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As she walked away from the sign-up stall, Iris's mind went over what she had been told. She knew where she had to be, what she has to bring and what she had to do. She needed to be at the eastern ruins with her token and weapon and she need to be ready to fight for her place in the tournament. She was confident, but cautious. She couldn't shake the nervous anticipation that came with the upcoming event.

Iris walked past the woman in armour who had signed up before her. The woman wielded a blade that was almost as tall as either the woman or Iris was. The weapon, though it appeared unwieldy, was certainly intimidating. The woman was speaking to a naga, who appeared to be missing an arm. The two parted as Iris walked by.

"Maybe they're here for the tournament too?" Iris mumbled to herself as she walked.

The tournament would be a major attraction for the city, it had been the reason why Iris and the other merchants in the caravans had come here instead of continuing through the other cities and villages on their planned route. A tournament meant there would be competitors, and it also meant that there would be spectators. Most of the merchants had come here for the spectators. A few of them came to be competitors, Iris included. She wasn't sure if any of them had signed up yet or if they had changed their mind.

Iris decided that she would ask them when she returned to where the merchants had set up. She would ask them if they had gotten much business yet. But first she would have to get back to the market. She was mostly sure that she was following the way she had taken after asking the guard, but in reverse.

It took a little while before Iris found herself in the market once more. She could see the familiar faces of the other merchants from the caravan. A few were busy talking to customers and some were talking to each other. One noticed Iris approaching, waved and then the others they were talking to waved too. She quickly walked over to her friends.

"Hey Iris, did you enter the tournament?" was the question one of them asked immediately after Iris had joined them.

"Yes I did" she said.

The next evening...

Artemisius observed as over one-hundred competitors arrived at the ruins. they were soon directed to a nearby cavern where their tokens were inspected. This year, every race, including some who were Severed, had joined. The king smiled as he himself entered the same cavern. It wasn't grand, but it would do. The large cavern had large tables brought in and set with cloth and utensils, and roughly a third of the cavern was taken up for a makeshift kitchen. Between it and the tables were seven serving tables with plates. At each table was laid out a different type of food for each race- the elven table featured fruits and salads, the ztaari table provided roasted insects and a few herbs, so on and so forth. Further back was another cavern where bedding had been setup. They were nothing more than cots with a blanket on top, but it was all that could fit through the passage reasonably.

The king stood on a platform on the opposite side of the kitchen and called for silence from the crowd. "Welcome all, to the three-hundredth anniversary of the annual Ketto tournament!" A small roar came up from the crowd. Once they quieted down, Artemisius resumed. "Not all of you may know this, but the Ketto tournament was started originally with the intent of bringing the races closer together through sweat, iron and sportsmanship. Three hundred years. Three hundred years of mutual trust and co-operation between all of the races. The Ketto tournament is a testament to our bond with each other, our united goal to wipe out the Monsters and bring peace to this land. So enjoy yourselves! This is a time of celebration, a time of comradery, and a time to prove yourselves to everyone else! Help yourselves to as much food as you wish tonight, and tomorrow, we fight!"

Another cheerful roar came over the crowd as they began to take food from the serving tables. Though the races generally stuck to their own tables, there were a few wondering what food the other races enjoyed. The cavern was soon filled with laughter and conversation. The king was pleased over how everything worked out, even if it wasn't perfect. He soon left for the city, leaving some guards to watch over the festivities, just in case. Artemisius rode back to the castle with Daniel- the man he put in charge of the tournament. He told the king that the brackets had been finalized. "Good." Artemisius replied. "Bring them back at first light, and make sure everything is ready for the first round by midday. We shall begin then."

((Edited previous post to fit timeskip.))

Qrin sat at a table of Ztaari. He was alert, and he observed those around him, but he was quiet. The desert had not done much to hone his skills of conversation over the decades of isolation.

Qrin had spent the night in the strange shack which he had discovered. Most of the other patrons had come and gone by the hour, but Qrin had sat for many hours, not once disturbed. He had sat, and though he had tried to enjoy the strange calm which he had found there, his brain had worked as it always did, and soon he had come to the realization that he could not substitute a new false reality, no matter how pleasant, for the one reality which did matter, the one which was not a figment of his mind. He had forced himself to live for many years because it was important that he eventually find the truth. If he could learn which reality existed past the signals of his neurons, he could at last have an effect on the world. He could do something by which he would be remembered. He could learn, perhaps, why he lived at all. The universe was full of questions, and to retreat from it - that would only lead to a meaningless death, the end of a meaningless life.

So, as dawn had broken, Qrin had left the shack. He had known at that time that he would need to begin searching for the ruins at which this tournament was to be held. His search had lasted half the day, and when he had at last found the ruins, he had slept in shade until evening, when he had been roused by another competitor, and brought to stand with the other Ztaari who would fight for Judith Baraches.

Then, all had happened, and soon Qrin had been here, seated at this table, observing those all around him. He remembered that he would fight them soon, and he deigned to identify which might be his most ferocious opponents.

A plate slammed into the table in front of him.

"Old bug, you don't win if you don't eat," a Ztaari said, dropping both his own plate, and a second one intended for Qrin, onto the table. Qrin looked at the vegetables and burned insects, and after a moment he plucked up a large grasshopper and he gnashed it apart with his mandibles. The Ztaari who had brought him his food had not yet started to eat, and watched as if awaiting some sort of response. Qrin looked to the Ztaari after a moment.

Seemingly perturbed, the Ztaari turned and dug into his own meal. Qrin remembered now not to over-indulge himself, as he was not used to eating copious amounts of food, and would surely be disadvantaged if he did. The other Ztaari, though, appeared to have no problem with his serving of toasted bugs.

Qrin raised another crunchy grasshopper to his mandibles, which tore into it with the ferocity only a creature of the harsh deserts could attain.

Tressel slithered through the chaos of the hall, thinking back over her conversations. Morgen had hardly believed it when she said she had met an actual Slayer (albeit a new one). But it had only occurred to her a couple hours later that she could have asked Nisha about the Monster that destroyed her home. Maybe she could have found out what it actually was. But no point in worrying about it now. Perhaps she would see the newly-made Slayer here sometime. First she would have to make her way through the crowds, though. She dodged around a couple more groups, careful not to let her tail get trampled, and made her way to the Naga table.

