Duel:Eboric v Svilfon
Judges (via hmail): Satoshi, Xiang
Stakes: 15000 gold
Location: Lifeless Grove
Rows upon rows of dead, spindly trees fill the area, each more lifeless than the last. Holes of different shapes and sizes dot the deadened trees, rotting them from the inside out. Over-ripe, decaying fruit lays in small piles near the tree it fell from, reeking of decay. To the west, the ground slopes downward, giving way to massive roots, while to the north and east are shrouded with mist. Both places, though, look better than this one.
Svilfon wanders through the dark depths of the deceased forest with a cherry whistle on his lips; the morbid surroundings clearly not bothering the jovial wizard at all. As he enters the agreed upon area he offers his opponent, who beat him to the spot, a tip of his hat and a warm, open smile, "Ah, good barbarian. I look forward to this!" There is no malice in his voice, no anger in his movements, but the wizard knows that if he is not at his finest this huge warrior who he calls friend will chop him into little pieces for wasting his time. So with a final nod to ensure his opponent is ready, Svilfon begins to summon his own unique blend of archaic might. His staff is held tight in his right hand; knuckles white against the undead wood that so eerily mirrors the dark forests that surround these two men. His left hand is waving through a series of patterns in the still air; concentric circles that never quite seem to meet, creating an invisible tapestry of swirls and spirals - a natural series of lines that coincide with the conjuration that soon makes itself known. The mist that drowns the forests to the east and west begins to slowly draw in to where Svilfon stands. But it is not intentional - oh no, it is their reaction to the twisting winds that this young wizard has called to his service. Faster and faster the air tugs upon the human's robes, though his hat strangely doesn't move from its spot on his head. His staff is shoved into the ground to anchor him still as he finishes his spell, before eyes that glow with pernicious delight look at the barbarian. The wind flairs as if commanded by Svil's look, and from the dead trees all around branches are torn off. They spiral rapidly around the stationary wizard, creating an unintentional shield and a rather intentional weapon as their sharp, jagged edges fly at the barbarian, hoping to turn him into a large, fur-covered kebab...
Eboric stands among the rotting trees, his massive form appearing even larger next to the emaciated trunks. He is clad, as ever, in plates of ice from Frostmaw, the chill armor steaming in the humid air. Held in front of his body is a shield, likewise steaming, completing the barbarian's image as a veritable god of war, lit only by the pale moonlight. The only thing he seems to lack is a weapon - although both axe and seaxe hang at his belt, his right hand is empty. Offering the wizard a friendly salute, he leans over and grasps a large, dried out root, for the most part untouched by moss and decay. He straightens and, with a sudden jerk, tears the root free of the fallen tree it had once supported. It would seem as though the warrior has chosen to refrain from using his blades out of respect for his friend. All the same, the big man's roar is as ferocious as a lion's as he slams his makeshift club against his shield, signalling his readiness to begin the fight. It is then that the winds begin to pick up and, with a growl of distaste for magic in general, he begins to move. Instead of running away, as a sensible man would do, Eboric charges straight for Svilfon, shield held out before him in anticipation of the shards of wood. As he runs, the wizard's missiles slam in to his shield, most sliding harmlessly off but several sticking in, sent at the perfect angle to puncture the enchanted frost. The massive human is nearly on top of his foe when a large chunk of wood catches his leg, sending him tumbling in the dirt, instinctively curling up under the damaged shield. He is not there for long, however; as soon as the barrage is finished he is on his feet again, grunting as his weight comes down on his bruised leg. Ignoring it, he strikes out again. Catching up to his opponent, Eboric wastes no time in flashy foreplay, but instead swings the club around as if it is a toy, whipping it through the air at breathtaking speed in an attempt to thump Svilfon square in the ribs, a stunning blow if unavoided. Using his size and weight to his advantage, the barbarian steps forward, dropping his shoulder to the height of the other man's chest and heaving, hoping to send the frail wizrd flying, perhaps ending the fight in a single strike.
