Metz’ was not forced to walk for long before he was face to face with his new foe, some distance up ahead of him following the bank of the lake. They were destined to meet, and to fight, the sand beneath them waiting patiently, hungering for their blood. Metz hadn’t been able to spot him across the expanse of the lake, with only ordinary eye-sight and the strange hues more than capable of disguising his enemy, though now without that distorting influence Metz could investigate his foe. He seemed to have removed his clothing, perhaps a wise course considering the added weight of any equipment in this place, though Metz’ clothes were functional so he had greater cause to retain them. However he had retained his mask, an interesting affection, or perhaps more, Metz was not one to discount something as what it seemed on the surface. What couldn’t escape his attention however was the vicious looking weapon at his side, something to be avoided in close contact if he could help it.

How much distance separated them was of obvious interest to Metz, he estimated it at one hundred feet as each step caused him to slip and sink uncomfortably far into the sand. He knew that gravity was still fighting him, as he had chosen to walk on the wet sand as it resisted his footsteps more significantly, yet he still found himself sinking into the ground. Still, it was a minor inconvenience, and as he continued to breathe those fumes he was experiencing a degree of their effects. His steps became somehow lighter, and he began to perceive his surroundings in an increasingly unusual fashion. He continued regardless, he was willing to ignore the experiences, judging them something more likely to be a part of the Arena rather than something affecting him personally.

“Alright, come a little closer my masked friend and I’ll give you something to think about.” He muttered, counting the steps separating them, at fifty feet he’d quickly down a vial of pure mana.