Sitting in the sun, waiting for the fight to commence, there is much
speculation about the upcoming battle.  Word is that it's going to be a
classic duel, one on one, sword against sword.  There's nearly as much
betting on who'll break the agreement first as there is on who's going to
win.  Suddenly the announcer begins the introductions, and the betting
stops.  As the crowd waits, the first warrior steps out.

    It's hard to tell much about the form coming through the door, apart
from the fact it's small; standing just over 3' in height. Very little
detail can be made out; the creature appears to be totally covered in
dark grey cloth, the edges of which seem to shimmer and blur, making it
difficult to make out an exact form. What is certain, though, is that he
carries a bow in one hand, and annouces "ready" when he reaches his
appointed spot.

    With the command to begin, Ivor pulls back the string on his bow, and
soon several arrows are flying towards his opponent, seemingly more than he
shot.

    Coming through the other door is Moonsong, also carrying a bow.  Wearing
his elven chain mail, he is the epitome of the elven ranger.  Seeing his
opponent cloaked in a spell, he too raises his bow and launches an arrow.

    However, Ivor is quicker on the draw and though his first arrow misses,
his second stabs into Moonsong's shoulder just as he releases his shot.  The
shot goes wide, and still more of Ivor's arrows hit home.

    As two more stab into him, one piercing a lung, Moonsong manages to get
a couple more shots off.

    As another pair of Ivor's arrows stab into him Moonsong collapses.  With
his lungs rapidly filling with blood, the elf spits out, "Where is the duel
we agreed on?"

    And then it is over.

    The crowd, stunned to silence, listens as the judges announc Ivor the
winner.  Then suddenly, the silence is broken as shouting breaks out.
Fruit, and worse, splatters aginst the dome of the Arena as the patrons of
the Games show their displeasure.

    The healing priests rush out to where Moonsong lays, but it is too late
for the ranger.

    Ignoring the crowd, Ivor cancels his spells, and a look of shock can be
seen on his face. He jogs over to the fallen elf. "I'm sorry," he says
laying a hand on the body, "I shot you, you shot me; standard practise for
first contact with the opposition."

    He shakes his head, "I had no idea it would be so...final." He looks up
at the crowd. "Three thousand gold to help bring him back," he declares.

    Then Ivor turns and walks back across the arena out through his door,
with his head bowed.