"Greetings ladies and gentlemen.  Gathered today for your entertainment,
we present a battle of epic proportions.  Not a battle for the lame or
timid, this promises to be a spectacle of dazzling martial mastery!"  As he
pauses for effect, the crowd's voice cheers for the battle to begin.

    "Our first contestant, born of the rich world of Toril, home of some of
the finest warriors of the known planes, I present Jannarok!"

    As the name is uttered, a young dwarven warrior strides into the Arena.
From the beautiful dark metal helm, over the well-tended full suit of plate
armor, to the dwarf's booted feet, Jannarok's appearance is one of great
care.  Accenting the aura of prowess about him, the muscled warrior cradles
a pair of thick-headed hammers, one in each hand.

    "His challenger, martial master and Disciple of Stormhawk, I present
Borosk!  Little more need be said, my friends.  For we all know the
deadliness of the Order's chosen."

    Moving with an inhuman grace, a host of powerfully built men of average
height enter the Arena.  Each an identical image of the next.
Emotionless dark eyes stare out of a beautifully crafted helm, past a
half-dozen circling gemstones that orbit his brow.  He is dressed in a suit
of black dragon armor with black boots, cloak and a pair of scimitars on
either hip.  Cradled gently within his hands, the myrmidon holds a broad
recurved bow with nocked arrow.

    "Let this battle BEGIN!"

    Borosk looks at his opponent and shouts. "Well met. May the best win, as
he should always."  The muscled warriors then loose their
arrows at Jannarok.

    Out of the small swarm, one finds its mark sending sparks off of
Jannarok's armor.  Hitting the dwarf with the force of a ballista bolt, the
arrow leaves a flowing line of bright red blood.

    With a guttural curse, the dwarf is engulfed in a sphere of complete
pitch black.  Inky blackness swirls in small eddies upon the perfect
hemisphere of darkness that now surrounds him.

    Borosk drops his bow and speaks something too soft to hear, a ring on
his finger flashes and the tall men draw two scimitars each.  Then
they start forward on a quick jog.  Within a few steps the flash from their
rings solidifies briefly into a barrier of shimmering magical bands.  Each
settles upon the warriors' body, overlapping one another, like a suit of
eldritch banded mail.  After a few more jogging steps, the effect passes,
completely absorbed into the warriors' skin.

    Moving with fluid grace, the globe of darkness begins to drift forward
at a steady and even pace.  Though as the distance closes, Jannarok slows
his advance and even has to reverse it slightly to avoid the closing
warrior.

    Moving like a possessed quickling, Borosk continues to close the
distance to the dark sphere of magic, where Jannarok once stood.
Kicking up a cloud of dust as he slide to a graceful stop, still over two
dozen yards away, Borosk's eyes flash with an angry green light.  The flare
erupts into a streaking bolt that clears the distance and disappears into
the inky black sphere.  A loud violent rustling, like dragon's hoard of dry
leaves, issues forth with a soft guttural grunt.

    In the magical wake left by the bolt of magic, a pair of hammers come
hurtling out of the black field.  Each is spinning so fast, they appear to
be little more the disks of crackling eldritch energy.  Both spin as they
streak with deadly accuracy straight toward Borosk's chest.  As the pair
spin away, the hemisphere of darkness begins to drift backwards at a calm
and even gait -almost like it is blown on the wind.

    Even with his obviously magical haste, Borosk is not able to deflect the
first hammer.  With the force able to shatter an oak's trunk the heavy
hammer crashes into the human warrior.  And does nothing.  Like it struck
itself, the hammer crackles and rebounds off of Borosk without so much as
making him step back.  The second hammer is about to follow suit, but it is
caught in mid-air by a flash of polished metal.  In the wake of his
scimitar, the hammer is batted aside.  Both spin away and fly back into the
dark cloud of magic.

    With speed that would make a quickling envious, Borosk closes the
distance again - maintaining a gap of a few dozen yards.  In the blur of
motion, he mutters a word and a gem on his fabulously crafted helm flashes
brightly.  Arcing from one of many gems, a streak of sunlight strikes to
inky black globe.  In a shower of light and swirling black smoke, both the
radiant bolt and black sphere are gone.

    "Hi there, long time no seen," Borosk waves at Jannarok with a shout,
just before his flaming green eyes flare into another magical bolt.
Clearing the distance between them, the bolt strikes Jannarok off the
shoulder.  Most of the magic seems to dissipate, but a scorched shoulder
remains in the green fire's wake.

    "Well it seems you boys are well equipped, what is next you fart and I
have to cover me nose".  The dwarven warrior then begins to laugh again.
"How many more tricks ye got boy?"  Flying forward just a hair's breadth
between himself and the ground, Jannarok pulls one muscled arm back for a
throw while gesturing forward with the other.

    With the forward gesture, Jannarok's cloak shifts to point one of it's
corners to warrior.  With a slight glow and hum of magic a searing bolt of
fire leaps, landing at Borosk's feet.  Like the human warrior, Jannarok too
seems a bit surprised at this unexpected display of magic!

    At the scorched earth where it lands, it quickly spreads to surround
Borosk in a blazing wall of opaque crimson flames -so fierce they begin to
melt the stony floor!

    Almost as fast as the wall appeared, Borosk appears directly on the
other side, closer to Jannarok by a few yards.

    Borosk grins at the dwarf when he arrives at the other side. "How many
tricks? A few more I believe."  At these words, his glowing eyes
flare again firing another lancing bolt straight into Jannarok.  "For the
Stormhawk!!" he calls aloud.  With paired scimitars casting an array of
crimson light in the flame's dance, the warrior tears into a sprint closing
the distance between himself and the dwarven warrior in the span of a
heartbeat.

    Arriving as the magical searing bolt takes another bite out of the
resilient dwarf, Borosk's scimitars hail into a tempest of razors set upon
Jannarok's armor.  Unable to track the blades with his eyes, Jannarok is
slashed into a bloodied mess.  Arcs of dwarven blood stream from wound after
wound, coating the dusty Arena floor in a crimson paste.  As the flurry
finishes, Jannarok is left in a pool of his blood.  His entire right leg and
arm lie severed a yard away.

    Cries fill the Arena as the patrons' bloodlust is satiated.