Keep duel intro sketch + story

Corrupted demon blood stained the skin, armor and weapons of the warband's troops, splashing and spurting like putrid fountains as the group's warlock hurried to continue absorbing all the fel energy and keep it off of their ranks. They'd sliced and diced their way into the fray, cutting through much of the Legion's ranks as they made their presence known. One of the two Alliance groups, this one wearing stylized blue and purple tabards, were mostly gathered in the courtyard; having cut through ranks of demonic foes of their own, they lined up and stared down the Horde interlopers.

A particularly haughty looking dwarf with a nose almost the size of the rest of his face scowled at them. "Get lost, ye gutter trash," he said in a gruff voice akin to that of a hill giant. "We got here first."

"And we'll be here last," Greta replied defiantly, angering the undaunted band of enemies blocking their path inside the keep. The old dwarf ignored the fighting between the other Alliance group and more demons on the ramparts, focused on the red and black banner which Greta planted in the soil.

His own troops, a motley assortment of all races and nations under the banner of the Alliance, held together in a courageous but unstrategic formation, only earning Greta's scorn. If they would back off, she'd finish them off.

Reaching over to her bodyguard and the group's duelist, she slapped the hulking forest troll's arm, causing a deep echo as if she'd slapped a concrete wall. "Easy way: your champion against ours. Winner takes all." Red Feast, the Revantusk tribesman who'd protected her without fail for so long, remained silent and statuesque as he glared at the Alliance group.

Angered and intrigued at the same time, the dwarf narrowed his eyes and put his fists on his hips. He appeared to consider the proposition for only a moment before a monk, one of two Kaldorei in the group, leaned down to whisper in the grizzled man's ear. The dwarf's thick eyebrows waggled only slightly as he listened, but his scowl didn't change.

"Suits us," the dwarven commander replied as his energetic chosen one sprang forward.

The monk was clad in sparse leather and bandages wrapped around his hands and feet, all smooth muscle and veins. With speed that would make a Barrens cheetah envious, he spun around a heavy staff like a propeller, looping it behind his back with excellent form. The man crouched low and bared his fangs when he was done with his show, as if waiting for his mottled green opponent to make the first move.

Red Feast seemed to have no problem with that. With a speed that almost seemed wrong in comparison to his size, his arm swung out, throwing an axe in a curved half-circle toward his opponent. For a microsecond, the monk's eyes widened at how fast the berserker was able to hurl the blade; he seemed shocked at the realization that he was facing no sluggish, bullheaded tank. Though not to the degree of a boomerang, the axe curved due to the angle it was hurled, and even when the monk dodged, he was just barely in the weapon's trajectory.

In a last ditch effort, he spun his staff forward again, twirling it so fast that it almost couldn't be seen. His comrades murmured in awe at the object's velocity, only to gasp when his attempt to deflect the blade resulted in the staff being cut in half.

One of Greta's raiders began to cheer, but she quickly silenced him with a raised fist. Wood splintered and chipped as the weapon shattered, leaving the monk with no option but to backtrack when the berserker charged along with the flight of his axe. At the very last second, the monk seemed to realize that the broken staff doubled as a crude pointy stick, and he thrust it forward in an attempt to hold his assailant back. The sharp tip plunged into the thick meat of the berserker's trapezius, sending thick forest troll blood creeping down the mottled green hide.

Instead of flinching, Red Feast continued to stare down the night elf as he intentionally pressed forward, letting the sharpened staff penetrate his flesh even deeper. The gap between the two of them minimized, he reached forward with his now free hand and grabbed the monk by the hair to yank the man's head down. Even as the monk pummeled his ribcage, Red Feast slowly dragged his other axe along the man's abdomen, ignoring the primal scream as he cut flesh and bone until the monk's upper body folded in on itself. He didn't even take the time to finish the man off as he pulled the staff from his shoulder and retrieved his other axe.

Were it not for the oblivious group fighting above them, the sound of a pindrop could have been heard. Greta continued to press her troops into silence for the sake of intimidation; after all, that was the value of her bodyguard's dueling skills. What was nearly meaningless in terms of tactics was of the utmost importance in terms of strategy. The group in purple and blue tabards looked shocked beyond speech.

