Duel:Barnabas v Thamalys, Match 3 of the 2018 Frostmaw Tournament
Duelists: Barnabas vs Thamalys Duel: Traditional 3 rounds with final defense, 15 minute posting limit. Stakes: Auto-hit to the winner. Judges: Leone, Hildegarde, and Josleen
Cold Alley
The alley is colder than the rest of the inner town you have been in, and you can feel a heavy breeze blowing from the north still. Up ahead, not much further you can see piles of carts, junk, and various objects that may be known or unknown to you. The north as well seems to lead further into another alley path, while to the south, the road widens slightly. To your east and west, building and walls block your path.
Lanara walks down the alley, her hands tucked into the large pockets of her fur parka, for warmth. They didn’t call this region ‘Frostmaw’ for the hell of it! The elf has her hood pulled over her head, the collar pulled up to her chin, thick leggings cover her legs, and she’s wearing knee-high fur boots. Somehow, the pretty brunette managed to pull off the ‘eskimo’ look. As she drops into a seat in the viewing section, she lifts her dark hues to eye each combatant, her eyes sparkling as they linger on Barnabas. Although he wasn’t the magic user of the two, she had a good feeling that he would be the victor.
Thamalys, thin and tall, much as a lonely birch tree forgotten right in the middle of an ancient clear, remained exactly still at the southern end of the alley, as if his pale features did convert, eventually, into some form of marble. Barefooted as per usual, notwithstanding the frosty gales playing around within the narrow space, the Spellblade sported the simplest pair of leathery pants, pitch black - if a tad dirty, to be fair… - tightly wrapped around those impossibly skinny legs. Equally dark was the metallic shade of iron which entirely hid the right arm of the Avian, from shoulder to wrist, a beautiful, spiky piece of craftsmanship that oddly contrasted with whatever was wrong with the left arm of the Healer: bloated, greenish, from a distance some would have probably said rotten, actual vines, as opposed to veins, protruding from flesh and bones, ominous droplets of a rather viscous liquid dripping from the bruised elbow. Even the ivy-shaped tattoos that covered most of the skin of the Blue refused to shine upon the aberration growing within that arm - the gift of the Wooden Puppet endured. No further armour, no additional clothing, except for an elaborate pendant, a phoenix, swaying across his naked chest - a token of the True Healers, some of whom were sorely missed then more than ever. In his right hand, the Gossamer Halberd, her perfect edges playing with the few bars of light that did manage to come across, her towering shapes casting the sharpest shadows onto the murky soil. Beyond that, the monumental extent of those silver-clad wings rested, neatly furled, ready, a silent army of razor-sharp feathers, each one of them imbued with the magic of The Vampiric Witch. Very little room to manoeuvre, in that cramped space. And yet, much of these details were bound to be lost, as the whole attention of most of the onlookers would have tended to focus upon the huge mass of knotty dreadlocks decorating the bony cranium of the Blue, which instead of falling in the usual, untidy pattern across shoulders and chest, aimed to the very sky - ablaze. A solid five feet of flaming hair, screaming for freedom into the air, a blazing medusa swaying rabidly as if calling for uncalled vengeance. A single, tiny tear of liquid blue fire was carving his way from the right eye of the Winged Beast down to his cheek - the only hint of any movement at all within that bony face. The onlookers would have gone unnoticed, the entire soul of the Blue definitely focussed elsewhere.
Leone swaggers in. Just because she's a blacksmith and not a pirate doesn't mean that she can't have swagger, too! So the diminutive cleric does just that. A few strides in, she pauses and looks up the alley, to where the not entirely safe but still relatively sturdy risers have been constructed for spectator ease and viewing. The farrier folds her arms over her chest and lists heavily to the side, pressing a shoulder into the stone-cobbled wall.
Kanna shivers a bit from the cold. She is definitely a creature better suited for warmth. The thick, quilted snowcoat closes in on her head more, the bright multicolor squares-- none of which seem to be of the same pattern-- make her stick out like a sore thumb against the icy white surroundings. Seeing a few figures nearby, she shuffles over to them, standing just right so that their bodies shield her from the wind.
