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They had met one another in Proselyte. They both originally arrived at the bustling city-state under different impetuses, and upon staying their own welcomes, they then left for ting different destinations. It had only been a happenstantial encounter in an early morning tavern the day before departure that had them even ever meet in the first place. The story of which, though difficult to recall, was as legendary as it was awful; the positive or negative connotations of that 'awe' would constantly change throughout the coming days at the tavern as the recounting storytellers got deeper into their drinks.

Otherwise, it was inconsequential strangers who met and joyed and separated. Later, happenstance would bless them again as they collided outside the city's northern gates. As it would turn out, their paths coincided for a brief interval in their long journeys, so they accompanied each other north-west through the technologically advanced country of Bemean en route to the affluent Golden country. Long journeys were always made shorter by an amicable companion, after all.

The taller of the two companions, and as she never failed to remind, the more tolerant of her drink between the two, was a woman with long, auburn hair and an acrobat's frame. Thin, small limbs that, upon closer inspection, were lean, hardened muscles. She had three prominent freckles under her right eye, which gave a youthful balance to the wrinkles, marring her otherwise clear skin. However, it was evident to any observer that her wrinkles were more echoes of tribulations past than they were of age.

The woman didn't carry an adventurer's pack with her; instead, she had a thin belt wrapped around her right leg adorned with transparent pouches that, although seemed empty, held an immense bounty of loot within. The woman wore an oversized pastel yellow dress, which, despite the heaviness of the fabric, weightlessly floated atop the tranquil morning breeze. She seemed almost transient as her gait nearly floated above the ground she marched. From a distance, it was hard to appreciate the woman's height as the colossal glaive she balanced across her shoulders made her seem quaint by comparison. Without a frame of reference, she would appear as a petite damsel overshadowed by a warrior's weapon. An annoyance which would repeatedly find her lonely travels disturbed by foolish ne'er-do-wells.

On this journey, however, she was not alone, and the frame of reference by her side clearly laid bare the size and might of the woman beside him. Her recent travelling companion was a short man who shared with her in trivial conversation. He had dirty black hair whose top knot could hardly hold back its straggly nature. The man wore a long white robe whose base fell to his ankles and whose collar flared all the way up to his nose. Most oddly of all, he carried a large basket on his back filled with an extensive collection of various fruits. A thick purple rope wrapped around his waist and basket multiple times to hold the oversized thing tightly to his back. Stuck through the thick rope at his side were two sheaths, a small, plain wooden sheath carrying a thin black knife and a large, smooth, curving purple sheath which had long been separated from its accompanying blade.

Journeys across the continent of Trammel were often long and tedious, so a friendly accompaniment to pointlessly chat about with was always welcome on these arduous treks. The two never spoke of anything of importance, and they preferred it that way. There was once a time before they were properly acquainted with one another early in their travels together when the man asked the woman what her journey was for. She told him that she was searching for something stolen from her, but she didn't think it was the type of thing that could be returned even if she found the thief. She then asked the man what his journey was for, and he told her that he was searching for a place worthy of his fruit orchard. After that day, there was a silent agreement to keep conversations to meaningless pleasantries.

It was a few weeks into travelling together and early upon a new bright day of continued walking when the two had found themselves funnelled in between the oppressive walls of two facing cliffs. Vegetation struggled to survive in this rocky corridor, and the only decorations to fill the sudden canyon were the few man-sized hoodoos, hefty slabs of stone precariously balanced over thin greywacke spires. It was early enough that the large cliff face shaded the travellers from the wrath of the burning day star, and they picked up their pace, hoping to cross the arid drylands before noon cooked them alive.

They were halfway across the canyon when five large figures entered the natural alley from the opposite end. The canyon's exit was still quite some ways from where the two were, but as they approached the figures, and the figures approached them, they could start to make out the silhouettes of tough hulking men. When a glint of daylight reflected off the metal of a broadsword and onto the well-worn face of a halberd, the man grabbed his travelling companion by her wrist and turned back the way they came. When they turned around, they saw eight more heavily armed people heading their way. The woman readied her hand over her weapon's handle in preparation.

