Duel:Donovan v Quinton
Duel
Quinton Navarre stands headstrong and with as stern a gaze as can be mustered, his every muscle visibly tensed as slender digits wrap their way about the short, sapphire-toned hilt of the trusty falchion nestled within a silverish scabbard upon his backbone. As the scramasax-esque sabre is dislodged from its place of rest by a left-handed grip, an inkling of malevolency casts itself upon the boyish rogue's emerald optics which further intensifies as the weapon is fully withdrawn and then held horizontally forth in a defensive posture. Speaking of stances, the Catalian's right leg bends at the knee to further support his form and then locked into place is his other half, a stature now brimming completely with safeguard and yet despite its rigidity, fluid enough even still to grant the sudden and inevitable dash forward taken by the brazen lad. In this maddening dispatch, that blood-stained falchion held outward does not budge; rather, as his legs take him on a thrilling rollercoaster of a ride toward his opponent, Quinton merely with his right hand reaches into his pocket near-nonchalantly amidst the uproar rikes. As a summation of sorts, or perhaps simply because they weren't doing anything else, anyway, both legs grant the captain a leap up to approximately his foe's abdomen or so and then whilst one unfolds from against the thigh to provide balance upon a return to the earth, the other after leaving its thigh hurls forward to knock a steel-toed boot into the paladin's waistline with ample acrobatic prowess.
Donovan doesn't permit himself the small luxury of a tepid glance around the cavernous arena, instead settling the full of his focus toward his far younger adversary. He might be superior both in stature and experience, but the azure knight's face foretells that it will be an unfavorable notation rather than an advantage. In contrast to Quinton's taut and purposeful battle stance, Donovan assumes a position far more basic — the most elementary of swordplay postures, his left foot posted as a base from which he'll ultimately lunge forward with the remainder of his unsettlingly-relaxed form. Navarre's elegantly-crafted assault appears to throw the paladin's plans out the window, however; the surprise with which he gazes upon the rogue betrays his false assumption that this would be a more traditional encounter. Nevertheless, Donovan follows Quinton's every movement with those familiar azure eyes, an assassin's skill sighting the slip of a dagger into the off-hand. For that reason he pirouettes to his right, rather than shuffle to his left, allowing the boy's own momentum to carry him past without so much as a scratch rendered upon the champion of Xalious. As Donovan's counter is made, the avenger longsword nestled into his belt comes into play, torn loose from the ornate scabbard which held it and held aloft in both hands; in his near-arthritic state one grip will no longer suffice. The intended posture is re-assumed, and from that position does Donovan lunge forth but not before his weapon of choice is sliced in a horizontal arc from his left to right across where Quinton's midsection should be, if he's half the swordsman the paladin expects and has recovered from his glorified fly-by.
Quinton has forsooth since recovered, his obscure angling assisted in a retrieval of more orderly presentation via adept able-bodiedness -- soon following his failure to amount so much as a scratch, a graceful landing is made and it is amidst this regathering that from the east hails a mighty longsword. Not one for staring helplessly, Navarre initiates a complete bend backwards, his waist with agile prowess rotating slightly leftward whilst being guided to the ground behind the boy. Through this exquisite display of evasion, two noteworthy things take place -- for one, the longsword is not so fully gotten away from and instead it slides over Quinton's dragonscale cloak, tearing it open at the seams and gashing a casual slice into his chest. Of the intense stinging no doubt suffered from after this close encounter with the afterlife, both legs are knocked off course and as such, they slam less than gracefully into Keane's own whilst the lad's back tastes the earth in a less-than-triumphant crash. The Catalian rises near-instantaneously with a grunt, leaps rearward some feet, stumbles manically and his grip on the falchion tightens noteably. At once, withdrawn from its knotted placement enveloping his sheath is a rope, of the plaited variety and onyx in shade. Not so round as braided rope, it seems less prone to kinking and more flexible than the standard. With his right hold the item is tossed to his side -- its length rivals some fifty feet and its ultra-thin nature concealed this well. A thrust forth by the falchion provides 'cover fire' in its aim toward Keane's cranium whilst the lad swings this contraption once more, this time with an arc to rid the distance between the rope and the lavish high station above the marble seating arrangements of the arena. At its very end, the cable has attached to it a steel hook which, in accordance with Quinton's rather expert judging of stretch, latches onto the open-view alcove and safely ensnares itself. Carried by the tide that is his action, Navarre flings through a crazed expanse, his sword retracted and his booted feet vivaciously dangling behind him, perhaps slamming into the paladin's body in their ascent. In seconds or less the captain arrives at his destination, at which point the nature of his strange antics comes to light -- the rope is again tossed, this time clutching the rafters on the far end of the stadium, leaving a slightly curved-downward line from one end of the night sky to the next; Quinton hastily ties an ample knot to his location and then holds onto his thread with his right hand for dear life, sliding down the extended strand and, when directly above Donovan Keane, he lifts both legs to wrap about the lace which, due to its plaited nature, contains this added weight; allowing himself to dangle fully upside-down, the falchion is clasped with both hands and at this fateful moment, the boy lets go. An earthward, inverted fall is the result, with his sword diving inward toward the top of Keane's skull at a pace unfathomable.
