How we think the fight will go

Kitiara paced the hall at Dargaard Keep, her blue-scaled dragon-armor seemingly the only color in the desolate castle.

The only color, that is, other than the glowing red eyes that followed her impatient steps.

“Where is he?” she demanded. “Who are these people to command you so? It was me that dared to reside here and it should be me,” she said, stopping to glare at Lord Soth, “that you obey!”

He said nothing. He was used to her violent outbursts. He had, in fact, come to cherish them. Or, as much as he had cherished anything in a long, long time.

“Well?”

“Relax. I am yours to command, as much as I ever was,” he said, making it clear that although she had braved the nights in Dargaard Keep, Soth was no man’s—or woman’s—to lord over.

She stared at him, a question in her look.

“Yet I am curious,” he said. “This tournament reminds me of the Games of Istar. And when I think back to those times—“

“You think of that elvish whore!” she snapped.

His movements were sudden, and the icy grip around her arm froze her in place.

“You would do well, “ he said, “to keep such words from your lips. I’m not the only person here to have fallen under the spell of an elvish lover.”

Fear, then anger crossed her face. Her retort was cut off, though, by the banging of the door to hall as it crashed open.

Soth immediately let go of Kitiara and moved to meet the man who had barged into his home.

Perhaps “man” was too weak a term—the person before him was taller than a Plainsman, and yet even there any similarities ended. He was massive, and instead of skins and feathers, he wore an odd arrangement of armor on one-half of his body and strange blue sigils covering the otherwise naked half.

Beside him walked an old man, though age didn’t seem to have sapped any his vitality, and though shorter than his companion, he still would tower over most of the men on Krynn. His strange kilt reminded Soth of the garb of the minotaurs, but this man was decidedly human.

The grin on his face was a pretty good giveaway.

“Well met, Lord Soth!” the older man boomed.

“Well met, indeed,” Soth said in quiet opposition. “I assume this monstrosity is Fenris?”

“Monstrosity? Ha! You’re one to talk,” the old man replied.

Soth—if he could have—almost smiled.

Kitiara, however, did not.

“Kill him and be done with it!”

Soth needed no urging, yet, having seen the centuries crawl by, was also in no hurry.

“In due time,” he said. He looked at the huge man. “Do you have a weapon?”

Grinning wider, the old man unstrapped a massive two-headed battle ax and handed it to Fenris, who took it with his armored hand.

“A worthy weapon,” Soth said. “A worthy weapon for a worthy opponent.” He drew his own sword. The ancient Solamnic blade—a source of prided and strength to the Soth family for generations—gleamed in mocker of the Black Rose’s soul.

The two men attacked each other even as Kitiara and Fenris’s mouthpiece cleared to opposite sides of the hall. Fenris’s ax moved with astounding speed, and but for Soth’s skill—and undead strength—the knight would have been cleaved in two. Instead, Soth’s blade came up for the block and the death knight smoothly twisted the sword around the ax-head and sliced away from the giant’s armored half. The reach of the longsword proved effective, and a thin line etched its way across the giants bicep.

A thin line…but no blood.

Before he could contemplate what that meant, Fenris was on him, sweeping his massive ax in an upward arc towards Soth’s now unprotected side. Soth made to dance aside, but the giant was too fast, and the ax caught him full in the breastplate.

The ax bit deep into the ancient armor, and Soth could hear Kitiara gasp even as Fenris released his weapon, a grunt escaping the giant. This time it was the old man who gasped, seeing his champion shaking his hand. Around the grip of the ax, ice reflected the torchlight that illuminated the hall. Reaching to his side, Soth grabbed the handle of the ax and pulled, wrenching the blade out of his armor.

Grimly, he tossed the ax back to Fenris.

“Well struck,” he said, holding up his sword in a salute.

Confused, Fenris warily bent down to pick up the ax—this time with his painted hand. The cold seemed not to affect him any more.

“Interesting…” Soth said, noticing as well that the giant’s previous wound wasn’t even visible on his arm any more.

“Screw interesting,” Kitiara yelled. “Finish him!”

“This is no named man, Fenris! Stop humoring him,” the old man shouted.

The two warriors paid neither spectator any mind, though, so caught up were they in eying down their opponents with new-found respect. They cautiously circled each other, until—as if by some unheard signal—the two crashed together.

The sword and ax did a dance that would have put to shame anything the dandies of Adua or Palanthus could have dreamed up, weaving in-and-out of defenses only to be met by new ones. Fenris wield his monstrous weapon with the deftness of a fencer, and Soth’s skill with his own blade was untarnished even if his reputation was. They thrusted and parried, swung and dodged. Soth exposed his body with abandon, unfearful the Feared could harm him, while Fenris kept his painted side wide open for the knights attacks, letting the sword puncture his flesh without missing a beat.

As the fight went on, the stillness in the room was unnerving. Kitiara and the old man refused to move, practically breathless as these two seemingly indestructible warriors clashed. Only as their battle progressed did it become clear that though they weren’t able to hurt each other, there was a big difference between Soth and Fenris:

The Feared was starting to get tired.

His breath coming quicker, Soth parried another swing from the giant’s ax and then, unexpectedly, took a few quick steps back.

Fenris didn’t press the offensive, instead standing there, staring at Soth.

“What are you doing?” Kitiara said angrily.

Ignoring her as usual, Soth addressed his opponent. “Please, sir—catch your breath.”

“Don’t trust him, Fenris!” the old man said.

“Sir,” Soth said quickly, “you do not know me, but do not disparage my honor—it is my life. I give my word he will have all the time he needs before we resume this bout.” He looked at Fenris. “So, please—do me the honor and rest.”

Fenris nodded and lowered his ax. For a few silent moments, the hall was silent.

Raising his ax, Fenris nodded once again at Soth.

“Very well,” the knight said. “Now we end this.” He kept his sword pointed down, and instead raised his other hand and said a single word:

“Kill.”

Fenris stumbled, as if one side of his body had suddenly gone numb. His painted half still moved, and he kept himself upright on strength alone. But trying to move the ax caused him to unbalance, and with a gasp, the giant crashed to the floor. With one eye he looked up at Soth, questioning, but said nothing.

The old man, however, began shouting “Fenris!” and ran towards his champion. Soth did nothing to stop him, but Kitiara quickly moved to a bell pull and tugged. Within moments a dozen draconian soldiers ran into the room, surrounding the old man and Fenris, their spears leveled at the two men.

The old man looked up, glaring. “You cheated!”

“Cheated? Is not his paint magical? I used the advantages allowed to me—it is not my fault he proved an inferior opponent.”

“But what about your precious honor?” the old man sneered, looking down at the gasping Fenris.

“My honor is still intact. I gave him rest…that is what I promised.

“But my honor is also my life—and my life is no longer an issue, is it?” Sheathing his sword, Soth turned to walk away. As he did, Kitiara snapped her fingers, and the draconians moved in, finishing off the old man and what was left of Fenris.

Predicted Winner: Lord Soth (Again—the dude is undead, an expert swordsman, and can use magic)