Zyamasiel

World-Killer

Name: Lysander Telos Korvein
Alias: The Archetype, The Soul Sage, Shadowlord.
Apparent Age: 27
Actual Age: Unknown
Gender: Male
Race: Humanoid, Soul Hivan
Classification: Mercenary
Height: 6’3”
Weight: 210lbs
Hair Color: Varies
Eye Color: Varies

Character Tier: High
Character Affiliation: The Mystic Dominion
Character-type: Critical

Appearance


Visual representation

A man of rather modest size and weight, Lysander is often underestimated based on how he looks. Unassuming because of his average build, his true strength is far belied by the nature of his body. Not the muscle-bound brute most people seem to become, Lysander is a lithe creature. Long, flowing hair falls down his back - though it is often well-kept in a ponytail to avoid disastrous sight-coverage. Born of the Soul Hive, he has inherited several genetic features that - while not individually specific to his kind - most creatures do not have.

The pointed ears of the elves and the sharply down-turned nose are just two of these identifying traits. They’re also the most visibly apparent. Dark eyes seem to shift colors constantly, depending on his mood and the powers flowing through him at the time.

His normal attire consists of a pair of loose pantaloons and a dark colored, loose-fitting shirt without sleeves - revealing the definition of the muscles in his arms. Covering his shirt is usually a piece of metal armor, which comes to a rest just beneath his waist, ending at a bluntly curved edge. A dark, long-sleeved coat sets over both of these. Over the arms of the coat is a pair of very durable, nearly indestructible vambraces covered in the ancient Runes of the Soul Hive.

Personality

Lysander is a true warrior, who has spent the millions of years of his existence in training against the strongest combatants the Multiverse has ever had to offer. Rarely defeated, he has become obsessed with finding that one, true fight that would truly pull from within him the true force of his own power. Yet to find this, he has long since given up hope at finding such a warrior. That’s the burning passion that drives him to continue existing, when he should have faded from the world of the living so long ago.

At the same time, he is a generous, kind person who has no qualms about admitting it. He has been known to protect people who couldn’t protect themselves, even when there was nothing for him to gain from the act. Many of the wounds that have been inflicted upon him came from those moments of selflessness, when he was trying to protect others and found himself impaled upon a sword from behind.
A man who hates cowardice, and any sign of cowardly behavior, he takes anything remotely seen as cowardly as a sign of weakness and will immediately rip the person to shreds. At the same time, he understands tactics and battle strategy very, very well. Tactical retreats for regrouping, therefore, are not seen as cowardly behaviors.

Abilities, Traits, Capabilities, Powers

The Soul Hive: The Soul Hive exists in a dimension parallel to our own, yet outside of space and time itself. Inside the Hive, there exists only the Hive. A member of the Soul Hive is someone who was born within the confines of its walls, and who - because of their upbringing within it - have gained indomitable control over its nature. With only four such people to exist, Lysander is the last remaining alive - the other three fell to his own blade. As such, the full power of the Hivan world exists solely within his body. Travel to and from The Soul Hive is impossible without the blood of a Hivan as a catalyst.

Inside the Soul Hive exists an axis of power relatively untapped, at least in a general sense. Lysander, himself, has tapped into the energy source and used it to fuel his own innate capabilities. The magic-like energy of the Hive can be used for a plethora of things, though Lysander uses it mostly only to fuel his innate capabilities.

Sage Modes: Those who were born within the Soul Hive have access to powers far greater than those simply invited within its walls. Specifically, the Sage-forms. Hivan Sages are extremely powerful beings capable of manipulating and utilizing magic of nearly any kind, depending on the alignment their Sage-form seems to take. Lysander, unlike most Hivans, has access to both sides of the coin - so to speak.

Transcending Light; Sage form I: The Transcending Light is a powerful force of good, capable of eradicating evil-doers with the majesty of its beauty alone. What defines someone as evil is completely dependent upon the wielder, and with this form of Sage-hood comes the infinite knowledge of all good magic. This means, of course, that the wielder is capable of utilizing various forms of good magic. To achieve this level one must train for centuries and understand better than most the correlation between man and soul.


Descending Darkness; Sage form II: As a user of the Descending Darkness the user understands the torment of the soul and its correlation with the pain of the physical body. The wielder is capable of delivering a nearly impenetrable darkness upon their enemies, and understands and utilizes the darkest of magic almost naturally. The amount of training and pain the user must endure for this to be effective is beyond the capability of most; human and Hivan alike.