Svilfon is right in the middle of gloating; his spell worked so flawlessly, and he didn't even set himself on fire! During this time of self satisfaction the barbarian, who the wizard assumed would be battling the branches, is swinging his make-shift club like it weighed less than one of the human's wands right at him. He charged?! Holy crap. Challenging a barbarian is not on the list of Svil's brightest actions, but nevertheless, it is too late to contemplate mistakes now. The wizard reacts without much grace. He shifts his staff to stand between the oncoming club and redies himself to counter the blow. Oh, how foolish he is. The strike from the wood easily beats his defences. The Xalious wood staff is battered into the young man's own body and before he can even expel his breath in a painful groan the barbarian has headbutted him with enough force to send him literally flying backwards. He slams through his own twirling sticks as the remnants of his previous spell fade away, before coming to rest a rather impressive fifteen feet away from the barbaric warrior. Stunned, but not beaten, the wizard rather sneakily shoves some dirt into his nose, before he gets to his feet. Cracked ribs burn with agony, and is sure at least one is broken. But such considerations are for after the battle. For now he must act or he is finished. The young human has spent the last few months in intense work - his master's desertion to the lightless depths of the Underdark leaving Svilfon to plan his own study, and being a little strange, the wizard has studied mysteries long forgotten by most normal spell-casters. It is to this knowledge that the human delves into - seeking the words that seem to slip through his mind like water over slimy stones. It takes concentration, but he manages to cup his mental hands long enough to capture the spell's watery nature. He speaks the words without concious thought, though words is a bit of a stretch; clicks and grunts, tweaks and whistles. It sounds like an animal orgy, excuse the poor simile, and its effect is almost as disturbing as that rather disgusting likening: A putrid stench unlike anything smelt before wafts from the ground all around. The wizard's discreetly shoved dirt blocks most the stench, but even the little that gets through is almost enough to cause him to lose his stomach contents and flee -- for that is the point of this particular spell, created by a wizard named Putridious Fowl-Stenchiorous: The smell, so terrible, beyond written explanation, seeks to cause its unfortunate victim to throw up not just the contents of his stomach, but his actual stomach... and lungs... and liver... ah yes, the body vomiting spell. A rare gem in the crown of wizardly wonders....
Eboric spends no time savoring his victory. A lifetime of fighting has taught him never to stop until the enemy no longer moves. He moves toward Svilfon once more, this time at an ominous walk when, all of a sudden, his stomach begins to rumble. He stops and sniffs, and immediately regrets it. He bends over as vomit streams from his mouth like foul, green dragonfire, all the meat and mead that fuels the enormous killing machine pouring out in a half-digested mix. He hurls until there is no food left, and bitter acid spatters forth, burning his throat, mouth, and nose. It is only that that saves him, however; the stench of the acid is so strong that it blocks out the vile smell. Straightening, slime dripping from his blocked nose, Eboric takes a very brief moment to regain his compsure. Shakily, he begins to run, his fighting spirit catchign hold once more as he approaches the smug wizard. Pausing some feet away, the big man again swings his club, but not at Svilfon himself. Rather, the barbarian uses his whole, massive strength to slam the root into a narrow, decaying tree, striking it squarely on a large, rotted out hole in the trunk. The decayed wood utterly disintigrates in a shower of splinters, obliterating most of the wood in one go. Again Eboric uses his shoulder, slamming it against the weakined trunk. With a shuddering crack, the tree breaks free, falling toward the wizard below, its bare branches reaching out like ghostly fingers, easily capable of catching on clothing or flesh to drag Svilfon under the decayed, yet still formidable weight of the falling tree.
