Duel:Gilwen v Syrri, Match 7 of the 2018 Frostmaw Tournament

Duelists: Gilwen vs Syrri
Duel: Traditional 3 rounds with final defense, 15 minute posting limit.
Stakes: Auto-hit to the winner.
Judges: Leone, Hildegarde and Lionel.

The Old Camp

Leone said, "Welcome to the second round of the (seventh) Titans of Winter Tournament! Here we gather in the Old Camp, where mischief is afoot. Smoke curls up from each of the mountains surrounding the site, and already, cracks and crevices have begun to emerge in the higher snowpack. An avalanche is imminent. The camp itself has been tidied, with a roaring fire once again flickering in the central pit. Bedrolls, tents, and supplies are all strategically arranged, as if new occupants have taken up residence...and they have. A spiked tail flicks and whips from one of the peaked covers. A moment later, a shrill, chittering laugh echoes from the other. Ice Devils! Well, not precisely. The monks have managed to corral a pair of juveniles for tonight's combative exhibition, so while they are not as adept as their adult counterparts, they are still dangerous (and hungry). Good luck to both Gilwen and Syrri!"

Gilwen :: It was no secret that Gilwen hated the cold; where she’d usually be dressed in the thickest furs, and still oppose the chill by dramatically allowing her teeth to rattle together in her head, she stood now dressed in only in a battle leathers, and flat soled boots, and the only sign the frigid temperatures had any effect on her, was the occasional, muted shiver that shook through her shoulders. Her mane of red hair had been plated back securely, to prevent a visual obstacle for herself, and woven throughout were thin tendrils of vegetation which provided not only another means of securing her hair, but to also provide another weapon or shield, depending on the circumstance. The twisting vines that encircled her right arm were ever present, undulating slowly with imbibed life already, and her twin daggers rested at her hips, sharing a belt with three, small pouches that carried therein a mixture of seeds and pieces of vegetation, all which have been organized and separated for different needs. She inspected the designed arena, but kept a wary distance between herself and the corralled ice devils. The signs of an impending avalanche was one extra addition to the madness she wasn’t quite prepared to deal with, but she’d make an attempt to cross that hurdle once she met it. Syrri’s presence was met with a respectful nod, and immediately thereafter, the elf retrieved three prickly pods from within one of her pouches. They doubled in size within the first few seconds of meeting the cold air, and, when Gilwen threw them at her opponent, they doubled in size again, now rivaling a hearty pumpkin. These hybrid creations landed a few feet from in front of the halfling, and upon contact, they exploded. Taking the volatile reactions of an exploding cucumber, and mixing it with the dangers of a teddy bear cholla, a cactus known for its dangerous spines, Gilwen had created deadly grenades with four inch long tines that shot out in all directions. The sentient-like vines that danced along her arm reached out to swat away any projectile that flew in her direction while Gilwen’s hands rested on the hilts of her daggers in wait.

Syrri was beginning to feel perfectly at home in the rimy environment Frostmaw had to offer. The cleats of her custom-made boots plinked against the ice as she approached the camp, Fate and Luck each tethered by a dark blue leather strap to the belt that encircled her narrow waist, over her leather cuirass made of the same durable material. The halfling never wore gloves when handling her weapons, and she rubbed her calloused palms against each other for a bit of warmth as she side-eyed the area, in particular those pesky, amateur Ice Devils lurking and cackling within the tents. There wasn’t much time to dwell on them before she was catching the nod Gilwen offered, and she fixed the elven druid with her own dichromatic eyes, angling her chin down for a mirrored gesture. It was time. On her guard as the other began chucking pods of flora at her, both hands fell to grip the familiar, bound handles of either dwarven-made axe as her expression twisted into one of confusion, and despite herself, Syrri stumbled back a half-step as the pods expanded and exploded. As barbs flew at her, her instinct was to dodge out of their way, but she’d been foresighted about her new location and threw herself into the flapped opening of a tent, unintentionally drawing out the ire of its occupant. Cursing loudly in no way a petite female halfling should, Syrri backpedaled quickly, the shrieking of the Ice Devil luring its companion out of the other tent. Although she’d narrowly missed being made a pincushion as the prickly tines embedded themselves in the earth or pierced the planes of the tents, she was on the offensive now, and thinking on her feet she raced to skirt around the firepit, placing it between herself and the hoary imps while she hoisted up Fate, hoping the devil would be distracted enough by Gilwen’s presence. Releasing Fate, it flew bill-over-haft toward Gilwen’s waist - or more specifically, her hands; a common move of hers, but even as the axe was whistling in its unerring path, the ice devils were splitting up, one rounding the firepit toward Syrri, the other toward the druid.

