As it happened, Metz burst out from the surface of the water on one knee, rising a good two feet into the open air riding a four foot wide pillar of earth. He arrived in time to catch his now standing opponent berating him, obviously injured but not badly so, and the Mage’s answering grin was purely vicious. It was in part a subterfuge however, Metz was burning through his Mana and he hadn’t managed to deal the wounds he had been expecting, it was a worrying state of affairs. His saturated clothes were heavy across his body, weighing him down even more to the point where he could no longer be confident of outrunning his foe. He sighed, breathing in deeply, growing lightheaded as if he had inhaled tobacco fumes rather than ordinary air. The area around him took on an oddly vibrant hue as he shook himself, remaining low and concealing his actions as he began to weave with his left hand. His foe had chosen to remain stationary for as long as he’d been watching him, if he remained thus for but a second longer a red circle would form around him, possibly signalling it was already too late. 

“Strange, you didn’t seem like an amateur at first. Did you bribe your way to this stage of the tournament?” Metz called to him across the water, the language barrier overcome by the Dreamer’s strange realm as they wished for combatants to be able to converse, perhaps to heighten their amusement. His insult was petty, but there was an inkling that his foe had a heightened sense of self –worth, perhaps enough that he would pause to answer the Mage’s jibe, perhaps not.