendous bash. It struck across the tip of his blade, and with enough force to throw it clean from his hand. Enough force to warp the blade irreperably if he held it, on the other hand.

"He's open, Sartana." Ayre giggled. With the task of protecting Sartana over, she twisted to strike Vaudeux, placing the impressive shield between the guardian of fire and herself. The shield hurtled forwards again after she had properly braced herself. She grinned a crooked grin in the fire light, waiting for that critical opening where she'd end this fight with him. But then a second thought struck her mind even as her shield reached the fullest extent of her arm. The wraith and self-absorbed man were also fighting a clock that favored Sartana and herself.

Two, three steps at a time, the demon hunter's blurred strides pounded against the blackened innards of The Ancient Tower. He was reminded of his match here, during Naf's tourney; running up the stairs in a burst of energy, eager to face his opponent;. to win, for his information had told him he was the better of the two. Greater items, more defined moves, experience—but most of all, a coherent mind uncluttered by arrogance. That was Jupiter's greatest weakness. Yet, despite the advantages, Sartana had lost the match. This time would be different.

The demon hunter was surprised to hear the tower door smack against the inside wall, followed by Jupiter's heavy foot steps, along with Xoco's. They were quicker than he'd thought.

The volatile potions hit, sending a wave of fire and light energy blasting up the tower. The wooden stairs warped, nearly causing Sartana to step off them, only to plummet to the now-fiery pit below—but he caught himself at the last second, twisting his momentum away from the drop. It was then he noticed the warm liquid seeping through his scarf.

“Ayre!” He listened to her squeak in pain, feeling her blood on his back. The girl had been injured through Xoco's cowardly spell, 'Voodoo', that transferred all damage from him to her. At the evil creature's shout, Sartana was already through the doorway and on the tower's roof. Had he heard it, the man may have knocked aside his sense, sprinting down to finish the Wraith then and there. Come, Xoco, and see if Raku's unholy training can stand against my hand; my willpower, and vengeance. The man thought.

He wiped a sleeve across his sweat-covered forehead as Ayre slipped off his back. The resourceful girl produced a potion from her side and drained the thing, just as the demon hunter placed his hand on her shoulder, transferring a spell of magical protection, via Loth's training. The next injury she received would be promptly swapped by sweet, live-giving energies of a healing spell. She followed this by further buffing herself with a draconic might spell. They couldn't have been more prepared.

Now came the wait—and how long it was! No doubt DarkFlame was taking its sweet time, working through the mangled staircase, preparing themselves for a sneak attack. But, there was a problem with their plan. Has a minute passed yet? Sartana thought, recalling what their half-orc judge said earlier. For a team to win, they needed only hold the tower's top for that short time. While the demon hunter would have loved to beat his opponents into submission, winning by the half-orc's rules would be, no doubt, the more humiliating of the scenarios for BlackFlame. The thought touched Sartana's sense of humor, and for a moment, his hardened features lit up with a smile. But it was soon gone.

The enemy was at their doorstep.

Jupiter crept from the shadows, lurking under cover of the doorway, where Sartana could not blast him with his dao of destruction. More cowardice! The man spat, flourishing his blade. Has your parter dampened your abilities, Jupiter? The Fire Guardian was not one to sneak around, attacking from hiding spots—and yet, that's exactly what he did, invoking a ring of fire to spiral around Ayre. Side-stepping into a tumble, the girl sprung to her feet unscathed, thanks to the demon hunter's Reversal of Fortune ability, which he'd placed on her earlier. All had went according to their predictions. That is, until the sun disappeared.

A ring of pure darkness; writhing, coal-colored, and in direct opposition to Sartana's element, defying the Sun as it ripped up towards the sky, when it should have been smitten by the celestial orb. The force of which it jolted upwards caught the man's clothing in a flurry, flaring his cloak and scarf, and lifting the hat right off his head—which he quickly caught, pulling snugly over his hair once more. The sable spiral touched the clouds in an explosion. And then, there was only dark.

Xoco's voice reverberated through the torrent of energy, as if it were the Shadow Guardian itself. Sartana listened defiantly to the being's words, all the while tracing a ring around his head. A glowing halo of sun energy hung about the man's hat as he dropped his hand. Now, at least, they could see. But seeing the inside of the spiral was, perhaps, more unnerving than not being able to. The demon hunter took a step back, gazing up towards its top—then back to his opponent. A scowl twisted his lips.

