Duel:Arghen v Colton (DD)
OOC Details
Judges: Hanan (Mid), Ginger, Jolie
Stakes: Death and Inventory
Posting Limits: 15 minutes per post. Challenger had first attack and last defense at 7.5 minutes
Just another quiet night at the Hanging Corpse
This once-timber tavern has been rebuilt in sturdily vitrified blackstone and imbued with powerful protective magics that prevent occult fire and several other potentially harmful spells being cast within its walls. No effort has been spared to make what might otherwise be a bleak interior comfortable. The bar is made of polished stone with an oaken inlay, the space behind filled with a bustle of attractive barmaids, sundry barrels and a dazzling array of coloured bottles that glint in the light cast by a large wrought-iron candelabrum suspended from the ceiling overhead. Here, the one-eyed Steadman stands, ready to take orders for food or drink. Beyond the bar, stout tables are firmly bolted to the floor, though the high-backed chairs are freestanding. The hearth is a true feature, seeming to be cast from black lava into the shape of a colossal, laughing goblin's head, its maw gaping wide and deep, usually containing a merrily crackling fire.
Arghen steps outside, hands still full of cards.
Colton says nothing. He follows the elf, abandoning his drink for the dark of Vailkrin's streets and the promises of new stains upon his coat. One way or another.
Jolie would apologise later for not replying to anyone - she was a sudden black-clad blur, on her way to the door.
Ranok shrugs, "If hyu vant to talk about it, schtill, den ve'll do it later. Hy'd like to see how de man's folly does him in a fight." He strools to the door, exiting soon after.
Cornelius raises an eyebrow "This looks like fun" and swiftly strolls in the direction of trouble
The duel commences on the oft-bloodied streets of Vailkrin
Hemlock Way has broadened to become a wide City Road carrying locals, travellers and merchants through its bustling thoroughfare. The general air is one of cautious calm, probably due to staunch City Guard patrols being particularly present here, ensuring that visitors and locals alike can stroll the dimly-lit blackstone streets under the glow of streetlamps and the silvery moon relatively unmolested. To the north is a well-fitted shop, its sign suggesting supplies fit for necromancy and other dark magics. A short southern street leads to the entrance of Vailkrin's most stylish -and notorious- tavern.
Colton -=|| Amidst the brick and the dark of Vailkrin he followed, followed the elf with an edge to his strides and a ripple of movement in the heavy folds of his battered coat. The fabric was layered thick with blood, fresh and otherwise, and stunk of coppery death and absolute in the certainty that one way or another there would be more claret added to it by the evening's end. Colton Black did not waste time. The great particulars, the politesse, of this place were of no concern to him. Instead, as they crossed the threshold of the Corpse and entered the urban dark of the causeway he exploded forward with a grating of his boots on broken cobblestones and the feline quickness of his hand plunging into his coat to retrieve the crude, stone-headed mallet at his waist. It arced sharply down, sinuous arm slashing it in an attempt to bury the blood-stained head into the soft nape of the elf's neck with enough force to shatter bone and crumple him upon the road. Around them, as the business of murder began, the lights flickered subtly as though fighting through the Dead City's many shadows. The creeping, inky nature of their blackness spreading out as a grim and telling omen.
Arghen had to admit, the hammer suddenly swinging from him at the side as the pair had barely crossed the threshold of the tavern was something unexpected. The weight of the hammer cut through the air with a sound of impending doom, and that whoosh of air is all that would find the neck of the elf for this particular blow as his right arm reached skywards to act as a haphazard shield against the incoming attack. Though the blow is stopped, and is made far from lethal, the cracking of bones and a shrieking of absolute pain rushes through the streets and opens nearly every door it touches with curious hands and eyes to see what was going on. The elf himself stumbled backwards, attempting to gain room between himself and the madman as the deck of cards in his left hand was thrust forward still gripped in his palms. Despite the pain that was etched onto his face, there is a sparkle in his eyes the second before his lips part in a pained grin and the cards seem to explode from his palm much the same as buckshot spreads when fired from a rifle. The cards are launched forward with the glittering of minor magics propelling their flight towards the face and body Colton to help provide a retreat tactic for Arghen. The edges of the cards seemed stiffened by magic and would slice deep into flesh painfully but without any real damage beyond pain done to the target unless he took all fifty-two of the cards into his body. The left hand, now empty of its cards, was eager to draw the rapier from his belt in a scramble should Colton continue to press the attack. At Arghen's side hung a limp arm horribly deformed in its sleeve.