The Naga table! There were actually a number of other Naga standing by it, tails curled up under and around in piles of scales. There they were, others like her, who she’d been searching for! Eager to introduce herself, Tressel slithered forward. “Hi!”

About half the table turned to look, some with smiles on their faces, a couple without. Almost all of their eyes were drawn to the stump by her side, but it seemed to be mostly curiosity. She gulped, then repeated herself. “Hey! I’m Tressel, and you have no idea how long it’s been since I’ve seen another one of our kind.”

One of the girls grinned. “Hey, Tressel! Nice to meet you. Join us, come on!” The others took this as their que to turn back to the table and continue eating, while Tressel moved forward to find a spot. For the first time in a while, she wasn’t sure what to do with her tail. The others seemed to be keeping themselves separate, but Tressel longed to simply lie out with a tangle of family and friends again. She compromised, curling into a coil by herself, but leaving the tip of her tail free to brush against the others.

The table was stocked with massive piles of food, that Tressel was grateful for. As a Naga, she could actually go a couple of days without feeling hungry, but then when she did eat, she would eat a lot. Normally, she kept to the same eating schedule as Morgen, three smaller meals a day, but she’d forgone that for the trip, to keep things simple.

As she grabbed some breads and chicken, Tressel let her gaze travel around the table. Many of the other Naga had swords or axes at their sides, generally on the heavier side of the spectrum. Only the woman who had greeted her seemed to use a lighter variety, a long-bladed rapier strapped to her side. A fair number of the other Naga were wearing armor as well, ranging from tough, studded leather to full plate. Down at the end of the table was a single Naga man, who had himself raised a little taller on his tail than anyone else, wearing plate armor and with a massive axe at his side. On his breastplate, Tressel could just make out the now-familiar insignia of a Slayer.

Tressel didn’t normally have a hard time striking up a conversation, but now that she was here among her same species, her words seemed to be getting stuck in her throat. Everyone else was either talking amongst themselves or eating copious amounts of food, and they were fully occupied in doing so.

So for a while, as she ate, she ate in silence, simply listening to the conversations around her. The entire hall was echoing with the clamor of people enjoying themselves, and she was sure the rousing speech by the king had something to do with it. But while everyone seemed to have a feeling of comradery, Tressel couldn’t help but feel a little bit alone, curled up with herself among the coils of the other Naga.

Perhaps it hadn’t really been that important to look for people of her own kind as it was to simply find a couple friends, no matter what they might be.

With a small sigh, Tressel finished off her last bun and shoved off to go look for a familiar face, slithering among the bustling crowds.

Iris had arrived at the ruins and she was greeted with the sight of a crowd. There must have been at least a hundred people, if not more, here. She knew why they had all come, it was for the exact same reason she had come here. They were going to participate in the tournament. She had mentally prepared herself for what was coming, and yet she could still feel the nervous, excited energy that she had been feeling all day.

She found herself being directed into a cavern, and inside there was some sort of dining hall. Each of the serving tables was set with food, enough food to feed what was essentially a small army that was within the cavern. Iris eyed the food hungrily, it looked delicious. But before she could eat, there was a speech that was being delivered by the king himself. Iris's cheers were lost in the roar that filled the cavern.

As Iris filled her plate with an assortment of various T'Kal dishes, many of which she hadn't eaten for years. Her plate included a hearty portion of traditionally prepared fish that was popular in her home town. Iris's mind was filled with the memories that the dishes brought back, interrupted only by surprise when she saw a dish that she hadn't seen since she was a little girl and by her reminding herself to not forget the strategies for the tournament that she had come up with.

Iris approached a table with her plate, which was piled with what was probably a little too much food. The table was line with other T'Kal, who spoke and laughed and told stories. Iris found herself laughing pretty soon after she sat down. She looked around at the people around her, both at her own table and the tables around her. She caught glimpses of the iconic insignia of the Slayers.

Iris had managed to strike up a conversation with two people who were sitting opposite her, T'Kal man and a T'Kal woman named Alder and Lily. Alder was a farmer who moved to Opes a number of years ago and Lily was an apprentice blacksmith. They discussed the tournament and then the food, their home towns and then they talked about their jobs. Meanwhile the people at the other end of the table loudly told stories and jokes.

Although the fighting would begin tomorrow, for now Iris could laugh and eat with the people she would soon be competing against.

After his lunch, Chris had decided to spend the day perusing the markets for equipment. Of course, he didn't actually buy anything - he was a tinge fussy at the best of times. Nonetheless, he'd gotten so absorbed by shopping and the other menial tasks of the day that he'd almost forgotten the meal. Traditional nonsense - he really couldn't be bothered with it all, but in the end he decided he had to go, for exactly the reason that it was traditional nonsense. That made it important. But not important enough that he'd actually arrive on time. He appeared in the cavern far too late, weary. The guards at the entrance didn't pay him much notice and simply nodded him in when he flashed the coin. The king's speech was over, the tables were packed, and the good food was running dry.

Last again, he thought.

The tables were separated by race. The humans were at the end, inevitably at the largest table. It seemed as though there was no space, but the humans were sitting casually - Chris was sure they could move up a little. He asked them politely and they began to shuffle away from him to make room. He went to sit at the end, and hesitated for a moment as a gleam caught his eye. Opposite his space sat a woman - a Slayer. She devoured the table's food indiscriminately. No doubt she was part to blame for the stunning lack of Opes' Jaculus haddock (renowned by many a t'kal for being a sorry excuse for authentic cuisine), among other things. At least the others Chris could identify as having comparably piled plates were quite literally and evidently starving. He decided not to dwell on his grievances with the Slayers for too long, as a space had been made for him. He sat.

He spent a while in silence. He occasionally gave the woman opposite him a cursory glance, sure she was too busy being a pig to notice. Her armour was brand new and her insignia was distinct. He thought on what he would do if he was faced with a Slayer in the tournament, but that was all. He never spoke to her as he ate. See, most people thought that these people, people with titles and ranks and such, were really interesting. Chris really didn't think so. He'd spoken to such people before, given them the benefit of the doubt. But he learned quickly that when a person has such a defining characteristic they tend to lose the rest. They stop being defined by anything of substance. They stop offering anything of substance. You can change the course of the discussion however much you like, but it always ends with that one remarkable thing that they want you to notice. If you don't eventually bring up their shining armour, their Mage Guild insignia, etcetera, be sure that they will. Subtly, of course - can't have everyone knowing that they're so self-absorbent at their cores.