Barnabas looked uncomfortable down the north end of the alley, leaning against a snow-covered abandoned cart. He wore a sour expression that reflected the frozen conditions about him. From behind a haggard dark beard a grisled face, with skin pulled taught from the cold and wind, wrinkled and twisted into a perfect expression of disgust -disgust with the weather, with this bloody wager, and disgust with his own manic self that thought this would be just a jolly time and signed his name on some paper in some bar while on a binger in some town one night. Most of the tall sailor’s frame was concealed beneath a great white fur coat, which apparently was a necessity outdoors here. He discovered this shortly after arriving to these frigid, warmth-forsaken lands, and it was about then that he started cursing everything, including the merchant who saw his opportunity to extort a hypothermic tourist and sold him the very article that was probably the only thing keeping his blood from freezing at the moment. The heavy fur made it almost tolerable when he held it close about his body, which was still covered in his maritime-appropriate attire: a frilly white shirt, dark leather pants, and a crimson silk sash that was slung around his waist. Somewhere beneath there, too, peeked out a rapid series of gleams, one silver and one gold on each hip respectively. It was safe to assume that Barnabas Bones had arrived more prepared for battle than he had for the weather. He propped himself forward and onto his feet and looked down the alley, shaking the snowfall from the wild woolen tentacles that made up his knotted hair. His resentful eyes swept over the spectators, lingering only briefly over a few, before coming to rest on Thamalys. Barnabas stood, gravely still and calm, and assessed not only the man’s dramatic, almost shocking appearance, but more importantly his accoutrements of war. He gave a single nod, shifted a shoulder to draw aside his cape, and drew the blades from his hips. One, a long heavy cutlass with only a slight curve and a gold-toned basket hilt, and the other a double-edged long dagger of about the length of the lanky sailor’s forearm.
Kanna opens a little iron bracket in the wall to reveal a makeshift window to an eatery. Apparently food is put out on this little ledge to cool if needed quickly. She takes a hot chocolate from inside and calls out, "Anyone else want anything?”
Leone said, "Welcome to the seventh annual Titans of Winter Tournament! Here we gather in the Cold Alley, where some unusual construction has taken place. The sky above, normally visible from this little piece of forgotten urban heaven, has been blotted out by a heavy, and heavily oiled, tarp. Smatterings of the viscous substance drip down from the makeshift ceiling, splattering onto the pavement and the piles of debris curiously left in place and laying a slick of grease over everything. Buried in several of the mounds of junk, perhaps unseen and undetected for now, are small barrels of black powder. Various shards of metal exist here and there. It would be a real shame should something akin to steel come in contact with the grey stone buildings flanking the alleyway and ignite a spark. A shame. Or really exciting. Good luck to both Barnabas and Thamalys."
Thamalys silently thanked the Wind for the chance of making the very first move - the Winged Beast was not one creature made for waiting. Nor, in fact, to be forced into a winding alley. “Ah well…”, simply muttered the Avian in a whisper, only to be instantly rebuked by the Ageless Black himself. || Getting bored in here, o’ Silly… perhaps a little incentive? || snarled within the battered mind of the Healer the old dragon. Somehow, the chocolatey inquiry of Kanna made its way through the alleyway. “Minty, white chocolate…” would have grinned the Spellblade, before getting back whole to the problem at hand. It would have not taken a genius to guess that whatever that greasy stuff was, it was bound to be keen on getting ablaze. How could the Master of Flames remain inactive in front of such a tremendous opportunity? Within the space of a single, smooth move, then, the Blue would have pinned the Gossamer Halberd into the frosty ground. An ominous, metallic sound followed, and yet much less disturbing if compared to the growl building within the throat of the Winged Beast - who then kneeled, his right hand connecting flatly with the soil. A matter of less than an instant, and a most convoluted net of ivy-shaped flames would have literally sprouted from said hand, running madly toward the Pirate, sneaking across the pavement, creeping upon the walls, a whole blossoming of scorching violence uniquely devoted to corner the opponent, to pin him on a tiny patch of bricks and mortar that purposefully the flames would have spared - only a few steps from the dark shapes of Barnabas, in fact. The Spellblade, still chanting the powerful spell forgotten by all but the very few who managed to access the very core of The Imperial Library, would have then raised his head, the awful mass of those ivory dreadlocks floating