Donovan's expectations of adversarial quality are met with the almost inexplicable escape - mostly - of Quinton from his close-range two-fisted sword swipe. The paladin makes no movement of surprise almost as if he -knew- the renegade would avert the disaster in the offing, and instead makes to brace himself for the inevitable counter. Navarre's leg-lash catches the azure knight mildly off-guard and sends him stumbling in the same direction as Quinton's retreat, though his posture is righted with little more than perhaps a healthy bruise upon one shin. Donovan is suckered into the decoy lunge the boy offers with his falchion, swinging his own brand to meet it..and parrying just enough to avoid being caught between the eyes; instead a stray chunk of chestnut hair falls to the dirt floor below, severed from the paladin's scalp. Quinton's grappling-hook trick provides Donovan ample time to ready himself, though it soon appears that the bruised leg may trouble him more than he wishes to let on. Poised to defend the in-swinging youth, he raises the longsword in a defensive posture to again parry the blow. Momentum proves too strong, however, and Quinton and Donovan collide mightily in a teeming heap of blades, arms and legs. Both are surely bruised, the paladin is for certain, though he does not allow himself the thought of resigning from the battle. Through this pain he manages still to overpower the smaller man into the submissive position, pinned against the dirt floor. Both Donovan's hands hold against the longsword, one at the hilt and the other gauntleted extremity grasping near the apex. It is with this grip that he pushes the weapon against Quinton's throat, the leading edge nestled against his Adam's apple and sure to slice with just a moment more of sufficient force.
Quinton swallows hard, optics wide with fear. His opponent's far more dominating position grants little opportunity; conversely, the longsword's forcefulness grants little time. Ferociously, he presses onward, now gripping with every inkling of strength his falchion's hilt as he thrusts it first upward, then with a sudden arc against the more powerful blade's side. Needless to say, pinned down as he is and with a far less significant width to his sabre, this amounts for nothing; it is what is done in the meantime, however, that decisively tilts the ordeal in the smaller man's favour. Amidst the ruse, the boy's legs at once launch a powerful counteroffensive into the groin of the man looming above; simultaneously, the falchion slides like a bow to the longsword's violin across its form, bashing into the hilt and then curving in a roundabout fashion and lastly arcing its tip so as to pierce the avenger's side and veer its doomsday course wayward. Even still, for it all Quinton is far less than unscathed; for his stubborn methodology he is awarded no less than the longsword's newly-angled destination his lightly plated leggings. For such might from the blade, they are shattered and his exposed thighs do bleed. Falchion held in a shaky fix, an even more wavering free hand spirals behind the mercenary as from his other blade's sister sheath a wakizashi short sword of Cenrilian make whirs into sight. Its nakago is held together with rudimentary tape and its blade is covered with ample rust; held vertically alongside the falchion, these two one-handed weapons are nothing to speak of though extraordinary in their simplicity. Quinton's more prominent sabre joins the newly-drawn oriental piece in its mounting form and, as he had been wont to do when this encounter initiated, the Catalian bends at the right knee and sturdies the left before abruptly racing wayward, sideways and creating a greater gape than had been established in his defensive procedures. The wakizashi is at this time curved transversely and situated afront the falchion about two-thirds of its length upward, forming a distinctive cross between the blades. Both legs are spread more widely apart as they drip viate and, in a fierce display of athletic capabilities despite prominent weakness, Navarre then frontflips without warning and stretches his arms so as to find the cross supporting his leaping weight as it digs itself into the ground. Now again upside-down, amidst this somersault a repositioning ensues, with Quinton successfully readjusting himself in an inverted twirl so as to, in this second act, break free from the ground his cross like Excalibur from the stone and then swing maddeningly crabwise, the wakizashi unhinged from its stalwart location to speedily cut through Donovan's leggings whilst the falchion slides upwardly to slice through his midsection. All this time, the lad remains downward from his awkward motions and he rises hastily amidst the attempted strikes, to Donovan's right side where a shoulder hooks into his platemail, forcing a push backward to reduce his foe's balance.
