Duel:GOREHILT v Larewen, Match 5 of the 2021 Titans of Winter Tournament
Duelists: GOREHILT the "ladies man" vs Larewen the seductive elder vampire Duel: Traditional 3 rounds with final defense, 20 minute posting limit. Stakes: Standard, autohit delivered by winner with allowance for final reply. Judges: Caltarok, Leone and Josleen.
Walled Courtyard
Passing through the impressive North Gate or standing upon the threshold of Frostmaw Fort, the courtyard sprawls out before you, securely fenced in by the mighty wall. High above upon the wall, soldiers march and sentries stand guard, ever watchful of Frostmaw city's borders and those that move throughout the fort. With the knowledge that sharped eyed archers oversee activity, one can move through the courtyard upon a stone-paved pathway, each piece handcarved with intricate, tribal designs beloved of Frostmawians. Bordering the path are grounds that should be nothing more than packed earth and snow, yet it appears to be a lawn of finely trimmed grass, of all things. How is such a thing growing in these harsh climes? Whatever the sorcery behind it, grass dominates this courtyard, a rare splash of color so far North, and dotted with statues of various famous warriors of lore. Lining the pathway are lengthy, tiered constructs of stone and ice: benches, you realize, cunningly wrought to provide seating for races of any height. Southward lies the gates to depart this area, well-guarded to prevent the ill-intentioned from fleeing. While northward looms Frostmaw Fort, a behemoth construct of stone, wood, and ice, riddled with battlements, towers, and a myriad of deadly defenses. As if the walls, mounted, giant crossbows, and guards were not daunting enough, to the east and west lie the courtyards of the Titan Sentinels, their earthen and frozen heads visible over the walls. The City of War seems to have earned its title.
Gorehilt finishes fixing his chainmail coif over his head and trots onto the field of combat. The air is cold, but his blood is hot. Already, he's beating his breast, bouncing on his toes, and generally getting himself psyched for the fight. As usual, the half-orc has his trusty spear, and he spins it with a flourish, twirling it hand over hand, wrist over wrist, before dropping his stance and giving the air a sharp thrust. He gives a battle cry. Hopefully he can finish the job today with his trusty weapon of choice, but just in case, he's thought ahead and brought a sidearm this time; a frost-enchanted razor whip hangs coiled at his hip. You can never be too prepared.
Larewen didn’t plan on returning to Lithrydel. She had no desire or want to come back to a place her necromantic heart still adored. And yet it was home. It would always be home. Even if, in the end, it was just her, Sigmund, and… whatever his wife’s name was. She’d have to check her books, assuming all was still in place at her manor. As she stepped into the courtyard, there came with her a familiar aura once described as “prickish”. It was unsettling, and it floated like a miasma around her, spreading its reach as far as it could. There was no mistaking her identity though. The familiar verdancy of pestilence swirled with a darkness equitable to her beating, black heart. She tilted her head at an angle, dark graze sweeping over those present. She recognized them all—almost. There were at least two she hadn’t seen or met that she could recall, but beyond that they were all familiar to her. Family to her, even if it wasn’t something they’d claim. She exhaled a heavy, unnecessary breath before her lips split and revealed that pointed, pearlescent smile. “Good afternoon, loves,” the mad woman cooed.
Caltarok said "Welcome, ladies and gentlemen to the 2021 Titans of Winter tournament - this is the fifth battle of the first round selections. This may yet be one of the most exciting and highly anticipated battles yet. Today, I have the honor of introducing for your pleasure, the half-orc and "ladies man" himself, GOREHILT against the lovely, seductive, and long lost elder vampire, Larewen! Contestants have agreed to 20 minute rounds, with Gorehilt going first, and no extra stakes. The judges are Aoife, Leone, and myself. Tonight, I'd like to remind the contestants to mind the weather. For Frostmaw is victim to sudden winds, freezing rain, and blinding snow at any given moment. The clock will start as soon as I get a "yes" from both contestants. Contestants, are you ready? A reminder to all you spectators out there that any bets you may wish to be place should be done now."
Round One:
Gorehilt is all adrenaline and bloodlust, right down to the bone. His teeth are grinding, and the entire audience can see he is veritably chomping at the bit. The moment the signal is given, he howls another battle cry and charges. His long, flexible spear vibrates with the same bloodthirsty energy as Gorehilt sprints headlong toward his adversary. Speed and reach, that's the name of his game, and the half-orc is banking his entire opening attack on it. He wants to get within striking distance before Larewen can brace herself. Gorehilt twirls his spear once, letting the weapon's natural weight carry itself though his grasp. He closes his gloved hand tight around the very butt, and just as he comes within range, he cracks the spear around in a blinding arc. It whips like a spring. The flashing, razor-sharp tip sweeps to slice Larwen open from shoulder to hip, if it can. Whether a hit or a miss, as he rushes past, Gorehilt will carry the spear's momentum around for another twirl, catching it in his offhand as a fulcrum so he can sweep the haft at Larewen's knees. If all goes according to plan, she'll be bloody and prone in the first few seconds of the fight.
Larewen hated melee weapons. Emrith was supposed to teach her how to use the cursed blades she kept. She couldn’t even remember the names of the slaves bound to them, but… that was a thought for another time. A wondering mind was useless if one was about to be torn in half. Her stare read the half-orc, that right eye—an augmented, blind oculus that saw nothing more than the threads of magic—focused on him. For the longest moment, it appeared that the witch wouldn’t move from her spot: Trajek had done worse to her over the course of their time together. Gorehilt’s spear tore into her shoulder, just above her heart, and lodged against cursed bone. She lifted her hands, tugging free the glove from her left to reveal rotten, desiccated skin. Her fingers curled around the haft of his spear and she tugged hard, seeking to either pull her shoulder free or take the spear with her. Rot spread from her fingertips, sinking into that wood with pure want. It spiraled up toward where the blade rested in her shoulder, and downward toward his gloved hand. There was something almost corrosive about it as ate away at the weapon, that devouring need hungrily stretching toward the death knight’s gauntleted hand.
