Dean hacked through the dense underbrush with a hint of frustrated annoyance. The many grunts, by-products of the effort of navigating this damnable place, echoed off of the walls of mist that surrounded him. He was really deep into the forest now, much deeper than he would like. He rarely entered the forest at all; he hated this place. Normally, when he did venture into its cloudy depths, it was on a hunt, and as soon as he had slain whatever he was tracking, he would leave as quickly as possible. The entire place simply wasn’t safe. He always got the creepy feeling that a million unseen pairs of menacing eyes were upon him, gazing down on him from just beyond the mist.

A twig snapped behind him, and Dean whirled around in a blur of motion. The mist swirled in whisps that seemed to stick to him like cobwebs. His eyes searched for the source of the sound, but all they found was more mist. More solid, white mist that closed him in like a cage. It formed a wall now, much thicker than it was before. He looked down to a crumpled piece of paper, having to bring it closer to his face just to read it correctly. He had followed the directions down to the last letter.

So now he found himself in this place, devoid of any life. He wondered if perhaps the tournament was a rouse, and he was being set up by someone. Or perhaps the twig snapping had been one of the contestants, also trying to make his way out here. Who in the hell decided that this tournament match was best fought in a place with no visibility? He could hardly even see, let alone judge a fight. But at least he was getting paid, and he had done many crazier things for a little booze money. Hunting down the scum of the earth wasn’t exactly an affluent profession.

He turned once again, and found himself face-to-face with a beautiful maiden, clad in a white dress that flowed over her body like water. Her soft, blonde hair fell in short strands over her shoulders. She took a few paces forward, and then turned and walked into the mist, seeming to disappear right before his eyes. Dean rubbed them just to ensure that he was still awake. What was this, some kind of practical joke? If it was, he wasn’t laughing. But somebody was. A giddy chuckle, a woman’s laugh, came from the mist. It didn’t originate in any particular direction, it just came from every direction and no direction at the same time. Dean looked around. He realized that this place was one of the strangest and most feared places in all of Arda. The Realm of Dreams, where the mist turns to smokescreens, and reality melts into oblivion.

At least now he saw two figures emerging from the mist, one from his right, and the other from his left. He looked to each of them for a moment, and then spoke tentatively.

“Welcome to your first.. erm… match. You may begin fighting whenever you see fit.”

Wurzag had first become aware of the tournament from a gaudy poster pinned outside the battle-stand. After staring at the brightly coloured picture of an archangel with a shining sword for a few minutes and trying to work out what the bird-man was advertising, he had collared a random bystander and forced the man to read the words for him. Apparently the archangel Zenith was hosting a combat competition that required only a small entry fee and promised 'fame and riches' for the victorious champion. Wurzag didn't much care for fame but he was certainly interested in riches and had eagerly ambled into the arena to sign up. He had left again a few minutes later both surprised and perplexed; apparently part of the competition was actually finding your opponent to begin with. This put an entirely new spin on things as the half-orc often had no idea where he was going within the confines of the city, much less the expansive lands beyond its walls.

He had taken the problem to Taryn and asked the young mage where he might find 'the mist soaked lands where dreams become reality'. His friend had described to him a place called the Misty Forest, the heart of which was swamped in vapours so thick it was difficult to see from one tree to the next. He had also said that strange things happened to those that traveled there, that they saw things, and that those who had returned from the shrouded depths were never the same again. Wurzag had not yet encountered a 'thing' that could not be dealt with through judicious use of steel, though a few of the undead in Dori'ba had been remarkably persistent. So it was that he had set out on the journey to find his erstwhile opponent with a spring in his step and if not a song, then a tuneful hum in his heart.

After a week of travel through rolling, monotonous grassland Wurzag was beginning to think that perhaps this angel was having some sort of celestial joke at his expense. The caravan driver whom he had signed up with however assured him that the Misty Forest would be in sight within a day and that the half-orc should exercise some patience. That evening, true to the old man's word the fringes of a thick forest hove into view and Wurzag gratefully took his leave of the wagon and began the weary trudge toward the leafy depths. He camped that night on the edge of the foliage and slept poorly; creatures large and small shuffled in the undergrowth, the cries of animals and birds constantly disturbed him and he was sure that the tree roots were attempting to break his back. Peering into the lightless depths Wurzag could easily believe that the ancient trunks harboured a timeless malice toward the green-skin races that had caused them such pain through the eons. The thought made him shiver and he finally drifted off with unsettling images of flesh-eating trees floating through his tired mind.

The next day dawned and roused him with rays of warm sunlight that pulled him reluctantly from the realm of sleep. Disturbingly, though the morning sun was bright and cheerful, the depths of the forest remained as shrouded as ever and Wurzag had to repress a shudder of apprehension as he tried to pierce the gloom through sheer force of will alone. "Ah fuggit," he eventually cursed and stepped beneath the first of the verdant bows. A few minutes later he emerged from the tree-line a hundred yards from where he had entered. He stood and blinked owlishly in the bright light for a moment before realising that he was no longer in the woods. "Well ... dat woz weird," he grumbled and scratched his head and then plunged back into the greenery.

This time he was gone for nearly half an hour before emerging triumphantly into the warm morning air. He could just about make out the burned out remains of his campfire almost half a mile away. "Well bugger dis fer a laff," he growled in exasperation. He glanced around at the encroaching grassland and eventually spotted what he was looking for; a speck of red tumbled gleefully across a nearby hillside and frolicked in the fresh spring morning. "Froat!" Wurzag yelled for the lupine and waited as it came bounding over on all fours and halted expectantly before him. "Froat," the half-orc repeated to the scarlet lupine, "dis is a stoopid forest an I is meant to be fightin' some fella in der to win some guld off an angel. Use dat big nose yooz got an find out where ee is soz I can get dis over an dun wiv." The beast growled its agreement and loped off into the trees with Wurzag in hot pursuit.

It was strange, the green-skin reflected, that a forest so noisy on the outside could be so damnably quiet on the inside. He would have sworn that a veritable menagerie was romping its way merrily through the vegetation last night given the number of squeaks, growls, cries and howls that had disturbed him. Now, with the thick mists swirling about him and with a silence so deafening it almost hurt Wurzag would have given anything to hear a sound other than his own laboured breathing and the occasional crash of Froat moving through the undergrowth. He had no idea how long he traveled for, only that the journey had taken on a haunted, ethereal quality that tugged at the senses and played upon the nerves until he was ready to cleave the first creature that confronted him.

It was only when the image of Victor von Kessel loomed at him out of the gloom that he knew that he had arrived at his destination. The bandit leader stood before him as Wurzag had last seen him; half his face in tatters and his skull crushed and bleeding. The half-orc made no move to strike the apparition, he merely stared at it in all its gory glory. "Look what you did to me Wurzag," the ruined mouth bubbled, "you're a monster. You killed my men in the name of vengeance and justice but it was a slaughter no cleaner than that which we inflicted. How then are you better than I?" The ragged flesh hanging from the brigand's face flapped in the ephemeral breeze. "What makes you better? You think you are better than those who kill for money, green-skin? Do you really think that some warped sense of nobility raises you above what you are?" The thing shook its head shedding drops of dark blood, "you cannot escape your nature half-orc, you will turn, like all of your kind and when at the end you look back you will see that I was right, that you and all your kind are nothing but animals."

Wurzag looked down at his hands and noticed for the first time that they were slick with blood, drenched to the elbow. He started to shiver, as a deep, abiding cold settled into his bones and began to course its way through his veins. Was the thing right? Was he nothing more than a killer with high ideals? The thought disgusted him and he tried to wipe the gore from his hands against the nearest tree. To his dismay it would not wash away; no sooner had he scrubbed a patch from his flesh than more leaked back to take its place as if it was oozing from the very pores of his skin. He became frantic in his efforts, thrashing wildly at the vegetation in an attempt to cleanse himself of the sickening stain, but it poured from his hands in ever greater quantities, splashing to the earth in slick, sticky pools.

All of a sudden, something moved in the undergrowth. Wurzag looked around wild-eyed for the source of the disturbance and spied a man in a long coat and broad hat disappearing into the mist. Froat was standing in front of him, a quizzical look in its bestial eyes, though Wurzag had no recollection of the lupine arriving. There was no Victor, no accusations and no blood. Silence reigned. He stood there trembling for several long moments before waving his familiar on and continuing deeper into the realm of dreams.

The clearing, such as it was, arrived so suddenly that Wurzag almost stumbled at the lack of grasping bracken and brier. The man he had seen earlier stood to one side, his face hidden by the roiling mist. The half-orc half expected more damning words or horrifying accusations, but when the unknown traveler spoke it was with a reassuring certainty that announced the start of his battle. Whether this was another trick of the forest or the beginning of the contest Wurzag intended to be prepared. "Froat," he growled to the nearby familiar, "stay out of dis, go climb a tree or sumfing." The lupine obligingly disappeared and Wurzag peered into the gloom in an attempt to identify his mysterious opponent.

All that the silhouette revealed was that his foe was tall, taller than himself by a head and that he was well built, not unlike Wurzag himself. He could not see his enemies weapons, but he had no doubt that they were there, hidden by the folds of mist and waiting to strike. Though his hands still shook a little from the encounter with the apparition Wurzag brought up his sword and prepared to defend himself.

"Ay, lankie," he addressed the shadowy presence, "I 'ope yooz 'ad as 'ard a time gettin' 'ere as me." Then he launched an attack aimed low at his opponents knees. There was no real force behind the blow and Wurzag would have been surprised if it had connected, for now he merely wished to take the measure of his foe and determine whether the bulky frame possessed speed as well as strength.

Sargtlin Olath was combing through the outlying lands of the Salquedor Grasslands, hunting for his prey. His prey that day was an elf, and from what he had heard quite a cunning one. With him was traveling his Lupine companion, Vhid. As he wandered through the open grasslands, he saw a piece of parchment lying in the road, trampled in the dust.
"Eh? What's that?" he thought, making his way over to the parchment, when he reached it his tall muscular form bent down, picking it up. When he looked at it, he saw that it was an advertisement for a tournament. He noticed quickly the form of an Arch-Angel on the paper, the form of the tournament holder he assumed, Zenith Meria as the paper said. He saw that there was a small entrance fee, but the sheet promised fame and fortune to the champion. Sargtlin was not to interested in either, though he would not reject any gold that he could get, for otherwise he couldn't get any good equipment. What he was interested was different, what he was interested in was the sheer pleasure of the fighting. He always adored hard, tiring fights, for if they pushed him to his limits then he would grow even stronger, and he knew that those entering the tournament would not be weak. One thing on the sheet that surprised him though was the location. Most often tournaments were held in Termáre Dagor, the Battle Stand, where it was just an empty, open arena, nothing special to deal with; but this contest was to be held in the Misty Forest, specifically the Realm of Dreams. Sargtlin had been in the Misty Forest a few times before, but he had never made it into the rumored Realm of Dreams.
"Vhid! We're going back to town!" he shouted to his Lupine companion. He watched the Lupine look back at him oddly, but still followed him without hesitation.

