Duel:Alex v Mathollak, Match 10 of the 2021 Titans of Winter Tournament
Duelists: Alex vs Mathollak Duel: Traditional 3 rounds with final defense, 20 minute posting limit. Stakes: Standard, autohit delivered by winner with allowance for final reply. Judges: Kasyr, Iintahquohae and Caltarok.
Snowless Training Yard
One would never know this patch of land once held the bloody remains of innocents killed long ago, for all have been cleared away and given proper burials nearby so that this area could be reborn. And reborn is has been, transformed from a battered street to a wide yard fenced in by a low, black stone wall. The yard sprawls out on either side of the iron gate that serves as an entrance, and the expanse seems to be sectioned off into four large rectangled areas by strange white lines drawn upon the ground--deeply embedded strips of marble, if one were to examine these closely. The ground itself is a peculiarity too, a soft, golden sandy surface without a single speck of snow upon it, as if the weather refuses to go near it. In fact, even the numbing chill in the air seems to be buffered while within the yard's boundaries. You suspect the four orbs of pulsing fluorite--white in the north, black in the south, crimson in the east, and cobalt in the west--that decorate the corners of the fence have something to do with this, riddled as they are with elaborate etchings of runes, sigils, and other arcane markings. Here lies the training yard for those learning the art of outdoor combat in Frostmaw, a blank slate to be altered as teachers see fit in instructing their students through the rigors of environmental conditions, for it takes no more than an adjustment upon the fluorite spheres to produce any arrangement of climates within their given battlefield. Rain, sleet, arid desert, howling wind, or boggy swamp, the four fields are infinitely mutable in their existence, as is to be expected of an institute devoted to the art of combat around the world. To the west looms an immense building, even by Frost Giant standards, with behemoth double doors of a darkly colored pine bearing the stern facade of Aramoth, God of War, chiseled across their collective front. One can safely assume this is the training academy proper, where various dojos, studios, and classrooms can be found, and unimaginable lessons attended by eager students of the art of War.
Mathollak saunters into the quad with his helmet under one arm and his axe clutched in the other. Behind him, attached to his red mithril suit of armor at the shoulders, drapes a long heavy looking cloak of shimmering golden fur. It barely scrapes the ground with the fringes of its fluff and has accumulated a fair bit of crud. He slams the blade of his axe into the ground with the shaft sticking out, and a sniveling imp crawls out of the newly formed scar in the ground, holding a steaming glass cup. "To the people of Frostmaw," he yells in a smooth voice, raising the glass, "To my fans," he says as he drinks it. He slides his helmet over his face and convulses a bit, from the epically nasty taste of whatever he just drank. "For Delisha!" He picks up his golden axe named The Piecemaker and tosses the imp into the stands.
Alex makes his entrance from the south with an entourage of two ogre behemoths, and two barbarian frost giants on either side of him - all four of them wielding war drums that are played in unison. The four massive creatures tower over the human, who is dressed primarily in body paint that covers his usual pale complexion with an intense coat of thick midnight black, and etchings of hollowed white that recreate his skeletal structure almost perfectly. Though he seems to have learned the importance of defense, as a thick steel shield rests upon his back atop of the freshly mended cloak from his queen - clearly, the fire from the week prior wasn't a permanent problem. Across his chest is a lighter breastplate that keeps his arms free, his legs are covered in a plate skirt, and his boots, well, those are still for show judging by the frills that surround his ankles. The bard's mithril claw hangs on his hip, and a shimmering chrome flute presents itself well on the opposite side. Clutched in his left hand, however, is a seemingly normal violin, and his right holds the horsehair bow. As he reaches an acceptable distance within the arena, he raises the hand with his bow and waves it dismissively to his followers, his lesson clearly learned from the loss of his companions last week as the ogres and giants make their way out of the arena while still playing his war song. From here, he examines Matthollak and finds himself unable to contain the smile that crosses his lips at the appearance of the man - attractive - he thinks, and as the long-haired human proclaims this act in favor of Delisha, the bard himself raises the bow again and cheers right back, "For Delisha!" with a smile, wink and blown kiss to his opponent. Then, he steadies himself for the battle ahead.