Round Two:
Gorehilt cries out in coarse jubilation as the strike lands. The instant Larewen grabs the spear, Gorehilt releases it, allowing himself to be disarmed and caring little for the necrotic magic that soon withers his spear to dust. While that small eldrich drama plays out and the ruined spear crumbles, Gorehilt sidesteps swiftly behind Larewen, raises both hands together interclasped, and swings them down with all his might at the back of her head. It's a simple, cheap chot, but as long as she's busy, he might as well take it. Putting his back, shoulders, and all into it, he aims to stove her head clean in if he can. At the very least, he'd like to knock her out and have her at his mercy. Would the judges call the fight if he rendered her unconscious? Don't speculate, Gorehilt. Just smash.
Larewen wasn’t known for her speed. Part of undeath included being blind to the passage of time. For her, his movement behind her to hit her in the head, was quicker than she anticipated, and the blow came down hard at the base of her skull. The witch stumbled forward a couple steps, disoriented by the blow and struggling to keep hold of her thoughts, lest she lose control. She stood up gracefully after she collapsed, twisting on heeled boot to face him. A hand lifted, archaic, abyssal words falling from her tongue as the ground beneath Gorehilt began to rumble. The ground churned, and bone spears burst upward. Her gloved hand reached to the back of her head, rubbing at the sore flesh as a scowl curled her lips. “You do not want to see my madness,” she hissed, and her fingers curled into a fist. The slivers of ivory that rose turned inward, seeking to impale the half-orc.
Round Three:
Gorehilt feels the blow land solidly, but he doesn't waste time. Larewen's stagger is a precious advantage, and he needs to capitalize on it immediately. He steps up immediately after her, keeping her at dreadfully close quarters and promising no chance of escape. Gracefully though she may stand, Larewen will still rise to find herself less than an arm's length away from her opponent. The ground rumbles, and as the first tips of bone begin to scrape up and grind at his chainmail leggings, Gorehilt will step press forward still. Unless Larewen had intended to impale herself with the initial attack, he should be too near her now to be within reach of the deadly spikes. Next, he will attempt to grab Larewen by her hair and her shirt. If his grip is good, he'll yank her down with all his might, stepping off of the growing spikes and throwing Larewen down upon them in his place. Turnabout is fair play, after all.
Larewen || Tournabout *is* fair play, and the last thing Larewen actually expected of the death knight was him picking her up and throwing her on her own spikes. As she went down hard against them, a single command fled from her lips. Most of the bones retreated in time, but one caught her, impaling her in the gut for… only the gods knew how many times now. She grunted, exhaled a swear or two, and broke the bone off before rising up from it. Her dark gaze fixed on Gorehilt again, and this time there was a wildness in those near-amber eyes that hadn’t been seen in a while. Black ichor oozed from her wound, the blood she bore reeking of the corruption of her line. Shadows gathered around her, bending to her will as she wished them solidified. Tendrils of darkness curled outward from the necromancer, this time seeking to encircle Gorehilt and force him to his knees. A low, bitter growl followed. “Use your magic, or give it to me,” she snarled, and the smoky tendrils began to draw excess magic inward as it sought to slide between the chains of his armor and pull the very magic from his body.
Final Defense:
Gorehilt keeps his grip sturdy, and he's about to try and lift the wounded Larewen up for another throw when she begins her magical assault. The black, deathly tendril seep into him, and he can feel his strength quickly wane. He was having fun, but now, confound it, he's just mad. A dark fire lights within him, and the death knight's voice booms with divine authority. "In the name Vakmathras, cease and stand down." So invoked, the power of the God of Death surges through him. Necrotic magic is well within Vakmathras' domain, and the foul deity, so rarely invoked by Gorehilt, has surely heeded his servant's call. Larewen had meant to drain his magic dry, but it's like drinking sand. Gorehilt glares down at her in righteous superiority. She'll find no salve here, or, well, at least she didn't get thrown on her head. Yet.
Winner: Larewen
Auto Hit and Response:
Larewen stopped, a dark brow arching in some sort of sick amusement. “You call upon Him, but dare not wield his power?” She took a few steps closer, and in that moment she decided she wasn’t going to throw a final blow. Instead, the witch did something quite uncharacteristic. Her hand—the gloved one this time—rose upward to touch upon the death knight’s cheek. “Either use the power he has given you, or forsake whatever faith you have. If it’s a teacher you desire, then I’m sure you know where Vailkrin is. My manor is in the forest before the city’s entrance. Thank you, Gorehilt.” With those words, the witch turned, her gaze sweeping the crowd once more and this time it was Shishi’s familiar blue stare that she met. Silently she conveyed a message to him, a sign of calmness in the storm that was her persona. “I have returned, and thinks are going to change.” The words were cryptic, coming from the woman. A smile followed, all too convenient and perfect, before the woman departed from the courtyard—likely to return to her favorite haunt.
Gorehilt hears the judges calls. He breaks, releasing Larewen, expecting to receive his well-earned plaudits when, oh. He lost. His brow knits in indignation, but the look passes away in an instant. Graciously, he smiles to Larewen and bows. He's trying to think of some fitting concession to make, but instead she touches his cheek, and it bids him rise. "I'll try to deepen my devotion, thank you." She turns to leave, and he turns to retrieve his spear. He looks down to the grey-violet dust strewn on the courtyard ground. Ah yes. He spots Iintahquohae in the crowd points at her gratefully. Lucky thing she just gave him a spare.