Duel:Feir v Samir

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Samir vs. Feir

  • Judges: Jerralith, Giacomo, and Satoshi
  • Winner: Samir, unanimous vote.

Samir gazes at the Lycan before him with impunity, his electric blue eyes narrowed dangerously with sheer contempt as they seem to delve past the first layer of Feir's being for the purpose of uncovering what dirty little secrets lay hidden beneath. An aura of violent, tainted thoughts seeps from the Avian's very being, infecting everything near with blatant ill will and a sickening form of disgust. He takes to a slow meandering gait which leads him through the town square's center point, approaching the man whom he has every intention of mangling in the most horrible ways possible as cold, heartless words broach reality from between his cracked lips. "I truly hate you dogs.... stomach turning creatures of the highest regard." Every word the Psionist utters carries a mental weight to it, almost like an assault on one's fragile little eardrums. They are defiling, full of hate, revulsion. "For your own well being.... you should not have shown up. Though at least you have chosen to stand and fight rather than tuck tail and run like so many other of your kind when faced with what I intend." This set of words is accentuated by a long, drawn out cry of steel on steel as Samir slowly unsheathes his weapon. The sword matches it's owner perfectly, having been beaten, made ragged, scarred through many decades of use. There are notches dug into it's blade, evidence of it's use, along with a slight darkening from the sheer volume of blood to have passed it's edge which will never fade. Yet despite it's outward appearance, this blade is stronger than almost any made by mortal hands, fortified In strength by the Psi-Blade's will. No longer covered by his near demonic mask, Samir's face is freely readable, contorted into an expression marred and muddied with abhorrence for his Lycan opponent. With each long, confident stride the Avian draws closer closer to his enemy, and in almost no time at all he has dwindled the distance between them to a mere seven feet. Here he halts, right hand manipulating his implement of destruction to point unwaveringly at Feir's chest. "Now dog.... you shall learn of your folly." Mind and body begin working in perfect tangent, each motion mapped cognitively and followed with near machine precision. Determination and discipline meld into a deadly force, known as Psionic amplification, and It affects even his tiniest of motions. His muscles expand and contract with immutable force, his eyes track every even the slightest hint of reaction from Feir, and with little delay his ravaging begins. A slight dip in height caused by bending knees leads to an explosion forward in the next moment, and his thirsty blade rips inward to Feir's left hip, where his armor should be thinner. Only and inch or so before impact extra force is imparted mentally, giving this simple swing a comparable effect to an ogre's club. Defense will be difficult, unless marked by superhuman strength, and a quick evasion is likely Feir's only hope for survival.


Feir's auburn eyes look about with no real intention, merely looking for some kind of small treasure seeing his adventure had become stormless of late. The small gusts of wind brought with them the particles of ratty clothing and dust but along for the ride also came the subtle scent of the avian swordmaster staring down his own existence. It was at first, Feir failed to give attention to the male before malcious slander streamed from it's mouth. The venom was of no effect as expected seeing they were nothing more than words. Nonetheless, this warrior had posed a threat that Feir had to wish to flee from. Piceous curls began to pick up in essence to the advanced winged adverary's movements as the lycan conscript's always calculating mind picked up on the subtle twitch of his opponent's first plan of attack. Even though Feir perferred close combat, he decided he was feeling a bit sluggish today and wished to play the distance card. The thirsty blade slashed out recklessly at it's target but it failed to even connect with the most vulnerable of armor and body. It found itself cutting through the torn fabric of the crimson adorned cape around the warrior's shoulder. His attack was strong but lacked enough speed to land, even at such a basic fighter as the lycan had become. He found himself inches off the ground falling back while presenting his mechanical bow. His right hand, tightly holding the trigger fired in rapid succession a volley of six or seven arrows before Feir could find his footing and regain his composure. The arrows however were nimble and swift as they would cut through the thin air in aim for the major points of the avian's form. Nothing special spoke of the arrows but the velocity itself. If a decent amount would land themselves into him, he would surely slow his pace.


