Expand Wiki Navigation

Difference between revisions of "Duel:Hadrian v Vaidhe"

From HollowWiki
Jump to: navigation, search
(Created page with "== Kelay Way == Kelay: the most famous part of the land. Something is happening. But you don't know what and by the looks of all the villagers around, and their confused expr...")
 
m (Cyllth moved page Hadrian v Vaidhe to Duel:Hadrian v Vaidhe without leaving a redirect)
(No difference)

Revision as of 12:12, 8 June 2012

Kelay Way

Kelay: the most famous part of the land. Something is happening. But you don't know what and by the looks of all the villagers around, and their confused expressions, neither do they. For the moment though it seems relatively calm, whether it is the calm before the storm though is yet to be seen. Perhaps more can be found out in the tavern to the north? Perhaps shelter in the great cities to the east and west could be found as well? You ponder which direction you should take and wonder if it will lead you onto your destiny be that glory, or death.

Intro

Hadrian is leaning up against the wall of Kelay Tavern, his mind drifting through the memories of days past. With the approaching steps of a traveler, Hadrian rises from his restful position, languorously looking to and fro to locate, and discern the identity of the person. His eyes come to rest on Vaidhe, and after a few moments, Hadrian steps down from the porch. "Afternoon… I've been meaning to have a chat with you, brother." Slowly, Hadrian's hand comes about to alight upon one of his Gladi, "Mind if we do this my way?" A brow lifts, insinuating the unspoken, yet the undeniable meaning lies still, therein.


Vaidhe halts in his westward progress at the sound of Hadrian's voice; having been rather absorbed in contemplation of his own, the dragon in human form has not spotted the gladiator till now, but gives him full attention, noting the other man's apparent readiness for battle. "Formal challenge," Vaidhe rumbles. "Sought and accepted." There is nothing at all menacing about Vaidhe's movements as he unlimbers Ligetsleht, his newest acquisition, with an economy of motion which gives testimony to his comfort holding the weighty mace. As he swishes it through the air before him in a lazy arc and spreads his feet, a nimbus of electrical energy hisses into life around the weapon's formidable spiked head, crackling balefully as the dragon takes two steady steps forward before once more setting his feet. Some twenty feet or so of distance now separate he and his would-be assailant. "Come." Vaidhe beckons with his unencumbered left hand, awaiting Hadrian's onslaught. Backlit by the late-afternoon sun, the dragon's impressive form is outlined in a corona of golden light, a strange counterpoint to the fearsome spectacle of scale, claw and mace confronting the gladiator outside the tavern.

Duel

Hadrian offers a simple nod of his head, before joining in with Vaidhe in combat; the twin Gladi are drawn, and hum with bitter reconciliation as he clashes them together, to emit their own ferocious enchantment. One glows a menacing white hot, the other suspiciously darkened significantly. He lifts his hands, and fans the wings of his helmet with clenched fists, heralding the coming clash of battle. Before approach, Hadrian inhales deeply, and bends forward, expelling a below of the age old battle-cry, sundering the otherwise quiet-calm of Kelay Road, before bounding into action. Intent on keeping Vaidhe from advancing further yet, he sends Bloodletter flying towards his opponents feet with a simple toss, an act performed countless times… and in the wake of the thrown Gladius, Widowmaker is brought to full reckoning, its darkened-hue sizzling triumphantly. He swipes viciously for Vaidhe's breast, before springing at the Dragon-turned-man head first--the gruesome helmet depicting slaughtered gods ready to impale the other by means of the spiked Mohawk running the length of the helmet. Prevail or fail, Hadrian is quick to recoil with another decisive strike of Widomaker, now aimed low for the knee; it's glossy, yet sinister hue may suggest the enchantment borne unto it by the workings of Wizardry--rot.


Vaidhe has no designs on further advance at this time; set firmly in the honour stance, mace held high and at an angle before his body, right hand clutching the weapon's shaft while the left is raised palm-out next to the left cheek, the dragon simply awaits his foe. Twenty feet of distance ensures that the gold dragon will have at least a split-second warning of what will soon threaten him; indeed, he sees Hadrian's muscles tense in preparation for the throwing of Bloodletter and is immediately in motion. Vaidhe is neither speedy nor particularly nimble in body, but his mind is a formidable instrument and has been honed over countless centuries to razor-sharp precision, able to react at an instant's notice. The weapon arcs toward Vaidhe's feet, and as if beckoned to meet it, a large rock rips out of the ground, yanked from its former home by raw telekinesis, and hits the blade from below, turning what might have been a slash to Vaidhe's feet into a glancing blow off his knees with the side of the blade. The gold dragon stumbles back while simultaneously pistoning his right hand downward as Hadrian charges, loosing Ligetsleht from his hand as he staggers backward and out of range of the slash aimed for his breast. He now focuses his mental control upon the wapon which, without it, would tumble harmlessly to earth; instead, the lightning-enchanted weapon, following its momentum but fueled by Vaidhe's own considerable strength, hammers downward, attempting to drive both Widowmaker and the hand which bears it into the ground. The telekinetic adept continues to stagger backward, wincing as his bruised knees flare with pain at each step but thankful to have been spared the bite of the enchanted blade and impalement from Hadrian's helmet. Wasting little time, Vaidhe levitates his mace into the air again before beginning to wield it by proxy in a superhuman flurry of action, jabbing and whirling, flipping and crushing, a punishing attack meant to both keep Hadrian on the defensive and to stop him from bringing his dangerous weapons to bear again. Vaidhe will certainly not continue this method of attempting to subdue the gladiator forever, but for these moments while he is relatively pain-free and otherwise unencumbered, his mind is free to fling the lightning-ensorcelled Ligetsleht around in a brutal display of power. One errant stroke from that mighty weapon might mean a quick and decisive end to this battle.


