Duel:Drake v Eylatte
Part of the Rynvalian War Arc
Drake vs. Eylatte
Judges: Arien, Rheven (mid), Gunnar
Outcome: Drake, unanimous
Drake offers no wordy preamble, but plunges into a run on sight of the woman he was sent here to break. He jangles loudly as his heels pound the stony waste , a pair of swords strapped to shoulder-blade and hip, a compound bow secured to his broad back, and an arsenal of daggers and arcana stashed in rows inside his leather duster. The mercenary is truly armed to the teeth but for now forgoes more conventional weaponry, shoving a hand to the deep pocket of his coat to withdraw a clutch of small objects. Breaking stride to take a new direction every few paces, he draws and throws these items one fistful after the other at Eylatte; sharpened metal jacks, home-made from twisted iron nails, which would surely lodge deep into flesh on contact, like terrible burrs. However, it seems the sailor's aim is terrible today; only a few of the spiny stars hurtle at their mark with any accuracy. The rest fall short or are thrown too far, scattering to stud the barren ground in a wide circle around the dryad's feet. Grunting at this apparent failure, he resorts to daggers drawn and thrown in two volleys of three. It is a rapid succession; the blades hurled in pairs at her boots in attempt to make his target dance straight into the jack-studded field around her. He'd find it much easier to take her down were she crippled, either by a dagger or a boot-sole pierced through with iron spikes.
Eylatte perks a slender white brow as she watches her opponent run towards her at a breakneck pace. A gentle breeze kicks up the sands around them, but she pays it no mind. Instead she focuses upon the sudden onslaught of deadly objects that fly her way. Icy blue orbs flash to a deep forest green as thick magic floods her body. Devoid of plant-life and out of her element, the Dryad reacts upon her first instincts. Her usual graceful actions are jerky as she reaches up and over her right shoulder with her right hand to grasp the staff secured to her back by a living vine that had been taken of her tree. This she pulls up and over while the vine shifts and moves, sliding down her left arm to wrap around her left wrist. It hardens as it settles into place so that a guard is created around her small appendage that will allow her to block sharpened objects, for a time at least. The staff she begins to twirl as the gentle breeze shifts course into a howling wind with the Druid's subtle nudge. The staff twirls, knocking many of the objects off course. A few slide by her defense, cutting flesh as they fly, but a few lodge themselves into her slight frame. One in her upper right arm and one in her left thigh. They do not stop movement, only hinder it. Her feet sting from those items that had been scattered around her as they are knocked aside by her movements. One pierces her boot causing her to cry out with pain. The swirling sands rise into the air hindering sight and muffling sound, stinging her eyes as the winds continue to moan. From a small pouch secured to her left hip she pulls a handful of small blossoms. All are a pale green and filled with magic. She aims low as she tosses them into the wind allowing a thread of magic to activate the toxins they contain. A green mist rises. She too is prey to her own concoction meant to stifle breathing, slow movement and blind if enough is inhaled. Calmly she waits for the storm to break and her foe's next attack. Blood trickles down her skin as she stands with her staff in hand surrounded by the sharp objects thrown and the gritty, green smog that clogs the air.
Drake's reflexes have been sharply honed by a life spent at sea, his body limbered by cumulative years in the rigging, ducking sails and beams torn loose in torrential storms, the blades of brigands and righteous defenders alike. Thus, his sheer bulk is hung on a flexible frame that only enhances the strength with which he now vaults to a nearby shattered block of stone to evade, as best he can, the rising miasma of green mist that he gathers can only be poison. No time for gloating, the surly seafarer shreds the shirt gifted to him the evening prior, tying strips around his lower face until the cotton itself threatens to obscure his breath. This done, he grapples his bow from his back, while the mist gathers in verdant swirls at his thighs, billowing up to water his eyes. Drake is a staunch believer in fighting fire with fire or, in this case, poison with poison. He is swift to nock his bow and launch a slew of venomous arrows at Eylatte, marking her shape only vaguely in the foggy ruin below. Should he hit her, there will be no sudden death; he was not paid enough for murder, but the poison, along with her injuries, should sicken the woman enough to make her a passive target. Makeshift mask in place, he launches from the rock to land with a boot-thud among the obscuring mists, hoping the druid might lose sight of him once they are on even ground. The flower's poison will seep through the cotton, but only slowly, though his uncovered eyes remain blurred with their own saline fluids. The bow is useless to him now, and is discarded.