Colton -=|| They were a swarm, insect-like, as though so many wasps made flat and wax-coated. Already a ruinous thing, his coat was shredded as he twisted with his blow, turned his shoulder and presented profile to the retreating elf and the razor-like hail of his cards. One zipped across his face, splitting his cheek wide, flaying open the flesh to reveal bloodied teeth beyond while another sunk a quarter-inch into the meat of his chest. Of pain, there could be plenty, great tails of claret spiraled off in the wake of the cards like a fine mist. Colton Black felt the lacerations all but everywhere, irritating him their sharp barks of pain in the manner of two dozen paper cuts. Still, this was not a game of tricks. There was blood to be drawn. Real blood. The kind that flowed with chunks of flesh and meat and bubbled from killing blows and fatal wounds. For his part the Elf drew a needle-blade, swift and certain. The kind of weapon meant to slip past a rib and make its way to something vital. An elegant weapon. A weapon with -flair- as it were. Colton cared nothing for the crowd's excitement, he paid them no mind even as his free hand found the dagger at his waist and drew it. He continued forward with his cheek flapping, grisly in the way it threw up blood with each of his quickening strides. The arc of his hammer was drawn like a boxer's uppercut, right hip to left shoulder in a one-handed swipe meant to pray on the elf's immobile left arm. If uninterrupted, unavoided, the cold stone of its face would connect with the prettier stone of the elf's and turn it to a ruin. The dark of Vailkrin ate at some. It threatened to swallow them up and amidst the promise of blood it seemed to swell, to grow, while in his rage the man known as Black succumbed to himself. A keen eye would note the color bleeding from his eyes, amber brown and even the great whites melting into inky blackness. A soulless visage in otherwise lupine cast, his lips curled in a feral snarl. The shadows personified in his hollow, murderous look.
Arghen found the hammer to be a severe nuisance, its weight and speed requiring more than a parry or a simple block with a rapier. Heck, the blade of the standard Rapier would snap in two at the mere thought of being hit by hammer like that. Arghen was left with few choices and did not enjoy the thought of any of them in the milliseconds they crossed his mind. The blade in his left, his good hand as it would be, snaked forward with expertise to try and intervene by applying the blade to the man's wrist and cut deep into the tendon and muscle there to keep his hammer far far away from the face of the elf. Unfortunately, whether the blade found purchase of flesh or not, it was immediately sacrificed to the mighty charge of the stone. The hilt was ripped from the grasp of the elf as he took another step back and reached for his belt line again to find one of his own many throwing daggers. The dagger is tossed underhanded towards the raging lunatic before Arghen realized how poor his aim is. The buzz on his hand explains why as his currently extended hand comes into his field of vision, the pointer and ring fingers were bent at quite an awkward angle to lead one to suspect they were broken. The bad news could have only been muted by the white hot pain in his right arm, but the fact was his hand's effectiveness was quite reduced. Another step back, always on the retreat it would seem, the elf's mangled hand would again reach to draw another knife as the first thrown went wide to the left with almost no chance to hit the man but plenty chance to hit an unsuspecting spectator.
Colton -=|| Frustration boiled, churned beneath the surface of his features as one moment drew into the next and the Elf, somehow, continued to elude his hammer. Blood sprayed each time the pair came together, though now it was most certainly Colton Black's own, as the nimble blade of the man's rapier slashed across the meat of his wrist and parted muscle and flesh with keen and knowing ease. It was a matter of fortune, and motion, that had kept his grip certain on the battered wood handle of his mallet. It was infuriating that the pretty-faced, lolling tongued elf had evaded another stroke meant to end the contest. Aching, more of rage than the wounds that dotted his unhandsome form, Colton Black relinquished himself to the inevitable. The Conjurer drew forth from every cranny, every sliver of darkness, the very shadow that had all the while been creeping inward upon the pair. It was drawn to him, a kindred, with forked and inky tongues meant to suddenly splay and spread and blanket the causeway in utter darkness. The flicker of candles, of oil-lamps, would waver in futility against the onslaught before they were choked out. And in the dark, the great an unending dark, Colton took the time between the elf's first errant dagger and the next to ensure that the elf was without a target. In the grim and unnatural blackness he would come forward, his own dagger released to the cobbles with a clatter meant to confuse, meant to draw Arghen's attention. It was meant to give Colton Black enough time to twist, with both hands on the hammer's hilt, and throw all of his rugged strength to action in a solitary blow sweeping out towards the middle of the elf's spine. If connecting, it would shatter, drop him in the hopeless dark of the Conjurer's making. It would leave him prone to the unspeakable horrors his tools were capable of and the sadistic, ruthless nature of the black-eyed man's dark mind.