“It is you who shall perish, Xoco.” He answered, unshaken despite the situation. “To rely on your element so much—it's sickening, and a testament to your cowardice. You fear the sun, and light, as do all shadows.” He tilted his head, then. “But do not fret. Fear is fleeting, and in death, you will find yourself wrapped in your precious element once more.”

Despite his words, the demon hunter could feel his divine strength being sapped from his form; even his newly-created halo flickered slightly, as if even that was too much to manage. None of this troubled Sartana, however. He had chosen to remain mortal when receiving his powers. They were a nice compliment to his abilities, and versatile, but he did not rely on them. Nor would he be as weakened as a regular Guardian completely cut off from their element. No, he was very different from Xoco, and he almost pitied the evil creature. Demigods were like Sartana's element; they rose and fell, and would for all of time. What would happen, then, when it was Xoco's turn to fall; to lose his powers like the others before him..?

What a sad, pathetic thing he would become. Though, the demon hunter mused, it would not be such a drastic change from his current state.

For a moment longer, Sartana wondered where Wurzag was, and if he'd been enveloped by the malevolent energies surrounding them; but, perhaps more so, if he was fine with this blatant, unrestrained show of divine prowess. One regulation of the tournament was that these abilities were to be consciously dampened by the demigod competitors. Xoco, obviously, was not concerned with these rules, blinded as he was by his thirst for the demon hunter's life.

Senses dulled by thought, as was often Sartana's folly, he was nearly overcome by Xoco's conjured minion, who sought a direct path from its master to Ayre—with the man between the two. He side-stepped as it was engulfed by flames. Then, with a kick to the ground, he lunged forward to compliment his partner's attack; his left hand connected with the creature's throat, snapping its head back before blasting the thing from existence entirely. Not was left but a faint shimmer of pulsing ashes.

This had put him in range of the Guardian of Shadows, however. Xoco's blade severed its element to taste the man's blood; it cut with such velocity that Sartana knew, even in blocking, he'd likely be thrown back, perhaps over the tower's edge and to his doom. Ayre was by his side in an instant.

Under the effect of her Draconic Might spell, the girl was a nigh unstoppable force. Her rush flung Sartana's cape forward with a torrent of air, shield blocking The Guardian of Shadow's attack with masterful precision, even flinging it back, hopefully from his blackened hands. Shield combat was her specialty. On one friendly sparring occasion, she'd even put the demon hunter on his back, implementing the same spell and rush combo. Once again he found himself glad to be partnered with such a competent girl.

Combo complete, Ayre stepped back, merrily announcing Xoco was open. The Sun Guardian might have smiled back, had it not of been for the situation. They were still far from victory. That, and in lining up his next attack, he could not be distracted.

The positions of the competitors shot through the demon hunter's mind. It was true that, on more than one occasion, he'd been injured due to thinking too much during a fight. Or even daydreaming. With those disadvantages came his efficiency of thought, however; in dire situations, his mind was unmatched in processing vital information. Wraith was close and reeling; Ayre moved towards Jupiter, who had set to present himself. Concern for his partner brought about his course of action.

Using the last moments of his blur spell, that Ayre had cast on him only a couple minutes before (even if it seemed like an eternity earlier), Sartana stepped forward, into Xoco, as close as he could. All the time his left hand open wide, while his dao, sitting in his right hand, fell atop the back of his shoulders. At once he brought about both the abilities of hand and dao.

Bright white wings, like that of an angel, made of pure willpower and light, broke from the man's fingertips over Xoco's form. The attack was executed with such speed, covering such a wide area, it would be nearly impossible to dodge or magically wisp away from. But the real advantage of this attack was that it could not be transferred, countered, or otherwise negated in any way. It was beyond Raku's 'Voodoo' ability. It was, perhaps, the only attack in all of Arda—save for a God's—with the ability to injure Xoco.

