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Introduction

 

You know, it seemed a simple enough idea at the time - run a few competitions between the various empires, moderate a fight or two, print some poems...

 

I have done my best to take into account  everything everyone wants to do, say, sacrifice and attack. However, I have had to make some 'executive' decisions to simplify things a little, mainly to avoid the description of the Games running to novel-length and ending in slaughter. It is also possible - indeed, almost inevitable given the hundred-odd emails and actions received - that I have missed out something somewhere. So, apologies in advance to anyone who has not done something they wanted to do or done something they didn't mean to, and I hope you enjoy the Games anyway.

 

Oh, and one final thing...you will notice the presence of two commentators going by the somewhat unlikely names Howie and Tery appearing on occasion to honour us with the benefit of their experience. These are player written contributions, and Harlequin bears no responsibility for the accuracy of their predictions!

 

Prelude

 

In the year that had passed since the last Lorasia Games, the land had been witness to mighty battles, bloody routs and heroic victories. Had seen cities fall, and new cities arise. Had watched demons darken the sky, dragons battle flying ships, creatures both fantastical and impossible, both beautiful and hideous of visage, walk, fly and indeed on occasion squirm across the land.  Had witnessed the birth of empires, the death of heroes, been burnt by the fire of love and consumed by the passion of bloodshed. All of life and death, and love and hate, had played themselves out against the background of this world and others. And needless to say, darkly cloaked and mysterious strangers had appeared and vanished with consistent dark mystery, mages had contemplated, and commanders reflected.

 

In short, life in Lorasia had continued as it always had, and - demonic threats to existence not withstanding - always would. Yet amidst this ever-shifting tapestry of events, one strand had remained constant, a tension and sense of excitement which steadily built as the year had progressed, a sense of anticipation shared by Chaos, Law and those as-yet undecided alike for the most eagerly anticipated date in the diary of every Lorasian...The Lorasia Games.

 

In the weeks proceeding the Games, thoughts of conquest and battle were forgotten, campaigns grinding to a halt as commanders abandoned their men to train instead for the Grand Melee, the Wrestling, or Marathon. Mages, who had dedicated their lives to the pursuit of magic and knowledge, now put aside dusty tomes to work instead on riddles, whilst craftsmen - usually found either involved in deforestation or in the timber-yards transforming the fruits of the felling into more useful items - huddled over plans and blueprints for ornate weapons.

 

Until finally, the time was upon them. The time both yearned for and feared, when reputations would be won and lost, when warriors would stand tall else fall, trampled  and forgotten in ignominy and shame. Time time when bards take the stage before an audience of thousands, archers would risk all in the arced flight of an arrow, and when goblins, no doubt, would generally make a nuisance of themselves. The time of the Lorasia Games was at hand.

 

On the eve of the Games, those empires who had made known their desire to submit contestants were visited by four figures. Three were armed and armoured, visored helms reflecting the faces of any who dared meet their unseen gazes. The armour of one shone with the brilliance of the morning sun, the second’s was dark as the moonless night, whilst the third figure had chosen grey as his colour of choice, though offset nicely with trimmings of gold.

 

The fourth, on the other hand, scorned such protection in favour of tattered robes, over which flowed a tangled white beard. Despite his appearance, however, something in his bearing commanded respect, and not just due to the large staff he lent on which clearly identified him as a mage. For this was none other than the Great and Wondrous, Tandilus, self-proclaimed Master of all magical disciplines.

 

Calling on the entrants to make themselves known, he raised a solemn hand, before, with great dignity and sense of importance, extended a finger to clean his ear. Then, almost as an afterthought, waved his staff in their general direction. Where the tip of his staff cut the air, so a rent appeared, a tear in the very fabric of reality itself, beyond which darkness and light seemed to roil in constant battle. Tendrils of light reached out, weaving, curling, snaking about the bodies of the contestants, who found themselves being dragged into the rip, helpless to resist as the last thing that they saw of the world they were leaving behind was the sight of Tandilus waving.

 

A moment of disorientation, of giddy exhilaration and sickening wrenching, soul and body ripped apart then rejoined. The blink of an eye, an instant’s darkness, and then they found themselves not within their camps, but standing in an immense field, encircled by heavy forest whose trees seemed to stand as silent guardians, impassive, impenetrable.

 

In the field’s centre, twenty immense white banners, unfurled scroll-like - each a hundred feet high and thirty wide - stood in a huge circle. Beyond this circle of the banners then stood a dozen tents, each flying the pennant of an empire of Lorasia, and each separated by healthy distance. Around the field moved berobed figures, some escorting contestants to the tents, some checking the banners, others moving on less obvious business. And scattered across the field, some standing by the banners, some patrolling between the tents, but always in threes, and all ensconced in armour and wielding a veritable arsenal of weapons, were the guards.

 

Also present in the clearing were what appeared to be floating eyeballs, tendrils of nerve dangling from them as they drifted through the air. Moving slowly, nevertheless when one of the giants of Klan Ulminbore, curious, reached out to touch one, it moved away with a surprising burst of speed - if, that is, the term surprising can be applied to the speed of a flying eyeball. And, a few moments later, one of the grey-robed officials appeared, calling the eye to his hand to peer at it suspiciously, before, glaring at the giant, releasing the eye back into the air.

 

Above, the sky was a muted shade of grey, not night, yet not day or even dusk. A hazy, shifting ceiling in whose swirls and patterns one could lose oneself, though at the cost of a stiff neck. A sky beneath which vampires, humans and - sad to say - goblins could walk without fear of impediment or indeed bursting into flame.

 

When all were present who were to be present, the officials gathered the contestants together in the centre of the banner-encircled arena. There, on a small stage, stood Tandilus, three of the ever-present guards, and a small, harassed-looking bespectacled figure, with a battered notebook in one hand and a watch in the other. It was he who, taking a step forwards, coughed politely for silence. Then, when Grelgs, entirely ignoring him, continued to chatter amongst themselves, yelled for said silence. And, when the echoes of his bellow had concluded their reverberation around the arena, nodded vaguely to those assembled.

 

“Greetings. My name is Alran, and I am the chief official at these games. l have no say in the voting or judging of categories, and am here to ensure that there is no cheating, and the high standard of the Games are upheld. If, then, any of you have any reason to believe another of cheating, or indeed have any complaints, my tent flaps are open day and night.”

 

Tittering was heard from amongst the Grelgs, before one of the goblins - known to those unfortunate enough to know him as Smoovie - raised a hand.

 

“Weeelll, now that you mention it I do ‘ave a few points, where I can show as us Grelgs ‘ave been the target of bias an’ racism.” The goblin unrolls a long scroll, the end of which overflows onto the ground before him. “So. Number one-”

 

“Unless,” Alran continued, breaking in, “one happens to be a Grelg. In which case you should instead direct your complaints to my companion here, who will be happy to give you the due attention you deserve.”

 

So saying, he gestured to one of the guards, who, whilst encased in armour, nevertheless gave the hulking impression of one well-muscled, and indeed used to using said muscled, and whose expression, whilst hidden by a visor, nevertheless showed clearly just what kind of attention he believed the Grelgs deserved. The Grelg holding the scroll looked first at the guard, then back down at the scroll, before scowling.

 

“See. Tol’ you we was unfairly discriminated ‘gainst,” he muttered. “Ain’t no one willin’ ta give us a fair chance, ‘cause you’re frightened a bein’ shown up.” Before, under the glare of the guard, lapsing into silence.

 

“The games,” Alran continued, “will take place over the following two days. On the first day the Weapons Design, Marksman and Marathon will be held, with the Songs of Praise taking place in the evening, and on the second the day will start with Unarmed Combat, then the Bards will be given stage before finally the games will conclude with the Grand  Melee.

 

“As previously advertised, the winner of each category will receive the sum of 500 gold, with 100 gold going to the runner up, and the empire fielding the most victors in the Games receiving 100 trained troops of their choice. These prizes remain unchanged, but instead of calculating the overall winner based on simple victories, we will instead be introducing a points system. For winning, an empire will gain 3 points, for runner up 2 points, and for third place, 1 point. The empire with most points at the end of the Games will then be declared victorious.

 

“In the meantime, Aethelu Wintersong of the Horseclans of Ageria has generously offered to entertain representatives from each of the empires, as well as the Games officials, at a feast that coming evening.

 

“’Scuze me.”

 

A voice, high and whining, piped up from amongst the Grelgs. Sighing, the official raised an eyebrow questioningly. “What is it?”

 

“Well, whilst I ain’t one to say no to free nosh nor nuffin, I want it on the record that invitin’ you an’ the judges is a blatant attempt at bribery, which we is disgusted an’ appalled at. ‘Specially since our own efforts ‘ave been ignore-”

 

Whatever else the goblin had to say being muffled as one of his companions slammed a hand over his mouth, the official, shaking his head, continued.

 

“Which brings me to a few points of order. The rules for each category will be explained at the time of the event. However, a few general things to be aware of. Firstly, whilst the use of magic in any form is banned save for during the Hymn of Praise, there has been some confusion regarding the nature of magic, and what is to be considered magic. To answer this, then, I give way to my esteemed companion, Tandilus.

 

Shuffling forwards, Tandilus reached to pull a sheaf of notes from thin air, which he consulted as he spoke.

 

 "Whilst some priests might argue that the power of mages is in no way similar to the divine blessings bestowed upon the faithful by the gods, and indeed, although in my opinion to call a priest a wielder of magic is an insult to all proper spell casters, the truth of the matter is that both priests and mages draw on the same essence, which is the magical force which binds Lorasia together. Mages call this magic, and bend it to its will. Priests use it indirectly, by asking their gods to bend it to their will for them. But both are merely different ways of using the same magical essence of Lorasia.

 

"So. For the purposes of the Games, a magical item is considered anything either fashioned by non-mundane means, or affected by non-mundane means, or created from non-mundane materials. So the Grelg’s sword Snikka-snak, for example, is clearly magical, as is the Holy Hammer of Eldaron wielded by Ravnarok. Well-made armour and weapons are not magical as such, for even though they aid the wearer or wielder they do not do so through magical means. And nor is dragon-hide armour, as dragons are merely a creature like any other, though capable of using magic, and so armour made of their hide is no more magical than armour made of, say, an elven warlock's hide. However, if an item is magical, but has no innate powers unless activated  - as in the case of the Hammer of Eldaron - if the wielder allows himself to be bound by the priests of his religion so that he cannot activate the item's powers, he can use the item.

 

"Further, there will be spot-checks throughout the games, and if any entrant is deemed to be under the effect of any magical item or enhancement - such as strength potions or spells - I will be on-hand to dispel such effects.”

 

Tandilus, falling silent, nodded to Alran.

 

"Thank you for your eloquence, Tandilus. We hope then that this serves to clear up the confusion over magical items. Secondly, we ask each of you to remain in the area allocated to you within the clearing. If you have any reason to leave, a guard will be assigned to you.

 

Third of all, some of you may have noticed the presence of flying eyes in the clearing. These are creations of Tandilus, and he will be using them to keep an eye on events. Or in this case twenty eyes- he pauses, smiling at his joke, before, when it is clear that no one else is going to share his appreciation, continuing hurriedly.

 

“Please ignore these eyes, and on no account make any attempt to tamper with, destroy or-” he glares at the Grelgs - “eat them.

 

Eyes turn to follow Alran’s gaze to where one of the goblins, cheeks puffed out and with a tendril of nerve protruding from his mouth, swallows loudly, before, looking to the sky, whistling innocently.

 

“Finally, it has been brought to our attention that some of you intend to sacrifice not only creatures but sentient beings during the Songs of Praise. I regret to inform you, however, that after some discussion, it has been decided that the sacrifice of any creature creature of higher sentience is forbidden.”

 

Smoovie shrugged. “That’s all right then, ‘cuz we’s only goin’ ta slaughter a dumn stumpy dwarf.”

 

Alran shook his head. “No you will not. And that is the end of the matter.”

 

“Outrage, ‘s a bloody outrage, ‘s what it is,” Smoovie stuttered. “Ain’t bin ‘ere but half an ‘our, an’ already we’ve bin discriminated against more times as I can count. And I can count up ta lots.”

 

“So,” Alran concluded. “I hope you enjoy your time here. The Games will start at noon tomorrow; until then your time is your own, within the restrictions given. Good luck to you all.”

 

 An Evening’s Pleasure

 

As afternoon softened into evening, the Horseclans prepared for the coming reception. A large, open air tent was set up, draped with netting to keep bugs and lingering goblins out, and a hundred candles set about. Carpets and matting provided a seating area, with low tables piled with food and drink set up.

 

As the guests arrived, drawn by the scent of cooking drifting across the clearing, Antea and Meridiana of the Horseclans showed them to their places, carefully organised in advance to keep dark elf away from dwarf, elf away from dark elf, and the Grelgs away from everyone else.  With Aethelu at the head of the table, Tandilus and Alran to her left side, and Ksenia of the Crusaders to her right, the rest stretched down the sides of the table, whilst triumvirates of guards surreptitiously standing in the tent’s shadows.

 

When all were seated, Aethelu rose to thank her guests for coming, promising - to cheers and whistles from the Grelgs - not to give a speech before bidding everyone eat, drink, and enjoy the night, whilst telling those bards and musicians amongst her guests that she would be honoured should they choose to perform.

 

As food was consumed, drink was drunk and insults cheerfully flung across the table, then, Aethelu was the first to rise to perform, singing a version of the Ulminbore’s ‘Sinking to Glorylyredh’, with Cleetus Ulminbore himself adding bass counterpoint. Next to stand was Kamaran, who, whilst lacking the trained voice of Aethelu, more than made up for this with the lyricism of his words. Then it was the turn of the green-hued Gabrielle, and the evening took a turn for the riotous as her crude innuendos were well received by the guests, now well immersed in their drinks. After her came Smoovie, with limericks which choose to forego subtle innuendo in favour of blatant crudeness. And then it was the turn Lyulf, self-styled Dwarven Duke of Rock’n’More-Rock, whose wailings and screaming, grounded with the solid rhythms of his backing group the Anvil Angels, took the party past the hours of midnight.

 

Finally Aethelu, rising to sing a final ballad, gently quietening the mood, brought the evening to an end. Those who could still stand wove their way from the tent, others falling asleep where they sat. And any who had watched Smoovie ply Tandilus with drink all evening to finally offer him a bag of gems as ‘small token of the Grelg’s esteem for one with such a hard task as adjudicator of the Games’ enjoyed the sight of a Grelg for once at at loss for words as, thanking him, Tandilus pocketed the gems but told Smoovie his commiserations were misplaced since he was present merely to ensure no magical foul-play took place, and had no part in the voting or adjudication of the Games.