Arghen twitches as the darkness consumes his field of vision and robs him of his most important sense. The elf was not a race that was known for their exceptional sense of smell, nor their excellent fashion sense though the latter could be debatable… they were a race of archers and warriors who used keen eyes and quick hands to deal death to their enemies. The clatter of a blade on the ground tossed his head to the left as his target went right. Unbeknownst to Arghen, his death might very well be right next to him as he sought out to use those pointy little ears to do something important. Steps on the cobblestone were loud, Arghen's own suddenly pounding legs sprinting the opposite direction of the dagger's clang and it is there where the hammer meets him with full force… of the swing. The head catches lower back of his ribcage as Arghen runs into the extended arms of Colton. Coughing up blood, Arghen realizes his feet have left the pavement and his hand was now empty of the blade he had grabbed from his belt. With a thud he lands in a sideways log roll over the cobblestone sure to further bruise the battered elf. To be honest, Arghen didn't even know if he could stand with the lack of breath in his lungs and so much blood lost internally. His vision swam towards blackness even as he escaped the darkness that Colton had created. Crumpled form laying on the cobblestone, another deck of cards was tugged from the belt with bleeding digits. A single breath touched the back of the cards and again they swarmed into the darkness with a wide angle and range in hopes of further bloodying the man who had done this to him. Their aim was unsure as they launched into the darkness and Arghen stayed still on the cobblestone, too tired, sore, beaten, and broken to even try such a foolish task. He did grin, a single smile as a single card in the deck suddenly makes its presence known with the concussive thud of a minor explosion somewhere in the darkness. Arghen could only hope that it had killed the beast attacking him… because the gambler couldn't take any more.
Colton -=|| There was no sight but sound; he was awarded the sickly satisfying impact of his hands guiding his hammer into something meaty and abruptly yielding. In the dark, blanketed by his own creation, he sagged as though victorious. Relieved, finally, to be rid of the pest that had somehow managed to hang with him throughout a night born of murderous intent. Blood ran from his cheek without relent, seeping with the intensity of a facial wound. He ached. The wrist flayed open now flared white-hot and demanded his other hand claim his hammer's weight. And then something struck him in the shoulder, buried half-way deep like a dagger's blade, and Colton Black heard impacts in the dark stone all around him. He twisted, gave his back and shrunk, feral and instinctive as unseen dangers whirred over his head. An unfortunate beggar, cowering against a nearby wall, collapsed as a card cut through his throat and split an exposed carotid. Hot jets of blood forged a fountain high in the air, showering Colton Black in the stench of death. For a moment it seemed as though he would escape, be left otherwise as he was, until one of the deadly little wasps found his back and exploded. His coat burst to flames as the man flew, face forward, before striking the broken cobbles of the street and skidding to a halt. The smoldering ruin of his jacket curling smoke into the air as the darkness abruptly, sudden slipped back to its proper shadows and the lights and flames that had been smothered abruptly burst back to life.
Judges' Decision
Hanan is mid and oocly calls for votes.
Jolie would just like to thank both for what was an impressive fight on both sides - good writing, men, thanks for it Hanan concurs.
Ginger oocly agrees. . .very colorful and evocative. . .or something like that.
Hanan had fun reading this!
Hanan said, "By unanamous decision, the duel goes to Colton. However, all judges thought that both combatants wrote excellently. It was very close."
Arghen oocly doesn't think it is close when it's a unanimous decision. I guess I'll start inventory dumping.
Jolie -- ooc concurs. Very close. Good work, both. Been ages since I read a duel that was this visually exciting. Hanan was very surprised it was unanimous, if that counts for anything.