Godhand; Sage form III: A Godhand is a Hivan who, after centuries of life, has understand the correlation of all things in the Multiverse, and can see the very convergence of life and pain at every turn. Godhands, when utilizing their full potential, are nearly indomitable warriors whose very existence hinges on the bloodlust running through their veins. While Sage form I and II make their specific sets of magic available while the user is within that singular form, a Godhand can utilize both its predecessors traits simultaneously, while achieving significant boosts to their own physical capabilities.

Additionally, Godhands empower their other traits beyond a natural level - a point beyond even their normal peak. For Lysander, this means that he transcends all bounds of mortality and becomes a creature nearly unstoppable in every regard. Furthermore, a Godhand is capable of seeing - and understanding - the energies being utilized by those around him and, in most cases, can mimic them with perfection. This allows for quick learning of new forms, though the wielder often chooses to forget that which he learns.

Shadow Lord: Once the wielder of the legendary sword Gekimetsu, Lysander has infused within himself the power of the Shadow Lord, allowing him to manipulate the very shadows around him. Once a power only useable through physical contact with the sword itself, Lysander has destroyed the soul contained within the sword and taken its power for himself.

Through this he is capable of manipulating the shadows in various ways. He can utilize them for quick traveling through the realm of Jigoku, as well as harming a person he’s fighting simply by causing damage to the shadows they emit. A thousand things can be done with these shadows, and he has used them for such a length of time that complete mastery is a thing of the past - he has become the master of Shadows and his power over them is indomitable.

Jigoku: Jigoku, in Lysander’s canon, is the Shadow Hell. It is the place from which shadows materialize, and where they converge into one single entity. The Shadow Hell is, because of this natural order, a place where only the most powerful of shadow manipulators can enter and exit safely. Lysander utilizes its living, tormenting nature to the effect of a personal hell dimension. Those he deems unworthy of a warrior’s death are entombed here, tormented for eternity.

The price one must pay to escape Jigoku without the aide of a powerful shadow manipulator, and in the case of Lysander the savior would have to have considerable might, is to leave their physical body behind and exist merely as a soul within the physical world; with no body to call its own. Most would rather suffer the physical torment of Jigoku, than to exist without a form capable of interacting with the true world.

Cosmic Magic: Lysander spent several centuries studying the lore behind cosmic magic, and unearthing its secrets. As such, he is capable of weaving complex spells that utilize the very fabric of the cosmos themselves as a power source; providing him with a nearly limitless source of energy for powerful magical creations that - on a normal basis - could affect a grand scale with the smallest of effects. The full force of this school of magic has yet to be tested, though Lysander has often sought the opportunity to put it to the test.

The Twelve Souls of Vengeance

Lysander, over a great length of time, assembled together the twelve strongest members of the Korvein family, and using his own dark magic wiped them from the face of existence. One by one they fell to his blade, and in doing so he entrapped their souls within his own body. Through this, he gained immense power and additional capabilities that were unlocked dependent upon the soul stolen. Lysander, himself, barely understands the full extent of the powers attained from the Twelve Souls, but he knows his own might hinges entirely upon them - and so he keeps them locked tightly within the very core of his being - their burning souls intertwining and interweaving with his own until it is impossible to see where one begins and the other ends.

Specific traits gained from the souls are, relatively, unknown. Though a healing factor along with advanced regeneration and reactive adaptation have been noted to exist within him since the melding of the souls, other powers may or may not exist hidden deep within the core of his being. Perhaps someone, someday, will push him to his limits and find out exactly what he may or may not be capable of because of these spiritual threads woven together.

Magiweaves: A form of magic utilizing woven threads of energy visible only to another user of the power, the wielder creates effects of magical origin based entirely on the combination of weaves they use. These function much like the True Power does for Rand al’Thor - who gave Lysander the idea to create this form of magic after a chance meeting in Tel’aran’rhiod - but differ in fundamental ways. Whereas Saidin and Saidar utilize only five basic elements within their weaves (Fire, Water, Earth, Air, and Spirit) Lysander has broken it down further to include such elemental forces as light, gravitational forces, and darkness.

Through this, the actual effects of the power have become nearly limitless in their application upon celestial bodies and denizens of the Multiverse who are unfortunate enough to make him pull this level of power out of himself.

