Duel:Ayras v Cayl
Judges: Jacklin, Gunnar, Leigh (mid)
Cayl stands within this astounding arena, the very idea in which it represents sending him into utter bliss. This was his home. The sounds and images of far off cries are watched and listened to in his minds eye, attempting to imagine how the bout would turn out. Here he stands, ready for battle, though it may appear to some that he wasn't; no weapons glisten in the light, nor adorn his ebony body. No, for he didn't have a need for such a... material thing. His right hand rises up, allowing all to watch as he calls upon his weapon. Forefinger and thumb quickly rub together, creating a resonating 'CRACK!' that lingers within the arena longer than normal. Just then, vibrations that radiate in pulses, begin to ripple away from the Drow. The very arena might be heard letting out a low moan of displeasure, foreboding something unearthly. Then it all abruptly ceases. Silence rings within the ears of this spell sword. And then finally, it comes. There, within his right hand appears a blade best described as a wicked black flame, shaped to match that of a sword. He begins to walk, each measured step taken with grace, despite the fact that he walks atop sand. A war-cry is issued from his lungs, as Cayl lunges ahead, the blade brought back in a prepared thrust. Once within physical striking distance, he would slam his shoulder, as well as his right arm, wielding the grisly weapon, at the soft underbelly of Ayras, intent on skewering his combatant. After his last attack, and should it meets it's mark, he would tear the blade out from Ayras' fleshy stomach with absolute violent disregard for life. His hopes being a potentially one-hit win.
Ayras, much like his counterpart, stood there within the arena, though his gaze swept about in only a cursory glance, allowing himself the moment to get a feel for his surroundings. The spikes 'pon the walls, and the pikes seperating himself and his opponent from the onlookers; they would be of use, perhaps. But that net overhead...that would certainly limit his option of flight. Tsking to himself, he forced himself to focus on the drow across the arena from him, and many pent up emotions swelled to the forefront of his mind, the scene reminiscent of his younger days. Only one blade, rather than both twins, was drawn from its sheathe at the winged man's hips, mithril singing into the arena air. A good thing, too, that the vampire had drawn his steel, what with that flame-made brand seeking to gut him so early on. With quite the exclimation of an arcane syllable, his own weapon begins to burn, but his with a chilled flame, mithril now sheathed in the essence of death; necromancy augmented in a way perhaps unorthodox. The enchanted blade soon becomes utilized, knocking against Cayl's fire-sword, locking hilts and forcing the lethal strike away, only for the avian to lash out in retaliation with his free fist. Once, twice, thrice he strikes out, the drow's side, throat, and temple all targets of Ayras' assault.
Cayl is only minimally surprised the other had managed to block his lethal, and very bold, thrust. Instead of lingering in close quarters, where one might take a nasty blow, the Drow simply leaps back. Although, naturally, his movements are not quite quick enough to best those of Ayras, who had already began punching, giving the Drow little time to react. A single blow is landed cleaning against his temple, the force only adding to excelerate his leaping escape from close quarters. Not a single though is given to the ringing in his ears from that powerful punch, as he alights back to the sandy floor. Now it was time to change it up a bit. Anything goes. Once more, he would charge at his opponent, but as he reaches close proximity to Ayras, the Drow does something different. Without stopping, his right toe digs deep into the sand, to kick up a handful of the sparkling matter at his foe's face. The Drow would then slash with his blade --flame burning black as pitch-- directly into the sand; the effect turning the tiny rocks into tiny shards of smoldering glass. Still in a head-long rush at Ayras, Cayl would hunker down, left shoulder readied to be used like a battering ram, right hand held up high. His intent was to plow through the man, and send him reeling. Should he indeed make contact with the Avian-looking male, his summoned weapon would be brought down with tremendous force into his foes torso. Rather a dirty move, but one that this Drow could just not pass up...