Svilfon has taken the moments Eboric was vomiting away his dinenr to gingerly prod his wounded side. Ribs are broken. Breath is hard to come by. This is not going well. But he is focused enough to recognize the barbarian's escape from his smelly assault, and with a nod of respect he is ready to continue the battle once more. But once again he is caught unaware. As the club strikes the tree Svil smiles brightly! Ah, the warrior has lost his mind - he thinks his opponent is a tree! Now is the time to.... Nope. Eboric is far too experienced to be so befuddled and in the moment of his victory Svilfon fully comprehends his folly. The tree is falling, and with his broken ribs and battered body, he knows he cannot do one of those fancy commando rolls to escape. So instead he stabs the base of his staff into the grond and leans behind it, hoping the wood will catch the falling tree and save him. But alas, it is far too rotted for that. The staff impales the falling wood, doing nothing to stop its ferocious momentum, and behind his useless shield Svilfon is crushed. He knows this battle, supposed to be one between friends, will be the final death of him. Something he expected would come while defending innocents from the hoards of... well... not really. He figured he'd turn himself into a mouse and Tiphareth would squash him without realizing it. Or with realizing it, because he's a drow and they're bastards. Crap. His mind is wandering. The pain is worse than he thought, and he knows it's now or never to use his secret weapon. From his squished position beneath the three, his back against the ground - his life being saved only by the magics that flow through his robes, protecting him from the full weight, but offering nothing in the way of escape, the young human slides his hand to an enchanted pocket that appears where he needs it to. Within its arcane depths lies his bottles of rum, but also his first wand. That twig he found so long ago. He holds it in a hand that is covered in blood and whispers loving words to it, "Come, dear friend, let us end this now... us or him..? he asks himself... this life, or the battle... I am confused." Despite this inner confusion, the wizard retains enough intelligence to speak the secret command word. It is his teleportation spell. Usually enough to send him hurling the length of Hollow, for now it is strong enough to send him half a dozen feet to the left. But as always, its is preceeded by a firey explosion. One that causes the deceased tree that squashed him to explode into razor sharp shards that hurl in every direction. The fires, though, seem to concentrate towards Eboric. Burning the flying wood as the seek to fry the powerful warrior to a crisp, despite Svil's promise he wouldn't. Silhouetted by his burning attack, Svilfon lays on the dirt beneath another tree. He is concious enough to hopefully defend himself if his opponent retains enough strength to attack, but he knows deep down he no longer has the power to truly call forth his magical attacks... Such is the folly of challenging such a warrior.
Eboric, big as he is, strong as he is, is hurled backward like a child in the face of the unexpected magical explosion. He manages to get his shield up in front of his face as he flies, protecting the uncovered flesh form the fury of the fire. He lands with a crack, riddled with little fragments of wood. As the fire rages on, only the barbarian's armor saves him for, unlike the metal of most mens' protection, this armor is made of enchanted ice from the drozen wastelands of Frostmaw. And so, while the costly armor melts to shining pools of strange, thick water, the remaining shapeless chunks of ice sliding away from the charred bits of wood that speckle the human's flesh, Eboric himself remains largely unaffected by the fire. He rises, blood beginning to flow from the lacerations and puntures to cover the heavily muscled form in stripes of red. Unsteady, angry, and limping, Eboric abandons the charred remains of his root, tossing it away. He puts all of his remaining strength into on final charge, moving his weakened body with as much speed as he can muster toward his downed foe. His hands flash out, seeking a hold on anything they can get - clothing, arms, legs, neck...it doesn't matter to the barbarian at this point. His goal is to pull the wizard in to close range, and there batter him with ham-like fists, the first blows headed for the mouth, to silence the magical words once and for all, to leave Svilfon's face a bloody ruin. The massive human uses every possible limb as a weapon now; elbows, hands, knees, head, teeth - he is a veritble whirlwind of pure violence, trying to inflict as much damage as he possibly can before unconciousness can drag him, kicking and screaming, into oblivion. So intent is he on his vicious task that he fails to notice the bear, often seen with the barbarian, approaching from behind.
Svilfon watches his opponent approach with a bloodied grin on his lips. He didn't really think Eboric would be done for by such a straight forward attack, but hope had kept the hideous agony at bay. As it surges through his ravaged body he uses it as motivation to drag himself to his feet. He sways slightly, before leaning back on the rotting wood behind him. He would face the enraged barbarian on his feet. Fists are raised, so small and seemingly insignificant against the size and strength of the barbarian's, but the wizard has spend time on the Row; he can fight. But never in all his years has he faced off against such an onslaught of controlled anger that is Eboric. His fists attempt to block punches with as much success as a flea trying to stop a charging ogre. The blows rain through, turning mundane features into bloodied pulp. Teeth, so few and valuable to the wizard, puncture through his lips. His nose is squished, causing more blood to flow from what can only be described as the remnants of a countenance. His body takes blows, too - ribs break like thin twigs, bruises cannot form fast enough as more manifest in their wake. He is beaten, bloodied, broken.. bested... but saved from death's foul embrace by more luck than any skill. A particularly nasty blow connects with his head, sending the back of his skull forcefully into the wood behind him. The deceased tree cracks, and with a groan of final defeat the tree snaps in half, falling forward with enough force to separate the enraged barbarian and barely concious wizard. As soon as they are parted Svilfon collapses. Unconscious, thankfully, he is freed from the agony that washes through his body. His opponent's fate is not known, or cared about, he is blissfully unaware of the world and can only hope he remains as such for a long time.. waking up from this beating is not going to be pleasant...
Winner: Eboric