Duel:Armitas v Rheven
Rheven vs. Armitas
Rheven stares silently at the assassin opposite of him, standing firm upon the ground of the arena. Reaching either hand to the robe above his head, the mage pulls the concealing garment back, revealing his ghastly pale features, complete with a rather devious smirk upon his lips. Glancing about the arena, the vampire notes the many shards and bits of fragmented diamonds, his smirk suddenly shifting to a wide grin, a grin that parts only seconds later, giving way to a mind boggling chant, unfamiliar to those not versed in the elemental arts. As his spoken spell progresses, a sudden wind dips into the area; quite calm at first, though it swiftly grows far stronger, soon reaching something akin to a gale, causing the runed robes upon his body to flutter about in protest. As may be expected, the debris upon the ground is swept up into these most eager winds, tossing them about the area. Suddenly, the sorcerer's words come to a climax, and the final word of his spell is bellowed! Pointing a single finger forward, the winds direct themselves toward the assassin, bringing in tow everything they collected from the ground. The obvious threat comes from the many jagged shards of diamond, though severed body parts are also tossed in his direction. As the debris reaches the area above Armitas, it is suddenly dragged toward him, propelled by the arcane winds, providing a most dire predicament for the draconian.
Armitas entered the arena and swaggered confidently to it's center, his flowing cloak fluttering with every ample stride he took. He coolly turned to face his opponent, noting the pallid one's smirk and thinking it vain. Whereas Rheven took off his mask, Armitas kept the featureless ebony facade in place so that his expressions could not betray his intentions. Keeping his arms hidden within the confines of his cloak, it was unapparent what weapon, if any, he held. Again, he did not wish the mage to understand exactly how Armitas planned to fight him. From the skirmish in the Enchanted Kingdom, Armitas knew that Rheven was powerful -- one who commanded all manner of magical attacks. To beat one such as him, the assassin knew he needed to be stealthy and quick. He wore his lightest armor and within the folds of his cloak and duster hid a small arsenal of compact weapons. They were all readily within his reach. Which he would use first, he was not sure...That was up to the pallid one's opening offensive. For a moment Armitas's crimson pools focused solely on the mage, scrutinizing his armor and weaponry as if to ascertain his intent. The answer the assassin sought came a few seconds later when with gusto the mage summoned a powerful whirlwind. With the strength of a mighty Ogre and lithic flesh -- thanks to the traveling Imp -- Armitas was able to stand his ground against the first hurricane to blow past him. But it was not what was coming at him that he should fear, but what rained down upon him from the sky. Looking up, milliseconds too late to avoid the hailstorm of deadly debris, Armitas lowered into a crouch and covered his head with his forearms, letting steeling himself for the brunt of the attack. Pelted by razor sharp diamond shards, not even rocky skin was left unharmed. Deep gashes ran down his forearms and the uppermost portions of his back. A few chunks even managed to imbed themselves in his flesh. Once the assault subsides, Armitas slowly stood, his clothes in tatters. In agonizing pain, he wanted to quit right there and give up, but pride kept him going. Gnashing his teeth together, he reached behind his back to the crossbow slung there and whipped it out, taking aim at the center of Rheven's chest. It was already loaded with a custom bundle of enchanted piercing bolts that once fired would split midair into seven separate arrows, enough to leave Rheven a bit lighter and much more airy...
Rheven begins a sadistic sort of laughter as he bears witness to the fruits of his labor, the hail of shards tearing through his opponent’s flesh. His cackling ceases at the sight of the crossbow though, falling silent and taking a far less mocking approach to his foe. As the single arrow races toward him, the mage lofts both of his arms upward, hands opening into flattened palms toward the incoming projectile. Again, a chant of the arcane language begins to dance from his tongue, and it sounds nearly identical to his last – however, the sorcerer’s spell-song halts abruptly, apparently a bit in shock of the bolt that suddenly split into six more, seven total. Regardless, the vampiric mage shakes his head, that strange speech coming forth once more, and at a much faster pace. Again he shouts the trigger word to his magical calling, and again winds dip into the area, this time coming directly behind Rheven. Due in part to the winds, the mage falls forward, watching from his new seat upon the ground as the winds press against the projectiles. It becomes obvious they are far too strong for the bolts, bringing their flight to a halt and scattering them about the arena, sticking into the earth and even into the stands, sending a few spectators fleeing in terror. With a smug smirk, the vampire lifts himself up, dismissing his control over the air, which brings it back to normal as if nothing happened at all. Gathering a deep breath, the mage begins a new spell, though this one is not marked by words – instead, his fingers begin to move in complex gestures, looking very awkward and strange to anyone that isn’t familiar with what he may be doing. The runes upon his robes begin to glow a faint sanguine, and suddenly Rheven brings his hands forward, sweeping the area before him. In the wake of his hands is a strange haze, which upon the speaking of a simple word that Rheven utters, forms into a wall of flame! It isn’t overly large, only about as tall as the vampire himself, though no less dangerous, formed of searing white fire. With another simple gesture, this wall of flame surges forth, blackening the ground beneath it. Feeding on the air itself, it begins to grow in height and girth, becoming far larger and far more dangerous as it approaches Armitas, intent to damn him to a quite literally hellish fate.