One of the heavier strangers heading towards them spoke up, "Where are you heading off to? We don't mean to cause a fright."

The two turned back to face the person speaking. Now that the group approached closer, it was easier to make them out. The man who led the group was a bulky fellow who blurred the line between muscular and portly, and he had the bright orange hair typical of the nobility from the Sodality of Cinder. Next to him was a tall and lean man looking nearly identical to the first, and the licks of flame that danced off the red sword slung over his shoulder lent more credence to their Cinder heritage. Following alongside the two was a shorter man, entirely hooded so no skin could be seen, carrying a sickle in either hand with a long chain winding around his body that connected the two weapons. Beside him was a man with a spear longer than he was tall and an eye-patch covering his left eye. Trailing behind the four by a few steps was an archer wearing a complex metal contraption over his eyes.

The woman gripped her glaive tighter for assurance and glanced back behind again. A hulking behemoth who could somehow make his sledgehammer look small within the grasp of his gargantuan mitts; an older man whose headwear quickly identified him as a wizard; a person with a halberd and so utterly covered in carapace armour he almost looked like a mokoi himself; another archer with the same metal eyepiece; a man buried in green wraps walking with his transparent stave like a cane; a man in nothing but a kilt wielding a pair of jagged axes; a veritable ghost in the flesh wielding a leviathan scythe; and a man with a bright blue cape and glistening golden rapier. The woman quickly faced forward, anxiety creeping into her forethoughts. It was an intimidating situation for sure, but the group was far too well dressed for simple banditry, and their eclectic countenance seemed far more fitting to an adventuring party, a successful one at that, given the elegance of the equipment.

There was a degree of credibility in seeing them so incredibly well-armed that ironically made the pincering group less suspicious. Atop of that, the Cinder brothers and blue caped duelist carried an air of nobility about them, which alleviated, if only slightly, the threat. The man with the topknot let out a sigh of relief. "Oh, sorry, it's just with a whole bunch of heavily armed people blocking us off in either direction; we thought we were going to be attacked by bandits."

The redhead laughed. "Oh no, no, this apparel is just for protective purposes. You need to be careful when travelling on these isolated roads. Some people can react rather violently to a friendly face."

Embarrassed, the woman released her grip on her weapon and relaxed her posture. She took a few steps forward and replied to the group, "No kidding, I guess we might have taken that philosophy too close to heart; you saw how jumpy we were."

The twelve men stopped approaching the group a couple feet from them "I saw that. But don't worry, I take no offence. We just hate violence. We hate violence so much that I'd quite appreciate it if you two could kindly hand over your beautiful weapons so we can have a peaceful conversation."

The two were temporarily stunned, silent. They were caught off guard by the unsuspected shift in the conversation. Realization struck the woman as she suddenly realized the strange misinterpretation they all just had. She replied to the large group of armed men, "Oh, us? Don't worry, we're not bandits either. Plus, even if we were, there is no way we would try to attack a large, well-equipped group like yours."

"We know. That's why you're going to be nice and cooperative. Now let me see that weapon of yours; your shoulders must ache lugging that big thing around."

The woman was thrown for a loop; the redhead's kindly demeanour played dissonant to his demand, and she struggled to follow as the heavy stranger quibbled aimlessly. She finally interrupted him to ask a question she was worried she knew the answer to "You guys aren't bandits… right?"

The red-headed stranger opened his arms wide and took a few steps closer to the two with a large, brimming smile. "What is a bandit really? I mean, etymologically speaking, the word bandit was initially derived from the ancient word 'Bandire'. And I'm sorry to say Missy, but I could not be any less bandire if I tried. Besides, I prefer to think of myself as more of a poet, a warrior of the pen, not the sword. As I told you, I don't like violence; that was the truth. The very sight of blood makes me queasy, which is why I don't want to see anyone hurt here. No one wants to see that beautiful face of yours ruined, now do they?"