Sargtlin was curious as to some of the rules he was reading about it as he walked towards Lómëdor, trying to make sure that he wouldn't be banned partway through the tournament. As he was walking in through one of the gates of Lómëdor, he was reading a particular rule about only one weapon and no armor was allowed.
"Hmm...so I'm going to have to leave behind both of my knives and my chainmail?" he thought, disappointed at the thought. After he had made it into town, he went to Termáre Dagor to sign up for the tournament. After he had he quickly left, making his way towards the battle location, to the Misty Forest.

He never cared for the long venture between Lómëdor and the Misty Forest, especially when it was on his normal errand: hunting those unfortunate beings that he had been paid to hunt down. He didn't mind hunting people, but he did mind it when it was over large distances and he had to run the whole way. That was one disadvantage of his muscular bulk, he had to work harder to move his body, especially over long distances. As he was traveling along Vhid, he kept thinking to himself of his opponent.
"So, who will it be? Who will I have the chance to fight?" he thought, hoping that he wouldn't be bested by whoever it was, hoping that he would learn from the match and enjoy it, but not be bested. After a few hours of traveling, he saw the borders of the Misty Forest in the distance. He knew that he had to keep going towards there, or he would be late for the match and it would be automatically ruled in his foes favor. With that thought he pressed onwards, and in a rather short period of time fell the feeling of the mist enveloping his body as he entered the forsaken forest.
"Vhid, you stay here." he said to his companion as he took off his chainmail shirt and his two throwing knives, tossing them to the Lupine to keep safe.

His trek through most of the Misty Forest was less eventful than usual, partly from having been there before, and partly from his Drow eyes, which helped him see better in the thick mist, but that would change when he arrived to the unnatural place that many called the Realm of Dreams. He had heard about it from his mother when he had been training. She had called it the Nightmare's Domain, as he suspected would turn out to some degree to be true. When he stepped into that area, he felt as if many eyes were all fixed on him, staring as if to bore straight into him. He wondered if part of the location of the match was just to see if you could even make it to the match. As he kept moving forward, trying to ignore the feeling of eyes, he heard what seemed as if it were a girl giggling.
"What kind of monster possessed a girl to come here?" he thought, then he thought back as to why he had come, "Then again, exactly why am I here?" Sargtlin kept trying to ignore the noise, the eyes, and all around him and concentrate only on making it to his destination. As he walked, he saw before him a sight he never expected to see again: his mother. She was dressed liked she had been the day she had died, accept that the only emotion in her face was rage, rage towards one being, her son Sargtlin.
"Sargtlin, I don't know why you are here, but I promise to you that I will kill you for what you have done!" he heard her voice. He stopped abruptly when he saw her, a feeling as if she had killed him surged through him. Then he continued walking onwards, knowing that she was only an illusion, yet he found that she was hard to just ignore illusion though she was.
"You can't kill me, Mother, for you died many years ago, your body has rotted away leaving only your cloven skeleton." he said, shoving her out of the way, surprised in a way that he could touch her, and feel her.
"Oh yes, I am dead, and who killed me?!" she shouted into his face as he walked. He winced at the memory, hoping to keep it out of his mind as long as possible.
"I killed you! I was the one who killed you those years ago, now leave me alone!" he shouted at her form, swinging his fist at where she had been. He never felt his fist connect though, and turned around to see nothing, only to hear screams and sobs of his family echoing through his head, or perhaps the forest, he couldn't tell the difference.

He was very thankful when he finally came into the clearing that would serve as the arena, the clinging branches were left behind. Now he could move more freely, and hopefully without any more memories. He saw the judge in the mist, and he saw the silhouette of his foe. The foe was a bit shorter than Sargtlin, but seemed like he would be good fun from the bulky shape. As he sized up his foe, he heard the judges voice break the silence.

“Welcome to your first.. erm… match. You may begin fighting whenever you see fit.”

Sargtlin drew his two-handed sword, looking into it's blade before he pulled his recently acquired shield off of his back, his rune shield. He drew back into a fighting stance as he heard his foe's voice, the mysterious shadow's voice.

"Ay, lankie, I 'ope yooz 'ad as 'ard a time gettin' 'ere as me."

"Don't know if I have, but let's see which one of us has a harder time making it out, alive." he said as he watched the man attack, swinging low at his knees. Sargtlin expected his foes to try to judge their foe first, but Sargtlin never understood why. He decided to start the match out at full force, not giving the foe any break. As the sword came quickly at his knees, he jumped up just enough to dodge to blow. When he came down he positioned his shield in front of his chest with his left hand, and with his right hand swung his huge sword down at his foe. He was slightly surprised when he swung down, for he recognized his foe.
"Wurzag?" he thought as he swung down.

The warrior sprang lightly over the scything blade and descended with a blow of his own that held none of the restraint that Wurzag had exercised. Forced instantly on to the defensive, the half-orc followed his attack through and whipped his blade up in a wild arc to intercept the sword as it plunged toward his face. The weapons met in a clash of steel that echoed eerily around the clearing, the sound strangely distorted by the soupy surroundings. Wurzag held the blade at bay for a long moment, the razor edges skating against each other with a keen wail that made the flesh crawl and set teeth on edge. Then he heaved away with as much strength as he could muster and launched himself backward into the mist. Moist tendrils instantly obscured his opponent and the half-orc used the opportunity to whirl away into the trees. He paused there and waited, evaluating what he had learned.

He was sure he recognised the voice from somewhere but struggled to recall exactly where. The forest confused sounds and images and made him unsure of everything he saw; after what he had experienced he would not have been surprised to find himself pitted against a recent friend or acquaintance brought to life from his memory. What he did know was that his enemy was a ruthless man. He had attacked without pretense of sportsmanship or regard for safety, wielded a combination of sword and round-shield and was most certainly capable of using them. He had noted with interest that the weapon was intended for use in two hands, like his own, but that the warrior opted to field it in his right. The strategy allowed for a greater degree of flexibility between attack and defense, but unless the man possessed almost supernatural strength he would tire easily from a persistent attack.

Wurzag stood with his back to a tree and lifted his blade until the notched edge bisected his vision, ready to strike. Then he held his breath and listened. Nothing moved, nothing whispered, nothing even seemed to breath, though the mist continued to swirl in thick currents and eddies around the dark boles and branches of the forest. The enemy could have been right next to him or a league distant for all his senses told him, but he had to believe that the ruthless swordsman was as impaired as he by the peculiar surroundings. He risked a peek out from behind the tree and came face to face with Taryn.

"Wot da fuggin 'ell are yooz doin 'ere?" The half-orc muttered in surprise. As far as he was aware the young mage was still safely closeted in Lomedor expanding his social network. The man said nothing, but grinned horribly revealing serried ranks of razor sharp teeth and a forked tongue that flickered in the air like a scarlet serpent. Wurzag fell back a step, eyes wide in shock and alarm, "yooz ain't Taryn," he growled and thrust his sword into the apparition. The creature doubled over, clutching at the blade and then looked up to meet the green-skin's eyes with a face free of corruption and twisted in a cry of agony. Horrified, Wurzag stooped over his fallen friend to examine the wound only to come face to face with the monster once again. Tongues of flame rushed from outstretched hands and engulfed the half-orc's face in a wave of searing agony. He clawed, scrabbled and tore at his burning flesh, thrashing at the undergrowth and dropping his sword in a frantic effort to extinguish the raging inferno.

Nothing happened.

Wurzag found himself staring blankly at his empty hands hooked into claws in front of his eyes and decidedly unburned. He tentatively prodded at the flesh of his face which was whole and unmarked by flame, though the memory of pain echoed clearly in his mind like a phantasmal scourge. Panic gripped him and he fell to his knees in search of his fallen weapon, crawling through the thick loam and grasping mist until he stumbled upon the dull blade half covered by bracken. Gasping, he gripped the hilt of the sword and pulled himself shivering to his feet. The enemy was still out there somewhere looking for him, an enemy that intended to see him dead. With exaggerated caution the half-orc edged forward again through the moisture-laden gloom, ears and eyes straining for a sign of the warrior.

Something tapped him on the shoulder.

Wurzag froze.

He turned to see a host of figures arrayed in a wedge formation, their numbers hidden by the obscuring mist. "Who da fuggin 'ell are yooz?" He whispered in a semi-hysterical tones. He was sure he recognised the black armoured figure at the head of the crowd; it looked remarkably like the chaos warrior he had fought in the arena, though he had no idea who the others were. The assembly all swayed gently from side to side, their eyes closed in prayer or concentration.

"We are chaos," the group intoned in ululating synchronistic harmony, "we are all things and no things, fire and ice, the beginning, end and all that lay between." The party spoke as one, but the movement of their lips had no bearing on the words. The effect gave them the appearance of badly animated puppets.

"Well wot duz ye want?" Wurzag hissed frantically, concerned that he would be discovered at any moment.

The figures stopped their rolling motion and opened their eyes. "We want you, brother," they said and empty sockets blazed with crimson power. The mist burned scarlet and crackled into shapes that hurt the eye to perceive. Wurzag backed away from the apparitions but found himself pressed up against the rough bark of a gnarled oak while the seething vapour closed in. He squeezed his eyes shut and told himself again and again that none of it was real and that it was simply the effect of the forest as Taryn had told him.

Silence.

Cloying and absolute.

He opened his eyes again and gazed around frantically, senses straining for any sign of friend or foe. There was nothing, only the quick gasp of his breathing, the pounding of his heart and the rush of blood through his skull. The mist continued to curl around him as it had done since he arrived and the deathly stillness of the woods stretched like taught canvas.

He stayed that way for several long moments before a shadow loomed large out of the gloom holding a sword and shield. With almost reckless abandon the half-orc threw himself at his foe, hacking and slashing in a berserk frenzy without regard for his own safety. The sooner he defeated this enemy the sooner he could leave the maddening confines of the forest.

Sargtlin watched in anticipation as his razor bladed sword swung down brutally to cleave into his foe, waiting to see if he would hit the half-orc. He never did though, all he felt was the jarring impact of steel on steel, his own sword slamming into his foe's sword.
"Good, I hope that this match is not to short." he thought, his ebony skin writhing from the screech of the swords, distorted even more by the cursed forest. He knew that this match would be unlike any other he would ever have. He felt the Uruk-hai push himself away. Sargtlin let his sword fall to the ground, then lifted the blade back up, taking a step forward.

When he took that step forward though, he didn't feel his foot hit the ground, but instead sunk, as if he were in a swamp or had stepped into a deep pool of water.
"What? What is going on here?" he thought, trying to lift his foot up, but try as he might, he could not lift his foot from whatever it was.
"Curses, this place itself is a foe, a foe that is happy to get rid of both of us at once. If either of us make it out of the dreams of this place then we might be able to fight each other, but for now we have a different foe to face: this place and it's madness." he thought, wondering how to get out of his situation, and hoping that the half-orc wouldn't come out of the shadows somewhere to attack him.

