The Tournament [A Non-Traditional Fantasy]

The mirror stared back at him, but Picayune couldn't recognize the face. The dark bags once married to the underside of his eyes were gone and the unruly halo of greasy hair which had once flared out like an unkempt mane had been tamed to something almost respectable. What looked back was a clean-cut young man with brilliant hazel eyes and a confident, almost arrogant smirk—the very expression the prodigious apprentice of Ersatz University had always been known for.

Then Poetaster joined the frame, a slim box of charcoal sticks tucked under one arm. The far more famed figure smiled, reflected eyes meeting reflected eyes; and, upon catching the younger boy's intense self-examination, let out an amused snort. Poetaster set the charcoal down on the vanity desk and finally addressed him. "Oh, come on Picayune. No need to look so miserable."

Picayune's confident smile immediately crumpled. "I was going for self-assured."

Poetaster's snort turned into a full laugh, encouraged further by Picayune's put-upon expression. "It doesn't work as well when you clearly don't believe it yourself."

"What happened to fake it 'till you make it!"

Poetaster ruffled the younger boy's hair, "There's no need for you to fake it. I didn't teach you my prismatic bolt just for you to lose, you know." Poetaster frowned at the newly created nest of hair and immediately started combing the hair back down. "Now stop worrying so much and let's get you prettied up for battle." Poetaster teased with a wink.

This time it was Picayune's turn to scoff. "I don't really think makeup and a nice hairdo are going to help against someone like the Vampire." Despite the complaint, he let Poetaster continue gathering his shoulder-length hair into a tight ponytail. Succumbed to Poetaster's ministrations, Picayune plucked a charcoal stick from the vanity and began sketching a complex weave of geometric lines around his left eye.

"It makes all the difference in the world! Look good, feel good, perform good. Besides, this isn't war Picayune, it's a show-bout. It's art. You've got to show the audience that you're confident and competent. Trust me, as a veteran performer, an audience's reception is basically half the fight. Nothing throws you off your flow more than looking at the crowd and seeing that they're just waiting for you to fail."

Picayune paused mid-stroke and deadpanned, "Well that's motivating."

Poetaster smiled at Picayune's reflection. "But you don't have to worry about that. The audience already wants to cheer for you. Human versus mokoi. A poetic battle to carry the dreams of a freer humanity. They're looking for any excuse they can to believe you're a god. And when a crowd holds you in that esteem, you don't need to fake anything, you've already made it."

Poetaster gave Picayune a once-over and frowned at his less than flattering garments. "You just need to give them the bare minimum to cling onto. And though I wouldn't have gone the skin-tight bodysuit route, I admit it does have this kind of otherworldly seriousness to it."

"It's a canvas laminate," Picayune muttered. "I don't know how to manage a full knight's kit, but rune-gear? That I can do. I'd bet it's better than any armour the Entente could have provided me with anyway."

"It leaves nothing to the imagination, is what it does."

Picayune consciously curled in on himself, trying to obscure the pale ink-stained fabric that clung to the shape of his body. "Great, now I won't be able to stop thinking of that when I walk on stage." Poetaster laughed, seemingly a signature response to most of Picayune's concerns.

Returning to the task at hand, Picayune finished the abstract sigil upon his face and, with a small flare of essence, ignited the rune to life. Extra-dimensional threads of arcana unspooled from the ink, curling in looping knots around his left eye. They rose from his skin, spiraling up toward his hairline and higher still, coalescing into a half-crown of burning light. In an instant, the arcane world snapped open before his sight.

Poetaster watched, thoroughly pleased with the impressive figure Picayune now cut. "There you go! Now you even look like a king come to claim his rite."

Picayune ignored the praise, his eyes reflected upon the vanity mirror, shock draining the blood from his face as he took in the sights.

Poetaster noticed the change in attitude "What? Did something go wrong with the rune?"