Kasyr is still at a loss for how this latest debacle had come to pass. It hadn't been the drink- no, the kensai had been doing a considerably solid job at avoiding Whiskeys siren song. Instead, today's bad decision is derived from the simplest of outcomes- logistics, and a lack of replacement emcees. His loyalty to the frigid city was enough that he (grudgingly) agreed to commit to the role. That said, his overall level of surliness has only increased since the initial agreement, if only due to a few factors. First of all, was the simple reason that he'd been strictly disallowed from hiring animal trainers to unleash wyverns on the arena. "Hazard to the contestants et audience, my ass." And he'd been equally veto'd on 'Training Grounds set to Molten Magma and Thunderstorms'. Frankly, they'd practically taken all the fun out of the situation for him. Still, he's obliged to hobble to the midst of their chosen arena- and so he does his best to belt out a suitably loud (yet still sickly) announcement, "Alright. For today's fight we have, ".. Did they include titles before their names? Hell no. "Cough..Sha's Mathollak es on this side." And then there's a gesture off to the other, "Et then we have the less Bombastically titled, Alex." The Kensai shuffles in place for a moment, waiting for any cheers from the audiences to die down, before he adds, "If there's any gold on the line, ou just glory- now's the time to mention it." (Additional Stakes, you nerds).
Round One:
Mathollak feels the connection between himself, Alex, and Delisha. It imparts on him a certain amount of camaraderie, but even more rivalry than there was to begin with. "I'm her favorite, you know," he says to the bard. "Deli-babe, let's show him how to party." With that small prayer, he ignites a sublime aura of boozy caramel-colored steam that seems to evaporate from his skin with every breath. Then he kicks off into a sprint, kicking up sand behind him as he moves with surprising speed (for a fully armored knight, but it -is- mithril, and he'd been used to wearing clunky iron). As he closes the distance, parts of his aura seem to disconnect from him in the form of tiny champagne bubbles that hover and float in the air, but he doesn't miss them. His focus is on Alex, and the parts of his body that are begging to be made into pieces. Once his feet find the absolute tip of his reach, he lowers his gravity and skids to a halt, scraping up a plume of sand like a rude snowboarder at the bottom of a snowy hill, attempting to spray Alex in the face. His hands slide to the top and bottom of the axe as he levers the blade side to one bare arm, and that's a big ol' ax blade so it'll hurt if it hits. But his aura accumulates at the butt of his axe, and as soon as his first swing is finished, he pushes out the shaft of his axe, aiming for an overhead smite-bonk that would hopefully infuse Alex's mind with the full might of a dozen bottles of nasty tequila. He'd suddenly feel super drunk.
Alex snickers at his opponent's comment regarding the favor of their goddess, though he doesn't waste time coming up with a retort. The bard flicks his wrist to invert the horsehair bow so it's parallel with his lips. He begins with a soft hum, a small act that illuminates the already exaggerated bright blue of his eyes to a glow as he begins channeling mana to his voice. Then, as his opponent rushes closer, he creates a small gap in his lips and begins to blow as he hums, emitting a frosty steam of breath that he uses to cover the horsehair while rocking his neck back and forth - the action turning the pale blonde hair of the bow iridescent. Another flick of his opposing wrist brings the violin towards his face, and he presses his chin into the soft black pad while bringing the bow to hover over the strings. Despite the barbaric cultist quickly closing the gap, the bard seemed unafraid as he stood his ground with patience and an odd presence of contentment. Then, just as his opponent slid to a halt, the bard played - well, played isn't quite the word. Rather, he dropped the bow to the strings and pulled down in a rapid and hard motion that tore the instruments renown apart. Instead of a graceful harmony, an awful squeal erupted, and with it came a large burst of potent arcane energy that quite literally turned the soundwaves into a shockwave-like blast. The sand was countered by the explosion, but while the energy would've possibly shaken the opponent, the force behind his axe would not deter it's current course. Instead, Alex found himself quickly bringing the violin to meet the blade of the axe, shattering the instrument with another awful sound. The impact causes him to stumble face first onto the ground, allowing the smite-bonk to collide with the shield that covered his side, but the blow still knocks the wind out of him. Thinking quickly, the bard scrambles to his feet and desperately reaches for the flute by his side, but finds himself unable to blow into it as he gasps for air. So instead, he does what any reasonable musciain would do - he pulls back with his right arm, and tosses the flute with marksmen like precision with aim directed right between the opening in Mathollak's helmet.
