Shaking off the Dust

[Psiko]

OOC: It has been a LONG while since we've had one of these going. Anyone who wants to play out a fight to the end is welcome to join. I'm only really likely to be able to post on Wednesdays, so as long as you can post during the six days between then we can have this carry on through for however long it needs.

Pillars of chalky marble encircle Eli as he walks across the deserted arena. Large chunks of stone, some bigger than Eli's head, lay by the ancient stone decor. A statue of Caesar, missing its head, towers in the center of the arena. Eli turns, looking around at row upon row of vacant seats stretching up and out. This arena hasn't seen violence in centuries. Civilization has become more civilized than the brutal massacres of the Coliseums. Instead of chariots and lions and gladiators we now use guns and grenades and bombs.

But not Eli. Modern warfare bores him. True grace in battle was found in ancient times, among the Roman Legions, the Greek Phalanxes, the Japanese Samurai. It is to these warriors whom Eli has dedicated his studies of battle. He draws a line in the sand with his black katana, then another line, and two more joining together. A box, not unlike the shape he envisions during meditation. He sits inside the drawn box, sword resting in his lap, waiting in peaceful meditation.

He is here to test his skill. His competition will be arriving soon. The primitive part of him aches to draw blood. To feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins. To be a dealer in death.

Tonight there will be blood. Eli opens one eye, fixating on the headless statue.

Caesar, we who are about to die salute you.

[Zardoch]

Moving within the layers of reality, Gydaon found his interest piqued at the strange sight of a man sitting within the ruins of what he remembered were lively moments in their time of blood and entertainment. Nostalgically reminiscent, visions of both great and lesser men played out in his ethereal mind like a slideshow of moving frames, creating a sense of sorrow as each memory played out the cruelty of each death. It seemed strange to someone such as himself how honor was pieced together among the men who claimed victory, especially when there were foreign enemies on their doorsteps. Gydaon sighed, then breathed in what elements were near to disperse his thoughts to the back of his mind. He could linger no longer.

Yet as he was about to shift through the spaces of this world, another thought whispered a suggestion to him. It questioned his decision to simply leave the man alone, arousing his inquisitive nature until his ethereal heart pounded inside his alien chest. Why was this man, a warrior by the looks of it, waiting in an abandoned arena? The principle of Occam's razor told him that a man with a sword in an arena sought only one thing. A battle? Gydaon thought. There are easier ways to start a fight in this age. What does he truly seek?

Gydaon stepped closer to Eli to examine the blade in his lap, it's dark color possibly symbolizing something special. Then his triangularly-shaped eyes found Eli's, trying to grasp the man's intention. Frustrated, the ethereal being let out a greater sigh before stepping back once more ten feet. Curiosity would delay his appointment, but like the child he was he dared not to defy it. The man had challenged him.

Light burst forth through a ripple of space as it folded apart like the splitting of a river, pulling backwards upon the Aegisarian's skin. His body slowly, but surely materialized from the fifth dimension where he had stood, to create his three-dimensional form, which once finished appeared less intimidating than the illuminated display. Gydaon was a short humanoid of 5'6" with a light tan skin and shoulder-length hair formed like the clouds themselves, though it reflected a light of every color within the prism's spectrum. His triangular pupils were lit up similarly, shrinking as they attuned to the earth's light. What was odd, however, was the white suit that he wore, having no tie and multiple patches or cuts sown with white threads as if the suit itself had already been through battle. A pair of white converse sneakers completed this attire, giving him a Dr. Who kind of look.

"You know, there are better places to start a fight," He finally said. "Places where people who where white can keep themselves clean."