You have come a long way to this tournament, searching for some hired muscle, and this tournament came as if by a divine intervention (eyeing the clerics in your group suspiciously). The tournament is to have several contests, which you anticipate to watch.

As you have labored through relatively rough terrain for the last two days, you find that the flat site of the tournament to be a relief for sore feet. You notice that the first competition is the archery contest, and you eagerly sit down to watch the fun. As the competitors arrive the field, you especially notice one man - a tall, slim youth about 20 years old, with a nasty scar along one side of his cheek, carrying his odd-looking composite long bow in an exotic-looking holster on his back.

He is clothed in black, with strange-looking ornaments sewn with silver thread along the hem of the pants, and along the hem and sleeves of his loose, flowing shirt. On his feet he is wearing light, black slippers of obvious foreign design, and he moves with a strange combination of a rigid and martial, yet smooth and graceful walk. His light-blue eyes survey the crowd quickly and expertly, before he is busying himself with his equipment. He carefully place a rather big leather bag on the ground, and as the lid is not entirely strapped on, you catch the gleam of polished steel from the leather bag. You surmise the bag is filled with his gear, as you notice that several of the other participants are carrying similar bags, though of wildly varying sizes and shapes.

The fair-haired, almost white-haired lean youth casually strap open his gearbag, and carefully removes a quiver with white-feathered arrows from it. Carefully strapping it to his hip, he focuses on the target tens of yards away, and visibly relaxes his body. Removing all the black-shafted arrows except five with swift, efficient moves, he raises his head and calmly evaluates his opponents for the first time.

The signal to commence the archery contest is sounded. The first flight of arrows darken the clear sky. Several arrows hit their targets with audible thwacks, but yet many miss their mark. The tall, lean youth hit good with his first arrow, but the shorter elf beside him hit even better. After two more arrows, it is clear that the real archery contest is between the shorter elf and the taller human. After the first five arrows, the signal to stop firing is sounded, and both the human and the elf lower their bows.

When the points are herolded, an audible gasp echoes through the crowd. The tall, foreign human and the short, alien elf have the same number of points! The human and the elf both select two arrows more, and wait patiently as the targets are replaced with smaller targets. The elf and the human, as if on some silent cue, release their arrows as one.

Two healthy thwacks echo over the now-silent archery field. The elf's arrow and the human's arrow both flew true and hit their mark. Now, it is the seventh and final arrow. The elf and the human both breathe deeply several times, and both take their time aiming. The gentle hum of a bowstring announces the fact that the elf has released his arrow. A murmur spreads in the crows. A bull's eye!

Surely the human must lose now? The din dies slowly. Then the tall, lean human releases his arrow. It is a bull's eye! The referees study the targets for some time. Then, the decision of the jury is made known. The elf won - with half a fingerbreadth to spare! The tall human merely bows stiffly to his adversary, his face inscrutable. The elf proudly walks to the jury to receive his price - a golden arrow. The crowd dissipates. The melee-games are to begin in an hour.

After you have refreshed yourselves with some steins of good, cool ale at the nearest dwarven inn (they have the best ale, of course), you move to the large arena where the melee-games will take place. When you survey the foot- lists, it is with some regret you see that the elf is not on the lists - and is indeed not on the site of the tournament at all. Too bad, he seemed as an excellent choice to hire for some extra physical clout.

As you are nearing the arena where the actual duelling is to take place, you notice the tall, white-haired human in black clothing approaching the arena area. He is still carrying his large bag with equipment, and he is striding with the same strange mix of rigid mercenary-stance and fluid, cat-like motions you noticed at the archery range. Suddenly, a smaller human comes running from behind the black-clad man, and announces in a loud, somewhat slurred and drunken, yet clearly angry voice: "You foul mercenary! You broke your contract with me!"

The taller man stops in mid-stride, as if he was the victim of some mage's hold magicks, and turn around slowly, the anger beneath his impassive features apparent for those with eyes to see. In a low, controlled voice, the taller man replies: "I broke no contract, Marcus Hammerfist. It was sealed by the potent magic of Ar-Kane, and your case was tried before the Court of Battledale. I broke no contract!" "I say again that you broke your contract. What you took as your share of the treasure was rightly mine, and if you do not return it this instant, I will take it!" The taller man slowly turns his back to the accuser, and begins to walk away with restrained motions.

The smaller man charges the black-clad with a loud war cry, and swings wildly with his tightly clenched fists. The change in the posture of the black-clad man is amazing; with swift, accurate movements he parries the wild swings of his somewhat unsteady adversary, and in a lightning-fast move he whips his left foot up in a strangely controlled way, and hits his adversary squarely on the jaw with the edge of his foot. The whole parry and counterstrike maneuver was executed so swiftly and surely that you are not entirely sure you didn't imagine the whole thing.

With a loud crack, the jaw of the accuser sags in a strange way, and the accuser goes blank in his already somewhat cloudy eyes. As so much boneless meat, the accuser falls in an untidy heap on the grass. The tall man just stands there for a moment, trembling with what you recognize as a killing rage. Then with a visible effort he restrains himself, shakes loose his tightly clenched fist, picks up his gear bag and resumes his walk towards the tent where the contestants for the foot list change into their battle gear, without as much as a backward glance toward the messy heap on the grass. As clerics of Ilmater hurry to the scene, you move towards the arena area, hoping that the best seats are not already taken.