To Picayune's awakened sight, Poetaster had ignited into a blazing bonfire. The performer's essence laid bare to his penetrative sights. Poetaster's very root, the essence of their existence, the very architecture of the performer's life and magic was exposed with dizzying clarity. The true being named Poetaster revealed itself. A being of twisted light and fractal geometries seeded within seeded geometries, each undulating with a hypnotical call. The root told so much more than of a simple performer, a great hydra barely contained within the confines of the arena walls, extra-planar limbs phasing in and out of the ceiling and floor, the breath of a being beyond mere flesh, the breath of something not human.

"Hey, Picayune?" the snapping of fingers broke the young wizard from his trance. "Seriously what's wrong"

Reflected eyes broke away from reflected eyes. "Uh… nothing." He cleared his throat and gestured vaguely at the vanity. "Can you help me finish up here? The fight's going to start soon."

The deflection was obvious but Poetaster let it slide, the kid already had enough on his plate. "Sure. I'm all done here anyway. Just don't forget all your trinkets." Poetaster reached for an old rusted pendant and slipped it over Picayune's neck with care.

Poetaster's friendly tone and the familiar weight of the pendant steadied Picayune's breath. He lifted his hand to the mirror displaying the ring on his wedding finger with a short, incredulous laugh. "You kidding me? I slept with this thing so I wouldn't forget."

Picayune rose from the chair and fastened a thick belt around his waist, its studded pockets hanging heavy down to his thighs. He checked each one by touch, counting its contents by feel rather than sight, then reached for his wands—looping the spare through a notch in the belt, strapping the offhand to his left forearm, and gripping the primary until his knuckles blanched.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

"I'll leave you to gather yourself," Poetaster said, already stepping toward the door. "But I'll be in the stands, cheering for you." Poetaster added with a reassuring wink before slipping out and leaving Picayune alone.

The mirror stared back at him. He was the most ready he would ever be and the city bell towers were already tolling. Underfoot, in the lower level of the arena, the hum of a thousand gawkers vibrated through the stone. He grabbed his skates from beside the vanity and made his way through the secondary maintenance routes which allowed him to slip toward his antechamber without encountering any of them.

Far too soon, he reached it. Sitting at an available bench he finally put on his skates and peered through the barred gate onto the arena grounds beyond.

Light beamed through the open solarium, spilling across the stage partially shaded by the arena's omnipresent tree. Around the central auditorium, every seat overflowed with a dense, feverish warmth of bodies. These were the fortunate few—those who had secured live seating for the final spectacle the arena would see this year. The final battle of the Arena of Dionysus.

Though this was the last fight, excitement burned brighter than ever. The audience, insatiable after weeks of vitalizing bloodshed, waited eagerly unblinking. Picayune felt their chorus of stomping feet hammer in his chest like a second heartbeat.

Dionysus approached the head of the primary belvedere, his alien head somehow still conveying the bittersweetness of the arena's end. "Welcome back!"

An explosion of cheers tore through the arid morning air.

"I am so glad to have spent this month with you all," Dionysus continued, his many mouths curling in delight. "I've loved being here at the dawn of what will surely be remembered as the most historically significant piece of media ever created!"

The crowd howled, the arena raging to life with a thousand bellowing voices. The sound suffocating Picayune's small antechamber prison.

"I loved witnessing that outstanding performance by The Flare and The Band alongside you! I loved hanging mouth agape at the baffling wonder that was the match between The Topiary and The Game! I loved feeling that cloudy haze lift from our minds as the Mokoi Queen, a supposedly monstrous entity, mercifully reintroduced The Animal to the soul sea!"

Emotion rippled through the stands. For the average citizen and sheltered noble, the past month had been the most violent, exhilarating, terrifying, inspiring, powerful moment they had ever experienced, and likely may ever experience.

"I am truly thankful to have shared those moments with you," Dionysus said, bowing low in honour of his audience.

Quickly rising back up, he beamed a radiant smile. "But our adventure isn't over just yet! We have one last farewell before you all flock to your incessant fireboxes to view the rest of the Tournament through that small insignificant lens.

