Crowd-Pleasers

Morning rose over Gossamer like a drumroll before battle. The Uninvited stirred in their quarters, each one sharpening weapons, rehearsing spells, or just pacing in silence — each lost in the weight of the tournament to come. Kilijan, restless and fueled by nerves, decided he needed flair. Not just strength or cunning, but showmanship. He left the tavern in search of someone to herald his entry into the arena — a bard worthy of spectacle. After a few hours wandering the festival-crammed streets, he found him: Jacko Barracko, a halfling bard with wild curls, a cracked lute, and a voice made for taverns rather than temples. Jacko was already busking on a crate, singing half a song and half a lie about the heroics of someone named “himself.” Kilijan liked his confidence and his chaos. The deal was struck — Jacko would be Kilijan’s announcer, voice of glory and potential embarrassment alike.

The Arena of Gossamer loomed like a stone colossus over the city. Inside, the Uninvited were led through vaulted corridors and assigned their locker room, a place thick with the scent of oil, steel, and tension. Fighters came and went — some grinning, others pale as death. When the horns sounded, the Uninvited stepped into the light. The roar of the crowd was deafening, a living ocean of faces, flags, and banners. At the center stood Arel Gossamiri, a powerful bard draped in gold-threaded robes. His voice rolled through the Arena like thunder as he opened the ceremony, his every word carried on waves of enchantment. He thanked Neris Valdorin, the mayor of Gossamer, for his hospitality and patronage of the games. The mayor, seated beside guards and nobles, raised his cup in acknowledgment. Then Arel turned the floor to the reigning champion — Ardis Moren. She strode into the arena clad in polished armor, calm and radiant, the picture of discipline. Her words were brief but heavy with confidence: a wish of good luck to all contestants — and a warning that strength alone would not bring victory. The fanfare rose, fireworks burst from the towers, and music shook the air. The Uninvited were ushered back into their locker room, adrenaline still thrumming through their veins. Their first match was imminent.

When their turn came, the Uninvited marched back into the arena under the roar of tens of thousands. The sand beneath their boots was warm, the sunlight harsh. Before them stood three great doors, each marked with different sigils. Behind each, a mystery opponent awaited. The announcer’s booming voice explained the rule: the team could choose only one door, and face whatever came through it. But the Uninvited decided otherwise. In a moment of mad confidence — or sheer showmanship — they turned to the crowd and let the audience choose. The crowd chanted, argued, and finally roared in unison: “All three!” With a grinding of gears and a shudder that shook the arena walls, all three doors rose. From the first emerged a Githyanki rogue, blades drawn, eyes gleaming with malice. From the second, a mechanical beast, a lumbering construct of brass and fury. From the third descended a Planetar, radiant and terrible, wings outstretched in divine wrath. The crowd gasped — and then fell silent. The fight was chaos and beauty. Blades clashed, spells flared, and sand turned to glass under the heat of battle. The Uninvited fought like a storm given form, working in brutal harmony. One by one, their foes fell — the rogue broken, the machine shattered, the angel forced to yield. When the final blow landed, the silence of disbelief gave way to roar upon roar. The stands erupted. Gossamer itself seemed to shake. The Uninvited had done the impossible.

Back in the locker room, the air was thick with sweat and triumph. Cheers still echoed faintly through the halls. Then Kilijan received the news: The Five Fingers of Garresh — the men who had killed his mother — had left the city. They had withdrawn from the tournament entirely, slipping away without confrontation. The victory suddenly felt hollow. The next match was already scheduled — a one-on-one fight: Kilijan vs. Greg. The team gathered in uneasy silence as the healer prepared his potions. But when Kilijan approached him for aid, Greg refused. “No healing before the match,” he said flatly. Kilijan stared, unsure if it was a joke, punishment, or lesson. The crowd outside chanted their names, unaware of the quiet fracture forming between them. Some fights, it seemed, began long before the first blow was struck.