"Interesting? Is that a new word for boring?" whines the shadowy form on his shoulder. "Nothing that happens here is exciting. Although I hear a cleric of Bane chopped someone's head off last night. . ."

"Bah!" Ivan Zagad hisses angrily, shrugging the imp off his shoulder. It flaps its wings and hovers, bobbing nonchalantly in the air. "Clerics! What interessst does a cleric hold for me? Tonight we have a duel of wizardssss. And one of them isss quite. . . promisssing. . ."

"The dwarf? I hate dwarves. Hasn't got enough variety. He's a one-trick. . . whaddya call it. . . looks like a Nightmare. . . anyway, he wouldn't last a minute against one of your apprentices. "

"Yes, perhapssss. . ." murmurs Ivan Zagad with a shrug. "And perhapsss, it is time to begin the fight." Quickly, the imp alights on his shoulder and fades into invisibility. He steps forward into the light, raising a scaly hand, and the crowd hushes. "Tonight we have a contesssst between two mages: Nathaniel. . . Sssather. . . and Rannos the Fatherless. Without further introduction, their blood will be sssspilt for your pleasure.."

First to enter is Nathaniel, his pale face and snowy hair marking him distinctly as he steps into the arena. He nods coldly to the crowd, waving a hand and muttering an incomprehensible syllable to surround himself with the momentary glow of protective magic. Even as he finishes his spell, Rannos enters, his bearded, bare-chested figure equally recognizable. He pauses at the entryway to caress the smooth stone of the door, moaning softly as he does so. The crowd waits through the ritual impatiently.

"Dwarves!" grumbles the disembodied voice on Ivan Zagad's shoulder. The mage only grins wickedly and drops his hand.

Eagerly, Nathaniel draws his mace and charges forward. Quickly, Rannos draws a sack of caltrops from his belt and scatters them along the ground. In the last seconds of his enemy's charge, Rannos readies his gigantic sword and mutters a few words over it-- and then he raises the weapon and swings it at Nathaniel as the two mages meet with a thunderous crash. Nathaniel flies over the caltrops and past the dwarf, bashing at Rannos' legs as he does so and scoring a hit, but even as he does so the greatsword, guided in Rannos' hands by some supernatural force, cuts into his shoulder.

Both combatants fall back from each other for a moment, injured. Blood flows freely from the gash in Nathaniel's shoulder, but after a moment he cooly shrugs off the pain and raises his mace. Ignoring the superficial wound to his thigh, the dwarven magus lowers his own weapon and begins incanting his spell of accuracy again. Seeing his opportunity, Nathaniel eagerly swings his mace at his helpless foe. The weapon flashes through the air at the dwarf-- only to be blocked by an invisible shield. Again, Nathaniel swings his mace, and this time the metal connects with bare skin, sending Rannos reeling. Red flecks, not his own, splash onto Nathaniel's white skin.

But he is too late to disrupt his opponent's spell. Rannos' last shriek of pain ends his incantation, and his dwarven blade sparkles with deadly magic. Grimly, Rannos swings his greatsword even as Nathaniel puts up his mace to block the blow-- but Rannos is guided by the weave itself, and his sword slips easily into Nathaniel's stomach.

Stunned, Nathaniel collapses to the floor. The spectators break into a resounding cheer for the victor.