Duel:Dyraxdiin vs Larewen

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This is a Mage's Guild RP.


Duelists: Dyraxdiin vs. Larewen
Judges: Pilar, Dergious, Hildegarde (mid)
Winner: Dyraxdiin


Behind the Barrier, Mage's Tower

Dyraxdiin steps through the barrier, which will serve it's purpose to hold back any destruction the two are set to unleash within this combat room. For this test of strength, the mage is adorned in his typical garb of mithril half-plate and simple gray half-robes, but his are hands free of any burdensome weapon, yet. He scouts the big room with an easy look from his blue eyes, beyond the two here, it is empty of all other students, who instead have chosen to watch from beyond the barrier. A battle between Arcane Stewards is something that has been missed in the halls of the Mage's Tower. The great wyrm in human guise takes a low bow in welcome of his partner, Larewen, before the summonation of the arcane. As he rises, his hands begin to spin with refined skill, the mana which flows forth a diaphanous construct... until brought to bear upon the large room. In a moment of time, the ball of energy lances out in several directions and collides with the floor. Instead of fizzling out into a spell gone awry, purple energy rises from the places struck, which then form a smattering of twisting cyclones that move with a personified intelligence to sweep Larewen up in their wake. Ceaslessly, the mage continues, his left hand to thrust into the confines of his robes and retreive a handful of something... He scatters theses objects about the room with the aid of an errant gust of magical wind. Upon closer inspection, one would see they are small-scales - his scales. What he plans to do with them remain unknown for now, as they sparkle with a dull gray glow against the light of swirling purple energy.


Larewen responds with the faintest, indignant lift of her chin in the dragon's direction, her form mostly tangible through a steady leak of stolen magic. The necromancer found a way to feed still, it seems and though she is but an echo of the body kneeling within the Dark Forest, she is real enough for the moment. Some of it could be illusions, but that might be pushing her luck. As the mage casts, the deathsinger's features are wiped blank, those mismatched eyes - the left a deep emerald and the right a coffee brown - watches in silent curiosity. Then, there is wind and the specter feels it digging at her existence, not so much with the intent of sweeping her away in its churning embrace so much as simply wiping her from existence. It licks at the edges of her image, the arcane threads of which it is comprised nibbling at her very being. As Dyraxdiin begins to scatter his scales, the deathsinger twists to avoid the hungry cyclones. Her mouth falls open, a keening, terrible noise rising from the depths of her mangled throat as she calls upon magics far blacker than the wyrm's own. Shadows writhe as a putrescent odor - death - permeates the air betwixt the two. It thickens, the arcane swirls of wind aiding in the spread of that necrotic miasma as it works its way toward Dyraxdiin. Like the fumes expelled from a bloated corpse, the stench is overwhelming; the shadows that accompany it, that become wrapped up in those hateful cyclones, are caustic as they whip out at the dragon, seeking to lay their toxic tendrils upon his body. In the opening steps of this dance, the deathsinger pays little mind to the scales cast outward onto the field; in this form she is not the vampire she misses being, and thus does not denote them as an immediate threat. Whatever the saurian has planned for those will simply have to be seen.


Dyraxdiin regards the Necromancer's reactions with a calculating eye, filing away a bit of information about the way in which she responds in kind. For now however, the miasma of decay pulls at his attention enough for him to seek a solution to it. Dyraxdiin deftly steps away from it's approach, simultaenously drawing two of his cyclones back toward him to act as a buffer between him and whatever it is that the dark magic intends on doing to him. He coughs at it's approach, his lungs beginning to burn something fierce. For now, the two recalled whirlwinds do their job of repelling, and sending back the dark energy from the direction it came. The scales serve their purpose here - they act as a vaccum of magical might; the current of dark magic to slowly drain away and fill the vessels. They great wyrm's mind drifts to the scales, where he feels their power. They're ready enough. They act as both a locator of Larewen, and a conduit of arcane force. The mage begins weaving a spell anew, intricate patterns burst to life before him as he draws the spell out for all eyes to witness. "Barrage," He states in High Saurian, his tone cold and crisp. The scales suddenly bounce around upon the floor, before unleashing their pent up energy. Arcing tendrils of arcane missles shoot out from every direction, all with the honed location of Larewen set as their designated rendevouz. Were any to miss, they would be seen to be swept up in the raging cyclones, further bolstering their strength and size. Dyraxdiin swallows hard past the dryness in his throat, his hands shaking from the strain of maintining so many magical constructs at once. Still yet, he dons a practiced look of determination.