 

 Rude Awakenings

 

As night gave way to day, the stars, somewhere behind the grey covering cloak, fading into dawn, so the peace of the clearing was broken by sounds of a protest emanating from the Ravnarok encampment. A goblin voice, high and piercing, bored into the skulls of a hundred-off half-asleep and hung-over sleepers, as they were dragged reluctantly from the comforts of dream.

 

Heads poking from tents saw two dwarves, dressed in cooking aprons, dragging a goblin - whose markings identified him as a Grelg - across the clearing towards the officials’ tent, finally flinging him to the ground as a trio of guards emerged, flanking Alran. Fumbling for his glasses, on seeing the cringing goblin, Alran sighed wearily. “What is it this time?”

 

“We caught this creature trying to poison our food. Lucky we were up early to start the cooking, else the little runt  would’ve gotten away with it.”

 

“If I ain’t never ‘eard of anyfin’ so ungrateful as a dwarf,” the goblin began indignantly. “There’s me, got up at crack a’ dawn ‘specially to go an’ make breakfast for me ol’ mates the stumpies, movin’ ‘round quiet like so’s not ta wake ‘em, and these two ‘ere accuse me a’ tryin’ ta poison ‘em! Ain’t that just like a dwarf.”

 

Alran shook his head wearily, looking over to the dwarves. “All right. You two, go on back to your encampment. I’ll send Tandilus over to check your food is not poisoned, and a unit of guards to keep watch. And as for you-” he glanced down at the goblin, “go back to your camp and stay there until called to compete. And in future, I don’t want to catch either you or any of your companions trying to do any more favours for anyone. Do I make myself clear?”

 

A Beginning

 

For the contestants, the rest of the morning was spent in training, or, in the case of the Grelgs, sitting round moaning about how everyone was against them, the judges were biased, and that no one liked them, the last of which, at least, probably held some grain of truth.  Most trained alone, or with others from their empire, whilst a few of those nations with close ties sparred with one another. Ksenia of the Crusaders of Lyredh in particular, although not competing and so officially having no place at the Games, spent her time moving from enclosure to enclosure, either generously sharing her expertise, or showing off her new tan and boasting of her victory the year before, depending on how one looked at it.  Until, that was, the Grelgs presented her with the gift of a young female elf, at which point the Crusader disappeared to her tent for the rest of the day.

 

Those not busy were also entertained by the sight of Slugetta Grelg helping to train the dark elven Blade Dancer October. A quick wrestling bout revealing that the goblin had little to teach the dark elf in terms of agility, Slugetta proceeded to give October advice on strength training, her diminutive size apparently not preventing her from demonstrating her physique by picking up October and proceeding to spin her around over her head.

 

Finally, as the sun, muted by the grey covering cloaking the sky, rose to its zenith, the officials called for those entering the Marathon contest.  Five contestants came forth. The dwarf Fwalin, Lord of Fwalin’s Folk, dressed in light tunic and leggings. Blaid of the Dark Phoenix a young dark elven woman, again wearing light trousers and a shirt. Slugetta Grelg of the Grelg Clan, clad in very little, a fact which does nothing for those still a little queasy from previous night’s drinking. Aethelu Wintersong of the Horseclans of Ageria added a third female contestant, whilst the final entrant came in the form of Odo, First Dwarf, Leader of Ravnarok and the Alliance of the Exemplar, who announced his intention to run the marathon in full battle dress and marching pack.

 

Led by Alran, they stepped through a gap between two of the huge banners, to emerge into the circle beyond. As they did so, a ripple passed over the banners, though there was no breeze, and suddenly the air was filled with the sound of a thousand voices, which broke from a murmuring into full-throated cheer.

 

Startled, the contestants looked up to the banners to see the image of huge crowds on each, faces of all races looking down into the arena. The official with the contestants smiled at their surprise. “We have placed banners in all the main market places of Lorasia, so that truly, whoever is victorious will be applauded across the land.”

 

Leading them to the centre of the clearing, Alran explained that the race was to be run through the surrounding forest, to finally end back in the stadium. The path was well laid out, with officials placed at regular intervals. Several flying eyes would accompany them, and relay the race back up onto one of the banners in the arena as well as those in the market places, so that all might watch them.  And in the meantime, the Marksman and Unarmed Combat bouts would take place.

 

To rapturous applause, then, the runners set off, Fwalin pulling into an immediate lead with Odo setting a more steady pace which the others seemed happy to follow.

 

And now, a word from our commentators...

 

Terry: "Afternoon, Howie. We're here to look at one of the new contests, the Marathon Set to hold a few surprises."


Howie: "Indeed so, Terry. Odo Kundahkin has announced that he shall run it in full plate mail, to show his strength and endurance. How can he possibly hope to complete the run, much less win?"


Terry: "Don't count Odo out by any means. His endurance is legendary,  s is his strength. If anyone can fulfil that boast, it's Odo of the Ravnarok."


Howie: "I'd have to go with Slugetta Grelg. She's fast and she's and she's got endurance. Plus, she won't be wearing full plate [laughing]!"

 

Terry: "She won't be wearing anything 'cept a thong, I hear [also laughing]!"


Howie: "Aethelu Wintersong is a surprise entry. I understand her clan voted her in, but her main goal, she says, is to finish, not win. I'd be careful picking her."

Terry: "That leaves the dark elf lass, Blaid. Being a dark elf, I'd expect her to be quite fast, but endurance may be a question mark. We'll have to see. This is a tough contest. If a giant enters, that could really throw things, since a giant would have not only strength and endurance in its favour, but the length of its stride as well. My final choices, Odo, Slugetta, Aethelu. I think the big dwarf can go the distance."


Howie: "That seems reasonable, except I'll put Slugetta ahead of Odo; the plate mail's just going to be too heavy."

 

The Marksman Contest

 

Another a word from our commentators...

 

Terry: “This hour we look at the Marksman Contest."

 

Howie: "Last year's contest was outstanding. Mhoraig and Ksenia duelled it out with moving targets, flaming objects and a little Grelg trickery thrown in for good measure. Who will prevail this year?"

 

Terry: "This is another contest in which Ksenia's presence will be missed. Standing in for her is the young gladiator Amarys, about whom we know very little. According to her bio she's a pretty good fighter, but word has it she can be over-confident and likes to show off. Those could be big weaknesses in this contest. Nonetheless, she's one of the Camp-fire Girlz, so she's likely to be pretty impressive."

 

Howie: "Red Ruth is the likely favourite this year. He'll be replacing Mhoraig as the Ravnarok contestant, and he'll be using the famous crossbow Heartseeker. I hear Red is a deadly marksman. My money's on the big Red Machine."

 

Terry: "A new entry this year is from Clan Zagora. Draconis, a dark elf ranger. As a ranger his marksman skills are no doubt quite good, but little else is known about him. We'll see how he does. He could catch us all by surprise."

 

Howie: "How about the Horseclans young entry. A young warlord by the name of Marfisa. I hear this young lady was at Port Royale when the demon attacked, and that she rallied her troops and fired many, many arrows at it in defense of the city. They say also she's been working on her skill, practicing day and night, and that, as a reward for helping to save the city, the city guard gifted her a recurved bow. But she's young, has a lot of progress yet to make, so, I'd say she has her work cut out for her if she want to make the cut to the final rounds in this contest."

 

Terry: "Two entrants we haven't heard about this year are Smoovie Grelg and Eavylyn of Klan Ulminbore. Although neither have made an announcement, rumour has it one or both could make an appearance. Of course, Smoovie was disqualified for cheating last year, but that was never proven. And Eavylyn duelled to the last with Ksenia, show if she enters this year, in Ksenia's absence, Eavylyn would have to be the favourite. Don't count either of these potential contestants off your fantasy lists."

 

When they had quit the arena, one part of the banners showing their progress through the clearing and out into the forest, Alran called upon the entrants for the Marksman contest as two officials brought out a straw butt to place in the centre of the arena. And got as far as introducing the first contestant - Amarys of the Crusaders of Lyredh - before being stopped as, scowling, Amarys interrupted him, complaining vociferously that the title was sexist. Momentarily thrown, perhaps that someone other than a Grelg was causing a disturbance, Alran thought for a moment before, clearing his throat once more, calling for the second entrant to the Marksperson contest, Fingaz Grelg. Who, striding - or at least, scurrying - into the arena, promptly declared such a title prejudiced against non-humans. Sighing, Alran continued, introducing the third contestant for the Marks-being contest, Ori of the Fwalin’s Folk. Then, thankfully, when no more objections were forthcoming, the dark elf Draconis of Dark Phoenix, the dwarf Red Ruth of Ravnarok, the giant Eavylyn of Clan Ulminbore, an Marfisa of the Horseclans.

 

The rules, Alran continued, were simple. One shot each, with the least accurate knocked out, then the procedure repeated until a victor was determined. At which point Fingaz raised a hand.

 

“Scuze me, but are we all expected to shoot at the same target?” Alran nodded. “But, sees, I only got a blow-pipe, which won’t reach as far as no bow, so my target should be closer, I reckons.”

 

Alran sighed, before, much to the surprise of all concerned, not least Fingaz himself, acknowledging that the goblin had a point. There would then, he continued, be several targets, each set at an appropriate distance to be determined by a single shot across the clearing to determine the range of the contestant’s weapons. With any judged not to have shot as far as possible to be disqualified.

 

Standing in a line, then, the contestants loosed, threw, shot and coughed their missiles out across the arena. The bolts from the two dwarves’ crossbows cut low, flat arcs, with the arrows from Marfisa, Amarys and Draconis describing higher curves, and Eavylyn’s steel boomerang looping in shimmering arc, whilst Fingaz, sighting carefully, spat a dart from his pipe to fly all of two feet, before dropping to the grass in front of him.

 

Alran scowled at him, in response to which Fingaz looked up innocently. “What? ‘s as far as it goes. Honest.”

 

Gesturing for a guard to take the pipe, the man raised his visor long enough to spit a dart forty feet across the clearing. Alran shook his head. “Disqualified.” And the crowd went wild.

 

Sending for officials to measure the distance of the other shots, Alran also gestured for more targets to be brought forth. Red Ruth, however, scowled. “I see no reason for this. I’m willing to shoot at the same target as the rest of you. Amarys, your shot flew the shortest, what say you?”

 

Amarys shrugged. “I’ll take on any man, woman or dwarf at any distance you care to set.”

 

Alran smiled gratefully. “So let the Game begin.”

 

 

A flight of arrows, bolts and boomerang sang through the air. As expected, Eavylyn’s boomerang slammed into the butt at its centre, whilst Draconis’s black-flighted arrow and Amarys’s brightly banded arrow nestled by its side. Marfisa’s shot landed an inch further out, whilst Ruth cursed roundly as his bolt flew poorly, finding only the outer circle. Ori’s shot, meanwhile, flew wide in flight, looking set to miss the target entirely, before finally curving in to land just inside of Ruth’s shot. Alran, perhaps suspecting use of magic, glanced to where Tandilus stood watching, but the Great Mage, closing his eyes a moment, shook his head in response to Alran’s unasked question.

 

With Ruth gone, the five remaining archers took the line a second time. Again Eavylyn’s heavy boomerang struck the target’s centre, but, carried by a sudden gust of wind, the lighter shafts of the bowmen were snatched to fall wide, Draconis’s and Amarys’s shots landing in the second band, but Marfisa’s flying wide to barely find the target at all. Ori again proved himself lucky, having paused a moment before loosing, so that his bolt missed the gust to land just wide of the central eye.

 

To the applause of the audience Marfisa joined Ruth at the side of the arena, whilst the four took aim again. This time there came no wind, and Amarys and Draconis’s shots flew true, both finding the centre of the target, whilst Eavylyn, somewhat surprisingly, found only the second band. Still, this proved good enough, as Ori’s shot few wide to shirk the second band for the third ring.

 

Then there were just three, and, clearly growing tired of finding the centre each shot, Amarys suggested the target be moved back.  Eavylyn, smiling, replied that she’d send flight to any far-flung target fact, whilst Draconis merely nodded. And so the trio stepped up to the line again. Yet again Draconis’s arrow flew true, the looping arc of Eavylyn’s boomerang likewise ending in the target’s centre. But whilst Amarys’ shot was a good one, falling mere inches from Kamaran’s, still it was not good enough, and so she, too, quit arena.

 

After the acrobatics of last year’s event, with moving and flaming targets, the audience half-expected some new bizarre request from the competitors. But, content to allow her competitor to make any suggestions he saw fit, Eavylyn remained quiet, and Draconis, shrugging, merely took the line without fuss to send yet another arrow true into the target’s centre. Eavylyn’s boomerang flying to land at its side. At Alran’s signal the target was moved back. And the result repeated. Again, the target was sent further, so that the pair standing at the line could scarce make out the rings, but again the same result ensued, both arrow and boomerang nestling aside one another in the centre of the target.

 

Finally, the target was at such a distance that even the keenest eyes could not discern detail within the target. This time, Draconis held back a moment, so it was Eavylyn who threw first, grunting with the effort as she sent the boomerang looping across the arena. And now Draconis drew quickly, firing only to knock another arrow to send that flying also. The first, arcing high, slammed into the boomerang as it curved in down towards the target, knocking it from its flight as the sound of snapping shaft cracked the air. Then, even as the boomerang and broken arrow fell to the ground, Draconis’s second shot dropped with soft thud into the centre of the target. Shaking her head ruefully, Eavylyn grinned, enveloping Draconis’s hand in hers as she congratulated the victor.

 

Meanwhile

 

As the archers quit the arena, so eyes turned to the runners, now deep in the forest as they followed a freshly-cleared pathway through the trees, and perhaps half way along their course. Fwalin was still in the lead, and indeed, had increased the distance between himself and his competitors. Odo, meanwhile, still set steady pace, face bright-red, and with sweat pouring from him, but legs and arms pumping with almost mechanistic rhythm. Aethelu and Blaid were at his side, Blaid running easily, Aethelu seeming to struggle somewhat, though keeping pace.  Slugetta, meanwhile, brought up the rear. Teeth clenched, she seemed to be finding the going tougher than she had apparently expected, though it was equally apparent that she had no intention of giving up, and, even as the floating eye moved alongside her, took the time to swat at it angrily before renewing her efforts.

 

Weapons Design Part I

 

From our commentators...