He snapped back to considering his options in battle.

Ki'than listened to the king, Artemisius, as he gave a speech. The bulk of it was about unity among the races. Ki'than understood and appreciated the fact that the races being united was a huge step forward, but he had heard similar words in his homeland so many times, that the topic had almost become annoying to him. He was then eager to eat the food that was provided.

Ki'than approached the ztaari table, and took some herbs and a single large beetle. He wanted to fill himself, but not eat too much so that he would be hindered for his first battle. He sat down at a table filled with other ztaari and looked around. Many people were talking, but they also seemed to be eating quite a bit. Ki'than made note that he would likely have an advantage over most everyone from their sluggishness.

Ki'than was never one for idle conversation, and instead simply observed everyone else as they ate and talked. He observed the dwarves drinking what was likely some form of alcohol. He turned his eyes to the elves, and spotted a severed, with strange eyes. He recognized him as Morniesse, the blind elf he helped sign up before. Ki'than figured that he would likely lose before getting very far, but in the end, it was his choice.

As everyone finished their food, he noticed the guards escorting some people through a small passage into another area. Ki'than asked the guards what was there. They responded, saying that in there was where they would be sleeping. Ki'than, having finished his meal, decided it was time to sleep. The ztaari lay down on a nearby mattress and soon fell asleep, nervous about tomorrow.

Tressel had been hoping she would find Nisha somewhere in the crowd, but there were enough people in armor that she had hardly a hope of finding the Slayer. The cold stone floor and the huge meal were starting to get to her, and she felt sluggish and tired. It had been a fairly long day as well, so when the escorts came out, directing them toward a sleeping area, Tressel abandoned her search and slithered in to find a bed.

A few of the numerous cots were already filled, and more people were filtering in behind her as well, so she picked an large, unoccupied cot and did her best to fit in it. Despite the equality talks people had, it seemed they'd forgotten that Naga were quite a bit larger than any of the other races, as there didn't seem to be any place for her tail. Deciding she could simply borrow two cots for the moment, Tressel slid another one over to rest her tail in and get it off of the cold stone floor. Then she turned toward the door, deciding she would wait a bit before trying to fall asleep, see if Nisha walked in at some point.

But the longer she watched, the harder it became to stay awake. She felt herself slowly starting to drift off, struggling as much as she was to watch the door and those who came through. At this rate, she wasn't even sure she'd notice if Nisha clomped in with a battle cry on her lips and her sword drawn. Not that that was something Nisha would probably do. But maybe the armor was heavy and noisy. Would she even notice the noise after a while? Maybe the sword made more of a racket when she used it. How did all that armor stay on? It seemed awfully heavy and noisy. Maybe...

Tressel shook herself out of the drifting, confusing, meandering haze of sleep once more, sitting up straight..

Artemisius stood tall, standing on a large pillar of stone, used as a makeshift podium. He looked out and saw many spectators, at least two thousand, and like the contestants, of every race. Between them and him was a large flat stone plane, presumably the base of an old building that crumbled. A mage from the guild stood next to him. The mage nodded, meaning that his spell was ready. This spell would make it so that what the king said would be heard by everyone, but not by increasing his volume. It would be like the king was standing next to everyone, tanking directly to them.

"Silence! Please." Artemisius said. He waved his hands to call attention to where he was. "I am glad that all of you have gathered here to watch the three-hundredth annual Ketto Tournament. Today, we have one-hundred and twenty eight contestants to participate! But before we begin..." Artemisius then went on a long-winded speech about the relations between the races, and how unity against the Monsters was more important than anything. "So today, in celebration of our co-operation, this is the three-hundredth annual Ketto Tournament!"

The spectators cheered at the end of the king's speech, ready for the fighting to begin. The brackets were drawn- a large board hung on an old wall with some parchment on it. Some people were already placing bets. "Now, the first battle- Jared, versus Kimm'Ohn!" Artemisius announced. From the ruins appeared two men- a human and a ztaari. The former wielded a spear, and the latter, nothing but a dagger. Neither had armor. "Begin!"

"Silence," Qrin had hissed, and the Ztaari who spoke all around him had shut their mouths, and then transferred to whispering tones. It had been at least the middle of the night, and on his small cot, the old bug had been struggling to sleep. The slow hum of clicking chatter around the hall had been infuriating, but it had kept Qrin from dreaming, which was good. Any moment absent from the horrors of his thoughts was a moment well spent.

Alas, even the hushed tones which the Ztaari had now adopted did nothing to allow Qrin to sleep. He sighed and stood, pushing his way past the younger Ztaari whose voices grew as he departed. He re-entered the old hall where they had been eating, and, finding a clean and empty corner, he lay himself to rest.

At one point in the night, he had felt a stirring - a sensation as if something of a grand presence had passed by in the night. It was disconcerting, and his dreams darkened as he felt it, but he could not wake, despite his best efforts. When morning came, he still thought of the strange presence, and was glad that he had woken up at all. He wondered, eerily, whether that presence had been Death, or a premonition thereof. He wondered if the deity had wandered the halls as all slept, marking the victims who would be taken the next morning, and the morning after. He wondered if he himself had been marked, of if he had been spared, and that was why he had not been able to wake.

He then wondered just how crazy he really was.

Now, though, it was time for the tournament to begin. 128 competitors, 127 matches, and hopefully, 7 wins for a certain Ztaari wanderer. In a much more approachable mood than the night before, nor any time in years, in fact, Qrin strode to the front of the viewing area which the warriors enjoyed from within the warriors. His back slightly hunched, and a pillar supporting his weight as his staff was held firmly away from his feet, Qrin stared out at the arena, and at the two warriors currently enjoying the first match. His face held a grimace of a Ztaari smile, weathered, aged, and decrepit from years and years of degeneration, but still a smile. Perhaps, even a grin.

As the evening continued, the food had slowly vanished from Iris's plate. The conversation at the table had slowed, but hadn't stopped. One man at the end of the table seemed to have an endless supply of stories, some interesting and some not so much. Iris was beginning to get tired and had eaten a little too much. But it was only when her new friends began to yawn that she started to notice how late it was getting.