At the same time, chaotic energy ran up the blood-stained blade of Sartana's dao. It gathered at the top for but a moment, before letting loose itself in a solid 'laser' of energy. This traveled over his diminutive partner's head (as she was over a foot shorter than him), blasting Jupiter's position, if only to aid Ayre in her battle against the powerful Fire Guardian.

Sartana was most focused on Xoco, however. The creature deserved not but pain. The demon hunter would see to this personally.

It was a great wave a dark energy to encase them, which was almost graceful in its eclipsing of the light of the tower. All that was visible or cast any illumination was shrouded in the veil of dark magics. He had blinked, but when his eyes again opened it was like they hadn’t at all. Blessed as he was with his night sight, Vaudeux still adjusted in his spot - tarrying against the inside of the tower door as his senses gathered themselves to the new, blackened world. But what he felt first was not the heavy cloak of dark enlarging his retinas, nor the absence of the sun’s warmth as daylight was erased from the sky - but the heightened presence of his partner, Xoco. He witnessed the minute hands, swathing the Wraith up in their power and felt a twinge of admiration. Xoco was truly a powerful force to be reckoned with, and by allowing the Ainur to bath in his element only sharpened this image. Briefly, he mentally put himself in the shoes of their victims and nothing but wonder could touch his thoughts. He knew, if he was placed in their situation, it would a difficult scene to behold- let alone conquer. Finally, the tides of battle were shifting in BlackFlame’s direction, and no amount of empathy could deny him this pleasure.

Jupiter let Wraith make his entrance, knowing full well that it was the black that kept him pinned to the wall. His breathe seemed overbearing to his now-sensitive ears, as he barley heard the heated exchange between both parties over his smooth exhales. Breath, Vaudeux told himself, while his mind threatened to be lost in the darkness surrounding him. You have endured greater horrors than this. He closed his eyes and welcomed the comfort of his lids. There appeared the strings of his vibrant blaze, soothing the frantic state his mind had wandered into with the comforts of a tremendous warmth. There, Jupiter felt a greedy desire that had long tempted him from the start of the tournament. Glory. And so the fires baited him forth, so that he was now plunging out into the blackness of the tower seconds behind his teammate.

The movement of the warriors dazzled him, as they engaged in combat right away amid the shrouding of Xoco‘s power. But he did not just see their frenzied bodies moving, but other magnificent sights to accompany his gaze. When he peered across the tower's top, he was in revelation at what he saw.

When heat graces your fingers, one might respond with alarm in injury or even welcome it to refresh a frozen appendage; but when heat graces your sight, no matter of darkness could conquer it. The surrounding blackened abyss was bruised with all the colors of heat; apple red, sunrise yellow, and even icy blue. Vaudeux perceived every painted hue, as they formed into the shapes of bodies and armor and obstacles and stone - and everything he knew about the tower before was dyed vibrantly before his eyes. All fear was lost as he peered around, seeing every detail in its fiery vivacity.

Across the planks Vaudeux was quick to notice his flames, hungrily consuming the path of Wraith’s creation rather than the flesh of its intended target. He scowled at the weakened beast, but quickly took to snatching away his power - extinguishing the bright flames of orange and red, so that their fierce light would not distract his sensitive vision or give the opposition any more light than they deserved. Selfishly he harbored the flames deep within his core and set forth a dominant stride towards the fighting threesome. At once he took notice to Xoco engaging with Sartana, blade-to-blade, and grew worrisome for his powerful mage partner. Skilled the Shadow guardian might have been, with his array of wintry-deemed weapons, he doubted that the Wraith's skill could match those of Sartana - the very man who could once leave Jupiter himself guessing in a scuffle. So he closely observed the turning pair, while lifting a devious hand to tug at his bootstrap. From out of the garments came a glint of silver, concealed by the copious amounts of shadow that blanketed them so generously. It was his trusty dagger.

It took only seconds before the entanglement of bodies had subsided, and the two heats of Sartana and Xoco were shifting, bright yellow and cold crimson, locked in a match of blades. Vaudeux only had that long to wait for an opening in the fray as he approached, and his mind whirled with the steady tactics of his hand. With his pace he was allotted just enough time to adjust the weapon until its cool steel was positioned familiarly in his palm. Then, the demon hunter let loose a wrath unlike the Fire Ainur had ever seen. Guided by his heat vision he was watchful for the features of his quarry, for the telltale expressions of movement. Hints for hthe half-breed and his accurate aim. But such was the man’s face in quickened concentration, that Jupiter did not hesitate when the light of the attack subsided. Out shot his corded arm, hurling the sharp projectile at the exact anticipated locale of the demon hunter. It’s hilt whizzed from his grip, revolving at full circle several times and building a momentum so that was unsurpassed by any other practiced hand by measure. It would only be a matter of time before blood painted it’s shining blade.