Weapons and Equipment

Shadow Queen Armor


Lysander in his Shadow Queen Armor.

A suit of armor developed and created by the magister Vincent Fiorelli, The Shadow Queen Set is a powerful asset to any lucky enough to have been granted one. Lysander, however, has made a few key modifications. While Vincent’s original set could be worn by anyone, Lysander’s has been personally encoded to his genetic string; making it useless to anyone else who might pick it up. In fact, the encoding is so strong that - should the suit recognize and unauthorized DNA sequence, it will constrict until it crushes the trespasser into a bloody, gory ball.

The suit has several key components, they are:

Skinsuit of the Shadow Queen: While this looks like nothing more than an average, polished opal its true nature is revealed when the wearer of the suit embeds the stone in their skin. While most, not all but most, seem to prefer embedding the stone in their spine - one of the only two places it can be embedded and work effectively - Lysander chooses to embed his in the center of his chest.

Despite the metallic, rigid way the suit fits on Lysander when it builds itself from the polished gem and forms itself into whatever shape and composition the wearer wants, it is crafted from a material the creator; Vincent Fiorelli, crafted on his own. Called Fiorellite, the composite material is extremely durable and utilizes magic Lysander didn’t really care to pay attention to or read about to be tremendously durable.

Energy used against the suit is absorbed and dissipated as harmless nothingness at an extreme rate, while physical weapons are usually destroyed on contact.

Spines of the Shadow Queen: Utilizing its vast stores of energy, the Suit forms for itself weapons dependent upon the wearer’s preferences. In Lysander’s case, this usually means a larger-than-average buster sword much like the one he trapped Gekimetsu’s soul in, as it was his main weapon for more than sixteen centuries and one of his personal favorites. However, the possibilities of weapons available to the wielder seem to be - from the extensive testing Lysander has put this capability through - limitless.

Stealth Capabilites: The main use of the suit, aside from being pretty damn effective armor, is stealth. The suit hides any energy signature the user might have from being seen or felt by enemies. As such, when wearing the suit the user is hidden from the metaphysical eyes of would-be combatants and attackers.

Energy Absorption: The Shadow Queen Set contains the potential for endless magic, which allows it to absorb energy of nearly any kind and repurpose it for various methods. In most cases, the energy is used to extend the capabilities of the suits inherent defenses or the attacking Spines. In Lysander’s case, however, the suit’s capacity for Endless Magic is instead used to fuel his own innate traits beyond their normal limitations - as well as keeping his physical body fully functional long past its natural usefulness would be exhausted.

Destroyed Energy and Cloning Systems: The opal uses the energy of stopped assaults or broken attempts at magic to fuel itself, which creates a seemingly endless cycle of power. However, when the opal takes on too much power it splits off and forms a perfect clone of the wielder - albeit a slight bit weaker than the original. The number of clones is untested, and their proper name is “Soul Jars”. The created “Soul Jars” are flesh and blood creatures, and think nearly the same as the original copy. They are not NPCs, and instead are simply exact copies of the user themselves.

History

WIP

New Beginnings Tournament.

So this is a little (ok completely) off topic from what you guys are talking about, but Guru's post just reminded me that I don't have a mentor. I'm supposed to have one, right? And if yes, is anyone still available?

@Mike73

I'll teach the boy!

World-Killer

The Dominion Reigns –

Throughout the Multiverse exist a near infinite amount of cultures, each with their own subcultures and ideologies governing them. Some believe in the power and wonders of technology, they build upon themselves – and those who follow them – a society of pure, unadulterated advancement of their mechanical arts. Androids who fight their wars for them, machines that do every simple, mundane task you could ask of them. They worshipped the machines that govern their lives, and follow the word of living A.I.’s with the same rapt attention that brainwashed victims follow their masters. They do as they’re told, without question and without fail.

Lysander wasn’t one of those. No, he sought not to follow the way into technological advancement and instead focused on honing his own, internal, power. He’d done so for centuries, putting all his time and effort into focusing his strength, into refining his abilities. They weren’t natural. In fact, they were about as unnatural as one could get. Built inside of him by generations upon generations of mental anguish, physical pain, and psychological torment beyond measure. For a while, it’d driven him insane. He’d sought only to find himself from one fight to the next. One nation, one world. One universe. He’d traveled them all, found their best, and destroyed them like children confronted by an overly-abusive stepfather.