Ayras found himself having made a folly as he follows after the retreating drow, as soon not only are there blinding particles assaulting his vision, but his flesh as well. By all the gods, the burning sensation was not one he found pleasing, especially with his undead flesh making such good tinder. Now it was his turn to backpeddle, but the winged man had one advantage over his grounded foe in such things; great wings expand, and with naught but two flaps he clears over Cayl's head - and indeed, even the man's reach. Frantically he thrashes to wipe the cinder-like glass from his body and face. Frantically he thrashes to keep himself from burning into a pile of ash because of a few pieces of sand, of all things. Freed of his torment, he levels an animus glare his opponent's way, growling lowly in his throat. Flipping his sword over, he rears back and hurls the weapon point-first like a spear at where Cayl stands, and would that weapon sink into any bit of the drow's flesh, the searing enchantment on the weapon would begin to rot the man's flesh until Cayl would resemble little more than a walking corpse. But Ayras is not done, no. His second blade is produced, though this time with no enchantment, and he hurtles down to the ground, landing with a great, cleaving chop intended for Cayl's shoulder to cross to his hip.
Cayl His feet sink into the sand as he pushes off from the ground, intent on holding his positions, or perhaps feigning such... Ayras' attacks are no where near as fast as his previously landed punch, giving him more leeway, if only a little. That horrendous blade, ripped from the very void itself, drops from the death lock grasp of the Drow. Instead of the blade dispersing, or dropping to the sand with a loud 'TWANG!' like some would imagine, it instantly spreads. The burning blade turns into a thin sheet of glossy black matter, nearly opaque, his enemy was a distorted picture to him as the Drow peers through his weapon-turned-shield. This barrier did not serve to negate anything, nor deflect something. No, for it was used as a device to simply earn more time. Time enough to move. The earlier thrown sword would slam into the inky black wall, and instantly slow down; as if traveling through thick tar. Taking this opportunity, the spell sword takes just a few steps back, perhaps to give his foe the false pretense that he could still slash him after breaking through the shield, should he hit the barrier like the sword previously. Though such hopes would be for nothing, as the black shield would once more return to its first shape, behind Ayras. And then, the Drow takes command of the black burning blade, and pulls it with all his magical might, attempting to slam it hilt deep into the Avian's spine. Exhaustion would be easily seen lurking behind the Dark One's eyes.
Ayras : : It was, perhaps, only due to the avian grabbing up his thrown weapon and twirling to come at the drow with both blades passing in a cyclone that saves Ayras from his spine being severed, instead the blade just barely missing and sinking into the winged man's back just shy of his backbone. He lets loose a primal roar, rage fuelling his thirst for blood, adrenaline keeping him on his feet...and both saving Cayl the fate of being sliced apart by Ayras' weapons. Mayhap the drow would find a temporary exultation as the vampire drops both weapons, mayhaps not, but either way it would turn short-lived. Slowly at first, then building up speed, the vampire launches himself at his foe before literally vaulting the remaining paces in what can only be described as a tackle. Gloves, at first, would rip at the drow's flesh until the cloth gave way to the vampire's nails beneath, and then, blood having seeped from the wound in his back, Ayras sought to replace his lost lifeblood, fangs snapping down to seek out Cayl's throat for quite the feast.
Winning move
Cayl, with all his remaining strength, rolls away from Ayras. A deep breath is taken, while the spell sword rises to his feet, retrieving his blade that lies only a few paces away. Weapon in hand, Cayl marches up to his foe, having heard the number ten being called out; Ayras' right hand. With disregard for the the pain this might cause the other, he swings the void-summoned weapon at the right wrist of Ayras. The blade scythes through cloth, flesh, tendon, and bone, much the same way a hot knife would through butter. The lifeless hand would then fall dead, to the sandy floor, left for Vuryal to collect. The burning blade he had summoned flickers at first, then disappears from reality, cast back into the void from whence it came. Ragged breaths are pulled into his lungs, the strain of battle taking its hold over him. Fiery red eyes flick up to Leigh, "Here, and now, I swear my allegiance to Emperor Vuryal, and the Archmosian Empire." With his hollow words, devoid of any emotion, his right fist comes to his heart, saluting the Emperor's wife.
Back to Gladiatorial Bouts