Brunhild held her sword and shield at the ready. Chekhov didn't look like much; he was small, old, hunched over, and not especially strong-looking. Neither was his attitude that intimidating. He seemed, if anything, vaguely distracted.
"Let the fight commence!" announced Lord Pomegranate Flabbergast.
Chekhov looked at Brunhild, yawned, and began to cast a spell.
The cheering all around filled Brunhild's ears. Though she didn't look up, she was acutely aware of the eyes upon her. The world seemed to get small, and tight, and claustrophobic.
How could she do this — fight in front of thousands of people? What had she gotten into? What —
Precious seconds had passed. Chekhov was still casting a spell.
"Miiist!!" swore Brunhild, ran forward, and slammed Chekhov in the head with her shield.
Chekhov fell down.
Brunhild stared at Chekhov on the ground.
Chekhov didn't move.
"The match goes to Brunhild Redmayne!" came Flabbergast's voice. "So much for the legend, Chekhov of Feenschwanz! Did he lose his edge? Or, could he be going for the Race To The Bottom?"
*
Some way above, Lacrie was helping Dandelion vomit into the popcorn bucket.
"What's the Race To The Bottom?" asked Kaergat.
"I think there is a prize to someone who loses the worst, or something," said Lacrie.
"Sounds very un-orderly," said Kaergat.
"It's really funnyyy..." groaned Dandelion, before heaving again.