"And fret not, because I can guarantee that we did not leave the weakest showing for last. Before now, you have all borne witness to some truly outstanding battles; but alas, that was all they were: battles.

"Today is different, today you witness no mere spectacle, today you witness history!

"And no mere simple history such as witnessing the first broadcasted Tournament. But monumental history, the kind that may redraw the world map upon its conclusion."

Even with some already expecting it, to hear the gravity so succinctly pointed out drew a collective gasp from the crowd. The words malignant knots in Picayune's stomach.

"I am bounding with excitement to introduce today, not two individuals, but icons. Symbols. For the first time in this, the Sixth Centennial Tournament, we present a battle between a human… and a mokoi."

Shock coursed through the audience.

"And we have with us not just any mokoi," Dionysus continued, savouring the tension, "but one of the oldest, most terrifying, most aggressive, and certainly the most successful mokoi to still live.

"That's right, I don't even need to go through the rest of my written intro. You know who he is.

"you know the only mokoi to storm through your continent without recompence.

"You know the one who still rules an entire nation, surrounded on all sides by his enemies.

"You know who repelled a whole eight invasion attempts with worrisome ease.

"You know whose face graces countless bulletin warnings for traipsing across your borders without consequence.

You know: The Vampire!"

The crowd stilled as the bordering arena gate rumbled open—and an unfortunately familiar face emerged.

The Vampire cut an imposing figure, taller than any man had a right to be. Slung casually over his shoulder was a gargantuan rose umbrella whose wide brim easily swallowed the pale mokoi in shade. Equipped within either hand he wielded a glaive and a trident, an unconventional combination being as it was a pair of two-handed polearms. Strapped around his neck was a pastel blue bib. On the left side of his bib was the letter 'I' stacked over the word 'your', while on the right was a large cartoonish drawing of a heart.

The Vampire studied the large omnipresent tree still left behind by the Topiary casting its generous shade. With a nod of approval, the Vampire folded his umbrella and leaned it against the trunk.

From the stands, a single brave rebel rose and hurled a half-eaten apple. It bounced once and rolled to a stop at the Vampire's feet. The act lit a spark in the crowd, none willing to bear the stain of this wicked mokoi's presence. Arms drew back in unison, ready to rain the arena with whatever hatred manifest they could grab.

Before the first of the missiles could fly, the Vampire glanced down at the apple and traced its arc back to its source. His gaze locked on the woman who had thrown it.

He cracked an entertained smile. And that simple grin was enough. The uprising died in an instant.

Dionysus, the ever-prepared host that he was, was quick to reclaim focus and reignite the once fervent atmosphere. "But fear not my friends for we have not been left alone with this beast of humanoid form. Representing the entirety of the human race we have none other than one of our best. For those untethered to the going ons of the academic world, this name may prove foreign to your ears. To the rest of you, you are keenly familiar with the second of the legendary Ken Ream The Preeminent's apprentices, some may even say his second coming. A prodigy the likes of which have only been seen before with the legendary Ken himself. I present to you the sword of humanity, Picayune Distingué: The Apprentice!"

The crowd ruptured with near-hysteric glee as the barred gate pulled up and Picayune stepped into the arena.

The walk to the arena's centre felt endless. His eyes combed the stands in search of familiar faces. In the VIP contestant box, he found the strange collection of giants he somehow came to know as friends. It appeared that the Game had used his power to somehow grant the three of them magical billboards in which they could compete to be the most supportive.

Liederkranz's sign read, knock'em dead! with an animated winking face beside it.

Poetaster's read, Make it flashy!.

While the Game's read I have a lot of money on this, and you owe me.

The sight lifted his spirit marginally, but he scanned further through the crowd for who he really wanted to see. Just as he was about to arrive at the arena's centre, he found her. Amid the roar of the crowd, he could hear nothing distinct; yet somehow, he felt that Belabor's cheers could pierce through the noise and whisper directly to him.

Emboldened, Picayune turned his eyes from the stands to his opponent, and this time, he did not cower.

"I will not hold you any further. Let the arena of Dionysus's final battle begin!"