“Fascinating.”

The wiry gentleman’s voice was filled with genuine interest, curiosity piqued by subtle mentions of some sort of curse or consequence had always served to arouse such feelings in the explorer in the past. Ancient temples of long extinct peoples always had to include a curse, an oft-times empty threat designed to deter one from seeking the riches within. In Mathew’s case, he had discovered the threats were not always empty promises, but the age-old adage once burned twice as shy did not apply to a spirit such as his. Likely he would keep going, keep searching and prying, until he met an unfortunate end. Until then, he’d live each day to the fullest.

Invitation in hand, the British explorer sought out the tournament of this Liaison. When he set his mind to a task, he found he was awfully good at achieving it, and obtaining entry was easier than most of the more outlandish pursuits he had undertaken in his short life. For him, a mostly rational man, the entryway was a solid limestone arch descending into the bowels of the earth, and as he passed through some unseen portal his surroundings changed completely, causing the hairs to raise on the nape of his neck. In excitement.

He cut an unusual figure to any watching the entrants to the lobby, but by no means was he as remarkable as many who had proceeded him. Of average height and quite slender, his clothes were functional but also quite fashionable, a light brown hide jacket and black trousers adorned his frame and he wore classic knee-high boots. His only noticeable weapon seemed to entail two overly large lead bolas attached to a belt across his shoulder. Despite his profession, he was clean cut and well groomed, and inclined his head respectfully to the receptionist.

“Mathew Hawthorne at your service, I have an invitation.”