News of the next Great Tourney has spread through the populace like
wildfire, and the stands are abuzz with excitement.  The harsh summer heat 
does not seem to bother any of the spectators as they howl for blood or for 
the delectable goodies being hawked by many small merchants and pastry 
cooks.

     The section designated for commoners appears to be more raucous today 
than usual, while the special boxes for nobles appears to be more subdued.  
Rumor has it that Zichlar, the evil demi-god from the southwestern 
continent, has again struck a garrison, this time almost completely razing 
it.  The nobles have quartered themselves into small groups, and seem more 
content to be discussing the now-present threat of Zichlar, and Mayor 
Slonhauser's policies and precautions, than the upcoming battle between a 
newcomer dwarf, and the drow weaponsmaster Bargon.

     Bargon, having given the crowd a drawn-out and viciously boring 
spectacle in his first match, hasn't managed to draw a large contingent of 
supporters.  The newcomer dwarf, rumored to be a master of mind and body 
from Athas, hasn't brought many fans, either.  Were it not for the goings-on 
in the city proper, and the anticipation of the Great Tourney and the 
subsequent bloodlust, there would probably be a very small crow indeed.  
However, a larger group of city guards is needed today to keep the commoners 
in order then is the norm.  The guards are lead people to their seats and 
managing to make the cacophony of sound and movement appear orderly, when 
the deep, well-loved voice of the announcer rings out.

     "Ladies and gentlemen!" his voice rings out clear and loud, "Today we 
have the pleasure of viewing what promises to be a dance of steel and death, 
as two masters of the martial arts square off.  We all know
the drow Bargon, an elf of fluid grace and whipcord strength."  His right 
hand gestures toward the eastern door, and the huge wooden planes begin to 
slide apart.  The weaponsmaster Bargon, his eyes squinting in the bright 
light of the unforgiving sun, steps forward, a crossbow in his hands.  He 
wears two scabbards, both with longsword hilts protruding from the top, 
though they appear to be mismatched.  A black tunic cloaks his upper body, 
which is emblazoned with the insignia of his House, while midnight blue 
breeches add to his aura of darkness.  A leather headband holds his hair out 
of his face, though he still brushes at his silvery mane with a ringed hand. 
He moves forward, an air of menace about him.  A small quiver of bolts hangs 
from his waist, along with a short black rod.

     "And the newcomer, a dwarf from the Athasian wastes: Igor!"

     The western double-doors slide apart, revealing Igor, an ugly dwarf, 
completely hairless with a horrible burn stain along the right side of his 
head and face.  The surprisingly tall dwarf steps forth and scowls up at the 
watching crowds looking for the usual signs of revulsion.  Two short swords 
extend directly from his forearms, and gleam ominously.  He also sports 
numerous other small weapons from his dark leather armor.  He locks his 
attention on his opponent, yelling out, "Well, blackie, let's see what color 
your blood runs."

     The announcer waits for the competitors to signal their readiness, and 
acknowledges it by shouting, "Begin!"

     The air around Igor hums momentarily as he picks apart the flow of time 
and space with his mind.  His body flickers faster than the mind can 
interpret, and he is suddenly gone, reappearing only fifteen feet behind the 
dark elf, who whirls to face him.

     The drow snickers as he releases the bolt straight at the dwarf's 
chest, and taunts, "Show me what you've got, little man."

     The bolt flies true, but seems to loose all its forward momentum, and 
drops harmlessly at Igor's feet.

     The dark elf grimaces in annoyance when the quarrel drops at Igor's 
feet like a submissive puppy, and quickly hitches the small crossbow onto a 
ring on his belt in a practiced, quick maneuver.

     Igor, scowling at the drow, says "Surrender now, or I'll be adding your 
pointy little ears to my collection."  It appears, however, that the dwarf 
isn't paying much attention and is instead delving and shaping the energies 
of the mind.  He continues his pursuit of internal powers even as Bargon 
quickly steps toward the dwarf, his longswords unsheathed and weaving a 
beautiful tapestry of steel and death.  His movements are fluid and 
graceful, reminiscent of the haunting elven bladesong, though without the 
mastered faint and riposte techniques.  His swords whirl toward the dwarf, 
who is still concentrating on initiating psionic powers, lashing out 
numerous times, but only connecting with the dwarf thrice.  However, as with 
the bolt, they
seem to simply stop as they come within inches of the psi-warrior.

     Igor, on the other hand, seems to be quite pleased, for as Bargon's 
third strike is absorbed, the powers of his mind hurtle forth in the form of 
an anti-magic field.  The blade in Bargon's right hand shrivels and 
transforms into an eight inch rod, while the luster of his ring, the gleam 
of his other blade, and the radiance of the emblem on his tunic all fade.

     Bargon, seeing that all of his magic has been drained, glances up, his 
dark face paling slightly.  He begins a steady withdrawal, but the dwarf 
launches himself at his foe, his short swords slashing violently.

     Igor smiles as his blades begin spinning into a pattern of doom.  "Time 
to bleed, blackie."

     Repeatedly, the short blade extending from Igor's left forearm draws 
gouts of blood from the drow's abdomen, while the blade extending from his 
right forearm slashes viciously at the neck and face of Bargon.  With the 
first impact of the right-armed blade, there is a loud concussion: soundless 
thunder.  The blade slides easily through the skin, muscle, and bone of 
Bargon's jaw, while the force rips off half of the drow's face.  Bargon 
sways, the dwarf having almost killed him in a single hit, and begins 
slumping.  Igor, however, is not nearly finished with the drow.  He 
continues a full attack routine, cutting the drow down with another four 
strikes.

     Bargon, completely ripped apart by the dwarf, lies in a spreading pool 
of the crimson liquid seeping out from under him, staining the sand red, 
shining brightly under the careful gaze of the brutal sun.

     "I guess your blood is as red as any other's," postulates the dwarf
before looking to the judges for the win.  The judges, aghast at the obvious 
death of the drow, nod their heads ascent.

     At the commencement of the bout, the crowd had been screaming, howling 
for blood and death.  They are silent now.  While they have seen such 
carnage before, they have never seen one who would likely pay such a dear 
price. Whispers of "Powers of the Dark" spread throughout the stands, and 
eyes open even wider.

     With a glare for the crowd, the dwarf, covered in the coagulating 
strands of his opponent's life-fluid, quietly leaves the Arena.