[Round Three] Every Man Against Himself

[Altamira]

The Bell Tower and Cathedral of Phaeacia was a grand feat of architectural artistry; a classical style dome-roofed structure reached as far as man could go into the heavens, resounding with the silver bell's sweet music and calling all the angels to rejoice; the surrounding building encircled it with the strength of the finest, toughest white stone, each brick laid with love and care to give a sturdy base to this house of the holy. The walls that made this sacred place were not all clean however; they were given a sort of character and history by the marks of strife and struggle they bore on their eroded faces, telling of the long years this building had endured when it was not a place of peace. It was said that this building once served as a royal armory, and that many a battle and uprising had taken place in its very halls, blood and lifeless bodies falling to the ground where there now were arranged the rows of the faithful's pews.

Signs of this violent past were still found in some corridors of this large and rambling place, inside the rooms sprawling across the rolling and green acres of land; there were coats of arms and old shields hung from hallway walls, and swords crossed in defensive positions hooked onto closet racks. Old suits of armor stood at attention in the alcoves of the great lobby, peering out onto the Sunday morning parishioners from stolid masks of steel.

But perhaps the most jarring collection of all in the whole of the cathedral were the statues. They were sculptures of bronze, gathered together in a circle as if in conference in a large, square back room, with real gleaming weapons in hand and the most transfixing glares on their cold faces. Every person that had ever ventured into that room swore they had seen themselves as one of those statues--swore that there was a bronze likeness of them in that room, staring back at them.

Catching word from one of these people, Louis Fritz decided to satisfy his newly-aroused curiosity on an afternoon after he had finished escorting some travelers on a pilgrimage to this fair metropolitan city. Taking halberd and sword within his instrument cases, he set out for the Phaecians' place of worship, immediately noticing that he was not alone when he first set foot in the old cathedral. He remembered overhearing some priests asking for people who would be willing to clear out all the weaponry and strange old wartime artifacts, and had also heard of some of the more superstitious or paranoid townspeople asking for others to investigate these mysterious statues for them, but he couldn't discern whether the more extraordinary-looking people were the accepters of one job or the other, if either at all. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought they might be interesting people to meet once he had finished with his own task.

Turning his full attention back to the statues, he walked up to one of the priests at the altar and inquired about the room--only to have the man shiver and dismiss him promptly with a wave of his hand. Undaunted by this, the minstrel began picking his way through the series of dim halls that led out of the main lobby like arteries out of a central, pulsing heart. The corridors were quite empty in comparison to the main room, with only more of those same interesting adventurers wandering about. Light was thrown upon the floor from the swaying orange flames of candles positioned on the occasional end table or desk, and the shields that had been spoken of started to surface on either wall. I must be drawing closer to the room.

Finally, Louis came upon a dark green drape drawn over an archway stained with something like blood. The stain was old, brown, and peeling, but its very presence there hinted that the room was one of wartime past. Drawing aside the cloth, he warily stepped into the murky dark, the dusty air dry and thick in his throat, and struck a match to light the chamber.

He walked around the perimeter a bit, catching sight of nothing save for a few more shields and swords on the walls. He was about to examine an alcove he spotted in the southernmost corner of the room when his keen ears detected what he believed to have been a creak.

As he turned around, a statue of a man crafted from bronze with strong, pronounced features and sharp eyes loomed over him. The figure itself was about his height, but upon its pedestal, it had just enough height over him to produce an imposing and slightly intimidating effect. The greatest effect of all, however, came about because it looked exactly like Louis himself. The very realization nearly made the minstrel drop the burning match onto his own foot.

How in blazes is this possible! he cried in his mind. He was a calm man by nature and as a result of great experience, and therefore not easily startled--but he felt this sight would make even the most impassive man gaze stupidly and incredulously in return.

And what came next shocked the minstrel even more. The weapons, once dormant in the army of sculptures' cold, lifeless hands, came to sudden life; the eyes of the statues shone brilliantly with vitality; the feet, once glued eternally to their pedestals, moved forward and positioned themselves into a fighting stance. It was just as he first feared, but denied, when the statue first seemed to creep up on him--they were truly alive.