Eylatte tilts her head to one side in quiet observation. From above, arrows rain down upon her with their poison tipped ends. A smile curves her pale pink lips. The small, childlike woman throws her hands skyward as she transforms from white ghostly Dryad to a tree like creature rooted to the sandy floor. Her feet are no longer present, they are now her roots like any tree must have. Her legs meld together as her middle hardens into a stout trunk and her arms lengthen, finger tips becoming deadly points., No longer free to move from the spot, he would find her embrace rushing if he thought it safe enough to venture towards her. Arrows lodge themselves into her body as it changes, both before and after, protruding from her now knobby skin as thick sappy blood oozes from the wounds. She ignores the poison. Her body's immune system would work to negate the foreign substances now flooding her system. Her staff clatters to the ground. As it collides with the sand a shockwave courses outwards in a wide circle. Loosened by the shock, rocks and stones fall towards the ground, targeting the Human as the land gives to the Druid's command. Her intent is to crush him into dust so that his body becomes nothing more than sand to join that which had been before their battle. She too is hit with some of these flying projectiles and her soft cry of pain fills the clearing only to be drowned out by the still howling winds.
Drake, scoured by the sand-laden winds that nevertheless did not dispel the poison fog, retains the thick cloth strips that save his breath, though they are becoming smirched with sour-tasting grit. He knows he may be affected by the detritus of Eylatte's prior attack and cannot rely so heavily on his reflexes now. Proximity to the druid has been made perilous by own steel jacks. Thus, he keeps his distance, which is just as well considering the woman's pike-fingered dendritic transformation. The mercenary is shaken to the core by tremors that send stone rubble plummeting, the dross of it joining the foul hurricane already in place. A falling cornice from the temple wall above glances off his left shoulder, eliciting a muffled curse and striking nerve and muscle numb. Swords are definitely out of the question for now, and the sad fact is that Drake hasn't got a magical bone in his body. But this lack of inherent ability does not preclude him from purchasing some; the sailor is canny enough to seek out those who peddle charms to make up for that lack, and thus the mercenary's many-pocketed coat now yields from its leathern depths a set of four vary-coloured pouches. Hoping the talismanic trinkets are worth their price, he pauses for the breath needed to whisper something to a red one clutched loosely in his almost insensate left hand, the right one shoved palm-out toward Eylatte. The hobbit-made charm is loosed to its full effect; from his calloused hand floods a shocking welter of flame, a conflagratory flood that drags a curse from the seafarer's lips for the way it sears his own flesh, but still he speaks the name of the next talisman, and the next, all the while half-sluggishly dancing around an avalanche of stones. Rock chips shred through his coat to add scars to his already abundant collection. Three firestorms are launched to strike the druidic tree, upon which the pouches are rendered to useless red scraps. His last feat of borrowed magic is to mutter the name of the yellow pouch, wincing against the burns he knows are to come on his already seared but thankfully almost feelingless south-paw. It is a dire electric bolt that is shot from the sailor's outstretched hand now, only growing in intensity once it's fled his mortal flesh. In his experience such strikes have sundered even the mightiest oaken masts in twain, and is this fate he hopes for Eylatte, if she is not already charred by flame.