As he was there, stuck in something, he heard the sound of a persons steps in the forest. They sounded rather odd to him though, for they were coming from everywhere, as he an army was marching to surround him. His heart started to beat faster, for he was getting very uneasy.
"This place doesn't care about our fight, all it cares about is destroying all who enter, whether it be physically or mentally, for I'm sure this place would easily destroy your mind." he thought as the footsteps grew louder, and coming from only one direction. He looked in the direction of the ominous sound, and saw a figure approaching. He couldn't make out the figure, but could tell that he was tall, and wielded a large sword and a shield.
"Who approaches?" he asked towards the figure. He heard no response, but he started to make out the figure, and recognize who it was.
"How is this possible? This cursed forest is making this kind of illusion now?!" he thought, trying harder to escape the death trap, for the figure was himself, Sargtlin Olath. He watched his own devilish grin spread across the beings face, but he noticed some differences. The first that he noticed, were the bright, seemingly glowing, crimson eyes, gazing out with hatred towards him. Another that he noticed, was the fact that this being was seemingly ten foot tall, and wore heavy plate armor. He had never had such a feeling of desperation before, for he could do nearly nothing, and he knew how cruel and ruthless he could be, and this being seemed to be even crueler. His heart started beating even faster as the being approached faster.

Sargtlin despised the feeling of uselessness and the feeling that he could nothing to resist the other him.
"Why does this have to happen?" he thought, as he felt the unnaturally strong hand of the other, apparently stronger, him grip him on his shoulder.
"You have tried your luck again and again, why have you come to a place such as this, eh? You should already know that this place spells death to those who enter it." the other Sargtlin said to him. He felt the sword point of the other him touch his skin right above his stomach.
"You are an illusion of me, nothing more." he said as he felt the steel tip touch against his skin.
"Oh? Is that so, well then this shouldn't hurt at all." he heard the creature say, plunging the icy cold point of the blade straight into Sargtlin's body, coming out the other side of him. His eyes popped open in surprise and pain. He never actually expected the sword to hurt any, and definitely not that much, but this was the Realm of Dreams. As the sword passed through his body, the image faded away, becoming dust on the ground. Sargtlin was surprised also to find his fresh blood on his shirt, but no wound, no entry or exiting wound.
"What happened?" he thought, confused by the events that were happening here. He stood up, apparently freed from whatever had trapped him, making sure that his sword and shield were both ready for combat.

He stepped a few paces, looking for any signs of his foe. Then he saw him, the outline of the half-orc. Before he stepped any closer, the half-orc threw himself at Sargtlin, swinging his sword at him. Sargtlin quickly brought his shield up, catching a blow on it, and parrying another with the flat of his sword. Sargtlin hadn't really expected this reaction, though he was beginning to understand it. He felt one attack catch a nick on his cheek. After blocking and dodging the attacks, he kept his shield in front of his chest as he swung his sword horizontally at the half-orc's neck, and he threw himself forward with a punch with his left hand, attacking with the edge of the shield, aimed for his foe's head. After his sword slice and shield attack, he used the momentum to pivot his body and make another horizontal slice at the half-orc, but this time at his abdomen.

The sheer ferocity of his assault forced his opponent on the defensive for several critical heartbeats, but few of the wild strokes met more than sword and shield. He had to hand it to the big man; he was fast and skilled, though the half-orc had done little more than hack frenziedly following the disturbing encounters. Wurzag stumbled as his enemy manoeuvred out of effective striking distance and narrowly avoided death when the man returned with a savage riposte. As the blade lunged out of the gloom the green-skin caught his first real glimpse of his foe and would have laughed out loud if the massive weapon had not come so close to tearing out his throat. In the event he had to twist his head violently to the right and the glittering sword-tip passed within a hairs breadth of his skin.

A pair of severed dreadlocks fluttered to the ground in mute testimony to how close the half-orc had come to decapitation. Off balance and with his eyes momentarily turned away, Wurzag failed to anticipate the follow up attack and the steel-shod shield crashed heavily into his face. Blackish blood erupted from split lips followed by a dislodged tooth and Wurzag was sure he heard something crack as he staggered under the impact. By lucky happenstance the blow twisted him even further to the right and the subsequent sword stroke was robbed of much of its power, opening a shallow cut in his side instead of spilling his bowels as intended. The half-orc tumbled away and once again retreated to the cover of the mist.

"Oi, mullet-pixie," he growled and spat a gobbet saliva and gore, "reckon dat angel fella woz listenin' to us in da pub da uva night?" He stalked through the the obscuring vapours, the pain of his injuries finally taking his mind from the haunting visions that filled the woods. "Course, 'e probbly dint look like a bird-man den," Taryn had explained that celestial beings often cloaked themselves in more mundane images after the experience at the temple, "I blame da halfling. Stoopid stunty 'ad a funny look about 'im."

He circled further, feet rustling through the dead bracken as he sought to get behind the dangerous drow warrior. It was unlikely that he would catch the dark-elf flat-footed, but even a moments hesitation was an advantage to be exploited and could tip the balance in the green-skin's favour. Wurzag held his blade low, the sword at waist height and ready to defend should he himself be surprised. With vision effectively limited to only a few feet the ebon-skinned swordsman could be on top of him before the half-orc even knew he was there.

"He is over there," a soft, melodic voice murmured into his ear, "ahead, and a little to the left." Wurzag froze, his blood instantly running cold at the prospect of another ghostly encounter. Slowly, and without shifting his position he turned his head to look in the direction of the speaker. A tall, thin man stood beside him, vermilion orbs burning in empty sockets and sweating red mist into the damp forest air. He was clad in scarlet robes bedecked with fine jewels and every finger was encircled by a band of gold, slender hands folded carefully into each other. Wurzag stared at the man and the man stared back, a subtle smile playing delicately over his narrow lips.

"Yooz," the half-orc hissed quietly, "ain't real, now fugg off an let me get on wiv dis fight afore ye get me into trouble." He pointedly turned away from the peculiar human and stoically peered into the mist ahead in an attempt to catch sight of his quarry. The presence lingered, the red robes rustling just on the edge of his vision providing an extremely unsettling distraction. "Look," Wurzag muttered again, "if yez dunt get out of 'ere you is ... "

"AK ALOK PROK," the mysterious fellow interrupted him. The green-skin blinked, the nonsensical words sending a shiver through his already clammy flesh. "AK ALOK PROK," the man said again as if anticipating a response. The fact that the gibberish sounded eerily familiar set Wurzag's teeth on edge and he returned his narrowed gaze to the robe-clad apparition.

"Wot are yooz mumblin' about?" He hissed, "an wot duz yooz want from me? Talkin' lessons?" He was sure he could hear muffled footfalls in the foliage ahead and held himself rigid in anticipation, weapon at the ready.

"We want you, brother," the scarlet-eyed creature continued conversationally, "and eventually we will have you, by hook or by crook. For now however we require that you live, and to facilitate your continued existence we will give you a little of our power." At the mention of power Wurzag glanced sharply back at the strange, emaciated man and balked at the hungry smile plastered dangerously across his features. "Speak the words, feel our power and know what it is to command the unlimited force of chaos."

With only slight hesitation the half-orc muttered the meaningless phrase and watched in fascination as tiny arcs of power crackled down his arms and into the hilt of his sword. The energy gathered there and then began to crawl up and down the blade in a coruscating dance of seething white lightening tinged with a deep, ruddy stain. There was a faint scent of burning and an awful stench of ozone as the moisture in the air vapourised on contact with the metal. Wurzag held up his newly enchanted sword and grinned, though when he turned to share his joy with his mysterious benefactor the man had vanished.

"Lets see yez block dis," the green-skin whispered and stormed out of the mist toward the last known position of the drow. This time the attack was calculated and controlled and as soon as he spied his designated adversary he pulled up short, threw his hips into the swing and brought the thunder-charged weapon over his shoulder into a high chop. The inertia would allow him to follow through with an abdominal pommel blow and hopefully incapacitate his dark-elven foe.

Sargtlin was not entirely surprised to feel his first sword slice cut only through air and a few of the Uruk-hai's dreadlocks, and not through flesh. He was pleased however to feel the sickening thud of his shield catching the half-orc in the mouth, black blood spraying over part of the metal shield. He hadn't expected the reaction that the Uruk-hai had though, for he had twisted to get out of the way of his first attack, and the shield bash made him twist farther, limiting the damage caused by his third attack considerably. He felt the sword cleanly cut through flesh, but it only made a small slice in the green skinned half-orc's flesh, instead of the possibly fight ending wound he had intended to inflict.
"Interesting, I was not expecting a result like that. I had expected to end the fight here and now, one way or another, but it seems that the fight will continue on a little longer." he thought, as he felt the blood of the half-orc that had seeped into his shirt press against his body. He heard the sound of the half-orc spitting and then speaking to him. As he began to speak he lost sight of his outline, keeping his ears keen to hear any sound from his foe.

"Oi, mullet-pixie, reckon dat angel fella woz listenin' to us in da pub da uva night? Course, 'e probbly dint look like a bird-man den. I blame da halfling. Stoopid stunty 'ad a funny look about 'im."

"So you finally recognize me, eh Wurzag? Seems that we do meet on the battlefield, as I had hoped. Perhaps he was listening to us, either way, one of us won't be leaving this forest looking the same as they do now. Now, let us dance with death, shall we?" he said into the gloom, his voice being twisted and distorted by the forest, so distorted that he wasn't even sure the half-orc would be able to understand any of it. Sargtlin's muscles twitched as he heard a noise, but he wasn't sure what it was, or exactly where it was coming from. As he continued to listen his mind wandered back to the recent time that he had had in Lómëdor's infamous pub, the Drital Qu'ellar. In his most recent time there he had met the same half-orc he was facing today in battle, except that when he had met him earlier they were not trying to eliminate the other.When they had met in the pub they hadn't really done anything except talk to each other while the half-orc was drinking some ale, and Sargtlin had been waiting for his Lupine companion Vhid.
"This tournament, hopefully it is not just a trap, though I don't think so, for if it were that Angel would have no guarantees of it being both of us who joined, or that either of us joined. No, this must be a normal tournament, just a rather odd and disturbing first match." he thought, trying to decipher where exactly the sound was coming from. His heart was pounding in his chest, as if it were being used as a giant war drum for some large war. Sargtlin knew that he could not rely on his senses entirely, for in this place everything and nothing were real, both at the same time.
"Everything here is as real as any reality, and yet nothing in here is real. Perhaps this entire forest is an elaborate illusion by a powerful mage? Or his hideout." he thought, a strong smell suddenly invaded his nostrils.
"Ugh, what is that?" he thought, then realized that it was the scent of an enormous amount of blood.

He looked around, trying to find out what the bloody scent was coming from.
"Surely this is an illusion as well, for there is no way that that half-orc could have that much blood in his body." he thought. He suddenly felt something drip on him from overhead. Sargtlin looked at the drop of liquid, tasting it, and realizing that it was the blood that he had smelled. Another drop, and another, the sky was starting to rain crimson from the sky, raining down blood. His eyes grew wide, wondering what disaster had come over Arda while they were there, what kind of trick of the gods it was to cause this, a rainstorm of blood. He felt the warmth of the liquid seeping into his clothing, drenching his hair in the crimson bath.
"So, is this an illusion? Or is this reality?" he thought, the blood was starting to make him lose his control. He kept trying with all his might to keep his mind under his own control, to not succumb to the bloodlust that he so enjoyed, for he could not afford that in this fight. He covered his eyes with his hands, trying to breath through his mouth to avoid the smell.
"Curse this fight and this tournament. This is not going well, for this place is destroying my mind, and my foe's mind, if one of us is not defeated soon, then we will both go insane." he said to himself. The bloodbath lessened and finally ended. He stood there for a moment, then he stirred himself, and found that he was free of any of the bloody shower.
"I really shouldn't be surprised, not by this place." he thought as he heard a sound behind him, a sound that was distinct in direction. He relished the sound, partly from knowing where it was from, and partly from hearing something over the monotonous sound of the bloodbath he had received earlier.