 

Terry: "How about the Weapon Making contest. Quite a bit of excitement coming out of the Horseclans camp, isn't there?"

 

Howie: "That's right Terry, the Horseclans are all fired up about their entry. They've been sequestered in the forges at Port Royale for two or more weeks now, and from the rumours that have been coming out of there, they've become quite good. Earlier this week I talked to some Port Royale metalsmiths, and they said they were quite impressed. This clan could really be a sleeper if the rumours are true."

 

Terry: "You know Howie, I don't care how good human smiths get, they just can't equal Dwarven craftsmanship. Not even close. Without a doubt, the Ravnarok are number one on my list, followed by Fwalin's Folk if they're entered."

 

Howie: "We shouldn't forget a last minute entry: Niamh of the Crusaders of Lyredh. I don't know what type of weapon they've forged, but the clan is well established, has access to fine forges, and they could prove a surprise. My picks: the sleeper Horseclans to upset, followed by the Dwarven clans."

 

Terry: "I go just the opposite, Howie, Dwarves, then humans. Doesn't matter folks, pick the Horse-folk or the Girlz entry. Human work just doesn't equate to dwarven work. No Contest."

 

Meanwhile, the officials, removing the target, had brought into the arena a long, low table as Alran called for the contestants of the next contest. Another popular category, six empires had entered weapons, and these were brought now into the arena to be placed on the table, or in the case of the large ballista the dwarves of Ravnarok pulled into the arena, beside the table. From the Clan Ulminbore, Eavylyn brought out the steel boomerang used in the marks-being contest. Philo of the Horseclans carried a sword wrapped in silk, whilst Fwalin of Fwalin’s Folk strode out with a steel axe and wickedly-toothed morning star. Niamh of the Crusaders of Lyredh carried out a large covered dish, whilst Gowja Grelg, sauntering into the arena with a  wickedly sharp curved sword, casually informed the official who tried to take it from her to place on the table that if he so much as touched her she would demonstrate her weapon by removing his genitals. Or words to that effect.

 

The weapons, Alran explained, were to be judged according to three criteria: aesthetics, effectiveness in combat, and quality of workmanship. Each contestant in turn was to demonstrate their weapon however they saw fit, after which the judges would make their decision.

 

First to display their weapon was Eavylyn. Those at the Games had already seen the boomerang in flight at a target, yet nevertheless were unprepared for Eavylyn’s display as she sent it spinning out in complex loops to catch what little light filtered through the grey cloud covering, transparent butterfly wings inscribed in transient flight. Having dipped it in oil, the boomerang now glistened, and more, seemed to give off the hint of honeyed scent, rich ale and evening fire. A thing of beauty, and more, as, finally, Eavylyn concluded the display by sending it in straight flight into a straw butt, where, ripping through the target, it knocked a hole in it only to slam once more through the straw remnants on its way back to Eavylyn’s hand.

 

Next came Fwalin. Rather than any ostentatious display, he merely stood on one of the tables to raise his weapons high over his head, muscles straining as he hefted the heavy, two handed steel axe in a single hand, whilst the other gripped the morning star, whose teeth, it could now be seen, were fashioned from dragon’s teeth, imbedded in the steel ball of its head. Both weapons simple in design and appearance, it was from that simplicity that they drew their sense of power and grace, that came not from beauty but from that of objects perfectly designed for their task. Weapons that were made to be used, made to kill, and for which fact made no apology, their elegance deriving from this honesty, rather than the artifice of elaborate decoration.

 

After Fwalin came Philo, who, almost reverently, accepted the wrapped weapon from two of his companions. Holding it aloft, he allowed the silks to fall from it to reveal a truly magnificent sword. Double-edged, the blade was shaped in flowing waves, which, worked with gold and silver, caught the light to run as if with fire. The grip, wrapped in black leather, sparkled with gold dust like stars in the night sky, whilst the silver and gold pommel was carved with the representation of a sun, in the centre of which was etched the Scales of the Cosmic Balance.

 

Having allowed all to set eyes upon it, Philo began to wield it in slow, controlled arcs and feints, showing both his own skill but also the  weapon’s fine balance and weight, as with Eavylyn’s boomerang, a weapon not only of great beauty but also strength and power.

 

Next to be shown was Gowja’s sword. As with Fwalin’s weapons it was simple of design, a pale blade, incredibly thing, on a black metal hilt.

 

“this iz Snikka-Snak,” she announced. “It’s ded sharp and kills stuff.”

 

Asked what was special about the weapon, Gowja frowned.

 

“I tol’ you. It chops stuff up. Chops up magical stuff ‘n all, ‘cept that ain’t allowed to count in this contest what wiv all the cheaty rules an’ everyfin.”

 

The judge, perhaps unwisely, attempted to explain further. “No, what I mean is, why do you think this weapon especially worthy of attention?”

 

Gowja, sheathing the sword, sighed. One hand reaching out to grab the judge by the lapels, the other slapped him across the face in time with her explanation.

 

“It - chops - stuff  - up.” She dropped the judge, taking up her sword again to hold it in what might, if one were so inclined to read  overmuch into the gesture, be seen as threateningly. “Clear?”

 

The judge nodded.

 

Then it was the turn of Ravnarok’s ballista. Made more of metal than wood, its many cogs, wheels and chains glistening with oil, it was introduced by the dwarven craftsmen affectionately as BREDA, which stood, they explained, for “Boltloading Repeating Enfilador of Doom Engine”. Asked to demonstrate, the craftsmen set up a straw dummy across the arena, before, sighting the ballista carefully, sending half a dozen ballista bolts into it. The first too its head off, the second knocked a hole in its chest, whilst the rest ensured that all that remains of it is a pile of straw, and chewed up grass from where the ballista bolts ripped through it.

 

Finally, there was Niamh’s covered dish. Gesturing for the judges to uncover it, Niamh smiled as they took off the cloth to reveal...a curry. Frowning, the judge asked her to explain, and, bowing politely, she nodded.

 

“Curry is a multi-purpose substance with a number of interesting uses in warfare,” she began, clearly reciting from memory. “If it can be cunningly introduced to the enemy’s diet prior to battle, the right blend of herbs can be cripplingly effective in filling the enemy with dread, and the latrines with dispirited enemy soldiers. Certain types have even been known to wreak havoc on the digestive system of trolls. The use of ‘boiling curry’ in siege situations cannot be overemphasised, with innumerable applications, from use in murder-holes to putting out fires, and the loading of catapults full of the stuff, this latter technique also known as the ‘halfling hot-pot.”

 

Meanwhile

 

With the entries thusly displayed, the judges withdrew to discuss the matter, and eyes turned once more to the marathon runners, by now reaching the twenty mile mark. Things had changed somewhat since last they had been seen. Fwalin, red-faced and puffing, was now running alongside Odo, who, whilst now a violent shade of dark red, nevertheless continued onwards in the same unceasing rhythm he had employed throughout the race. Slugetta, apparently having overcome her difficulties, now matched the dwarves, and, despite still seeming almost surprised at how much hard work it was, was still clearly determined not to allow a dwarf to get the better of her. The other women, however, Blaid and Aethelu, were faring rather worse. Still running smoothly, nevertheless Blaid had fallen behind the dwarves, whilst Aethelu, pale-faced and running on unsteady feet, ran now perhaps a mile behind Blaid. Still, in her eyes was the same determination shared by her competitors, and it was clear that whilst her body was weakening, her spirit would never allow her to admit defeat.

 

Weapons Design Part II

 

Some twenty minutes later, the judges returned to the table with three rosettes. The one for third place, they presented to Philo of the Horseclans of Ageria. The one for second place, they presented to Eavylyn of Ulminbore. And first place went, by unanimous decision, to Ravnarok for their repeating ballista. At which point a guards moved into gently escort a red-faced and irate Gowja from the arena before she could demonstrate just how Snikka-Snak chopped things up.

 

Marathon

 

With the contestants of the Weapons Design contest leaving the arena, the officials moved to set up a line across the middle of the arena, marking the finish of the marathon. On the banner, the contestants were emerging from the forest back into the clearing. First to appear were the unlikely trio of Slugetta and the dwarves, Odo’s face now approaching  purple yet still, incredibly, setting the pace. Behind them, the floating eyes showed Blaid some half mile behind, still running smoothly yet clearly without the reserves to catch up the distance, and Aethelu a further mile beyond. Running surely now on adrenalin alone, nevertheless she seemed steadier, and though pale-faced her features were twisted now into a grin as the end drew slowly into sight.

 

As the leading trio left the forest, so Slugetta broke into a sprint, slapping Odo’s backside as she passed him. Fwalin glanced at Odo, perhaps unwilling to leave his comrade’s side, before, as Odo nodded, increasing his own pace to chase after Slugetta. And so it became a race between two. Ahead some twenty feet, nevertheless Fwalin, legs pumping, slowly closed the gap, so that by the time they reached the circle of banners they were alongside one another.  The noise of the crowd broke upon them as they sprinted for the finish, Slugetta reaching out either in attempt to take Fwalin’s arm in heroic and sportsmanlike gesture, else seeking to push him over, depending on who one asked afterwards. But, twisting away, Fwalin ignored her to finally pull ahead and make the line first, followed seconds later by Slugetta. Odo came in third a few minutes later, starting as he had begun, never once having altered pace or method, and the crowd were still cheering as first Blaid then finally Aethelu appeared, crossing the line into the arms of their comrades.

 

Songs of Praise

First, our commentators...

 

Terry: "Howie, the Song of Praise has generated a ton of controversy this year, what with two clans announcing plans to sacrifice living beings as a part of their song. But, after the judges ruling-“

 

Howie: “A wise ruling, in my opinion-“

 

Terry: “Just so, Howie. After judge’s wise ruling to dis-allow any form of sacrifice, with luck further controversy can be avoided.”

 

Howie: "So.  Let's talk beer. It's the talk of the Horseclans entrant, Graydon. As I understand it, his song of praise involves the progressive drinking of multiple mugs of different kinds of beers. Joining him will be Smoovie Grelg, Odo Kundahkin, Fwalin Thunderbearer, and Kamaran. Oh what a collection! All coming together to drink beer!"

 

Terry: "This may be the sleeper, Howie. But we'll have to see how things pan out with the other entrants, first, the the problem of the sacrifices."

 

Howie: "How about Finnbar, backed up by the pipes and drums of the Ravnarok?"

 

Terry: "I'm looking forward to that one also, Howie. This is how I pick them - Finnbar, Graydon, and the Grelgs. How do you pick them?"

 

Howie: "I'm going with Graydon and his Song of Praise to Beer. Then Finnbar, and then the Grelgs. I think Clan Zagora's sacrifice will backfire on them. Now, if one of the giants of the Klan Ulminbore makes a late entry, I'll put them first, followed by Graydon and Finnbar. Their song Sinking to Glorylyredh really struck a cord last year, and they have a way of expressing themselves."

 

Several hours later, as the sun, presumably, set unseen beyond Tandilus’s covering, though there was no change in the eternally grey air of the arena, the stage was set for the Songs of Praise. The audience around Lorasia, having taken advantage of the break to purchase food and drink, now sat on the ground, awaiting the sermons, whilst in the centre of the arena an open stage had been erected, about which were assembled the various empires competing.

As  officials moved to light torches about the stage, lending warmth to the setting, Alran addressed those gathered.

“Welcome to the Songs of Praise. This evening judges will be taking into consideration a number of factors, including but not limited to the quality of the sermon given, the overall impression, and of course the reaction of the congregation, which is to say audience.

 

“I should like to add that we must also bear in mind that whilst first and most foremost a contest, this category is also an expression of faith. And as such, would ask that you treat the contestants and their words with the respect that, as representatives of their gods, they demand.”

 

First to take the stage was Cordelia of Dark Phoenix. Standing a moment with head bowed, she waited for the silence to settle over the crowd, both before her and across the world, it dawning on her that she represented not only her empire, but also her faith. Then, slowly, she raised her head, and in the torchlight the marks of two silver tears could be seen on her cheeks, whilst her eyes glowed also with the same soft shining. And softly, simply, she began to speak.

 

“People of Faith.  I call thee before the presence of the Weeping Lord, Drrtzl the Mighty, and beseech thee kneel before him in platitudes of worship and honour.  May he bless these words I speak, as I doth in return sanctify his holy name.

 

“My Lord was once imprisoned, bound in a lowly cave.  And the walls did run with moisture, and drip in the dark recesses that lay hidden in the darkness.  And ‘een though he did struggle, he could not free himself of the shackles that bound him, the manufacture of these being of a nature we mortals could barely begin to even comprehend.  And, in his frustration and anger, pent up for a time we would consider an eternity, he did weep.  He wept for the loss of his freedom, and for his inability to return to the immortal plane.  The tears of a god are forever vilified.

 

“But there were those who did come to his aid.  They freed him from his confinement, and did set him forth once more.  And, in doing so, they gained a place at his side for eternity.

 

“I stand before you, marked by his own hand.  I have looked upon his great visage, and he has spoken to me of that same, lowly cave.  But lowly no more, for it has been blessed, ‘een by his very presence within.  He did free my awareness, and did transpose it within this most blessed of prisons; and it was within this holiest of cells that he did speak words of wisdom unto me.

 

“My Lord asked of me, what is it that enchains one?  I could not answer, for I could not find a suitable reply, cast as I was in mortal ignorance.  But I beseech thee to think on what it is that imprisons you, be it your sense of honour, your deeds on the battlefield, pacts made in haste.  Perhaps it is your very finite existence, that fleeting moment before you are claimed by Grusar's hand, that binds you to a path not of your choosing.  Perhaps you bear the shackles of your wealth, tied to the drudgery of maintaining what you hold, lest others take it from you.  We all bear the chains of imprisonment in one form or another.

 

“But my Lord did speak to me of freedom.  He asked that I cast out my fears, that I seek an awareness of my own destiny, and then strive to achieve what I am capable of.  In freeing myself of my own doubts and prejudices, I have found a true freedom, a sense of purpose, muted only by the constraints of those around me.  Looking out at those of you assembled here, I can see (and, even hear) that there are those who do not agree with my words.  I call on you to think; do you shout, and rant, and gesticulate in a most foul manner, as a consequence of your own belief?  Or are you tied by your religion, imprisoned by strict edicts that do not allow you to open your ears to the truth, freely spoken?  Are your ears imprisoned by the minds of those who seek to guide you?

