Duel:Calen v Emrith, Match 3 of the Inaugural Warrior's Guild Tournament

Duelists: Calen vs. Emrith. 
Duel: Traditional 3 posts each, with final defense. 15 minute posting limit. 
Stakes: Autohit post. Advancement in the Inaugural Warrior's Guild Tournament. 
Judges: Xunzyr & Hildegarde

Snowless Training Yard

Leone said, "Welcome to the Inaugural Tournament of Warriors! Here we gather in the arena of Frostmaw to watch two noble warriors do battle. The arena's orbs have been tweaked and turned to precisely the right calibration until the scenery is wholly alien. The arena gradually morphs into a bog with a low-lying mist. The bog water is highly alkaline, but more importantly, the fluid below harbors a layer of methane and unstable caustic gases. If the surface is disturbed enough (such as a contestant standing in one place for more than a few seconds, or stepping down at a running pace, with any amount of armor on) that the two layers mix, gouts of flame will erupt from beneath the mossy groundcover at the point of breech. Not only will fifteen foot columns of flame shoot skyward, but a cloud of noxious gas will expand to saturate the air. Good luck to both Emrith and Calen!"

Calen approached the centre of the training yard now that the previous battle had been fought, making sure for now to leave his weapons secured, while the change in environment is appraised quick as possible. While not sure what the water held, he says, "Definitely don't want to know," to himself. After a pause, during which the light-weight chainmail, his only armour at the moment, was shed in case the fog was corrosive, the undead male at last stepped foot into the bog, moving at a relaxed pace for now. Once Emrith is sensed, it was toward the elf he'd then go, focusing upon the life energy of the only other person who'd be in the swamp-like area. At last readying the flail he'd had rebuilt to be denser, the white-haired male is seeking to engage his elfin opponent in combat, a well aimed swing meant to connect with the individual's left side and leave them stunned. As soon as that happened, Calen was then moving back, before again rushing forward for another strike, this time with the dagger kept by his right hip removed and wielded to aid in keeping the elf on the defense.

Emrith notes the changing of the environment and reacts swiftly. Water, volatile or not, is going to slow him down, and his smaller stature is built for speed and finesse over brute strength in any case. He sends a burst of mana into his boots, which have been enchanted to grant a very minor charm of levitation to their wearer; now skimming just over the water's surface, Emrith is much more free to fight as he is naturally wont to do. He is wearing light leather armour and a strange-looking belt of chain around his narrow waits, and it is the belt he unclasps as Calen makes his way forward. This implement doubles as a whip, set at regular intervals with iron studs, and the spell-blade whirls the weapon toward the oncoming flail as Calen advances, all the while backpedalling so as to attempt to yank this dense destructive tool away from its wielder. When Calen rushes forward with the dagger, Emrith twists his right wrist viciously and pivots a half-step to the right, causing the dagger-slash to furrow the leather on his left side rather than punch into his belly. He snarls through spitless lips and jettisons the encumbered whip, imbuing it with a small burst of electricity as he flings its butt toward Calen's far shoulder and hopefully over it. He intends to loop the now-electrified whip over and around Calen's neck and throat in passing, essentially causing the creature to wear a live wire until he can be rid of it. Having freed himself from close quarters relatively unscathed, Emrith continues to skim over the water's surface, drawing a sword from the scabbard beneath his flowing cloak. A rill of blood, all but unnoticed, seeps from the gash on his left flank. He glides to and fro, waiting for Calen to close to melee range again. He is perfectly happy to remain on defense; his reflexes are superb, his speed is hard to match, and he figures it is only a matter of time before Calen makes a mistake that can be more soundly punished.

Calen kept on with his effort to leave Emrith stunned and slowed thanks to injuries which would be quite non fatal. Such a plan doesn't come to pass though, with the introduction of a whip, something which has caught him by surprise, briefly. As the spell-blade had hoped, it does now loop around the flail, the sudden force of the motion ensuring it was pried free of his grip. Still, he'd been training how to fight without using weapons in case of such a thing, and so there was a step back taken, good thing thanks to the flames which rush up where he'd been, leaving flesh seared and hair burned off from the exposure. While he's in pain, the surprise of such a trap leave him alert enough to endure, since he'd felt worse, even if he does inhale a deep lungful of the vapour which followed as well. Even if it's slowly destroying his lungs, the gas is kept in once that fact registers, and toward Emrith he ran, halted by the whip again. Unfortunately for the elven male, the jolt of electricity delivered causes him to exhale every bit of the gas being stored up, along with chunks of organs that would heal. The former of the two things would continue on, while now he strove to be rid of the ranged weapon, since he feared another column of flame.. despite not knowing if it was confined to one spot, to the combatants, or if there was another trigger, all while trying to stay composed despite the damage done to him inside and out.