For millions of years he took what he wanted, did what he wanted. Without remorse or concern for anyone, or anything, involved. He sought only to utilize those arcane, supernatural abilities stolen from others – or gifted by Grandfather – to do whatever he wanted; often in ways that left broken, bloodied bodies behind him. In his wake, there came nothing but death and destruction, a thousand innocent worlds burned to ash all on the premise that he was bored. That boredom was never-ending, and damned awe-inspiring. In recent years, though, that changed. Once siphoning The Hellion of Val’gara he became whole again. Maybe it was the repairs made within his damaged mind by The Mist, or maybe he simply was confronted with someone so much more insane than he, and it snapped him back to reality.

Whatever the cause, the end effect was all the same. Still, that didn’t stop him from enjoying the fun he once found. Still he enjoyed destruction and mass murder. Not because he was insane, but simply because the sounds of broken-bodies slithering in their own blood, trying to escape to some semblance of safety when none existed was enjoyable. It pleased him to hear the curdling screams and the barely audible death-rattles as they came forth from the dying lips of whatever denizens of whatever world he happened to be around. And that’s where the story truly began. Though the story told was not a beginning, but an ending. And ending to a life well lived. But not his own, never his own.

Duryk City, Solaris II. Sientius System –

The city stretched out for most of the planet, a whopping eighty-percent of it covered in this sprawling metropolis. It was the center of the planet, the only place one could find anything they wanted, and so it was fitting that it rested upon the central planet of the system. It housed a billion citizens itself, and millions came and went throughout the day, which ran on a thirty-six-hour cycle. Without it, the system around would be nothing more than a backwater dump. It brought in people, it brought in business. It called out among the stars and flocking toward it came the most respected (and sometimes not so respected) people from light-years around. They came for barter, they came for pleasure.

And today, its call brought in him.

And with him they no longer came for pleasure or barter, they didn’t come to conduct business – shady or otherwise. No. They thought they did, they still thought their day would be filled with sight-seeing or business meetings. Some few thought they’d become billionaires this day, and even more thought they’d enjoy a nice, respectable picnic with their families. No. Not today.

Today they came to die

Just because he chose not to arm himself with technology, just because he didn’t worship it like God. Didn’t mean he didn’t use it. It didn’t mean he didn’t know how to utilize the weaponry of it. The applications were, after-all, too good to ignore. No. He chose to make himself into a weapon, but he chose to know how to use other weapons, as well.

Far above them, in orbit just outside of their scanner range, rested a massive ship. Its sheer size had it double any Dreadnaught class, and its firepower was just as impressive. But, the most impressive feature, was who was on it. It should have held thousands upon thousands of life-forms piloting it, controlling it. It should have had vital signs that would take days and weeks to sift through and determine who was who. Instead, on the massive ship, only one life-sign could be found. And it was literally on the ship. Not inside of it. On it. He stood on the massive bow of the ship, his arms crossed and his sword-without-a-blade slung over his back, held in place by a string of souls composed of men and women he’d killed. Some of them were even children.

More would be added soon.

His long, raven hair didn’t stir nor move in the vacuum of space. He showed no signs of the adverse effect of not having oxygen. In fact, he showed nothing at all. He simply was. His body sat there, watching. He expected opposition, but still none came. The problem with prolonged peace was that no one was ever ready for it to end, yet it would ALWAYS end. No matter what. Today, peace ended not with a single, solitary gunshot – but with a blast so powerful as to shake the very existence of the world.

Already, on the planet below, things were in motion. No one seemed to notice, or those who did kept quiet out of fear of being mistaken for insane. But, beneath their feet, from the buildings all around them, wherever light existed, shadows moved strangely. They no longer followed their hosts, but simply released their grip and flew straight toward the sky. They flew toward a single point, all converging in the darkness of space and flowing to a central location. Once they reached close enough, Lysander lifted his right hand and pulled them toward him with sheer mental might. They flew through his hand, into his body. They empowered him, they sated his thirst and his hunger. They sated his desire. They were his to control, his to command. He held them within him, converting them into a darkened energy source. Over and over they came, each leaving shadow being replaced by a new. For a moment he did this, he continued to do this.

Then, as abruptly as it began, it stopped. The shadows ceased their odd behavior, and they went about their mundane task of following their host. Lysander walked back across the top of his ship, and slipped into the shadow cast on an upturned piece of metal. In that same instance, he stepped out of the shadow of the console on the bridge – turning back to face it. A few, quick strokes of keys activated the onboard A.I., Anna. Named for the daughter he so brutally slaughtered a thousand years ago.