Just as she began to think about getting some sleep, she noticed that there were guards directing people somewhere. She stood up and said goodbye to her new friends from the table, a few stood up as well but one or two decided to stay for a little while longer. She approached the crowd of people, but first stopped to talk to one of the guards.

"Where is everyone going?" she asked, stifling a yawn

"We are directing people to where they will be sleeping tonight" came the formal voice of the guard.

She thanked the guard before joining the flow of people going towards the sleeping quarters. She yawned as she walked. Iris knew that she would need a good night's rest in order to be ready for the tournament tomorrow. It was not long after she got up from the table that she found herself walking slowly towards a bed that had been set out for a competitor to sleep in. Iris felt her head hit the pillow and her eyelids slip down over her eyes.

The next morning came and Iris awoke, she would have liked to sleep a little longer but the anticipation of the first day of the tournament prevented her from continuing to doze. When the first fight was about to begin, she quickly moved to where the contestants would be able to watch the tournament. She stood next to a Ztaari holding a staff topped with sharpened metal as she watched. She had heard the announcement and the opening speech and had cheered, like many other spectators, when the tournament officially began.

Wishing to start a conversation with her fellow competitors, Iris looked over to the Ztaari that she was standing next to and cheerfully asked, "Who do you think will win the first fight?"

Chris had gotten a good night's sleep, though his accommodation hadn't been the best. Personally, he wouldn't have minded if the king had slashed the feast budget to make the place a little more livable. Still, he felt good in the morning. He woke early and did some light practice - it would be no good to tire himself out just yet. Skill and commitment were the defining factors. He had only his shortsword and his wits - no dirty tricks would work in this fight. Fine by me, he thought. He had no qualms with honourable combat.

He practiced his fencing. He imagined an enemy before him and everything they could do. He knew some of the things to expect and what to do to counter them, but he constantly caught himself out. Either he was standing wrong, or he was leaving an opening, or he wasn't watching where he should be, or- in the end he just shut those thoughts out and continued. It seemed like it was only whenever he was thinking about mistakes that he made them.

He continued again, getting into the flow as before, when the king began to speak. He shut his eyes tightly, bothered by the interruption. He lowered his sword and listened. Oh good, more nonsense about uniting the races and slaying the monsters. Was this all that the man ever talked about? For a split moment Chris toyed with the thought that the king might be putting up some kind of front - the speeches seemed more like propaganda than anything else. He'd heard them before. Each one was another long winded rallying cry, as if there was anything to rally against. The races had been united for years and it wasn't like the world had any monster apologists.

In the end though, more likely than Chris' conspiracy theory was the predictable scenario of the celebrity having his lackeys write him a speech to inspire the simpler-minded masses, about as inspiring as it was unoriginal and ingenuine.

When the king was done, Chris decided he had better catch up to the crowd. He grabbed his things and went to see if he was up.

Typically, he wouldn't be first.

A human versus a ztaari. Chris never liked those dagger types. A knife thrower himself, Chris couldn't say much, but at least he knew how to have a fair fight when he had to. Going in with just a knife made you either very underhanded or very stupid. Chris didn't appreciate the first thing. Such tactics tended to make things hurt more for the opponent. If you go in with a knife, you probably expect to get in close and burst something. You don't knock somebody down with a knife. It didn't make sense as a weapon in such a tournament. But of course, the royals' diversity presentation mattered more than things that actually made sense.

As for the second thing, stupidity... Chris almost respected the will to go against the crowd and prove the masses wrong. Almost. Unfortunately, there was a stark difference between actually making something happen and killing yourself trying. So many people just wanted to prove that anything was possible. But in a world with so many impossibilities it was pointless. The meaning of life, Chris thought, was to do what you could with what you had. You didn't need to prove yourself to anyone. If you couldn't do what you wanted to do, the world was right to deny you. If you could, they didn't deserve your skills for themselves. Proving oneself to vapid onlookers was either suicide or a waste of talent.

Simple enough.

When Tressel was shaken into consciousness, she woke with less of a jerk and more with a groan. The cold felt like it had seeped into her bones and her brain, slowing her every movement. Slowly, she sat up, doing her best to stay upright. The face of the man in front of her was fuzzy, and his voice was as if it were coming through a meter of water. "Lady, you gotta get up. The tournament is soon."

The tournament. That's right. She turned toward the door, and could see sunlight streaming in. Only a few more people were in the sleeping room still, and most of them were the cold-blooded naga, having to be shaken awake after sleeping in these cold stone ruins. If she didn't get up and moving soon, Tressel thought she might fall into an artificial hibernation.

So she flopped off the cot and onto the floor, the chill seeping from below shocking to the touch. Remembering to grab her stuff, she slithered around the maze of cots and toward the door, trying to make it to the sunlight outside. She managed to find herself far to the right of the door instead, and put a hand out to let it lead her out.

When she finally emerged into the morning sun, it's warmth was invigorating. She could feel it burning away at the fog around her brain, her thoughts coming quicker again. The arena--or at least she assumed it was the arena, as of it was filled with people--was a loud murmur not too long away, so she headed toward it as fast as she could.

She was just in time to see the first battle start, or at least she assumed it was the first battle. A human and a Ztaari. They flashed back and forth, fast and furious in battle. Tressel was enthralled by their speed, but then she realized she still wasn't sure where the contestants were supposed to meet. Glancing around, she spotted the smaller crowd of people under one of the buildings around the stadium, wearing armors and weapons that set them apart from the rest. Slithering around the edges of the arena, she made her way there.

Maybe while she waited, she'd find Nisha in the crowd. She scanned through the people, looking for the distinctive armor she wore. A glint caught her eye, and she spotted someone in what looked like the right armor, right before they vanished again. Hoping not to lose her, Tressel slithered heedlessly forward--and nearly ran headfirst into a man decked out in leather armor. She jerked backwards moments from collision, and stopped. "Oh! Sorry, sorry!" Slower now, she slithered around him, then rose up to search for Nisha again. But the armored woman was nowhere to be found. She sighed.

Ki'than awoke the next morning, refreshed. He got up from his mattress and saw a few others awake already. Ki'than waited and examined his sword, almost in a trance until around noon. The king made a second speech about unity among the races, which fell on deaf ears for the ztaari. Soon, two names were called, and a human and ztaari stood against each other in the makeshift arena. The insectoid wielded a dagger, while the human, a spear.