atop, his flawlessly blue gaze, possibly tainted by some golden streaks, nailed upon the opponent, mastering the flames. Enormous gushes of blue fire would have started to erupted from the walls of the alley, much as massive flowers in bloom, the whole of this rabid display solidly aiming to engulf the whole of the space into flames. Just a single, lonely patch of wall would have remained untouched by the burning extravaganza. And yet, it would not have been impossible, for an impossibly skilled creature, to carve their way through the countless blue blades piercing the frosty air… were if not for the fact that surely, by then, the flames would have worked their way through grease and debris toward the barreled black powder. The first explosion would have actually occurred close enough to the Blue, sending the latter to land not so gently on the wall nearby, a few rusty shards protruding from his right leg, bleeding already. “What in the name of the Wind…” would have gone the genius before the whole of the alley would have most likely transformed into something possibly worse than a battlefield. Barnabas would have been nowhere to be seen, lost in that thick black smoke…
Barnabas had an innately keen sense of smell. Not the kind that could smell distant things or extremely faint aromas, but the sense of smell that produced vivid associations. His hawkish nose flared at the bouquet of familiar scents: the high, almost choking smell of something akin to turpentine or linseed oil, and the sulfurous smell of salt peter. They summoned a quick reverie of images and memories in the lifelong sailor’s mind -cannonfire, gundecks erupting, lamp fuel, fire. Fire. Fire everywhere, and it wasn’t in his mind. He had seen Thamalys acting erratically and then drop to a knee, and then everything went to hellfire. The first flames struck out so fast, trailing like a molten net of magic, that there was absolutely nothing Barnabas could have done to evade it. The best he could do was make himself small, which he did post-haste, and it was well that he did. It would have been impossible to tell if it was the oil or the foolishly placed black powder stores that exponentiated Thamalys’ already devastating attack, but it would be safe to say that the scope of the explosion was a surprise to the entire company that crowded in the restrictive alleyway. Splinters, fragments of rock, and probably icicles even drove their way into Barnabas’ flesh through that thick fur coat, that was now probably singed to the hide. He gave a gasp, but did well to suppress a genuine cry, knowing he was now pinned in the alley by some sort of pyromancer and the walls were literally coming down around him. He would need the element of surprise, entirely, if he was to survive. He choked on the smoke, thick, black and sulfurous as it was, and dropped the remnants of the cloak that undoubtedly saved his life for probably the second time that day. Report explosions were continuing across the small expanse of the alley, sending debris and flames randomly about, so Barnabas tried to remain low and scurry, his arms before his face. He followed the edge of the wall, his head ringing with the continuous blasts, until he heard a voice somewhere near his last known location of Thamalys. Another blast nearby lit up the smoke and dust enough to make out the silouhette of that great halberd, and instead of scurrying past and down the alley as any intelligent opponent would do, accepting defeat, Barnabas launched himself bodily at what he could only presume was his enemy’s back, shortsword forward in search of a spine and the other ready to come down with full force after his shoulder met resistance.
Thamalys desperately wanted to take advantage of the familiar skies above. To climb the wind, even to a small extent, to breath some real air, anything really but for that nasty stench that was literally saturating the whole of the alley. || Ah, it would seem you’ll have to endure the Darkness for today… || chuckled the Black, not particularly helpful - as more often than not was the case indeed. The last of the blue flames born from the Spellblade enchantment would have disappeared by now - except for the horrific medusa howling right on top of the Avian’s head. All around, utter devastation would have dominated, a few, hopefully minor explosions still scarring the otherwise fairly quite Frostmawian afternoon. Worryingly enough, even the tenting above seemed about to collapse, as the structural integrity of the construction site would have likely to be on the verge of being defined as unsafe - to put it mildly. Spectators would have probably managed to escape much of the actual detonations - or not? As a Healer, that - was - a real concern, one that managed to distract the Blue that much that the Pirate needed to evade the keenest sight of the Blue. Thus out of nowhere, the Spellblade found him self sprawled onto the ground, the full weight of Barnabas on his back. Perhaps surprisingly, a rather cruel grin surfaced on those thin, grey lips, presently intent to avoid ingesting too much of that