Turning in the direction of the noise, he saw the Uruk-hai swinging his sword down at him. He brought his sword from it's previous guard position to a position to block the blow, both hands clenching the leather wrapped handle of his sword. He was surprised by an odd and unpleasant feeling coursing through his body. He moved a pace backwards, but it was harder to move than usual, for his leg was starting to cramp up. He felt the following technique of the half-orc hit him squarely, the Uruk-hai's sword pommel hitting him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him for a moment.
"Gah, I've got to even the playing field." he thought.
"Mimun!" he shouted as loud as he could straight into the Uruk-hai's face, casting his Weaken spell, and trying to startle his foe at the same time. With that he winced as he pushed forward to swing his sword diagonally at his foe's neck, his shield in front of him.

Wurzag grinned in triumph as he felt the jolt of power leap from his blade into that of his enemy. The drow staggered as the discharge coursed through his body and left himself wide open for the attack that followed. With his foe on the back-foot and wracked by muscle spasms it would have been a simple task to end the battle, but it seemed the dark-elf was not without resources of his own. Initially unfazed by the harsh, defiant cry, Wurzag closed in for a finishing stroke but suddenly found himself overcome by a terrible sense of lethargy. Fatigue swamped his muscles and his sword, which had seemed so light in his hands a moment ago, dragged at his limbs like a leaden weight, the tip dropping to the earth like a fallen spire. His chin fell to his chest as he fought to keep his eyes open against a suddenly overwhelming need to rest.

The involuntary head movement inadvertently saved his life.

Sargtlin's upward slash opened the flesh at the base of his jaw and tore up through his cheek. The lethally sharp blade mercifully missed removing his eye but continued its course across the bridge of his nose and ended its bloody trail above his right eyebrow. Blood rushed from the awful wound and immediately began to clog his vision with warm, dark fluid. Partially blinded and in no small amount of pain Wurzag stumbled back, overbalanced, and fell heavily to the ground. The mist immediately closed over him and he rolled into the underbrush.

If the dark-elf had not been slowed by the jolt from his spell then the blow would almost certainly have been fatal. As it was the injury would, if left too long, impair his sight to such an extent that it would a lethal liability. He lay still, teeth gritted against the pain and fought against the exhaustion creeping through his bones. Wurzag had never felt so tired in his life and, as thick headed as he was, it did not take a huge leap of insight to realise that the weakness was wholly unnatural, the product of drow sorcery.

The half-orc squeezed his eyes shut and cursed silently as the blood rolled down his face in gory tracks. The wound was going to need stitching once he got out of the forest and the cut was deep enough to leave an impressive, if somewhat ragged, scar. So slowly that it felt as though his muscles would cramp, Wurzag shuffled his arm across his chest and managed to bring his hand to his face. He scooped the latest deposit of fluid from his eye-socket and wiped it absently across his tattered shirt. If he was going to continue to battle in this drained condition then he was going to have to steer away from his regular style and start fighting clever.

"Oh dear Wurzag," a choir of harmonised voices intoned, "we really thought that you were better than this." He opened his eyes to find himself looking up at a circle of faces limned in scarlet fire. "We thought you would be the one to carry us to greatness, yet here you lay in the dirt with doubt in your soul while your foe still stands." One of the faces was the bald magician while another was hidden from view by a black iron helmet. The half-orc was once again convinced that he was face to face with the arena chaos knight, yet he had killed that creature himself, thrust his sword into its skull. The same blade that lay within hands reach awaiting his confident grip, ready to deliver retribution to those who would defy him.

"Not entirely broken then," the voices mused, "the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. Get up Wurzag Helmsplitter, get up and prove that you are not yet defeated. Vindicate our faith in you, there is much yet to be done." The half-orc stirred, rolled over on to his hands and knees and blinked at the dirt. Ropey strings of congealed blood trailed from his face and into the thick carpet of moss that blanketed the forest floor. "Good," the chorus encouraged, "you are drained, yes, but not helpless. Get up." The words held a stern note of command that brooked no argument. With what felt like a herculean effort Wurzag pulled himself to his feet and stood swaying in the thick, enveloping mist.

"Strength is not your only weapon, Wurzag of the Blackbone tribe, though your body fails you the pulse of chaos still beats strongly in your veins, look," the half-orc blinked groggily, "look!" He turned his attention to the trusty sword at his side which, though dulled, still crackled faintly in the damp air. "There is more than one way to achieve victory over an enemy and not all must end in death. The merest touch of your blade will discharge the power bound within. Forget what you know of combat, of clumsy swings and crushing blows, now is the time for guile and subtlety." The half-orc nodded absently and a few wisps of crimson vapour escaped his bloodied eyes to mingle with the coiling mists.

With weary, carefully measured steps the green-skin advanced through the gloom in search of his foe, sword held in hands that shook with fatigue but would not release their hold for anything short of death. The drow warrior would be waiting for him but perhaps he would not be anticipating a change in tactics. If the stunning effects of the enchantment still held then his odds improved considerably. If not then he would have to rely on what little dexterity he still possessed, luck and the belief that it was not yet his time. "No," the susurration insisted in his ear, "it is not yet your time, we did not choose you for a meaningless death in a forgotten woods. We still have much to do and chaos is not so easily thwarted."

The dull edge of his opponents shield was the first thing to break through the bank of mist. Wurzag swung for it swiftly, but with no real power, hoping to catch the metal disc with the flat of his blade. He did not need to strike his enemy to achieve victory, for if he held the dark-elf at arms reach long enough and aimed for his sword and buckler then the man would swiftly become cramped and immobile.

With grim determination the green-skin circled and focused purely on his own defence. With a thunder-charged blade a good parry was as effective as a good blow.

Sargtlin was worried that the Uruk-hai would be able to resist his spell, for the half-orcs he had fought before were resistant to most things. He was pleased though to find that it worked, quite well. He watched in anticipation as the half-orc's sword tip hit the ground beneath them, and his head fell limply against his chest. Sargtlin expected that he wouldn't have enough energy to dodge his upward slice that he had aimed at him. As his sword was cutting through the dense mist, he felt the Uruk-hai's flesh being carved open along his face, slicing it open as if it were barely there. The razor sharp sword started with the flesh on the half-orc's jaw and carved a path across his cheek and nose to end right above his eye. He smiled cruelly as he saw the black blood of the half-orc start coming out of the wound, running down his face. As it poured out, he was very pleased to see the black blood dripping into the Uruk-hai's eye, which would make it much harder to fight. He watched the half-orc stumble back from the blow and fall onto the ground, rolling out of his sight into bushes or more mist.

Sargtlin felt his muscles cramping up again from his attack.
"What happened to his sword? Why is it doing this to me now? At the beginning of our match it didn't do that, perhaps, so perhaps it is a dream becoming reality?" he thought, his mind trying to figure out what had happened. He was pleased though when he felt his muscles starting to feel mostly normal again, and making a note not to touch the sword if he could until he found out what had happened, he didn't want to mess around with this hindering feeling again.

He began to feel almost tired, even though the match had only been going a fairly short time, though it seemed longer to him than it had actually been. He suspected that it had something to do with that sword.
"What am I going to do now? I have to avoid touching that sword, so I need to catch him off guard so he doesn't block my blows and do the same thing to me." he thought as he quickly looked around him, watching for signs of the half-orc. He wasn't used to fighting in an environment like that of the Realm of Dreams, where so many things seemed to have no explanation, and where friend and foe are the same, where nightmares are real. As he stood there, he suddenly felt hot breath on the back of his neck.
"So, you have not been defeated yet? Good, you must be warned though, that you cannot stay defensive, as he have probably figured out by now. You need to change, to bend as your opponent fights, to change your fighting to your opponent, or you will become destroyed." he heard the owner of the breath say. When he turned around, he was in some ways very displeased to see that it wasn't the half-orc, for it was the same imitation of him that had stabbed him before.
"What are you back here for?" he said, unsure as to what the beast was going to do, but he held his shield in a defensive position, with his sword ready to strike.
"Fool, I am not here to hurt you anymore, no, I am here to help you. Your foe, he is an Uruk-hai, but he is different than most. His sword will pose problems if you do not stay flexible, if you cannot adapt to the situation." it said, showing rows of sharp fangs in it's mouth as it did.
"Stay sharp, and watch your foe, and adapt to fight best against how he is fighting." he said, then his eyes glanced over to Sargtlin's right, "He approaches." he said, fading into dust before Sargtlin's eyes. He turned in the direction the beast had been looking, but saw nothing. He did hear something though, but from the opposite direction.
"What?" he thought, turning around quickly to see the half-orc's figure swiftly coming through the mist, swinging for the edge of his shield. He wasn't sure still what had happened to the half-orc's blade, but he knew that it wasn't good. He quickly pulled his shield up, hoping to keep it away from his foe. He was relieved to see the sword pass underneath the metal shield. He knew that the half-orc was switching his attacks some, for the attack seemed to have very little power, and was directed for his shield and not him. Sargtlin decided that it was time to pull out more spells, time to see how the half-orc would fair against him and his spells.

"Tril!" he shouted as he stepped back, casting his Plague of Insects spell. As soon as he finished casting the spell the sound of insects became audible to his ears, distorted, but still audible. The swarm of insects that had come from the spell swarmed over to the half-orc, stinging and biting at him. His goal was not to use them for any real danger to the half-orc, but as an annoyance and distraction instead. As the insects came in, he used his Teleport spell, disappearing from in front of the half-orc, and reappearing about ten feet behind him. Once he was behind him, he lunged forward, swinging his sword horizontally, aiming at the level of his stomach.

For someone of such heavy build the dark-elf moved with incredible speed. Wurzag snarled as the shield was lifted from his path, the blade passing harmlessly beneath. His enemy, it seemed, had made the intuitive leap regarding the enchanted blade and was now fighting a battle to avoid its touch. That, at least, would work to the green-skin's advantage. He followed the swipe with a thrust that proved to be beyond his reach as Sargtlin retreated, and though the drow still trembled from the effects of the thunder he still outdistanced the weakened Wurzag. The half-orc halted his pursuit as the second word of command was spoken and braced himself for arcane fire, a deluge of ice or some other horrifying projectile.

When nothing materialised from the mist he gave an audible sigh of relief; some of the spells he had seen Taryn cast would have been almost impossible to avoid. He shuddered at the memory of the colossal fireball exploding within the bandit camp, scattering bodies like kindling and shut out thoughts of a similar fate befalling him in this benighted place. The sound of buzzing drew his attention back to the present and to a cloud of frenzied insects emerging from the undergrowth. At first there was nothing sinister about the cacophonous bugs apart from the fact that they were the first Wurzag had seen since entering the forest, but as he watched they rose into a menacing cloud and descended upon him with hungry malice.

