The slim looking half-elf stands in the open field looking awkward dressed in forester’s attire and carrying a very large heavy shield strapped to his off hand. He borrowed that from Brother Zero. He is used to a buckler or no shield at all. In his other hand he carries Warden Ismort’s longsword. That at least feels familiar to the lithe ranger. Across the field a brute of a man, wearing a full suit plate mail, taunts him with his massive zweihander. Markoa stares at that armor and the heavily scarred man inside. Markoa, you damned fool. Let the dead lie.
“Use whatever means you feel necessary, not that any of those will help you survive this day.” Cadog of Gorum declares when Markoa asks him if his hawk-eagle may be by his side. “You may still back down yet; for I mean to kill you!” Markoa swallows hard, waiting for the whistle to sound and the scarf to drop indicating a start to the duel. Cadog just stares straight at Markoa. No emotion. Markoa looks away towards the scarf-bearer, keeping Cadog in his periphery.
He sees the scarf drop. He reacts.
Cadog hears the whistle. He reacts. Slower.
Markoa is already charging and has the drop on the much larger, but slower warrior-priest. Ouray screeches and flies in an arc around behind Cadog while Markoa slides across the grass and draws first blood. Akiros’s sword drives deep into a gap in the priest’s armor. Cadog barely flinches as he brings the two-handed sword around, catching Markoa in the shoulder. Ouray squawks and flaps his wings, distracting the warrior while Markoa and Cadog circle each other. Markoa with feints and footwork. Cadog swing that grand sword with all his might. Once again Markoa connects, bringing the longsword in for another deadly strike against the flank of the Gorumite. Cadog is not distracted enough, and this time slices across Markoa’s face, slashing through his upper lip. At the same time, Ouray is trying to maneuver and gets caught in the backswing. The bird drops to the ground. Markoa stumbles back with his hand over his face as blood gushes. The duel pauses.
The battle-priest prays over the bird, bringing it back to consciousness. Markoa drives the tip of his sword into the ground and pulls a potion from his belt and pours it into his mouth. His lip heals and the bleeding stops. The two combatants start to circle each other again.
For the next minute that seems like an hour to Markoa, but probably only a second to the priest of Gorum, the two duelists circle and parry. Thrust and dodge. They pound at each other and strike glancing blows. Sometimes Markoa is able to get Brother Zero’s shield in between that massive sword and his head. And sometimes, Ismort’s sword strikes sparks across Markoa’s opponent’s armor.
But it seems Desna has other plans for this battle. In an unfortunate stroke, Markoa swings his sword with all his strength, desperate to finish this fight. The sword breaks on Cadog’s armor. Markoa stares at the broken blade with shock, then lets it fall from his hands. Cadog takes the moment to drive his sword into Markoa’s side. The half-elf stumbles backwards away from the big man. He reaches over his shoulder, grasping for one of his short spears, the only other weapons on his person. He draws one.
“Erastil, guide my spear,” he prays as he hurls the spear at the cleric. Erastil answers his prayer and the spear strikes Gorum’s priest right in the center of the breastplate directly into the symbol of Gorum. Cadog stares at Markoa in disbelief as he drops his sword and wraps both hands around the shaft of the spear protruding from his chest. He topples backwards like a tower falling.
Markoa drops down onto his backside, breathing heavily.