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Vector enters the maintenance tunnels. As soon as he noticed Alice was missing, he pumped his Observation and Nimbleness up to 12, to try his hardest to pick up her trail and prevent her getting the drop on him, in case she had gone rogue. Fairly soon, he had noticed a foul odor, and he followed his nose to the tunnels where it got a little bit worse instead of a little bit better.
He takes the steps slowly and silently, wishing like Hell for a dagger or a pistol - anything but a quarterstaff in this cramped space, half-giant that he is. It would be even worse stowed on his back, though, as that would hem in his movements even more harshly; and while he might do OK with his bare hands, he hesitates to leave the staff behind. It is a mighty fine staff, after all.
As he nears the bottom of the stairwell, he notices a deep purple line, faint in the subterranean gloom, stretched across the floor of the hall and racing toward him. He draws up short into the best defensive posture he can manage, and casts Rearrange Attributes to prepare for a close-quarters fight. Then the line is past him, and everything seems… fine?
A nice man strides swiftly up to him, raises a hand placidly, and says, “Bind.”
Phyr watches from the skybox as the hex-snare finally gets one over on the ether-knight with a well-placed Hold, leaving her unable to take movement actions but still able to speak and fight. But then the hex-snare lashes out with his kusarigama - Phyr would call it “a hook with a chain thing on the end” - and the weighted end of the chain flies at the ether-knight’s face. She catches it easily, but then with a flick of his wrist, the chain is looped around her arm and drawn taut, pulling her off-balance as his Hold roots her feet in place. The hex-snare moves in an arc away from her sword arm while making swift, precise hand-over-hand motions that both wind the chain up in his left hand and draw him closer to the rooted ether-knight. Then his blade slices through the air and bites into the back of her knee, right in the joint of her armor.
A gasp rises in the crowd at the first decisive strike of the match - and then, strangely, a nice man hops the railing and takes the field. The combatants do not entirely stop fighting as he approaches them, but they pause in confusion. Now within arm’s reach of them both, the nice man raises an open hand to each of them and says something inaudible.
The fighters disappear.
Not in a puff of smoke, or a flash of ether - they’re simply gone. Edric and Phyr, watching the field with intent curiosity, turn to each other and share a look of recognition: towns across Altilluvia have been disappearing, they have been unable to determine precisely when or how; but just like Noob Town, they vanished without a trace. Dispatching additional guards was of no help, and soon the disappearances were very close indeed. On Phyr’s suggestion, the two of them decided to go ask Alice, but she was unable to say much more than they had already figured out - and with the tournament fast approaching, any delay or derailment would delegitimize Edric’s declaration of rule, and so was out of the question.
Their glance over, they look back down to the field, and Guise breaks: the hooded man stands before them, looking squarely up at their skybox, his feet shoulder-width apart and looking like he wants a fight. Suddenly back on alert, dozens of guards take the field and advance in a constricting formation on the stranger. He raises a hand and bellows, “ERASURE,” then sweeps his hand around in an arc - and just like that, no more guards.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer says, “Please do not be alarmed. It appears that-”
“Erasure!” A hole suddenly appears in the announcer’s box, striking clean through, and the voice stops abruptly. Edric draws his revolver and looks again to Phyr; they share a nod, and spring into action. Phyr casts Etherwing and Mana Armor before rocketing into the sky, and Edric casts Hedge and Vault as he mantles over the rail of the skybox. Sighting down Caveat Emptor as he falls, he fires a warning shot at the stranger’s feet before touching down in a superhero landing. The gunshot reverberates in the stadium, the crowd stone silent and stock still as their High King and his pet god take to the field.
Edric rises from one knee to look disdainfully at the intruder while Phyr circles around behind him; then he raises his revolver and says, “You have one chance to explain yourself. Who are you?”
“I am Scourge. I have come for Phyr.”
“Fire? Like, a campfire?” Edric stares in confusion.
Scourge raises a gloved hand to the bridge of his nose in consternation and says, “No, the destined hero flying around up there like a jackass. Leave him to face me alone, and you shall live.”
Edric draws back the hammer of Caveat Emptor and levels it at the man’s chest, saying, “Pal, I think you seriously misunderstand who’s in danger here.”
Scourge draws his hand back in a fist, and says, “La-” BANG! BANG! BANG!
