The Tournament


Shortly after the elves appointed their emissaries our own king called our folk together.

"A delegation is required to meet the new human King, so that we might... persuade him... to call off this shedding of blood."

A gruff voice from the back of our tent called "How are we going to do that?"

The king grinned as he spoke, "We shall decide such matters as protocol demands we should. A tournament!"

A shout swelled up until the flaps of the meeting tent began to shake.

"So who will put their name in? Anyone?"

The mob began shouting, each dwarf trying to speak over the one next to him or her. The noise continued escalating until one dwarf actually succeeded in being heard.

"I volunteer."

Then it grew absolutely silent. I, along with every other dwarf, recognized that voice.

Honrel Foebreaker. A name feared by Elves, Humans, and beer alike. The only ones who didn't fear him were dead. No one would dare face him.

Which was why I nearly cut my arm off when I another voice called out,

"I also volunteer."

For some reason, the dwarves in my vicinity turned to look in my direction. I spun to look behind me, hoping to catch a glimpse of what they were looking at. The dwarves behind me were also looking my direction. The dwarves to my left and right were staring at me too, which led me to surmise the following:

I had volunteered.

So be it. I wouldn't win. But I'd meet him in battle none the le-

"Anyone else? No? We need some competition... Well that's disappointing. No matter. Honrel and Dunsa, you will represent the dwarves in the delegation to the human king."

Oh. So we needed... two... delegates.

I wasn't going to die.


The End

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