[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/tYN12hM.png[/img][/center]
Mentions - N/A
Interactions - N/A.
[hr]

The roar of a crowd, a ceaseless tempest of noise and splendor presented upon a bloodied stage. Exclamations were barely audible beneath a mist of cheers, as if a tune one ought dance to, and dance they did, fighters of the ring. Fists and powers entwined to allow for duels some may have considered dishonorable, for there was only a single rule presented; do not kill your opponent. Illegal in the highest of regards, superpowered freaks ‘beating the shit out of each other’ as Willow had so gleefully expressed, was not an activity condoned or allowed by the government. Yet, here they were, fighters and spectators among sweat, blood, and conflict. A haven for those drawn to such depravity, a fight club. “Come on, you fucking corpse!” A voice rang out, piercing an overlying layer of sound, “I bet money on you!” 

Willow’s spindly hand moved atop a dirt stained floor, the boy pushing himself up from its surface with a nigh weightless motion, his movements allowing the Wraith safety of a dodge mere moments before a rock hard fist rammed itself into the ground. Cracks followed the devastating blow, a wide, sharp toothed smirk bridging across Willow’s features where he stood, a taunting motion accompanying such an expression, hand beckoning towards his opponent. 

It was a giant of a man, his skin clad in rock and grime, slow movements compensated by immense force follow through with every punch. “Little shit..,” the combatant spat, “I’ll fucking end you.” Indeed the disparity between them was grand, a spindly boy in opposition to a hulk, but the pit knew better. The audience knew better. It was a place where appearances meant nothing, and where strength was proven in the ring. 

Weaving past earth shattering fists, Willow’s motions drew a blurry picture, all before a twist and a twirl, his palm finding its mark. Rock shattered, fragments of stone splintering upon the lad’s strike, an attack forcing his opponent to the ground. 

No shirts and no shoes, an understanding shared between those attending blood sports. No surprises, no weapons. It was what robbed Willow of the ability to utilize his scythe, but the rule against killing generally kept that part in the clause. “What are you doing?! Finish him off, stop playing around!” An all too familiar tune once more pierced the volume swirling through a ravaging arena, words landing on deaf ears. 

[i][color=909090]'Well, that’s no fun,'[/color][/i] Willow mused, a quiet thought trickling past. He had enjoyed this fight, thoroughly appreciating the excitement accompanying the devastation of a rock clad limb shattering bones. Was it not for Willow’s own supernaturally enhanced skin, the boy would have been crushed, but it was fair to state that as he so often did, the Wraith played with his food. 

Combat was his life, and evidently his un-life as well. It was what he had been taught since an early age, once driven by duty now replaced by passion. He had lost fights in this pit, he had won them. For Willow it scarcely mattered. Battle retained a sense of sanctity, it was something to revere and pursue. Indeed, he had abandoned the more gruesome aspects taught by a cult of death knights, but discarding such a notion did little in hampering his inner flame. It was simply the product of a more civilized world.

Jolting from the ground, Willow’s opponent moved with speed otherwise unexpected from a man of his girth and size. A punch was launched, nearly connecting with the ghost had the boy’s reflexes not abided by his prowess. It was followed by another, and a third requiring Willow to deflect the strike, the lad’s own attacks meeting a rocky giant in an exchange of blows. Each one blocked, each one parried, both combatants melding into a dance of aggression and adrenaline. 

Their waltz found its end upon the Wraith’s next display, a graceful maneuver where like a flowing ghost, the boy slid around his opponent, elbow slamming into a rock-hardened back. Again, like shattering glass, splinters were scattered. A loud crash echoed upon impact with the floor, denoting Willow the victor. 

With eyes falling shut, the ghost took a moment to revel in bliss of conflict. He stood victorious and yet, this outcome held no value. It had no purpose, for the journey was its own rewards. Yet, a roaring crowd blanketed the pit in cheers, a sharp-toothed smile stretching across the phantasm’s pale lips. He turned on his heel, met by a clustering mass of people with dollars trading hands. A sight he could register, with signs across those bills passing him by unseen. 

“You fucking did it, kid! Here’s your cut.” There was a man considered Willow’s agent, someone who had taken it upon himself to introduce the boy to this underground world of combat. A short, stubby individual many may have considered the face of greed, had there not been creatures present to truly claim that title. 

Spindly fingers wrapped their way around a gathering of paper bills, spectral eyes robbing the boy of a most shallow ability; to see how much he was holding. Raising the wad, Willow used it to slap his agent across the face. “H-hey! Come on, kid!” 

[b][color=909090]"How much?"[/color][/b] A distinct, present accent could be plucked from the boy’s words, those with knowledge of the surrounding world pinpointing it as Arabic. More specifically, Egyptian. 

“I only shortened you once, little guy. Honest!” His name was Osworth, a weasel in every regard. “Swear to God.” 

Leaning in, sharp teeth loomed by Osworth’s ear. Despite Willow’s diminutive stature, his agent appeared to have managed an even shorter build. [b][color=909090]"You may not want to swear to my God, little man,"[/color][/b] came a smirk. [b][color=909090]"Nefrah mennak, habibi,"[/color][/b] Willow finished, his hand finding home upon Osworth’s shoulder, before weightless steps brought him onward. 

[hr]

The surface world, much like the loudness of an arena, had been engulfed in wondrous chaos. Explosions, a robbery, villains and heroes. Willow did not need to go far before hearing other attendees speak of current events. How magnificent technology was, its ever-reaching presence touching even the wilderness of a forest where the ghost’s pit fighting shenanigans knew home. An abandoned factory just beyond a sea of trees. 

Silence presented a serene scene the deeper Willow delved, converse shoes lightly padding across leaf covered dirt. Indeed, Osworth could have spirited the boy back by car across forest roads, but he had declined the drive on several occasions. Though the Spectre enjoyed a chaotic city life, there was little comparing to small, if appreciated bouts of silence, something the woods offered in serene purity. A purity that was halted, pierced, and ended by the sound of hurried footsteps.

They were paused moments after Willow’s spectral gaze met a breathless gait. Though color and shade remained silent, the boy tilted his head, a haunting presence standing between a peculiar duo. Clad in Red and Yellow, one was carrying the other, an escape from disaster left in their wake. “Look man, whatever you are,” a fatigued voice trickled past mighty trees, “we don’t need any trouble,” spoke a soul draped in sanguine crimson. 

[b][color=909090]"Trouble..,"[/color][/b] the ghost echoed, putting scenarios together, words and stories woven into tapestries. A robbery at the museum, heroes stopping the charge. It was rather close by; that much he knew, for Willow had purviewed the Egyptian section more than once, his deathly orbs taking in the magical nature of its artifacts. Here, a short distance from the battlefield spoken of by curious bystanders reading digital newspapers and watching streams, Willow had come across two escapees. [b][color=909090]"Ah, you are from the museum,"[/color][/b] a scrawny finger rose, the boy’s grin ever present. [b][color=909090]"Did you steal something worthwhile, harami?”[/color][/b]