Duel:Fiuressiam v Grailan, Match 2 of the 2016 Frostmaw Tournament

Duelists: Fiuressiam vs Grailan
Duel: Traditional 3 rounds with final defense, 15 minute post limit
Stakes: Auto-hit to the winner
Judges: Alex, Nasada, and Orikahn

Crying Child - Frostmaw

Balgruuf steps forward, his hands gesticulating up and down in the air in indication. It seems the crowd is wise, and as the various spectators and gamblers begin to quiet down, the aged being takes a stance at the center of the fighting pit. The mouth piece is a towering man, an elder frost giant whose hair and beard have turned a stark shade of blue-tinged white. His voice is growling and severe as he booms out to those present, "Welcome to the first round of the Titans of Winter Tournament! Here we gather in the Crying Child to watch two noble warriors do battle." Once the signal to begin is given, the crowd steps back out of the way to allow both combatants to do their worst, and Balgruuf fades into the jumble of frost giants collected at one end of the fighting area. "Good luck to both Fiuressiam and Grailan!"

Grailan was not in his conventional stance that had become the norm to his fighting style; he did not stand motionless and veiled in misery across from his opponent this time. Instead, the man clad from neck to toe in glossy obsidian-hued platemail armor complete with ivory and nearly polished depictions and carvings of skulls adorning it, was astride a massive and ebony warhorse. Betwixt the skull accessories were intimidating spikes, but the black of that armor was a sharp contrast to the skin of pale, bloodless white and the dead, colorless and straight hair that hung down; his eyes and cheekbones were otherwise veiled by the shadow of a long, overhanging hood that extended into an almost impractical excess of length in a cloak. The right gauntlet was occupied by a thick handle attached to two helix-entwined chains that overlapped one another down to a massive spiked ball that was hooked on the other end, hanging dangerously. But it was further appropriate; the weapon's sphere was, upon closer than cursory scrutiny, designed to resemble a large skull. The massive warhorse snorted, and the air could be seen in its exhale from cavernous nostrils, before, without further warning, it broke into a pace that swiftly hastened toward Grailan's opponent. Dinner-plate-sized hooves thundered and ripped sound through the air as they crashed against the ground furiously, which drew back the cloak on the wake of its speed. The Dread Knight, in his path straight forward, the armored male pulled back his arm and began to swing that enormous weapon in a vertical-aligned circle; the momentum built like the speed of the horse, before, as the distance was closed between the two, he enacted his attack. It was a single, powerful swing of the spiked flail's massive and skull-shaped end, upon the momentum of not only swing but thundering steed in galloping sprint, in attempt to smash it into the Dryad's chest. It was the sort of power that collapsed ribcages if not shattered them; that broke arms behind metal shields; it was forceful and boisterous, in a way, and represented the strength of the undying knight.

Fiuressiam matches gaze with Grailan, her mouth falling open to speak of archaic premonitions in sing-song. The words, being of antediluvian origin, are scarcely understood by any onlookers. Her voice begins to rise in volume as the clip of Grailan's warhorse hastens him toward her. Then, her countenance begins to contort in what seems to be a marked unease, and a second voice is heard resonating out from her as she leans forward to a measured stoop. These split voices undulate out, reverberating and enhancing exponentially until they reach a cacophonous and fevered timbre. The very earth seems to vibrate in the wake of the clamor, and within the inner ear of the beast upon which Grailan rests, a discord arises which unsettles its balance and dismays the creature sufficiently to err in its step. Fiuressiam then takes to the air, shooting up from the force of one outstretched leg, her petite form of a mere five feet commanding such height in this ascent that it would alarm most. As she rises, it is in a spin, and this acrobatic array is just sufficient by her estimation to avoid the onrushing incursion of Grailan's massive flail - except, not so. As her arms outstretch in assailment, acute claws ever ready and spiraling with the force of her forceful tumble, a spike of the flail grazes the sinew of her right abdomen, a wound which affirms its depth with a spout of crimson. Despite this, her razorlike claws are unperturbed in their approach of Grailan's brandishing arm.