Ki'than decided to try and predict the winner. The ztaari had generally better reactions and speed than the others, whereas the humans had more endurance and durability. In theory, the best chance the ztaari had was to end it as quickly as possible, perhaps by throwing his dagger and getting lucky. That, or evade his enemy and chip at his stamina until he becomes an easy target. The human needed simply one strong blow to incapacitate his opponent. If the human could keep up or predict his opponent well, he would win. If the ztaari could avoid his enemy and land a few cheap blows, he would frustrate the human and win. It all depended entirely on skill.

Skill is what had stumped Ki'than for the longest time. One could not measure skill, except in a situation where two people are the exact same in terms of advantages and disadvantages, which is impossible. Skill even sometimes turn itself on its own head, in a rock-paper-scissors type situation, where the skill of one may be better than the other, but the advantages the other has are enough to turn the fight around. Because skill is impossible to measure, Ki'than found that he would not always be right in determining the winner, so he instead determined how one would likely win. That was much easier to predict than who would win.

Ki'than turned his attention back to his sword and waited for his name to be called.

The Ztaari looked over to the T'Kal and seemed frightened. He recoiled and gripped his staff with both his hands, balancing himself with a more agile stance. He had turned away from the fight entirely, and had all of his attention focused on Iris.

He had been so sure that he could be safe here, that he could pretend to be in a real world. Of course, he had known, even when his visions had first plagued him, that the T'Kal were a real people. That was why he knew to fear them. Somewhere, there were evil bird-people - perhaps the T'Kal, perhaps some mutated form of their species, or perhaps something else entirely - who had attacked and ripped his body to shreds. He had seen in yokan this truth, and he had given it much thought. If yokan was reality, then T'Kal were to be guarded against. If yokan was a figment of the mind, then a subconscious part of Qrin told him to fear them. Either truth gave Qrin so many reasons to fear the T'Kal.

Here, in front him, stood a T'Kal.

At first Iris thought she had taken the Ztaari by surprise. She thought that he had just been too busy watching the fight below to notice her presence. Maybe she should have coughed or something to announce her presence before talking. But as time wore on, it became clear that something else was wrong other than her possibly startling him. Either that or he really did not like being surprised.

The way the Ztaari's attention was focussed on Iris, it seemed like the reaction was something other than mere surprise. Was he... frightened? Something had to be wrong to cause such a reaction in the Ztaari. Iris glanced at the arena and back at the Ztaari a couple of times while she considered what to say next. Now a little confused and a little nervous, Iris spoke.

"Uh, the fight... Who do you think will win?" she asked again, sounding less cheerful. A couple of seconds passed and then she said, "Is something wrong?"

Qrin clucked his teeth nervously, the equivalent of a human's mouth hanging open, but by the time the T'Kal asked her second question, he had recovered enough to speak. Fear is the mind-killer. Calm as still water.

"No. I am okay," Qrin said, but found the action hurt. He spoke too quickly, for someone used to such slow words and slow reactions. He was nervous, and he wondered if the fear had not killed him, but had given him more life and presence. He was suddenly aware.

He remembered, clearly now, why he had entered the desert.

This fear - this constant presence, and the knowledge of his own mortality - was horrifying. He hated every inch of his own body when he was scared. He was useless and hopeless! He was a fool with a broken leg - nay, two broken legs, and matching arms!

But in the deserts, it did not matter how many legs were broken - he could always have more. He could have the thousand legs of the millipedes, or the thirty arms of Psu-M'gannon. The desert offered freedom from the fate which his visions foretold.

This was a fool's errand, he thought as he remembered why he had left. Stupid! I have grown weak in old age. His eyes flickered around and he searched for an escape, but he knew that he had made a promise to be here. Stupid! I have grown weak in old age, he thought, without realizing that he had repeated himself. Then he knew why fear was called the mind killer.

The mind was still water. Fear was the raindrop which broke the surface. Fear was the agent of chaos.

Although the Ztaari said that he was alright, Iris doubted that it was true. He seemed nervous, but not quite as much as before. The T'Kal couldn't help but wonder why they were acting that way. Was it the tournament they were worried about? She didn't think so, the Ztaari only started seeming nervous after she talked to him. Were they afraid of the other competitors? Maybe, but that didn't explain why they didn't seem scared at first.

Could it be her? Could it be that the Ztaari was afraid of her? The thought had crossed her mind. The first time that it popped into her head she dismissed it. But the continued nervousness made her doubt her initial judgement. She needed more information. Perhaps if she tried talking to them for a little while she could figure out exactly what was wrong.

But what should they try to talk about? Iris has had plenty of conversations before, she had been a merchant for quite some time. She has had practice in talking to all kinds of people; men and women, young and old. Once she had thought of something to say Iris spoke in a calm voice.

"My name is Iris" she said, "Are you anticipating your turn to fight?"

"Iris," Qrin mumbled, repeating the name in a barely audible hiss. That is not so threatening a name, he argued, and consciously fought to recognize this 'Iris' as a non-threat. However, in his hind-brain, which should not at this time be called a lizard hind-brain, for Qrin was a bug and not at all a lizard, Qrin felt the twist of organic gears and the click of clocks as the name 'Iris' was chained away in a cell adjacent to the one where his recollection of yokan was secured behind layers upon layers of hardened stone. If those memories escaped, his mind - what little of it was still useful - would be no more.

"It is," Qrin said, loudly this time, "what it is." His back still hunched in a defensive stance, and his head swaying horizontally in a scanning motion, Qrin kept his eyes focused on Iris. It took quite an effort to force this upon himself. "My name - is Qrin," he added, foregoing the remainder of his title, 'Tkali'. That name would only bring questions.

"Nice to meet you Qrin" Iris said, taking care in pronouncing his name correctly.

Although Qrin's posture still seemed defensive, Iris had begun to think that the nervous feeling she had seen had diminished, at least a little. Although she couldn't be sure, it wasn't as if she could read his mind. Her thoughts conjured up the idea of how much easier it would be to make a sale if she could read the customer's minds. If she could read minds, she thought it wouldn't be hard to find out what to say in order to convince a customer to buy a vase or a dagger or whatever she had at her stall that day.

She turned her attention back to Qrin. What had caused him to be so nervous earlier? What if it was her? She had thought of that, but couldn't be sure. Maybe Qrin just nervous around strangers. If that was the case, then maybe talking calmly might help.

