[center][h3][color=138808]Knight Sylvestre[/color][/h3]
[b]Location: the Neighborhood[/b][/center]

While awash in mist and blind to the world, Cyril gave an involuntary jerk when the peal of a loud bell thundered through the room.  He wondered, with a scowl beneath his facemask, if all the smoke and sound was meant to unnerve every competitor, or him in particular.  As luck would have it, he did not find an answer; instead, he found a lantern exploding at his feet, sending up a plume of smoke and powder that mixed with the white fog to create a surreal and rather disorienting visual experience.  With a fit of coughing, he stumbled forward, but managed to keep himself from moving too far by jamming the butt of his halberd into the ground.  By the time the vanguard's head finished swimming, he'd processed the fact that instead of clanging off tile, his weapon's shaft had stuck in what felt like dirt, and the reason quickly became apparent.  The unpleasant air around him cleared to astound him with the sight of some kind of strange village, nothing at all like the place he'd been in only seconds before.

Cyril gave a furtive look from side to side.  Nothing at all moved, so with a sigh of muted aggravation he lifted up his facemask to take a proper look around.  He stood on a stretch of neglected grass just in front of a sandy lot filled with all sorts of strange, colorful metal constructs.  A couple hundred feet in front lay one of the houses, beyond it lay house after house, and a great paved road separated it from another row of its fellows.  Though unambiguously a place of residence, it was like nothing Cyril had ever seen before.  The houses looked sturdy, large, and downright [i]nice[/i].  Each retained its own patch of lawn, an assortment of plants, and exteriors of brick with windows.  Back in Malingurd, such a domicile would have put even a noble's to shame.  [i]How much would one of these cost!?  Do normal people in this place actually live in little palaces like these?  Houses made of brick, with windows of glass, and tons of room?[/i]  That said, there was every indication that not a single one of these homes contained anyone living in them.  Various open doors, the sorry state of the gardens, and toys and vehicles laying where they'd fallen all seemed out of place for a populated zone.  He couldn't make out much over the roofs of the houses, but in one direction, numerous tall, dark spires obscured the dark-clouded horizon.

As he leaned against his polearm, taking stock of the situation, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rising.  His frown deepened as he glanced around once again, figuring that someone -or something- might be watching him.  Nothing seemed out of place, but rather than assuaging his fear, this conclusion intensified it.  If anything could be relied upon in the world, it was the wisdom that if something could go wrong it would, and that if something seemed to good to be true, it was.  Accordingly, Cyril widened his search to rooftops, way down the street, and behind him.  Even in the strange lot where he could picture children playing, nothing jumped out at him as dangerous.  Finally, owing to his experience dealing with flying demons, tree gremlins, and other such nasties, he did the unthinkable: he looked up.  

Plummeting toward him at a terrifying speed was a giant, dark shape.

“Uuuuuuuuugh!” Expelling all his breath at once, Cyril powered straight through the urge to freeze in place and leaped backward.  A radiant luster washed over his armor, and what had been little more than a flat-footed tumble became a world-class evasive maneuver that spanned a whole ten meters, and not a second too soon.  With a deafening crash, the falling object smashed into the playground, instantly crushing all its equipment and throwing up a cloud of dust.  Black and white bricks flew in every direction, and scarcely had the vanguard touched down on the sidewalk than one sailed his way.  Cyril instinctively ducked his head and pivoted his body to the left, and the hunk of masonry slammed into his shield.  It jarred him, but considering the alternatives, he felt pretty happy about it.  More bricks flew his way, and with practiced precision he swung his halberd to cleave one in two.  A wild, foolish grin came to his face, even as he reasoned that he wouldn't have been able to hit it had it not be in a tailspin, and that the impact probably dulled his weapon.  

After that, while the dust still billowed, no other debris attacked him.  He took a step forward to try and make out what the mess was supposed to be, but he couldn't tell.  All he could find was a torn banner, its standard the shape of gears.  So intent was Cyril that he didn't notice another thing flying nearby until it spoke.  “Hiya!”

The night span to face the new threat, halberd-point extended.  He discovered that the voice belonged to some kind of floating contraption.  Were it not for the circumstances, he might have expressed amazement, but for the moment all he replied with was, “Halt!  Who are you and what is your purpose?”

Quizzically, the drone tilted to the side.  Its purple eye remained fixed on Cyril's glaive as it gave the sound of laughter.  “Neheheheh!  That temple really must have had it in for you.  You've got a pretty good eye, ol' chap!”  A light shone from the machine's forehead area, making a spectral tapestry that displayed the imagine of a smiling guy about Cyril's own age sitting in a chair, holding up his head in his hand.  “I'm Oren, the tournament's announcer.  Just thought I'd pop over and say hi!  So you know, your first opponent is somewhere in this neighborhood.  Find him, beat him, get this little box of loot.  Easy as that!  Have a good 'knight'!”  Cackling, the flying machine rose up and away.  Cyril watched it go, a rueful expression on his face.  As punchable as the person summoning that magic tapestry was, he had a point.  Standing around and almost getting crushed by falling debris wouldn't make for a better world no matter what world Cyril was in.

