The man in the woollen blue cloak is watching Lupo intently. He seems a touch out of place in this group: short and light of build, with pale skin and blond hair that while short seems to be tumbling every which way. As though he'd just run through a miraculously clean bush. While calm and at peace when listening to their host speak, there's a trace of nervousness behind those brown eyes as he glances around at the assembled competition. This is not the most confident combatant to take the field today, clearly. The one thing marking him as Chosen is the walking stick he leans upon: the black wood might be mundane, but a glimpse at the handle shows the glint of Orichalcum hiding beneath the traveller's hand.

The silence doesn't help the gentleman's nerves. He looks around the arena. Someone should say something. Was he supposed to say something? Feeling called upon, the stranger takes a step forward, looking between the gathered Solars and trying desperately to smile. "Err... I'm Wirric. Wirric Stanton." He could have hardly sounded more awkward. Wirrick's face reddens slightly, though by some miracle his smile manages to hold. "Most people just call me Wic. A pleasure to meet you all"