Grailan was different; there was neither alteration of his facial countenance nor sound to pass motionless lips, which were perpetually set in that grim line with the subtle curve of melancholy and sorrow, as if Fiuressiam, from the beginning to the end, was the object of mourning and pity. Even as the horse stumbled and the Dread Knight was forced to go absent his steed with a swift dismount admist movement that resonated with the telltale sound of a 'click' of armored greaves against one another. That brandished arm, clad in the gauntleted bracers and pauldrons and underlied with that glossy layer of ringmail, still was not enough to hold up against the dryad's assault; claw rent into metal and flesh alike, yet still was denied any satisfaction of pain or even fatigue, as the wounds and lacerated skin opened to spill out no blood, having long since been drained from his form. But Fiuressiam was now in close-quarters combat with the tireless, hulking brute of a knight -one that didn't know pain, only radiated his overwhelming misery and despair. He didn't move entirely swiftly, but with the technical expertise of a knight, a footsoldier, and the sound of snow crunched beneath his boots. A twist of his body simultaneously attempted to pivot his hip against the dryad's, but the antic was lead by a grasp of his unarmed hand toward her face, her hair, her neck, anything he could wrench a hold of; he wanted to hold her still, because the fist with the flail's hilt was bringing the unchained end of the handle powerfully toward the mouth of the dryad, as if to shove it right down her throat.

Fiuressiam 's eyes widened with horror at the undead knight's lack of injury from what was by her evaluation a clearly measured assault. As she connects with the ground she is again taken aback by Grailan's abrupt approach and outstretched arm. She took an uneasy step back to away in fear, but all for naught, as the large hand of the man took hold of her left ear and the tuft of alabaster hair which fell there. In this moment, and despite the wrenching pain of Grailan's grip, Fiuressiam had a moment of clarity. She began to speak feverishly a spell which had recently aided her. Her words seek to affect the mind of this violent brute, to sway him from his assault and compel him of the lack of need for bloodshed. It isn't altogether effective, but there is some extent of loosening upon her meager face. She places her leg upon the knight's chest and rips away violently, just missing the swing of his flail. As she falls back and hits the ground, Fiuressiam speaks a single word in an appalling and thunderous shout, "Nothingness!" With that, to Grailan, but none of the observers, her form disappears entirely. Her selective invisibility spell is just enough for her to stand and regain her bearings. She regains composure and behins to walk around her undead foe in slow and measured steps. As she seeks his back, she draws out another voice that echoes from the distance, far from her own location. As she's sure the trick has worked, she leaps again toward her adversary's back, claws outstretched in anticipation to rend apart the armor from his back, her feet with aim to rest upon his hips in a position of control.

Grailan stopped. He stopped so suddenly, it was almost violent the way his body seemed to freeze in momentarily cessation before, with an eerie and haunting lack of haste, the dead man lowered his arms and simply... stood there. In all of his melancholy, yet menacing glory, he stood there clad in his obsidian, glossy and polished platemail. Those dead and lifelessly gray eyes, from their veil beneath the shadow of his overhanging hood, simply stared outward in silent measure, neither looking for nor able to see Fiuressiam. Even the hand holding the flail at his side was motionless despite the flesh and armor having been ripped asunder, bloodless with musculature and bone exposed to the cold elements. And he waited, still, the only movement the sudden and sharp turn of his head in implication of that stare, still hidden from the trim of his hood, locking toward the direction that the other voice echoed from and made apparent by the direction of his face. Abruptly, then, he lurched forward from the sudden, though slight, weight on his back, of which the platemail was torn and shred just as well as the pale flesh beneath -again no blood showed. As veins, muscle, and flesh were torn beneath the onslought of claws, the man did not flinch or show any visual semblence of pain from the attack while his back opened with every laceration to expose the underlying structure of organic body beneath his flesh; he remained with a melancholy visage and sorrowful countenance of pity -as if for his opponent. Ironically enough, the attack also gave away the position of the Dryad; she was, as it were, ripping open his back. It was with startling swiftness, likely hastened only due to the lack of space betwixt the opposing fighters (it was much less effort to move so slightly rather than sprint), that the Dread Knight's uninjured arm whipped back, hand grasping. The gauntlet sought an upside-down grip for the throat of the Dryad; to grasp, to squeeze and clench, and with the flex of a powerful muscles along the back of his arm and lining his side, to whip the woman bodily over his shoulder -neckfirst to snow and the hard, frozen earth beneath. The exposed masculature from those lacerations could even be seen tightening and relaxing with the movement to any onlooker -perhaps, if the dryad were that perceptive, as an early warning signal.