 

“A story was once told to me of a human, taken from his rightful place as heir to a distant kingdom, and imprisoned in the most foul of dungeons.  His face was covered by an iron helmet, locked in place to ensure none would gainsay his true identity.  And he did at first despair, for even his name was never talked of, and soon forgotten. 

 

“But he did find that, within the confines of his cell, he was free to do as he wished.  And, as lord over that smallest of domains, he did freely exercise his rights to live, and think, and plan revenge on his captors.  And, when finally released, he did freely and most effectively punish those whom had sought his downfall, and once more took on the mantle of steward of his kingdom.  And the people did rejoice at his rule.  It is said that if one whom is incarcerated can truly claim to be free of spirit, he can never be confined to the boundaries of his cell, but may find a different form of mental freedom.  One whom allows the imprisonment to break his will and resolve, whom looses that sense of free spirit, can never again be counted as truly free, ‘een when the cell doors are flung wide and he is allowed to walk without.

 

“My Lord was imprisoned, and cried in despair.  But his spirit was strengthened, not crushed.  Through confinement, he found a new sense of the freedom that was returned to him, and once freed of his physical bindings he was free to soar to even greater heights than those he did attain before.

 

“In Drrtzl's name I call unto thee; cast off thy shackles, and stride free.  Kneel before him, and ask that he show you the path to truth and enlightenment.  Ask that he free you of the chains of expectation, of lack of purpose, of self-doubt.  Ask that he show you the paths of the free, to follow your own goals, and enable you to achieve your own ideals.  Do not be imprisoned by his worship, but through his worship let him show you true freedom.

 

“I thank Lord Drrtzl for the words that I have spoken.  I seek his blessing on those who would seek his freedom.  So it has been said, so it shall always be.”

 

A moments silence, before, with a soft murmuring, applause ran through the crowd, muted, respectful, followers of Law and Chaos alike acknowledging the honesty of her words.

 

Next  to take the stage was Valerias of the Crusaders of Lyredh. Dressed in what could only be described as very little, a diaphanous silken dress beneath which could clearly be seen the shape of her legs, her breasts. Looking out over the congregation, she smiled, tossing back bleached blond hair and waving, red nail-varnish bright in the torchlight.

 

“I mean… all this war and stuff… it’s like, so last year, you know? Uncool.  I mean, make Love and not War, yeah? I might break a fingernail or something. And Be Beautiful, okay? You know you want to…

 

“Lyredh wants us all to chill, like, totally… I mean, clothes can be dishonest, right? Join me in offering up all these totally gross clothes-thingys to the One True Goddess. And worship peace and love and stuff. And Maelora, so it says here, and something else but I can’t read Ksenia’s handwriting…

 

“All right? Go girlfriends! That’s me, I’m spent. I’m outta here…”

 

Blowing a kiss, she flounced from the stage, every eye, which was to say, every male eye and most of the Crusaders as well, following her even as she made her way back amongst the Crusaders.

 

When the whistling had died down, it was the turn of Falin of the Grelgs. A group of goblins, dragging wood and tinder onto the stage, rapidly built a pyre, onto which they then placed a straw dummy. Then, as they quit the stage, Falin Grelg, naked and covered in blood, strode out onto the platform. Brandishing a sacrificial knife, it was clear, however, that his heart wasn’t in it, as, stamping his way to the pyre, he scowled out at the audience.

 

“Since we ain’t allowed to burn no stumpy dwarf, we’ve bin given this effin’ effigy. ‘Cept I ain’t goin’ ta dishonour Kauron by sacrificin’ straw in ‘is name, so this is jus’ ta show ya what it would’ave bin like, if the judges weren’t biased and cheaty ‘gainst us goblins.”

 

That said, he jumped about the pyre lifelessly, looking more like an animated bag of potatoes than unholy priest. Then, stopping before the pyre, he intoned without enthusiasm

 

“We’re gonna burn the Dwafy lad

“We’re gonna burn the Dwafy lad

“Heez gonna reely burn up quick

“Wen I light him wiv me light up stick.”

 

Upon which he again turned to the audience.

 

“Here, see, is where I wuz goin’ ta do some reely impressive magic. But now I ain’t, ‘cause it ain’t worth it.”

 

So saying, he took up a torch, shuffled it disconsolately into the pyre, and stamped off stage leaving the judges to put out the fire before it consumed the stage as well as the dwarf. The audience, it was fair to say, went apathetic.

 

Next came the elven priest Corenza, of the Rusting Diamonds. As had her dark counterpart, she opted for a simple approach, standing alone on stage to speak. Whereas Cordelia had spoken with soft persuasion, however, Corenza’s voice was confident, strident, almost, the elf clearly feeling no need to seek to persuade when the truth of her words was self evident.

 

“Lords, ladies and beings of all shapes and sizes, we are gathered today to discuss who it may be that can be considered the mightiest of all the gods in the firmament. We, those who would present our views and speak for the glorification of our own favoured deity, have been asked by the adjudicators of this contest of divinity and theology to keep our dissertations to a relatively short time. Unlike some of my colleagues gathered here, I will not find this too difficult!!

 

The matter at hand is not a difficult one on which to decide. The greatest threat that this world of ours faces at the moment can only be considered to be the fissure known as “The Crack of Doom”. Unleashed by the careless use of magic in untrained hands, it can only be quelled and tamed by the mightiest of all of the deities, the one whose realm encompasses matters such as these and without whose aid, the world will be torn asunder in the twinkling of an eye. Without the help of the mighty Lord Silvanus, the world and its’ peoples will be gone and the remaining deities will have lost all of their worshippers and every part of their realms.

 

“To save not only your families, your possessions, your homes, but also your lives and even your very souls, now is the time to worship the only god who can be relied upon to save us in our hour of darkest need – SILVANUS!!!”

 

Quitting the stage to rousing applause, at least from the Lawful spectators, she left it for the giant Cleetus of Clan Ulminbore to fill, which, with his ample size, he found no problem doing. Somewhat bruised of appearance, and with robes tattered and dirtied, those who did not know him might have dismissed him out of hand. Save that those who knew his name knew the power of his voice, the lyricism of his sermonising, and the arena fell silent, awaiting his sermon. When he did speak, at first there were those who frowned, unable to understand his words  which, whilst lyrical, seemed almost without meaning. Yet as he continued his sermon, so meaning seemed to sink in, words not understood yet understanding coming nevertheless.

 

“Me dearly beautified, gels an' gentle-trolls, her me him o'lovéd-ness.  What 's plainer'n me own face here afore ye, than 'at Joy an' Beauty am the foremost as we all seek?  The first goods an' the all o' being, than which nothing is besides.  To do or dote on anythin' but what sprouts out o' Lyredh is to cut off our own noseses to spite all scents o' smell.  So stop an' tak' in a deep lungfull now - go arn, huff it up an' snort it in!  Heh!? Ale an' dung an' char-grilled mutton, flowers an' wine, or a companyon on heat - what's like it?  What leaps straightest to the livin' an' makes livin' all worth-while?  What can compare?  All else is wastin' time an' losin' chances to an-joy!  So, put aside yer other worships now, me worshipfuls. What's behind 'em an' before 'em s'all t'be found in a Lady Lyredh; her feastin' an' her fistin', her boozin' and her bonkin', her seein' an' believin', her weavin' an' her makin' visible. An't it so?  Look inner yer own hearts now, an' see it is.  None come t'nothin' else but through the Lady's gates o' joy an' bein' physical - ear, eye, mouth an' finger, nose an ' bowels.  An' back t'other way s'also true, as nothin' is but through her, first an' foremost.  Worship wider, worship freer; worship all in one an' one in all; oh worship Lyredh!  From minute on t'minute, fill every moment with sheer pleasure; delight, dazzle and rapture.  Why suffer angst an' jealousy, suspicion or depression an' debility?  Cast all y'woes aside an' wallow in her wonder, y've nothin' t'lose but all y'sorrows; an' everythin' as anyone'd want to gain!”

 

Silence, a mark of the power of his oration, lingered over the arena. Then, throwing up his hand, Cleetus flung out a thousand sparks of light which fell as rain over the crowd, each a fragment of a gemstone, each a reminder of Lyredh’s wonder. And, as a hundred hands scrabbled for such a token, if not for Lyredh’s name then for monetary gain, Cleetus, smiling, wandered off the stage.

 

The next to speak was Finnbar, of Ravnarok. Those who knew of Ravnarok’s reputation were expecting some great ritual, with ensuing pomp and ceremony. Instead, however, Finnbar stood alone.

Wearing a worn smithing apron, and with head bare, he did not speak but instead sung, a hymn entitled In Eldaron’s Praise

 

“To Eldaron we sing our song of praise.

His colours we will proudly raise.

His sons and daughters we all stand,

To honour Eldaron throughout the land.

 

“Though Ravnarok’s days may pass away,

Eldaron’s iron shall never decay.

Nor time nor change shall e'er destroy,

The gold and gems we now enjoy.

 

“So join us with resounding cheers.

Renew your hearts with courage strong,

And fight for Eldaron through all the years.

Go forward as we sing this song.

 

“Stand, neighbours, listen to the band;

Then join us in our song of praise.

To Eldaron we pledge each heart and hand,

To earn his blessings, the highest praise.”

 

Then, finally, came Graydon of the Horseclans. With the help of several companions, brought a long table up onto the stage, upon which he placed several large kegs of ale, lager, porter, pale ale and stout. As the crowd looked on with amused confusion, Graydon invited members of the other empires to join him - Smoovie Grelg, Odo of Ravnarok, Fwalin of Fwalin’s Folk, Kamaran of the Dark Phoenix - who brought with him a large bag of what he described a pea-shaped nuts, and Gabrielle of the Crusaders. When these were seated, he poured out a pint from each barrel for each of them, save for Smoovie who opted for a half, and Gabrielle who, on hearing that there were no alcopops, sulked for a minute before asking for hers in a cocktail glass.

 

Taking his place at the head of the table, Graydon announced that his was to be a hymn to Beer, and invited the crowds to join in not only with the chorus, but the drinking. Then, raising his mug high, he sung the first verse, his voice making up for in enthusiasm what it lacked in finesse.

 

“Now you’ve nothing to fear, ‘cept too much fun,

And don’t hold back, we’ve only just begun,

Many more we’ll drink, before this song is done,

Unless you’re a nun, you’ll drink more than one!”

 

Gesturing to his companions, each downed one of their mugs, before joining in for the chorus:

 

“Beer Beer Beer Beer!  Hail Beer! All Praise to Beer!”

 

A pause for belching, then Graydon continued with the second verse.

 

“We sing praise to beer, that noble brew,

We seek each to taste, and we must be true,

In fact ‘tis our duty, to give beer its due,

So we’ll make a toast, and then we’ll drink two,”

 

...raising their mugs, the revellers downed two pints, before joining in somewhat more rowdily than before:

 

“Beer Beer Beer Beer!  Hail Beer! All Praise to Beer!”

 

And so it continued.

 

“Let’s praise that which tastes great, I’m sure you’ll agree,

How much can you drink?  ‘tis a matter of degree!

Beer does one a favour, sets your spirit free,

So I say now to thee, let’s savour these three.”

 

Three drinks were downed.

 

“Beer Beer Beer Beer!  Hail Beer! All Praise to Beer!”

 

“Shout from the mountains, for I’ve several mugs more

Let’s drink some good lager, become part ‘o the lore,

Break all the dishes, and get shown the door,

If you’re up for some fun, then drink an extra four!”

 

Four drinks were downed, and Smoovie slid quietly under the table, whilst Gabrielle swayed dangerously from side to side, her singing style somewhat more slurred than was her norm.

 

“Beer Beer Beer Beer!  Hail Beer! All Praise to Beer!”

 

“‘tis no time for thrift, on this stuff I thrive!

We praise this fine spirit, and thus we strive,

Without this ambrosia, we’re just not alive!

So let’s drink like a fish, and down these next five!”

 

A pause, whilst the drinkers took time to down five mugs each, Gabrielle managing only two before staggering into the shadows to relieve herself of her dinner, and Kamaran, whilst managing to finish the fifth, looking more than a little pale. Or at least, as pale as a dark elf ever gets. Finally, those who could stand rose to their feet for the finale.

 

“Beer Beer Beer Beer!  Hail Beer! All Praise to Beer! BURP!!”

 

With that ceremony concluded, the participants joyously wobbling from  the field even as, across Lorasia, the refrain echoed across hall and market and mountain. And, when the cheers had subsided, the judges made the only decision they could, first place going to Graydon, with second going to Cleetus of Ulminbore, and third to Cordelia of Dark Phoenix.

 

The Next Morning

 

Events were to have begun at ten. As ten came and went, however, with those in the clearing not sleeping off the affects of Graydon’s Hymn to Beer sleeping off the affects of celebrating various victories, the first event was put off for an hour. And in the end it was not until mid-day that Alran, himself somewhat worse for wear, finally gathered the contestants for the the Wrestling Bout in the arena.

 

The Wrestling Bout

First, let’s hear from our commentators...

 

Howie: "let's take a look at the wrestling contest, Terry. The field is a narrow one, as usual. Odo Kundahkin will be making his return this year, and once again Ksenia's absence will be felt. Odo wrestled with her last year, and based upon his performance, I would have to say he's the favourite. Odo is big and strong. Actually, I'm quite surprised he did not enter the Grand Melee, leaving that contest to Artair instead."

 

Terry: "It will be interesting to see how Najhara performs in this contest, Howie. As heir-apparent to Ksenia, she's a strong contestant. But no one's seen her wrestle though, and in that regard she's an unknown quantity. Still, as we've pointed out repeatedly, she is a Camp-fire Girl."

 

Howie: "Another new contestants this year is Clan Zagora's entry, the dark elf Amaran. He's a complete mystery, as is much of that clan. He's going to be hard to figure."

 

Terry: "Neither the Grelgs or Klan Ulminbore have announced whether they have an entry. Last year Grotuck grossed out the field with his tactics, and he could be back. Remember, however, that Odo bested him, and with Odo in the contest, I suspect Grotuck is going to be at a disadvantage if he enters, unless he's vastly improved. Sam the giant could be a sleeper. His bout against Ksenia was short, but then most bouts against Ksenia are."

 

Announcer: "Our time is almost up, and its push come to shove. Who do you pick, gentlemen, as your top fantasy choices?"

 

Terry: "Odo, Najhara, and Sam. Though if Sam does not enter, I'd say Amaran of Clan Zagora."