He gripped his glaive in both hands, chose a direction, and began to walk.

[b][i]Opponent: the Insufferable Genius[/i][/b]

[center][h3]Queen of Terror[/h3]
[b]Location: Hidden Settlement[/b]
[@Lmpkio][/center]

Smoother than an owl, though not as quiet, the drone navigated through the trees.  Set to autopilot for the time being, its directive steered it toward the mutant human known as Fran.  Thanks to the GPS chip planted within her phylactery, her exact coordinates showed up in the computer system inside the announcer's box that directed the machines when Oren wasn't in the process of seizing control for commentating purposes.  No matter how stealthy the sniper, she couldn't hide from the Inquisitional College.  In a matter of seconds -fifty seconds, to be precise- the drone zeroed in on her location.  Made aware of the acquisition, Oren briefly switched to the drone's perspective, and after a moment of confusion spotted Fran almost invisible among the leaves of a thick, healthy elm tree.  Like any good sniper, she was peering down her sights, scanning the logging station that lay only a couple dozen meters in front of her.  The implications of her position stirred Oren from worriedly ruminating about the extra arms supposedly beneath her cloak, and he took control of the drone to send it skyward.  

After emerging from the canopy, he remotely dialed up the onboard microphone, then called out, “Evening, ladies!  You might not know it, dragon girl, but a certain someone is only a couple seconds away from having you in her sights.  With all the tension in the air, I might as well getcha started now.  Looks like it'll be an exciting game of cat and mouse...will the deadeye put enough holes in the Queen of Terror to take her down before the firebreather flushes her out?  Let's find out.  Ready?  Go!”  His magnified shout faded away into the fog-choked forest's smothering silence, leaving Ghidorah and Franceska to duke it out in the moist, cold dark.  

[center][h3]Blackjack[/h3]
[b]Location: The Village[/b]
[@Deadnaut][/center]

The razor-sharp optic fibers of the drone did not fail to notice a strange-looking newcomer as he pushed his way inside the bar.  Slow Dancers' was the only place in the Commercial District, and perhaps the entire city, to retain its people following the unknown catastrophe that rendered the lonesome City of Echoes uninhabited, but its customers did not come or go.  Like the willing prisoners in the land of the lotus-eaters, and the residents of the infamous Hotel California, they displayed no interest or even ability to change their situation.  From the moment the bar appeared in the Village to the moment it faded away at sunrise, its patrons talked, laughed, played cards or billiards, and drank.  That meant that a new face meant only one thing: conflict.

As it was, the drone did not move immediately.  Busy as he was with thirty-two different feeds to cycle through, Oren took a moment to receive the signal from the drone that bespoke of a brewing storm, and to path himself through to the parked flying machine.  The moment he did, the drone perked up, but the announcer held his tongue.  For another minute or two, the peaceful atmosphere prevailed.  Both the sorcerer and the soldier worked to satisfy their thirst, casual even with a person destined to fight them less than five feet away.  Here, in this strange but comfortable place, the two could share a moment of respect before they had to get to business.  All good things, however, had to come to an end, and Blackjack broke the quiet moment first.  The beginning notes of a laidback song, not quite loud enough to be disruptive, filled the bar, and the two men traded a few words.  Oren received the go-ahead, and the drone's fans lifted it into the air.  It hovered a few feet away, turned to face the competitors, and said, “Gentlemen.  It seems we're in for a saloon showdown.  Let's keep it clean; I can see that both of you are preparing a preemptive strike.  Neheh...something tells me things won't be that simple.”

The drone's arm rose up, pincers spread far apart.  “May the best man win.”  Oren pressed a button, and the drone's pincers slammed together with a loud [i]clack[/i]--not quite a starting pistol, but no doubt it would do.

[center][h3]Angry Dragon, Garbage[/h3]
[b]Location: No-Man's Land[/b]
[@obliviousRoadie][@ColouredCyan][/center]

Oren's eyelid twitched.  For a split second, a baleful black iris was visible, but no longer.  With the less-than-ideal resolution of the video feed, even that would have a hard time communicating itself to either contestant, provided one was even watching him rather than the prospective opponent.  The chipper grin upon the young man's face, meanwhile, did not waver.  “...Huh!  Guess it'll be a short one, then!”  Turning to look at the one called Angry Dragon, the drone relayed to Oren an expression on the man's face that fit him to a T.  “Take it away, maestro!”