Eylatte hisses softly as the stirring air surrounding the weathered human heats. It is only her innate connection to the elements that gives her this subtle forewarning to what might come. Soft laughter trickles from a second pouch secured at her left hip. A water sprite springs from its confines to her mistress's aid. Fire. A deadly enemy to any plant. Arya widens as she moves over the treelike form of the Druid so that she creates a thin shimmering shield. Unable to move, Eyla prepares herself to face the fiery attack head on. The ever present winds will hopefully cool the flame as it races towards her and strikes true. She can feel the impact against both her body and the water shield that covers her. Smoke fills the air in thick waves as her body singes and chars under the assault. It is all she can do to not cry out as her nerve endings overload and go numb. She had not been expecting the lightening strike. Her eyes widen in surprise as it strikes true to its mark, impaling itself into the left side of her trunk just below where her ribs might be. Unconsciousness fought for control of her mind so that the edges of her vision blurred to black. Arya, now sparking with a hint of electricity left behind by the Assassin's attack, flies through the gritty winds. The Dryad pours her remaining energy and the magic at her call into this final attack, it would be her last before she slipped away. Rock and stone roll across the ground causing it to shake as the Sprite mixes with the sand to form a makeshift glue. Seconds pass. From the midst of the swirling grime rises a creature made from the rock and stone. A golem, held together by the slime Arya had helped to create. Lightening sizzles about it as it lumbers towards creakingly towards the human. Now Drake would be stuck between the creature and the Dryad. She controls it from afar so that the mighty stone arms rain crushing blows down upon the Human who could doge the attack, but at what risk? Forward it charges as she attempts to drive him back towards her. The attack could only last so long before she would lose control and the creature would return to the elements it had been born of, but not before it turned brought Drake down or drove him into her awaiting embrace.
Drake is ruthless and efficient in his work, success more often than not earned him high wage and soon, he hoped, renown. But the druid's response to his purchased spells is shocking, literally and metaphorically, and he gives short thanks to the gods now for the thick-soled boots that prevent electrocution from below. Which is the least of the mortal's worries, with the sand-forged golem lumbering upon him and the tree-formed witch waiting to ensnare him in her spiny grasp. Dodge the raining blows he does, though keeping his still-blurred eyes peeled for grasping branches. He knows he cannot remain thus confined, and so bolts for the flat of the wall to one side of Eylatte, whose massive wooden frame must surely block the golem's passage, or at least slow it down enough for him to gain the druid's back. He risks a stabbing that comes, from what source he cannot clearly discern, presuming the wound that pins him momentarily against the wall to be the doing of his opponent. But, though he be only a mortal, he is a massive one and still strong, and motivated by the oncoming monster that gleefully bears down upon him. It is a powerful wrench that tears through the shoulder of his injured arm, ruining muscle down to bone and sending gouts of blood to stain the sand. Yet, he has wrested free, and now staggers to the hind of his enemy and the open temple entrance. He does not flee, but merely waits; magic, he knows, cannot sustain itself for long, and with the woman's injuries and energy expenditure, neither should she prove more than a meek puddle of female, to bend to the Parasite's will. Hopefully before bloodloss can claim him, and render him vulnerable instead.
Rheven said, "ooc: Drake wins, unanimous decision. Very solid duel, you two, better than many I have seen as of late.
The weight of sustaining the amount of magic used finally takes its toll. For the Druid, time freezes as the entire battle climaxes. The golem's awkward gait halts as her eyes flutter closed. She would hurt if she climbs from the unconscious state she crumbles into. Magic seeps away from both her body and the creature she'd brought into being. It says erect for a few mere seconds before the stones crash to the ground and still. The tree begins to sag and creak as the form slowly fades leaving the Dryad upon the temple floor. Arrows still protrude from her small ashen frame. The whipping winds finally settle leaving her blood coated form dirty. Underneath the grit, just barely visible as they run below her dress, are the scorch marks from the fire used.
No merciful sword is drawn to end the druid's suffering. Only unsteady footsteps grind toward her, cautiously. Drake was a killer, but he would not murder if it wasn't an order, and one paid extravagantly, even when a life lay so passively in his grasp. The sailor tore free his mask. "Ye'll be needin' a sawbones, lass." His voice was as gritty as the air, still redolant with sand. "As will I." And then he was a dark-clad figure, fading into the desert dunes, a last call made to the druid as he left. "I'll tell me boss 'bout the lickin' I gave ye. An' the one I almost got. He'll be right pleased, an' all." If there was a chuckle at the end of that, it was obscured by the wind.