Duel:Barnabas v Orikahn, Match 8 of the 2018 Frostmaw Tournament

Duelists: Barnabas vs Orikahn
Duel: Traditional 3 rounds with final defense, 15 minute posting limit.
Stakes: Auto-hit to the winner.
Judges: Hildegarde, Josleen and Leone.

Hunter's Lodge

Leone said, "Welcome to the second round of the (seventh) Titans of Winter Tournament! Here we gather in the Hunter's Lodge where, perhaps unexpectedly, Orikahn's home has been transformed into a tournament venue. The main lodge has been appropriated, though the outer buildings left alone. It seems the lodge is erving as the proper ring. The ceiling is the thing here, with dangerous, weighty stalagtites of ice dangling from the ceiling. The firepit is roaring with flickering, orange flames, causing the enchanted ice above to melt in a most curious pattern: the sharpened lengths are only melting away from their attachment to the ceiling, and not diminishing in length or heft. In no time at all, one breaks free from the ceiling, crashing into the floor where it quickly takes root as a new and equally malicious stalagmite that shows no signs of melting. Good luck to both Barnabas and Orikahn!"

Barnabas Bones discarded a heavy white fur cloak and shook a head full of snow from his dreadlocks. The tall sailor stood in his gold-embossed finery, blocking the hide-covered doorway that was the one and only entrance to the lodge-turned-arena, and scrutinized Orikahn over the firepit apart from any other company. His eyes narrowed on the feline brute, framed as he was between both stalagtite- and stalagmite-like points of magical ice. Ordinarily, he would have taken the time to appreciate the craftsmanship of the place underneath those threatening frozen protrusions, but today the pirate felt grim -sober as a rat facing down a cat, really. Having already met in combat before, Barnabas had respect for Kahn's abilities, and he knew he had to be on his toes. And so it was maybe for that that he chose to arm himself in a seemingly arbitrary way: as if having just stepped off of a gangplank from a shark fishing trip rather than coming in from a trek through a snowy mountain forest, his right hand took up an almost white-knuckle grip to a long handled and menacingly barbed trident. Its honed points gleamed in the firelight at perfect eye level to the pirate. His left hand held fast to a twist and knot of a heavy hempen net that was draped leisurely over his respective shoulder, its fist-sized leaden weights swinging subtly over the floor just below his knees. Barnabas lifted the weapon and gave Orikahn a clumsy sort of curtsy after locking gazes with him, sending the aforementioned weights clacking. A great crack from the central firepit broke out mid-curtsy as the flames no doubt tore into some pitch-covered piece of firewood, and almost simultaneously a massive deadly fang of ice came crashing down and magically plantiled itself beside the ring of stones that contained it. The tower of ice rooted between the two duelists, obstructing the stare-down, and Barnabas lunged into motion as if this were his cue, taking one great long-legged step forward. In a fluid, shoveling maneuver accomplished with the bite of his trident and the bracing of the weapon's handle in the crook of his arm, Barnabas flung the flaming contents that stoked the hearth out from the fire ring and directly at Orikahn, tracking his adversary's reaction and following rapidly behind the cinders and smoldering projectiles. He would throw his full weight and momentum forward upon that three-pronged polearm as he leapt between pillars of ice and over the firepit, which would now probably be spewing plumes of sparks and churls of smoke. The trident probed viperously fast at Orikahn's center mass after a twist of the sailor's body in mid-air and a thrust from his hip level that, at least he hoped, had been conveniently guised by the knotted mess of net as much as the embers and flaming firewood that were flying before it.

Orikahn stares likewise. A taunting smirk frames his fangs, the enamel of which glimmers menacingly in the firelight. Likewise glimmer his sturdy armor plates, well-oiled for the occasion. His full-plate hangs firmly affixed upon the feline's fearsome frame, and his great woolen cloak hangs atop this, shading his eyes beneath its sturdy hood. There's no bow upon him today, only the vicious spikes of his heavy gauntlets. The crack of falling ice breaks short the preliminaries, and of a mutual accord, the fighter's have each sensed it--sacred combat is commenced. A spray of sparks hails Barnabas's approach and, in a crucial moment, blinds Kahn to the net's ensnaring grasp. A quick step back sends the embers bouncing harmlessly off the cat's greaves, but it won't save Kahn from the tangling hemp that follows. Kahn's feet move quicky, fluidly carrying him away from the trident's tongs, but when the net closes over him, there's little choice left for the feral beast but to use his home advantage. With naught but his shouders, he hurls himself against a support beam to shake the connecting rafter and, if his timing is right, send a volley of icicles raining down upon the pernicious pirate.

