Duel:Darentel v Kasyr
1~Darentel ’s sword, a rather simple affair devoid of brand or insignia, was unsheathed ’pon entrance to the forest proper, as was instinctual habit, this was not a place for wandering drow, a fact not lost on him. The semblance of breeze through the wild wooded hinterland accosting from the western mountains proved to aid a sense of fevered, heightened awareness, one that saw the man afore as the potential threat he would inevitably accommodate. And thus, the drow offered something close to a bow, decision would then pass as to the location of vantage, which ’pon this narrowed path surrounded with thick bush was not an hastily made choice, the wild, clustered vegetation, closing the path’s flanks would prove difficult to trespass, therefore the drow remained stationed on the trail. Positioned southward of his opponent, D’arentel would have the vantage of open ground, as the path swept eastward metres from the makeshift arena, thus closing flora acting as a barrier, the drow used this collected information the instant it calculated. A quick step, and lunge followed his commencement of movement, sword thrust hard and fast towards the man’s chest and stomach area with little more than the flicker of wrist or batter of an eyelid. His intentions, should he succeed was to impale the human ’pon the implemented death .
1~You afforded his opponent all of a threadbare nod upon realisation of his entrance, eyes of an amber hue fixated upon the approaching figure with an air of seriousness that seemed rather alien to the often cheerful countenance the tiefling sported. Still, the rather lackluster manner in which he held himself, leaned back against a rather large tree which served as his particular means of momentary relaxation, did betray that his mood was not entirely as grim as it could otherwise be interpreted as, a point reflected equally in the manner he began to smirk malignantly upon the hastened approach of the dark elf. By impulse, a gloved hand moved to curl about the obsidian blade at his side, fingers all but prepared to touch upon the pommel of the blade before the precepts of the battle are remembered, disallowing usage of his favoured arnament due to its mystical nature. The moments hesitance hence places him at a disadvantage, that faltering wasting moments that could have otherwise been spent aiding in the sudden shift of his left foot to the side which harkened the redirection of the whole of his being, an attempt at sliding towards that very eastwards passage which had been noticed, resulting in a rather unpleasent shearing of flesh, blade quite easily piercing through the leather trenchcoat the tiefling had taken to wearing, and the cloth shirt beneath, though fortuitously enough having been displaced so it spilled crimson rather than the contents of his last meal. Eyes narrowing, Kasyr simply growled, left hand fumbling into a pocket by which point something made of brass was removed and placed over his right hand, a simplistic but pleasent item to aid in the rather hands on approach that was to be favoured, carried out by a simple liberation of ones arms from the sleeve's of his trenchcoat (the weighted bit of clothing ever so unhelpfully skewered to the tree behind him) and a sliding step forward, right fist drawn back as though to take a swing at the drow's eyes, before a withdrawn left arm would simply jet forth to grant a knuckle sandwhich into Darental's kidneys, and the original strike would prove to be a feint, right fist withdrawn to jut forth instead towards the mans throat. "Mon dieu, Not even a hello"
2~Darentel would have invariably succumbed to the feigned left-right combination, and quite possibly earthen floor, should the attack have found success, though lithe, quickness offered the barest escape from the brassed implement, as was hereditary, and for the most part habitual performance. The drow, armoured in troll hide found the backward motion of his retreat somewhat more stumbled than he would have preferred, though any avoidance of injury or wound was a satisfactory outcome, and a fact not overlooked. The sword, once levered from it’s hooked knock in the trunk, was again raised as booted feet found hold against the gravelled surface of the path, to repeat the lunged attack as before, after all, it was successful the in the first instance of melee. However, instinctual movement found the attack not replicated, rather forgotten as the vantage had changed, and would now prove less effective against his opponent. Quick decision again saw a shift in the stance of the drow, although prepared for lunge, and his body held similar pose to the initial aggression, the sword levelled at his side, rather than the thrust motion offered before. With speed and agility habitually displayed again the drow leapt forward, sword singing the wail of severed atmosphere ’pon it’s unleashed swing, formatting an arc from the right flank of the drow’s body, aimed again chest height, in single, right handed position. The left hand followed the movement of the bladed right with almost exact discipline, though the motives copied from his assailants last aggressed motif, a clenched gloved fist now aimed for Kasyr’s head. Either attack would prove substantially significant assault, though needless to say, the swords destination would prove more costly than the fist.
