Duel:Desparrow v Grimmrath

From HollowWiki

Part of the Thy Kingdom Come Arc


Location: Eastern Frostmaw Gates
Duelists: Desparrow (Team Hildegarde) vs Grimmrath (Team Balgruuf, NPCed by Hildegarde)
Judges: Jesen and Kasyr
Stakes: To spite Hildegarde, one of Balgruuf's lieutenants decides to blow up a huge section of the wall. If Desparrow wins, the wall remains intact. If Grimmrath wins, Team Balgruuf blasts a huge hole in the wall, and the falling stones kill many of Hildegarde's army.

Eastern Frostmaw Gates

Desparrow sat on top of the great wall wearing an entire suit of wolf fur to combat the blistering cold of the glacier city, even having donned a magically enlarged wolf skull over the top of his head ending at his nose. It was difficult to discern who he was, unless one could recognize the crimson crescent moon scar that was on his chest, partially visible through the vest that swayed apart here and there in the wind. The warlock’s flesh was bulging slightly, a sign that he was well saturated with the fuel he needed to enact the potent magics that he used in a fight and a fight is exactly what he happened to be looking for today, especially since everyone else he knew had gotten a piece of these giants and he wanted to know what was so damned great about combat with one. It had been some time since he had spoken with Hildegarde and frankly news about his crimes had spread all around so he figured it wouldn’t be the greatest time, though he could still assist here and there in her efforts for in his heart it was his intention to assist even if his actions typically had disastrous aftermath.


While Desparrow seems to be enjoying the view from high atop the wall, the drums have already begun. That consistent and ominous pounding, accompanied by the whining of what might be a partially crushed bagpipe and the distant chanting of “Grimm! Wrath! Grimm!” The drums grow closer or perhaps louder; do more drums join them or are they just gaining upon Desparrow? Those whiny bagpipes grow ever louder, adding to the ominous threat of the drums and creating a sense of something almost ethereal or hellish about them. Then the man himself appears. This ‘Grimm’ that they chant for. Grimmrath was a large man for a giant, standing at a looming eighteen feet tall. He is bedecked in armour that glints like a bank vault: golden, then silver, with hints of black, red and blue. A veritable rainbow of armour. Upon his back is a round and golden looking shield, embossed with the emblem of Aramoth himself. His helm features twisting horns that seem an accurate depiction of this stocky, bull of a giant: the angry and hot breath appearing in the air before his nostrils. In his hands he carries a box that looks as though it is made to be torn apart. “Enjoy the view. It will be your last.”


Desparrow stood as he saw the great man of a giant coming and to be honest the challenge made his heart beat a little bit faster but it was nothing. Those drums resonated, he could feel the thuds in his chest causing that battle lust to rise up within him, twisting his lips into a sickening grin. Through the eye sockets of the skull his left eye had ignited into violet eldritch fire, another sign of the warlock and when that warning came he only got to his feet and held out his hands. Tendrils of ether snaked out from his back and arms, twisting around them to converge within his palms before forming two spectral swords within his grasp which crackled with energy. The blades themselves were comparable to longswords, carrying weight enough to carry them through some armors and flesh, while more dense materials would not give so easily. Another thing to note was their jagged appearance, though this soon changed when they began to hum and those teeth became a blur, comparable to what a chainsaw would be like, though on only one side of the weapons. Releasing a burst of magic from his feet he launched himself into the air towards the giant, bearing down on the hulk of a man with swords raised above his head, whirring with deadly intent. Half way through the descent he surged forth more magic into these weapons, imbuing them with the element of fire, though these blades would not burn, but instead project the magic into the body of whatever they struck in layers for later activation. These blades would be brought down, swinging them both towards the clavicles of the man, and the teeth of the swords would grind into what armor or flesh they made contact with, possibly through such material and deeper into the body while injecting that fire magic harmlessly with each passing second. After only a couple of seconds, when his strength no longer could allow his body to remain suspended in the air he would attempt to kick off from the giant, rip free his swords and rapidly cast a featherfall effect to grant him the ability to land without consequence some distance away.


