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(ooc sorry about the delay, things have been a little hectic, but i thought i ought to post rather than letting the timer expire so i've quickly put something together off the top of my head, i doubt its any good though.)
Schorl sighed angrily as he leant back against the cold stone wall, his robes unable to mask the impression of the gaps between brick and brick and he shuffled uncomfortably in an attempt to find some purchase and gain some comfort, he sat on a low wooden bench in one corner of the long hall, three brass chandeliers set at equal distances and set into the high ceiling cast a flickering half light down upon his blood stained robes, a single globule of white wax works its way down one lighted candle and over the already filled shallow ditch around its base, it rolls further, leaving a glittering liquid trail behind it, further, gathering at the bottom of the holder and reaching itself toward the ground, finally, it falls, silently, freedom is grasped to its non-sentient bosom for the single second before it dashes against the rocks and scatters itself around a 5 inch radius, Schorls eyes pass unknowingly over it and steal a glance at the other gathered contenders gathered in the waiting room, healing from the last fight and anxious for the second, his eyes smile and he looks away, his expression turning suddenly serious as he catches the whisper of a distant voice, his long training allows for him to easily tune out the hum of conversation filling the hall and he focuses upon the voice for a mere second, 'Number 20 - Schorl' was all he needed to hear.
"At last its time for some fun, all this relaxation was making me tense."
Schorl extends one arm and wraps his unblemished fingers around the gnarled wood of his staff, it hums in greeting and grows warm to the touch, Schorl sighs, the air escaping his throat as if grating across his vocal chords, he slowly rises to his feet, his robes smoothing the folds of fabric and interwoven metal against his slender build and trailing slightly across the floor at his back as he steps forwards, The centre ring... how fitting., other bouts were being held in the outer rings, or the grounds outside the coliseum, it seemed to Schorl as if either he or his opponent had given the crowd a good show the last time, if it is me they are pleased with, may they enjoy this specatacle... otherwise... perhaps i should be somewhat cautious..., His forehead creases with thought, quickly dismissed as the regular pleasurable insanity runs rampant amongst his thoughts once again, he motions absently with one hand and utters a single word as a gusty wind gathers around his feet, whipping up the thin layer of dust covering the floor as he begins to rise, first slowly, then quickly, picking up more and more speed as he heads on a collision course with the roof, the jewel in his staff burns brightly and bathes the ceiling in a blinding light, when the light fades, Schorl is lost from the searching eyes of those still inhabiting the waiting room.
Schorl emerges from the sand covering the centre ring, his long silvery hair breaking the through the surface, sand dunes and small hills give the impression of a tossing sea, trapped in a still life of glittering diamonds glimmering in the noon sunlight, and Schorl, rising slowly from the murky depths, his head raised arrogantly as if the ruler of this territory, setting the crowd in a clamorous roar of appreciation and anticipation, his feet emerge last, clad in leather boots and the trailing back of his robe dangling by his heels as he settles his feet into the soft sand, he frowns as he looks out over the sand once again, These people have no imagination, it may be a bigger arena, but theirs more to a fight than size... feeling a little disheartened at the similarity of this arena from his last he communes momentarily with his staff, Korendor, nodding appreciatively at what he hears he draws the staff up from his side and places it across his waist before drawing his feet off the ground and folding his legs in mid air, a slight portion of his mind holding the levitation as he releases his staff and allows it to rest against his hips as he makes several wide sweeping motions in four seperate directions, a slight sliver and light left behind his fingertips as each sweep is made.
the lines of light begin to legthen, as if tearing a hole in reality itself as they draw towards each other and encompass the floating mage before spreading similar threads across the gaps in a matter of seconds a glittering web of light cups the mage in its curved bottom as it draws itself from a web into a fully encompassing sphere, blocking Schorl from sight as he disengages his levitation and settles himself inside the spherical force, he reaches his magics outwards, forming another slender trail of light just under the sphere, it expands until it shrouds the arena floor, a shimmering yet distorted reflection of the hastily created floor shows on the spheres reflective surface, yet reveals nothing of Schorls actions, inside the sphere, the mages eyes are shut tight, working purely on knowledge and instinct and he continues to weave his magics into the sand and the light, his voice reverberates and echoes inside the sphere, hearing nothing of the outside, he continues to chant and weave, may members of the crowd leap back in terror as the floor of the pit ignites suddenly, a quick flash of painfully bright light and a momentary wave of blistering heat and then the flames die, no light remains atop the sand, yet neither, now, does the sand itself either, Schorls magics fusing what was once a million glittering crystals into one gargantuan one, a single layer of thick glass, perfectly preserving the dips and rises of the arenas floor.
Schorl casts the sphere from the existential plane with a wave and a thought and drops silently back to earth, landing in a soft croch and using his magics to steady himself upon the slippery surface, he look over his handiwork and down upon his faint reflection, he grins at the silent crowd and his grins grows wider as he notices a few half charred corpses hanging over the arena edge, the smell of burning flesh and scorched hair filling the coliseum, Schorl slams his staff against the glass, testing its ability to hold under pressure, the nods to himself as the crowds shouts and catcalls start up again, more intensity buried within their voices and the noise created dwarfing any previous that Schorl has had the displeasure of being a target of, he flicks his hair over one shoulder and stands unmoving, his eyes and his mind seeking his approaching opponent.
Last edited by Schorl; 09-19-2002 at 07:27 AM.
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09-15-2002, 05:11 PM
Linear Mode
