Suddenly, he hurls the award across the room, as if it were the cause of his anger rather than a sign of promotion, and the pleasure of his superiors. “To the pits with medals, promotions, and wizard-crystals!” he growls as he turned away to lean against the banister overlooking Westran’s battle-stage. The crowds had only grown after the extravagance of the last three fights. Extravagance which had taken keen planning by Westran and the odd assortment of men who chose to master his events. Another wince crosses the legionnaire’s grizzled face as an image of one of those ‘men’ strayed into his thoughts; and an image of Ivan Zagad destroying a flamboyant bard caused him to wince once more. “Destroyed in a wash of acid and hatred.” He mumbles to himself.

It was only after the infamous maze-battle that he had learned what steps Zagad had taken to enforce the rules of ‘his’ competition. Steps whose vileness spread throughout the gladiators of the pit like wildfire and caused a certain look to enter their eyes as he passed them in its shifting halls: a look he could only interpret as accusation; of betrayed trust. “It is no wonder they left, those valiant combatants.” Flamboyant Meliquiades, although raised back to life, never recovered from the violence of that last encounter, and Dis Loveth the pistol wielding holy man openly denounced the evil which had infested the competition. Both took their leave without pause. Only the statuesque Ralmauthar remained of the original maze-combatants, and even he seemed changed somewhat: less arrogant, less self-sure.

Almost by chance, Alsimane’s eyes came to rest on the listings of the new combats to take place this evening and he sighed, raising his gaze. Here tonight were two new combatants however…. there were always new heroes waiting to prove themselves on the pit’s blooded soil. Although they seemed of foreign ways and strange tongues, perhaps in them there could be a path towards some new beginnings, perhaps they can rise to fill the void he had come to feel since Meliquaides and Dis Loveth had left.

The legionnaire captain strode across the sands of the central pit and raised his voice above the tumult of the crowd: “Ladies and Gentlemen of the planes! Welcome to the Pit of Westran and the first combat of this new season!” The eruption of the spectators rose to a deafening wave. “Tonight, we have for you two of the newest warriors of the pit. Eagar to prove themselves to you in battle! From afar, they have come to the bloodsands, bringing with them methods exotic and unknown to entertain and amaze! Patrons of the Pit! I bring you, Aoshi - self-proclaimed champion of the Emerald Dragon Clan and Matsu Akahito the Stranger! Combatants, advance!”

Stepping from the shadows of the eastern gate strides the form of Aoshi: a human male with a slender, yet athletic body. Emerald eyes contrast with skin of an almost golden hue; shimmering unobstructed across his shaven scalp save for a top-knot of gloss-black hair, and the tattoo of dragon in vivid green about his right eye: spiraling round to disappear beneath his chain shirt. A thin moustache and goatee hang around his jaw. A greatsword on a diagonal across his back glows softly with an emerald light.

From the western gate, comes the man who could only be Matsu Akahito. Coming only to his opponent’s shoulder, hazel eyes burn up at his intended enemy, taking special note of the glowing hilt protruding above his left shoulder. Clad in curious partial armor and a yellow sash with a stylized lion across his chest. His own topknot sways as he comes to a halt in the center of the ring. An ornate shortsword and bastardsword of alien design rest together on his left hip. Held out before him in a vice-like grip, he grasps a cloak covered in arcane sigils. He scowls at it as if it were a dire serpent.

Alsimane exchanges quiet words with the competitors in the middle of the ring, and immediately Aoshi bows and bursts into movement. Spinning gracefully, the warrior demonstrates his skill for the crowd: jabbing and kicking in the air about him with hands, elbows and feet only to whirl into an armed maelstrom as his great two-handed blade comes to his grip. Then as suddenly as he had begun, he is finished. He nods to Matsu, indicating his readiness.

Matsu bows stiffly to Alsimane, and then to his opponent. His grimace hardens if possible as does his glare at the glowing blade in his opponent’s grasp. With a dramatic sweep of his arms he throws his voice up to the crowd. “Do you see it!?! Do you see how this man flaunts his foul weapon? Filled with the taint that threatens the natural world: Magic! Pfah!” He then barks. “I am Matsu Akahito, Samurai of the Lion Clan! Render of magic!” Then pointing an accusing figure at Aoshi he yells: “I will defeat you and before your broken body I will remove the threat of your tainted blade from this world forever! Like so!” Into the air flies the cloak from Matsu’s gauntlet, but before it can drift to the ground both his ornate blades flick into his outstretched hands and, with a prolonged howl of power flash scissor-quick across and through the mystic material. A flare of arcane brilliance marks the destruction of the item. The samurai seems to draw strength from its annihilation, and revel in the thought of the upcoming conflict.

Staring in something close to wonder, Alsimane only shakes his head. Gesturing brusquely, he sends both competitors to their starting places. Then he calls out words he had only learnt that hour. “Hong! Chung! Ipsung!”. Both participants bow once more. And then, with his hand dropping knife-edged he calls “Seejack!” and the competitors leap forward into battle, as he steps away.

Aoshi leaps forward in a series of jagged gymnastic lunges, attempting to close the distance between he and his opponent, while proving as difficult a target as possible to whatever missle fire might be leveled at him. Matsu, however, shows no interest in fighting from a distance. With a mighty yell he hurls himself full towards his opponent, the regal blade of his bastard sword held before him like a lance. Two handed, he thrusts at his nimble opponent, but with nimble grace Aoshi manages to turn in mid-air such that the blade merely scrapes roughly across the front of his chain shirt, drawing sparks.

Vaulting backward, Aoshi whirls his magical blade in a careful circle about him and jabs defensively at his foe: a defensive jab which cuts through his opponents defenses and plunges full into the meat of his thigh. Only a snarl escapes Matsu’s lips at first, however as soon as the wound is made, Aoshi twists his blade malevolently. A full-throated howl comes from the mouth of the samurai warrior.

The crowd boos and howls in delight, dependant on their disposition, as the dirty tactics register on them, only to shriek again as Matsu stands and with razor quickness slashes once across the exposed left arm of the dragon clan champion, creating an equally impressive if not so obviously painful wound.

Aoshi takes stock of his opponent’s condition, and then, slides quickly beneath his guard to sweep his legs out from under him. His emerald eyes widen in shock however as, with incredible strength his regal opponent counters the maneuver, and sends him crashing to the ground in his stead. Bringing his blade up once more, Matsui drives it’s point down without mercy towards his prone opponent, only to have it skitter once more across the chain-link of the tattooed man’s amour, bringing no effect.

Leaping to his feet again, Aoshi whirls in a defensive pattern and once more swings his blade in a two handed parry. Once more this half-effort is enough to pierce his opponent’s guard and send him staggering back, a dark stain spreading out from his side. As if predetermined however, Matsu steps forward, blade high and, with a flash, Aoshi is holding his hand to the side of his neck where a crimson line begins to gout threateningly.

Twice more the warriors exchange volleys, magic ked blade meeting ornate steel. Then once more Aoshi, champion of the emerald dragon ,clan slips beneath his opponent’s defenses. This time it is Matsu who falls to the ground, and this time it is Aoshi who raises his blade two-handed to finish his opponent.

This time, the blade plunges with effect.

Alsimane shakes his head as he drops down from his seat on top of the pit wall and walks towards the center of the quickly emptying pit. Kneeling on the sands, he reaches down to touch the blood of Matsu: blood already drying into the sands. Rolling the sticky substance between his fingers, he sighs, his gaze far away. Then to no one in particular, he comments. “Not much like our departed heroes after all, it would seem.”