“Father, may I be of service?” The robotic female voice asked, a display showing a tiny, red-haired girl pulled up to rest on the top of the console.

“Arm the Exponential Thermostellar Bombs, prepare them for deployment”

A chime indicated his order was taken, and the display disappeared. For several moments he sat, waiting. Then, about a minute later, the computer display came back. The little girl’s face had a bright, cheerful smile. “Bombs armed, Father. Shall I deploy?” It only took a nod, and the bombs rocketed toward the planet. They sat in its atmosphere, which was similar, in many ways, to Earth’s own. The ship, though, was already turning after launch. The thrusters engaged.

“Detonate”

The planet incinerated in seconds. The explosion throughout the atmosphere sat it on fire, and the resulting chemical reactions rode on the winds as each molecule of oxygen and nitrogen, as each existing chemical compound capable of combustion – combusted. The chain reaction caused the planet to fall in on itself, and then explode back outward. An entire planet turned into a weapon when propelled with such force. How many surrounding worlds would fall to the debris field preparing to bombard them, he didn’t bother to calculate (though he could have, had he chosen). Instead, he punched in the code for warp speed, and hit the ignition switch. The ship’s powerful engines spooled up, roaring to life and vibrating the entire ship. Yet, he didn’t move. He couldn’t move. The ship simply refused to go anywhere. There was only one reason that could have happened.

“Daughter, report.”

“One life sign detected, Father. Query shows that this one might be a match for you, a challenge at the least.”

Who didn’t love a good fight when they could be bombarded with destructive debris at any moment? Of course, the only debris that could pass through the shields were too small to actually harm the ship itself. That didn’t mean that it couldn’t make for a damned lot of fun.

“Alright, Daughter. Light the beacon, let’s see if we can get them to come find us.”

The beacon stretched far beyond just one universe, and one system. It reached out to every universe, every single point in time. It called for the one who could challenge him, and only the one it sought out could take that ride that would bring them to his current location, hopefully they could breathe in space though – the beacon couldn’t deposit them inside the ship, its own defenses allowed no one to enter that wasn’t permitted. And only he was permitted.

Stepping through the shadows once again, he transported himself back to the top of his gargantuan world-killer, and sat down. Legs crossed, arms behind his head and his body leaning back on one of the massive rail-guns that ran along the viewing deck, which was metal. This section would be the location the beacon brought his adversary, and he waited in the area, which measured roughly a hundred feet long and forty-feet wide. He waited, and somehow…miraculously managed to light a cigarette. In space.

World-Killer

Mild Powers fight between [@Melon] and I.

The Colosseum Re-Opens

His hands clenched and his eyes never left the other’s. You could see everything you needed to see in a fight in the eyes of your opponent – besides he had insanely good peripheral vision. No great fighter stayed that way without it, after all. At first, he just stood there, sizing up the apparent fear at the appearance of a ghost. Especially one so known and renowned as Julius fucking Ceasar himself. Well, everyone who wasn’t used to this sort of thing would be afraid. He did have a fair advantage in that regard, having travelled as the slave of a God for so long, being put into fights he had no business being in – and seeing things no mortal man should have to see – he wasn’t put out when ghosts appeared.

But, apparently, not everyone was as well-traveled as himself. Which wasn’t surprising, he didn’t even honestly know what year he was in – but he could tell from the uniforms and people around that it wasn’t exactly during a time where time-travel or dimensional awareness was a thing. He couldn’t help but wonder where he was, or more accurately when he was – but his inquisition stopped the moment the fight began. See, you can’t really throw something without telegraphing it. The shoulder tensing, the arm moving, it all belied only two possibilities. A shield-punch, which with the distance he couldn’t even hope to reach him with his arms. Or, and the most likely, a throw. The angle of his arm also belied a likely target, and he immediately began moving. He swung his arm around, letting the length of chain gather force.

The chain, heavy and durable, slammed into the side of the shield when it was about a foot from his legs, pushing its trajectory off to the right – letting it eat and bite down into the sand. He made no counter-move. Once the shield bit into the ground, he stood there with his eyes still focused on the other. His cold, dead eyes. There was clearly no soul behind them, no life. Whatever the God did to him, it was an atrocious act.

