text: There is no way you have gained enough skill to make a precise aim. Your best bet is too just hold on with the fury of hell and hope for the best. You grit your teeth; here it comes.                                                                            
  
  
  Crack! Both of your lances splinter on contact. The collision jars you, but you manage to hang in the saddle. What a rush. Your heart hammers in your chest, and the world snaps back into focus. The crowd screams and cheers. Flags twirl in the wind and a herald’s trumpet booms. You turn around and see Lord Cleaver’s squire helping him to his feet while another attendant runs down his horse. You won!
  
  
  Jon rushes forward to greet you. “Fantastic, I never thought you could win riding that old draft horse! It looked like you were moving in slow motion compared to Lord Cleaver.”
  
  
  “Bessy and I may not be a fast duo, but we’re tough as nails and hard as stone.”
  
  
  Jon chuckles. “Interesting, we’ll have to have someone take care of that for you.”
  
  
  “What are you talking about?” you ask. Your face flushes red as you realization hits you. “Oh, damn it. You perverse bastard.”
  
  
  Jon snatches the reins from you and snarls. “Never call me a bastard again. Got it?”
  
  
  “Uh, sure.”
  
  
  He helps you off Bessy and slaps you on the back. “Good.”
  
  
  I wonder what that was all about?
  
  
  You head back to your pavilion and bask in your glory. The road ahead is still long and perilous, but you took another step down the path of success. You kick back to relax when the flap of your tent opens. In steps a gorgeous lass, with gingersnap hair and vicious eyes. She looks wild and… hungry.
  
  
  “May I help you?” you ask.
  
  
  “The name is Bell. I’ve been sent to help you with a little problem.” She winks. “Your friend said you needed some refreshment before your next bout.” She shakes her breasts free from her loose shift and steps fully into the tent.
  
  
  Before the tent flap falls, you see the shady moneylender prowling around Sir Jamison’s pavilion.
  
  
  “Come on hero,” she urges. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
  > You ugh, you better go check out what that moneylender is doing.
  Despite adamant protests from your little head, your big head wins the day, insisting you act responsibly and investigate what that shady character is up to: shenanigans no doubt.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Bell. I have to take care of something quick.”
  
  
  “Oh, don’t leave me hero.” Bell wraps her arms around, drawing you in tight against her bare bosom.
  
  
  You pull away from her enticing embrace before you change your mind. Now where did that moneylender run off? You don’t see him skulking around Sir Jamison’s tent anymore. Could your eyes have been playing tricks on you? The bad feeling in the pit of your gut says no.
  
  
  Muffled noises are coming from Sir Jamison’s tent. Not wanting to intrude on a living legend in the throes of lovemaking, you ruffle the flap of the tent to announce your presence. “Sir Jamison, are you in there? I noticed a shady character lingering around your tent a moment ago.”
  
  
  The noise inside the tent ceases.
  
  
  Oh, crap. Your dodge sense tingles.
  
  
  You jump aside just in time to avoid incineration via fireball. Within the smoking remains of the tent, the shady moneylender stands poised to attack. Magic crackles in both of his hands. The shady moneylender is a sorcerer, who knew.
  
  
  “I knew you were up to no good,” you say, drawing your sword. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’m going to put a stop to it.”
  
  
  “Imbecile, you may have the skills, but you lack the tools to defeat me.”
  
  
  “We’ll just have to see about that!”
  
  
  “Is that really the best line you’ve got?”
  
  
  “I know you are but what am I?”
  
  
  The sorcerer face-palms. “You’re an idiot aren’t you?”
  
  
  “Bring it on, bitch!”
  
  
  Onlookers scurry about to put out the fires the fireball ignited and to get a front row view of what is shaping up to be a good old-fashioned melee on magic standoff.
  
  
  The sorcerer simultaneously hurls a fireball and casts a bolt of lightning. 
  > You dodge the bolt; bat the fireball back at him with your sword
  You dodge the bolt with ease and set your feet. You’re going to knock this fireball right out of the park. You step, swing, and… your sword melts as the fireball passes through and explodes amongst the crowd of onlookers.
  
  
  You scream in agony as molten steel splatters across your body.
  
  
  The sorcerer cackles. “Imbecile, only a magic artifact can repel a magical attack.”
  
  
  You collapse to the ground, defeated. And dead. The sorcerer proceeds to extract your hero blood, which he uses to conquer the entire kingdom. A shame, you couldn't even save your friends.