The half-orc dived toward his opponent in an attempt to lure the angry little beasts into his foe, only to find that the drow was nowhere to be seen. The point of a blade nicking the skin on his back instantly revealed the enemy location however; somehow the wily dark-elf had managed to get behind him and had almost cut him in two. If he had not attempted to escape the bugs the plan would almost certainly have succeeded. Wurzag spared Sargtlin a snarl and the lunged into the mist closely followed by the swarm of angry insects.

"Yooz fink a few bugs is gonna put me off?" He yelled as he swatted at the miniature menaces, "or woz ye just sendin' me a snack?" He snatched a handful of tiny bodies from the air and crammed them into his mouth. It felt like an age since the half-orc had eaten and small though the creatures were they eased a little of the hunger gnawing in the pit of his stomach. A large mosquito perched on his shoulder bit him in insectoid revenge. "Ow," Wurzag grumbled and squashed the creature in a spurt of blood, "'ave some ov dat ye git."

Having consumed as many of the pests as he could while on the move he paused to take stock of the situation. A few of the bugs still buzzed and crawled around him but they were a minor annoyance compared to the drow warrior who was almost certain to pursue him. Wurzag needed to get even, and he needed to get even now. If the dark-elf wanted to fight dirty, then the half-orc would give him dirty, green-skin style. He held his breath and listened intently for sounds of his foe and was rewarded with a rustle of bracken away to the right. He peered into the swirling mist but could not make out the enemy, instead his eyes fell upon the dark trunk of an ancient oak. Thick fronds of moss clung to its flanks and branches but the wood still looked very much alive, if a little sinister.

A broad branch hung at head height, its gnarled bark glistening in the misty air. On a warrior as tall as the drow it would line up nicely with a vulnerable throat. Wurzag grinned, absently swatted at another bug and hurried over to the limb. A few moments experimentation revealed that it was still very much alive, the wood moist and springy and he swiftly pulled his make-shift catapult into position. With luck the low visibility and obscuring tree-trunk would hide his presence until it was too late.

"Remember Wurzag," the phantasmal voices returned to haunt him, "we have gifted you with other powers, magic that could turn the tide of this battle quickly in your favour." The half-orc blinked and shook his head.

"Shuddup," he hissed to the empty air, "I is gonna do it my way, I dunt need yer crazy magiks!" He felt, rather than saw the presence remove itself and returned his attention to the approach of his enemy. The poised branch trembled a little in his weakened grasp but he held steady. If this plan worked then it would provide an ideal opening for a follow-through that could potentially cripple his opponent. He had no real desire to kill his enemy, but thus far Sargtlin was leaving him with little choice but to reply with equal force.

The undergrowth rustled again and Wurzag grinned. A shadow loomed out of the mist close enough for the surprise to be effective and at the last minute the half-orc released his grip. The heavy branch whipped back toward the approaching drow but the green-skin did not pause to see the result of his trap. Before an impact could register he had circled the trunk in the opposite direction to catch his foe from behind. If the make-shift catapult had worked he could strike easily at his prone foe and if not then the distraction of the unexpected attack would hopefully leave the dark-elf vulnerable to another debilitating blow from his enchanted blade.

"Clever," the chorus returned, "perhaps our faith in you was not misplaced after all but you cannot refuse the chaos forever. Before this battle is done you will ask for our power and we will be only too pleased to give it." Wurzag narrowed his eyes in irritation, but did not deign to reply.

He was worried that they were right.

Sargtlin felt his attack to cut the half-orc in half, only nicking the skin on the Uruk-hai's back instead of the desired effect. He was slightly surprised as to the reason, for it was by the half-orc charging his former position, seemingly to use the insects against him. He had desired the tiring, both physically and mentally, battle to end soon so that if both of them lived, that neither of the them would be driven insane by the images and nightmares in the place that had been chosen to be their battlefield. Sargtlin heard the half-orc snarl as he lunged into the thick mist around them. He slowly followed as he saw the swarm of insects follow the half-orc. He heard the half-orc's voice come distorted out of the mist.

"Yooz fink a few bugs is gonna put me off? or woz ye just sendin' me a snack?"

Sargtlin smiled at the thought of the half-orc gobbling down all of the insects who were trying their best to do damage to him. He was following the half-orc slower than the Uruk-hai was running, so he never saw any of the insects being eaten, but small bits of the pests guts on the ground in the direction both of them were going led him to assume that he was eating them.
"Doesn't really matter if he eats them or not, all they were for was for that one attack, that attack that was made near useless." he thought, gritting his teeth, for he didn't want to waste any energy in this fight, for he had no idea how long it would last. He kept his shield up, trying to make sure he was ready for whatever the Uruk-hai planned to throw his way.

As he made his way through the mist, he kept hearing a sound that seemed to be a voice, distorted and twisted by some force that lingered for all time in that forest.
"You seem to be ready to end the battle? Hopefully both of you will die in your attempts, for there is no place for you except in those that should die." he heard the voice, the same one from earlier of his imitation.
"I see, and where would you put yourself?" he said into the mist.
"Have you not figured it out? Perhaps you have forgotten? We are but a nightmare, a dreadful twist of reality, we are not doomed to the fates you beings of flesh and bone are. We cannot die, but we can kill. We cannot be afraid, but we can create fear." the voice said.
"So, if you want us dead, why not kill us now?" he said.
"You must not realize then, how entertaining it is to watch beings of flesh fight each other, thinking that they can gain anything by it." he heard the voice said, but he did not deign it a response.

Sargtlin found himself having to force his way through some dense undergrowth to follow the half-orc.
"I must assume that he has set up an ambush of some sort. If he hasn't then that is fine by me, less to have to worry about when I get to him, but I don't want to take any chances in this match-up." he thought, warily making his way towards where he thought the Uruk-hai to have gone. He was about to walk past an large, old tree trunk, moss growing off of it as it stood there, when he heard a whooshing noise in the air.
"A trap." he thought, instinctively ducking. His instinct perhaps saved his life, for a heavy branch quickly whipped around and would have hit him straight in his open throat, but instead it slammed into his face. He stumbled backwards from the hard, painful blow. He wasn't to concerned about the blow, yes it hurt him, but the most all it did was bloody his nose and mouth and knock out one of his teeth. He spat out the tooth and some blood, quickly glancing around, trying to see where the half-orc had gotten to.
"Where did he get to?" he thought, glancing about and starting to turn around, when he saw the form of the half-orc looming out of the mist. He stumbled forward away from the half-orc as the half-orc swung for his back. He was glad that the blow missed it's target, but instead the earlier blow from the tree branch had not helped his balance, and with his desperate attempt to dodge to blow to his back, he had fallen forward to one knee and one hand. He wanted to make his falling as useless for his foe as possible, and quickly rolled forward and up to a standing position, turning towards the half-orc. After he had gotten back up, he saw the half-orc's figure, and lunged towards it, swinging his brutally sharp and powerful sword horizontally at the figure's neck in the mist, hoping to cleave his head right off, or do some damage he hoped.

Wurzag grinned as the satisfying sound of impact echoed through the forest, though his elation quickly died as he realised that the trap had only given the drow a bloody nose. The fleet-footed warrior must have ducked at the last moment and avoided being knocked from his feet. The stinging blow still caused his erstwhile foe to stumble however and as a result the following attack went wide of its intended target. The moment of recovery gave Wurzag a chance to prepare his defence and as the dark-elf lunged back in he swatted at the offending sword with his own weapon, hoping for another jolt of enchanted lightening. Blood had once again begun to clot in his right eye, and so without pausing to examine the result of his parry he scooped the offending gore from its socket, flung it in the direction of the dark-elf and then dived back into the mist.

After about thirty yards the exhaustion worming its way through his muscles got the better of him and he stopped, gasping, with his back pressed to the trunk of a large tree. "Oi, 'ow yooz doin' out der?" He yelled back toward the drow, "cuz I dunt know about yooz but I is fuggin knackered, me face 'urts and dis forest is doin' me 'ead in." He paused and gulped down some more of the damp air, "'ow about yooz just call it a day now an we can go 'ome?" The half-orc was not about to give up despite his fatigue, but if his dark-elven foe was prepared too then so much the better.

"You could end this now," the choir of rhythmic voices thrummed, "call the power, you know how, it will answer your call and bring an end to this wasteful duel." Wurzag shook his head, dreadlocks flying and did his best to ignore the insidious chorus. "You could be so much more if only you accepted the enlightenment that true chaos brings, the purity of unbound power, the raw strength of magic." The presence remained out of sight, but the half-orc was convinced that it was smiling. It was not a pleasant smile, it was the sort of smile a predator wore right before the teeth struck. "The unbridled freedom!" It hissed.

"Shuddup," Wurzag grumbled and peered furtively from his hiding place in the direction of the drow. The veil of mist still hid his opponent, so he considered his position and how best to strike next.

"Come, we will show you everything that could be yours!" Something brushed his shoulder and he spun, weapon ready, to confront whatever apparition awaited him. There was nothing there. Instead he found himself staring out over an open, dusty plain, the earth cracked and baked hard and the sky a brilliant azure above him. There was no mist, no drow, and as far as the eye could see, no forest. The half-orc blinked and peered over his shoulder where just a moment ago the reassuringly solid presence of an ancient sycamore had loomed. An ocean of armoured faces peered back at him.

"Err," Wurzag mumbled, more than a little baffled by the turn of events. He peered down at himself and noted with surprise that he too was clad in armour; heavy overlapping plates of studded iron protected his body and where, a moment ago, he had held his trusty sword he now clutched a huge and terrible axe alive with blue fire. A dry wind stirred the dust at his feet and a crimson cloak billowed about his shoulders, its gold trimmed mantle secured to his armour about the shoulders.

"My lord," a gruff voice said, and he turned to confront a black-clad warrior holding a battle standard, "the enemy comes." Wurzag followed the lead of the outstretched hand to the crest of a hill where the first ranks of an army were marching into view. Behind him the unknown legion lifted its weapons and howled a blood-curdling war cry. With single minded ferocity they launched themselves toward the approaching horde, covering the barren ground with terrifying speed. The half-orc, suddenly bereft of his own volition found himself leading the charge and within moments battle was joined with a crash of steel and the screams of the dying.

Wurzag buried his axe in the body of the first soldier and with deft skill spun to parry the blow of another. He followed the move with a counter that crushed a skull and stormed ahead into the melee. All around him men fought and died, their bodies broken, their blood soaking into the parched ground. It was a glorious battle, one that bards would sing of in years to come, one that honoured every man who fought and died in the name of their country. Soaked in the life of his enemies Wurzag threw back his head and roared in exultation.

The shock of the clammy mist against his skin caused him to stumble and he fell to his hands and knees beside the old tree. He held a sword, his arms were bare and his face bled into the mossy loam. There was no army, no battle and certainly no barren plains. Wurzag blinked in confusion and scurried back to the relative protection of the tree-trunk. "Wot da fuggin 'ell," he breathed, blinking in confusion.