"When do you think our turns in the arena will come?" she asked.

"Yours before mine," Qrin replied. He had been asked what he thought, and that was what he had thought to reply with. He did not know why he felt as though his time would come later, but he did. His mind was astray and he could not nail down any single thought long enough to examine it and understand it. Warily, he glanced back to the battle. The human dove, seemingly trying to slash at the Ztaari's leg, but the bug narrowly side-stepped the attack and the man rolled onto his feet again. Now, however, he was behind his opponent, with a clear advantage.

Qrin turned back to Iris. He would not let any threat have yet another advantage over him.

Ki'than turned his attention back to the fight. The ztaari was un-wounded, but the human had small bruises all over his body. Both of them were beginning to tire, so the match would be over soon. The human went for a quick and viscous slash with his spear at the legs of his opponent, but they managed to dodge out of the way just in time, and gave the human another bruise on his leg. The human was infuriated at this point, and started swinging recklessly at the ztaari. Though he was doing his best to dodge every attack, the ztaari slipped and fell over, at which point the human dug his spear into the leg of the insectoid.

"Gah! I yield, i yield!" The ztaari shouted. The human removed his spear and sat down, exhausted. Two Mages approached and began healing the wounded competitors.

"What an impressive display!" Artemisius shouted. "It seems the first victory of this tournament goes to Jared! Well done, both of you. Now, onto the next battle- Thoan versus Ki'than!"

Ki'than perked up as he heard his name. He stood and left the cavern, alongside a young dwarf wielding a war-hammer. The two fighters from earlier were now healed and being escorted back to the cavern. Ki'than studied his opponent- he was the epitome of dwarven stereotypes. Short, stocky, muscled, dressed in full armor. Ki'than realized that he would have to do just as the other ztaari had the last round in order to win- evade and punish. He drew his short sword as his opponent readied his war-hammer.

"Begin!"

The dwarf began with a quick swing, that Ki'than managed to side-step easily. He then gave the dwarf a small jab with the hilt of his sword before stepping back a decent distance. The dwarf ran forward and made a predictable sideways swing, which Ki'than countered by jumping over and hitting his opponent in the head. His helmet almost rang like a bell as the ztaari retreated once more. The dwarf then took a moment to catch his breath. They then rushed forward once more, making another sideways swing. Ki'than jumped again, but the dwarf adjusted his angle mid-swing, and caught Ki'than on the leg. Ki'than fell over, wounded. His strategy wasn't working. He rolled out of the way just as the dwarf swung down on his arm, avoiding it. It seems avoiding the threat wont work now that he knows how to beat that, Ki'than thought. I'll have to remove the threat from the battle if i want to win.

"Have ya had enough?" The dwarf asked.

Ki'than stood, clearly favoring one leg. "Not a chance."

The dwarf charged again, but instead of dodging, Ki'than dropped his sword and grabbed the war-hammer as it swung, redirecting it, and taking it from his opponent. Ki'than didn't have the strength to weild this, so he tossed it behind him as far as he could and picked up his short-sword again. He acted more aggressively now, giving his opponent an assortment of wounds.

"Stop, stop stop! You have me beat!" The dwarf admitted.

KI'than half fell over, half sat down as the crowd cheered his ingenuity and the medic mages came.

"What an excellent strategy! Well done Ki'than, well done indeed!" Artemisius commentated.

Ki'than looked over the crowd as people talked, and coins changed hands. Ki'than smiled to himself, trying to think of the advantages he had, and the ones his opponent had. It helped to calm him, sometimes.

Somewhere in the noise was Chris, watching the fights. In the two duels so far, nobody immediately impressive had appeared. No slayers or similar yet. Chris wasn't too confident in his chances of winning, but if most of the competitors were like this, maybe he could make a name for himself at the least. It was then in his thoughts that he heard his name.

Hm, I'm third? He was somewhat surprised to be called up this early, but he figured it would be a good chance to leave an impression. His opponent would be someone named Koress. The name wasn't human. From the books Chris had read... naga? He would see. He stepped out onto the field of battle and watched the crowd to see where his opponent would rise from. He caught one pair of eyes looking at him, grinning. Chris' heart sank. Don't be...

The thing slithered up, not paying any notice to those he was pushing past. It was a hulking beast - half man, half snake, standing much taller than Chris did. The man above the waist was built heavily and wore little. A leather harness and bracers were its protection. On the bottom, the thickest naga tail Chris had ever seen, most certainly. It was long, a light blue colour which glinted a little yellow towards the end, though its typical beauty was overshadowed by its scars. From his back Koress pulled a massive, single headed battle axe. He lifted his tail and slammed it onto the ground, kicking up dirt as if to indimidate Chris. And he was intimidated, but he wouldn't show it. Its evil grin, the way it taunted him - Chris did not trust the thing not to kill him.

"Begin!"

As the king's voice bellowed, the naga pounced, making a large sweeping motion with its axe as if it didn't care what was slashed. Chris collapsed himself onto the ground, just below the inflexion. He rolled to the side and forced himself up, stumbling back a little and then dashing backwards to the other side of the arena.. As he drew his sword, the naga brought both hands to his axe and looked to the side where Chris found himself. This time he approached more slowly, as if to let fear sink in. Chris would not be intimidated. He flourished his sword a little and pointed it straight at his opponent. He'll be slow... Strong enough to lift that axe, not strong enough to keep up.

Chris tilted his sword up, and noticed a small twitch in the naga's expression. Easy does it... Chris broke into a smile then, as if his master plan was unfolding. The naga charged and Chris sheathed his sword, rolling forward, past the slow, arcing swing of the axe. As soon as he began, not even the naga could stop the momentum of his axe's crescent-shaped slash. Which opened up a perfect window. Chris drew his sword again, slashing back at the tail behind him. The naga let out a booming, blood-curling yell. He turned back to Chris and his face was red.

Another swing of the axe, this time straight down, but it was weak and Chris sidestepped it. The brute was stubborn. Didn't know when to quit. As Koress' axe arm came down, Chris took a slash at it and the naga dropped his sword, clasping where it hurt tightly and falling to the ground.

"I concede!" he yelled. The healers got to work, though Chris was fairly unharmed, save for some bruises from suddenly slamming himself to the ground a couple of times. Chris smiled to the audience. A lot of people seemed to be paying up to the same few people. Chris' victory was formally announced, and so he moved back through the crowd and to somewhere he could take a break.