 

This, Alran explained to an audience which, whilst somewhat subdued, still filled the banners, despite its name, was not truly a wrestling bout. Rather, it was an unarmed contest, with the contestants fighting either to submission or - if they chose not to submit or to accept such submission - to the death. The rules were simple: no magic, no weapons, no outside interference, and aside from that, anything was allowed.

 

Five contestants moved to stand about the ring which had been marked out in the arena. Slugetta Grelg, wearing only a leather thong and glistening with oil proved that Grotuk, their contestant in last years’ wrestling, was not the only Grelg capable of providing a truly disgusting sight, though the goblins in the crowd seemed to appreciate her. Fwalin of Fwalin’s Folk had gone one step further, standing entirely naked, save for the whorls of blue tattoos which writhed across his muscled form. Amaran of the Phoenix appeared almost modest beside them, wearing tight, short-legged trousers, and with naked torso gleaming. Odo of Ravnarok, again standing with greased arms and torso, wore his hair and beard tied up in netting, though it would take a brave or foolish commentator to comment on the effeminacy of is appearance. And finally Najhara of the Crusaders, muscled, oiled, and accompanied by Gabrielle holding a bottle of oil, completed the line up of contestants.

 

The fact that there were five of them, Alran announced, meant that one would, in effect, get a bye to the second round.  And since Fwalin was runner-up in the last Lorasia Games, the honour would go to him. Cue moaning from Slugetta, who whined that that meant she wouldn’t get to cripple a naked dwarf until later in the contest. Though as Alran, ignoring her, continued to say that the first round would be between Slugetta and Odo, she fell silent, grinning in anticipation as Odo, face impassive as ever, merely nodded.

 

“I’m goin’ ta rip ya limp bits off an’ feed ‘em to me pet warg,” Slugetta screamed as she stepped into the ring, Odo merely scowling, flexing his hands as he fell into low crouch. Remaining calm as she leapt forwards to attack, at the last moment Odo stepped aside to aim a kick at her abdomen. Or at least, where her abdomen had every right to be. Moving with breathtaking speed, however, she twisted out from the lashing reach of his boot to move round to his side, catching his foot at full extension to flip the dwarf onto his back.

 

Most contestants would have stood back to allow their opponent to rise. Not Slugetta. Stamping down hard on Odo’s chest, she knocked the breath from him, jumping back as he sought to grab hold of her legs only to move in again with a swift kick to his head. Groaning, Odo struggled to rise, to catch hold of Slugetta, even to simply protect himself, but eluding his grasping hands she rained blow upon blow onto him, kicks landing in the groin, the head, the neck.

 

Fwalin, cursing, made to move forwards to aid the fallen dwarf, but even as he did so a trio of guards moved to catch hold of his arms, more moving swiftly to back them up, so that, shrugging them off with an angry scowl, he fell quiet, helpless.

 

Ceasing her assault to catch her breath, Slugetta grinned as she looked down at the dwarf, who, bloodied, bruised and labouring to breathe, looked up at her with the one eye remaining to him, the other lost in a mass of broken flesh and bone. Folding her arms, she grinned.

 

“So. Give up then?”

 

Odo scowled, somehow finding the strength to pull himself to his knees, spitting blood and teeth at his tormentor. “I’d rather rest in Eldaron’s Halls,” he growled.

 

Slugetta shrugged. “Up ta you.” Taking a step forwards, she span on the spot, to slam her foot into the side of Odo’s head. The sickening whip-crack of breaking bone, and he fell back to the ground, head twisted at unnatural angle. And, in the horrified silence of the arena, Slugetta grinned. “So. Bring on the next stumpie.”

 

With a bellow of rage, Fwalin charged into the ring. Taking Slugetta by surprise, his shoulder slammed into her chest, knocking her back some five feet to land heavily on the far side of the ring. Up in an instant,  she leapt forwards, jumping the fallen body of Odo to spin in leaping kick at his head. Reacting with speed equal to her own, Fwalin caught her feet, throwing her back to the ground and stamping down hard, but already she had moved again, slipping back out of his reach. Eldaron’s name on his lips, Fwalin charged her again.

 

For a time the ebb and flow of fight seemed to favour neither contestant. Each as agile as the other, whilst Fwalin seemed to possess the greater strength, he was unable to bring it to bear. But as both began to tire, so Slugetta’s leaps and feints grew slower, barely perceptibly so, but enough for Fwalin to take advantage as, batting aside her flying kick, his hands closed about her neck.

 

Falling to his knees and trapping Slugetta beneath him, he endured her gouging nails as she struggled to free herself, raking deep scores across his face and back so that gristle and bone gleamed white a moment before blood rose to fill the wounds. Oblivious of the pain, however, oblivious to everything save the desire for revenge as Eldaron’s name came triumphant now on his lips, Fwalin tightened his grip. Slugetta’s struggled lessened, ceased, but still Fwalin continued to crush her neck, bone splintering beneath his grasp, until, knee planted firmly on her chest, he pulled upwards with final effort to tear her head from her shoulders. And then, finally, he fell silent, breathing heavily as, in silence, the judges moved forwards to lead him from the ring.

 

Alran looked up at the crowd, faces reflecting the shock around the world. “There will now be a ten minute interval before the next round.”

 

Ten minutes later, the grass of the ring was clean, Tandilus’s magic erasing all sign of the bloody bouts as if they had never taken place. And yet the muted quiet of the crowds, the stunned silence which hung over the clearing, bore testament to their happening.  Stepping into the ring, Alran cleared his throat.

 

“The judges have conferred on whether the bout between Slugetta and Fwalin was a legal one. And whilst it had not been announced, Fwalin was the next to have fought Slugetta. Either could have stepped from the ring, neither chose to. As such, the victory stands.  We have also considered whether the Games are to continue. Doubtless the dwarves of Ravnarok have no wish to endure such frivolity. But the rules made it clear that these fights may be to the death. This all the contestants understood, and accepted. The Games, then, will continue. Further, we have asked the leaders of Ravnarok whether they wish to retire to properly mourn Odo, and asked the same of the Grelgs. Both, as befits their status in this land, have announced their intention to continue.

 

“So. Let enter the ring the next two contestants - Amaran of Dark Phoenix, and Najhara of the Crusaders.”

 

A moment’s hesitation, then Amaran and Najhara stepped into the ring. Yet, as they faced each other, neither could help but glance at the ground where the stains of blood, unseen, were still sensed nevertheless. The moment lengthened, neither willing to make the first move, until finally Red Ruth of Ravnarok strode up to the ring’s edge.

 

“You think you’re showing respect to Odo’s memory? With such a display of cowardice? Fight, damn you. Fight.”

 

Almost reluctantly, Najhara moved forwards, inclining her head to the dark elf, who, falling into a low crouch, nodded. A moment’s further hesitation, then, as one, the two came together. Technically, both fought almost flawlessly. Despite differences in race and sex, both were of a similar height, similar build. Both fought with almost clinical precision, Najhara relying on traditional wrestling moves, Amaran moving freely between wrestling and martial arts styles. Yet there was no passion, no fire, even Najhara, hardly known for her evenness of temper, remaining calm. And when, finally -  Amaran slipping from Najhara’s hold to twist on top of her, legs wrapped round her head even as he gripped her arms, pressing her face to the ground - Najhara called submission, there came no wild cheering which should have accompanied so fine a display, merely polite applause as the two rose to their feet, clasping arms briefly before leaving the ring.

 

And so, after a minute’s grace for Amaran to compose himself, the final bout was called between Fwalin, Thunderbearer of the Folk, and Amaran of the Phoenix. Fwalin, somewhat calmed but still entirely naked, stepped first into the ring, whilst Amaran, understandably somewhat hesitant, followed. Even as Fwalin began to breathe more heavily, however, muscles bulging as he worked himself up into his fighting fury, Amaran held up a hand, signal to wait.

 

“Allow me to confirm. To the submission, right?”

 

Fwalin nodded. “Even so.”

 

Where the first bouts had seen only anger, and the previous only cold precision, now both aspects of battle came together even as did Amaran and Fwalin.  Relying, as ever, more on instinct and brute strength than technique, Fwalin sought to close on Amaran, reaching for him with deceptive speed. Falling back, Amaran knocked aside Fwalin’s grasping hands, but his own lashing kick failed to find its mark as Fwalin, despite the apparently thoughtless impetus of his charge, nevertheless twisted expertly to dodge Amaran’s foot.

 

Nearing the edge of the ring, Amaran dropped suddenly to the ground, falling into a roll which took him past Fwalin and around to his back, where, springing to his feet, he punched out with double-handed fist at the small of Fwalin’s back, seeking to push him from the ring. This time the blow connected, but instead of knocking the dwarf forwards, rather it was as if Amaran had punched solid rock so that whilst Fwalin staggered slightly, it was Amaran who - having put his weight into the blow - was momentarily unbalanced.

 

Spinning, Fwalin renewed his assault, and again Amaran fell back, desperately seeking to ward off Fwalin’s attempts to lay his hands on him. Again Amaran dropped to the ground, this time not rolling but to lash out with a scything sweep of his legs, seeking to topple the dwarf. But, reacting again with surprising speed, Fwalin jumped forwards, Amaran’s leg passing beneath him before he landed heavily on Amaran’s chest, knees planted in the dark elf’s chest to knock the air from him.

 

A moment’s frantic struggle as each grappled for a hold, and then it was over, Amaran’s face pressed into the grass, head locked between Fwalin’s arms whilst the dwarf’s knee ground into the small of his back. Reaching out a hand, Amaran slapped the ground, signalling defeat. And this time, Fwalin released his grip, rising to his feet and hauling Amaran up with him. For the first and probably last time in Lorasian history, dwarf and dark elf clasped arms, before stepping from the ring.

 

Bard’s Corner

And over to our commentators...

 

Terry: "So. Bard's Corner - how does the competitions stack up there this year?"

 

Howie: "Well Terry, that's hard to say. Kamaran's demonstrated his skill in poetry very well over the last six months, and Lyulf's entry did well last year. But the one I'm interested in is Aethelu Wintersong - she's been trained by the Great Man himself, Taliensin of Port Royale, and I think she is going to run away with the competition. But I could be wrong; both Kamaran and Lyulf are good. Another sleeper is Smoovie Grelg who took second last year. I hear there's a mysterious surge of support for him the last day or so. You can bet this competition is going to be hot hot HOT!" My picks: Aethelu, Kamaran, and Smoovie to surprise us all."

 

Terry: "Aethelu, Lyulf, Kamaran. That's how I see it shaping up."

 

An hour later, the stage was once again set in the centre of the arena, the camps of the contestants sat before it. The mood was still sombre, but death is ever part of life, no more so than in Lorasia, and already the crowds watching were relaxing once more, food and drink hawked by vendors as they awaited the start of the contest.

 

Lyulf of Ravnarok was first to take the stage, accompanied by his band. Dressed entirely in black leather, he stood for a full minute, head bowed, at the front of the stage, before finally looking out to stare across the gathered crowd.

 

“This song is dedicated to Odo of Ravnarok, First Dwarf of the Alliance of the Exemplar, beloved leader, dear friend. I give you The Tears of Eldaron’s Lost.

 

Raising an arm, he brought his hand slashing down across the strings of his guitar, as the pipes of his band rose in discordant screams, harsh, dissonant, and at the back of the stage a dwarf dressed only in a kilt slammed large hammers down in rapid rhythm onto a series of anvils arrayed before him. And over this Lyulf half-sang, half-moaned, half-screamed out words which broke through the noise like a battle-hammer through the fray.

 

“The heroes, mighty, brave,

Hopeless odds did defy

All their valour naught to a knave.

For in the end, all must die.”

 

From the band, voices rose with Lyulf’s to scream out the chorus, as they were to do between each verse:

 

“Death, gloom, doom,

Misery, sorrow, fear,

War, chaos, end;

The tears of Eldaron’s Lost.”

 

Before Lyulf continued once more.

 

“The maidens, beautiful, four

Against unruly fate did plot

But neither saint nor sinner defies the law

For all lie in the churchyard plot.”

 

“The swords, glinting, strive

The shieldwall breaks the tide

But warriors never survive

For all become Death’s bride.”

 

“The betrayers, unspun ,betrayed,

For with good undone,

And evil dismayed

Only Death is left the One.”

 

Of a sudden the band fell silent, the sudden quiet ringing in the ears of the audience, as Lyulf, head bowed once more, intoned in lifeless monotone.

 

“Everyone slits their wrist,

Or falls upon their knife.

Nobody lives, nobody loves,

And nobody gets out alive.”

 

A minute passed. Then, without raising his head, Lyulf walked from the stage, band following him soundlessly.

 

Next to rise was Aethelu Wintersong, who, alone, walked onto the stage with a small harp. And, passing her hand across the strings in open chord, began to orate the Battle of Demon Rift.

 

“I have for you today, a tale of great deeds;

And if from my bonds I might be freed,

I’ll tell this tale of valour and magick,

And of its end that was so tragic.

 

“I will not say when the fates this tale wove,

Or why to complicate it they strove,

Or who conceived the notion that the Grelgs,

Who in deception so very well excel,

 

“With the Humans, Dwarves and Giants and Gnolls,

Into this great task could be enrolled,

And could together work for all Lorasians,

With some semblance of strategic cohesion.

 

“Yet, this is what happened, it is the true tale,

I’ll do my best and try not to fail,

Strange though it may seem to you today,

From the truth I will not, cannot be swayed.

 

“For the Grelgs have another version spread,

’tis not their fault, they’re all quite inbred.

The real facts I will not seek to purloin,

And tell the true tale of how these clans joined.

 

“Their tale, one of tenacity, daring and scheme,

Though unlikely heroes they did seem,

Should be told for all Lorasians to know,

So ‘pon you now the true facts I shall bestow.

 

“I suppose of each of these sturdy clans

I should say a word; and of their plans.

Know that each springs of a noble line,

Even those descended from lowly swine.

 

“The Grelgs were led by mighty Marakesh,

In whose schemes we would become enmeshed.

A goblin of unusual stature and might,

He was an able opponent in a fight.

 

“His clan, the Grelgs, was of Chaos spawned,

For goblins they were possessed of some brawn.

They had a fine reputation for villainy,

Nor were they beneath any calumny.

 

“While he himself was noted for his skill;

‘tis said he sought battle for the rush and thrill

Of parting his foe’s heads from their torsos,

And collecting himself their severed toes.

 

“The great Dwarven city of Balen’s Deep,

For whom the Dwarven clans still mourn and weep,

Fell to the swift sword of his chaotic kin,

While Marakesh did naught but cruelly grin.