bloody greasy oil. No, there was no at all room to display the full extent of those massive wings… a pity, but the Blue new better than blaming the Wind. No, laying on his belly as he was, with a swift movement he would instead arched those silver-clad curtains to unfurl them that small extent he needed - to hammer them down onto the Pirate, most likely nested right in between of the root of the Avian’s wings. The pain originating from such an unnatural motion was more than monumental - but then, when you had to deal with actual vines growing within your left arm - on daily basis - the very definition of pain sort of lost its weight. On the wings thrusted, to close one upon each other, a silvery, shiny cocoon that would have threatened to pin the opponent onto a most painful tangle of hundreds of blades. For each of one those feathers was clad in pure silver, a lethal edge that could have withstood anything, most of magic included. Groaning, hissing, sputtering, his right leg screaming in pain, the Spellblade would have nonetheless tried to tighten that metallic knot. Upon the darkest smokes still billowing from the soil, those shiny wings thus cast willowy reflections not to dissimilar from an actual shadow play…
Barnabas felt himself collide with the spellblade, and felt the short sword in his left hand meet resistance. A lot of resistance. The two fell in a knot upon the alley ground, and the pirate couldn’t tell whether or not his blade found purchase in the avian’s armor. He didn’t have time to count coup about it though, since Thamalys wasn’t exactly taking the fight lying down. Barnabas wasn’t a heavy body by any means, and he didn’t expect to keep this winged anomaly pinned for very long. That said, not a breath’s moment lapsed before he vaulted forward, somersaulting off his opponent’s back and over his head. It would have been a graceful maneuver if he hadn’t been smacked by a metallic wing in mid-air. Striking the toe of his boot, it sent him pitching forward and past his mark, tumbling over onto his own back several feet away from the spell-casting Thamalys. Somewhere in the process, Barnabas lost his grip on his secondary sword, and he spit a mouthful of phlegm and char and ash as he sprang to his feet, both hands fitting comfortably in the basket hilt of his almost broadsword-like cutlass. His white garments were no longer anything of the sort; burned, tattered, and blackened, they clung from his boney frame in ways that exposed glistening wounds and even a few shards of shrapnel that remained yet embedded in his flesh. The pirate had no grasp of magics, and so no notion of countering it in any natural way, and so he pressed his opponent the only way he knew how: like a madman. Visibility was a touch better now, and Barnabas watched for subtle tells in Thamalys’ posture for the precise moment to raise his blade. He barreled at him again, giving a blood cry, and brought his sword over his head and down in a series of calculated arcs that appeared to be anything but.
Thamalys had no chance to outmatch the Pirate - not with his face deep into the muddy ground. Not the most pleasant of the situations, granted, and yet it would have been far worse for Blue to feel the bite of Barnabas steel - as that sword, while connecting to a small extent with the right shoulder of the Avian, mostly slid indeed upon the armoured, silvery back of the latter. Yet another cut to take care of, but later on most definitely, as luckily enough the Winged beast felt the weight of the Pirate vanishing into thin air. Quick as a snake, he would have thus raised on his feet, noticeably limping. Not an instant too soon, as the flamboyant offensive of the Corsair was almost upon the Blue. Time, the latter needed some time, for him not so much to reach the Halberd - that would have been easily done , as she was standing tall a couple of steps only away - but to gain that little distance he needed to bring a proper blow, if not exploiting the full length of the weapon, at least effective enough to keep the blades of the Pirate at a safe distance. Facing the howling opponent, then, the Winged Beast summoned the most innocuous of the spells - a massive bird of prey, entirely made of blue flames, screaming like a dying creature right in the face of the Pirate. A moment after, and the bellowing pesky thing would have disappeared. Hopefully, that diversion would have been enough to allow the Spellblade to get a proper hold of his beloved pole weapon and sidestepping so as to positioning himself more or less exactly were he wanted to. Perhaps. Just to be on the safe side, though, and, resisting the temptation to swing the impossibly light shapes of the Gossamer Halberd in the same fashion of a fencing foil, the Blue lifted the huge weapon into the air as if that movement alone would have costed him a tremendous effort - Avians rarely lie, but the old T’zur was a different breed altogether. With impeccable timing, the Winged Beast would have then brought a most trivial fendente (cutting/cleaving blow), squarely aimed to intercept the Pirate’s blade. An