Vaudeux returned to full height after his throw, empty-handed and observant. A pair of multi-colored irises caught his own emerald as Sartana turned to face his doom, but something was awry. Then Jupiter saw it, the cursed blood-stained blade peeling away from Xoco, reading itself in such a manner that it soon faced him in a blur of movement. He saw the heat gather even before the blade could unleash its hell upon him, and he jumped. For a moment he was extended in the air, legs carrying him laterally across the plane, then the half-breed twisted his torso. His arms were then so tightly hugged into his body that he could have been holding himself in an embrace. His head lead his movements as Vaudeux completed a full barrel-roll in mid-air dodging the sheild bash, feeling the friction of the heavy atmosphere against his twisting form - quickly followed by the sharpest of pains. The beam hit him in the lowest part of his raised body, searing a wild slash across his spinning shoulders. So that, when he exited his last revolution, the burning of chaotic lacerations exploded in stinging inflammation across his back. Nevertheless, with his legs uncurling from his twist, he found his footing across the withering planks - as well as his Elven opponent.

When he landed there, in the split second where their eyes could have meet in a warrior’s greeting, there was only Ayre’s shield. His next movements were so fast, it was as if they were instinctual. He rose from his spot with his right knee promptly following. And there it was: the hard steel of toe and boot, lashing out like a viper with the weight of a man behind its quick fangs. Jupiter’s leg traced an inverted crescent through the air, swiftly enabling the pure strength of his sinew and length in leg to breech the wide distance between Elf and Ainur, with a brusque disarming. He watched his own foot sweep away the impending danger or, otherwise, sending waves of painful shocks through his target’s arm. Such was the power of the legs over the arms, a removal of weapons was thrice as effective - and five times as painful. Though, the brisk attack came with consequence. The edge of the shield sent vibrations to his shinbone upon contact, even if the kick had already done its deed. Shoulder-blades smarting and fibula throbbing, Vaudeux recoiled his outstretched leg and lowered it with a retreating quickness, first landing then carrying his momentum backwards with it. He completed a strategic retreat, sliding on the tender balls of his feet, and then gathering his resolve. Stun completed, he took those precious milliseconds of distance into another realm of battle.

His fists, previously poised at his chest, dropped to one side when the energies of his element tickled his pores. All of the wrath that he had stored did build there, within every inflamed cell of his core, until he could feel it tingling in anticipation of release. But he did not stop there, the Guardian of the element coaxed his fires into a dangerous being. There, they festered in that momentary break Vaudeux had created. A pause worthy enough to complete a gathering of great might and power - of the white-hot burning, that was itching to be released. Then the air cracked with the release of his spell. Hands shooting forth with the weight of his attack, the handsome Ainur plagued the field with a great belch of fire. The pitch lit up bright oranges, blinding yellows, and deadly crimson of shock. And out of the surging inferno came a fireball so large, Jupiter himself was fearful of its possible destruction. It appeared in the form of a miniature sun, hurtling straight towards Ayre with a impassible width and swiftness in appearance.

He felt a sting of pain as the muscles in his back stretched, adding to the extra reach of his terrible bombardment of fire. Then he straightened up, beads of sweat greeted his brow in response along with the stale taste of fatigue afflicting his tongue. The hellish concoction had certainly thrived off a majority of his mana. But he confidently spun away from the eminent devastation, impervious to the licks of flame that may have spawned upon the outcome of the blast, and trotted to the side of Xoco to aid his partner against the final obstacle of their match. He strode forward, his sword hand trickling down to his sheath as the thumb of his opposing hand pushed - flicked the weapon up from the hilt. It sprang up from it’s scabbard and Vaudeux gladly welcomed its grip into his palm, where he spun it expertly round towards the demon hunter while it cried a metallic cry - in all it’s mithril valor - to again taste the blood of its long awaited rival.