Larewen :: It isn't pain that wracks Larewen's being when the barrage of arcane magic pelts her ghastly gorm. No, she'd need a body for that. But not to feel discomfort, not to feel fear as her grasp on her very being wavers under the onslaught of Dyraxdiin's magic. As magicked scales pass through her incorporeal form and tear at her concentration, the thought to move away, to become invisible, untouchable once more, crosses her mind. Fighting in this state is more a challenge than she expected, but to do so would mean forfeit and let's face it, Larewen's not about giving up. Again that haunting keening flows through the air, again it begins to manipulate the energies around them, but this time in an entire different manner: the deathsinger is drawing the magic toward herself with the intention of twisting it and absorbing it. She means to bolster her defenses with some of it, and to turn the rest against the dragon. The scales not yet gathered up by the cyclones are drawn toward Larewen, the necrotic air tarnishing and twisting their flat gray surfaces. Shadows dance upon their edges, conjured by that god-awful noise the banshee emits. The dark flames lap at the air, fueled by the lingering traces of poisoned air betwixt dragon and banshee before she looses the fiery scales at her target. They are swept up in the cyclones nearest her, that blackfire eating at that magic to before they are sent home, returned to their owner with speed borne of magic, their intent on piercing the disguised dragon's hide and infecting him with that poison. Even then, her image flickers dangerously, as if the banshee might soon vanish altogether.


Dyraxdiin releases a grunt, his eyes watching the culmination of his power being turned back on him - to be fair, he did the same to her. A smile grows at the corners of his lips in respect of her actions. There is little he can do against the approach of the scales, save for shield and duck. His hands spawn forth a hastily wrought barrier just as he leaps away. The barrier acts as a slowing mechanism, a nearly opaque wall of tar-like mana. The scales embed themselves within, however a few stray scales hit his mithril armor, creating a resounding 'plink' noise, another to pierce and then cauterize his upper arm. Again, the great wyrm grunts, but this time an issuance of pain. The shield drops and the scales caught within continue their course with their previous speed, to bury themselves in the far wall. Dyraxdiin rises slowly, his body fatigued from the strain of battle. Carefully, he tests himself - feeling the necrosis in his arm beginning already. His ears ring from her wail, and his eyes burn from the previous maisma of dark energy. Instead of wasting his remaining resources, or allowing his opponent to make use of them, he readies himself for something of a different nature... The gray dragon, disguised as a human, rears his head back in an action as old as Saurian kind - breath attack. Instead of fire, ice or elecricity however, something else is unleashed. A concussive force of sound roars out from his mouth - a real banshee's wail. The decibals reverberate upon the stone-wrought surfaces of the room, shattering and fracturing it, if only to sweep up the wreckage. The cyclones are dispersed, to act as a further propellent of Saurian might. A veritable wall of sonic chaos bears down upon Larewen.


Larewen can hear and she certainly doesn't need her body to feel the concussive weight of the wyrm's roar. She lurches backwards, flinching against a sound not wrought of her own ghastly vocal chords. Is this what it had felt like for her companions in the Haathian ruins, when first she dared play with the use of her voice? Perhaps. Larewen shrinks away from the horrid sound, her ears seeming to ring without drums capable of being harmed. The deathsinger's eyes close, as if it concentrate against the saurian's wail and this time, a bittersweet melody dances upon her ghastly tongue. It works counter to the cacaphony Dyraxdiin creates, interweaving with his own magic and strengthening as it clips notes from his roar. It is a forlorn tune, something a minstrel of the dead might conjure, and it serves to defend the banshee against the awful magic that has already shaken her meager form so. Her chest heaves with unwarranted, non-existant breath before she returns fire. This time, she lunges toward the dragon entering into combat range and reaching for his injured arm. She breathes in, sharply swallowing her own song and sucking the air dry of those haunting notes. Channeling the magic through her touch, she seeks to feed the necrosis of his limb, to further the fatigue caused by the poisoning therein, and to mark him with the beauty of death.


Dyraxdiin takes a moment to gather himself after his last attack. He hasn't used his breath attack since before his slumber. It really is something he has missed, perhaps this is why he is so fond of using sound magics in battle. Regardless, the time it takes him to prepare for her attack is a moment to short, as Larewen as already bridged the distance between them. "Dammit," He mutters, his Saurian ears picking up on the dark melody issued by it's mistress. Her hand touches him just as her jerks back - the barrier before would have suited him better now, he chides himself. Even still, with the motion of his jerk, she touches his mithril breastplate instead of robes or skin. The half-plate was reforged by Nikola out of his last set of mithril armor. It is an item with a great legacy, worn by those of his broodkin since the dawn of the Saurian empire. Both light, and easily manueverable in, while still capable of harboring defensive magic. Instead of furthering perpetuating the rot in his arm, Larewen's spell fizzles just shy of intent on contact. Dyraxdiin is knocked back by the concussive nullifying effect, his Saurian strength having had wained enough for him to be unable to hold himself upright. The mage skitters backwards and falls down, his teeth gritting against the impact. He takes a deep breath, his body numb from the collision of her magic into him, before the great wyrm rises unsteadily to his feet again. At this point, he bows his head once more, signalling the arranged duel to be at it's end. He is certain the students beyond, their eyes big with excitement, will have plenty to talk about for some time.