"That was you," the harmony intoned, "or at least what you could become if you so wish it. We can show you the way, but you have to let us in, accept that we are a part of you, embrace us as a gift." The half-orc held his head in his hands and whimpered quietly, "resistance is futile, we are already one with your mind, give us your body and revel in the glory that is chaos." Wurzag shook his head again and surged to his feet.

"No," he said firmly, "yooz ain't real, yooz are a fing from dis forest an yez ain't gonna 'ave me!" He was almost certain that he felt the presence retreat but it did not vanish completely; he could sense it lurking just on the edge of perception, like a shadow half seen. "Oi!" He yelled back toward his fellow warrior, "I dunno about yooz, but dis place is really startin' to wind me up, give it up now an I reckon weez can all still walk out ov 'ere wivout goin' loopy!"

Sargtlin never felt his sword slice through the Uruk-hai's flesh, but instead he felt the clash of metal on metal, the noise ringing in a spine chilling distorted tone. Then as he felt the clash, he felt the same jolt of electricity course through his body.
"No! Not this same power." he thought, looking at his foe to glare straight at him. He felt all his muscles cramping again, making his movements excruciating and limited. He felt something hit him on his leg, looking down he saw that it was some of the bloody mixture from the half-orc's eye that he had apparently thrown at him as he left, for he no longer saw him standing there, or anywhere around him. He felt his legs buckle, sinking to his knees, slightly relieved that his foe was no where to be seen. Before long, he felt the hot breath of his imitation on the back of his neck, starting to feel rather recognizable.
"What do you want now?" he asked with effort, still feeling the powerful effects of the half-orc's enchanted sword.
"Believe it or not, I am here to give you the strength or at least the will to fight on, to slaughter the Uruk-hai, with your bare hands if necessary. If you do not keep fighting, then you will never be allowed to leave this forest, and you will wander forever mindlessly, scared every second of your breathing life, never to no anything but terror and pain ever again. He may try to convince you to give up this fight, but he knows what I say is true, you cannot trust his word. the imitation said to him, hissing his last words harshly into Sargtlin's ear. Sargtlin tried to get farther away from the horrible being, but he felt the strong hand on his shoulder again, claws instead of nails digging into his shoulder.
"And you will not be the only one to suffer this fate, no, so will the half-orc and the judge of this match. You must keep fighting." he said to Sargtlin. As he was about to speak back to the being, he heard the half-orc's voice come out somewhere from the mist.

"Oi, 'ow yooz doin' out der? cuz I dunt know about yooz but I is fuggin knackered, me face 'urts and dis forest is doin' me 'ead in. ow about yooz just call it a day now an we can go 'ome?"

Sargtlin forced his tired and cramped muscles to lift his weight up so that he could stand, defiant to his weakness.
"I wish I could, but you and I will keep fighting, no matter how beaten and bruised I am, I have my own reasons to not give this fight up until it's finished." he said into the mists, his mind starting to race, his body feeling a little more energy coursing through him. He could not see it, but the imitation of him that stood behind him smiled a horrible, devilish, and pleased smile.
"He only wishes to condemn you to the fate that I have mentioned. He doesn't care about the fact that he would also be, he only cares about condemning you to it!" the being told him. His mind was racing, he didn't no whether he believe even one word that the being said, but the grip that it held on him felt as if it was convincing him against his will to believe what it said.
"No..." he said. His mind felt drained, but his body was beginning to feel energized, as if he could fight on no matter what happened to his body.
"What is going on?" he thought, trying to concentrate on himself, trying to take himself away from the fight and all that it was, and think only about him.
"Your body is not weak! You will keep fighting until you are dead!" the voice said, but the haunting voice sounded as if it were originating from his very mind. As he stood there, he heard the Uruk-hai's voice again.

"Oi! I dunno about yooz, but dis place is really startin' to wind me up, give it up now an I reckon weez can all still walk out ov 'ere wivout goin' loopy!"

For about a minute he just continued to stand there, thinking about the half-orc's and trying to control his actions again. His mind suddenly raced back through his memories, going to his childhood, and his separation from his clan, or his massacre of his clan.
"I am Sargtlin Olath, one of the warrior Drow, and I am here only to fight." he thought, his head starting to hurt from the hallucinations in the Realm of Dreams. He knew that his body was no stronger than it had been a minute before his feeling of energy, but he felt stronger.
"Wurzag, you may flee if you wish, but I am going to keep fighting, I was born and bred for fighting and fighting alone! I am here to kill and to die in battle, that is why I exist, so run if you wish, or stay and fight." he shouted into the mist, wondering if his foe would hear his words, he hoped in some ways that he would run, but he also hoped that he wished to fight more. He didn't want the half-orc to die just yet, but he wanted to kill him at the same time. He knew that neither of them were in the shape for a proper fight, for the half-orc had been cut up by his blade, now coated black along part of the blade, and he himself was cramped up from the half-orc's sword.

"Leave me alone." he said to the being behind him, the hallucination who was giving him the thought of being stronger. He heard the imitation give him a hiss before vanishing into a cloud of dust, gone he hoped for good. He knew what the side effects of those words would be, for he felt as tired as he had after the initial shock from his foe's sword, but his mind was not being shoved full of the hallucination's words. He winced as he felt normal again, for his muscles were still cramped from the block the Uruk-hai had made.
"Finally I can fight normally again, now, where is he?" he thought, looking around him for any signs of the half-orc.

Wurzag sighed as the drow called out his defiance but hadn't seriously expected anything less. The dark-elf was a warrior to the bone but also, more alarmingly, prepared to die for the sake of the tournament should the need arise. The half-orc was not a quitter, but he had grown rather attached to his life over the years and was not prepared to give it up for the sake of gold and glory. He also had no real desire to kill his erstwhile foe since the man had proven himself an interesting if slightly sinister drinking companion. This brought Wurzag to something of an impasse because a huge, magically charged sword was not the best form of non-lethal offense.

"Kill him and be done with it," the infuriating presence thrummed. The green-skin peered over his shoulder to find the little sorcerer waiting, "he would not hesitate to see you dead and you owe him no such forbearance." Wurzag shrugged at the entity and grinned.

"'E ain't so bad once yez get to know 'im," he said conversationally, "ain't no need to kill 'im, it's just a game."

The crimson apparition narrowed its blazing eyes and fixed him with a baleful stare, "have you seen yourself Wurzag Helmsplitter? Have you looked at what this dark-elf has done? You are broken and bloodied and weak. He has done this to you and would do more given the chance and you, you would spare him based on a whimsical meeting in a run down tavern." The apparition snorted derisively, "honestly, I expected so much more," the thing spread its arms to indicate an unseen host, "we expected so much more."

The half-orc shrugged, pleased that he had finally managed to strike a blow against his tormentors even though he didn't fully understand how he had achieved it. "Yeah, well, I is glad to disappoint yez, an yez know wot else?" He held up the faintly crackling sword, "I dunt need dis eiver, so switch da crackly fing off." The knotted muscles in his forearms had started to ache terribly and his finger bones felt as though they were vibrating, both symptoms he could only attribute to the magical forces coursing through them into the blade.

Almost immediately the coruscating energy died away leaving the metal dull and lifeless. Wurzag nodded in satisfaction and glared in triumph at the little sorcerer. To his chagrin the ghostly mage only grinned back and vanished into the mist. "You will welcome us before the end, Wurzag Helmsplitter, there can be no doubt. Before the end-game is played in this little drama your nature will get the better of you and you will submit, of that you can be sure." The presence withdrew and Wurzag was left alone in the forest with his thoughts, the sound of his ragged breathing and, somewhere nearby, a drow intent on his destruction.

"Right den," he muttered to himself, "lets get dis sorted." He pushed himself away from the tree and stalked off into the suffocating gloom. As he shuffled through the underbrush he considered how best to deal with his opponent now that he had dropped the thunder enchantment. The dark-elf was almost as injured as himself and would still be slowed by muscle cramps from the lightening, but even in his debilitated condition was a formidable enemy. The main threat, in the half-orc's opinion came from the increased defensive capability granted by the sturdy shield. If he could removed that advantage, even temporarily, then he was sure he could best the drow in swordplay through brute force. A single-handed weapon would provide scant protection against a double-handed sword driven by the considerable muscles of a half-orc.

There was no way that main force was going to remove the buckler; it would almost certainly be fastened by straps or buckles, but a surprise attack from the rear could potentially injure the arm enough to render it useless. With that thought in mind Wurzag circled the last known position of his enemy and hefted his weapon experimentally. A single, piercing lunge to the shoulder would do it, but he would have to be quick and with his stamina dwindling there would be as much luck involved as skill. The green-skin didn't like luck, it had an alarming tendency of deserting him when he least expected it. He often felt that luck had it in for him, but had thus far been unable to substantiate his suspicions.

It was an elusive beast.

There was a wooden snap from somewhere behind him and the half-orc froze in his tracks. Hardly daring to breath he pivoted on the spot and peered into the roiling mist; if the drow had managed to get behind him then his plan was ruined and he would have to improvise. A shadow wallowed through the obscuring vapours and the green-skin was not about to wait to see which way the warrior faced. He aimed and thrust, the point of his long blade diving high toward what he hoped was the left shoulder. The weapon struck something, though Wurzag was not about to wait to see whether it was flesh or steel, and dragged the sword around in an arc designed to strike at the lower legs.

He finished the attack with sword held high, ready to fend off a blow from above should his assault prove unsuccessful. With both warriors injured and fatigued it was only a matter of time before a mistake was made, a mistake that could well make the difference between life and death and with his strength waning Wurzag did not want to be the one to fall. Fortunately the blood from his face wound had begun to clot and would not intrude upon his vision much longer, though the crusted gore had given him a lop-sided squint.

Jaw set in grim determination, the half-orc braced to receive a riposte.

Sargtlin felt his muscles ache with every slight movement, but he would not let his condition stop him, not this far into the fight. If he was to begin this fight, then he planned to end it, one way or another. He knew that his half-orc foe was becoming a impressive match, especially with his advantage of having that magical electricity coursing through his two-handed sword.
"Is there some way that I can disable that? I hadn't expected him to rely on magic in this match, it doesn't seem like him. This match has been odd, and tiring, I haven't been this tired from a fight for a long time, and I almost enjoy it." he thought, his legs complaining as they were forced to support his impressive weight in their weakened conditioned.
"I entered this tournament, I plan to keep going, but I don't really wish to kill the half-orc, hurt him sure, but not kill. If I have to to end this match, then I will." he thought as he forced his tired legs to take him in the direction that he estimated his foe had ran in.

