Duel:Filpien v Svilfon
UFC 2-27-2011
Duelists: Svilfon vs. Filpien Duel: Traditional three posts each, with auto-round to winner. Judges: Tiphareth, Thea, Mahri Winner: Svilfon
Svilfon nods his head to Tiphareth and offers his teacher a smile, before attention shifts to the vampire. His opponent is sent a lop-sided smile, no malice evident in his expression, before the human takes a few steps back. Unconsciously he reaches for his rum, before realizing it's finished. He swears a curse he learned on the Row, "Bloody pox-faced bilge-rat." He would continue this tirade, were it not for the fact his eyes have fallen on the frothing bottle that lays on the ground. The inept wizard brightens considerably before bending down to pick it up. Without pause to think of consequences, he tilts his head back and takes a formidable swig. Oh no! He feels the burning; an unnatural heat that swells within his stomach, causing his face to contort into a faintly comical mixture of pain and confusion. It rises, slowly, before he lets out a horrendous burp. The noise would make an ogre proud, but more important to those who like the violence is the horrific amount of fire that is spewing forth. For it seems the idiot wizard has drunk that fire-breathing elixer in ignorance, and all he can manage is to point his mouth in Filpien's direction and close his eyes, letting the bright fires burn their way through the air towards his undead opponent...
Filpien had been calm, cool, collected, cobalt hues simply watching as Svilfor reached for a bottle on the ground. Ah, that crouch would be his time to act, yes? The male darts to the side, feet leaving the ground and body tucking into a roll. His hands are placed with their backs to his skull, then are landed upon as he finishes the move in a somersault. One that luckily put him right next to that totally unremarkable chain. Deft fingers reach for it even as the flamethrower that was Svilfor begins to spew forth his burp-o-death. Another sideways roll is made to avoid the brunt of the flame, though a bit catches on the cloth of his armored vest and quickly devours it, leaving Filpien batting at the spot with his free hand and cursing softly. He uses a nail hard as steel to split a link in the chain, then rears his hand back and sends the metal rope flying at Svil's feet, aiming to trip him. Oddly enough, the male still had that column of fire following him, and now a gods awful smell of urine wafting up from beneath him. Really, someone had peed on snow and then given it as a tool for battle? Who in their right mind... No time to think Filpien, is the thought that crosses his mind, and true to that train of thought, the male drops to his knees in the urine infested slush and ducks his head to avoid another sweep of that fire.
Svilfon cannot begin to move as the chain flies at his feet. It wraps easily around his legs, causing a grunt of pain that seems to stop his fiery breath. He wobbles for a moment, before balance gives way to falling forward onto his face. He muffles a cry of pain, ignoring his bruised and throbbing legs, before lifting his eyes to see Filpien in a similar situation, though dust is far better than yellow snow, he thinks. Without being able to move he sends his hands flailing through his pockets for his wand, but realizes he hasn't the time to rummage through his enchanted robes. He swears again, though it soon shifts to an excited noise, a little too high pitched for an adult male. He stretches out his hand and wraps his fingers around the sharp stick. It looks more like a wand than his own stick, so the human is sure it'll work. As soon as the wood is held, he allows himself to focus through the rock that surrounds him; like he was taught he immerses himself within the serenity of the stones, a much easier task in the Underdark, though he does feel an odd taint. Never the less, he allows his concentration to flow into them, before using his pointy-stick-wand to draw a small pattern. A fallen stalactite responds to his arcane command. With a loud rumble it lifts from the ground, disturbing the bones of some dead former-combatant, before with a final wizardly flourish Svilfon sends it flying at the battlemage. It causes a horrendous amount of dust to surge into the sky, making visibility almost impossible, and as the human notices he rolls to the side and picks up a conveniently placed feather duster. His attention shifts from the plight of his undead opponent and instead is focused on dusting off his most wonderful of wizard hats with frantic sweeps... It seems his priorities are as screwed as always.
Filpien pokes his head up out of the snow the second he no longer hears the scorching of air. His eyes lock on Svil for a moment before darting to a knuckle duster on the ground. A grin curls wicked lips as melting impure snow beads and runs down his bald head. As Svilforn works his arcanum upon that stactite, Filpien rolls free of the mound of snow, snatching the brass knuckles en-route, and coming into a full stand. By now, the cloud of dust had reached even him and the male had to close his eyes and open his ears, listening yet again to his surroundings and the soaring of that sharp bit of rock. When its a meter from his chest, the vampire turns, his right hand (now armed with a pair of shinies) soars out to strike the stalactite, full force, in its side. He twists further, dropping into a crouch and running his hand over the ground for something to use as a projectile. Unknowingly, they lift the pouch of confetti high, then send it flying at the heartbeat of the human. Sadly, as the weight of colored paper flees the confines of leather, the pouch loses speed and falls a few feet short. Never the less, Filpien was just behind it, feet moving without sound over the dust and bone of the arena. Thick in the cloud of dust, the male rears his arm back once more, then sends it sailing in a hook towards just above where Svilfor's heartbeat was: His jaw.
