Stepping slowly through the Arena's gates to an anxiously anticipating 
crowd, Dusk's lips smirk in a cold cruel smile, blackest blood covering his 
gauntleted fists and leaking down to drip dangerously on the sandy floor 
beneath his booted feet. Almost no magics are apparent around this man, but 
then again, he was a psionicist, and so the audience did not expect to see 
the protections that would later confound their minds. A simple field of 
azure sparks, coned around him is the only protection evident, a far cry 
from his opponent that moved into the Arena just now.

    From the other side of the Arena, another well prepared warrior steps 
dangerously into the ring. Standing a full 14 feet tall, the human mage, 
known for his berserker rage in combat, roars his challenge across the Arena 
like a giant bear roaring upon a childlike toy he wishes to snack on. Body 
flowing with bright green flames, lighting up the area around him, and 
another set of blue flames, burning close to the skin. Upon this eve, there 
are a total of 6 of this giant berserker mage, with a shortsword in one 
hand, and a dagger  at his belt.

    Covered in a grisly layer of black blood, Dusk raises his hands to the 
patrons above and offers but a glare of contempt to his foe.  "Know that I 
am Dusk.  I am what stands between you and everlasting night.  Come.  Come 
and die."

    "Come puny little one...let us dance the dance of death!"  Rasta roars 
out, his figures bluring amongst each other confusingly as he punches his 
fist out into the air.  Both combatants pause for the  announcement.  As the 
word to begin escapes the judge's lips, Rasta dissappears, reappearing only 
some 60 feet from his intended opponent, eyes blazing with anger.  At the 
same time, Dusk's mind lets free the held timelines of energy, and time 
grounds down to a near halt before him.

    The battle begins swiftly, in fact, more than swiftly, for those that 
watch with grim fascination the action of Dusk's form as he rockets to 
action, Rasta barely drawing a step before the other was there, in his face 
and fighting already. Everyone watches simply in morbid fascination as one 
of the fastest battles ever is conducted...

    Not taking his eyes from the mammoth human, Dusk's hands slip gracefully 
to his weapons.  One hand slides the eldritch blade of adamantine alloy from 
its bloody sheath.  The other locks upon the rod, drawing it from the 
leather loop at his thigh.  With a twist of the wrist, the rod's bulbous end 
splits and falls into a pair of spiked hemispheres -each supported by a 
gleaming chain and covered in Dusk's pitch blood.

    The time was ready to kill this simpleton.  From the folds of his mind, 
Dusk's attention is brought to the shimmering field of azure.  With but half 
a thought the field disappeared into a brief showers of blue fireflies -each 
carried on an unseen wind and fading into the cool air.

    In the field's passing, Dusk springs to the attack.  Closing the 
distance that remains, the Athasian elf lays into his foe with calculated 
attacks.  The adamantite sword snakes with blinding speed to strike the 
barbarian's blades, while his twin-headed flail produces an eerie whistling 
as it seeks to lodge itself into the giant's ribs.

    Rasta doesn't even have the chance to raise his blades before they are 
slapped away from him, flying far, his other weapon destroyed before his 
mind can even think of drawing the blade, his finger severed from his hand 
as Dusk's sword destroys one of his rings, then the other. All the time, 
pain moves slowly up his nervous system from the jolts that are wrought by 
the dual heads of the rod wielded against him, battering again and again 
into his abdomen. His innards liquify within the first dozen strokes, but 
still more come as Rasta's life energy lingers on.

    Pain is not even felt by Rasta as the blade severs first his arms, then 
his legs, and he only barely has time to register the pain, seering and 
burning through him from every direction, his eyes widening, the only action 
he can take in the time alloted as the blade crashes through his neck and 
sends his head spinning off into the now bloodied sands of the Arena.

    The crowd does not cheer, doesn't say anything, just sits in silence as 
one of the judges chokes back his distaste at the actions upon the field and 
announces Dusk the victor... free to leave.