The atmosphere is electric as a hundred or more bodies crammed in around the long house. You force your way to the front, past the drunkards and the reviling spectators until you reach the edge of the fighting pit.
Around the edge you see the patrons: men and women even a few children from a dozen races, from lands beyond those known to you and your kin.
A silence falls as a figure steps into the pit form an unknown entrance. He is clad in the deepest of red robes, his face hidden beneath his cowl.
“Ladies and gentlefolk; creatures form the furthest planes, fey from the woodlands and norscans form beyond the Wulfren!!” a series of cheers go up from the assembled crowd, even you cannot help but smile at the sight and sound, all too soon the hush returns.
“You have come from far and wide to witness the once in a life time fight,” the robed figure’s hands raise pointing to either side of the pit, as he does so gangplanks are lowered revealing the two contenders. “From the seas of Gygax, his forging a mystery champion for many a year, brought once again from retirement, he is the monster crusher, the hide of iron, the scion of the gods - yes that’s right: DRUNG THE HUN!!!”
The crowd roars in excitement the stamping of feet the clashing of flagon upon wood. By cue he emerges – it was quite the sight, this wall of muscle and scars. His body seems heavy cumbersome, the pelts and talismans he wore doing nothing more to than to enhance his appearance! His age was clear that time hadn’t been to kind the network of scarring across his features, his body telling his every fight, every battle, like that of the darkin would wither they’re flesh totems.
“His opponent the upstart from across the wilds to the coldest valley, he has carved his name in blood and now we see him here! The crusher of skulls, the slayer of the fen beast, butcher of Kull: HANGIR THE UNSTOPPABLE!!!” This time the crowd was near deafening as smaller, broad figure came. You could see the strength not only in his muscles, but in his cold eyes, and the strange swirl of tattooed skin. His hands were like troll claws - strong and bigger than a man - still huge but nothing compared to Drung.
“My friends,” bellowed the robed figure “TONIGHT WILL BE ONE TO REMEMBER!!! GENTLEMEN, LADIES, PLACE YOUR BETS FOR ‘DING TIME’ IS HERE!!!”
The two combatants stare calmly at each other as the crowd move and swell towards bookies and friends, suddenly there’s a voice in your ear “So which is it to be?” You turn seeing a disheveled man, his clothes faded, caring a tray parchment stuck to his front “Drung or Hangir?” he asks. The parchment consists of some kind of code that you’re unsure what it means... “Oh its simple” says the man “it’s naught more than simple code between us bookers: it gives you odds and returns on your investment, ya see?” You nod and consider your options, gold in hand you take one last look at the parchment, trying to will some figure out of the coded odds: AD&D 1st ed. vs. D&D 4th ed.
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