As he walked through the black gloom to get to his foe, he decided to change his direction some, and try to come around where he thought his foe would be. He turned off to the side, walking to circle around him instead of barging straight towards him.
"I have to be careful, for who knows if he has another trap set up for me, if he does then I might not survive much longer." he thought as he moved. He was pleased greatly to feel his arms and legs starting to feel more normal after the last shock from the half-orc's blade. Each of his steps was more careless than he had noticed they were, until to late when he heard the sound of a snapping twig under his foot. He winced as he knew that that would give away his attempt to get behind the half-orc without him noticing, and could give the half-orc time to prepare some new trap for him, or his face at least.
"Wurzag, I am here to come out of this tournament victor, not to lie here dead or to leave broken and with a loss. Let us engage in combat until one of us has lost, shall we? Let us end this, perhaps right now?" he said into the mists as he continued his march, raising his shield and his sword, hoping to be prepared for the half-orc's move.

He quickly saw the half-orc's shadow come into his view, shortly before the assault began. His still slightly slowed speed coupled with the shadowing mists made his defenses useless, for by the time he saw the attack, he didn't have time to parry it or take it on his rune shield. Instead he felt a sharp pain course through his left shoulder as he saw the half-orc's sword pierce his flesh.
"No magical power?" he thought, quickly and with delight. His time to defend the next attack though was better, for the mists couldn't hide the next attack. He watched the Uruk-hai twist the sword in an arc, aiming at his legs. The feel of his warm blood running down his clothes and arm, the pain in his shoulder, the arc of the foe's blade all made his mind run wild, his old warrior tactics coming back to him to save him. Before he knew what he was doing, he had twisted his body and bent his knees, the weight of the shield letting it hang down against his thigh. The cold steel in his foe's hand collided with the metal shield that hung limply against his thigh, which made it useful as a block.

His actions had surprised him, for he had not thought of doing something that risky, or that useful in the current situation. Without his consent, he twisted back and raised his body back up with his legs, swinging his sword diagonally up towards his foe's thigh.
"No! It's to risky!" he thought after finishing his sword swing, and before he had had time to see the results, he stumbled backwards for about ten feet before abruptly falling on his back. He hoped that his momentum would prove sufficient to take him out of the Uruk-hai's view momentarily, as put his right hand on the wound in his shoulder.
"Olath O'goth." he said, casting his Dark Regeneration spell, feeling the flesh start to regenerate and repair itself till it was mostly healed, but not fully recovered.
"So, I finally rely back to my old battle tactics, learned from the long fight outside my old home. Those tactics helped me to kill dozens, but they are risky, are they worth the risk right now? I need to even the playing field, but I would prefer not risking my life in the process, not any more than I already have." he thought as he stood up and ran in the direction away from the half-orc, trying to make some space for him to think. As he ran, he could still feel the blood on his arm from the wound.
"Yes, I shall use my old tactics, and let them be what controls my mind for awhile." he said into the gloomy darkness, stopping his movement. His breathing was heavy, for though the run was short, the battle had been long and tiring and his energy was beginning to run short, especially with the magic from the sword, that to his delight seemed to have vanished. He knew that he should wait, to save his energy and to let his foe use more. He waited for his foe, waiting for the right opportunity. He was waiting there only because he knew that his shield arm was not completely useless, because of his spell to heal it, but it was still painful.

Wurzag parried low, the long blade of the drow skating across the steel with a metallic hiss. At the last moment however his weakness betrayed him and the old two-handed sword dipped too low to hold the lethal edge completely at bay. A fiery line of searing pain carved its way across the surface of his right thigh drawing a deep-throated growl from the half-orc. Fortunately the dark-elf was too occupied with his own injury to capitalise on his advantage and vanished into the mist. Wurzag watched him go through narrowed eyes and staggered to follow, to bring an end to the exhausting duel. His wounded leg screeched in protest however and he stumbled, nearly fell, righted himself and succeeded in further stressing the damaged muscle.

"Fuggit!" Wurzag exclaimed in annoyance, hopping on his good leg, "fuggit, fuggit, fuggit, fuggit, fuggit." He overbalanced and toppled to the ground where he lay gasping for a moment still clutching at his injured limb. "Dat really fuggin 'urt," he grumbled to nobody in particular. He got to his knees and with a grunt of exertion attempted to stand, but his exhausted frame coupled with his debilitating hurts conspired to keep him on the floor. He flopped on to his back with a sigh of fatigue and lay there grinding his teeth for several long heartbeats. If he could no longer stand then the match was as good as over; Sargtlin would have him at his mercy. Wurzag suspected that the drow was a little short on mercy at the best of times.

"You could always accept the inevitable," the phantasmal choir intoned, "accept that chaos is in your blood, that it courses through every fiber of your being and embrace it. We can give you the strength to go on, the endurance to stand and continue the fight, the power required to give you victory." There was a pregnant pause filled with expectation, "all you have to do is open your mind, let us in, give up this foolish, stubborn pride and usher in the maelstrom."

"Dunt really 'ave much choice do I?" The half-orc scowled as the figures emerged from the mist to surround him.

"There is always a choice," the assembly replied in harmony, "you can accept defeat and probable death or you can admit that your deliverance is within your grasp and seize it. Make your choice, but make it swiftly, even now your foe prepares to strike again and you are ill prepared for the task that lies ahead." Wurzag couldn't hear anything beyond the gentle rustle of undergrowth but knew all too well that the dark-elf would not give up, not until one or other of them was incapacitated. He closed his eyes and lay back in resignation. He did not want to die.

The circle of figures lifted their arms and threw back their heads in exultation, a great cry of victory rising to a deafening roar. He clamped his hands over his ears but the sound did not abate, it grew and multiplied until it filled his skull with a raging storm of noise, and still it continued to grow until he was sure his mind would burst from the pressure. He opened his eyes and bellowed in agony, his features twisting into a mask of tormented fury. Crimson vapour boiled from his sockets, clouding the air and sizzling as it encountered the thick tendrils of mist that twisted between the trees.

Suddenly oblivious to his physical wounds the half-orc surged erect and stood, twitching, in a world painted red. A softly glowing crimson aura surrounded him, but as he stepped woodenly in pursuit of his opponent it flickered and died leaving only his eyes illuminated with scarlet madness. The knowledge that sparkled at the forefront of his mind and the power that crackled in tiny arcs between his fingers assured him of victory, but a tiny part of his psyche protested. It knew that his body did not possess the strength to maintain this puissance, that this last core of stamina could not last much longer than a few minutes.

It was a few minutes he would have to use well.

He slid his sword into its leather back-scabbard and began to jog after his elusive foe, heading in the direction the drow had taken. There was no pretense of stealth, no attempt to circle, the half-orc plowed through the obscuring mist like a barge. As he ran he mumbled words that had no meaning yet scorched the air with arcane power and as the hazy figure of the dark-elf hove in to view he stooped and plucked a chunk of loam from the ground. In a single, fluid motion he hurled the clump of earth into the air, the projectile trailing a hissing comet-tail of vermilion energy. As soon as it left his hand more words tumbled from his lips, more blistering mana trails crawled across his flesh and the stench of ozone filled the air.

Then everything happened at once.

The earthen missile reached the peak of its trajectory directly above the dark-elf and exploded, a rain of molten earth and burning moss showering the area. The attack would do little damage, the forest was too wet to burn and the enemy agile enough to avoid the worst of the fire, but its primary function was that of surprise. For Wurzag time seemed to crystallise, the burning shower, the mist, the drow all slowing to an almost imperceptible crawl.

In reality however he crossed the intervening space in a blink of an eye, little more than a ruddy blur in the gloom. He struck first with his left fist, a body blow aimed to wind his enemy and then primed his right fist for a thunderous upper-cut. With his hips, shoulders and all of his weight behind the punch and driven by a wholly unnatural swiftness the impact would be powerful enough to fell a horse.

Sargtlin stood waiting for his foe's form to come out of the mists into a shadowy appearance to continue the painful, bloody, and debilitating fight.
"Hehehe, this is becoming very interesting. He has impressed me, most assuredly. I haven't had a duel this hard and harsh ever, or perhaps that time with that half-dragon in the Land of the Dead, the fight with Arthur, but other than that none. I wasn't sure what to expect, but I didn't entirely expect him to be as good as other half-orcs, but I'd say that he might be perchance better than the others." he thought, his head pulsing with thoughts of the fight, thoughts of his past fights, and thoughts of his time with his Drow clan. His mind was being berated by memories, memories of the massacre he caused years ago, and by his battle ground that he stood bloodied in.
"That bloodbath was fueled by me and my comrades insatiable bloodlust. I'm feeling that same bloodlust starting to rush through me now, the same that made me kill my mother and father and all those who I could call relatives." he thought. He tried to get rid of his memories, as he had done so many hundreds of times before, for they disturbed him and distracted him, seemingly wishing his demise.

As he stood there sorting out his thoughts so that he wouldn't die in this fight where both contestants were wished death by their battlefield, he was brought back to the reality of the fight by a distorted, agony filled cry. He assumed that they came from his foe, that or someone else had entered their battlefield, into the pit of death that they had been placed in. His memories all flew out of his head, and were replaced by his eager lust for blood, and the day of this fight, for black blood. He was eager to slice his foe up some more, ready to spill more blood, though he knew that the half-orc couldn't be filled with enough blood to satiate his new lust for that delectable crimson, or in his current case black, liquid.
"Where is he?" he thought, spitting out some more blood from his wounded mouth caused by the tree branch that the half-orc had readied for him earlier in the fight.

Shortly after the yell that had made Sargtlin ready and eager for more fighting, he saw the silhouette of his foe appear on the edge of his vision, severely limited by the almost tangible mists.
"Ready to play, Wurzag?" he said as he saw the form of the half-orc move unnaturally fast, picking up a piece of moss and loam and tossing it into the air before continuing onward at his incredible speed, appearing only as a blur. When Sargtlin saw the mossy missile leave the half-orc's hand, it began having a bright trail behind it.
"Magic." he thought at the momentary sight before making his own charge at the half-orc. Unfortunately for him, his foe's unnatural speed outdid him, and instead of being able to react in time, he felt the blur of the Uruk-hai slam his fist into his stomach. With his speed combined with his foe's speed and power, the blow knocked the wind out of him, his eyes popping wide at the impact. Not only that, but his sword was knocked loose from his grip, flying a good ten feet before hitting the ground and sliding an extra few feet, and he was knocked clean off of his feet. Fortunately for him, his shield had been put on with leather straps, and it only swung in front of his neck and face. Strangely though, those events saved his life, for otherwise he would have felt the following uppercut slam into his face or jaw and very likely killed him with the combined speed and power of both of them into those blows. Instead, he felt the impressive blow slam into his shield and only the flesh and muscle of his arm hit his face instead of the solid fist of the Uruk-hai or the metal shield, and the falling made the blow be lessened slightly.

What seemed like hours later, though he knew it couldn't have been much of any time, for he hadn't been gutted yet, nor did he feel the steel point of his foe's sword pricking his neck, he opened his eyes, only to see stars fluttering in and out of his view as he lay sprawled on the ground with heated debris laying on his clothes. He brushed the debris off before speaking.
"Well done, Wurzag. My body doesn't seem to wish to fight any more, though my mind still is driven by blood. Perhaps you wish to kill me? It would be a wise choice of you, for I have found ways of eluding the hands of those who show mercy or hesitation. If you don't kill me right now, then you may lose your chance at victory." he said, turning his head to the direction he thought his sword to be.
"If I can keep him occupied long enough, I can still win." he thought as his vision slowly became less blurry and starring in his words to the half-orc. He could see his sword in his clouded sight, his head in agony as he lay there, not waiting for his foe's reaction, but instead using his last mana in his weakened state to use his Teleport spell again to teleport him to lay next to his sword. He smiled as he gripped the hilt of the black coated blade, coated from blood. He didn't yet have the strength to stand, but he had the will still to use his shield and sword to defend himself until he could fight again.