Round Two:
Mathollak felt Alex's awful strumming reverberate through his armor, his skin, and bones. And the shockwave too can be blamed for his imprecise attempt at the hangover-bonk attack. In the seconds Mathollak took to recover, Alex was able to find his feet again and line up a shot with his flute. Yet he can't lose his advantage! He ducks his head and turns it like a swimmer gasping for air, and the flute dings off the shiny red crest and bounces away. Mathollak's rushing again, intent to keep his rival close. Once again, he closes the distance, gaining on his opponent while he backpedals, and empties his lungs with a massive ground rumbling belch. But its strategic! His aura inflames, expanding rapidly and forming into dozens, hundreds, thousands (!) of champagne bubbles that flutter all around Alex, gathering around him. They're extremely light, so light, that as they accumulate, they'll begin to lift him off his feet, and tumble him head over heels as they skitter tickling across his body. He'd be lifted a few feet off the ground. For Mathollak, this would be like tee-ball. He slides his hands down to the very butt of his axe, spins the shaft in his hands, sledge side facing Alex. With one grand homerun swing, Mathollak cocks the weapon behind his head, plants his feet, and swings his arms, hips, and most importantly the hammer-head of the piecemaker, toward Alex's (hopefully) slightly levitating body.
Alex feels a bit foolish as the drunken warrior outsmarts him by simply turning his head, which causes the chrome flute to bounce off of his helmet with only a slight 'ping'! The bard audible whines, turns a hint redder from embarrassment, and lets his shoulders fall in a moment of self-pity. However, his 'poor me' charade isn't given enough time to woe the crowd or otherwise as he has very little time to react before Matthollak is belching like a slob and causing Alex's slight attraction to fade further and further by the second. "How crude", he mutters beneath recently regained breath while reaching over his shoulder to claim the steel shield that was resting on his back. As he slides the shield into a defensive position, he ponders if the drunkards spell had actually had some effect as his head feels as if it's lifting off into space. No, Alex wasn't wasted, he was lifting off into space (or, y'know, a few inches off the ground). Catching the bard off guard and leaving him feeling like the victim of an eccentric business man using his candy factory as a make-shift slaughter house, Alex has no choice but to brace himself for the coming blow. He steels himself as best he can by gripping the shield's straps with both hands and tucking as much of his body as possible behind it, and then the force of the blow sends him flying across the arena and skidding over the sand leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. The shield absorbed most of the blow, but the bard's wrists ached as if the bones themselves were still vibrating. As he pushed himself to find his footing once more, he glared to his opponent with much less admiration than before - the man's eyes stabbing like daggers from behind the painted skull that hid the scowl on his expression, Alex was pissed. Shaking off the pain in his hands, the bard changes course from defensive to offensive and starts rushing Mathollak in a near limp before regaining composure and breaking into a sprint. As he closes the distance between them he uses all of his strength to launch his shield into the sky and ahead of him. As it drops, the bard opens his mouth wide and releases his signature move by erupting a banshee like screech from his vocal cords that connects with the shield and propels it forward with incredible speed on a crash course towards the warrior before him. As it does, Alex continues his march, forcing freshly manicured nails into the grips of his mithril claw while untangling it from his hip and bringing himself to drive the razored edges into any piece of exposed flesh he can find once the shield concusses his opponent.
Round Three:
Mathollak shouldn't be personally blamed for the ways Delisha's magic ravages his body! Especially his guts. Those were some potent brews, and they were never meant to be drunk by people. Delisha admired him for his willingness to try anything though, and happily bequeathed her boons. "Babe," he says to Delisha in prayer, as Alex rises to his feet and begins a charge. Mathollak meanwhile has expended his aura too early, and the fight hasn't ended. "Babe. I know you hate to see your boys fight amongst each other," this was probably a lie, "And you'd never help one over the other..." Another lie. "But would you just help -me-? I love you the best!" Nothing happens. Alex pulls his trick. Mathollak raises his axe defensively. The shield, powered by a concussive banshee scream, hits him in the shoulder, direct, and flips him over twice in the air. By the time he comes to his senses, Mathollak is flat on his back. Alex is upon him, raking his body with a mithril claw to find purchase in his armor. Ultimately he must want to pull Mathollak's innards out. Mathollak begins to scramble. Attempting to get away, he crabwalks backwards, allowing the claw to hook into and behind his fancy gold belt, carving into his abdomen and tearing away a shred of flesh and blood. And where is his ax in all this? Mathollak sees it above him, flipping, turning in the air. Apparently knocked loose when the shield knocked him. Mathollak silently calls it back to him, and its trajectory changes from a lobbing arc, to a spinning targeted line. Only, Alex is between Mattie and his axe, so when it tries to reach him, it might instead lodge itself in Alex's back.