And, despite the pain, Jupiter’s arm acted upon its own carried by the calls of the Wolf’s Bane - and his own boiling fervor.

The blade cut through the air with a sublime beauty; such a finely crafted instrument of war, its intricately forged design melding perfectly with the epitome of destructive power. Xoco couldn’t see the blade make its way towards its target, but rather, he felt as the darkness around him parted to allow it passage. It created a ripple along the shadows, and they protested their sudden displacement in a tiny shockwave of energy as Ice carved a path towards Sartana’s neck.

As the blade sliced, Xoco’s mind flashed to that night, where he and Sartana had first crossed paths. Suddenly, he found himself standing in the midst of a clearing in the dense forest, his blade cutting towards Sartana’s old falchion. He no longer held his demonic longsword, but a simple weapon of mere steel with naught but a twist to adorn the crossguard. Their blades locked in a jarring flurry of sparks, a test of strength. The rain pelted down, plastering his long, white hairs to his forehead. Sartana was on the losing edge of that battle… he would have been dead there, so long ago, if not for the meddling of Merenwen, who had yet to discover her powers. She had allowed Sartana to recover and place the battle into a stalemate. But, he thought, he had more than made her pay for the trouble she had caused. She had learned the hard way not to interfere with his business, and now Sartana would learn the same lesson.

His mind was jolted back to the present as a painful shock was sent into his locked elbows and tensed shoulders. Ayre had managed not only to avoid the monster which he had sent after her, but she had also covered the distance between herself and him, darting through the ring of flames to get there. She was one of the most damnable nuisances he had ever run across. How was she so fast, so resourceful, and so unpredictably hard to lay a hit upon? Her unending supply of tricks and magical elixers had left her without a scratch despite all of Black Flame’s combined efforts to put her out of action. It was time to end her streak of good fortune.

Xoco allowed the force of her block to turn him about on heel, completing a full 360-degree spin before taking a few quick half-steps back to disengage himself from whatever Sartana might produce. The maneuver allowed him to cancel most of the energy from the block, which was obviously fueled by a strength-enhancing spell. The sheer force of it was impossible for such a dainty maiden to conjure without arcane assistance. He noticed that in the course of the action Ice had been ripped from his grasp, and now laid discarded but a few feet away. He was open to attack, and he didn’t like it one bit.

He waited for a few seconds, spacing his feet and lowering his shoulders into a defensive stance. He reached out into the space of his element, conjuring to mind the images of everything that was taking place. Sartana withdrew his lethal Falchion, a Blade of Destruction forged by the now-fallen Ita. The energy of the blade radiated an aura so powerful that the shadows congregated around it, drawn to the immense power of the weapon. Further away was Ayre, who now danced and swung her weapons with deadly precision, still under the effects of her strength-enhancer. Jupiter produced a dagger from a hidden strap on his boot, and flung the tiny shard of metal at Sartana…

A flash of energy, bright enough to split his concentration. Alarm sounded throughout the shadows as they fled from the source. It was Sartana’s left hand, which he had managed to imbue with incredible demon-killing powers. The hand lit up in his sensory awareness, highlighted by a halo of white-hot energy. It converged around the hand like a glove, the lethal mana surrounding and encasing the hand in a brilliant display. Xoco’s muscles tensed as the hand prepared its charge, but it was too late. He side-stepped, but not enough. The magical energy discharged from Sartana’s hand in a crackling bolt, flying towards Xoco with unavoidable speed and precision. It caught him on the right shoulder, twisting his body and landing him face-first on the hard stones.

The shock of the bolt cascaded through his body, sending a spree of pins-and-needles along his every extremity. It was like being prodded with a thousand hot skewers, the adverse holy energy ripping through his form with merciless force. Xoco weathered the attack, waiting until the pain subsided before contemplating his next move. He was safe, at least for now, as Sartana probably assumed he was incapacitated. He allowed himself to submerge into the cloud of his element, leaving his physical form and floating as but a shadow among shadows.

