Duel:Caedan v Feydor
Caedan vs. Feydor
Caedan crouches at the far end of the arena, silently regarding her opponent with an emotionless stare, optics of slate-blue revealing nothing. A slender sword is clutched loosely in her right hand, lithe digits entwined securely about the engraved hilt, while in her opposite hand, which hangs idly at her side, something indistinguishable is grasped tightly, something slender, and of medium length. Feydor is studied from afar, examined intently, as if she searches for any flaw, any sign of weakness she might exploit. Standing, the teen breaks into a quick jog, booted footsteps crunching the sandy gravel underfoot with every lengthy stride. Her pace increases, stride lengthens, until the psychic is hurtling towards the tribal warrior with a speed most uncharacteristic. The katana is brought heavenward, and pulled hellward in nearly the same instant, streaking towards the man's chest in effort to slice him clean down the middle, and spill his innards upon the already stained dirt underfoot. Meanwhile, her opposite hand is brought to bear, revealing a pair of twin sais, both of which are thrust brutally towards the lycan's side, so that he might not be able to press towards her to off-set her vertical attack with the brother-borrowed brand she wields. However, she keeps close, enforcing melee action, so that if he retreats, she will be following, and practically upon him ere he can regain his composure, should her offensive prove successful.
Feydor quickly transformed into his man-wolf shape, black fur rippling across his exposed skin. The transformation, normally painless when performed slowly, was accompanied by many sharp pops as tendons and joints rearranged themselves. As the change ended he gazed, his eyes now blood-red in color, across the sandy ground at his opponent, his runic tattoos still somehow visible beneath the fur. His sensitive ears and nose twitched at the onslaught of sounds and odors that assaulted them from the crowded arena. As Caedan charged him and brought her katana down upon him he interposed his shield, muscles straining against the blow. With his scimitar he attempted to fend off the pronged sais, but collected a long tearing gash upon his forearm and losing his grip on the weapon to a quick twist. As he glared into the face of the woman from mere inches away, he grinned savagely, showing his canines. There came a sudden burst of blinding light from the front of the shield directly into the woman’s face, followed up by a shove from the lycan to gain some distance and draw a bejeweled dagger from his belt.
Caedan is thrown clear of the lycan by the strength of the thrust used to usher her away, and gain him a moment's repose. The blinding light does indeed savagely render her sightless for tense seconds, until a blurry image returns, of her opponent, and surroundings. Soon, this haze clears, and suffering only a painful bruise upon her sternum where the shield has likely cracked -- though not broken -- that bone, she pulls herself into a stand, and uses the back of weapon-wielding hands to brush the unforgiving gravel from cheeks. The lycan is observed in silence, his new form something that causes a shiver to course the length of her spine, though no outwardly fear is displayed, less he prey upon it. Afterall, can beasts not smell fear or somesuch? Without further hesitation, the psychic maneuvers so that she can spare a moment to collect herself. The katana is slung into the sheath upon her shoulder, one sais tossed to her now-free hand, so that she wields one in each. Idly flicking her wrists, each spins in an ominous pattern, a flash of silver blade, a scintillation of aurulent-hued hilt seen only as a blur as the two perform their intricate dance. Quite abruptly, the teen lunges forward, dropping into a graceful roll that will send her in a tight trajectory towards Feydor's feet, and the area unprotected by the large shield he uses to defend himself. Without room to stand, one hand is brought in a harsh loop towards the back of his leg, aiming to sever his Achilles tendon and render him unable to maneuver with any sort of celerity. Her opposite hand is brought upward, her intention to impale him upon the three-pronged sais should he fall forward if her left hand serves to strike soundly at his heel. If her latter thrust does meet a fleshy prison, she will twist it cruelly to inflict maximum damage, the weapon veritably tearing a hole in yielding flesh, were she successful in her macabre intention.
