"Ladies and Gentlemen," the voice booms outside, "the time is at
hand.  Our competitors stand ready to face one another on the field of
mortal battle.  Light shall meet darkness and one shall prevail.  Who will
claim victory this day?!"  The taunting question begins a slew of cheers and
boos directed from all sides.  From the volume of the cries, it seems there
is an equal number of advocates to either side, and a healthy dose of those
just lusting for the sight of blood.

        "Our first contestant," at his words the doors before Tellafar open
of their own accord.  The Arena stretches before you like an open field.
The air is still, blocked by the great walls, but the day's coolness
remains.  The floor is packed with hard earth, tinged a rich brown hue.
Whether this is due to the clay or the price of failure, it is not clear.

        "Child of the Light of Lathander, I present Tellafar!  Warrior of
birth and creation, let his presence usher a new day of glory in this Arena
of champions!"

        Tellafar walks forward slowly and regally to his starting point, the
light from the Boon of Lathander radiating around.

        "And his foe this day," the doors opposing Tellafar begin to open.
With the shadowy darkness, a hulking form shifts anxiously.

        "Born into a life of slavery and the hardships of eternal pit
fighting and strife, I present Toron!  We all know the name Romus Todd and
the quality of his stock.  This warrior is nothing less then one of his
finest!"

        Standing imposing 8 feet tall with 2 foot horns on top of his head,
the minotour, Toron strides completely into view The horns are waxed and
shiny, obviously of great pride.  Cords of muscle bulge under his skin, and
his entire body is covered in short gray fur. Weapons; savage blades,
shafted weapons, and folded nets, are strapped about and visible
occasionally from beneath the folds of his dark cloak.

        Tellafar looks at his opponent and raises his staff in salute, an
action returned by a brief bow of Toron's great head.  The priest of
Lathander raises his voice and it sounds clear through the Arena. "Toron.
You already know this battle to be a short one. Surrender now and save
yourself a lot of pain, for you can never stand up to me. I am a disciple of
the Stormhawk, no one can defeat us."

        "The very thought of surrender betrays your cowardice, human!" he
snorts as his hooves kick into the packed earth.

        The announcer's voice bellows, "Let the battle BEGIN!"

        As soon as the signal sounds Tellafar takes on a defensive stance
and mutters something while touching a ring on his left hand.  A wave of
energy shifts from his ring, beginning a slow cascading crawl over the rose
glow of his arm toward his shoulder.

        Not waiting another instant, Toron's form hurtles forward.  His
great bulk fueled by a pair of bovinoid legs.  As he picks up speed and
continues in a dead sprint -closing the distance- his body lowers slightly
and the warrior begins to align his horns with the priest.

        By the time, Toron has reached the Arena's center, the ring's glow
has pulse up and over Tellafar's shoulder, over his neck and face, stopping
upon his eyes.  There, his eyes begin to glow with an intense green aura, a
sight that would cause the weak to buckle in fear.

        Toron is far from weak and his massive form is getting closer with
every second.  Given another heart beat, the minotour will slam horn first
into the armored priest.

        A smirk crosses Tellafars face and he shakes his head as he watches
the charging bullman. "As you wish." He mutters but his eyes betray his
eagerness for battle.  Squinting his eyes he observes the minotour trying to
pierce the distracting displacement.  From the minotour's previous fight
against Solace, Tellafar recalled his use of a cloak of displacement.

        Tellafar knows that his own cloak of the same will protect him
against the charge.  If it would not, his enchantments probably would make
it feel like a stone wall to Toron.  The warrior/priest waited, seemingly
totally at ease.

        Waited until the minotour reached about 75 feet distance and then
suddenly his eyes flash and twin beams of green death stab at his opponent
with great force. Wasting no time the man readies his staff and awaits the
charging bull-man.

        The bolts tore across the Arena, slamming full force into Toron,
completely vaporizing him as they pass thru.  A second later, Tellafar's
assumption proves corrects, a shimmering of the air betrays the gladiator's
true position, a few feet to the left and only a dozen paces away.