Svilfon was feverishly dusting his hat, not even trying to pierce the dust and see his opponent. The only warning he hears is the faint noise of the confetti pouch hitting the ground. He lifts himself up on his elbows, the duster left on the ground, and stairs at the languidly floating pieces of paper before something slams into his jaw. He rolls a few times on the ground, momentum caused by the strike, and as he opens his mouth to let out a groan he feels two of his teeth drop to the floor. Stupefied, he does the only thing he can and rolling on his side, getting as far away from the sight of his own bloody teeth as he can. He stops when his body hits something sharp. The pain is mostly ignored, as his senses are reeling, but with grim determination he wraps his free hand around the handle of the flail and swings it awkwardly above his body. Once, twice, thrice before he lets it go in the general direction Filpien was. Not satisfied he runs his hand over the ground searching for more wicked weapons. Unfortunately, all he can find is a small piece of metal. Nevertheless, he picks it up and hurls it at the vampire. Oddly, as it flies a strange sound, almost music, comes from it. The harmonica, blowing with wind as it flies through the air, playing a tune written by fate alone, as it seeks to strike the battle-mage. Groaning, and without much energy left, Svilfon collapses into a heap and gathers his reeling senses, ignoring as best he can the blood that drips down his throat from the gaps where once teeth proudly stood.
Filpien hears the chain of the flail rattle as it soars, but with so many moving parts, the male can't tell where to dodge and takes a spike through his left bicep. With a curse, he wrenches the thing free and returns to sender, then grips his left bicep with his right hand, holding in the acidic quality of his blood. As the harmonica is let loose, the male relies on his only appendages left and sends himself into a roundhouse, kicking the instrument off to the side. Again, silent feet carry him in a semicircle around the mage-apprentice, fangs bared as he begins to close in. This male would replace the blood Filpien had just lost. From behind, placement realized by the way the heart of his opponent beat and its location, Filpien stands a few foot back, silence in his crouch, then a roar of air as he leaps like the predator he was, aiming to land on Svil's shoulders. He might take him down, maybe even stop his heart on the sharp points of that grappling hook that Filpien had no idea was on the ground at Svilfor's feet. >.>
Svilfon is stuck on the feet by the flail that Filpien threw back at him, and by chance the blood that was on the spikes landed across the chains. The wizard screams at the impact, and as he spasms unconsciously he feels his feet unshackled as the links are eaten through. With another grunt of pain he pulls himself to his feet and manages to sway only a little from his dazed senses. He is just trying to take a step as the vampire leaps on his back. With determination he remains on his feet, though each step he takes sends shards of agonly lacing up both his legs. As he feels those teeth pierce his flesh he starts to thrash about, arms flailing madly as he feels his very blood been drawn by the vampire. Weaker and weaker he grows as he stumbles, before finally dropping to his knees right infront of a small black piece of cloth. Knowing he dying, or turning, he stretches a hand out and grabs the black skirt. Like a makeshift noose he lifts his arms up and drops it around Filpien's face, and using the final remnants of his strength, fired by desperation, he pushes backwards over his head, dragging the teeth from his flesh with a splurt of blood. He remains on his knees for just a moment, before falling face first back into the dirt... this time he doesn't rise.
Auto-Round:
Svilfon is all but beaten as he breathes in clouds of dust, not even having the strength to cough away their insidious grasp in his throat. He remains thus, wondering if he's about to die, before he sees that grotesque snake slithering closer to him. He panics. He fears a lot, does Svilfon, but nothing turns his blood to ice faster than those sneaky, twisted worms. As it gets close enough he acts in blind panic. He sends his hand out to grab at its tail, before jumping to his feet and snapping it forward like a makeshift whip. For a moment it seems he will hang onto the end, but no, he is too afraid and with another of his too-high-pitched squeals he throws it at Filpien. The snake wraps around his throat and begins to constrict, enough to at least stop the vampire from furthering his vengeance upon Svilfon's pale flesh. He watches with grim satisfaction as the snake tightens enough to send Filpien to his knees. The inept wizard then bends down, ignoring the ragged pain in his legs and picks up the sharp-ended fire poker. He points it at the man and says, "Yield?" His voice is guttural from the dust, but he remains almost still - his burning desire to get a drink suppressed for the moment.