Samir barely even registers the terrified cries and derogatory jeers generated by a good deal of Kelay's populace who have gathered to watch the show. For his mind is set solely on the complete destruction of his pathetic opponent. "Give up or die!" his now ethereal voice blasts into the area, imaginary volume added as it rips into each consciousness within range. Several less mentally guarded commoners can be seen covering their ears in a vain attempt to block out Samir's vile assertion. Yet for all the Avian's pent up anger, his mental discipline is a greater force and it is showcased through every ambulatory motion, both major and minor. Though confidence was something that this ancient warrior had trained mercilessly to overcome, his expectations of gutting the poor little puppy who was Feir grew stronger with each passing moment. If his blade could show emotion it would be screaming, enraged to have it's thirst for blood left un-sated. It seems that for the moment Feir had managed to scramble away and pull forth a worn looking crossbow. If there was one thing that Samir despised on an equal level to magic it was ranged combat, viewing it as a cowards method of conflict, the last resort of a sort too frightened for open altercations of strength or will. Yet in his many years on this sad ball of mud, the Psi-Blade had developed methods for countering such. A quick sidestep is followed by a brute blast of mental energy that expands rapidly in a bubble around his form. Velocity and power could overcome this, yet any projectiles not on a direct course would be diverted and sent whistling off toward the crowd. Screams erupt from the gathered populace as one errant bolt strikes an onlooker in the chest and downs him. However as two lucky shots penetrate his mental defense Samir barely makes a sound. Electric blue eyes glance downward to the two offending crossbow bolts, one embedded in his left shoulder, one in his left side. A downward swipe of his blade snaps off the extra length, leaving the heads still buried his body and with no intention of removing them till later. Immediately afterward the Avian is again on the offensive, surging toward Feir with a cold grin playing across his lips. The Lycan's hard won distance is rapidly evaporated as with each long stride Samir races closer, and with little warning his next attack is unleashed. A sort of roar makes it's way from the Psi-Blade in unison with a simple stab, aimed for his enemies left shoulder. His mind increases power, forcing the muscles in his right arm to burst outward, leaving the motion nearly invisible to the average naked eye. If successful in penetrating the jagged blade will be set ripping out, hopefully rendering that arm useless and spilling more blood than many gathered would ever see.


Feir halted in the dirt as his body slid a few more inches. There were no clanking or clinging of his armor as it was always repaired and prepped fresh. It wrapped about him like his own flesh and under that was his thick leather, obsidous and comfortable. He had a few more shots remaining in his worn mechanical bow but his options were quickly becoming anorexic, seeing how his opponent's roar gave away his advancing situation. Feir couldn't help but to savor the screaming because kept a hat on things almost like an invisible blanket on his constant racing mind. It would seem to other people that his mental state was a bit chaotic but he had acquired zen throughout the bloodshed and death he has seen in his life. This time had been no different as his charging foe once again brought the fight to his door. Well, the door was open for the blademaster as a sudden tingly feeling seeped throughout his shoulder. It had been awhile since his fine Alexandrian armore had been breached and the sensation had brought him to the old days for a second before naturally moving as well. The Blade entered the warm confines of his muscular shoulder the same time his own blade met the opposing shoulder of his opponent if it were successfully dealt. Feir had managed to strike the same time the Avian had done as he got within length. All his life he strived to perfect his speed and even though it seemed it was only a second or two slower somehow, he believed the move was notary. The lycan's smug expression brought forth a grim smile as his stance widened and he reared back onto his rear leg following up on a push off with his front leg from the chest that belonged to his foe. This would grant him another oppertunity to attack. However, he just shook off his leaking shoulder and taunted the Bladed warrior. " Let's go then.."