You seat yourselves on the the benches arranged around the dug-out arena, and wait for the games to commence. In the course of the next couple of hours you see scores of matches, and as many fighting styles. Yet no one has even the semblance of the technique used by the tall, white-haired warrior from the archery range. Clad in gleaming black armor, he agilely defeats his opponents with his two-sword style, coupled with an incredible agility displayed in his fast, acrobatic moves. With his strangely-curved blades, one in each hand, he quickly and efficiently cuts down his opponents, using a combination of parry and disarm techniques to win. Then, at long last, there are only two participants left. One is the arrogant, plate mailed fighter Sir Agathorn the Proud, and the other one the fighter known simply as the Blademaster, as this was the title he enlisted himself with, his tall figure now an almost accustomed sight in the arena.

Sir Agathorn strides proudle around the arena area, where clerics of Ilmater are still patching up Sir Agathorn's latest victim, a strong but poorly trained and armored peasant's son from the area - the local hero, one could say.

Then, as the still unconscious body of the peasant's son is dragged out, the herald announces the Blademaster. With superior martial grace, the tall figure of the rather enigmatic person known as the Blademaster enters the arena.

Sir Agathorn jeers at the approach of his adversary, and pokes fun at him when his black-clad adversary solemnly bows at him. "So this is the Blademaster," the knight sneers. "You don't look much as a master of anything, let alone the blade." The Blademaster stands silent, watching his opponent, the disgust clearly visible in his eyes, yet his demeanor cool and impassive. "I challenge you to a real battle, not this women's excuse for real battle," the haughty knight continues, leering evilly at the excited blabber of the crowd ringing the arena, and winks to some of the more beautiful ladies seated at the benches. You glance at each other; what an unusual request.

The Blademaster's deep, controlled voice answers: "As Agathorn-san wishes. Will he be kind enough to choose weapon?" The knight smiles and says: "The weapon of my choice will be the two-handed sword." The Blademaster acknowledges with a slight nod, and says: "That will be satisfactory. However, I am unfortunately not in possession of a two-handed sword."

Sir Agathorn sneers, and says: "Is there anyone who will lend this inept clown a sword?" The Blademaster merely darkens at this insult, but says nothing. "Yes, I will," a voice says from the arena entrance. One of the knights the Blademaster defeated honorably earlier this day approaches the Blademaster with a two-handed sword of plain design, and the Blademaster hefts the blade appraisingly, then offer his thanks to the knight. As he hefts the sword and positions himself in a peculiar battle stance, with the feet slightly split, one foot pointing forward and the other pointing to the side, he silently watches Sir Agathorn draw his magnificent sword from its sheath.

"To first drawing of blood?" the Blademaster asks Sir Agathorn, a mere formality. "To the death," Sir Agathorn replies in a malignant voice, and grins evilly. The crowd murmurs at this unpleasant and unexpected turn of tide and some leave, but most of them remains seated. The Blademaster nods his assent with another slight nod, and the battle is begun.

With a savage cry, Sir Agathorn opens the match with a strong blow to the Blademaster's head, but the Blademaster parries swiftly and strongly with his own sword. Sir Agathorn darkens perceptibly. Perhaps this tall, lean youth will not be as much of a pushover as he expected. Sir Agathorn attacks relentlessly, first with a left swing, then a right, then a sneaky cut to the opponent's legs. The Blademaster parries the attacks surely and unwaveringly, and dexteriously somersaults over the swishing blade searching for his feet.

Then, suddenly, the Blademaster attacks. With a penetrating, primal cry which stuns several of the weaker hearted among the crowd, he attacks with swift, powerful cuts of his own. He cuts left, right and left again, and suddenly it is Sir Agathorn who is backing for this powerful, relentless assault. Just as Sir Agathorn is about to counter the attack, the Blademaster opens himself to a piercing blow to his head. Sir Agathorn gleefully attack the apparent glitch in the opponent's guard, already imagining himself the champion. With a swift, powerful motion, the Blademaster sidestep the attack, and reward Sir Agathorn with a powerful cut downwards, which cleanly severs Sir Agathorn's gauntleted hands.

Falling to his knees, Sir Agathorn whimpers and begs: "Please dear sir, I plead mercy." As the Blademaster removes his opponent's helm to uncover the pale face of his opponent, a grim, unpleasant smile spreads on the Blademaster's countenance. "To the death it was, dear sir, and to the death it will be," is the Blademaster's ominous answer to Sir Agathorn's plea. With a flourish, he then whirls the blade around himself for an instant, then, with a swift left to right chopping motion, cuts short Sir Agathorn's anguished cry when he cleanly severs the head of his opponent. Blood spurt for a moment, then the headless corpse of Sir Agathorn falls slowly toward the blood-stained dirt of the arena floor. The Blademaster returns his borrowed blade, and then approaches the judges to collect his prize.

"I broke no law, neither no rule in my winning," is the Blademaster's reply to the unspoken question of the judges. He then collects his prize, and goes to the contestants' tent to wash off the battle grime.

You approach him later the same day, this strange, tall figure clad in black. As you approach him, he greets you with the customary bow, then reclines on his heels on a blanket he has spread out on the ground. As you sit down opposite him in a similar fashion, he calmly speaks. "I expected you," he says, and presents you with a contract.