The cliffs were lush with trees and greenery, fat, heavy branches drooping in the humid air and silhouettes if bushes peering through the thick, warm fog. It was a serene place, untouched and pure; a small lake hidden in the crevice of a giant mountain, where only a few dim rays of sunlight peered in through the dense foliage. There, at the trees' roots, almost invisible in the darkness save for a faint orange glow emanating from his chest, sat the Grand Master of the Aether Storm Monks, Gartenga Nanka Ijok. 

He was immersed in contemplation, entering an almost meditative state as he cut himself off the present and turned to the past. Whenever he felt his mind was ripe enough for it again, filled with fresh food for thought, he would halt his nomadic travels across the multiverse and settle down a in a place where he could spend his time in peace and solitude, relishing the new experiences; savoring the knowledge. He had been under the skies of thousands of planets and witnessed the lives of the civilizations they birthed, imprinting them into his memory. If one were lucky, they could ask him, and Ijok would them tell a long, rich story, stitched together from his countless journeys; one filled with epic battles, in which entire nations were born and defeated, tales of dreadful beasts, walking in the skin of both man and animal alike, and the kind of lessons only life itself can tell. 

But this story has reached the ears of very few, the Grand Master being very reluctant to share his knowledge: when not even a century old, he was still glad and eager to share his wisdom, but it always fell on deaf ears, history taking its toll, and the cycle of life turning round despite the best of his efforts. Even when Ijok managed to make himself more than just a grain of sand stuck on the multiverse’s cogwheels, any rise he brought was always followed by a plummeting downfall. Since then, it became a rare privilege to receive guidance from him.

And then, there is fighting. Gartenga loves it with a burning passion, putting his skills to good use by beating the crap out of anybody he doesn’t like. Instead of resolving conflicts with words, he most often does so with violence, thoroughly enjoying the process; for a monk, his gross indulgence in bloodshed is indeed surprising...

[hr]

Ijok's muscles bulged from underneath his torn garb, a thin film of blood spread across his body. "You're not the first, and you're not the last, Hanuman. Need i say more?" - he growled, posture conveying all: a shouldered axe, his free arm slightly bent and fist clenched, back slightly hunched and chin tucked in. Hanuman laughed, ripping off a battered, bent pauldron of his shoulder, and brought his sword's tip in line with Ijok's conduit. "I know your kin well enough not to fall for any cheap tricks. If i were you, i wouldn't be so certain i'd survive this fight." Taking a step closer, the warrior pressed his blade into the Grand Master's chest.

Ijok twisted his hips around, bringing the sword parallel to his body, and slid past its tip, slinging his axe down at his opponent's neck - but Hanuman evaded just as deftly, drawing the blade and cutting deep into his armpit. Ijok ignored what would've been a grievous wound for any human warrior and grabbed the weapon with his hand, pulling it's wielder closer. His axe rammed into the armor, liquifying upon contact and slipping in through the gaps, wrapping itself around Hanuman's chest.

The fool was arrogant, thinking too much, too much of himself. Maybe his conquest had been successful so far, but soon enough, his army would loose their leader. No matter how strong it was on its own, what had driven this force had been this man, and without him, it would scatter, falling easy prey to numerous enemies. Yes, Ijok always knew how to be at the right place and at the right time. What once had been his axe - now a complete extension of his body - solidified into a band of muscles, ready to crush Hanuman's ribs and drive them through his heart and lungs. Pulling his enemy even closer, he spoke, staring him in the eyes with his blank, featureless face: "Before seeking power, temper your mind for it. I'm sick of seeing buffoonish twats that have no other goals but their inane glory fantasies."

[hr]

Suddenly, his attention went elsewhere, the Grand Master sensing a disturbance in the aether, a concentration of power so intense it seemed to rip apart the fabric of time itself. This sort of intrusion was certainly unexpected, but nonetheless intriguing.  Standing up, he observed as from the rift, a skeletal being emerged, its amethyst energy seeming vaguely familiar.

[color=8493ca]“I am Skallagrim, and you are a skilled and worthy warrior, you are invited to attend the Nexus of Worlds Tournament. When you are ready merely call my name and I shall open the gate to the Nexus of Worlds.” [/color]


The being spoke, and Ijok finally recognized a Dreamer in him. Folding his arms behind his back, the Grand Master gave him a respectful bow.

“I am ready now, Skallagrim. Please open the gates for me.”