"The rules are thus." They face off across the well-trampled grass of Flyer’s Field. Ryan and Brent find it difficult to concentrate on their acknowledged foe, for behind Tyrell and his second lies the immediate "prize" of this duel; Katie unmoving in a pool of her white silk gown, stark brilliance against the dull of the grass. No comfort that through their biolinks they can hear their teammates above in the Deltaflier cursing as Katie’s signal remains flat. If her chest didn’t rise in breath before them they would think her dead. It is nerve-wracking for the calmest soul. Tyrell’s second continues his brief;

"This duel is to the wounding. That is, when one combatant can not continue the fight his opponent is victor. While death may occur it is not sought, and if a combatant yields then his opponent must put up his sword. A kill at that point is considered murder and will be prosecuted as such. In any other case, the results of this duel are binding as law, and the seconds shall be witness that all is done in accordance with the ancient tenets of the Code Duello. Are all here agreed?" Nods all around, some more willing than others. "Then in accordance with the Code, let the combatants be marked for first blood, that neither need strive for this honor."

The king had explained to the team the night before the surprisingly simple rules of the Code Duello. Included was this "First Blood Mark", simply a cosmetic smear of color placed on the cheek as if a cut were made. In duels where a master swordsman challenged a less experienced foe it was customary for the master to concede the first blow and take the Mark as visual signal of the concession. For Ryan, no concession was apparently to be made; both he and Tyrell were to be marked in order to remove the psychological benefits scoring a first cut might have bestowed. It was common for a duel such as this, to the wounding. Ryan took no comfort at the time. Smaller still the comfort offered by Tyrell earlier as they met on the field, Katie’s pallid form cradled to the man-at-arms’ chest. As Ryan tensed and Brent made as if to leap at them both, Tyrel raised a hand and indicated Katie’s quiet breathing.

"She is valuable to me as a whole person, not damaged goods," Tyrel assured them. "I have observed her in the diplomatic meetings, and I full well know that this fragile flower has a quick and valuable mind as well. She truly sleeps a dreamless sleep; I swear to you that I would do no harm to her in winning, nor have I done any. " Gently, possessively he ran the back of his hand down her defenseless cheek. Ryan had to turn away in disgust and Brent ground his teeth at such familiarity. " I value what is delicate and fragile in this world. There is little I find so worthy of my attention these days, and yet here you have brought me a prize above all others. Your little "Kat" is indeed a worthy prize; if I win her well perhaps I will allow your Federation to remain despite my feelings to the contrary. She certainly gives me strong will to win." Ryan kept silent, knowing words would never be able to encompass all his loathing and hatred for this man who vowed to possess what could never be his. Even Brent found himself at a loss for words.

Tyrel’s second walks calmly to his master, taking a finger full of the thick blood-red paste and drawing it down Tyrel’s cheek. Against his pale coloring and chiseled features the dark streak takes on a barbaric intensity that is highly unnerving. Ryan wonders if Tyrel is using Mind magic to affect his perceptions. Unconsciously his hand tightens on the hilt of his sword, lent to him by the king. It is as close to a saber as this land comes, heavier than the whip-thin blade Tyrel wields and with only a single cutting edge, but ending in as wicked a point as a duelist could wish. The guard wraps close and cold around his hand, emblazoned with the king’s personal crest; Ryan knows he fights here not only for Katie, but for the whole treaty the Federation has sent him here to champion. It is not a calming thought. Behind him Brent fidgets angrily, convinced that if he were fighting instead of Ryan he could pound Tyrel into the ground like a spike regardless of the rules. But Ryan is the challenged, and so Brent must fume and fret at his leader’s side.

Crossing the field, Tyrel’s second reaches calmly toward Ryan’s cheek to place his mark. Ryan fixes his gaze on his opponent across the grass, feeling the cool slickness of the paint as it scars his cheek. A moment turns coolness to sudden heat, and his vision swims with the change.

Guys in the Deltaflier, you’ve been watching all this on the monitor of course. Suddenly there’s an alarm going of. You still have the biolink signals up on the auxiliary monitor and it’s something there that’s tripped the alarm. Green, you’re looking it over; Katie’s is still totally flat, but now Ryan’s has gone completely erratic, flattening out then racing like he’s in a marathon. Something is seriously wrong. On the main monitor you see the second just stepping back.

"Get that crap off your face, it’s messing with you seriously!" Ryan can barely hear this through the ringing in his ears, but Brent gets it loud and clear. As Ryan staggers slightly, Brent grabs him back, roughly wiping his sleeve across the blood mark. Harshly he rasps at the second, who has backed off in apparently honest confusion.

"What the hell is in this? Poison! Is that how you "honorably" win these duels, you bastard?" Even as Brent rails at them Ryan is shaking off whatever has mudled his head. He’s still faintly muzzy, but he doesn’t think he’s impaired. Not seriously, at any rate. Above, the boys in the flier breathe a sigh of relief as Ryan’s signal straightens itself out. Through it all, Tyrel stands coldly aloof, neither surprised nor gloating. Once he’s thinking clearly again Ryan realizes he can’t tell if this was planned or not. His cheek still bears a red stain, smudged and not as clear as the slash against Tyrel’s face, but at Tyrel’s nod it is deemed acceptable, and the duel itself to begin.