        As the two combatants close the priest leaps into the attack.
Shouting "Lathander!" at the top of his lungs.  The staff twirls with
astonishing speed.  Toron returns the cry with fanged maw while, with a
practiced move, he draws both wickedly serrated blades from their scabbards.
  The gleam of bloodlust flows from his eyes.

        Cries rain from above for death.  Screams and cheers volley,
supporting both sides of the fray.

        In a dance of death, the two combatants join into melee.  The speed
and ferocity of the attacks is astounding.  Tellafar's staff streaks in
striking the first blow, right into Toron's unprotected stomach.  The
minotour's muscles buck at the strike -as it was backed with the strength of
a giant-, but the blow seems to have been deflected by a rippling field set
upon his very skin.  A paired series of blows follows, yet again they are
deflected by some magic upon Toron.

        As the priest's staff levels again for another strike, Toron finally
brings his paired swords to bear.  Compared to the priest of Lathander, the
minotour is moving like a herd of turtles walking through peanut butter.
The first paired strike from the gladiator rips straight through Tellafar,
his displaced image wavering out of existence.

        In the stands, voices of goodness gasp in suspense and smile when no
harm is done to their champion.

        Sensing the real opponent, Toron turns in time to bring both swords
into a crossed form -intercepting Tellafar's blow in midswing.  As the
weapons clash directly with one another, each propelled with strength enough
to shatter stone, the sudden arrest of Tellafar's blow reverberates in his
hands causing the staff to shudder from his grasp.  Hanging motionlessly
between Toron's blades, the minotour quickly parts the swords, sending the
staff to the ground a half-dozen feet to Tellafar's right.  Unarmed, the
priest can only rely upon his lord's blessing to protect him.

        Smiles fade as a cloud of worry falls upon the good patron's brows.
Cheers and taunts drip like a miasmic sludge from the mouths of drunkards
and those lusting for the kill.

        In the following fury of unopposed attacks, Toron's blades miss time
after time.  Dodging to the left and right, Tellafar side-steps and back
peddles avoid slash and thrust.  Silently, he is slightly amazed that the
minotour attacks nearly as often as he, though obviously not hasted.

        Pausing in the heartbeat between Toron's attacks, who is obviously
infuriated at his nimble foe, the unarmed Tellafar glares up at him.  This
time, his foe's location is known and there was no hiding from the fury of
the Eyefire.  Twin bolts strike Toron's left collarbone, sending a searing
streak of blackened flesh and ash into the air.  Lucky for the minotour, he
had moved from taking the blow as it was aimed at his neck and chest.

        Whatever cloud that was upon the face of good, has been parted by
the light of Lathander, for his champion was far from defenseless.

        Tellafar glares at the minotour and in this case the saying is true,
looks CAN kill. For again twin bolts of green light stab from his eyes
striking at the minotour.

        The bolts tear over his right arm, almost reducing it to ashen
branch of flesh.  Fur is instantly destroyed as his flesh boils and splits,
exposing his arm's muscles to a wave of magical flame.  The pain is
grotesquely evident upon the minotour's face, though he refuses to scream.
The flames do not cease.  Instead they leap and strike over the bull-man's
body.  Arcs of sizzling fire strike and sear his cloak and a pair of shafted
weapons upon his back.  Whatever enchantments they bore are gone to the
consuming flames.

        With a sneer of satisfaction, Tellafar then jumps back at an
opportune moment and runs for his staff at an amazing speed.  Toron makes no
move to prevent him, but he does use the chance to unleash another series of
attacks upon the priest of creation.  "I will string your eyes on a necklace
boy!"  Toron's blades arc into a series of practiced strikes all seemingly
aimed at Tellafar's head.  Yet the blades never strike the priest's flesh,
for it was not his target.  A small cloud of glitter explodes as the first
Ioun stone is shattered by his strike.  Three more follow, as they are
little more then annoying pixies to the skilled gladiator.  The last attack
of the routine slams into the warfu stone, and it too shatters.  While not
harming him directly, the loss of enchantment sends ripples of nausea over
Tellafar's body.  The attacks from the serrated blades do not cease there.
"I will destroy you piece by piece if I have to!"  The next trio of strikes
lash around the priest, slashing at the cloak around him.  Though enchanted,
its magics are not strong enough against the eldritch adamantine blades, and
the shimmering field of displacement wavers once and fades out of existence.