Before Louis could even absorb the reality of the situation, the statues attacked. Not only the people of the cathedral, but the whole city of Phaeacia was about to face a horror and a battle they never would have thought possible.

[Halcyon Hero]

Kestrel danced happily across the stone floor of the temple, the faint chiming of his numerous bells echoing through the large room. The Gypsy merrily shuffled his way down the aisle between the pews, causing the bowed heads of the praying to look up at him as he passed. The young, black-haired man made his way to a pew three rows back from the alter, twirled on the spot, and slid sideways into the pew, a tinkling of bells still echoing through the main lobby even after he had sat down. Kestrel whipped his faded red hat off, placing it beside him and clasping his hands together before his bowed head.

“What are you doing?! A priest screeched loudly, stumbling down from the alter and waddling towards the seated Gypsy. The man was rather large, a sizable bulge hanging down over his belt. His hair was receding from the middle outwards, leaving a thin halo of faded brown around his crown. His pudgy face was flushed a bright red, and it only grew redder and ruddier and he thundered down on the Gypsy.

“What are you doing?!” He screeched again, now at Kestrel’s side. The young man, seated politely with his hands clasped and head bowed, looked up sternly and shushed the priest. The balding, rotund man sputtered indignantly, finally regaining his wits after a few moments and repeating his question in a lower voice.

“What are you doing?”

“Praying.” Kestrel replied promptly, not even looking up.

“Praying?!” The priest howled, his voice high and loud again. Kestrel shushed him again, sending the man into another fit of hysterics. “Now listen here,” he started up, bending low in towards Kestrel. “We’ll have no God-less Gypsies here! Leave immediately!”

“Now?” Kestrel asked, his eyes theatrically wide as he looked up at the red man. “I don’t think God’ll be very pleased if I leave the prayer half finished.” That shocked the man into utter silence, his jaw dropping open. The priest seemed to be struggling with what to do, his face flushing even more. Kestrel just looked back down and continued to pray.

“W-well, hurry up!” The priest hissed, crossing his arms. “And you’d better really be praying!” Kestrel continued to pray for several more minutes, purposefully dragging it out, with the rotund priest hovering over him the entire time. Finally, the Gypsy sighed and grabbed his hat, plopping it down over his slicked-back hair and standing up. The man seemed relieved as Kestrel politely edged around him, but his smile faded as the Gypsy made his way around the front of the pews and towards the open doorways branching off from the main lobby.

“What are you—” He started screeching again.

“I wanted to see the rest of the temple,” Kestrel explained cheerfully, looking back at the man.

“Out! Out, out, out! Filthy Gypsies! Vermin! Ooouuuut!!!”

<====}=0 – 0={====>

Muttering, Kestrel hopped up and grabbed the lip of the wall, hooking his fingers over the edge and pulling himself up so that the top half of his face looked over the wall. Peering down into the tiny space below, the Gypsy found a small garden, with vegetable vines creeping up wooden trellises and hand-sized sprouts sticking out of the ground in neat rows. Heaving himself up with a slight grunt, the bard swung his legs over and dropped down into the tiny garden. Walking toe-to-heel, the young man crept over to a plain wooden door set in the white stone wall of the temple. A gentle twist of the knob found it locked. Grinning, the Gypsy pulled out a small, tightly bound package from within his shirt. Deft fingers untied the thin string binding the cloth bundle, and a small shake unrolled it, revealing a set of various picks, miniscule blades, and hooks.

The Gypsy’s finger hovered over the selection for a few moments, finally deciding on two little picks. Dropping the opened package into the crouched lap, the young man leaned in close to the doorknob—and more particularly, the keyhole below it. The brim of the bard’s faded red hat bent upwards as it encountered the door, the mustached man leaning in closer and closer. The lock was disturbingly simple; the tumbler clicking free after only a few moments. Tsking at the apparent lax security, the young man quickly re-bound the bundle and stowed it back away in his shirt. Not yet done, the Gypsy pulled a small vial from another hidden pocket within his shirt with a flourish. Grabbing the tiny pin stuck horizontally through the cork, Kestrel pulled, freeing it with ease.