“I said one chance,” Edric repeats, narrowing his eyes as the stranger staggers back to one knee and the gunshots echo in the stadium.
“And I explained myself,” Scourge says, squaring his stance and glowering at Edric from beneath his ragged hood. He flicks his wrist, and something flutters in the air to Edric’s right - his gaze is drawn for but a moment, and Scourge moves with alarming speed to Edric’s left, grabbing his arm and putting him face down with a solid hip toss before he can recover his aim.
Phyr watches from above, letting Edric do his little song and dance before springing into action himself. He hears Scourge refer to him as Phyr, and his blood runs cold - the last thing he needs is to have his cover blown this late in the game. He is almost relieved when the fighting starts, and Edric fires three shots squarely into Scourge’s chest. From on high, Phyr can hear the ricochets underneath the deafening gunshots. But Scourge recovers, and tosses a handful of grass into the air that distracts Edric just long enough for him to dash to his side in a deep purple streak and toss him to the ground. Christ, that guy can move, he thinks.
In the ensuing melee, Phyr can’t get a spell off without risk of hitting Edric, and doesn’t dare join in for fear of being shot himself - or worse, being laid low by this twerp in rags, and undermining his credibility before the masses. So he watches and learns as the two dance around each other, revolver versus energy whip: Edric’s Hedge mitigates anything but a close melee attack, and his Vault allows him to keep some distance and get the occasional shot off. Scourge’s armor reduces the gunshots to the force of a decent punch, and he can close almost any gap in a heartbeat - but he doesn’t seem to have put together that his whip is a distance melee attack, and so deflected by Hedge. He would actually be better off sticking to grapples and throws.
But then Edric has to reload, and as soon as he pauses to do so, Scourge says, “Warp!” Hedge protects Edric, not his weapon, and the spell hits home as Caveat Emptor crumples into uselessness in his hand. As Scourge dispenses with his whip and rushes in, the High King takes a flurry of punishing blows that seem to be magically enhanced. After the onslaught, Scourge lifts Edric bodily above his head, and flies wingless into the air to dump him unceremoniously back in his skybox. “Stay down,” he spits, “And I won’t kill you.”
Phyr braces as Scourge rises to his level, and the pair circle in the air for a wordless moment before Scourge says, “So, Phyr - alone at last.”
“Do I… know you?” Scourge grins wickedly beneath his hood - How can he see with that thing so low, Phyr thinks - and begins a slow Villainous Laugh™. I can’t risk any powerful spells up here - we’re above the Walls and Shields of the arena, and I might hit the spectators. Why aren’t they fleeing, anyway? And where in Blue Hell are Vector and Alice? He draws Usher and mentally prepares for an aerial melee, grateful for the opportunity to focus while Scourge laughs like an asshole.
But as soon as Usher is drawn, burning with green flames in the daylight, the laughter stops. “Rude of you, I think,” Scourge says gravely, “To take a man’s sword, desecrate it for yourself, and not even remember him.” He draws back his hood, and recognition dawns on Phyr’s face: beneath the grime, the dried blood, and the unkempt facial hair, he is most certainly staring at the face of Nathanael Thorn.
“But - I killed you,” Phyr says.
“Rumors of my death, yadda yadda,” Scourge replies. As they continue to circle each other slowly, he grins and continues. “Fun Fact: any spell that gains mana for the caster can be cast with no mana, as long as doing so gains more than the spell’s cost.”
“So when I hit you with that Mana Beam-”
“-I countered with Spellfeast.”
“Jesus,” Phyr says, doing some quick math, “So a hundred thousand mana - that’s like, what, ten levels?”
“After filling my mana and health, thereabouts. And anything that causes a five-level jump, or more, allows a power form.”
“So what did you pick,” Phyr asks derisively, “God of shit-bags?”
“Void-heart, actually,” Scourge says, shrugging it off. “Not that you’ll live long enough to appreciate the finer points. Lash.” As Scourge clenches his right fist, a tendril of deep purple energy extends like a ten-foot whip. He twirls it about in a figure-eight pattern, keeping it moving on both sides of himself.
Phyr grips Usher in both hands and says, “Etherblade.” The green flames flare brighter, and he looks for an opening - but Scourge periodically twirls his Lash in another direction, making it hard to predict his movements. As they jockey for position in the open air, moving up, down, left, right, back, and advancing again, Phyr eventually decides that it’s now or never and rushes in.
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