Barclay was a masterful horseman. He lead the race from the start, and by 
the time they had reached Hyde Park, he had built up a commanding lead. 
Observers have reported that Morgan did not seem to be concerned to push 
his mount; he seemed happy to allow his opponent to race ahead.
In Hyde Park, Barclay's horse reared and threw him. As he was calming it, 
he claims to have seen a green fog creeping into its breath. The steed was 
soon terrified; bucking and whinnying. Before long, it lost its strength 
and lay down to die. Barclay slashed down another rider in the park and 
took his mount. That horse refused to take his rein, and he was reduced 
to running. 
Still far ahead of Morgan, 
Barclay ran like the wind across the park, and 
through the streets of the West End. Familiar as he was with these streets 
he soon became lost. Everywhere he turned he found himself in streets 
maddeningly familiar, yet somehow differently arranged. 
Morgan almost sauntered into the courtyard of the Tower. The assembled 
kindred were shocked and silent. He took his Council seat as the snow fell.
An hour later a ragged, bloodied and raving Barclay arrived. He had killed 
almost a dozen mortals in his rage. He fled, never fully understanding 
how Morgan had so effortlessly arranged his humiliation. 
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