Fiuressiam 's ear is now mangled and bleeding, a cluster of hair torn in irregular characteristic from her head. She hisses as she slashes away at the knight's back in a state of near-madness, her profound agony - fueling an intensity she had not yet known as a young dryad. Her state of mind fueled nothing but her aggression and it was for this folly that she fell prey again to the access of Grailan's grip. His gauntleted hand grasped about her collarbone, and as he drew her forward over his form like a ragdoll, the comparably paltry bone snapped and exposed itself through her flesh. Fiuressiam struck the ground sputtering and hacking her own thick plasma. She held a hand to her throat in anguish, her breath shallow and irregular. There from the ground she began to speak again, slowly and through the pain and congestion of her blood-filled throat. She weaved together the words of a spell of desperation, calling with a passion she had yet to feel in this state of fear and helplessness. The intensity of her need of result fueled the spell to greater heights of influence than she had ever wielded. Fiuressiam's words weaved a deep-seated paralysis, sickness and rot. She pleaded with the Gods of the weave, the spirits of her ancestors, the might of the land itself - make this creature feel what he ostensibly cannot - give him back some humanity so that it may be shredded away again, at least in his own perception.

Grailan was a condemned man; it was the will of the Gods that had placed him in this eternal torment, this perpetual melancholy for his sin coupled with forever walking the land of the living. He could not pass on, he could not find atonement, and thus it was with certainty that his punishment would be, as it was decreed, forever. But to take advantage of such a state? To use it to his strength and interact with the living in such a way that broke the spirit of the words of the damnation? It could be inferred that the Gods listened to the plea of Fiuressiam, though perhaps it was simply the intensity of her emotion coupled with her spell and not the work of the divine at all, because all at once the Dread Knight, the tireless, painless man felt two things that he had not in so long. He hurt. He was tired. In fact, the pain was at a stage for his wounds that was so overwhelming, that that melancholy visage of despair and sorrow actually altered; it contorted into an expression of torment and anguish, and the armored man buckled to his knees with a hollow cry -echoed by some phantasmal, disembodied voice amidst his own- of agonizing suffering. His vacant hand struggled and clutched at his other arm, as the man felt himself dying -all over again. It was both horrible and blissful -excruciating and relieving all at once; he could feel, even if it were just a breath's worth and in nightmarish agony.

Winner: Grailan

Grailan 's feelings washed away; they were temporary. Once again, the Dread Knight, with lacerations over his body that neither bled nor tired him, was numb to anything but the consuming and perpetual melancholy that surrounded, radiated, and engulfed him. Slowly, made apparent with the metallic 'click' of armored greaves, the hooded and cloaked undead rose to his feet before that haunting lack of haste held a gait toward Fiuressiam. Those bootsteps waned, ebbed, and finally ceased when he stood before the Dryad, and stared with that remorse down upon her from dead, gray eyes. But, rather than strike her, perhaps as a mercy due to the brief time of feeling once more, or perhaps out of spite for Balgruuf (maybe both), he turned away, and began a methodically slow, eerie pace away both worldlessly and with a lack of gesture.

Fiuressiam sputtered a few times before raising a slender arm to the sky. She almost inaudibly chanted the words of a healing prayer. Her wounds began to form over with new, albeit imperfect flesh. Her broken collarbone began to straighten and reform. She laid there a few more moments as she vacated her mind to complete awareness of that horrible bout.