“Alright, Janos. This is your chance. Just remember that as this is a trivial matter, this is a duel to first blood. As soon as you've struck her or she's struck you, stand down. Don't forget the salute – raise your sword to your brow before you begin and don't strike until she's done the same. There's no honour in striking a foe who isn't...”

“I'm still a Redguard,” he retorts, interrupting you before you're finished. “I know how to fight with honour.” Yet you've never seen him do so. On the rare occasion when unruly felons resist arrest, he typically uses far more force than necessary. It's an unusual sign of mercy if they're still conscious by the time that Janos is finished with them. Nevertheless, you relent and step back, with a gesture for Radan to do the same.

The bastard steps forward and draws his sword from its scabbard. It's a straight and ugly thing, much like your own. You hear a few of the nomads laugh and murmur to each other at the crudeness of the weapon – even the woman facing him has a smile in her eyes.

“Onsi, bless my steel.” The drifter raises her sabre to her brow, touching the flat of the blade against the fabric that shrouds her face. Janos offers no such prayer to the gods. Instead, he touches his sword against the nasal guard of his helmet before he drops to a defensive stance. The combatants have declared their readiness and in the eyes of gods and men, the duel has begun.

The Alik'ri woman idly whirls her blade through the air as she paces, languidly moving from the bailiff's left to his right, making no attempt to close the distance between them. If this is an attempt to antagonise Janos, then it works. Lurching out of his defensive posture, he makes a jab for the nomad only for her sabre to clash against his longsword, sending it veering off-course. Yet by the time that she retaliates with a swing of her own, your comrade has pulled his sword-arm back and deflected it, with her blade striking his crossguard.

What follows is a clash between two styles, with the nomad's sabre whirling and swinging through the air with artful strokes and deft feints, while Janos is far more conservative with his blade, simply shifting the angle of his sword to deflect her strikes and thrusting forward whenever he sees an opening.

Yet the dance comes to an end before too long. The nomad commits too much to a swing that rings against the sword of Janos, with her blade scraping along the length of his until the crossguards meet. She's too close. Using his strength, the bastard of Taneth shoves her sword-arm aside and uses his free hand to forcefully shove the drifter to the earth, where she lands flat on her back. Before she's able to stand, Janos has already brought his sword down and buried its tip in her shoulder, earning a cry of pain from the woman. The fabric that shields her from the sun yet did nothing to protect her from harm quickly turns crimson with the blood that blossoms from her wound.