Jupiter was injured. “Probably Sartana’s doing,” thought Xoco. The chaotic whiplash across his partner’s back lit up in his senses like cold flashes across the Fire Maia’s otherwise red-hot form. He was turned away from Sartana; mana began to collect inside of the Fire Guardian. Xoco smiled, as it appeared the powerful attack would be sent directly towards the pesky elf maiden. He turned his attention back to Sartana. No doubt, half of the paladin’s uninjured state was due to aid from her partner. His potent healing abilities needed to be removed from the situation if Jupiter’s attack was to have any effect. Xoco mentally flipped through his arsenal of magic, wondering which spell to use. Perhaps he would put the demon hunter to sleep, or blind him, or still his foolish tongue for a while? He could always drain his life force, rendering him weak and vulnerable. But alas, none of these options would provide Xoco with the simple pleasure of watching his adversary writhe in pain upon the ground.

Coming to the near end of his list, he stumbled across the perfect spell. A devilish grin adorned his face. The potent evil magic would certainly place Sartana on the ground, unable to aid his friend. With a wave of his hand and the utterance of just a few words, Xoco cast the Mental Anguish spell. The stabbing pains would begin instantly upon casting, allowing no time for Sartana to dispel it like he had done to Xoco’s earlier attacks. He laughed as the spell released itself from his grasp, taking hold of its victim. Only Sartana’s partner would have a chance to save him now, and she was rather pre-occupied.

However, counting her as down-and-out had cost them earlier in the match. They were spending far too much time worrying about killing the two of them when all they really had to do was expel one from the top of the tower. The object wasn’t to fight to the death, it was simply to capture the peak of the ancient structure and hold it for one minute. Then again, watching blood of the pair intermingle amongst the cracks in the stones would be a great pleasure. Xoco decided that he would not simply assume that Jupiter’s attack had struck home. He would ensure that Ayre was flung to her death; they would make no mistakes this time. There would be no room for escape, and no trick or potion could save her now.

Just to make sure, Xoco called upon one of his more useful latent abilities, that of telekinesis. He reached out with his hand, summoning the power and then clenching the hand into a fist, as if crushing something between his fingers. He focused the telekinesis on the pouch which held Ayre’s stock of magical chemicals. He felt the glass break under his grasp as one bottle after another succumbed to the pressure. While he couldn’t see the bottles, or know that she couldn’t drink the potions out of the bottom of her case, he assumed that the intermingling of the chemicals would effectively ruin their usefulness. He laughed, happy with his work. “Let’s see how well you fight without those.”

“Now,” he thought, “To finish her once and for all.” Xoco called upon his element. He felt his arms and hands tingle with the energy as it gathered unto him. The shadows heeded their master’s call with the utmost swiftness, carrying themselves from the cloud around him and converging into a ball of energy in his hand. At first, it was but a pebble-sized flicker of energy; but it grew swiftly, engulfing his hands with its girth as more and more shadow concentrated itself into the ball. His Pentagram glowed with energy, adding his godly strength to the potent attack. It crackled, sending discharges of energy flying in every direction .

After pausing for a moment, Xoco unleashed the streak of energy towards Ayre. It was a bolt of almost solid shadow energy, with enough force behind it to throw a horse one hundred yards. He combined it with an ability he had learned in his training under Raku. Mixed with the shadow energy was an unholy black fire, which when it burned something, returned the damage to him as rejuvenating healing. It was a sadistically beautiful thing, the pain of another bringing him solace and health. The bolt ripped across the top of the tower, tearing up the top layer of stones as it went, carving an unavoidable path of destruction straight towards Ayre. There was no way to dodge the attack, no way to jump around it or over it. Any moment now, the bolt would toss her over the edge, and the flames would scald her flesh into an unrecognizable, burnt corpse.

Combined with Jupiter’s attack, she seemed to have but a precious few seconds of life remaining before her spirit was sent tumbling into the abyss.

Confident that his attack had worked, he now turned to the only enemy he had left to deal with. He used his telekinetic powers once more, lifting his sword from the stones and calling it into his hand. It zipped through the air and fell seamlessly into his grasp, slipping into its rightful place between his fingers. The digits gladly pressed against the familiar steel, begging to be drenched with the blood of his enemies. Xoco walked slowly, confidently, with exaggerated steps that boomed as he walked.