The second fight was one of the bug people and a dwarf, which was over fairly quickly when the bug caught the hammer and wrenched it from the dwarf's grip with a swift twisting motion. And the third battle had a naga, much like herself but enormous, wielding an axe that Tressel doubted she'd even be able to pick up. The man in leather armor that she'd nearly run into managed to beat him into submission though.

But watching these fights, Tress realized that, again, her main course of action would be to stay out of reach and end the fight quickly. Melee, all melee, which she supposed made sense in a tournament like this.

So she watched as more than a dozen fights went through, quick and brutal. They hardly lasted longer than a couple seconds, which was expected. A real fight wasn't about showmanship at all, it was simply getting through to the enemy and taking them down. Swift and decisive.

All of a sudden, she heard her own name called. "Tressel Hifwood!" It was time to see if she could do it.

She slithered out onto the stone floor of the arena, glad that she wasn't standing on it with two feet. The gentle sand and grit beneath her tail was slippery, and on small, nimble feet, it would be downright treacherous. One of the more bulky men from one of the battles had already fallen because of it.

Her opponent was a short man wielding a long, thin sword. The man stood confidently, almost bored, sword at his side, with a simple breastplate across his chest. Remembering Morgen's words, Tressel smiled at him and nodded, the chin-up, pleasant kind of nod rather than the chin down, serious kind of nod. "Good luck!"

The man looked at her, then cracked his own grin, though he didn't say anything back. Together, they readied themselves, the man spreading his feet and holding up the sword, Tressel gently dropping her chain and wrapping it around the end of her tail.

From all around, the voice of the King came again. "Begin!"

In a flurry of movement, they both attacked. Tressel twisted on the spot, snapping her tail around and forward with the chain following. Every link on it made it's own quiet slithering sound as they rubbed against each other, the chain flinging out like a whip.

But the man twisted to the side, dodging the snapping links. He ran forward, sword raised, and Tressel was forced to slither backwards as best as she could. When the man was only a few feet away, she yanked back on the chain again, and it flipped into the man's back, wrapping around his chest.

But he was still close enough to swing his sword, and he sliced at her side. Tressel barely managed to avoid the quick blow, feeling it tear into her blouse somewhat. She slammed toward him with her tail, hitting him full in the stomach and sending him staggering backwards, until he was jerked to a halt by the chain wrapped around his chest. Reversing her movement, Tressel dragged him back once more, snatching at his sword hand with her own. Surprised and breathless as he was, she managed to grab his wrist.

In the next moment though, he wrenched it free again. He was too close to use the blade, so instead he smashed at her shoulder with the pommel, and Tressel grimaced at the pain. She shoved him away again, keeping the chain tight, and jerked her tail around to the side. His momentum was pulled along into a circle, and he was only able to stay on his feet for a few seconds. But then her weight threw him off, and he found himself dragging along the sandy, stony ground. The chain finally came loose, and he tumbled to a stop, dropping his sword in the process. While he was still winded, Tressel slithered over and scooped it up, holding it high.

He peered at it through his pain and the early morning sunlight, then sighed. Slowly standing, he raised both hands in defeat. "You win."

"And Hifwood wins!" The King's voice burst out among them again, the healers appearing and running their hands over their bruises and scrapes. Flipping the sword around, Tressel handed it back, who nodded, the chin down, serious nod.

I actually won. Who would have thought?

Qrin the Ztaari had predicted that Iris would have her turn in the arena before his. This thought stayed in her head for a while, even after she had turned to watch the fight below. The human and triumphed against the Ztaari in the first fight. This was followed by the second fight, this time a different Ztaari against a dwarf. Iris watched and cheered along with the rest of the crowd.

She was excited for her turn in the arena. But she was nervous too. She knew that there were rules against killing your opponent, but it was a fight with weapons. She supposed that she just had to trust that they had preparations in place for healing injured competitors. She had seen people who appeared to be mages who wielded the mysterious powers of magic approach the first set of competitors after their match. This was a bit of a comfort to her, but the half-excited half-nervous feeling did not go away completely.

The Ztaari won against the dwarf. This fight was followed by a human against a huge naga. Iris watched on, she initially thought that the naga would win but as the fight wore on the human seemed to be winning. This one ended in the human's victory. Other fights started and ended, including one with a naga who was missing an arm. The naga won over her opponent, a swordsman, using some sort of chain-like weapon. Iris watched and waited, nervous but glad that she decided to sign up for the tournament. And then came the moment she had been waiting for.

"Next: Paul Leon against Iris Talonfall!"

Iris flinched visibly when her name was called. She looked around, a little startled at hearing that her fight was next. With a cheery smile on her face, Iris ran down into the arena. She stood at one end of the arena, looking up at the sea of faces sitting in the seats surrounding the building. There were so many people here, ready to watch her win or lose. She then turned to look at Paul, her foe.

Paul was a reasonably tall man and quite thin. He wore a hooded cloak which obscured his face, she couldn't tell but she thought that he might be grinning. Her foe held an old, bloodstained dagger, it looked sharp and painful. She held her bow, empty for now. She waited until she was told to begin, with her hand hovering above her quiver, ready to pull out an arrow as soon as she could start.

"Begin!"

In the time it took Iris to pull an arrow out of her quiver and notch it into her bow, Paul had begun running. But he wasn't running directly toward her, he was running around the edge of the arena. Iris pulled back on her bow, closed one of her eyes and aimed for her moving target. A second passed, then another. She had to make sure that she could hit him, but not anywhere lethal. Thinking at she had him lined up she let her arrow fly.

The arrow flew through the air and bounced off the arena wall where her opponent had been a moment ago. She frowned slightly at missing her target. Paul kept running, he was getting close, too close. Iris tried to aim another arrow at him but before she could let this one go Paul swiped at her with his dagger. The blade cut into her leg and she let out a yelp. Iris jumped backward, landing and trying to put most of her weight on her uninjured leg. She had to change her strategy. An idea popped into Iris's head.

Iris spread her wings, something which made her opponent back off a little. With a few beats of her feathered wings, Iris propelled herself into the air. While she was in the air, she couldn't use her bow or else she would fall. But she did not plan to shoot from the air. She flew toward her foe, picking up as much speed as she could. Paul tried to move out of the way but the airborne Iris was faster than he was. She reached out with her uninjured taloned foot, kicking her foe before landing next to him. She landed too heavily, causing fresh pain to surge from her hurt leg. She winced at the pain.

