He gestures to the west gate and it opens, revealing the somewhat disheveled form of the first combatant. Her piercing blue eyes focus on the far gate, ignoring the crowd about her, yet as she walked the crowds applause becomes punctuated with expressions of surprise due to the apparent lack of her animal companion. This is quickly whelmed however by the surprise evoked as a glowing image appears suspended above her brow: that of an ankh superimposed over a great skull.

Alsimane nods. "It appears Calathra bears the mark of her god to battle. Perhaps it will counter the black skills of her opponent: Foul worshipper of the Tyrant-God Bane...Craningar Rue!" The eastern doors are thrown apart as Rue refuses to wait for them. Stepping into the ring he snarls and whirls his mighty axe, striking sparks across the lip of the balustrade which protects the spectators. Startled yelps and angry snarls fall meaningless onto the soul of the black-armored priest as he howls his devotion to his dark god.

Alsimane nods, expressionless, and marches back to the wall. Leveraging himself up, he stands on the lip and without further ceremony bellows the command. "Combatants. Fight!"

Immediately, both combatants raise their arms above their heads calling upon powers both diabolical and arcane to speed their victory. Calathra finishes her incantations and momentarily a halo of light flares about her form. Scarcely gone from sight however, the ward re-appears under the assault of an unearthly flail, rushing from a rent in space above the masked halfling.

The bane-priests' armor creaks malevolently as he breaks into a run towards his foe; a grimace of unholy glee upon his features as he watches the drifting weapon of his god pummel Calathra's protective wards. The halfling seems unperturbed: beginning another incantation which summons a tiny serpent to her. It immediately hurls itself against Craningar's armored form.

A pause in motion, and a flash of his wicked axe, and the serpent is no more. Slowing to a walk just out of striking range, Craningar snarls "Beg for mercy, desert-runt!" No answer is returned save a stone cast wide from her whirled sling. Lifting his voice to the sky, Craningar circles again, calling upon the terror of Bane to freeze his foe in place, but again. Only a sling-stone comes in answer.

The weapon of bane, as if disheartened by the god's lack of favor, wafts from sight, leaving Calathra and Craningar standing alone on the field of battle. One last sling stone bounces off of Craningar's black mail before Calathra replaces the weapon at her side, contemplating the foe before her. His dark axe raised, Craningar once gain calls out for Bane's favor, this time to enhance the weapon in his grip. Calathra responds with a mystic gesture, which sends an arctic flash of light just wide of his form. Again they look to each other. Hatred versus calm resolve.

With an unearthly howl, Craningar charges the unarmored woman. His battleaxe streaming black tendrils of his lord's foul blessing. Lithely stepping aside, she draws her cudgel from her side, and delivers a resounding blow to the ribs of her assailant. He steps left, snarling 'BANE!' once again as he brings his dark blade whirling to take her life once, then twice more as she casts her voice on high to renew her mystic protections.

As club meets axe, and armors arcane and mundane flare and groan under repeated assaults, a misread dodge brings the haft of Craningar's battle-axe hard against the skull of Calathra, slamming her back against the wall of the pit. Calathra pauses her attack to call upon the weave of mystic skill at her command and the flow of blood from the wound slows to a trickle as the spell takes hold. The possessed form of the dark priest clenches his jaw in frustration, finding it difficult to penetrate the mystic barriers about her, attack after attack.

The halfling stands, and raises her cudgel on high. In a clear voice which somehow cuts through the din of the howling crowd she states: "Retribution is upon you, Tyrant-thrall. Prepare." And the battle is joined in earnest. A cudgel strike to Craningar's weapons arm draws his counter swing low, permitting Calathra a leap which brings her weapon up to contact with his jaw.

Subtle energies around both combatants flare and dissipate as protective spells cease functioning. The crowd quiets to better hear the give and take of the combatants' struggles. Reeling from another blow, Craningar Rue petitions his master to lessen his injuries, only to be struck again by the blur which the halfling shield-maiden has become.

That blur halts as it runs edgewise into his axe....and staggers with hand to its bloodied side. Seizing upon the evident weakness with relish, the battered priest of hatred drops his axe to hang by it's wrist-guard, and lunges towards the tiny warrior in an attempt to wrestle her to the wall.

Two cudgel blows strike home, bringing gasps of pain from his lips as she manages to evade him. These gasps become grim chuckles as his blade cuts into her leg just above the knee...biting deep and bringing a torrent of blood to bathe the arena sands.
Calathra does not fall. She looks up at her hulking opponent: over double her height and asks. "How will you be judged by the feather of Ma'at?" With this her cudgel flies. With this Craningar's teeth are shattered as the blow strikes home. With this, the crowd erupts in adulation as the Bane-priest falls and Calathra stands, bleeding, victorious.

Calmly she walks from the pit, amidst the roar of the crowd.

Alsimane watches silently from the wall's lip.