Ivan Zagad idly caresses the smooth, black wood of his rune-carved staff. For once, the wild laughter and shouting of the crowd does not bring about so much as a annoyed twitch on the dark mage's face. He waits patiently for the combatants below to prepare themselves for battle. Not so his tiny demonic companion.

"I'm bored out of my corporeal form, Zagad," groans the imp. "Not only do we have to sit around to, um, adjudicatize this fight, we're hanging about every fight this week. "

"Your impatienssse is a poor masssk, Sithyigul," snaps Ivan Zagad. "You know that I will not leave you with the experimentsss. . . under any circumsstances, so don't even bother. As for why we musst attend every night, I have taken an interessst. . . a prospective student of mine will sssoon be joining the arena. . . ah, I ssee a signal from our friendss in the preparation room. The fight will begin. . ." Standing, he introduces the fight to the crowd. "We have for you this evening a battle between cold sssteel and mystic power. Regardless of the victor, dwarven blood shall be ssspilt for your pleasure.. . Dis Loveth and Rannos: ssstep forward."

Slowly, determinedly, the two dwarven gladiators enter the arena and face each other. Rannos pauses as he passes through the doorway into his side of the arena, fingers brushing the stone in familiar ritual. Well-known now for his many victories, he is met with a resounding cheer from the stands. Calmly, he intones the words of a spell, touching his forehead as he does so as if branding himself with his own fingers. Indeed, when he withdraws his hand, a blue mark-- shaped as a drop of water-- adorns his forehead. He chants again, and another, same-shaped mark forms beside the first.

As the crowd quiets, Dis Loveth raises one pistol and challenges the magic-user in his own Pit tradition. His own admirers cheer or stand quitely as he speaks. "Know that my honor will safeguard this battle," he finishes. . . and Ivan Zagad calls, "Begin!"

Immediately, Rannos waves his hands, incanting another spell. This one creates a protective shield around him that shimmers for a moment before becoming invisible. Dis Loveth charges toward the chanting sorcerer, waiting to close before firing his weapon. Before he can do so, Rannos casts another spell-- this one has no apparent effect, an obvious sign to those familiar with Rannos' customary tactics.

Dis Loveth slows, raising his weapon and firing. The shot is far wide, however, not even catching his enemy's magical shield. As Dis Loveth aims his second pistol, Rannos raises one hand. A jet of water flows from his hand and strikes Dis Loveth in the chest. The paladin is knocked backward, but he manages to get off a pistol shot with excellent aim-- unfortunately, the bullet ricochets harmlessly off Rannos' shield.

The sorcerer drops a bag of caltrops, eyes on the floor as he mutters the words to his spell of accuracy again. When he looks up, the crowd can see that one of the marks on his forehead is gone-- and one remains.

Dis Loveth roars in pain and draws his magnificent two-handed sword. As the paladin charges forward, Rannos raises his hand again. A second aqueous attack blasts into the dwarf, slowing him but not breaking his charge. Dis Loveth leaps over the caltrops and swings his sword even as he screams in pain. The weapon rebounds off of his foe's invisible shield. Seeming about to collapse, Dis Loveth raises his sword and bashes again; the blow connects with Rannos' chest but, softened by the mystical forces surrounding him, it only causes him to grunt in pain and finish chanting another spell. Dis Loveth bellows one last challenge in dwarven and slashes at Rannos' side. The magic-user, shaken himself now but standing firm, raises his own greatsword and, with perfect accuracy, strikes Dis Loveth in the heart.

The paladin collapses, groaning, "A good battle, magus. . . we shall fight well in the coming week. . ."