Even through the haze of chaos the impact of knuckles against steel was painful. Wurzag was sure that his wrist was badly sprained, if not broken, but the scarlet mayhem drove him onward anyway, heedless of physical damage. He would pay the price for his endurance later, when his wounds would return to haunt him ten-fold. For now however there was a drow to deal deal with who, despite the interference of his shield, was stunned and prone, helpless to defend himself. Wurzag advanced slowly on his enemy, though the magic still crackled through his body; the dark-elf was a cunning opponent and had talents beyond mere physical skill. Even lacking a blade he could be dangerous. The green-skin's caution paid off a moment later when the drow, groggy, but very much alive struggled to rise and started talking.

"I dunt wanna kill yez," Wurzag replied, a careful eye on his foe, "but yez are still talkin' so yez ain't sparked out neiver an dat means I ain't won yet." He circled the prostrate dark-elf slowly, keeping a wary eye on the warrior for any sign of deception or casting. He was close to victory now, he could taste it, but it could so easily slip away with one false move.

When the move came it was in an unexpected direction.

With a spoken word the drow vanished, only to appear a heartbeat later beside his discarded sword. The man still looked too weak to fight, but with his weapon retrieved the options for attack became dramatically more complicated. The half-orc weighed the possibilities in his mind; the move could be a bluff, a lure to keep him at distance while a projectile spell was prepared to smite him. It could be the prelude to a renewed physical assault, the weakness a sham to lull him into a false sense of security. Or, the obvious signs of fatigue could be exactly as they appeared; the exhausting result of a battle hard fought. Wurzag could imagine how he felt, his own fatigue and flagging stamina reserves threatening to crush him at any moment, but he refused to be cowed, not until the bitter end.

That shield was still going to be a problem though.

He either needed to regain the element of surprise or somehow remove his enemy's greatest defensive asset. Thus far his efforts to avoid the shield had been met with futility and the successful blow to the supporting arm appeared to have been healed by powers unknown, though dark blood still stained the area of the wound. The alien part of his conscious mind that somehow had knowledge of the mystical assured him that though the damage had been repaired the limb would still be weak for some time, a weakness the half-orc could potentially exploit.

It was with this thought firmly in mind that he launched his final gambit.

Wurzag hoped that his enemy would expect an attack from the rear and fully intended not to disappoint his erstwhile opponent whilst making one, small tactical change. His incredibly augmented speed carried him into the thick of the mist just out of sight of his injured foe. There he paused and looked back at the swirling eddy's of vapour with a savage grin. "'Ow yez doin out there?" He yelled back toward the drow, "yez lookin' a little pale."

Then he blurred twenty yards to the left, crossing the space in a heartbeat. "Only I dunt want yez gettin' all worn out on me afore dis is over," the irony of his words was entirely wasted. Another flash of motion placed him out of sight to the right of his opponent, the trees and mist again masking his movement from prying eyes.

"Feelin' a little tired meself," he commented conversationally, "but I ain't quite done yet." If the dark-elf truly lacked the strength to move then he should have almost completely circled him, all in the space of just a few heartbeats. With another blistering sprint he completed the revolution and faced what he hoped was the back of his immobile adversary.

"I got one last fing to do afore I go see," he grinned to himself, "gots to make sure dat I gets out of 'ere aright, an if yooz is still kickin' den dat ain't gonna 'appen." The unwinding thread of his endurance howled at him that his time was almost up and the crackling red mana that pulsed through his veins had begun to ebb but there was still enough, just enough to complete this last, desperate gamble before the end. Hopefully Sargtlin was expecting the attack from the rear, hopefully he was ready.

With that hope lodged firmly in his mind the half-orc took off at a dead run, only he did not head for his waiting enemy. Instead he once again skirted the perimeter of vision, reversing his position, his unnatural speed crossing the distance in the blink of an eye. Then, with every ounce of strength that remained in his damaged muscles, he charged. Nothing but a distorted flash of greenish light marked his passing but he flew straight as an arrow toward his waiting enemy, legs flying in an imperceptible blur of motion and battered body protesting every step of the way.

At the last instant as his foe swam into sight he leaped, both feet leaving the ground in a magically propelled drop kick aimed squarely at the small round shield strapped to the big warrior's arm. Wurzag plunged, irrevocably commited to his attack, a living missile of bone, muscle and sinew heavy enough to crush the life from a man but with the sole intention of rendering his opponent defenceless.

The moment of judgment had arrived.

Right before he had teleported he had heard the Uruk-hai's voice speak to him as he had circled his prostrate form.

"I dunt wanna kill yez, but yez are still talkin' so yez ain't sparked out neiver an dat means I ain't won yet."

After Sargtlin had teleported and grabbed the hilt of his sword, he deigned the half-orc a response to his words.
"It's going to take more to kill me, I won't go down as easy as some might." he said, though his body was still laying flat against the ground. He was concentrating purely on defense and counter attacks, for he didn't have the maneuverability to launch an offensive against the half-orc. He felt rather helpless, but he knew that he could still pull this off if he played the fight just right. He watched the Uruk-hai, or as best he could, as he ran deep into the thick mists, hiding his position from his view. As he laid there, waiting for his foe's move, he heard the half-orc's voice coming out of the thick, gloomy mists.

"'Ow yez doin out there? yez lookin' a little pale. Only I dunt want yez gettin' all worn out on me afore dis is over. Feelin' a little tired meself, but I ain't quite done yet. I got one last fing to do afore I go see, gots to make sure dat I gets out of 'ere aright, an if yooz is still kickin' den dat ain't gonna 'appen."

Sargtlin watched him come into view, then back out of view, his eyes glancing all around. He had expected the half-orc to attack "behind" him were he would have the hardest time defending against an assault.
"You're right, but don't forget that a cornered beast is dangerous." he shouted back at his foe, the foe that had battered his mouth, made his muscles cramp up, and made him use nearly all of his energy. He only had enough strength to defend against blows and make a counter attack, which he planned to use.

He kept his shield ready to block, though he didn't hold it high, so that he wouldn't waste his precious supplies of energy. His foe made his move swiftly and with power, charging out of the mists in the opposite direction he had expected. He brought his shield up higher while watching the lightning quick charge, then his foe jumped up, trying to drop kick Sargtlin straight on his shield.
"Apparently to debilitate all my last defenses." he thought, trying to as quick as possible roll over and angle his shield diagonally to let the blow slide off. It was the time to see if he had enough speed for his defense to work against the unnaturally fast attack.

Sargtlin had lived through the attack, half-orc's attack sliding off of his rune shield, easing him greatly, until he heard and felt a loud snap. The shield had taken the brunt of the force and redirected it, but apparently not far enough to avoid hitting him in a few of his ribs, cracking them and leaving him out of breath and in serious pain. He winced at the pain from the attack, but was not going to sit there for the next blow, he was not going to wait around to be slaughtered, but instead launched his counter attack. Rolling back the way he had originally been and rolling past, swinging his sword with as much might as he had left at where he thought the half-orc to be, then rolled back to laying on his back. His counter attack had hurt him even more, for he had had to roll onto his broken ribs, pain filling his body, but he might have the chance to even the battlefield. If the battle continued on for a while longer, then he might have enough mana again to teleport away from the current set up and have a little recuperation time.
"So," he said, breathing heavily between words, "How do you feel about the Drow now? Do you believe some of the tales that that drunk told you?" Sargtlin was wondering how either of them were to continue much longer. He himself was battered more than he could ever remember being, of that could perhaps be attributed to the blow that had laid him out in the first place, but he didn't think so. His foe was battered about the same, but was still running on by some magic. He knew that the magic could not keep him going forever, and when his magic faded, what then? Would he have enough strength to continue the fight, or would he drop to the ground from weariness?
"Hopefully we'll find out, I will not die here, not now, not in this cursed forest. I plan to continue on and to spread destruction, not to die after a long fight in this wretched forest, the Realm of Dreams." he thought as he waited to see what the half-orc would do, if he could do anything.

Wurzag knew that he had only managed a glancing blow but was powerless to change his course of action. He had committed himself fully to the attack and as gravity reasserted itself he fell heavily to the ground and tumbled away from his prone enemy, though not far enough to avoid a stinging riposte that raked the flesh of his shoulder. The half-orc rolled, came to his feet, staggered and fell to his knees as the fresh pain washed through his battered frame with brutal vengeance. He tried to force himself to stand, but his muscles quivered with fatigue and his protesting limbs felt leaden from injury and exhaustion.

As he knelt there the magic finally gave out, the last few dregs of mana burning away in a sputtering hiss that seeped away into the earth. He once again looked out at the forest through unclouded sight, though his vision was groggy and unfocused. With agonised slowness the half-orc glanced over his shoulder to where his enemy lay and gave a short huff of amusement. The drow still lived, though pain was written plainly across his features, and he still had the energy for words.

"I fink," Wurzag mumbled foggily, "dat yooz drow is pretty 'ard." With slow, awkward movements, the green-skin managed to turn his kneeling body to face the prostrate dark-elf. "Ye dun put up a gud fight," he continued, "an I reckon yez wud make a gud orc if yez were a bit greener an a lil bit less pointy." He nodded, "but yeah, ye dun gud."

Kneeling there, with his flesh battered and bruised, and streaming from an assortment of cuts and abrasions and looking at his foe who was in almost, if not worse, condition, Wurzag couldn't help but laugh. The pair had beaten each other to within an inch of their lives. They were sore and bloodied and far from home and had battled in this forsaken place risking madness and death on a promise of gold and glory. Looking around, the green-skin saw little evidence of gold and he certainly didn't feel terribly glorious with his blood clotting his vision and soaking into the damp earth.

Still, he had never quit yet and from the looks of it, neither had Sargtlin.

Beginning with a light chuckle but growing into a full bellied, raucous laugh, Wurzag expressed his amusement at the absurdity of the situation. The misty bows echoed with orcish mirth and a tear of laughter rolled down his uninjured cheek. As the peals of hilarity died away the green-skin sighed; there could be no draw to a tournament and though neither of the contestants were in any state to continue fighting he would not be the one to stand down. Wurzag pulled his old sword from its sheath, planted the point in the earth and used it to lever himself to his feet. The effort required to force himself to stand almost broke his resolve, but as he held himself erect, knees slightly trembling and breathing ragged with strain he knew that it was over. He only hoped his dark-elven counter-part knew the same.

"Well fella," he gasped, "I reckon dis is gonna be wun of dem judge decision fings, cos I is knackered an yooz luk knackered." He attempted to pull himself a little straighter and managed to square his shoulders, "course," the half-orc continued with a faint grin, "yooz can always come an 'ave a go if yooz fink yer 'ard enough."

Wurzag sincerely hoped he didn't.