Holding in his breath, the traveler held the vial over the hinges, slowly dripping the black oil within the vial over them. First the bottom, then the top, and the job was done, Recapping the vial and stowing it away again, the black-haired man gentle turned the knob and eased the door open. Pressing his face against the crack, the Gypsy’s one free eyeball swiveled back and forth. The corridor was empty. Pulling the door open the rest of the way—without a ghost of a sound, he was proud to say—Kestrel stepped through, quickly closing it behind him.

<====]=0 – 0={====>

“And next we have… ” Kestrel muttered quietly to himself, pushing aside the curtain (and taking care to avoid touching the blood-like stain). “… Darkness. Phooey.” The Gypsy had just begun to chant when something within the darkness moved, revealing a small, flickering flame on the floor. Metal clashed, ringing out to meet the newcomer. Squinting, Kestrel watched as two shiny objects reflecting the small flame moved through the air, clashing once more. The two objects withdrew, and came barreling in at different angles. Of course, the Gypsy recognized the reflective objects as swords, and quickly began rechanting his spell. A small, yellow spark appeared in the musician’s hand, and began to steadily grow, until it became the room’s own miniature sun.

“Ah,” was all Kestrel could say, tossing the skull-sized sun into the middle of the room—where it drifted up and illuminated every corner of the place—and drawing his sword as a statue turned on him.

[Andurhil/Cookie]

The city was swarming with people, some clearly in a rush to get somewhere, others strolling leisurely, but all of them seeing to their own devices. Larena walked down the main boulevard, her boots thudding elegantly on its paved surface, the elf taking in her surroundings with keen interest. There were stores and shops selling every kind of merchandise imaginable at either end of the road, their stalls teeming with eager customers. She smiled to herself, knowing that she could afford anything they had to offer.

The townspeople were almost exclusively human, and apparently of the xenophobic variety seeing as she got frequent apprehensive stares as eyes were cast at her most prominent feature: her large, elven ears. Larena gave a faint “Hmph” as she shrugged mentally, and upturned her nose in contempt as she continued walking, indifferent to their scrutiny.

Her eyes suddenly widened as she saw the imposing building now directly ahead of her, and she stopped in her tracks, looking at it with a sense of awe. A great marble dome rose in the centre of the sprawling structure, glittering in the intense midday sun. The dome was supported by the lower part of the building, which was a massive circular stone base, the top of which was lined with an intricate parapet. There were four small towers at equidistant vertices growing out of the circular base, and at the side of the structure directly across the boulevard Larena was walking on, there rose a massive bell tower, as high as the dome itself.

She would have seriously doubted that humans could construct such an architectural masterpiece, and even though one was now right in front of her, she assumed there must have been elves involved in its design and constructions, and humans had just taken credit for it.
Despite that, she found herself unable to detach her gaze from its marble walls. She had always been fascinated by amazing sights, and this was no exception. An almost childish curiosity had taken ahold of her, and she longed to explore the grandiose structure.

The elf suddenly realised that there were several people staring intently at her, as she stood glued to the ground with her mouth slightly agape, captivated by the magnificent sight. She quickly closed her mouth as her cheeks flushed with colour at all the unwanted attention, and she resumed walking, upturning her nose in indifference once more.

Reaching the thick outer wall surrounding the structure, she was reminded of a fortress or armoury, yet there were no soldiers at all in the vicinity, just a throng of ordinary people entering and exciting the structure. As she walked under the imposing arch of the wall and into the inner courtyard, the gazes on her intensified, almost as if someone like her had no right whatsoever to be in such a place. Paying them no heed, she made her way to the main entrance.

Walking through the large oak and ivory doors she entered the main room, but the sudden change in light and temperature caused her to sneeze loudly, her skirt billowing dangerously as she did so. Almost immediately, every pair of eyes from the vast number of pew seats glared at her, and the elf's cheeks burned red once more. Disrespectful stares followed her as she walked down the aisle, and the priest appeared downright appalled. Eager to escape the scathing stares, she took the first diverging aisle to her right and quickly drifted away from the mass of believers.