        Ripples he banishes as he reaches his staff.  Scooping it in one
fluid motion he turns around, a wicked smile on his face.  "You will pay for
this you oxson." He hisses and leaps into the attack again flailing with his
staff.

        Tel's first four blows rock the minotour, though each are turned
away by the same magical field.  But it falters, with a bone crushing sound.
  Tellafar's staff strikes Toron in the stomach with enough force to buckle
the minotour for an instant.  It was an eternity to the hasted priest.
Lining his strike and back with the fury of his deity, Tellafar's staff
hummed into the side of Toron's skull.  Bone and horn shattered in slow
motion.  Gray matter and blood sprayed from torn vessels, sending streamers
of fluid over the gladiator's twist muzzle.  As the minotour begins to
crumple, his right hand glows brilliantly.  This, however does not slow
Tellafar's attacks.  Half a dozen more strikes slam into the dazed fighter,
each breaking bone and splitting flesh.  All the while Toron can do nothing
more that gaze with a dull expression.  His body is wracked by an assault
that should have killed him twice over.

        But it doesn't.  The glow spreads from the warrior's ring, streaking
over his seared arm and collarbone.  Where it passes the wounds disappear
without a trace.  From the collar bone, it finds the gaping head-wound.
Again, flesh and bone are restored, though a great split remains along the
minotour's right horn.  As blows continue to land, the glow intercepts them,
healing the damage as it is done.  Faltering a blink of an eye later, Toron
stands.  While several wounds -rendered after the initial surge of healing-
litter his frame, the minotour is far from dead.  And he looks quite angry,
though very dazed from the blow to the head.

        Anger wells up in Tellafar, those stones were a gift from the
Stormhawk himself!  He would have offered Toron a change at surrender but
now he would not stop before his opponent lay dead on the sand.  His face
twisted in a mask of pure anger he advances. Again his eyes flare death and
with a insane roar of anger he leaps into the attack, staff swinging in a
deadly attack routine intend on battering the minotour to death.

        The bolts of magic slam straight into Toron's chest.  Flesh and fur
buckles as the last of Tellafar's spell is unleashed - the priest's eyes no
longer glowing.  Toron's face stares blankly in disbelief, first to Tel and
then to the boiled wound in his chest.  For a second, from within the
minotour's cavity you swear you can see the rise and fall of his lungs.  But
not for long.  Tel's attack comes faster then the eye can follow.

        Five of the first six, slam over his body in a blur.  Muscles and
bone buckle as each blow rocks Toron.  The minotour's legs begin to buckle,
but his form is held aloft by the force of the strikes -sometimes even
pulling the gladiator off of the ground.

        Letting Toron's body slump like a wet sack of grain, the minotour's
knees hit the packed earth with a wet-bloody sound.  But the attack does not
cease.  The glowing ends of Tellafar's staff continue in a dance of light
and shadow, spinning in blurs that leave a trail of light in their wake.
Nearly half-a-dozen more strikes slam into Toron's head.  Bone splinters and
flesh splits.  Horns shatter and his nose erupts like a bleeding volcano.
In the end, the minotour falls lifelessly, his muscles no longer able to
support his upper body.

        Looming above his broken form, Tellafar stands.  Not like a
foreboding shadow, but rather a beacon of light -warning all who dare stand
against the creator Lathander.

        "The Winner is Tellafar, Chosen of Lathander and Disciple of
Stormhawk!"

        Tellafar glares down upon the defeated Toron. "You still have a lot
to learn, go back to your trainer." He mutters. "You were no match for a
disciple, if you are among the best Todd has to offer he should consider
changing his profession." He then walks away, head held high, the first
battle is won.