Donovan, for a moment, allows himself to think that the battle is his, but it is for this premature thought that he's soon dearly punished. Quinton's response is ruthless, unexpected and authoritative in being carried out in the swiftest of fashions; not even the sturdiest of chainmail can offer sufficient protection for the most vulnerable of areas, and Donovan lets loose a shocked gasp as the pinned man's knee connects with crotch with cruel accuracy. Reacting toward the initial low blow leaves the paladin a proverbial sitting duck for the subsequent phases of Quinton's wrath, though the same chainmail material as covers his legs provides adequate coverage for his sides as only the protective chain bites into his tender flesh. Vitae trickles slowly forth from this first tangible wound, and from the subsequent slices of Quinton as well. The last two gouge far deeper than the prior attempts, as his leggings are swiftly spliced and his midsection likewise feels the burn of the renegade's rage -- though not so much as to render Donovan to his end. Sanguine rivulets cascade from the beleaguered paladin's legs, side and torso, and his eyes widen in shock as he realizes Quinton has taken his best shots and suffered barely a nick while he's not only been bested at his own game, but decimated. A snarl rumbles from Donovan's throat, and his face contorts into a scowl that shows even now, he will not yield. With the final ounces of strength he can muster and channel, the weapon in his hand is held aloft in his dominant right hand. Strength customary of one facing death in the face - usually far more than can be typically exerted - allows Donovan one final volley, a basic hurl of the longsword point-first, directed on course to where Quinton stands. Surely the physical toll of escaping all the azure knight's earlier attempts means he's ripe for the taking with his last assault, and even while it's still airborne he crumples in a bloodied heap upon the dirt ground, blood and dust mixing together.
Quinton Navarre has since sturdies himself as best a man bleeding from wounded thighs could hope to achieve and, as he bears witness to the incoming final barrage, there is only a surreal sense of bewilderment in his eyes. Wakizashi first to arrive into the realm that is the distance between the two combatants, the falchion soon thereafter follows; a return to the cross is executed whilst shaking, aching legs tremble so terribly vehemently as to at once give into the burden and the rogue stumbles into a crouching position perfect for Keane to remove his head with. At once a scream more likened to a lion's roar in the heat of some devastating outburst than a mere cry is sent unto the field and the captain in his immobile brace for impact can only raise his fortification higher to meet with the longsword's death-seeking aim. There is a great clashing of swords at this juncture; echoing about the battlefield almost unrealistically is the metallic clanging screech and arms aquiver hold their stance for it all. That wakizashi further into the fray begins immediately to crack; its kind is not meant for direct confrontation with claymores. Gasping in realization, Quinton allows himself to fall one last time completely to the ground -- the longsword presses past his defense, shattering the Cenrilian blade in its way and sending a splurt of blood forth like a small river from Navarre's shoulder. A near-lifeless tumble and twirl, falchion grasped in the air for the duration, grants the captain an unlikely escape from further harm and he arrives with a slam into the lowest tier of seats, panting and injured decently enough.
Judges' Comments
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