 

“The Dwarven Lords had a great hero too;

As to his name you need no hint or clue.

Odo Kundahkin, First among the Dwarves

(His hammer blows were like fierce meteors).

 

“He was of the Ravnarok, the name of his clan,

He was a warrior and an artisan.

Of him no ill thing could truly be said,

‘cept perhaps by someone of goblins bred.

 

“Nay, I cannot forget that Dwarven Lord,

Odo Kundahkin; goblin-kin he abhorred,

He vowed he would soon drive them from the land,

With his Dwarven hammer by his own hand.

 

“The Ravnarok, those of his ancient Clan,

From their armies Chaos always swiftly ran,

With the ex-pirate Red Ruth and Freedom’s Flight,

The Dwarven clans they sought to reunite.

 

“The Gnollish clan was led by Rex Delmar,

Upon his name there was no stain or mar,

And at his urging they joined this dire cause,

Nor did their goodly people stop or take pause.

 

“They sought their fame and fortune in the land,

And ‘pon a bleak and dark plain made their stand,

Which soon they found, in spades, and pretty gems,

‘twas here that their new found fame did begin.

 

“I should also mention a noble giant,

Who, in the face of the fiends, would prove defiant,

Cleetus was his name, of the Ulminbore Klan,

Their name and deeds were renown throughout the land.

 

“And of my own clan I must also speak,

For they performed many a dangerous feat.

Though led by me, Aethelu, a warrior bard,

‘tis they who should be held in high regard.

 

“We are the outcasts, Horseclans, of Ageria,

Who depend upon our skilled cavalry,

And make our home upon the golden plains;

These are the rich lands that are our domain.

 

“And now that my introductions are done,

The time has at last come to begin the fun,

But for a short while you will have to wait;

My tale I must now momentarily abate.”

 

She paused, but even as those in the audience who, having dozed off, jerked awake and lifted their hands to applaud, with the passing of her hand over the strings Aethelu continued.

 

“The first word I heard of the dire threat,

Caused for me very great concern, and yet,

Upon scholarly discourse with certain priests,

I failed to discern the nature of the beast,

 

“Murdock, the Seer, it was he first who

The signs of nearing disaster  did construe.

And, speaking to us all, he duly said,

(Warning about the strange dreams in his head)

 

“‘Speaking thusly, “To all that will listen,

‘This needs to be told, my most dreadful vision.

‘I see a Faey, Dannel, passing through our land,

‘He seeks help for what could be our last stand,

 

“‘A battle such as this land has not seen

 ‘For many a year; ‘gainst enemies unseen.

‘He tells of beings who would seek to destroy

‘His and our world; thus, heroes we should employ. 

 

“‘He does, you see, have am audacious plan

‘And so he asks from each Lorasian clan,

‘The greatest mages, finest warriors to meet

‘And stop this destructive force with our elite.

 

“ ‘The calling is for those who accept it,

‘They who will be moved by their dauntless spirit

‘I say, now let your path be clear to you,

‘And, if you will, join in what is to ensue.”

 

“Thus did his warning in this way conclude,

And while upon it did many of us brood,

None it seemed, I don’t know why, replied,

Though without doubt many should have applied.

 

“Then, as if ordained, a message swept

through our fair land, asking that we accept

The words of the mysterious Dannel himself;

And this is what he said, I saw it myself.

 

“‘My name is Dannel of the ancient Faey,

‘Dire warnings to you I must now relay,

‘It seems that the last passing of the Crack

‘(of Doom) has weakened (opening to attack)

 

“‘the boundaries that separate our two worlds,

‘(I know, alarm, I spread, with these dire words)

‘So I find myself able to freely walk

‘In your lands once again, and with you talk.

 

“‘I should have been glad myself to re-acquaint

‘With your world; alas, were it not for the taint

‘Of another foul, evil demonic land,

‘To visit with you all would have been most grand.

 

“‘However, sadly I have not that luxury,

‘If it is our will that we remain free.

‘’twas seen well in advance, in the zodiac,

‘The momentous passing of that dire Crack,

 

“‘And the weakening of the hale borders,

‘’twixt our worlds and another, where disorder,

‘Is the rule, and therein reside ancient beings,

‘Who seek only destruction of living things.

 

“‘Theirs is a  grim and darker reality;

‘They who have no concept of morality,

‘Of whom dim memories shaped the nightmares,

‘For many ages, and to which we fall heir.

 

“‘Once before they broke into our realm,

‘And our people threatened to overwhelm,

‘Many and many of our kind were slain”

‘(And many who fought them were driven insane)

 

“‘Before we could close their baneful gateway

‘And bar their entrance to the lands of the Faey.

‘But, signs indicate they now seek entrance

‘Not to our world but yours, by some mischance.

 

“‘Hence this is the reason for my travelling

‘I wish not to see your lands unravelling.

‘I say to each and every one of you”

‘What, if in my shoes, would you seek to do?

 

“‘If you call yourself a leader of a clan,

‘Make yourselves known to me; I have a plan

‘So that together we can combat this threat

‘Lest by these demonic hordes you be beset.”

 

“‘Whether a follower of Chaos or Law,

‘’tis time you came together and oversaw;

‘I entreat you to respond.  For if your

‘reality becomes theirs, you’ll live no more.’

 

“Alas his plea fell on many a deaf ear,

For in truth his words, they were very queer,

But deep in the bowels of lost Balen’s Deep

(For which, I say, the Dwarven Lords still weep).

 

“The Grelg clan goblins heard his frantic call,

And well knew the fate that us all would befall,

For a demon they had recently released,

When the Dwarven treasury they sought to fleece.

 

“They required Dannel’s help to banish it,

Forevermore from this realm, and, to wit,

Without his help, there’s not telling what fate,

I might this day have to you all to relate.

 

“Upon the plains, I, Aethelu heard the call,

Full of passion and fury, fair and tall.

The gnolls, they  heard the call as well, along

With the Dwarven clans, who were very strong.

 

“So also did individuals heed the call,

Many with the desire to help us all,

But a few, more greedy types, sought some reward,

For turning back the foul, demonic horde.

 

“No need to name them, Grelgs, we know them well,

In Balen’s Deep, where Dwarven lords used to dwell,

They loosed a demon who nearly brought their ruin,

Were it not for Dannel and his heroine.

 

The Dark Lady, it is she of whom I speak,

Who possessed Sluggetta Grelg (Oh what cheek!)

And together with the Grelg Clan expelled,

The demon before an evil fate befell.

 

“And I, riding throughout the grassy plain,

Sought more aid in this desperate campaign,

While camping one fine day I spied a tent;

And, taking gifts of food and wine, I went.

 

“Approaching the tent I saw a horse and man;

Engaging him in conversation, I began

To tell him of the demonic peril;

Of beings that threatened to make Lorasia sterile.

 

“And then he spoke; and Sparsus was his name.

He was a gladiator; it was his wish to claim

That never had he been bested in combat,

Nor was it a boast, but merely a fact.

 

“Still, however, he was not satisfied;

To seek the supreme battle, he replied,

Was his ultimate goal, his true desire,

To no loftier design could he aspire.

 

“So I, Aethelu, asked this noble soul,

To seek in this, our quest, his rightful role,

And fulfil his ultimate destiny,

To demonstrate to all his bravery.

 

“Upon these words did Sparsus meditate,

With himself the pros and cons he did debate,

But in the end he really had no choice,

So to the Horseclans he added his voice.

 

“Now I road hard to Fangorn’s Port Royale,

Seeking further the demon’s plans to foil.

But then a nightmare to Prester John came,

Seeking the ire of Dwarf and Human to inflame.

 

“Against the Grelg goblins, this vision spoke,

Warning that in a single masterstroke,

They would betray the allied clans to gate

Kauron, foul Kauron, his thirst for blood to slake!

 

“Into our realms from his fleshy netherworld,

Disguised as Buleo, evil to unfurl,

The Grelgs would aid him, so the ill dream said,

And all before their combined might would be dead.

 

“Great fear and misgiving this dream soon spread;

John ‘twas not the only one into whose head

These dire portents made their insidious way;

The Dwarven clans these dark thoughts sought to sway.

 

“And with some success they did indeed succeed,

Odo Kundahkin, his mandate could not exceed

For the Dwarven Council direct aid forbid,

And all of Odo’s preparation undid.

 

“No Dwarven axes would with the Grelgs join,

Not for honour or glory or even base coin.

So I had to look elsewhere for my aid,

Now that my hope for Dwarven help was unmade.

 

“I met first with the Temple of Balance,

Which I was certain, the cause could advance.

Relaying all I knew to the High Priest,

I left nothing out, not even the least.

 

“After pondering the import of my words,

And concluding what I said was not absurd,

He placed under my command seraphim;

A host of divine armour clad cherubim.

 

“I then spoke with Taliensin, the great bard,

Who, with me had worked so very hard

To train me in the complex bardic skills,

And thus I had quickly earned his goodwill.

 

“So Taliensin joined in this frantic quest,

To prevent the demons who sought to wrest

Control of Lorasia from its rightful heirs;

Time from his duties he was able to spare.

 

“Fangorn, Lord of Port Royale lent his hand;

Four score slingers or more soon joined our band.

And, journeying now to Lotheria fair,

I met with Gowin the Sage, whom prepared,

 

“A magic salve which, if upon our weapons

Was spread, these demons they could hurt, whereupon,

Without the salve no injury could be done

To those beings who our land sought to overrun.

 

“And, finally, Cerik the Gray, the warlock,

An Elven Lord, whom the Grelgs did sorely mock,

Lent his skill at our desperate request

(Among the warlocks, he was one of the best).

 

“Meanwhile, as I recruited these heroes,

Lucan with his armoured host wanted to know

What was in the land where lay the demon gate,

And rode south there to our arrival await.

 

“Sending forth his scouts they sought the dread place,

Where the demon’s portal the land defaced.

A hilltop, sliced cleanly across it peak;

Looking down from above, they saw, stark and bleak,

 

“A dark plateau, like a night of stars bereft,

Smoothly hewn, no crack or gorge or cleft

Could be seen ‘pon that bleak glassy hilltop,

As if an axe the summit had away chopped.

 

“Returning, the scouts reported their find,

And Lucan, in view of this, was of the mind

That a report should be sent to I, Aethelu,

In hope that in it I would find some clue.

 

“So, I now made my way further southward,

Prepared not for words, but to take up my sword.

There we would join with Lucan and the rest,

And prepare to complete our dangerous quest.

 

“From Port Royale also road Rex Delmar,

At the head of his armoured gnollish hussars,

And also making their way to the meeting place,

The Grelgs, who had, finally, the cause embraced.

 

“Joining the Grelgs were the Wriggling Maggots, who,

After Lotfon, by the Grelgs had been renewed,

And Fetid Flesheater, who swore an oath to me

(In the end would betray me, it is true),

 

“Was placed in command of that reborn force,

And would soon from the quest himself divorce.

But first upon the plains near the portal,

The Grelgs and the Horseclans met mortal to mortal.

 

“We met in a large tent, there to discuss

(To the Grelgs our clan were quite chivalrous)

And in detail developed a good plan

To deal with the fiends before their invasion began.

 

“And now, I’d like to continue, but  I must.

Defer, but don’t worry, instead in me trust,

I will continue in the next canto,

In our own language and not Esperanto.”

 

And indeed she did.

 

“So it came one morning that there were arrayed

Four armies along with Dannel the Faey;

Agerian Crusaders and Agerian Guard

The Gobbo Ladz and Grelgs, (less Buleo’s shard).

 

“Plus the Night Riders of the gnollish clans,

The Port Royale slingers (each a veteran)

And Wriggling Maggots, that traitorous bunch

(About which I had a suspicious hunch),

 

“Before the portal on the sheared off hill,

The bards were singing, hoping to instil

Fortitude, bravery in those who would face,

The evil denizens of this fiendish race.

 

“The Grelg priestess, naked, beat on her drums;

To her hypnotic thrum the Gobbo’s succumbed,

And marching, ‘twas they who first entered the rift,

With the others following, quick and swift.

 

“They soon found themselves upon a acrid plain

Upon which nothing fell, not even rain.

Behind them a portal, before them, two more,

Whilst five demons opposed our brave warriors.

 

“As the clans took stock of the demons’ wasteland,

‘twas shown the Maggots had vanished to a man.

Nowhere to be seen in that blighted realm,

Were Fetid’s soldiers, armed with spear and helm.

 

“They’d quickly, cowardly, abandoned the quest,

Marching away no doubt at Fetid’s behest.

And so fewer faced the demonic lords,

Which soon spawned their awful progenic hordes.

 

“The first demon was a viscous blob,

Attacking it would be a sticky job,

It oozed and it flowed, slowly toward the Gobboes,

And from within came an eerie frightful glow.

 

“The next was a giant demonic dog,

Our heroes gaped at it, all of them agog,

For a thousand dog-heads from its flanks did sprout,

A mini-horde of vicious and fanged snouts.

 

“Next a foul skeletal beast could be seen,

Hundreds of old bones, rotten and unclean,

Followed by an insect demon, metal clad,

Steel scythed limbs, or thick clubs studded with brads.

 

“In the distance, next to the demon’s portal,

Spun a huge gem-demon, an immortal.

For the gem a special team would be dispatched,

Before additional foul plans it could hatch.

 

“On the plain, three of the demons exploded,

And I must admit, this did not well abode,

The blob and the dog and the skeleton,

Into a hundred offspring, which then ran,

 

“(or oozed, as it were) towards the clans on the plain.

Quickly Lucan issued his orders, mainly,

The Crusaders and Guard split right,

While Slingers and Riders went left to fight.

 

“With a thunderous charge, the Crusaders and Guard,

Tore into the bones, smashing them to shards,

While Cerik the Grey unleashed a storm of fire,

Adding skeleton and hound to the pyre.

 

“The Night Riders engaged the demon hound,

And the Slingers, who sought the middling ground,

Tried best to support our heroes’ assault,

With sharp fire, bringing the fiends to a halt.

 

“The Gobbo Ladz took on the demon blobs,

Hacking and slashing and thrashing the globs.

Like thunder and lightning our heroes were

Coordinating by brave messenger.

 

“Meanwhile, Cleetus, his action making no sense,

Threw to the ground a golden acorn, whence

A great tree sprang up, it roots tearing the flesh

Of the dog headed demon, whom it did enmesh.

 

“But then the tree withered, and up Cleetus leaped,

Seeking the fruit of the tree for himself to reap

A new golden acorn, with which to renew

The great tree again, to grow it anew.