Feydor takes the moment offered to get a firmer grip on the dagger in his right hand. The black-furred muzzle wrinkles as it attempts to sort out the relevant scents from the irrelevant. With his reach now shorter than his foe’s he does not leap to the attack, and is momentarily confused when she voluntarily gives up that advantage. The twirling of the blades is ignored as he observes the movement and pitch of her arms and torso. Even as the woman dives forward he sees and recognizes the first portion of her attack. Feydor’s feet practically blur as his magical boots enhance his speed and he leaps upward over Caedan’s tumbling roll. With a vicious downward snap of his arm he throws the dagger at her torso. The feral grin quickly changes to one of surprise as her other arm continues it’s motion upward hidden by her body and takes his feet out from under him. There is a loud grunt as the black-furred warrior hits the sands and rolls. Regaining his balance as quickly as possible, Feydor whirls back onto his feet. Discarding the partially dislodged shield from his arm, the lycan reaches his hands into his gauntlets and removes a pair of daggers, putting both of the fighters on even terms with paired weapons. A red stain quickly seeps across the armor on the left shin from the wound inflicted, and Feydor stands slightly favoring the leg.
Caedan immediately pauses as the lycan sails overhead, eyes trained on the flying mongrel with little appreciation for such agility. The dagger sent hurtling towards her abdomen is observed at the last second, a glint of silver betraying it's location. She dodges as best she can, to avoid losing any vital organs. The thing lodges within her side, nevertheless, eliciting a cry of pain from the stricken teen, who might have predicted such an action, should she have been in the right mind to do so. The dagger is plucked free, and discarded upon ground eager for more bloodshed. Caedan gasps for breath as she recovers, forcing herself to ignore the intense pain, and accompanying brilliant sanguine stain forming on an armor-less torso. Regaining as much composure as she can, a parlay is immediately effected, so that the lycan not earn the time to collect himself as well. The demented teen quickly exchanges both sais to one hand, so that she might draw her borrowed katana before Feydor can react, and put a stop to her malicious intention. The slim blade is easily balanced in a capable hand, fingers veritably sealed around the aureate hilt. Without further ado, the teen draws one leg back, and rears it forward, kicking an immense cloud of cruel gravel at the tribal warrior, hopefully pelting him with a sea of relentless pebbles, and irritating dirt, which hangs heavy in the air. Before the dust can settle, she has set herself in motion, a series of acrobatic flips bringing her in an arc above her opponent, the dust hopefully serving to conceal her location from ready observation. Spinning to face the lycan, she plunges the katana straight for spine, her objective to sever that most critical of locations, and render him completely motionless. Upon release of the katana, for it's course is true, the sais she clutches is switched to her opposite hand once again, so that she wields one in each tightly clenched fist. Without a moment's consideration, and sparing Feydor not a second in defense, each is launched towards his neck, one in an upthrust to impale him -- point of entry, his chin -- the other towards the side of his neck -- point of entry, his jugular.
Feydor twists his torso and squints against the dust attack, reflexes long honed by the sand storms of his desert homeland. Sensitive hearing and scent senses inform the lycan that the human girl is hurt and bleeding, but still moving energetically … AND IS NOW BEHIND HIM! Turning as quickly as possible on the wounded leg, the katana’s aim is thrown off and pierces the troll-skin armor on the left side of his back. The blow is a strong one, and pierces the armor, the skin and muscle beneath it, and wedges itself between the thick bones of the lycan’s ribs. Only time will tell if there is any deeper damage. Silent until now, the man-wolf emits a loud howl of pain, but does not slow down. Due to the innate healing of the lycan, all pain soon passes, and is not worth worrying over. The twin daggers flash upward toward the hurtling form of the human woman, aiming for her vulnerable abdomen, even as her daggers lunge toward him…
Caedan abruptly realises the need for a sudden reversal, as the twin daggers flash towards her stomach. Eyes widen, heels dig into the giving sand as she searches for purchase upon the ground to effect a way to avoid becoming impaled upon the two weapons. All Caedan can do is attempt to fall backward, which she does, but not before the dagger pierces the oversized sweater she wears, and connects solidly with a taut abdomen. The other dagger is parried by a sais, glancing off the three-pronged weapon as she falls in a harsh concussion with the unforgiving ground. Quickly, she scuttles backward, before immediately standing, panting, each sais clutched tightly in a dual white-knuckled grip. The teen swallows hard, a muscle in her jaw twitching to belie the amount of pain she currently endures. She's exhausted, sleepless nights taking no uncertain toll upon the teen. Breath comes in ragged gasps, and she allows the sais to drop from pale hands, while taking a stumbling step backward, increasing the distance between the two combatants. Feydor is regarded in silence, once more, that emotionless facade she had maintained throughout the altercation never wavering, except for the minute grimace that betrays the nagging agony at her stomach, where the daggers have pierced supple skin, and drawn an excessive amount of crimson vitae to soak the dirt underfoot.