"Fah, allow. You paid a pretty penny for this privilege, sir," replies one of his body guards. "More than reasonable, if you ask me."

"I have a pain in my liver, Aasim." He clutches his liver for emphasis. "For you to talk of a friend in such a way is unseemly," Jamal irritably replies. "Friend Torgal has many expenses to pay. You do not expect this place runs for free, do you? Besides, he has allowed me to stage competitions when he is away. And that, Aasim, is worth the small sum he requires." Jamal takes a long drink of wine to accentuate his point. "I know I shall not be bored."

"But--"

"I won't have it Aasim. I found his price most reasonable and do not wish to discuss it further." A playfully mischievous glint sparkles in Jamal's eyes. "Since my finances trouble you so, I will reduce your wages until I have earned back the money if you want."

"No, sir, that won't be necessary," Aasim answers, bowing low.

"Kwayis. I would not want it said Jamal Ibn Ahmad mistreats those about him. Seat yourself and enjoy the upcoming fight." Jamal climbs to his feet. "Have some of this wine I purchased from Torgal. It is a bit weak, but has a fine taste."

"Ladies and gentleman," Jamal calls as he approaches the balcony, wine glass cradled in one hand. "It is with great pleasure that I introduce this fight on behalf of Torgal. Enjoy yourselves, and please welcome this evening's combatants. Neither is unknown to you, I believe." There is loud applause and shouting which Jamal acknowledges with a smile and the raising of his wine glass. "To Amon Du'ul and Ashe Moontree, who will entertain us. Let the blood-shed begin." He nods to the gatekeepers below before returning to his comfortable pillow.

The far gate is opened quickly and a figure coalesces out of the darkness and steps into the arena. The gatekeepers shudder, then quickly disappear inside the double doors. Amon proceeds slowly forward; after reaching some predetermined spot in the ring, he halts, pulling back his hood and throwing open his cloak to reveal a knife and sword sheathed on his hips. The audience draws back from the practitioner of dark arts.

The doors of the near gate swing open in response. With light feet that seem about to dance at any moment, Ashe enters the arena. He pulls his blades free in a precisely timed manner that flows into a display that is part demonstration of prowess and part dance. When he is finished, he reverses his grip on the weapons and holds his arms by his side, waiting for the signal to begin.

In a heartbeat he is off, sprinting across the floor with clothes and weapons streaming behind him. Amon does not flinch; instead, he closes his eyes and begins weaving strange patterns in the air and speaking words too low for anyone to hear. At first nothing happens and it looks as if Ashe will careen into the black mage without Amon doing a thing to stop him. Then, slowly, white energy begins swirling before him, forming into an elongated shape. When it appears nearly solid, Amon's eyes flutter open and throws out his arm with a flourish. The missile races over the floor, striking Ashe in the shoulder. The bladedancer shrugs it off and continues to rapidly close the distance between his blades and Amon.

Amon unsheathes his sword and dagger then lowers himself into a fighting stance. Ashe, only about 45 feet from Amon, slows and begins to approach more cautiously. He takes up his katana in a more traditional fighting grip but keeps the reversed hold on his wakizashi.

When the two combatants are face to face, Amon is the first to attack. Raising his long sword overhead, its movements hypnotic like the dance of a cobra, he leaves his knife before him defensively. It slashes quickly down, and Ashe brings his wakizashi up too slow to fend off the blow that cuts into his left shoulder. Blood spurts from the wound but he pays it no mind. Instead, his katana flies up lightning quick for a counterstroke. Biting into the half-elf's neck, it slices neatly through skin, muscle and bone to nearly decapitate Amon. Blood gushes out of the severed jugular and spatters on Ashe's face, clothes and weapons.

Amon, quite obviously dead, releases his weapons and collapses to the ground. Screams that threaten to collapse the roof explode from the stands, followed by thunderous clapping. Ashe mockingly bows, then traces the elven rune for defeated in the air with his sword before strutting back inside.