The man travelling with the woman gripped his empty purple sheath and glared at the heavy bandit before him. "What do you want from us?"

Noticing the increased aggression from their entrapped duo, the bandits all gripped their weapons firmly and broadened their shoulders to appear larger. The red-headed leader kept his amicable smile and leered longingly at the purple sheath. "Well, you can start with a name and your weapon."

The man with the topknot tightened his grip on the empty sheath and spoke, "My name is Palmer, and this is my weapon." Palmer quickly extended his hand away from his sheath; as if enticed by the movement, a long-curved branch bloomed out of the sheath and into his hand. Still, within the same single motion, he carried the wooden blade up smoothly, slicing through the redhead's nose.

The bandit clasped his hands over his nose, releasing a pained screech. In a strained, nasally voice, he yelled out to his allies, "AGH, Kill that moron!"

The eleven men raised their weapons and charged inwards. Palmer jumped into the air, and the woman grabbed her glaive, spinning it in a full circle; the blade whistled through the air and stopped with an explosive clang against the glowing red blade of the leader's brother.

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The hooded bandit launched one of his sickles towards Palmer while he was still in the air from his impressive bound. Palmer deflected the sickle with his wooden sword, sending it into the cliff wall. Palmer landed, and with an unexpectedly powerful pull, the sickle wielder yanked the sickle out of the cliff face along with a massive chunk of stone. As soon as Palmer saw the chain moving, he twisted around and, just before the enormous stone could crush him, sliced his wooden blade outwards, cutting the stone in twain. The two fragments of rock innocently flew by on either side of him.

A blue beam of arcane energy shot out of the eye-patch bandit's giant spear. The beam streaked toward the woman, who adeptly dodged out of the way. She had no time to react as the red sword bandit's weapon ignited into a massive flame, doubling the blade's size as he swung it toward her neck. She barely ducked below the swing. The flaming sword easily cut through the cliff face next to them. The heavy bandit leader removed his hands from his nose and yelled at his fire-sword-wielding brother, "Hey, watch it! We don't want to destroy such a wonderful specimen."

Four more bandits lunged toward the woman, attacking with surprising coordination and skill. The woman could barely keep up with the incessant barrage of the four bandits as well as the occasional zoning strikes of the flame sword, not even mentioning the worryingly accurate sniper shots of the magic-based spear wielder.

The wizard was keeping his distance behind all his allies and waved a small wand almost completely hidden within his sleeve in an irregular, fluid pattern, a trail of floating ink following along its path. When the wizard finished his act, the ink evaporated, and faint ethereal flames licked off the rest of the bandits.

A massive hammer smashed down just behind Palmer, and a hail of arrows so numerous one couldn't imagine that they came from just two people rained down. The chained sickles seemed to dance with near sentience, curving mindfully through the hoodoos like a bird trying to flank its distracted prey. Each attack, never quite fast enough to catch their spry opponent. A large halberd smashed down right before Palmer, briefly halting his retreat; another swing from the hammer sent him back in motion, dodging away. He skilfully balanced deflecting the unpredictable sickles with his branch sword while simultaneously weaving in and out of arrow fire, as well as avoiding the thunderous swings of the heavy hammer and halberd.

Palmer initially thought that the enemy's attacks were manageably predictable and easily avoided, but when he got a moment of space to catch his breath, he noticed the true strategy behind their fighting pattern. Palmer had somehow found himself completely separated from his ally.

The fat bandit leader dashed forward with an unexpected speed for his larger size. The woman quickly tilted her head to the side as the leader's broadsword whizzed by, only cutting off some of her lagging hair. She simultaneously twisted her body as a blue beam of energy pierced through empty dress. She raised one of her legs to clear from the raging flame that leaped off the red sword lashing just barely ahead of her. She let her weight fall on her only standing leg, folding it so that a transparent stave flew through the crevice behind her knee. A scythe from above forced her to crumple her upper body forward. She threw a lightning-fast jab of her glaive and pierced the chest of the blue-caped crook moments before he could thrust his own rapier forward.