All of them except for one. The other night elf, a demon hunter with a similar appearance to the monk aside from being eyeless, cried in anguish and fury. Yelling something in elf language, the horned man leapt forward before the dwarf could hold him back, brandishing two war blades at the victorious berserker. By the time the bereaved brother's skin began to smolder and crackle with fel ashes, the other members of the Alliance group had confusedly started to call him back, leaving the dwarf to hold *them* back in order to maintain some semblance of order.

"Damnit, hold formation!" the dwarf said as he used his short but surprisingly wide body to block the mass of appalled adventurers attempting to retrieve the gurgling body of one companion and to hold back the burning, glowing body of another.

"Just wait a second!" burst out the group's paladin even though he wasn't waiting either. The dwarf pushed the man back only to find a footman trying to break past the line.

"Impossible!" the footman yelled.

No sooner had Red Feast brushed away the gelatinous blood from his now sealed wound than had the grieving demon hunter, now in demonic form, rushed at him. Much larger and even faster, the demonic elf's tattoos glowed as he spun at the forest troll with both blades, fixing to out-berserk the berserker. The demon hunter's blade dance was met and stopped short by an axe to the thigh, and the Kaldorei fell to one knee just as the Revantusk's arm fell to the ground sans its body.

Although a few of Greta's troops gasped, she didn't even flinch when the demon hunter's war blades connected flush with Red Feast's arm. Despite the thickness of his bicep, the war blades were fine and sharp enough to cut through the tough trollish flesh and bone, leaving the forest troll with only three limbs. The amputated arm hit the ground with a thud so abruptly that the body it had been attached to didn't even react at first, all the momentum of the blow having been transferred into the now separated appendage. A few of the younger Alliance members started to cheer, though the crestfallen paladin stared at the demon hunter in disappointment. Blood fell in thick gobs from the bloody stump rather than dripped, and the severed arm thrashed and scrabbled at the ground.

Brought down by the axe stuck in his thigh, the demon hunter appeared physically crippled and emotionally disabled by the five second exchange. Rather than revel in his apparent victory, he dragged himself over to the corpse of his brother. The monk had already passed into system shock and would soon fall into his death throes; already, his basic body shaped was distorted by his abdominal collapse. The survivor, still in demon form, lifted up the head of the deceased.

"Farewell," the eyeless demon elf whispered in pain and anger.

The sound of heavy, purposeful footsteps once again silenced all of the observers, and the rest of the Alliance members stared at Red Feast as he reached down for his severed arm. Even the dwarven commander turned around, puzzled as he seemed to wonder if a one-armed man would really attempt a comeback. Instead of attacking, however, Red Feast simply picked up his severed arm and held it agains this body.

The sharp snapping sounds of a tight window latch clicking into place repeated themselves several times over as the troll pushed the bloody stump against the clean cut on the severed arm. After a few rotations for angle, he pressed even harder, seemingly unbothered by the way his hide writhed and crawled like an unstable mutation. This was no mutation they were all witnessing, though; this was mere regeneration.

"Witchcraft!" a draenei in heavy armor howled while pointing at the way the forest troll lifted and lowered his reattached arm.

"Biology," one of Greta's raiders corrected.

The demon hunter looked up just in time for the berserker to grab him by the horns and drag him face down to the ground. Without granting anyone the chance to intervene, Red Feast gripped the axe held in the hand of his reattached arm tightly, reached down and stabbed the curved tip of the blade perpendicular to the demon hunter's back bone. Unable to pull the axe from his maimed thigh in time, the demon hunter refused to groan, obviously being person quite accustomed to pain. With one coordinated and dexterous yank, Red Feast pulled the blade up out of the flesh as if his arm had never been cut off at all, bringing the demon hunter's entire spinal column up out of the meat with it. Even in death, the second night elf remained in demon form.

Most of the Alliance members drew their weapons, though the dwarf and a few of his underlings just stood in absolute catatonic shock. Two of their champions had been executed, even after cutting their opponent's arm off. Even the worgen stalker, a frightening and intimidating sight in his own right, appeared cowed and defeated.

Obedient but anxious, the members of the Killface Warband drew their weapons as well, providing cover as Red Feast stepped back to Greta's side and gave his arm a few good rotations as his mobility returned. Standing stolidly by the Horde battle standard she'd planted, Greta raised her open palm again, causing all of the survivors on the opposing side to flinch.

In a single flowing motion, she lowered her hand forward. "They broke the agreement," she told her troops in a flat tone concealing her ecstatic feeling. "No survivors."

She didn't need to tell her Warband twice. They charged, and despite the protests of the dwarf, their opponents scattered.