Once again, the arena fills with fresh blood for the reaping. Some sport the skin of a newborn baby, while others show the marks of vicious defeats and hair's-breadth survivals. Yet all of them look straight ahead, where the mighty Wall of Triumph and Despair (tm) looms. At the base of the wall is a list of all who fell in the service of the quill, where most of these hopeful will end up. Above it is where they aspire to: the small list of those who stood their ground and left the arena victorious, splattered with ink and scarred for life. Above still are the judges's seats.
There are four seats up there, one in the background and, as of yet, unoccupied. Three seats stand right at the edge of the wall, so the judges are able to observe every scene that may unfold, to discern every trick a competitor will levy against his or her opponent. Three judges have taken their seats: In the center, Rodrigo Istalindir, he who was robbed of his trophy by vicious thieves. To his right, Herreman the Wise, already scanning the crowd for a tasty sacrifice to Lady Death. To his left, two-time champion Berandor, who has taken up nomadic life, now almost a stranger to the city.
Eleven competitors have assembled so far. In his seat, Berandor leans forward with eager and nostalgic eyes, relishing in the anxiety and hope that fills the air. It has been a long time since he claimed his trophies, and except for a scar that aches before it rains, right on his index finger where he used to hold the pen, only memories remain of his victories. He has grown complacent since, mixed with the bitterness of the old and the cynicism of those who think themselves superior. Down in the arena, it is a new breed of writers, hungry, almost starving for something he accomplished long ago. And yet he is filled with yearning for the days gone by, and though he knows those days cannot be reclaimed, like an old boxer, he cannot but try.
Berandor steals a glance to his fellow judges, whom he promised to help out. Herreman only smiles, understanding too well, and Rodrigo nods in answer to Berandor's silent question. Berandor shakes their hands, and as his eyes meet Rodrigo's, the chief judge snarks,
"Don't think we'll treat you any different than the other guys. You enter the arena, you'll likely be carried out."
Without answering, Berandor turns and leaves the balcony, only to reappear without his judge's robe among the contestants, armed with a quill fashioned from a griffon's mane. He completes the dozen, but now one more judge's seat is vacant.