Samir has begun to feel much pain from the crossbow bolts which sit several inches beneath his skin, and they slowly begin to hamper all movement. Pain.... pain was a feeling like any other, one that the Psi-Blade could overcome through conditioning. Yet the bolt in his side had punctured something rather vital; a kidney. The ruptured organ has now begun to spew toxins outward into the surrounding flesh, and after this battle's end Samir would require intensive medical care. Still, for the time being all that he could contemplate was wreaking devastation upon his Lycan plaything. Through an act of sheer mental will the Psionist cuts his all bodily pain response, severing connection with the nerves that scream of something horribly wrong within. A most effective tactic to be sure, yet would it be beneficial or detrimental? Without proper warning signals from his body Samir risks increasing the damage wrought upon him through carelessness and his fleshy shell could easily give way before he knew it was time to forfeit. Still, in the mind of one with nothing left to lose it was an amply justifiable countermeasure. Feir's own steel would indeed rip into Samir's left shoulder, and it is from vision alone that he notices the damage, feeling nothing except cold. However any attempts to move that appendage would end in failure for the muscular damage was wildly extensive. It seems that his opponent has further idea's of dealing him damage as well, suddenly attempting to put a foot flat on the Avian's broad chest and push away, but Samir had other plans. The Avian's right bicep and triceps expand and tighten respectively, with the intent of ripping his jagged weapon clean through the outer edge of Feir's armored shoulder, though this was not all. At the same time he takes a single step forward, making the action of bringing a foot in between them impossible. In their current position the two combatants are nearly pressed against each other, and the crowd holds their breath, waiting to see who will rise up as the favorite for victory. In that moment of silence Samir unleashes a powerful and perhaps reckless maneuver; a vicious headbutt. Evasion at such a close distance will be neigh impossible, or at least extremely difficult and the Psi-Blade's skull carries enough momentum to split Feir's forehead if struck. Disorientation in battle could be one's undoing, and a blow of such magnitude to the head would likely leave the Lycan's world spinning if successful. However Samir, cut off as he was from all external stimulus, would feel nothing.


Feir's escape sounded like a good idea but failed as a matter of tactical display in this bout. He was indeed trapped and down in terms but not out. He had one last plan of attack seeing the rust on his battle abilites had ripped away more of his agile form than he had expected. However, it was worth the shot and the thought of a little uncivil rough housing seemed actually quite nice. The whizzing air warned Feir as the forehead of the avian came in aim for him but not in time enough to be interupted by the great transformation of the lycan conscript. The headbutt found itself on a collision course with the suddenly hairy frame quickly becoming of size. The ivory colored fur sprouted about as skin fell like ashes of embers. Staggering and jerking about, the once known human entombment know as Feir had shed and become his nightmare. He never really acknowledged this side of him because it's feral habits but the moment seemed fine. Within moments, through cracking and shifting bones, stood the white wolf, majestic and violent hulking over the warrior. The attack of the foe had bruise the muscle of the Werewolf's chest but it was barely noticable throughout the rage and adrenaline. Feir, in his most dominant form, would reach out for the unfortunate foe with claws like katanas ready to rip away at anything they touched. Various swiped and slashes were thrown at the blademaster through roars and bellows of anger and malice. If any were to attack, fatal wounds wound result ending the match and possibly his opponent as well.


Samir's body is under extreme stress, threatening to give way in lieu of such major exertion. If he was still receiving signals from his nervous system the Psi-Blade might have no choice except to back down, yet this was the power of his mental and physical control. It was win or lose, and Samir would accept nothing in between. All likelihood dictates that defeat could easily mean death since his meat bag was so badly damaged, yet still he fights on with the ferocity of a cave Dragon protecting it's territory. Having done nothing to defend against the outward ripping of his opponent's blade, Feir will quickly find his left shoulder nearly severed, and though his transformation is indeed impressive an act of clawing is impossible with decimated tendons. Hence the now werewolf's left arm is left to dangle helplessly. His right arm seems to abandon the sword it had previously held in favor of mauling Samir, which does prove moderately effective as it rips open a set of deep gashes that run across the Avian's chest, leaving his robes in tatters. With little recourse but momentary retreat Samir exhausts the very last of his mental reserves to create another outward rush of mental energy that erupts between him and the completely feral form of Feir, though it cannot even begin to compare with his last in the scope of power. To aid this rapid backpedal the large, powerful wings which sprout from his shoulder blades, marking Samir as what he would call "The chosen people" despite his race's slow decline into near barbarism compared with the ages of old, come rushing powerfully inward. The powerful rushing of air they create, in combination with his mental blast proves more than enough to remove him from harms way, at least momentarily. Left standing some ten feet away, bleeding, chest heaving, barely still held upward on his now cracked frame, Samir prepares for what will either be his doom or his shining moment of utter domination. Yet if Feir was even close to his own level of exhaustion, retribution would be swift and leave no doubt of Samir's supremacy.


Kelovath and Jacklin Tournament