It's a grand day for a tournament. Unless you're a drow elf, and the
stands seemed full of them today. Some amongst them who commanded the magely
arts, or had a big enough changepurse, had shields and clouds of darkness
obscuring them. Those were the lucky, the rest of the Drow just endured
under the late afternoon sun, so they could encourage their chosen, the
priestess Clef. Known to be one of the most favored of Lolth's serveants,
Clef had carved a name for herself in the Arena, chiseled in the flesh of
those who fell before her. Today she was to meet a master of the mind, a
psionicist-fighter from the desert lands of Athas, known as Ebrecus Koldar.
For reasons known only to Athasians, not that many supporters of Ebrecus
were numbered in the crowd. Could the drow be a more sun-loving people than
the Athasians? Only the gods knew the truth of it.
As the trumpets blare, proclaiming the entrance of the contestants,
Ebrecus emerges from the south doors of the fighting grounds. Battle-scarred
and much tattooed, the human is festooned with scabbarded swords and other
blades. His movement is ever so slightly rigid, evidence of psionic
enhancement that his body's joints and muscles just weren't accustomed to
yet. Drawing gleaming twin short swords, each about an arm's length and with
blood grooves running down the centers, Ebrecus appears ready to charge
across the Arena ground.
At the opposite side of the Arena, the dark elf priestess and fighter,
Clef, emerges. Her armor is black as tar, the product of craftsmanship of
the drow, or perhaps their ofttime allies, the duergar. It is full plate
armor, with very few vulnerable spots. If the craftsmanship of the deep
dwellers is no falsehood, then there are no chinks in Clef's armor. At her
right hip hangs an indescribable weapon, multihued and writhing as though it
were itself alive. She carries a sword in each hand, each blade blackened to
show no hint of silver. One sword, that in her righthand, was as long as her
forearm. The blade opposite it was as long as her leg if it were an inch. An
air of confidence radiated from her so palpable that the fans nearest her
felt all doubts reased of who would emerge the victorious in this match.
At the command of the chief judge, the two combatants closed towards one
another at an easy pace, neither wanting to leave themselves exhausted and
open to attack. In a half-dozen heartbeats the two stood almost nose to
nose. Each equipped with two swords, the bloodfest began.
As Clef swung her shorter weapon towards Ebrecus, the human danced away
adroitly. Overextending her own reach, Clef threw herself off balance and
was totally open to Ebrecus's blades. Moving swiftly to take advantage,
Ebrecus swung his blades at Clef with blind fury. But to his total disbelief
and horror, his keen edged swords passed through Clef as though she (or the
sword blades) were phantasms. Striking over and again, each blade passed
through the dark elf as if she were nothing more than a mirage.
Then Clef recovered her feet, and with a vengeance worthy of a Drow
cleaved into Ebrecus. Unlike the blades of the hapless psionicist, Clef's
blades bit true and drew blood in prodigious quantities. Over and over and
over she hit, until the psionicist looked near ready to fall. In a feat
which likely saved his life, he floated quickly out of the reach of Clef's
blades. Airborne and floating some fifty feet over the ground, dripping
blood like a leaky gutter, Ebrecus concentrated. Clef tried to reach him,
but he had put himself out of reach of her weapons. She even tried summoning
the wrath of Lolth, but her callings were ignored as she waited frustrated
beneath Ebrecus. In time she moved and could cast spells, begining to walk
upon the air towards her foe. But before she could get close, her magic
failed and she fell some twenty feet to the ground. While Clef ranted,
Ebrecus's wounds began to shut themselves, and the ruddy color of skin began
to replace the palish color he had been reduced to. Readying his weapons
again, Ebrecus dropped to face his foe again. Before moving against Ebrecus
again, Clef reached towards her breast and uttered a word in drow.
Swords clashed, and Ebrecus took another nasty cut just under the
cuirass. With a feint and spin, Ebrecus hit Clef again. And again his blade
passed through her like a wraith. But this time he had done something new,
for the priestess doubled over in pain. But the Drow was no strager to pain,
and quickly recovered, slicing through Ebrecus with an even greater fervor
for his hurting her. Before falling before a superior adversary, Ebrecus
dropped his weapons and raised his hands in a supplicating gesture of defeat
to the judges. Signaling the trumpeters again, the contest, one-sided as it
seemed, was called to a halt.
The drow Clef departed the field of battle with the dignity of a queen,
while her fans in the audience cheered on. Wounded severely, Ebrecus stood
in the ring, concentrating again and knitting shut some of his wounds. But
whatever powers Ebrecus the psionicist had mastered, it seemed that none
were any match for the Drow priestess. While his 'ghost blades' left her
fairly much untouched, the same could not be said for Clef. Having lost as
much blood as an ox at slaughter, the mind-warrior left the field
vanquished. (
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