Grimmrath would not have been sent out to deliver this blow if he were not considered to be a competent warrior. He had heard enough about mages and their weak magics, these tricks and little devilries that would undo only the most foolish of warriors. As Desparrow launches himself up into the air with the unmistakable intent of attacking from there, the giant only tends to the box he had carried with him. Those magical blades are honing in on him with that pup attached to them and Grimmrath has no desire to be struck by whatever foul magics this one might use upon him. He rips the lid of the case upon and casts it upward to intercept those blades: the thick wood is almost like iron, it’s beyond massive though it surely must have been considered about an average sized plank of wood to the giant. The case lid had been tossed up with considerable force: intercepting those blades and perhaps obscuring Desparrow’s view to allow Grimmrath to duck his helmed head and double-step forward to slink out of Desparrow’s reach. With a ‘shhhk’ and a glint of light, the great weapon he had borne in the case was now revealed and wielded with expert handling: the panabas swinging in a mighty arc to cleave the itty-bitty hovering Desparrow in twain whilst his blades were stuck in the thick wood of the case lid. The panabas was a weapon reserved only for Aramoth’s Chosen; for the elite of Frostmaw; for those who were considered to be the executioners of the realm. It’s handle was smooth, the blade thick like a meat-cleaver: it looked like it could behead a mammoth with ease! In fact, so smooth was the handle, that should Desparrow appear to be switching position in the air he would find that the sharp end of the blade would no longer come for him, but the flat of it to flick him against the great wall that protected the city. Let the hero condemn those he came to save.


Desparrow did not expect such a reaction from his opponent, his arrogance always leaving him to believe he was going to be victorious. The warlock would not have gotten this far himself if he wasn’t capable of holding his own for he had once fought a dragon on nearly even ground! When the lid came up and his blades dug in, chewing through the wood and propelling him back he braced himself against the plank, wrenched his weapons free and kicked off into a spin controlled by minute bursts of magic from feet angled specifically to allow him greater maneuverability whilst in the air. The flat of the blade met his own two swords in a shower of sparks but Des was no giant and although the backside of his weapons were pressed back against him, protecting the man he did not have the mass to prevent being thrown back like a ragdoll into the wall. All he knew was the excruciating pain that came with his back slamming into the wall and sliding to the ground. For a moment his weapons had started to phase out of existence, his magic requiring constant concentration to remain in the physical realm. Needing more of an advantage the lycanthrope initiated a partial change, resulting in a small gain in height, bulk and increased senses as he attained some lupine features. With increased strength he dashed towards the Giant but more so in a zigzag manner, dodging what could be thrown his way as best he could while remotely activating the fire magic he had imbued into the plank and that weapon the giant carried, resulting in burst of fire and a rain of splinters upon them which hopefully was enough to startle the man. In this distraction he would shift from fire to seismic energy that coursed through his weapons, creating a denser weapon and he would swing out towards crippling points en passe, both swords towards first the right ankle on the outside. The moment they made contact with armor they would release more sparks but also deliver a crushing blow and a tremor that would reverberate hopefully into the body with less strength but splintering effect on the giant’s bones that the armor protected, if the armor wasn’t destroyed altogether by the spell.


Grimmrath’s meaty lips twitched into a wry grin as Desparrow smacked against the wall and slid down to the ground, following by a few pebbles and bits of rubble from his impact. So much for defending the wall, Grimmrath thought. But suddenly his panabas had flashed a bright white and his own vision was obscured, causing him to groan with annoyance. These mages and their trickery! Had they no honour? The explosion and shower of splintering wood does little to bother him, he has been made in battle, he lives and breathes battle and war: he should not have been taken so easily by the flash of light, yet that very flash of light has rendered the explosion little more than an annoying ‘boof’ in the sky with a subsequent ‘pitter-patter’ of raining splinters. When his vision clears, Desparrow is coming in fast and will soon strike at his ankle. Grimmrath has no choice but to act quickly: freeing one hand from the panabas while he swings it in the other in a wide sweep to try and purchase some precious time, his free hand grasps his large round shield as he drops to his knee with a mighty roar as the shield came down like some golden dome to trap Desparrow beneath it. It wouldn’t crush him for it was spacious. But the inner rim of the shield was lined with silver; silver veins ran along the inside of the shield as this was said to be protection from the bad spirits, this was purported to keep the evil spirits away from a good and just man. Desparrow’s sword would ring against the metal of the silver-lined shield, causing it to reverberate and crack due to that seismic force. But Grimmrath is up and waiting now: should Desparrow emerge from under his shield, Aramoth’s Chosen will crush him with under his rather massive boot.