Physically unable to move anymore without pressing into one of the many weapons surrounding her, a final axe lodged into her calf. The woman let out a wrenching cry and swung her glaive with as much might as she could, taking the still-skewered duelist along for the ride. While most of the bandits jumped back to avoid the wide arching sweep of the glaive, the leader pounced forward, stopping her swing early by pushing against her hand with his own and smacking the hilt of his sword across her chin. He took advantage of his momentum, seamlessly transitioning into an elbow that struck her across the side of the head and knocked her down onto the ground. "Oh no, don't want to bruise that pretty little mouth."

Meanwhile, a halberd pierced right next to Palmer's head, and with a flick, the axe head was now facing his throat. He quickly dodged under the swing, catching an arrow with his bare hand, and thrust it into the arm holding onto the sledgehammer as he sidestepped its swing. With an aggravated growl, the hammer-wielding hulk grabbed onto the arrow, plunged it deeper into his arm and pulled it out the other end, with only a wince to show for it. The wizard hiding at the back waved his wand again, and the hulk wasn't even wincing anymore, utterly uncaring of his gushing injury.

Palmer was trying to bait either of the two archers into shooting one of their comrades, but despite the close-quarter combat and constant rotating movement, they seemed to never hit their own. Nor did any of the spired hoodoos seem to be of any use as cover.

The two chained sickles slithered along the floor, circling Palmer; the subtle vibration of the chains, as they fluttered up and down, disturbed a cloud of dust to obscure his vision. With the dusted cloud, an unnatural silence fell. He was in the middle of a busy battle, supposedly teamed with an ally, and yet he somehow felt thoroughly isolated and alone.

Out of the shrouded depths, a halberd swung horizontally, Palmer dropped down, and the halberd just missed claiming his top knot. He then quickly rolled to the side as a hammer struck the ground so hard it actually bounced him into the air where a sickle leapt up to start wrapping around his legs, and the other sickle shot towards his head. Palmer swiped his branch sword down onto the sickle, aiming for his head, and knocked it to the ground. He kept the momentum of his weapon, slicing through the floor and lodging his weapon into the dirt.

He then performed a handstand overtop his own lodged branch sword and fanned his legs, forcing the wrapping sickle to get locked taught; he twisted his body so that the incoming arrows bashed into chains instead of striking soft skin. He felt a tug on the chains around his leg and was quickly pulled away, losing grip of his branch sword still wedged in the ground and dragged unarmed out of the dust cloud towards the deadly pike end of the halberd.

The red-headed bandit leader was mounted on top of the collapsed woman, his blade harshly pressed, blade end first, against her lips. She had to open her mouth as wide as she possibly could to not have the blade split her mouth in two. The woman writhed manically, trying to buck the hefty man off her, but his vicious smile and poised blade remained steadfast.

Tears streaked down her eyes as the bandit leader gently caressed his hand around her throat and then slowly tightened. His elated grin grew wider as he watched her face redden, her larynx tensing against his thumb, wet doe eyes bulging, veins fretting against flushed flesh. Full lips contorted as empty cries bellowed out fearful nothingness.

The branch sword was left abandoned in the dust cloud. The attacking group, always quick to respond, rushed right past it and towards the blade's owner, who was now unarmed, leaving the dust cloud once more in eery silence. The wooden blade was buried so deep it managed to remain upright. It was buried so deep, in fact, that it punctured through to a small water vein. The thirsty wood hungrily soaked up any of the faint underground current it could, and a small flower bloomed off the sword's hilt. Roots sprouted out of the branch sword's tip and followed the water along the vein, continuously drinking any and all water it encountered.

Fully quenched, the roots then curved upward and exploded out from the ground, pressing against the woman's back and carrying her high up over the canyon and onto the mesa above. The bandit leader, not so lucky, was knocked off to the side as his prey got away. He and his men hurriedly clambered up the newly sprouted tree, attempting to catch their escaped enemy.