The Colosseum Re-Opens

By the time the ghost of Julius Ceaser took its place at the top of the forum, he was already on his feet and ready to fight. The other gladiator, who had literally no idea what was going on, was struck with awe at the sight of such an iconic leader returning as a ghostly apparition, and taking a place at the side of the current emperor at that! His poor little heart, which could barely handle the strain of fighting, simply refused to go on beating and shut down right on the spot. He clutched his chest, screamed in pain, and fell on the ground. Without the miracles of modern science, there was nothing to be done and he lay dying in excruciating agony. His own spear and sword falling to his side.

Of course, Frank took note of their location should he need them but for now he had his chain and shackles and those – now that they were broken and he had full-range of motion – were more than enough for him to work with. He took a few steps forward, standing just outside of spear-tip range of his opponent, and resumed his combat stance. His eyes locked on the others, and his body tense and ready to move at a moment’s notice and with little in the way of actual thought. You didn’t earn the title “Beatdown King” without always being ready to knock a motherfucker out.

"Le'see what thay's teachin' ye nowadeys!" Red vs Camo, Fergus and Johnathan

He looked back at the gloves a second time, before letting his eyes land on the back of the other guy walking away. He was brash and insulting, and he doubted he could have gained much fame with that attitude. Though he knew worse people during his time in the military, and after that as part of clandestine services. They earned the right to act that way though. Many of them saved his life more than once, the others had his back more than they would their own blood family. They were his brothers. This guy was just some wannabe tough guy from a gym. He’d probably never seen any real combat, never been in a full-on life and death situation. He doubted the man even knew the proper way to clear a structure, much less hold his own in armed combat where your life was the prize.

The man was already proving most of what he suspected, by demanding they fight in a ring and with protective equipment. Johnathan wasn’t about to give him his way on that one. Today many mistakes got rectified. Today, the man would fight a real fight. A fight for his life, a fight that had only one ending. One of them, broken and battered, laying on the ground and their heart no longer pumping any blood through the veins.

“Thirty minutes is twenty-nine more minutes than I need to beat you though, fella.”

He said to the retreating back, his own feet still standing firmly planted on the ground – his arms still resting at his sides. “And I’m not putting on your silly gloves and coming into your padded, air-conditioned ring. You want me to leave, you turn your pussy ass right around, you come back and you swing. Otherwise, you can keep walking away like the little bitch you were raised to be, I’m sure your daddy is real proud of his son: The Bitch. Probably your ring name too, eh?”

His laughter echoed in the near-empty alleyway.

The Colosseum Re-Opens

When you’re the plaything of a God, to be done with as the almighty eye sees fit – you don’t have much choice in your life anymore. That’s how it worked out that, from nowhere, a white-hot line of light split the air about six feet from the ground. It rotated clock-wise, and in that moment the whole thing seemed to swirl and swivel until it opened into a four-foot-wide doorway directly opposite the blue guy with the spear and the sword. On the other side was a man in chains, his wrists bound together with a chain run to his shackled ankles. A heavy, metal collar snapped closed around his neck and locks holding them all in place. His head angled down, short hair dirty and unkempt with ripped up blue jeans being the only protective clothing shrouding him. The collar’s chain led behind him, to a four-armed monstrosity with a face of lightning and a voice of thunder.

“You will fight him.”

It wasn’t a question or a concern. It was a declarative. An argument to the contrary didn’t exist. The man in chains simply stood there, unresponsive and downcast. The other planted his foot at the small of his back, and shoved him through the doorway – releasing the collar chain at the same time.

“You will fight him, and you will win – or you’ll wish he killed you, Frank.”

The force of the push swung him through the impossible door, and he fell sprawled out on his face in the sand. For a moment he simply lay there, almost as if a dog scolded and beaten into pure submission. Then, as the doorway began to close, his life was given back to him. For now, Azaroth would allow him to face another in glorious combat. For now, Azaroth allowed his life to be his own. He could sense that the other was merely a human, without supernatural powers of any kind – so he too allowed Azaroth to take his power from him, to put them on an even playing field. Most days, his might was enough to break the chains that bound him. Today, though, he was as normal as any other human walking the highway.

So, it was a good thing that with a wave of his hand as the doorway snapped fully closed, that the chains loosened themselves and fell to the ground, the shackles remaining almost like weapons or guards on his wrist and ankles. The chain that linked from the neck collar, though, he picked up. Wrapping it twice around his knuckles, and still holding two and a half feet of excess for a whip-like weapon, he lifted his hands. Left hand extended in front of his right, feet shoulder-width apart and his body turned ever so slightly. He was commanded to fight. To kill. And that’s what he was going to do.

