Duel:Eboric v Syrr
Location: Kelay Way
Judges: Grot, Kirien (mid), Urmelena
Stakes: An eye for an eye.
Winner: Eboric, 3-0
Syrr sniffs with a smirk and draws his blade from his back in a fluid motion, one of the few times where the rodent had actually chosen to draw the weapon instead of just grazing the hilt with his agile little fingers. As the blade is unsheathed, it's steel seems to have a rolling mist emitting from it into the air around the blade that dissipates only an inch or so above the steel. That fluid motion continues past the point of unsheathing, Syrr slicing the air in front of him with the katana and sending out a wave of blue-white light in an arc across the area between himself and the barbarian. The arc flew about thigh high for the human and was perfectly horizontal. The rodent finishes the swing with a full follow through, allow the blade to drift to the ground and be gripped with a single hand (his left) while his free hand dug into his belt to draw a dagger in readiness to play the defensive role should the barbarian avoid the freezing arc of energy. Even though the blade had barely touched the grass with its tip, frost was already spreading through the soil and brush on the street. One could only guess the level of cold contained in that magical line of energy racing towards Eboric like a horse at full gallop.
Eboric steps into the street from the tavern, turned diagonally to make it through the doorway. He is truly massive; nearing seven feet tall, he must weigh at least three hundred seventy-five pounds, even without armor. And armor he has aplenty: black rings of dark mithril, drow-made, cover his torso and arms, glimmering darkly. Leggings of the same material, lined with leather, protect his legs. His boots are black and spiked, enchanted with runes of speed and silence, an effort to enhance the bulky man's naturally low agility. On his hands, he wears black metal gauntlets, enchanted to protect his hands from harm. On his head is a full helmet, black in color and drow-forged, enchanted by the barbarian's employer. Through the eyeholes, keen blue eyes glare out, filled with rage. A drow piwafwi falls from his shoulders, adding yet more protection to his back. Looping below that hangs an enchanted amulet, inscribed with runes. Held in his left hand is a circular shield, its rim lined with spikes, while an even longer jut of metal extends from the shield's center. This, too, is enchanted. At his belt, a cruel-looking seaxe swings in its sheath, while his right hand clasps the haft of an axe, single-bladed, but on a scale to fit the giant of a man. He stares down at Syrr, scorn in his gaze, even as the other begins his attack. However, his disdain for his foe does not prevent him from moving, the enchanted boots of speed moving him more quickly than a man of his size had any right to move. He turns sideways and leaps, hauling his legs up as high as he can, nearly clearing the line of magical ice. It does clip his boot however, causing him to stumble as he lands. The enchanted amulet flares to life as it fights the harmful cold, melting the ice from the metal boots swiftly. Even so, Eboric seems to favor his left leg as he rights himself, glaring at Syrr with renewed hatred. Stomping forward, he crouches suddenly, lowering himself to swing the axe in from the side, on a course to split the ratman in half from hip to him. Still, the human is no fool; anticipating a dodge, he lashes out with the shield, punching the spiked rim to the right of his target, in hopes of catching the creature if he tries to evade the axe. Trained from birth to fight, and fight well, Eboric's attacks flow easily back into a defensive position, ready in the off chance that the fermin survived the vicious assault.
Syrr found the barbarian as predictable as his previous attacks. From previous encounters the rat had found that such a man enjoyed attempting two pronged attacks which often left a third or even a fourth window of opportunity wide open due to his overly offensive nature. While some might call that analytics, Syrr would call it instincts that drove him to drop to the ground with his back on the ice and send a dagger skyward towards the groin of the man where the armor would not be meeting more of the metallic surface at the joint. Hopefully the knife would bite deep and slash the artery that laid beneath the surface of muscle and skin in the same area. Feet kick up the dirt as Syrr backs himself away from the giant of a man while dragging the blade across the ground and creating an icy trail to possibly persuade the Human not to follow the rat. Remaining on his back, his free paw begins ominously glowing with a purple aura that seems to consume the snow white fur with some sort of arcane energy. What this was, could only be determined when Syrr had chosen to expose such a secret.