 

“Meanwhile, from these collective armies there lanced

A team to close the demonic entrance.

I led the Horseclans, Sluggeta the rest,

For what would prove to be the ultimate test.

 

“With me were Taliensin and also Sparsus,

And Alcina, to aid with the catharsis,

And Darak Karin and Arislan, young

Warlords, ‘till now, heroes who were unsung.

 

“Sluggeta and Gowja led the Grelg band,

Smoovie came along to lend them a hand,

And Wahaay and Loopi and even Madlad,

Plus the forsaken dwarf, Falin, mail-clad.

 

“Krool Grelg, Chief Battlemage of the goblin Clan;

Nobbi Grelg, Sage; Krazee Grelg, Seer; and

Vishuss Grelg, Chief Battlemage of the Grelgs,

And Grim Grelg, Warlord, with ferocious yells,

 

“Along with Dannel and his Dark Lady, they

Are the team that set forth to aid the Faey,

To banish the gem-demon and close their gate,

Before to our world befell a terrible fate.

 

“But alas the gem-demon quickly struck first,

And a blinding light from its crystal burst,

Spawning soon duplicates of each of us,

And, one presumed, equally dangerous.

 

“But Alcina saw through the magic facade,

Thinking it quite bizarre and somewhat odd,

Taking a magic ring from her finger,

She cast it at the gem, vanished the danger.

 

“They were illusions, and she’d warned us well,

That through a spell the demon sought to compel

Us to fight each other, and do its dirty work,

But poor Alcina had no chance to smirk.

 

“The gem demon exploded, a large blast,

And sharp shards of shattered crystal hurled past.

Cutting and rending and ripping at us,

A mechanic so simple, yet so devious.

 

“Wahaay and Loopi, poor lads, they both fell,

Dispatched it seemed to their own private hell

But Cleetus, the Lady and Grelgs protected,

And with his body the missiles deflected.

 

“My team was lucky, though we were all marred,

And in many other ways we were scarred.

None of us fell and we quickly regrouped;

The demon it seemed had thrown us for a loop.

 

“Now two were there, each placidly spinning,

Much to our dismay and to our chagrin,

So the Grelgs took left and we took the right,

Each doing their best, this demon to smite.

 

“Then Falin stepped forward, over Wahaay he stood,

The fear of the demon he easily withstood,

With swift knife stroke, he opened and gutted,

He held aloft Wahaay’s intestines, uncut.

 

“And, calling ‘pon cruel dark Kauron’s power,

Wahaay’s entrails the demon sought to devour,

But the entrails shifted and shaped and ate

The demon, Kauron’s appetite did sate.

 

“Taliensin and I took on the other gem,

A hard shattering tune, not a mere hymn,

Cerik lent power to our deadly duet,

Along with our pious priests, to end the threat.

 

“At last the spinning gem demon shattered,

In every which direction, it clattered.

We put an end to the demon’s awful risk,

No more under the eye of that basilisk!

 

“The Dark Lady stepped up, her power, innate,

She began the ritual, closing the gate,

But then a new threat, we saw, came our way,

The metal fiend the closing sought to delay.

 

“Sparsus, finding his ultimate challenge,

(To think of the task he set himself,  I cringe)

Set off to fight the shiny metal beast,

As it quickly approached us from the east.

 

“Slugetta and Gowja, not to be outdone,

Set off after Sparsus at a fast run.

And Darak Karin and Arislan too,

Joined the effort to give the demon its due.

 

“The battle went swift, with Sparsus in close.

Slugetta and Gowja (who are not verbose),

Danced all around it, seeking to distract,

And thus their revenge from it to extract.

 

“Alas, Darak Karin was slain right away,

Barely was he into the massive affray,

And Arislan, the least skilled of them all,

Got slammed very hard, as if into a wall.

 

“And yet they fought on, those fearless dauntless four,

Before, through an opening, Sparsus did score

A hit, that he soon ruthlessly drove home,

Relentlessly he pressed, the demon foamed.

 

“Its metal claws snagged Sparsus, crushing him;

Yet Sparsus held on, driving his sword in.

As the breath was crushed from tortured lungs,

The metal demon onto its back he flung.

 

“As it died, so did Sparsus, crushed to death,

And thus it was that he took his last breath.

‘twas nothing the Grelgs or Arislan could do,

‘cept take a moment to bid him adieu.

 

“In Lorasia, the demons there perceived,

The danger, and toward the rift one proceeded

To be drawn off by Red Ruth and his crew,

Aboard Freedom’s Flight, which in the sky flew.

 

“Toward Reiginhold they and the evil fiend soared.

It did not know the fate the dwarves had in store,

As they awaited it at mighty Reiginhold,

Where Tandilus had a machine, or so I’m told.

 

“Red Ruth harpooned the evil nasty thing,

And in a rage it flew, and tried to fling

Freedom’s Flight from is black corroded hide,

But could not get free no matter how hard it tried.

 

“Over Reiginhold Tandilus used magic

To bring the demon to an end most tragic.

It essence it seems old Tandilus trapped,

And its demonic power he soon tapped.

 

“And, suddenly, without any warning,

Reiginhold floated in the bright morning,

Powered by the evil demon’s spirit,

It was turned to Reiginhold’s benefit.

 

“Upon the bleak plains, the Horseclans still roared,

Smashing the minions with the force of a corps.

Lucan, bloodied, swung strongly to and fro,

Striking the demons each a mighty blow.

 

“Rex Delmar and his faithful armoured gnolls,

That fateful day took their own terrible toll,

While the Grelg Clan goblins demons smashed and sliced,

Catching their foes as if in a mighty vise.

 

“And so the battle ended on that plain

Far away; not without cost, many were slain.

Now the demons were no longer a peril,

The dark demonic plain was rendered sterile.

 

“So the time came at last to say goodbye

To Dannel, his Lady, not an eye was dry,

(‘cept perhaps the Grelgs) and from the gate we stepped;

Into our own lovely Lorasia we leapt!

 

“Dannel and the Dark Lady to their own land

Returned, and I gladly gave the command

To prepare to start on our own way home,

‘cross the plains where we would once again roam.

 

“But it was not to be, nay, fickle fate,

Was our joy soon to very rapidly deflate.

Upon the horizon, the Vishuss Killas

Showed, and we soon found we were at an impasse.

 

“Over a hundred Elven slaves had they,

Whom they planned to let goblin boy Grotuk flay.

I bartered for their freedom, but only a few,

Would the Grelgs release from their enslaved crew.

 

“And, as we bartered, that awful fateful morn,

Smoovie, with a sword, one of the Elves shorn

In half, and with rage and shock I departed,

Sick with grief and shame and broken hearted.  

 

“The Elf, Cerik the Gray, took it less well.

In a rage he vowed to send Smoovie to hell.

As the motley Grelg fleet rowed out to sea,

He went to the shore, enraged, like a banshee.

 

 

“Raising his arms high into the blue sky,

He rained fire on them, making them die.

Smoovie burned to a crisp (but not for long -

Despite his small size that runt is quite strong).

 

“The Grelg archers returned fire with bows,

Striking poor Cerik with many fatal blows.

As he died in my arms, I could not help but weep,

Oh what a bitter reward we had reaped!

 

“Now my tale is done, to its tragic end;

So here, for now, I think I shall suspend,

The telling of how these clans saved our land,

And for all Lorasia made a grand stand.

 

“Now I have only one apology to make,

To Taliensin, him, that bard who is great,

For I have done this frightful tale before he,

His will no doubt be better, I can foresee,

 

“When time has run its unalterable course,

Mine will be lost, but his shall be the source;

His shall remain as rousing as ambrosia,

Telling our history and that of Lorasia.”

 

And so, finally, her harp and voice fell silent for the last time. And, as awareness of this fact passed over the crowd, there came first a scattering then a roar of applause as those lost in her tale dragged themselves reluctantly back to the present, and those lost in slumber likewise awoke.

 

Next came Smoovie of the Grelg Clan. Sauntering onto the stage, he stretched, yawning exaggeratedly.

 

“Well, that’s one version of wot ‘appened wiv ol’ Cedrik. What reelly ‘appened though woz this...

 

“The traterous Elf called Cedrik

tried to dubble cross the Grelgs, 

he blasted off a firestorm at us,

so we stuk him full of arrers

and he died az ded as a ded thing.

And we laffed a lot.”

 

After Aethelu’s epic, the brevity of the Grelg’s entry perhaps came as a refreshing change; certainly, the applause and cheering was perhaps more than was deserved, as was the cries from some camps for an encore. Which, grinning, Smoovie was happy to provide.

 

“The Grelgy Clan is tuff as Nails

as meen az meen can be,

weez killed off Elves and Dwarves as well

and even demons run from me,

Uz reach iz long and all shud watch

that they do not cross us

Cos if yaz do then you can bet that weel

find a way to gecha.”

 

 

After Smoovie had quit the stage, Kamaran of the Dark Phoenix rose to take his place. Speaking softly, yet his voice carried easily across the silent arena.

 

“A Call to Arms.

 

“To Arms! To Arms!” The call rang loud,

And we our spears and bows prepared.

“Ready thy Arms! For now we march;

Our enemies will not be spared!”

 

“My arms, my arms,” my true love said,

“Must hold thy person one more time.

Come to my arms, and hold me close,

For I love thee, and I am thine.”

 

“To Arms! To Arms! Their force draws near,

So stand thee ready to attack.

Ready thy Arms!  No mercy show,

And trophies only bring thee back.”

 

“My arms, my arms,” my true love cried,

“Will empty stay whilst thou art gone.

Come to my arms, just one more time,

‘Ere I be lonely for so long.”

 

“To Arms! To Arms! For battles met,

Ensure thine honour costs them dear!

Ready thy Arms!  And pray thine Gods

Will help you die with conscience clear.”

 

“My arms, my arms,” my true love wrote,

“Ache for empty they remain.

Come to my arms, for thee I love,

And solitude doth cause me pain.”

 

“To Arms! To Arms!  Stand firm and fight,

They will not beat us at the last.

Ready thy Arms! Our death draws near;

Stand ready, lads, our fate is cast…”

 

“My arms, my arms,” my true love wept,

“Will feel no more your warm caress.

Empty my arms will thus remain;

I walk, as dead, in loneliness…”

 

No raucous cheering met his words, but rather, a quiet sigh of acknowledgment, applause muted in respect rather than lack of appreciation.

 

 

In contrast, Olsten of the Rusting Diamonds served to lighten the mood once more...

 

“There was a young elf-maid, so appealing

As she could dance with such exquisite feeling

Not a sound was heard

Not a murmur, not a word

But codpieces hitting the ceiling!!”

 

 

And, catching the spirit of his limerick, Gabrielle of the Crusaders of Lyredh cart-wheeled onto the stage before planting hands on hips and feet apart to launch into “Fear and Loathing in Lorasia”, or, she adds, “The Gaby Rap.”

 

“Sing a Song of Camp-fire Girlz,

Crusaders of Lyredh

You’d better worship Beauty,

Or else you’ll end up dead…

 

“I’m a bard, I’m a lesbo,

I’m a fetching shade of green,

The only one who feels like :

‘Love and peace, man!’, it would seem…

 

“Najhara is a Paladin

Of light and truth and order

Like all the Girlz I’ve snogged she’s got

Some strange mental disorder

 

“Ksenia’s in her playhouse

With the Queen of all the Elves

I rather wish that we could get

Involved with them ourselves

 

“Maelora is just gorgeous,

The kind of Queen we like

She’s like the little girl who stuck

Her finger in the dyke

 

“Sing a Song of Campfire Girlz

Playing in the Tent

They’re using it so often

That Ksenia’s charging rent

 

“Valeria’s our priestess

The one who likes her males

She spends her time in lingerie

And painting her false nails

 

“Neevie comes from far away

Just like her friend Mei Lau

She wears those brightly-coloured silks

To say “Who’s Sari Now?”

 

“Neevie-Neve’s our Curry queen

A-mixing up her sauces

Epiphany’s the one too fond

Of all the pretty horses

 

“For we all love the Pony Girlz

A-prancing on a Pony

Especially the stallions when

Epiphany gets lonely…

 

“Mei Lau is fond of babies

Especially ones with scales

It only stands to reason

She’s the other who likes males…

 

“Yves is not Ksen’s daughter

But she doesn’t seem to care,

That compared to cute Maelora

She wouldn’t stand a prayer

 

“She’s lost her mind and thinks that she’s

Goddess of War and Fear

Not that acting odd

Would get her noticed around here

 

“Amarys has lost her mind

She’s thinks she’s in the past

So much for Love’s Young Dream with Cally-

Knew it couldn’t last…

 

“Cally thinks that Tiny Furry Animals

Are fun

She loves them like she loves all kids

But couldn’t eat a whole one

 

“Aunt Gem’s our Giant Druid

All smiling and happy

Never more so when she’s getting

My ‘crystal therapy’…

 

“Sing a Song of Campfire Girlz

Skipping in a row

Joxar thinks he’s mighty

But he’s just the last to know

 

“Reynard thinks he’s gorgeous

And has loads of female fans…

In fact he’s the main reason why

We Girlz are lesbi-ans

 

“Tsanina’s got a killer bod,

Sleek and toned and limber

Our craftsgirlz lack the wits to turn

Our Lumber into Timber

 

“Ysadrayal’s a scaly dog

His hair comes out in tufts

And that’s the major reason why

He never wins at ‘Crufts’

 

“Sing a Song of Campfire Girlz

Bathing in the pool

Playing with our mermaid

And trying to keep cool

 

“Becks and Thay’lyn are the Girlz

With savvy, smarts and wit

They basically comprise, these two

The brains of this outfit

 

“Playing with her undead

Is the gothy chick named Alti

The poor things died from too much sex

And eating Neevie’s balti

 

“kathyrn von melosa

Is butch and mean and hard

She still regrets the day she quit

As women’s prison guard

 

“The hens are scared of Cally

These chicks are ripe for plucking

The nasty look in Cally’s eye says –”

 

At which point Najhara, moving onto the stage, placed a hand firmly over  Gabrielle’s mouth to drag her from the stage as the crowd erupted into applause.

 

When the cheering had died away, Alran made his way onto the stage. Third place, he said, the judges had awarded to Lyulf of Ravnarok. Second, to Aethelu Wintersong of the Horseclans of Ageria. And first prize went to Kamaran of Dark Phoenix for “Call to Arms.”

 

Riddling Contest

Word from the wise...