Armitas watches the pallid one, his breath ragged and hoarse due to the horrendous pain he is in. When he sees his arrows fail to make their mark, he can do nothing but feel cheated by the shyster that sold them. If they cannot pierce the wind then what can they pierce? A newborn babe's bottom? Armitas chortled at that thought. So far he had stood up to one of the mage's mystical assaults, he figured. He wondered what the pallid one would hit him with next while at the same time, plotting his next maneuver. Glowing runes meant nothing to Armitas, but when flames appeared he knew that something dire was about to befall him. He also understood that if he were to move too soon he could just as easily be caught up in the flames as if he were to move too slow. So instead he waited to see just exactly where the pallid one intended to direct the white hot blaze. Once it became apparent that they were forming a massive wall and began barreling forward, coming directly at him, Armitas could only think of one way to get out of harm's way: straight up and over the flames. Crouching low, his leg muscles tightened up, and then, powered by the impish one's magic ring, Armitas leapt upward and forwards. With such strength at his disposal, and a lithe frame, he hurtled over twenty feet into the air and descended on a gradient that would bring him right up, close and personal with his adversary. Having barely cleared the wall of fire, as he came down upon Rheven, his boots were ablaze and trailing flames into the night sky, like the tail of two comets chasing a constellation that took the form of a beaten but still strong Draconian assassin. Slipping a pouch from his pocket, still in the air, Armitas threw it's contents down at Rheven's face. The pallid one would find a shower of finely ground salt and pepper coming at him. No...Armitas didn't intend to eat him. He just wanted to hinder the mage's sense of smell, taste, and sight, if even for a moment. Behind the rain of powdery spices, came Armitas's right fist looking to KO Rheven with a downward sweeping right cross...
Rheven seems to be stunned by the assassin’s inhuman, acrobatic maneuver, only able to stop and gape at his foe. This proves to be a rather horrible mistake, as by the time he decides to react, the pepper and salt assails his eyes. A venomous curse spills from Rheven’s lips as he is suddenly blinded, bringing his hands to his face in an attempt to rub the foreign matter away. He isn’t even able to manage it though, as the draconian’s fist comes by in a devastating haymaker, connecting with his jaw with a rather firm ‘crack’. To the ground the mage goes, tumbling across the earth weakly – he does not remain there for long however, raising to his knees and removing the last bits of pepper from his eyes, which are now horribly bloodshot, yet it only seems to enhance the look of utter disdain and hatred etched onto his face. Spitting a glob of blood to the side, the sorcerer makes his way to his feet once more, a hateful hiss issuing forth. Ignoring the pain for now, the vampiric mage begins a new spell, this one formed by both complex words and gestures, spoken in a strangely poetic tone and manner. Before him, flames gather once more, though this time they do not form into a wall, but a faceless figure. In seconds, a summoned being forged of flame stands there, as if waiting on his masters command. Controlling him by will alone, Rheven flicks his fingers toward Armitas, which seems to propel the being into motion. As he comes within range, a blade forged of hellish flames forms in his left hand, though he does nothing with it just yet. Lifting his right hand, a gush of flames pours forth toward the draconian’s face, intent to blind as well as burn. In the wake of this comes the motion of the blade, swung with astonishing skill and speed for the most lethal of targets: his neck. All the while, Rheven drops back to a knee, winded by his latest conjuring, yet watching it all with a sense of pride.
Armitas doesn't land perfectly, the strength of the blow he infected sends his body off balance so that he hits the ground on his side, prompting a rough exhalation more blood and spittle than air to spill from his lips. It smatters the inside of his already soggy mask, urging him to remove it as he staggers to his feet, several feet away from the mage. Surprisingly, his expression is serene rather than full of rage. If it were not for the pain he would appear stone faced. Stumbling back to distance himself from his foe, his blood red eyes regard the pallid one's own bloodshot pools. Trembling lips slip open to mutter, weakly yet with a hint of boldness, "You have a hard head, my friend. I nearly broke my hand on it." Friendly chatter aside, Armitas prepared himself for the mage's next attack. Again, it could be anything and though it would be wiser to try and intercept the mage before he could finish muttering his archaic incantations, Armitas was too weary to think of it at the time...Suddenly, there appeared a figure made of pure fire and that figure was moving towards him. Armitas wasn't quite sure how to defeat a body made of pure fire so he decided to keep moving backward as the figure approached. From his bracers, a pair of identical daggers sprang forth into his waiting hands. What good steel would do against the element that helped to forge it? Armitas did not know. He only acted instinctually, choosing weaponry familiar to him to fight an unfamiliar opponent. Then he felt he could move back no further, backed up to the wall that surrounded the arena. He was literally stuck between a rock and a hard place. There was nothing left to do but fight the hard place. When the flaming sword came swinging at an angle to slice through his neck, Armitas marshaled the speed necessary to react, ducking underneath with before it could viciously decapitate him. It did manage to set his hood on fire as it passed by, making that another garment he removed as he rolled sideways out of the way of the next strike. At the cusp of the roll, he was sliding up to his feet and throwing the two twin daggers across the arena at Rheven...
Rheven grunts as the twin daggers streak toward him, attempting to raise himself to his feet once again. He does make it to a standing position, but by the time he does, it is too late, the vampire far too drained by his spell casting to evade. Both daggers bury themselves into either of his shoulders, sending a pair of sanguine trails issuing forth from the wounds. A weak cry, a hiss of sorts, comes forth from the lips of Rheven, and he falls to his back as if leveled – just as he lands, the being he summoned fades out of existence, the mage no longer having the concentration necessary to keep it about. There he lies staring at the night sky above, drained and wounded, blood streaming from his wounds in thin rivulets, the steel weapons still planted firmly into his flesh; alive, but worse for wear.