The woman desperately wanted to catch her breath but a peer down to the wrathful eyes of chasing men was more than enough motivation to set her back in motion. She hastily untangled herself from the branches of the giant tree, one hand cupped over her face in a pointless attempt at squelching the blood that gushed from her tongue and lip. While she hopped down from a low-hanging branch onto the rugged mesa, she spotted a burgeoning tree nut growing off it. Beyond any rational sense, she had an uncontrollable desire to consume that tree nut, and so she swiftly stuffed it into her bleeding mouth and swallowed it through the pain before limping away from the bandits scaling the tree.

Meanwhile, Palmer was being dragged by the sickle chain towards the pike-end of the halberd. He hovered his hand over the empty purple sheath and called out another wooden sword, which he promptly slashed through the halberd at the wooden shaft, splintering the weapon in two. Before his opponent could even register the newly formed weapon he followed with another strike, but did little more than scratch the halberd wielder's incredible carapace armour. A little more force, and Palmer transitioned his attack into a brute push, shoving the armoured foe back and granting him access to the chained sickles.

Palmer thrusted his blade forward, but when the sickled wielder jumped back, Palmer tugged against the chain that still bound the two together, halting his momentum just enough to strike his gut.

One of the archers was about to loose an arrow when roots burst from the ground, ensnaring his body and redirecting his shot towards the wizard, who unsuspecting of any friendly fire, didn't even attempt to dodge, letting the arrow pierce his jugular.

The hammer-wielding hulk charged toward Palmer when the ethereal red flames abruptly vanished, and his movements immediately grew sluggish. Palmer used that sudden moment of reprieve to twist around, disembowelling the sickle wielder, and continuing on to cleave the hulk at the waist, separating top from bottom.

The unarmed halberd bandit made a run for his broken axe-head, but mere moments before tracing his fingers upon the wooden haft, Palmer took hold between the carapace slits, pulling back and threading his blade through the protective gap and finishing him off.

Frenzied, Palmer spun about, but it would seem that the second archer had escaped when he noticed the shift of battle. The wooden prison had wholly entrapped the first archer swiftly growing into a small tree as it utilized its prisoner as fertilizer.

Palmer sheathed his branch sword and as he did so the branch quickly moulted, the arboreal detritus being absorbed into the sheath walls, disappearing as if there had never even been a weapon there at all. Palmer made his way to the massive tree that his companion had used to escape. He picked up the woman's discarded glaive and then climbed the tree to reach the mesa above. Once he disembarked from the tree, he turned back and tilted his sheath so that its opening pointed at the arboreal behemoth. The tree was immediately sucked into the sheath, and the ground, now unsupported by roots in the canyon below, crumbled.

Palmer followed the faint trail of blood droplets to track down his travelling companion. He struggled to track the chaotic route, both for his lack of skill in the matter, and for the woman's active attempt at hiding herself. It took him nearly half an hour to finally break way to a clearing that revealed a small hill overlooking a verdant valley. Climbing up the hill, he found swathes of blood, discarded weapons, lifeless bodies, and finally, at the tip of the hill, a beautiful tree that stretched high in the sky and carried many beautiful pastel yellow coloured fruits with three little auburn dots. Hanging from one of the branches by a viny noose, was the red-headed leader.

Palmer approached the tree and looked out to the beautiful valley view. "Did you find it?" He plucked a particularly ripe fruit from the lonely tree and gingerly placed it into the basket upon his back.

It was still early, but he felt entitled to a rest. He unwound his purple rope belt and sat the giant fruit basket to his side. He then stretched his sore muscles and sat down, leaning against the tree with an exhaustive sigh accompanied by the chime of a bell.

In front of the resting Palmer there was what seemed to be a small pink rhombus that grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards Palmer, holding a glowing parchment: It read.

You have been invited to

The Tournament You are The Topiary