Emrith knows that in a contest like this, staying in one place for any length of time is an excellent way to end up dead. So believing, he continues to zip hither and yon overtop of the water's surface, keeping his senses trained on Calen, anticipating a rush. When it comes, he is prepared for further melee but quite surprised when his opponent exhales poison gas and gore all over him. The toxon immediately invades his lungs, causing him to gag on the fetid stink; more dangerous, though, is the temporary damage done to his eyes, which are now smeared with ichor and smarting from the corrosive vapors. Emrith is now temporarily fighting blind, but Calen is hardly a soundless target. The elf hacks one last time, spits bile into the water at his feet and then sweeps his sword forward in the general direction of his adversary. he cannot see where the blade is going, but his aim is such that a direct hit will score the man's groin and upper thighs; this is a strike deliberately meant to cripple his opponent, rendering him far easier to harry into the awaiting clutches of the infernal bog. In the wake of this uncomplicated and risky attack, Emrith begins to strafe quickly sideways and backward, lungs burning, eyes stinging, fishing blindly in the pouch on his right hip for the two items he normally keeps there. With his left, he rubs furiously at his eyes, clearing them of most of the organ remnants still smearing them shut. Once he lays hold of the tools he has sought, the elven spellblade tosses one high and the other low. The high-arcing object is a glass vial which creates nothing more than a huge burst of light and a tremendous bang, hoping to draw Calen's attention upward so that he does not track the threat from below. The second item is a dagger, glowing sullen red. This enchanted knife strikes the bog-water and begins to hiss violently as it sinks. The enchantment on the blade begins to heat the water of the bog at an alarming rate, and Emrith hopes that his half-blind toss has landed his trap somewhere near his foe, so that he will soon start boiling from the knees down.

Calen meant to widen the distance between himself and Emrith once free of the whip's electrical current. That would have to wait though, since the brief numbness had to fade, and the damage done to him had to heal enough to allow quick moving. In the interim, he would stagger just fast enough to prevent a repeat performance of the flames emerging, at least not yet. The delay means the spell-blade's efforts are successful, with the wild swing deliberately connected with so it would be an arm slashed instead. A gasp of pain and more damaged chunks later, and he's then testing, standing in one place for a second and then moving, just to figure it out. Another try, and two seconds later, and still nothing. This is repeated yet again, with the final trial succeeding as he moved from where he'd been standing, in time to prevent too much harm to himself, other than the gas eating his flesh. Enduring that because he must, it's back toward Emrith the undead male moved, in time to be sprayed by the water that was further damaging him. Despite being in agony, he'd persist, stopping once he was just a few feet from Emrith. For the necessary amount of time, he'd then stand motionless, before throwing himself forward, so that the volatile nature of the bog could be weaponised rather than a cheap shot being taken against the blinded spell-blade.

Emrith may not be totally blind any longer, but his vision is still blurred, and is apt to remain that way, at least for the duration of this bout. Rather than catching details, the elf sees indistinct shapes and outlines, and so he catches sight of Calen moving, pausing, testing the water as it were. He sneers when the heated bog-water strikes the undead, knowing that the fruition of his well-laid trap has come at last. When Calen approaches and then stands still, Emrith knows what's coming, and immediately begins to move away as fast as he can. Unfortunately for him, the enchantment on his boots is starting to run down, and he finds himself sinking into the water; he still does not touch the bottom, but now produces a steady rush as his moveless feet are propelled through the water. He remains upright while he glides, and because of his distance he is spattered with only a few errant drops of hot, alkaline liquid; these splash against the flesh of his face, eliciting red weals and instant pain. Emrith growls low in his throat and spits two words in his mother tongue, then cocks his arm back and heaves his sword in Emrith's general direction. As it flies, the sword grows a capsule of flame, summoned by the spellblade's quick incantation. As the wounds on his face begin to blister, the ensorcelled longsword strikes the already-heated bog-water somewhere close to the undead's side. Emrith smiles grimly at the ensuing explosion before realizing that his feet are squishing in the silt beneath the bog's roiling surface. The elf leaps, howling with pain at his rapidly heating legs, and splashes down in a new position. He continues to do this, moving as fast as he is able, and trusting the leather of his boots to shield the skin of his feet and calves the worst ravages of the burns he would otherwise be receiving. To add insult to injury, the elf manages to unstrap two small throwing-knives from leather sheathes, one on each wrist, and flick them with all of his flagging strength in Calen's direction. One or both strikes might get lucky, after all, and even without enchantments to guide or augment them, those keen blades might land a killing blow.

Calen was back on his feet immediately, getting ahead of the upward rush of fire that shot up soon after the one he had purposely triggered. The focus on staying mobile, slow going as it was considering, and he's far from able to avoid the projectiles which are hurled toward him. The one silver lining in all of this, not that it seems so, is the bladed weapons impaling his back rather than one of his legs, which would have made things much worse. Much slower still, he would continue, the exclamation of pain all he would allow himself to display until the ground was more stable, again.

Winner: Emrith

Emrith knows that he must vacate the area soon, or else risk being boiled alive in the seething quagmire. He hears the double thunk of his blades striking home, and bares his teeth. Following the sound as best he can, hopping repeatedly free of the water to minimize his exposure to it, he makes his way to Calen and, with a simple shove of one shoulder, shoves him into the water. At this point, the elf makes tracks for higher ground, parting the thickening mist as he goes. Surely his assailant will be able to pick himself up and will live to tell the tale, but he will bear the brands of his failure yet awhile upon his blighted skin.