“I told you,” he said, “Never to cross paths with me again, until you were ready to kill me. You have failed, Sartana. Just like last time; just like always. Now share in the fate of all those who meddle in my affairs!” He raised Ice to the sky, the blade descending with lethal force upon the demon hunter. He didn’t even bother to see if his first attack had landed; he simply continued cutting and hacking at the energy signature of the demon hunter. He was out for blood, the taste of victory was on his tongue. Without remorse, or pity, he cut to and fro, aiming for the head, the chest, the shoulderblades, the gut, anywhere where he could potentially land a killing blow. Combined with Jupiter’s bladework, Sartana would soon be nothing but a memory on the winds of time, buried beneath the conquering footprint of Xoco and Vaudeux.

Still stood in the tower doorway when the battle commenced, Wurzag watched in confusion as the wraith proceeded to stab himself repeatedly. The events that followed had been equally baffling and his sense of confusion had only been broken when the House of Twilight had streaked past so fast it had left him spinning. He had turned two full circles and fallen on his backside. Dizzied by the experience he had hardly noticed when the two members of Blackflame hurried past in pursuit. "Froat!" He moaned to the familiar who had hastened to his side, "I fink dat elf an da fella wiv de 'at might get to da top first, go an count 'ow long dey is up der, I dunt feel so gud." The lupine had scampered to obey.

Then the bottom floor had exploded and blown the half-orc several yards into the surrounding fields. Soot covered and dazed, Wurzag rolled on to his back and coughed. He had never imagined that being a magistrate would be so hazardous. Then he stopped and thought long and hard about his journey back from the jungle. He really should have learned by now.

He could not clearly see the events that transpired at the top of the tower, but from the shouts, cries and occasional clash of weaponry it was very enthusiastic. He wondered if Twilight had managed to hold the summit for a minute and hoped that Froat could count. When he had set the rules it had all sounded very excellent. It wasn't until he had yelled for the fight to begin that it had occurred to him that he had no idea how long a minute was. It probably wasn't important. Besides, he doubted very much that the participants were keeping count, they would be busy with the important business of staying alive. Once the battle was in full swing he'd had every intention of ordering Froat to set the building on fire. The structure was unlikely to fall from such an act, but it would make footing on the top extremely treacherous as the support beams burned through and smoke gathered.

Then the world had exploded into a mushroom cloud of darkness.

For several long and terrifying moments the half-orc flailed about, convinced that he had been struck blind by a stray spell. Then he turned around and realised that it was only the tower that had been consumed by darkness. Wurzag paced away from the structure and regarded it from a distance, but the pillar of billowing blackness completely encompassed the ancient tower. The half-orc frowned; clearly the Guardian of Shadows was flexing his etheric muscles and reality was paying the price for his exertions. Then something small, but very important occurred to him.

"Froat!" The green-skin yelled into the roiling gloom, "Yooz aright in der? Speak to me Froat?!" Then he realised that the lupine had never spoken a word in the entirety of its existence. "Aright, dat wer stoopid, wave or sumfink!" It was very, very dark, dark enough to obscure the form of a scarlet lupine, waving or not.

"Bugger," Wurzag cursed and began to think about ways to retrieve the familair without interfering with the swirling maelstrom of doom. Just as he was about to accept that there was no other way but to go after the hapless creature a bestial snout emerged from where he assumed the tower door was, closely followed by a familiar body and limbs.

"Froat ye daft git," the half-orc chided his companion, "ye woz only supposed to go an count da time and come back!" The beast shrugged indifferently. "Ah well," Wurzag continued, "did da Twilight keep da tower fer a minute?" The lupine shook its head and shrugged apologetically. The occasional roar of battle, screech of metal and crump of spell-fire still sounded from high above and Wurzag suspected that the battle was fated to continue for quite some time. He didn't particularly relish the idea of lingering near the epic battle in case one of the other Guardians decided to get enthusiastic and annihilate the fabric of time and space.

"Y'know," Wurzag rumbled, "I reckon I 'ave seen enough 'ere, wot you say we slope off and grab a sly pint afore checkin' in wiv da dark man? Dey are gonna be at it fer ages yet. Dey won't know we is gone."

The lupine, as always, said nothing, so the pair tip-toed quietly away.