Hadrian is a Gladiator, and a Human to boot. Gladiators are well-versed in the versatile tactics of many a fighter, and the sheer cunning and diversity that Human's are renowned for, form a fighter of countless ability, and refined strategy. As the Mace hammers down for Widowmaker, Hadrian hunkered low after the swipe for Vaidhe's knee, he merely drops the weapon before the clash can be completed, and simultaneously scoops up Bloodletter. The threat of the wildly swung mace is an altogether different problem! The breath-taking strength it is swung at signals a surefire one-hit win, should he receive a ghastly blow to his head. Mindful of this, yet daringly, Hadrian bull rushes in any way--hoping to bring surprise to the Dragon. With surprise, comes hesitancy. He lifts his left arm, bound so completely with metal-bands, which is meant for deflection, he grudgingly eats a staggering blow that leaves his arm burning with a splintering passion! He grits his teeth against the pain, and draws free one of his short spears strapped to his back. Hadrian ducks in low, feigning to the left, but shoves the spear forward with a violent quick-thrust meant to skewer bone-deep into thigh. The sickening blow from Ligetsleht has rendered his left arm near useless, which still clings desperately to the safety of Bloodletter, yet no further attack is to be attempted with it as of yet.


Vaidhe is still very keen on the movements of his foe, not expecting one of Eboric's warband to be bested by brute force or possessed of sub-par intelligence. He is unsurprised to see the vicious downstroke go amiss, and equally unfazed when Hadrian first unlimbers his spear and then attempts to feint with it. Vaidhe is a creature of scale and stout bone, of massive muscles and age-honoured constitution; as Hadrian lunges close, the dragon knows that he might be outquicked by the slender weapon and hit in a vital place unaware, and so he deliberately thrusts the targeted limb into the spear's planned trajectory before the true strike can be formulated. The effect is no less dangerous - a weapon now sticking quite gruesomely from the meat of his thigh - but with this leg upraised, Vaidhe is more than prepared to do as he does next. He kicks off the ground and lunges forward, opening his cavernous mouth wide and ducking his head at the last moment as he catapults past Hadrian. Should this man be foolish enough to continue clutching the spear, Vaidhe's arching body might well break Hadrian's arm as dragon passes gladiator. Should he let loose of the weapon, which is all the more likely, he will still have a scant second to react to what comes next. A brief burst of fire from between Vaidhe's teeth, suitable to singe the man's face on its way past or perhaps to heat the nearer pieces of his armour, is only a small portion of the danger. Of far greater threat is the simple fact that the fire itself, whilc minute, seems to be rising in temperature. As Vaidhe hits the ground, most of the heat has encapsulated around his own form, and an astute onlooker might notice the whorls of sand and dust constantly eddying around the dragon's heated form now. The shaft of Hadrian's spear spontaneously catches fire and the spear-point pops free of the muscle, the wound attempting to cauterize even as Vaidhe pushes off with both hands and lumbers upright. He is now positioned in such a way that he stands to Hadrian's right, the gladiator's currently empty hand his only impediment as he bull-rushes the man. There is no grace or art to the attempted tackle, especially owing to the searing agony in his leg, but should Hadrian end up too close to Vaidhe before managing to achieve proper distance, he will find himself not only in peril from the overheated gold dragon himself, but from a rapidly thickening pall of hot dust and near-molten stones. This tiny tempest may well wreak havoc upon the gladiator, if he cannot somehow stop the dragon from perpetuating this newest devilry.