 

Howie: "And that brings us to the riddling contest. This is a tough one. Aethelu is entered, but she's never riddled before. Smoovie is entered as well, but his entry last placed third only because there were no other entries. The one I think will shine is Kamaran - he's demonstrated his wit. Mhoraig is entered on behalf of the Ravnarok, and Thay'lyn, who I think is a kobold, is entered on behalf of the Campfire Girlz. I tell you, Terry, this has got to be the hardest contest to pick."

 

Terry: "Experience, Howie, it's all about experience. If Klan Ulminbore riddler enters this year, I say they win. Smoovie's my next choice despite his showing last year because - again - experience. Kamaran and Aethelu and Mhoraig don't have experience riddling, but out of the three, I'll take Kamaran - he's seems the clever type."

 

Howie: "Well, tell you what Terry, I'll go just the opposite. I pick Thay'lyn as the surprise winner, followed by Aethelu and then Mhoraig."

 

And so the contestants were called forth for the riddling contest. With each entry being only a few lines long, all five entrants took the stage at once, each to read off their riddle after other.

 

First was Kamaran of the Dark Phoenix:

 

“Above, below, where I draw breath,

I help you live, or cause your death!

What am I?”

 

A moment’s silence, before Cleetus rose to his feet. “Fire?” Smiling, Kamaran nodded.

 

Next was Olsten of the Rusting Diamonds:

 

“What is it that walks on 4 legs when young, two legs when full-grown and 3 legs when old?”

 

Barely had he gotten the words out when a thousand voices answered him in unison - “Man”. Or, rather, “goblin,” “gnoll,” “giant”...

 

Mhoraig of Ravnarok was next:

 

“Show me the one-eyed warrior

With his army of one

Send him into the fray

From whence he comes

His work is done.”

 

A moment’s somewhat shocked silence, before, as the realisation dawned in nods, smiles and whispers, Mhoraig grinned, quitting the stage.

 

Then came Aethelu of Wintersong which, to no one’s surprise, was somewhat longer than the previous entries:

 

“I always march forward;

I never retreat.

 

“I am always constant;

I never speed up, never slow down.

 

“Yet I am ever changing,

Because I am never the same.

 

“If you can tell time,

Then you know my name.”

 

 

Tandilus himself looked up from the tome he was flicking through. “Time. You said it yourself.”

 

Finally, Thay’lyn of the Crusaders of Lyredh spoke:

 

“My first is in Chakram, the Round Killing Thing,
The next’s in the Songs that sweet Gaby will sing,
My third is in Playhouse, for adults only,
The next is in Centaur and also in Pony.
My fifth is in Lipstick and also in Lesbian,
My last is in Campfire and also in Thespian.
I’ve trouble pronouncing my name myself
So just call me the consort of the cutest Dark Elf...

 

Who Am I?”

 

And, as one, the camp of the Crusaders cried out the answer: “Ksenia”.

 

A few minutes silence as the judges debated, before, moving to the front of the stage, Alran announced the winners:

 

“Third place goes to Thay’lyn of the Crusaders. Second goes to Mhoraig of Ravnarok. And in first place, Kamaran of Dark Phoenix.”

 

Grand Melee

Now, for the final time, over to our commentators...

 

Terry: "What can be said about the Grand Melee? Well, the contestants are Artair Trollsbane of the Ravnarok Clan, Fwalin Thunderbearer of Fwalin's Folk, Slugetta Grelg of the Grelg Clan Goblins, Lucan of the Horseclans of Ageria, the comely dark elf October of Clan Zagora, and the Paladin Najhara of the Crusaders of Lyredh. Najhara is replacing Ksenia this year, who swept most of the competitive events in the First Annual Games."

 

Howie: "That's right, Terry. This year Ksenia declined to enter the Games. I think that makes Fwalin Thunderbearer the likely choice in this event. Last year, the Big Man crushed the Grelg contestant, Marakesh, and then very nearly fought Ksenia herself to a standstill. He's got to be the favourite."

 

Terry: "Well, don't count out Slugetta Grelg. That gal is tough, and after talking to one of the contestants who sparred against her earlier this year, she has agility similar to Ksenia. But what she lacks is Ksenia's strength, and that may be her undoing."

 

Howie: "Lets look at some of the other contestants. October of Clan Zagora. Not much is known of the young lass, but from little we've heard what she lacks in raw strength she makes up for in speed. Her skill level is a question mark though, no one has seen her fight."

 

Terry: "Lucan of the Horseclans is a potential underdog. I understand he has been training very hard, working on strength and agility and well as sparring. Plus, he'll have the use of a new weapon, although no details have been released yet. So he could very well be a minor sleeper."

 

Howie: "Speaking of sleepers, what about Najhara?"

 

Terry: "Without a doubt, if there is a sleeper in this contest, it is the Crusader Paladin. Who knows what she is capable of doing? I've heard her weakness is her temper, however. If she loses control, she could lose the whole ball of wax."

 

Howie: "And that brings us to the Ravnarok contestant, Artair Trollsbane. He replaces the redoubtable Odo Kundahkan as the Ravnarok entry this year. He's a strong aggressive fighter, and he'll try to overpower his opponents. Definitely a worthy pick."

 

Announcer: "Truth or consequences, gentlemen. Its fourth down and goal to go, with five seconds left on the clock, fourth quarter, and your team is down by five. Who do you pick?"

 

Howie: "Without a doubt, Fwalin, Slugetta, and Artair."

 

Terry: "I agree with the first two selections - Fwalin and Slugetta. But I'll take Najhara over Artair just because she's one of Girlz.

 

Announcer: "There you have it, Howie and Terry pick the Grand Melee.

 

And so, finally, came the last event of the Games - the Grand Melee. Despite the somewhat shocking events of the Wrestling Bout, following the poems and riddling spirits were once again high in the crowds across Lorasia, and whilst in the camp of Ravnarok there was scant celebration of their successes, the Grelgs - Gowja aside - did not seem overly bothered about their loss.

 

As Alran called their names, so the contestants entered the arena. Fwalin Thunderbearer, again striding naked through the banners, but this time wielding his hammer and morning star. October of Dark Phoenix, armoured, and with two curved blades at her belt. Artair of Ravnarok, face dark, and grasping a heavy, two-handed hammer. Lucan of the Horseclans of Ageria, clad in leather armour, and carrying the sword presented in the Weapons Design contest, named Quickflame. And finally Najhara, Paladin of the Crusaders of Lyredh, leather armour apparently designed to reveal more than it concealed, but her heavy sword marking her as meaning business.

 

When the contestants stood ready, Tandilus passed before them, eyes half-closed as he examined their equipment for signs of magical enhancement. Artair’s hammer, he announced, was indeed magical, but should Artair swear not to invoke its magic, it would be allowed. And aside from that, pronouncing himself satisfied, Tandilus ambled from the arena.

 

For this final contest, Alran announced, the competitors would enter the ring not in pairs but together, with the last person standing declared victorious. Whilst they would be allowed to choose their own opponents, however, there were two rules which were be adhered to. Firstly, if two participants were fighting, then no one else was to interfere until that fight was over. Which was to say, fights would always be one against one, never with multiple opponents working against a single competitor. And secondly, healers would be on hand to remove fallen opponents from the ring - anyone striking these people, be it on purpose or accidentally, would be immediately disqualified.

 

So saying, Alran stepped from the large central ring marked out on the arena ring. Then, gesturing to the contestants, he bid them step inside before raising his hand. “Let the Melee commence.”

 

A moment’s hesitation, as each contestant eyed the others. Then, across the clearing, Artair and Fwalin’s eyes met. Artair raised an eyebrow questioningly, and in response Fwalin nodded, face reddening as he charged across the arena at his comrade. Najhara, in the meantime, eyeing October’s slender form with disdain, hefted her sword as she strode towards the dark elf, who, unsheathing her swords, stepped lightly forwards. And, as Lucan, shrugging, remained standing at the edge of the ring, dwarf clashed with dwarf and Crusader with Phoenix with a ring of steel and grunt of exertion, and the crowd erupted.

 

Fwalin and Artair, slamming in the middle of the arena, weapons crashing together in jarring collision, fell back, neither giving more ground than the other, clearly equally matched in terms of strength. Najhara, however, found no parry to her heavily swung blow, the dark elf instead falling aside with graceful delicacy, pirouetting around the Crusader to bring both blades round in twin-edged scything blow which Najhara barely found time to block with a clumsy parry of her own.

 

First to recover, Artair lunged forwards again, seeking to knock Fwalin’s feet out from under him. But the move which had failed Amaran in the wrestling similarly failed Artair, as Fwalin, not jumping this time, brought his hammer down in a cricket-like swing, knocking Artair’s hammer aside, even as his morning star slammed into Artair’s helmeted head, knocking him backwards. Staggering, Artair sought to recover his poise, but quickly pressing home his advantage, the Thunderbearer rained hammer blow and morning star flail down upon Artair’s armoured form, battering him, keeping him off-balance, until finally he lost his footing, falling heavily to the grass. Fwalin’s hammer swinging down to half inches from Artair’s neck, the fallen dwarf nodded his surrender.

 

Meanwhile, October continued to dance gracefully around Najhara’s increasingly desperate attacks. Body mercurically fluid, the dark elf span and twisted, leaping high into the air, dropping into low rolls, her blades weaving a tapestry of steel about the bewildered paladin. The result was never really in doubt, and when, finally, October span behind Najhara to bring both blades up against the Crusader’s throat, Najhara bowed her head in defeat.

 

And now Lucan, sensing his opportunity, moved forwards, raising his sword to bring it down across Fwalin’s bare back, hard enough to alert him to his presence, but, ever honourable, using only the flat of the blade. Even so, as a red welt raised itself against the flowing blue lines of Fwalin’s tattoos, the dwarf bellowed in pain, falling away from Artair into a roll which brought him to his feet facing Lucan. Despite his cry, however, the dwarf found time to nod in acknowledgment of Lucan’s choice not to cut him down from behind before charging, hammer and morning star cutting the air in wild patterns before him.

 

If Artair had lasted only a few minutes against Fwalin’s attack, Lucan’s challenge lasted but a fraction of that time. Meeting the dwarf’s first wild hammer swing with his sword, the flailing morning star caught him heavy in the arm, numbing the limb, so that his sword fell from lifeless fingers. Kicking the sword away from Lucan’s reach as he dropped into a crouch to reach for it, the dwarf lowered his hammer to rest it on Lucan’s shoulder. And, sighing, Lucan nodded, head lowered in submission.

 

Which, once again, left only dwarf and dark elf. Fwalin’s ferocity of attack faced by October’s graceful dance of steel. Wasting no time, Fwalin charged the elf, hammer and morning star moving once more in terrifying synchronisity. October, however, rather than meeting such an attack, instead twisted aside, blades meeting both hammer and star, turning the hammer’s swing, and catching in the star’s chain for the instant needed to alter the head’s orbit before pulling free before the blade could become trapped.

 

And so was set the pattern for the fight. Fwalin ever on the offensive, charging across the ring at October whilst she, moth about his fire of Fwalin’s passion, danced ever beyond the reach of his crushing blows. Yet even a dwarf’s fury must eventually abate, and with each charge, Fwalin’s swings were more wild, the control with which he wielded his weapons even in rage now abandoning him, blows powerful as ever, but losing their crippling accuracy. October, however, seemed to spin as high as ever, her blades now finding their mark, as red scores appeared amidst Fwalin’s tattoos, ugly gashes cutting across their fluid design.

 

The dark elf’s victory seemed assured. And perhaps even Fwalin recognised such a fact. Yet still he refused to submit, gasping now for breath which burned in his lungs like fire as now the previous bouts began to take their toll so that every raising of hammer or star send dull agony washing through his limbs. Three times, four, five, he charged, each time October dancing ever-more easily from his blows to cross his skin with blood. But, bellowing his defiance, Eldaron’s cry hoarse on his lips, Fwalin refused to yield.

 

As October danced, then, so it became clear to her that there was only one way the battle could end. Yet, despite their differences of belief and race, she found herself delaying the inevitable thrust needed to finish it, respecting his determination even as she might despise the values he stood for. And so she continued to move beyond his reach, hardly even needing to dodge his blows now, as he struggled to find the strength to lift his weapons.

 

But finish it she knew she must, one way or another, else the dwarf would clearly drop dead from exhaustion before admit defeat, his fury pushing his body beyond what it could possibly endure. And so, finally, she threw her blades spinning into the air to catch them now blades in her hands, blood running from her fists as, with punishing speed, she brought the hilts down in continuation of their spinning arc onto Fwalin’s bared head. Staggering, Fwalin gasped in surprise, the name of Eldaron falling once more from his lips before he crashed, unconscious, to the ground.

 

An Ending

 

As the contestants walked from the ring, else were helped out by their companions, so Alran - parchment in hand - took their place. Parchment in hand, he looked first out across the gathered empires in the arena, before up to the crowds massed in the banners.

 

“A worthy battle, fought and won with honour,” he called out. “A true ending for these Games. I thank all who came forwards to compete, all who gave of their time and money and efforts to make these Games a success. For, despite certain events, I believe that these Games have shown once again that the people of Lorasia  can - with only a few regrettable exceptions - set aside their differences to come together in celebration of sword and of pen. And if we can do this now, perhaps there is reason to hope that a time may come when we can so exist together.”

 

“Not until goblins learn to wash,” a remark floated up from the crowd, accompanied by laughter.

 

“There remains, however,” Alran continued, “one final task for me to perform, and that it to announce the winning empire.  As I stated at the start of the Games, this is to be decided upon a points system, with a victory earning the empire three points, second place two points, and third one point. In the case of the Wrestling Bout, where there was no clear distinction between second and third place, both Slugetta Grelg and Amaran of Dark Phoenix have been awarded one and a half points.

 

“And so. This means that joint runners up in second place are the dwarves of Fwalin’s Folk and Ravnarok. Whilst in first place, as victors of the Second Annual Lorasian Games, are the newcomers Dark Phoenix.”

 

Editor’s Column

 

Hi.

 

Well, three days of moderation and writing later, and the second Lorasia Games are over. I hope you enjoyed them, and, as I said at the start, if I have missed anything from any of you, I apologise.

 

Given the length of the Games, I hope you will forgive the lack of artwork in this edition, but the usual picture a page would have made the whole thing ridiculously long. For the same reason, I am saving the usual proclamations and reports for next month’s edition. However, it wouldn’t be the Cosmic Balance without a word from the Crusaders, and so allow me to give way for Big Sister!

 

Cheers,

 

John

 

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