The King's Tourney

         Viscera, blood, guts, the lingering moans of mortality and the accompanied smells. These littered the once open and peaceful field. What had once been a cacophony had quieted to mere ear splitting and occasional clashes of steel and wood, or steel and steel. What had once been one hundred had been whittled down to two. Blood soaked and battered they fought on. With the strength of bears and speed of wolves they battled.
         On-lookers formed a huge ring around the two men. Hundreds of women, children, fathers, and fighters stood captivated. This was The King's Tourney. A test of the best one hundred fighters to find the single most deadly. The fighting had begun hours ago when the sun still shone. Now dusk was approaching and rain was falling in a thin veil all around. There was no cheering as there had been earlier. Many had left the crowd. Ninety eight elite warriors had died some time ago. Now all that remained were these two. Neither had given an inch for the last hour, and neither showed any sign of doing so.
         The ground was slick with water and blood, but both remained sure footed. The light dimmed, and yet their strikes were accurate. Their bodies ached, and still their reflexes were sharp. Each attack was just as vicious as the last. Their abilities were a product of years of discipline and a fine tuned animal instinct. They made guttural barks and growls as they lashed out at one another. One wielded an axe and the other a sword. Both held large, wooden, round shields with their sigils upon them. A raven, and an axe. The raven warrior bore the sword as well as loose braided hair and beard. Both of which had grown to a considerable length. The axe wielding fighter's ginger locks mixed into his beard around his neck and were then unidentifiable from the other. Water flew from his axe it screeched through the air and bit deep into the shield of his foe. The force of the impact sent tremors up the other man's already bruised arm. He quickly let go of his defenses to release himself. The axe held the wooden circle at it's end. A quick thrust nearly made it through the defenses of the redhead. In fact it literally did. The tip of a blade scraped through the lumber of his shield, forcing him to step aside. With his axe stuck and shield penetrated he let go of both and tackled the yellow haired man. They landed hard in the mud below and struggled for the upper hand. Fists rose and fell but neither landed a steady blow.

         Finally the last of the light began to fade and the king stepped forward from his place and yelled across the clearing. His speech and language was rolling and enunciated. After commanding the fighting to stop he explained that both of these men had proven themselves more than worthy of serving him. The fighters rose from the ground. At one time they were locked in mortal combat. Now they stood as comrades. The King's Tourney had ended.