Hadrian does not let go of the spear, nor does he allow the movement of the wily Dragon to break his arm. Nay, with the thought of leaving his defenses open, what with Vaidhe moving to flank him, he steps forward, effectively breaking the haft in two beneath his body weight, and turns around. The impediment of his left arm is cursed, as he lifts it to attempt a block against the harrowing heat of Vaidhe's breath attack, but too slow are his reactions, too close are they battling together for him to present anything short of failure. The concussive blast of fire licks his helmet, eyes closed beyond eye-holes, and burns into his chin and neck. Against his best efforts, a cry of pain hollers out past his singed lips. Even still, Hadrian is far too stubborn to yield now, and he throws the remainder of the spear haft at Vaidhe, before tucking into a tight sideways barrel roll, spry enough to wriggle away from the oncoming storm of what seems to be hell brought to reckoning, the epitome of Dragonly Heritage, and the heat-laden stones and dust of the formidable Vaidhe sent errantly towards him. He had enough of heat and fire! Begrudgingly, Hadrian scoops up Widowmaker, once more completing the dual-wielding Gladiator's choice of weaponry, and descends upon Vaidhe in what might seem a blur of colorful brands to any onlookers. He whirlwinds, the only real thing he can do with his useless left arm, spinning dramatically around whilst moving ever closer to Vaidhe, intent on hacking tiny pieces of scale and flesh from the confounded Dragon. The enchantments hum like twins, one meant to sear and open fleshy wounds, the other to poison them and bring on a horrid stage of rot, should one not seek to remedy themselves of the magics. The pain of his arm, flailing about, is nearly completely ignored, but the horrendous pain of his burned skin is near unbearable.


Vaidhe is able to maintain the hellish inferno surrounding his person long enough only to allow a fresh plan of attack to come to mind. Hadrian's cry of pain is met with a primal roar from Vaidhe's still-open maw, and he is thrilled to see the gladiator take both weapons to hand and charge into close proximity once again; little thrills this saurian more than the validation of true tests of might. Both he and his adversary have suffered wounds, but neither is near enough to death to be suitably dissuaded from finishing the contest. So believing, Vaidhe releases all control upon the heat and detritus around him, permitting it to disperse as it will. Hadrian's blades begin to slash and bite, but Vaidhe has hurled himself to the ground, tucked his chin against his chest and thrust both arms outward. Hadrian's blows will now rain upon Vaidhe's neck and shoulders, mighty but not infallible by any means, but the dragon takes this punishment as calmly as he can while mustering his counterstroke. His huge clawed hands fasten around Hadrian's calves, claws locking together and digging into the gladiator's clothing, and perhaps even his flesh, for purchase. Vaidhe himself is still rather warm to the touch, the effect of which might be felt with such close contact. With a mighty yank, Vaidhe attempts to pull Hadrian's legs out from under him, simultaneously interrupting the gladiator's rain of blows upon his back and shoulders while pulling his enemy into a badly-compromised position. Vaidhe is a beast of over seven feet in height, possessed of prodigious strength...perhaps enough power to hold his captive prisoner for the few seconds it takes for the formerly-dropped mace, Ligetsleht, to hurl itself into the air and arrow directly for the back of the gladiator's head and neck. The strike is nothing more or less than a raw demonstration of strength; there is no finesse or art to the blow, since anything struck by a mace travelling at such a speed is likely to be both electrocuted and pulverized. Ligetsleht's enchantment rises in direct proportion to the speed and force with which it is moved. The dragon's scales have saved him from being paralyzed by a lucky blow to the spine, but have not saved him from suffering numerous deep gashes in both shoulders, some of which seem to burn with an unnatural, poisonous heat. It is Vaidhe's hope, however, that he has seized and surprised his prey quickly enough to have avoided taking one too many blows and, in so doing, rendered an end to this combat before he can be deemed the loser.


Hadrian grunts at the surprise of heated hands grappling desperately for his ankles, the flurry of his blows wrought with a grim determination made apparent by the gritted teeth, and brow-furrowed Hadrian. The Dragon was always up to something! Hadrian receives a few ghastly cuts and sears from the hellish cyclone of rampaging molten rock, some clanging against his armor, others sinking into his flesh like tiny projectiles. Blood begins to run down his body in slow rivulets, painting him to be a fearsome warrior borne of blood, it would seem; fitting for the Gladiator, is it not? Despite his newly acquired war paint and wounds, Hadrian knows, deep within, that this is not the last of it. He twists and squirms, but to little avail against the comparatively larger Dragon, whom clings tenaciously to him like a dead weight. And yet! His ordinarily rock-steady stance, practiced to a seamless perfection through rigorous years of training in a Ludus, is broken and he sent flailing to the ground. Just as he collides with the unforgiving cobblestone of Kelay Way, Ligetsleht descends upon him at the beckon of its master. The sickening 'thwack' produced as it collides viciously into his helmet of Mortality is capable of sending a shudder down his spine, but too lost is he in the nauseating pain, far too gone is he in the vast swimming ocean of blackness--unconsciousness his sweeping savior, to rescue him from the further damage of the electrical torrent that ravages his body. Afterwards, he lays limp, breathing haggardly.

Winner: Undecided.