Desparrow did not expect such a worthy foe and suddenly his adrenaline and battle lust surged. When that shield came down trapping him within he could only grin but the sound of the grinding against the inner walls was painful to his ears causing him to release his attack prematurely, thus only minor cracking ensuing from that assault. It was the silver though that dissuaded him, feeling its heat upon his skin even at this distance and to look directly at it was like looking at the sun: it was blinding and hurt his eyes. Not one to be done in so easily he switched up his tactics once again, the blades of his amped up to a high pitched whine as the rotation of those teeth increased to a deafening pitch within the walls of the shield and became imbued with fire magic once more. The lines of ether travelling from his body into the blades engorged when the flow was increased and his spectral weapons turned crimson while radiating a scorching heat. Heading towards the cracked section he first touched the tips of his weapons towards the fractures to expand the metal, further weakening it against frostmaw’s utter cold before releasing a seismic blast in the form of a magically enhanced sonic howl that vibrated the shield until it had exploded outwards granting him escape. Passing through the wall so close left him steaming and covered with several blistering burns and a renewed determination for victory when he was back out into the light of day. Looking up at the giant and his now oncoming foot the lycanthrope swung out with his swords to catch the metal of the boot in yet another dramatic display of sparks. He could not fight off the weight, having to move out of the way to remain unsquished but did not stop his spell. Fire magic penetrated deep into the metal and the fleshy bits beneath being ignited at the same time resulting in the boot to rise exponentially in heat. The magic that passed through the flesh would lash out at the veins to make blood boil to the point that the foot would literally cook before chunks of meat burst away within the confines of the armor due to subdermal pockets of hot fluid and air rapidly forming and popping within the body.


Grimmrath had so deeply hoped he would be able to squish the little man. Nothing could quite replace that feeling of squishing someone under your boot, after all. Feelings all those bones go ‘pop’ and collapsing under your sheer strength? It was sickeningly sweet. But alas, the mage used those teeth sharp swords to just about pierce through Grimmrath’s scale covered boots to touch his meaty toe and prick the flesh, yet that was all it took for that insipid and fiery magic to course through Grimmrath’s system. And with a howl of rage, the giant kicked at Desparrow in an effort to fling him away from his wounded foot and away from him! Of course, there was nothing to say that Desparrow was well out of the way by the time that boot came swinging for him. Yet Aramoth’s Chosen could feel this vile magic throbbing through him, that quickly rising heat in his foot seemed to be travelling all about his body. “No flame shall take me! No flame but that of the holy fire of Aramoth himself shall devour me!” he roared to no one in particular, his arms open wide as suddenly his entire body was engulfed in golden flames that were evidently divine. “Purge me, o, God of War!” he cried out as the heat engulfed his body; the holy fire of his god dancing across his body and slowly eating away at his flesh – for Aramoth would give power that was as equally powerful as it was destructive – yet purging the insipid flame of Desparrow from his system to replace it with Aramoth’s holy fire. The paladin screamed with fury and agony, but he made for the wall. If he were to explode, then he would take out the wall. And Desparrow with it. He was a charging, unstoppable mass of flames and muscle: should any dare to get in his way, a swing of the now flaming panabas would put an end to them.


Desparrow had intended fully to channel magic until the man was reduced to a puddle of boiling flesh and cinder but this was not what fate intended. That foot managed to knock him some distance, the rolling through the snow cooling on his body but his spell no longer active due to the lack of physical contact with his target. Also he thought he felt the internal stabbing of a cracked rib with every breath which did not bode well for him either. Banishing his swords, the remaining ether that created them absorbing back into his body the lycan watched with widening eyes as the giant became engulfed in that holy fire. He had never faced those with divine might before and had no idea what to do but he had an idea. Shakily he got to his feet and with a small burst of magic launched himself into the air before channeling the majority of his mana well into the direct air around him as a growing mass. The opalescent mist became charged with Des’ evil, a bit of his corruption sinking in but by no means of divine essence let alone capable of fending of any manner of holy power and in an instant he conjured up using the ambient elements a wall of black ice between himself and the oncoming threat. A mental push and it propelled towards the giant though due to the close proximity of the wall of frostmaw he did not know what sort of calamity would ensue. When the explosion came Desparrow was not around to see the result, the expelled forces not only shattering his wall but also throwing the airborne warlock well over the wall and out of sight to suffer whatever fate befell him. It would however be noted that when the black ice broke apart it would congeal into a tangible mass of shadows that due to a latent rushed command, would attempt to smother the giant and incapacitate him, if it were at all possible.


Grimmrath wins


Grimmrath would stop for nothing, so imbued was he by the holy presence of Aramoth. Even that wall of ice could not hold him back, as his flame wrapped body crashed through the wall of ice and straight for Desparrow. The holy blessing of Aramoth prevented that ice from congealing into a tangible mass of shadows, instead rendering it into only steam to drift harmlessly away into the air. Grimmrath picked up Desparrow in his meaty hand and laughed heartily as the holy fire burned the wretched werewolf. "Puny dog," he told Desparrow, before slapping him mercilessly against the wall at least three times before tossing him away entirely. Pulling back his fist, the paladin looked skyward and announced: "For Aramoth and my rightful king, I devote this victory!" his fist surged forth with a decided 'thum' of force, the very stone of the wall rippling from the sheer strength of the strike. That tell-tale crackling resonated across the wall as it began to crumble... right towards Hildegarde's camp.