2~You had all the time to mutter something quite akin to "How rude" before the newly forged attack was taken into account, an aggravation which only added onto the biting sting in his side. Tensing up a fair bit, the tiefling did the only thing that came to him naturally by this point, using the fullness of celerity and strength bestowed upon him as both guardian and half imp to simply rush forth -at- his foe (further aided by the shedding of his weighted trenchcoat), left arm risen up to chest height and held just a bit out to the side so when those arms which swung with ill intent met his form, they crashed upon his readied defense, the limb which would take the brunt of the damage. It was a rather unpleasent soreness to be sure, but far lesser than those wounds he generally seemed to accrue during events of a more 'friendly' nature- supposedly. He then simply carried on with his press, head lashed forth to slam forehead into the drow's nose given proximity was hopefully enough to grant leeway, and if not, the left arm which had been formerly used for guarding would then be used for a more aggressive purpose, moved forth to grasp upon the sword arm of the dark elf and hold him close so as to deprive him of his mobility. That wouldn't quite be the end of it however, for if contact was made with the grasp, the tiefling would take advantage of an idle right hand and jut it forth towards the underside of the mans right arm, fully intent upon placing enough force within the strike to dislocate that misforunate limb.
3~Darentel suffered the attack with silent indignation, somewhat hefty ego now bruised from the assailed aggression’s landing, and of course, pain screamed with each aggravated assault. The shattered nose split accordingly, helped on by the force of the head butt, sanguine fluid thus sprayed the immediate vicinity, albeit only inches. And accompanied the blood spray were tears, not from the pain, nor indignation, but the sort that came hand in hand with any attack ’pon the proboscis, which, invariably blinded the drow, leaving the following attacks an open vantage. With the landed head butt breaking the drow had begun a backwards stumble, aiding the attackers momentum, and with sword thus ineffective as response to the proximity of the man, the limb succumbed to the battery, giving little more than non-effective tension before breaking, a sickening sound emanating from the fracture, as well as a stifled cry. The drow’s sword, now lay ’pon the trail, metres from reaching hands, though should time have permit would have been no-so-swiftly regained, reaffirming it’s pommel upon leathered left hand, though that was not to be the case, as time was of the essence. And reaction was called on with all the fevered, adrenalined ferocity the drow could muster, given the limp, disfigured right arm. With one final, last ditch attempt to offer long lasting pain upon the man, D’arentel thrust his left hand forward, as feet efficiently regained control of the backward fall, the sternum was in sight, and a fracturing of the afore mentioned would prove dilapidating, and sufficiently distill the pain he now felt upon his assailant.
3~You granted the drow a sneer as he pulled his face back to survey the damages done, something seeming to stir within him at the sight of all that freshly spilled vitae. Even still, those rivulets of sanguine substance weren't enough to make him ignore the oncoming attack, a rather devious idea coming to mind. Grip tightening upon that poor wounded arm held within those fingers of his left hand, the tiefling made no movement to evade the strike, instead simply falling back the moment it strikes, a bloody cough erupting from his throat as the unresisted momentum sends him sprawling backwards, banging rather clumsily into the tree and granting him even more bruises to go with those upon his arms. The kicker however, was that in falling, the very plunge he was taken was to be turned to his favor, a vicious tug of the arm -still- held upon granted to bring the dark elf to the ground, whereupon he'd find himself promptly granted a fair bit of 'hospitality, once the tieflings equilibrium had been restored vis a vis a hastily shuffled right hand. Mind you, Hospitality at this moment was only going to come in the particular flavour of a secondary tug of that maimed arm and a slight twist, as the unhindered arm moved to strike a palm into the mans already wounded nose, before all his strength was to be placed upon brutally grasping at whatever might prove viable, be it collar or flesh, with full intent to then heave the mans face directly into the trunk of the tree the tiefling was leaning against, or at the very least, the ground they stood upon "C'est la vie~ I get the untalkative one"
F~Darentel grunted, an almost possessive hellish disfigurement contorted the blood covered mess of remaining face, though the hereditary, instilled training held it’s poise, he did not cry out. Even throughout the violent, near sadistic torture that followed, the initial pull of his arm saw to that, for with the torment came relief, unconsciousness allowed a sense of escape as each pull or twist rendered the limb useless. As the moment of long overdue release finally arrived, D’arentel was a slumped mess, of blood and shattered bone, unconsciously bloodying the earthen ground from both nose and broken skin on his arm, where little fragments of fractured bone punctured the skin. You said, ". . . I think he's going to need a medic, peut-etre"