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.
(
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