Of anything so brilliant as the Traveler, we could see that these people were absolutely of different shades. Nobody quite embodied that more than the likes of Brunwine. He was a massive man. Standing almost seven feet tall with a suit of armor that weighed almost twice what he was.
His strength was plentiful and his mind was dull in all aspects except for combat. He was born of Anglo-Saxon heritage but that didn't matter to the Englanders who sent him away to France to help with whatever war was going on at the moment. As a mercenary, work was never far and it was always bountiful in benefits.
For most of the tournament, he was growing a habit of brandy and had been sopping around mostly. He made a few friends. One of those was the nihilist.
They had no past with one another, but they had shared common pain. Brunwine still found his nightmares were built in the image of his reality.
After the loss of Roswald, Brunwine was continuing this simple cycle of his with the nihilist shortly previous to the nihilist writing something down on a napkin and walking away. Brunwine took another swig as he was alone again. That was what he hated so dearly about his life, he was better around others, but when he had gotten to his single bed hotel room, he was on the verge of a manic attack.
Alas, when the time of choosing came, the Traveler had come to the bar and chose the likes of the Brunwine. He wasn't ambitious in the slightest. He was someone who lived in a bottle and would probably die in it. But when he was sober, when the fires of his past couldn't be extinguished by the bottle, he was a monster.
"I will do what is needed."
"Brunwine."
As he was about to walk into the arena, he was stopped by the nihilist. He was a man in a suit and couldn't have smiled if you held him at gunpoint.
"Yes?"
"I never told you my name."
Brunwine was surprised at the notion. But friendship is a strange thing, no? The two, despite not knowing one another too well, had an understanding that couldn't quite be named.
"No… you did not."
"It's Will. I hope that you win this round."
Will had a rough day. After saying his name to the friend, he lit a cigarette and allowed it to relieve his body of the weight of his mind.
Upon the exiting of the hotel, he could hear a humming noise from inside. He believed himself a dead man walking. Roswald was a man of high confidence of which Beunwine had none. He was given enough time between choosing and his walk that he took a cold shower to sober up and sharpened his sword. He was a swordsman after all. What else could a man like him do with such time?
On the other side of the arena, there was the bad doing what they did best, choose. Selena had taken it upon herself to lead this band of up-and-coming buffoons. She had particularly found herself fond of one person. He was tall and had an ego that would rival the largest desert in vastness. But she didn't believe he could win.
According to the math she was doing, she would have to find someone who was powerful and had the look factor as to win. This would be a fight, so it meant they had to be up there. She hadn't heard any words from the likes of the good about what they were doing.
She knew that they either had a real smart cookie or a few clever ones. Whatever the case, she believed that she could do plenty when placed against the crew. But alas, was there anything that could be done?
The man she chose had a name. The Countryman. He was a beacon of whatever was happening with his version of England. He was the world's greatest police officer. Or as some preferred to call him in a spout of irony, a hero.
Even though he kept the streets clean, he was very controlling. His suit was blue and reminded Selena of when she took a trip to the UK. The place was cloudy and everyone seemed in a bad mood. Perhaps it was because the part of the UK she visited was Scotland during the rise of the Poll Tax. A nasty thing that was.
The Countryman could fly faster than any jet, he was durable enough to take almost anything anyone could throw at the UK, and he was strong enough that when push came to shove, he sank the island of Cyprus. He also had a tendency of being a bloody idiot. Alas, he never truly walked when around others, he would simply hover a few inches to a foot off the ground and soon would make his way to combat what would be the greatest duel he ever set foot in.
As the air became more and more dusty from how fast the Countryman had moved towards the arena. When he saw his enemy with a sword that was thick enough that when dulled could be considered a mallet, and armor thick enough that he would have to stop holding back when he hit him, the Countryman breathed a sigh of relief at it.
See, he wasn't just strong or very dumb, but he was a coward. He would run away when he had a hard time in his fights and not too long after the end of the second world war, he would simply hover over the city of London and breath in the fresh air as he listened to every conversation in the city.
"Ladies and gentlemen, take a look at this, this is the likes of the English combating one another." Brunwine was genuinely surprised at the fact that he was meeting another Englishman. But patriotism has its time and people and Brunwine was neither. "On one side, we have someone who was tossed from the empire to cause chaos in Europe." The band of mercenaries he had joined was a group that was intended to cause trouble in Europe for the sake of weakening them for Britain to take first place in the world. This worked and not too long after Brunwine retired, the colonial age had come about. "One the other side, we have the greatest hero of the empire. Now let's spin the wheel!"