First three characters for the "Broker" competition

   “You know, everyone in this competition has problems. It is hardly a unique situation.”
   “I’m dying. Is this contest of yours… a race… to see who bleeds out… first?”
   “No. That would be remedied before we began.”
   “Heh. Not a lot of choice, then…”
   “On the contrary, death is a perfectly reasonable alternative.”
   The man, blood soaking into his hakama, looked at the stranger in the white kimono, and gave a feeble laugh.
   “Not in my books.” His head lolled, staring at the bloodstained blade in his hands. “I won; but it doesn’t really mean much, on this side of things.”
   “I would agree that your victory has a certain hollow ring to it; yes.”
   “Well, then I accept. Patch me up; and I’ll just have to win again.”
   “I see. Your fee will be taken first.” The pale man with the dark hair and cold porcelain mask raised one white robed hand, and held it before him. There was a moment of silence, as if the sound of the world was spun around his finger, trapped so it could not be heard. Streams of silver light coalesced into a ball, and then vanished, leaving a small globe of snow balancing on the pale white finger.
   “That feeble dream is now contingent upon your success.” Another flick of skeletal, graceful fingers, and the dying man gasped with a sudden pain. He stared at his chest in shock as the sword wound began to draw closed, leaving a livid scar, and he could feel the blood drying out of his white hair.
   “That’s it then?”
   “No. This was simply the beginning. Good luck, Isshin.”
   With a small bow, the white robed man disappeared, his kimono fluttering in an unfelt breeze, before blowing away into a spray of snowflakes.
   Rising, Isshin glanced around. He wasn’t in the palace anymore. He was in a strange city, with buildings made of a strange seamless stone, dark grey and wrecked with pockmarks and craters. The ground was rocky and uneven, and the only sound was the distant cry of birds.
   With a sigh, he sheathed his blade, and rolled out stiff shoulders, before walking off into this alien city.

***********************************************************************************

   The sun was high in the sky, and certainly seemed to be comfortable there. It had been there for hours, and would be there hours longer.
   Far below, on the white sand dunes, a figure had collapsed. Closer examination, in the greenish white light of the sun, would reveal that figure to be an ogashi; and a female ogashi at that. She was horribly malnourished, her skin a pale pink, and she didn’t even look to have a horn.
   It could be thought that the man standing over her felt pity; if one did not suspect that the man standing over her never felt anything.
   The harsh wind was kicking up the fine particles of silver, bouncing them off the plastic windbreaker he was wearing with a faint ringing sound. His bony face and inscrutable black eyes were fixed on the woman, or perhaps girl, at his feet.
   After a moment, he gave her a prod with his boot, and she gave a faint groan. Another prod, and she managed to lift her head, to look weakly up at him.
   “Good afternoon, Ferra. I have a deal to make with you.”
   The woman snarled, her golden eyes fixed on the man’s knees, and she spat, revealing teeth which glittered with a certain metallic sheen. “Just end it, slavemaster. I can’t run anymore.”
   The gaunt man sighed, and crouched down, so he could look her in the eye, grabbing a fistful of silver hair to pull her gaze up to his face. Her gasp of pain was ignored. Reaching into his coat with his free hand, he produced a brass canteen, waving it before her face. “Listen; and I’ll explain the deal.”
   Her eyes followed the canteen with a desperate hunger, and she seemed to forget her pain, a faint nod.
   “Good.” He let go of her hair, letting her face fall into the sand with a soft whump, before continuing. “I propose that you are allowed to participate in a small contest; a competition, where the last one standing wins. They will get a wish granted; the entry fee is that which you hold most dear. You will get it back if you do well.”
   She pulled herself painfully up onto her elbows, and nodded.
   “You will also be saved from your current situation; you’ll have 72 hours to give me your answer; though I doubt you have that long to live.”
   A rattling laugh. “Aye, rich man. I don’t have a choice, do I? You can just take me by force; I’ll play your game.”
   “You misunderstand. I am not a slavemaster. I’m the broker.”
   “Doesn’t matter.”
   With a small shrug, the broker accepted her response. Holding out a hand, he said, calmly; “I’ll take your fee then.” Touching his palm to her forehead, where her horn ought to be, had she one, he gave a faint whisper; in some language unknown. She winced, and then gave a whimper of pain.
   “It is collected.” Setting down the canteen where she could reach it, he straightened, and then, with another gust of wind, he was gone.
   So was the wind, and the sand. Slowly pulling herself upright, Ferra looked around. It was a bleak city, with streets piled with loose stone, and buildings falling to ruins. Grasping at the canteen, she took hungry, desperate draughts, before carefully setting it down, stifling the coughs which threatened to shake it out of her hands.
   Then she reached to the manacles on her wrists, and the broken chains; they were made of gold; a horrible, indigestible metal. But on the ground, over there… was iron. Her center aching with the need of it, she began to crawl across the broken rocks; she needed to grow strong for this contest…
She needed to win.

**********************************************************************

   “I brought the price.” Grath said, placing his father’s sword on the table.

   “That’s not what we agreed on.” replied an abnormally tall and lanky man dressed in a black business suit.

   “The contract said to bring the thing we valued most.” A cloud of cigarette smoke evacuated Grath’s mouth. “This is my father’s blade. It’s over one-hundred and fifty years old and in perfect condition. You’d be hard pressed to find a weapon more excellent than this.”
   “The quality of the blade is not in question.” the man said, adjusting his sunglasses and rising up from his seat on the decrepit couch. “It’s how much you value the blade…”
   “It’s among my prized possessions. If you want the rest of them I’ll give them to you.”
   The man gently lifted and unsheathed the weapon, its silver blade glistening in the dull light of the room.
   “No.” he said, his smarmy smile growing into a disturbingly large, toothy grin. “That will not be necessary.”
   “So this price will do?”
   “No. Whether you knew it or not…you have not upheld your end of our bargain.”
   “What?” Grath growled, growing tired of the man’s cryptic behavior.
   “This is my favorite part of the acceptance process…when the applicant’s true price is revealed.”
   “Get to the point.”
   Suddenly the man dropped the blade onto the table and placed his arms before him. A blue crystal slowly fabricated amid his hands.
   “This is your price.” said the man, his teeth glowing blue as he grinned down on Grath.
   Grath's cigarette fell to the ground as he gripped his head.
   “What…are you…doing?!” he managed to gasp.
   “Extracting your end of the bargain. The memories…of her…”
   “No…” Grath lowly growled. “Don’t you dare.”
   “I’m afraid I’m bound by contract to take this.” the man said, tossing the crystal in his hand. “But you will have a chance to earn this…and more.”
   “Give it back now!!” Grath screamed as he slammed his fist onto the table. “I don’t want to be a part of this damn competition!”
   “I’m afraid it’s far too late for that.”
   “Son of a bitch!” boomed Grath, whipping out his revolver and firing off a round.
   The bullet embedded itself in the wall behind the empty couch. The man had disappeared.
   “Grath Wyvrin, your toll has been accepted.” said a voice that came from every direction. “You’re wish will be granted if you rise victorious among the other competitors. Would you like to change your wish before you are transported to the plane of battle?”
   “No.”
   “Very well. Prepare for yourself for fragmentation.”
   Grath watched as his feet and lower legs were broken down into crystalline bits which slowly faded from view.
   “Stay out of the shadows, Broker.” he said, lighting up a cigarette. “You’ve just made a deal with the devil.”