Alex is almost frenzied as he rips and tears whatever he can with the extended reach of his claw. As the sharp edges find a bit of meat to peel, he's left with a fiendish grin that reveals some of his usually pearly whites to be stained with sand and make-up. He pulls his right arm back and grabs the disconnected flesh with his free hand and squeezes it tightly to feel to the warmth of Mathollak's blood pooling in the lines of his palm. The satisfaction from his success is so alluring, that he immediately goes back in for seconds. As his frenzied swipes continue to rain upon the armor, garments, and hopefully flesh of his contemplative brother, he manages to catch the gaze of his target through his bloodlust. Why wasn't he looking at Alex? Wait. Where was his the axe? The bard immediately throws his weight to the right to dive off of Mathollak and into the sand, but this leaves his left leg exposed for just a moment too long. The blade of the axe catches the bottom of Alex's plateskite, and slices horizontally through part of the bard's calf. The skin pops open and out comes the blood, heavy, thick, and dark. The rich crimson becomes tainted with black as it washes away some of the body paint, and falls to stain the sand like oil and ooze. Hissing through his teeth as he pulls himself backwards, Alex tosses the Death Knight's flesh and scoops up sand before shoving it into his leg wound, and then slapping it repeatedly to help stop the bleeding. It's not perfect, but effective enough to give him time to rise to his feet once more. He's shaking but sturdy enough, and after a quick self-assessment, he looks towards his oppent with a grim expression followed by gritted teeth. Alex inhales deeply, puffing his chest out as he expands his lungs to full capacity, his arms extending out on each side of him as the blue glow of his eyes begins to illuminate once more. Then, his lips part and his voice arrives like thunder. The low, quaking vibration of his voice causes the sand around them to shift and shake as the earth itself seems to move. It'd been five years since the bard used this song, in the first round of Titans of Winter a half-decade ago, but it quickly became clear that he had lost no potency in it's power. As the ground shifted, Mathollak would find himself suddenly sinking and possibly trapped beneath the surface from the weight of his armor as every open segment became flooded with heavy, heavy sand.
Final Defense:
Mathollak catches his rapidly spinning axe cleanly in one armored mitt after it cuts through Alex, invisibly spraying Mathollak's already-red armor with blood. The momentum of its looping arc is enough to pull him to his feet, but only for them to begin sinking! Alex's heavy bass knocks loose the foundations under Mathollak's feet, and as he feels the ground tremble, he's being slowly sucked down. Each step he takes with one foot, sinks his other deeper, and it seems a helpless struggle. He's down to his waist, forced to drop his ax to lose weight, attempting to keep his hands out while not tilting his balance in either direction. "Babe...!" He's desperately searching his environment for something, anything that might help, because as long as Alex's lungs hold out, Mathollak will keep sinking. Then he sees it. Sees them. A translucent swarm (more like a squad now) of champagne bubbles that he used to set up Alex for the homerun swing! "Babe...Delisha...! Bring them over!" They bounce daintily on a soft breeze, but come no closer. "...Please?" The bubbles happily flutter over to him and swim over him. Inch by inch, he's raised up, and its clear that soon he'll be free.
Winner: Mathollak
Auto Hit and Response:
Mathollak quickly clutches his axe and brings it over his head. Using both hands this time, he hurls it with all his might...! And it misses. Alex easily sidesteps it, while The Piecemaker lodges blade first in the sand, hammer-side up just by the foot of the bard. Clean air shot, but the distraction is enough to cause a stutter in Alex's song, which is all Mathollak needs. With the help of the bubbles, he finds sure footing and with three long strides, he brings his armored mitts to Alex's shoulders, and joins him in a dance. They grapple and swing around each other, but Mathollak gets the upper-hand and eventually brings him down hard onto the broad surface of his hammer-head. He hammerfists Alex's breastplate like a blacksmith, once, twice...and then stops. The fight is won.
Alex is tossed to the ground like a sack of potatoes and the first punch from Mathollak is nearly enough to knock the wind out of him again, but the second actually does. The bard's eyes begin to water as he looks mostly like a fish out of water, gasping and struggling to breathe. Thankfully, the drunk decides enough is enough and backs off to claim his victory. Alex rolls to his side and continues gasping for air, over and over and over until he finally feels a slight sense of relief. Blue eyes fall to stare at the totem of Delisha that hangs around his neck, "How in all of the hells, did he end up your favorite?" He questions in a defeated and embarrassed whisper. But still, there was no time to waste. Defeat never tasted sweet, and the pain that throbbed throughout his entire body begged him to stay down - but Alex had work to do. His home wasn't going to build itself, and he probably needed to get his leg looked at before amputation became necessary. He picks himself up, and if he spots Mathollak, gives him a subtle nod of respect, then staggers away to be escorted out of the arena by his entourage of giants and ogres.