She didn’t turn back, but she could feel the eyes boring at her slightly exposed thighs with self-righteous fury. Eager to get away from the embarrassing situation, she went through the side door and found herself walking down a quiet and most importantly unpopulated hallway. She breathed with relief, and then her eye caught the multitude of war memorabilia lining the hallway walls and she sped off, curiosity taking the best of her once more.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she heard noises and scurrying in the distance, and what appeared to be the sound of metal clashing against metal. She froze where she stood for a few moments, listening with apprehension. Yet she couldn’t douse her aroused curiosity, and taking a few timid steps at first, then flat-out running, she made her way towards the source of the disturbance.

Reaching what appeared to be an arched entrance concealed behind a stained curtain, she saw glowing lights and heard loud clashing and grunts. Arching an eyebrow, she pushed past the curtain and entered.

“What the hell is -“

At this she froze, eyes wide and utterly speechless as a blade flew past her face, missing her by inches and embedding itself in the wall behind her. And to add to her shock, the assailant who now stood facing her was a statue which looked exactly like her, ready to strike once more.

She didn't even notice the other two people in the room, nor the horde of life-size statues surrounding them all.

[Altamira]

The battle, once dreamlike and cold, suddenly erupted into color and sound; delicate bells began chiming, their whimsical melodies a sharp contrast to the clanging of blades and panting of fighters; a yellow sun was born in the middle of the room, its rays stretching far and wide to fill the chamber and bring light to every desperate swipe of a sword and fierce punch of bronze. Louis became vaguely aware of two other living beings entering the room, facing off somewhere in this army of statues with an exact likeness of themselves, but he couldn't quite see them at the moment--he was too busy fending off the aggressive attacks of his own metallic doppelganger.

Sonic strikes met with sonic strikes, shattering the sound barrier and sending the entire lot of the statues reverberating like glass as humans throughout the whole cathedral were sent running and covering their ringing ears. Bronzed Louis swung for the soft brown hat perched on his flesh brother’s head—and instead struck a wall, rendering the stones into dust as the human rolled under the sword and used the momentum he had rebounding up to lift the weighty sculpture off its firmly-planted feet. Unfazed by the swift change in position, the statue swung its metal arms in a deadly pinwheel, but before he could land a blow, he was thrown and sent sailing through the musty air into one of his bronzed friends, and the both of them pitched forward into the fiery corona in the center of the chamber which melted their bodies in a matter of seconds.

Louis was so swept up in the motions of the fight that he didn’t even realize what he had just done until a river of liquid bronze collected near his boot.

“My lord, Louis, you’re a bloody genius!” he cried when the reality dawned on him.

Smiling, his spirits lifted and soaring, he clipped the legs of another statue and sent them tumbling to a scorching demise. “Sorry, my fellow, but one of us must go!”

Another charged at the human's back, bringing broad bronze shoulders to bear; but he was evaded, and met with the same fiery end.

The flames of the sun, stoked with bits of metal to conduct its heat, grew larger and white-hot. Some of the closer statues began to bubble just by being a meter or so within its presence.

As the fight went on, the minstrel’s jubilant exclamations began to draw the attention of the other fighters in the room; all at once, the keen brown eyes of a dashing, gypsy man, and the charming, mystic gaze of a rainbow-eyed elf fell upon him, first puzzled, and then pleasantly surprised to see what the cause of his joy was.

Flashing both a broad grin, he called out, “I really must thank whichever of you conjured up that brilliant sun—a better tool to eliminate these metal savages I could scarcely imagine!”

The words had just left the man’s lips as a squad of the statues descended upon him, their fervor in pursuing revenge for their fallen comrades almost like something that possessed human emotions. Before a blow could be struck, a clear barrier generated around the minstrel, sending the blades recoiling off as if they had just struck a mighty, steel drum. Once of the statues fell to the floor, and almost immediately Louis took notice of the insignia on the object’s boot—an old witch symbol much like that of the witches who were once banished in his own homeland. He could see that these statues were obviously cursed—and someone’s magic was the cause.

And judging from the intensity of the magic glow on the statue’s heel, he thought, this source couldn't be too far away.