Eboric, scarcely seems to notice that his attacks missed their target completely. Instead, his focus seems to be all on defense, now. From his defensive stance, slightly crouched, shield out in front, he loses sight of his foe as Syrr slides down. However, the big man's warrior instincts kick in, and he sidesteps at once, meaning to put his enemy in front of him once more. Instead, he only succeeds in moving enough to cause the knife to stick almost harmlessly into the meat of his thigh, through one of the rings in his armor. Blood begins to trickle, but not much. All the same, Eboric is truly angry now, his breath hissing out from between clenched teeth. Again he closes the distance between himself and his enemy, stomping his feet down hard to shatter the ice, wincing as his injured left foot takes a beating. The momentum of his charge is funneled into his injured leg, which flashes out in a swinging kick, meant to drive the point of his boot into the muscle of Syrr's thigh with enough force to curl the very tissue up in an aching, numbing blow. As if dancing, the barbarian steps on, carrying himself past the hopefully-lamed fermin. Positioned at his foe's flank, he swings the axe down and up in a sweeping movement, aimed to bite into the back of Syrr's thighs, severing his legs and effectively ending the fight.
Syrr watches a kick sail overhead as he stayed on his back, never having got up in the first place. The human easily danced his way around the floored rodent and when the axe came down Syrr was just a bit too slow rocking forward and rising to his feet. Hissing loudly as blood flew in a brief spurt across the ground from a notch in his shoulder cleaved through by the axe's descent. Managing to get to his feet and turning to face the human, the right arm of Syrr hung useless and blood ran down his face. He was in a rage and that hideous purple aura covering his now limp right hand was fading quickly. Inhaling deeply, the vermin sneezed harshly. From that sneeze spewed a toxic looking purple mist that sat ready to cause hallucinations much like swamp or sewer gas might do to those who were exposed too long. Through the gas was sent another slash of arctic energy meant to deter the human from following as the cloud of gas separated the pair and began rolling down the street towards Eboric. Syrr was wounded, far more than he thought since he had yet to notice his left ear missing, and wanted to stay away from the barbarian more than charge him head on right now.
Eboric reels back from the gas, moving as swiftly as he can to escape. As he backs away, his foot slips on a patch of ice and he falls, his bulk nearly shaking the ground as he lands, hard, his head snapping back with a dull thud, the ice slash passing just over his prone figure, demolishing the head of the axe clasped in the human's momentarily-stunned hand. And then, suddenly, the moment passes, and Eboric climbs to his feet. His silence, held so admirably throughout the battle, is broken now as he lets loose a roar of hatred and battle-fury, throwing his ruined axe with deadly speed - although he doesn't seem too concerned about accuracy - toward his infuriating enemy. Ignoring the pain of his injuries and the throbbing in his head, the human lumbers in the wake of the blade, flinging his shield from him in his rage. He plows through the gas, having the wit to hold his breath, although his mind begins to swim alarmingly, a feeling he manages to ignore for the moment. Reaching his enemy, he thows himself bodily at Syrr, arms snapping around like pincers, meaning to catch the rat in an iron grip. From there, Eboric aims to squeeze his enemy in a brutal mockery of a hug, to drive the air from his lungs and snap the ribs like twigs.
Syrr tries his hardest to escape the hug, but the bloodloss and the use of magics on a level that that Syrr wasn't used to had left him slow and sluggish in his attempts to dodge. The bearhug caught him, but he was intelligent enough to drop the blade rather than let it be pinned between him and a heavily armored opponent. As he sat there in the arms of a man apparently made of steel, Syrr tried to make sure that his elbows and shoulders attempted to keep his fragile ribcage intact. A loud snap says that his efforts were futile, but the look in his eyes said that the fermin definitely had some fight left in him as he barred teeth ready to bite viciously between wheezing breaths.
Eboric draws his seaxe, its sloping tip and bottom edge gleaming, deadly sharp. Drugged as he is, his movements are slow, but his goal is reached all the same. He reaches out with one massive hand and grabs the fermin by the top of the head, hauling him close. Pushing him to the ground to hold him still, Eboric lowers the seaxe to the thief's beady left eye. The point dips in along the socket, then turns to pry the eyeball out, neatly slicing the optic nerve that clings to the back of the bloody sphere. Eboric clenches his fist, turning the eye to a jelly that he smears across his foe's face. Standing, he unlaces his leggings and urinates, the stream meant to land on the rat's injured face but, given Eboric's drugged and injured state, it is likely to splash everywhere. This done, he returns to the tavern without a word.