At high noon three drow and a sun elf squared off against a tall, statuesque, royal-blue eyed, blond-man in field plate outside of the Royal Oak Bed and Breakfast. The insignias upon his spaulders and the cloak upon his back marked him as a Swordhand of the Zhentarim. Some would know this man as Ambrose Tos..
He was brought low by one of the drow dressed in pale blue armor with gold trim, employing a wand which unleashed a storm of force-energy upon the Swordhand. After many such uses, the Swordhand fell, torn to ribbons.
Riddled with magically induced holes, looking akin to a a good piece of Swiss-cheese (if the holes in such were black and jagged in outline), the man's last words were "Hells.. tha' magick realleh burns.." before one of the drow came up behind him and uttered a curse or invocation of some sort, finishing the man. He clattered forward upon his hole-riddled and utterly shredded breastplate, a smoke filled death-rattle escaping his lips as the light faded from his royal blue eyes..
Ambrose Tos is dead.