The Scion of the Arena: Wards, Patrons, and a Spoonful of Chaos

By Eleawen Galathiel

Ah, dear readers, breathe thou deep of this autumn air… ’tis scented with powder, potions, and – most delicious of all – the ambition of others. For Arena Night hath indeed proclaimed its intent to hold, in the month of November, a tournament of a new fashion: the Scion of the Arena, wherein the rising stars of adventurers shall contend beneath the proud gaze of their benefactors.

For lo, herein lies the cunning, and ’tis exquisite: each Scion shall be sponsored by a citizen of the Isles, charged with training, arming, and decking their ward in gear enchanted as fine as any Port Saban window-display. The Scions shall fight for glory… yet the patrons, verily, shall contend for prizes. The wind doth carry the lies of men, but the forest doth whisper truth: ’tis with full purses that valiant hearts are armed, is it not?

The format? A merciless Round Robin – each Scion against each Scion, that no excuse may blossom – crowned by a Best of Five final. The wise shall have marked the rules of the game: training and gear wrought soundly unto level 12, potions permitted (save Negative Energy Protection – the priests of Durakiss do thank thee), but beware: scrolls and wands are forbidden, and the spells Darkness, Greater Sanctuary, and Mirror Image are banished from the Arena. As for the impatient, a kindly soul – the well-named Yvie Linelle – might hasten thine ascent unto level 12. A service I cannot commend too highly… for a smile, mayhap, and a tale best left unprinted.

« Tell me, good patron… are thine intentions as pure as the ivory of thy purse? » For who, save thine humble chronicler, hath observed that this tournament is as yet but a concept? The Arena seeketh to gauge the people’s appetite ere its gates do open. The curious, the ambitious, and the lovers of creative chaos are thus bid to declare their fervour unto Yvie Linelle, Liian Linelle, or Tristan Shae – a Tell doth suffice, a jest is most welcome.

A patron armeth his ward, yet ’tis Erevan who armeth the tournament: for in well-wrought chaos, even the vanquished depart with a tale… and the victors, with a patron who smileth overmuch.