elegant, if quite predictable move. Most of the nimble-enough creatures of Lythridel would have found time and will to avoid the blow without too much of an effort… but that would have not been the end of the story. Such a slow, cumbersome motion was only intended as a feint, to lure the opponent into misjudge the weight and speed of the huge pole weapon. But the Gossamer Halberd, born from the skill of the High Priestess, crafted because of the love of the Healers, weighted no more than a short sword. With a sudden change in her trajectory, then, the blade of the feathery Halberd would have dismissed the steel of the Pirate to lunge instead swiftly into his chest, the pole perfectly parallel to the ground, the whole body of the Avian lounging toward the Pirate as well. Mind you all, the head of the weapon was bare, so that, would the blow have succeeded, the net effect would have been for Barnabas to be knocked over. Treacherous, yes, but such is the way of the Spellblade after all. A flawless manoeuvre, then? Far from it, as both leg and shoulder, both covered in a blood which colour was frankly quite disturbing to witness (blue, green, red… what a silly mixture…), would have started taking their tolls…
Barnabas swung his blade with a purpose, and a cunningly concealed purpose at that. The eagle apparition seemed to deter him little, if at all, since the pirate’s ears were still ringing from the cacophony of explosions and many other dancing lights joined it in its manifestation. The first of his sword’s movements were, like Thamalys’ own impending strike, non-committal -that is, they were intended to elicit a response from his enemy’s weapon. The response, however, was shocking, and along with a series of sparks it sent a shockwave through Barnabas’ sword arm and caused him to recoil. As he did so, he reacted to his opponent’s rapid initiative and twisted his body upon his heels. The head of that mythical halberd skimmed across his torso as he did so, rending the charred fabric of his shirt’s decorative frilly bibfront and drawing thin a crimson line across the flesh beneath. Barnabas now found himself between his opponent, with his sword compromisingly stuck at his right side. His left hand rescinded its grip upon the hilt and instead took hold of the polearm’s handle, giving it a great pull while his left foot simultaneously lifted from the ground and struck out at Thamalys’ injured leg. The sudden, reactive movements were an endeavor to pull his opponent beyond his center of gravity and, with a fluid clockwise spin, was followed by a whirl-wind of that heavy cleaving blade.
Thamalys witnessed with mild surprises the counterfeit of the Pirate scoring some success. As a start, Barnabas would have now been too close for the Halberd to bring him any harm at all, and secondly, the Blue had no way to avoid that nasty kick, which did connected with his leg. A grunt, no more than that, some more blood pouring from the cuts, but the leg did not give way - pain, once more, was a thing of the past. More importantly, there was little reason for the Avian to not anticipate the pull of the Halberd, aimed to putting him off balance, as the Pirate had to let go of his weapon first. That motion would have been a clear indication of the intents of the Corsair - perhaps not for most, but definitely for a being who spent literally centuries striving to absolute perfection in combat. An imperfect shard of recall carved its painful way through the memories of the Blue, a time of suffering and loneliness, a time where steel was the rule. One half-step back, left foot, however painful that might have been, and the memory was gone, opening the mind of the Spellblade to the sharper present. He would have simply let the Pirate pull the Halberd away from him, possibly putting the attacker himself off balance, the Avian most likely regaining full use of his black armoured right hand and arm. And yet the Corsair was so fast. Down plummeted a potentially quite dangerous blade, inches away from the left shoulder of the healer. Even a Tzur, even an Avian, even Thamalys the Blue could have not hoped to avoid that blow. With the faintest of the sighs, then, the Spellblade simply lifted his left arm, green and bloated, smelly and rotten, to meet the sword. A sound, much as that of a axe connecting with a timber, then blossomed into the air, a loud thud with a lot of potential to have left the Pirate mildly bewildered. Thing was, not much flesh and bone survived within that sickening green lump. Vines, mostly, wooden creepy things all to happy to take the blow and shatter in response - at least some of them, but chances were that the sword would have been left stuck into the arm. In all this, the Blue barely flinched, a playful grin perhaps surfacing upon those thin grey lips, while the horrific plants, unfazed, would have started to crawl upon the blade itself. Possibly a lot of room to play with, at that stage, in terms of said armoured black arm, with good chances for the latter to strike a rather spiky blow.
Winner: Barnabas
Auto-hit From Barnabas :: coming soon