Colton said, "OOC I'd like to say that this wasn't personal. Arghen has been a complete sportsman about this and truly deserves every respect. My character's brutality doesn't represent how I approach the writing."
Victor: Colton
Killing Blow and aftermath
Colton -=|| The crowd looked on and he moved, dragged himself up with a miserable and wretched groan. Still, despite the flames that still curled lazily across his back and the flayed, bloodied stretch of his cheek, the Conjurer was smiling. A pronounced stagger marked his strides as he shakily holstered his hammer at his side, found his dagger on the stones and gathered it into his coat. The means of his stride take him to the crumpled elf, whom he settles down upon, straddling in the midst of the road so that his rangy hips set his weight down upon the taller figure's chest. He is a wordless horror, amber eyes wide and keen as his long fingers shakily produce (http://www.faqs.org/photo-dict/photofiles/list/9336/12696hand_drill.jpg) the hand drill from the folds of his colt. The iron screw is punched deep into the elf's right eye before Colton Black begins to twist the handle, drilling through the man's socket as blood fountains from within and splashes to cover his face and hands. He drills until it sinks deep, twisting its way into the hollow of the man's skull to churn and liquefy the thick, gelatinous mass of brain below. It is a horrific way to end. A painful way, full of writhing and jerking, bleeding and often screaming. But Colton Black has no mercy within him. His hands contort the drill with slow, patient strength, as though unaware of the crowd gathered near.
Ranok has taken to attempting to save the poor beggar's life, who's crime was to simply be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the man was far, far too late. A neck wound like that is deadly within seconds, and it took too many to get there. Instead, Ranok watches the man bleed out onto the pavement, being clutched by the poor soul. Ranok knew he was too late, knew that there was nothing to be done. And yet still he presses the bandage, speaks to the dying man. Words are cold comfort when both parties know they're a lie, but still. A minute draws by and the begger is dead. Ranok's hands are covered with blood that isn't his. He looks resigned. Not wrought with grief. Like he was presented with just another of life's inevitabilities that one must face, which is then acknowledge and piled on top of the rest. As he lowers the beggar to the street he mutters in his own language. Perhaps a curse. Perhaps a prayer. Perhaps simply just an observation of how much blood he's covered in. Naught but the man himself knows. He reaches over, plucking the card that killed the beggar from where it lay. He inspects it. Whether or not it still contains magic is the question. However, he gathers all he can find up, where they lay. And if Colton leaves the ones Arghen has left unthrown, Ranok will take the unspent ones from the corpse as well.
Cornelius || Amidst the sound of shocked gasps, grimaces, and the retching of one weak-stomached soul, is that of a single man's polite applause, coming from the scar-faced mercenary with silver-grey hair "Nicely done, old bean. Rather inventive use of carpentry equipment, wot. The shadow-play reminds me of the last time I fought a drow. Your next drink, should you be wanting one to disinfect your wounds from the inside, is on me."
Jolie simply stared at the gambler's remnants, impassively, her gaze turning to the smouldering, wounded conjurer. "You could do with some stitches," was all she said, the offer implicit.
Luthien blinked. Her slave had just been killed. The drow shook her head. Gambling was dumb yes, but gambling with your life was the stupidest thing he's ever seen. Gambling resulted into him becoming the house's slave, and now it had resulted into him getting killed. The lady would just stand there feeling no remorse for the lad.
Colton withdrew his drill but did not clean it. Never, ever, did he clean his tools. Instead, he stowed it, glancing sidelong once to both Cornelius and Jolie's direction. "A drink. And stitches. They sound equally good." He bent then, gathering up the expired elf's limp form with both of his large hands. The Jerk of his arms sent it to the iron-bar from the establishment, impaling it beside the hanging wood inscribed with the establishments name. The corpse would be hung there, a gruesome pun, and left to bleed across the threshold. A soup of crimson and pink, remnants of brain-matter, sloshed from the popped socket of the elf's right eye and began to spill across its pale cheek. Rats already were gathering below, ready to drink what rained down and already considering a way up to the treasure that would soon rot above.
Jolie, squinting at the corpse, or perhaps from the sting of smoke still wafting from the conjurer's back as she trailed in his wake, would follow Colton inside, beckoning to Cornelius. "Drinks on the house."