New Beginnings Tournament.

“No help at all then, eh? That’s a shame. Liaison really should hire more competent workers, you don’t even know your way around your workplace. What kind of waitress are you?”

Sighing, he turned and walk back out of the room – trying to figure out the way back. He walked for what seemed like an eternity, hours wasted and time spent taking curves and corners. The complex model he built in his head of The Lobby showed him everything he needed to know, eventually he managed to find his way back to the viewing room; where he immediately went to find a seat next to the most pompous looking asshole in the area. He lifted his hand, and when the waitress came over he asked for a bottle of beer, which was delivered quite promptly.

“At least the waitresses here know what they’re do…oh…she might not have been a waitress. She could have been entertainment for the actual combatants!”

That sounded righter than her being a waitress, and it made for a good explanation for how she didn’t know her way around the join. She wasn’t a waitress…she was a prostitute.

“I wonder if they provide one of those at all these events…” he asked aloud, looking around and drinking his beer, quite pleased with himself.

New Beginnings Tournament.

He never came to these things, not usually anyway. In fact, this would be the first time a tournament took place that he wasn’t in…in years. Probably more of them than he could count, not excluding backwater affairs where nobody even really knew civilized combat. Still, word through the grapevine said this tournament had some up-and-coming stars, and he was always looking to recruit. So, he figured with nothing better to do for the time being he should come check it out. At least, that was the logic six days ago when he decided to show up. Now of course there seemed to be way too many posh people in the lobby, and he was far from their normal ilk. They kept eyeing him askance, what with his combat gear and gigantic sword on his back. Standing in the corner, arms covered by the rough material of his black coat and crossed over his lithe chest, he watched them with the same contempt. At any moment, he could wipe them out, but they posed him no threat – and for now his job was to watch, not assault.

Unfortunately.

His gray eyes continued on past them to look at the guy presumably hosting this thing, Liaison. The man looked familiar, like maybe he saw him somewhere before. Though, he wasn’t exactly sure if he knew the man or not – and for now it was of no consequence. He looked over the schedule, attempting to see if he could pick out a name that might be a big winner. His keen hearing picked up words from the guys sitting at the front, discussing the odds they saw for each fighter. Bets were going back and forth, and Lysander perked up at that. Gambling, drinking, and whoremongering was generally his preferred past time. So, with no alcohol being offered to him as yet (and with him deciding to do this right, he needed to stay sober), he walked over to the richest-looking guy he could find. Pulling out a large bag, he dropped it on the table with a solid thuuunk. The top spilled open and a few gold coins slipped out of it and onto the white table.

“Give me twenty-million credits on Xaih to win it all.”

With that, Lysander turned and walked toward the doors that lead to the hallways outside the viewing room, deciding to go off in search of the cafeteria. Of course, a fucking map would have been nice. Nowhere did he see one, and he supposed he should have asked for directions. Now, though, lost in the hallways so hopelessly that he couldn’t even remember which direction his last turn took him in, he simply continued to wander. Maybe someone would come along eventually and find him, or he’d eventually find what he was looking for, or neither. Who knew? He continued like this for a few more minutes, before he found what seemed to be a room with some chairs and the words on the wall reading “Fighters Only”.

“That’s oddly non-specific. Which fighters? I’m a fighter, but does it mean tournament fighters? Well…damn, I don’t know. Maybe one of them can help me find my way back, though!”

Stepping up to the door, it simply refused to move. It seemed automatic, but for some reason it didn’t want to open. Sighing, he touched his finger to the seam – and sent the shadows from beneath and around the door through into it, where they overpowered the locking mechanism and pushed it open – all the while convincing the latch that the door remained closed. With that done, he took a step into the room and looked around. There was only one person here, and he wasn’t sure but she looked oddly familiar too. From the description he received from his spies about this thing, it was definitely the one calling herself Xaih. He knew a Xaih once, and this girl looked a lot like her – but it’d been a long time since he’d last seen her. He presumed she was laying somewhere dead and gone by now.

“Um yes…my name’s Lysander, and I represent The Mystic Dominion…but I seem to have gotten myself lost. Could you maybe tell me how to get back to the main viewing room?