But Paul did not come out of the attack unscathed either. For a moment the two stared at each other. Iris was the first to move, pulling out a new arrow and pulling back her bow string. Paul ran toward her again, his dagger pointed menacingly in her direction. A risker strategy than he used before, clearly he hoped to swipe with his dagger again before Iris could fire. But he was too slow, Iris let her arrow fly and this time she hit her opponent. The arrow hit Paul in his right shoulder. She notched another arrow into her bow, ready to fire again if needed.

Paul collapsed onto his knees, and spoke. "I concede" he said, his voice sounding defeated.

Iris returned the arrow to her quiver as the announcement came, "The winner is Iris!"

Iris helped Paul onto his feet as the healers appeared. Iris smiled broadly, she had managed to win her first fight. There would be more after this, she knew that, but she could still celebrate her first win. She waved to the audience as she left the arena.

A while after he and the T'kal had suffered their tense conversation, Qrin was deep in thought.

The sounds and other senses of the arena were gone, mere background noise as Qrin fell deeper into contemplation.

Before him he saw a room. There was an old, rusted table before him. Behind the table, two doors. On the table, a sword, a disgusting, slithering centipede-like creature, and a skull. Pale sunlight filtered in through windows Qrin could not turn to see, creating the flecks of dust which otherwise would be as good as nonexistent. Qrin leaned against his staff, found it was not there, and then realized he did not need it - he could lean against thin air.

Some cosmic entity wanted him to examine the sword and the centipede and the skull; it wanted him to contemplate the symbolism of the doors and the pattern of where the light fell. Some cosmic entity was doing their best to send Qrin a message, but Qrin used this opportunity to think of things in which he was actually interested. The dust spiralled around him. Muffled noises made the air stuffy.

A flicker of glint on the sword's metal tried to draw Qrin's attention. He really could not care.

This! This is important! The centipede seemed to hiss. It squirmed and rolled and crawled, but it never moved. It always remained anchored in the centre of the table. Qrin was unperturbed - he had seen stranger creatures in the desert's wilds.

A haunt emanated from the skull's black void of an interior. The cavities for eyes and tongues gaped and grinned and taunted. If he had looked closely, and if he had been an anthropologist or a genius or a biologist or a murderer, Qrin would have seen that it was not a human skull as it had first appeared. He did not look, however, since his eyes were closed and his thoughts were adrift.

With a universal sigh, the room collapsed and Qrin opened his eyes. He felt a gust of wind pushing him - and then realized it was a series of hands, trying to force him into the arena. He walked.

If he had been listening, he would have been warned as to who his opponent was, but he was not listening, and now it did not matter, as his opponent had already entered the arena. Descending the short distance to the blood-cauldron sands, Qrin inspected his opponent. It was a male Ztaari - he could tell the difference - and it was no desert wanderer such as himself. This Ztaari was well-fed and well-endowed. His armour covered chest, back, arms, and legs. The feet were left unencumbered so their evolutionary purpose of adding friction against sand was allowed to assist the fighter, while the head with its large eyes and the hands with their dexterous digits also proved to be better left unguarded. Qrin cocked his head to the side, wondering. The armoured Ztaari watched Qrin with a confident superiority.

Qrin emanated that same superiority, latently. His indifference suggested a lack of concern, which suggested a confidence unnatural to most. His lack of expressions also suggested a lack of interest - either arrogance, confusion, or excitement. He was a most odd opponent.

"Lookin' pretty confident, desert-dweller," the other Ztaari said as Qrin came close enough for them to speak. "How many desert beasts have you taken down?"

Qrin, not one for talking in general, did not respond.

"Well, let me assure you that those sand-squirmers aren't worth a rock against my steel," the Ztaari grinned, though Qrin wondered if he was not scenting the slightest hint of concern or anxiety.

As he settled himself into a comfortable position, Qrin's foe drew his long, serrated blade. The extravagance of the ornamentation elicited a few gasps from the crowd. The sword was like a row of giant teeth, perfect for tearing huge swaths of flesh out of its opponents. Qrin thought he might not die if that sword hit him, but he was nearly certain that he would lose a limb. His only defence would have been the length of his staff, but the sword was long, too. It shone with an aura of beautiful terror and perfect machinery as the Ztaari heaved it into the air. Qrin noted that it was a struggle for the sword to be lifted. Ztaari, after all, were not exceptionally strong - and that sword was certainly heavier than the average blade.

It was excessive, Qrin decided, and that would be his best asset.

The fight began and the sword-wielder charged.

Qrin stood his ground. The Ztaari marched towards him. He did not charge; his loads were too heavy for speed or agility. A whisper of a hiss slipped out of his mouth. Qrin stood immobile.

Then, when they were close enough, the competitors sprung into action.

The audience, its breath baited due to the suspense and the oddity of this particular match, foresaw the attack made by Jryan, the armoured Ztaari. His sword, held above his head, had to come down, and it began to do so just as Qrin's staff flew into the Ztaari's unprotected head. A gasp consumed the stadium. Everyone had studied the glistening metal spike which adorned the staff. Jryan must have been impaled, or at least in serious pain from tearing. Perhaps he was even blind.

Yet as Jryan stumbled back, no blood, no shouts of pain, no crippling blindness overcame him. His left hand released the sword, allowing it to fall to the ground even as his right hand still grasped it firmly. The left hand flew to his face and he felt there for the source of the pain, but soon all became clear. Qrin had by now retracted his staff and had spun it back into the resting position in which it had already been, but it was that spinning which solved the mystery. When attacking, Qrin had flicked his staff's duller end towards Jryan, sparing the Ztaari from permanent damage. Impressed, the crowd's surprise subsided into a hushed whisper of respect.

As Jryan turned his injured head to look at his opponent with a new understanding of exactly how skilled he was, the sword suddenly slipped from his hand. Jryan was not fast enough, and suddenly Qrin was immediately in front of him, a foot entrapping the sword and a dull staff clanging against Jryan's armour. The Ztaari flew and landed sprawling on the sandy floor.

The victory became clear, and Qrin returned to the ruins. He had endured much longer fights in the desert. He felt no more present, nor any more alive, than he usually did, and for that, he was disappointed.