Barnabas misjudged the placement of his feet following his devious intitiation to combat, and his trident retracts as the very foundation of the structure shudders about him. Kahn, who had become entangled in the net almost naturally it seemed as he danced away from the true threat of the trident, now brought complete chaos down on the pair. One stalagtite struck before Barnabas knew what was happening, narrowly missing impaling him entirely, sending shards of arcane ice into his back, and as it sprouted in place it sent him careening off balance and headlong into the timbered wall. As their roots became compromised, the giant icicles pelted the battleground, and made tracking an opponent not only difficult but downright deadly. The peripheral edge of the lodge seemed the safest, and so Barnabas lingered back long enough for the aftershock of Orikahn's bodily demolition, acessing the wounds. His white silk shirt was staining with blood upon its back and around the edges near his waist, mingling with the superfluous gold thread. The ice fragments weren't melting in his flesh, and this made moving forward something of a difficult thing. Barnabas tried to bend low against the pangs of his wounds, and when he could make out Orikahn's glinting armor he lurched forward, though this time with notably less grace and speed than he began. He took up the trident with both hands as a few shuffling steps brought him to the edge of its range and gave it a flourish, raring back the barbed points in a deceptive way and, instead, striking with the maximum extension of the handle's lower, much less sharp, end.

Orikahn pushes himself likewise to the periphery, rolling once against the wall to place himself where the lodge should have shaken the least. There's a clang, and another, as a couple close calls ricochet noisily off his pauldrons. When she shower settles down, a field of spiny stalagmites stand between him and his assailant. With a snarl of exertion, Orikahn rips and tears his way out from the net, the cruel spikes of his gauntlets quickly fraying the fibers and making way for brute strength to take care of the rest. Not a moment too soon! Barnabas is back on the offensive. Kahn rolls his shoulders, sets his feline focus upon the twirling trident, and raises his arms in a pugilist's guard, armored forearms at the ready. He moves to block the barbed tongs! For Orikahn's enthusiasiam, he is rewarded with a blunt blow to the chest and another earsplitting ring to accompany. Kahn staggers back, and nearly falls, only managing to catch himself with an arm outsplayed to brace against the wall. The sinking momentum still carries him downward, and again with little choice, Kahn drops to a crouch and sweeps his leg at Barnabas's knees.

Barnabas could gig fish, even monstrous ones, all day, but this -this was different. Especially with what felt to him like shards of crystals in his back, working their way to deeper and more agonizing positions and further inhibiting his range of motion. No, gigging a cat -especially one as large, adroit and hardened as Orikahn- that was an entirely different task, and Barnabas was beginning to realize this. The length of that trident made him feel safe, so long as it was kept between him and his foe, so he was relieved to have sent Orikahn staggering further back from him. That was, indeed, his intention, and he only a hesitation on siezing the initiative he thought it gained him, and that owed to the hindrance of his wounds. He rushed forward on the balls of his feet, seeing Orikahn off balance and being eager to capitalize on this. But alas! he was over-eager. The trident was pulled back in his right arm and over his shoulder in ready for a coup-de-gras, a skewer-de-cat, but in the sliver of seconds before it struck, its target dropped. The trident sunk into the timbers that stacked up to form the lodge's wall, and stayed there. Barnabas, on the other hand, found himself looking up at the threatening ice-encrusted ceiling, his legs swept out from under him, and Orikahn no doubt soon to pounce upon him and make him as much a decoration of the floor as were those troll hides. Reactively the pirate tried to crab backwards, and retrieved a small diving knife from a purchase in his left boot. He gripped it tightly, ready to place it between him and his adversary should he take the predictable course and leap upon him.

Orikahn lands noisily, half on his side, his eyes glaring hatefully over at Barnabas who, luckily, seems to have gone down with him. Kahn's pride is as sore as his buttock, and he's eager to wreak some well-earned revenge upon his adversary; Kahn wasn't accustomed to being on the ropes. He pushes himself up. Instinct and indignation together guide his arm Orikahn darts out his grasp, determined to close a vicelike grip around Barnabas, ankle. Should the grab land, Orikahn will throw his own weight, rolling over himself, leveraging his own bulk against Barnabas's lanky frame. In short, Kahn intends crack the pirate like a whip upon the stalagmite-strewn floor.

Barnabas felt it and knew it right away: the big brute got ahold of him. He felt his spine crack with the slack action and he saw the vertical collumns of ice become a blurry mess like an abstract oil painting. The first smack against the floor was violent enough to bring sparks of white light into the foreground of his vision, but the pirate kept a death grip on that diving knife. His leg was wrenched in its socket and he ragdolled against the floor with a powerful crack. In the haze of the concussion, his skull apparently leaking at one side, Barnabas thrusted more or less blindly out with his knife in an endeavor simply to sever Orikahn's grasp of his ankle. He kicked, stabbed, and writhed with all of his fading, adrenaline-numbed life-everything in his power to get out of his clutches, being that it was the last place Barnabas wanted to be.

Winner: Orikahn