I'm now inviting your first turn - to reach me by October 2nd at the latest. Well before then would be very helpful. You should have been sent a map of the banqueting hall with this text, it is marked with the positions of the various early arrivals in whose company you find yourself.

Lathspell is an attractive woman in her early thirties, clad in leather armour, a longsword at her hip, a red side-slashed tabard worn over her leathers. This veteran wanderer and servant of Haquar stands by the stage tutting at the dancers and scorning them for their subservience - especially the rather uncoordinated one a the rear.

Blade is a famous Orthian from Exile, a heavily built plate armoured warrior. His eyes are fixed firmly on the dancers, his appraisal of the situation differs radically from Lathspell's.

Olaaf the Ancient, a skeletal lich, completes the dancers' audience. He wears grey robes and holds a dark staff in a hand comprised of black metal bones. The undead Haquarian seems quite taken with the show and almost looks as if he might leap on stage to try a little crooning of his own.

Behind Lathspell mischievously contemplating the pyramid of glasses are not one, not two but six Eleanor Wolfsbanes. The undoubted beauty of these young women is marred by severe scarring to their faces. All carry longswords and light double shot crossbows over their backs, eschewing the ballgowns more normally worn for such occasion in favour of studded leather armour. Eleanors are Haquarian.

Bilbo Pond (NPC), winner of the last brawl, cuts an unimpressive figure by the fountain. He is a short man in a simple white robe. The Trolinite is not favourite to take the title this year.

Jaltra stands surveying the scene with a detached smile at the foot of the Ducal dias. The Corgulian's shaved head is covered with a spectacular mithril helm that puts his old leathers and battered iron shield to shame. At his hip is a silver longsword that once belonged to Sir Hetherlam. He takes a puff from his clay pipe and sends out a smoke ring.

Duke Chevalier sits on his throne, his silver hand supporting his chin as he scrutinises his guests with a disapproving eye. He is clad in gleaming chainmail and a long hafted single-bladed battle axe rests across his knees like a staff of office. He looks every inch the Orthian warlord he pretends not to be.

Actually seated at the table are:

Volgaris: A seven foot albino wearing a white ensemble. His heavy crossbow has been set down beside him, his longsword is scabbarded and his hands are occupied trying to force a whole chicken into his mouth. Obviously an Orthian.

Sigurd is a sturdy young fellow, chain clad, sword at hip. A northman like Volgaris across the table, though a surprisingly a rather cultured one, reputedly abbott of a Corgulian monastery with a silly name.

Alberich is one of two dour dwarves to have arrived. His head pokes just above the table making a comical sight for Mantis opposite. Alberich stands a scant inch over four feet tall but is powerfully built and as broad at the shoulder as any man. His face is largely concealed by his long red beard and thatch of ginger hair but it is evident that the first flush of his youth is a distant memory. His barrelled musculature is concealed within a fine suit of dwarf-crafted platemail and across the aforementioned broad shoulders are not one but two vicious-looking battle-axes, presumably he has bought a spare just in case...

Mantis is a hulking great fellow well over six foot, a very big leather clad warrior around. The man is in his mid thirties with a rugged weather beaten face, dark brown hair and piercing green eyes. An old scar runs six inches from his right ear down across his throat. His weapons are the longsword and the dagger. Reputedly a weather-mage of considerable standing.

Moving away from the food-laden table:

Mace stands watching two crabs fight it out on the bottom of the aquarium. He has come to the dream world in an older guise since he can wear his colours openly here. He is a tall fellow, lean and a little over six foot. Like Sir Weapon he has been burned by the southern sun, his hair is thick, very long and deep black, a variety of hooks from small to shark snaring are secured to the ends of his coiling dreadlocks. There is a distinctly wolfish aspect about Loviatar's servant, right down to his pointed teeth. Mace is unarmored, clad in wolfskins. He wears a longsword at his hip and carried an axe in his hand, one fashioned with disturbing skill to resemble some weird living thing. The hand and arm that clasp the axe are hidden in a leather glove that straps tightly up to the elbow and some way down the veined haft.

Lady Ariaana's pale beauty is offset by newly dyed flame red hair. She wears chainmail under her black cloak. A sword and dagger depend from her belt along with a narrow black rod. The Destuite mage is feared by most here as an unknown factor, certainly deadly, but just how deadly... remains to be seen.

Rupert Blair - the dwarf. Leather armour. Two handed axe. Round helm. No beard, no hair and a scowl that says he'll rip the throat from the first person to make a joke about it. What more need I say?

Two music lovers have ascended to the gallery. Sir Jerival, a slim chain clad warrior of almost acrobatic grace took the stairs. The knight has no religious affiliations and is reputedly one of the best swordsmen around. Standing beside him is Just who is also reputedly one of the best swordsmen around. Although the term 'man' is rather misplaced since he is a winged grey demon with a ruby in his forehead and living silver armour flowing over his torso. He flew to the gallery after scuttling along under the feast table. Both these excellent warriors bear two fine swords so it looks like the winged servant of Fate is well balanced tonight!

Snowolf may be powerfully constructed but he demonstrated his agility when vaulting into the howdah on the elephant's back. His elven chainmail did nothing to slow him down. The Moranan clearly has a way with dumb animals... he waves cheerily at Volgaris.

Arlas stands close by the elephant, a sombre figure, somehow chilling, swathed in a cowled robe. Little is known about this visitor from Exile but the Duke must have had his reasons for inviting him? Maybe he felt Renchu should be represented at the do by somebody less controversial than Sir Andre.

Gitt, a big ugly fellow in a brown robe, stand by the fire place tapping his pipe out on the sill and staring into the meagre blaze. He has a rough hewn staff in the other hand and a peculiar little owl on his shoulder. Gitt is a Haquarian.. kind of.

Mumbles the Heretic is arguing with the cloakroom attendant who seems to think the cloak he's being ordered to hang up would be better off being cremated. In truth it is a piece of foulness held together by dirt and bugs, but Mumbles loves it. Of the Heretic himself little can be seen for he has not yet raised the visor on his full plate armour. It's clear though that he is a walking armoury, carrying a mace, two handed flail, black longsword and some kind of rod.

Sir Weapon is bearing down on Mumbles, clearing going to sort the argument out. He is a tall handsome fellow in gleaming chainmail with two longswords at his hips and a dangerous looking runed black two-hander strapped across his back. He's Corgul's top knight on the continent and as Mumbles may be about to find out - He is the Law!

This leaves only Sir Andre. The plate clad vampire knight of Renchu is in the privies doing whatever it is vampires do in privies. Luckily the trail his blood-dripping sword left to his stall did not catch the attention of the famously perceptive Sir Weapon... or maybe Sir Weapon prefers to have it out in the open?

Right - so that's it. Sort yourselves out and remember to include some general rules because from past experience the person you want to leap on will run off somewhere else and somebody from across the room with launch themselves unexpectedly upon you.

Enjoy.

Mark