Across multiple realities, he existed in one form or another. Often by other names, and sometimes by the same name. It was the same for everyone, everyone existed in multiple instances - multiple dimensions. A thousand recurring versions of themselves, spreading out from the first and evolving, growing to become near infinite in their capacity. He was the same, though different from most. Where most knew nothing of their other selves, he was deeply in touch with them. He learned from them, and they from him. They held some semblance of solid cohesion with one another. Yet, they rarely met - instead sharing information mind to mind, across the cosmic Multiverse that spanned between them. 

It was, in fact, how this one knew he was being challenged. A thousand versions of himself heard the call to arms, and they passed the word until they found the one who wanted it. The one being called for, the one being summoned. It wasn't a hard ritual to do so, all one had to do was call out for him - and many times they only needed to do so in their mind. He could hear it all, feel it all. This version of him held many capabilities that others didn't, and he could sense the presence of the warrior. The Court of the Fair One wasn't an unknown place to him. He'd been there more than once. Of course, the last time he'd been there was to lay the groundwork for the magic that allowed it to work. 

He and his brother, Vincent Fiorelli, spent many nights in the room etching the magic into the very foundations of it - and their intricate drawings were the reason its power worked the way it did. The Red Magister and the Lord of Flesh. They worked together in harmony, when they could stop punching one another in the face long enough to cooperate. The room pulsed with power, and yet that pulsation was the very reason none who entered had power. Aside from the basic melee capabilities, and some minor enhancements to their melee strengths, magic faltered as soon as it lost connection with the flesh that spawned it. So, he was weary of going there. 

Yet, he couldn't just turn back from a challenge. He had to travel, and so he mustered his strength and shifted his right hand. The miniscule movements of his fingers contracted, shifting one across the other. Awkward, odd drawings in the air just below his waist. The power flowed white hot thorugh his veins, pulsing through his body. It exerted itself from his fingertips, and the drawing of etched runes emblazeoned on the very fabric of reality, opening a doorway. 

Through the door he stepped, dropping a hundred feet and through the cosmic outline, into the pocket dimension that held the Court. His knees bent on impact, and he straightened himself back up. His hand reaching for the door handle, preparing to pull it open. And then his eyes caught the note left for him, and his hand instead shifted to rip it off the wall. His eyes scanned it, and he smiled. It seemed he was here to fight a child, something he wasn't accustomed to doing - but not adverse to either. 

Once again, he reached out with both hands - his sword held in place by the string of damned souls, hilt rising just over his right shoulder - and massive blade nearly dragging the ground. His hands grasped the ornate handles, and even as he touched them he felt something change. The power was dying inside of him, shadows stopped seeming unreal - and once more rooted themselves in reality. 

He smiled, knowing that the time was come to fight one who could not match him - and so had to bring him down to his level. It happened more often than he liked, but he would deal with it. He had a near infinite well of experience, of combat to draw upon. If the man thought removing his ability to use his ranged powers, to use the full scope of his might, was going to give him an advantage...he was mistaken. 

The massive doors swung open violently, nearly ripping themselves from the hinges. His footfalls on the floor resonated, loud and vehement in their intensity. The metal-tipped boots, the tightened jean-like material. His unprotected chest, sweat already glistening though he ignored the heat. Long, white hair flowed down past his shoulders and his grey eyes angled themselves to search every nook and cranny, seeking out the pests that often plagued men fighting in this place. 

And then he heard the braying call of what he could only assume to be his opponent, the one who demanded he fight him. To his surprise, it was not a child - though it still appeared quite like a petulent youngling seeking the favor of a beloved master. A pet, if you would, who yet remained untamed. Allowing the call to carry on, he finally responded after the man finished. 

[i]"Knock off your screaming, child. I'm here. You got any beer?"[/i] It was already evident, Lysander had no intention of taking this one seriously.