Gilwen was in the habit of planning moves in advance, and as soon as her pod grenades were released, she withdrew a handful of seeds from a separate pouch and flung them in a circle about her body. Immediately, they began to take root within the icy ground and begin to blossom, leeching the nutrients and water from the soil in their rapid growth. Saplings and shrubs of rhododendrons began to encase the elf, protecting her from the encroaching ice devil, but not quite the billed blade of the axe. It easily cleaved through a thickening trunk of one of the trees that grew around her, but thrown off by the miniscule obstacle, it smacked into her waist instead of cleaving through her as well, and promised a hearty bruise. As the hell grew around her, swallowing her within its depths, she reached out with a magical touch to ride the spirit of the ice devil that advanced on her, leaving her body behind encircled by the rapidly growing and spreading rhododendron hell. It was the adolescence of the creature that led her to believe that she’d have a good chance at driving the creature. While she hadn’t expected the flowering vegetation to protect her indefinitely, it would provide a tough adversary for the halfling to navigate or chop through; each branch cut would grow still, and split into two new shoots, much like the head of a hydra. The ice devil Gilwen sought to control fought hard, much like any child who wasn’t allowed full autonomy, but eventually, the druid managed to fit into a place mutualism, where suggestions were all but needed to fuel the hunger of the creature. The creature released a long chittering laugh that seemed to echo around the clearing, and for a split second, it disappeared. From behind Syrri, it appeared for just a second, lashing out at her back with its clawed hands. Again, Gilwen coaxed it into utilizing its minor teleportation ability, and again, it disappeared to only reappear again from a different direction, this time attacking with a swift, horned headbutt to her shoulder.

Syrri scowled as the druid began to surround herself with the natural defenses, and she gripped Luck even tighter in her other hand, wishing she’d brought the hammer with her as well; too bad it wasn’t exactly easy to carry around, seeing as it was nearly as big as she was. Instead, she was left to fend for herself with the single handax now that its partner fell carelessly to the ground, hidden amongst the rapidly-growing underbrush. “What the--” This day was just getting weirder, the halfling decided dolefully as the first ice devil gained on her just as she grew closer to the druid. There was no time to focus on whatever-the-heck Gilwen was doing with her own icy imp, and she quickly began to hack away at the plants that grew around the elfess. Unfortunately she was thoroughly distracted from her task as both imps now lunged at her, and although she managed to somersault away from the slashing of its claws, the second time it appeared, she noticed too late and took the brunt of its force in her shoulder - and she would thank Aramoth later that it was her right shoulder this time, and not her left for once. Crying out in pain as the horn gouged through the layers of her thick cuirass, Syrri swung at it with Luck but pain was shooting up her arm; she missed its head, and chose to punch it in its ugly mouth instead. Shocked, the ice devil stumbled back in a daze but its partner was diving toward her. Gripping Luck with both hands for support, and trying desperately not to think of the blood that soaked through her armor, she swung it like a bat with the bill facing away, using the blunt edge of its butt to send the creature flying away a few feet at least. Without a second to lose, the axeling returned to hacking at Gilwen’s defenses - low to the ground, Syrri chopped and hewed until she’d created a narrow tunnel; and before the plants had a chance to regrow around her, she squirmed through the opening and wrapped a fist around Fate’s forgotten belly. As she did though, she felt an ominous tremor from the frozen earth beneath her. The underbrush was no place to be during an impending avalanche, and just as the barrier closed itself with new growth, Syrri kicked off the growing trunks and launched herself, axe blades first, toward Gilwen’s knees.

Gilwen hadn’t lasted long in the body of an unknown creature, and the ice devil quickly shook free of her hold, flinging her consciousness back into her own body violently. She reeled for a few seconds, clutching to the branches that grew around her, trying to regain a semblance of solidity within herself. The outside world around her had all but been forgotten in her attempt to ground herself within her own body once again. It was for this reason that Syrri had been given time and chance to burrow through her fortress, and it was by sheer luck alone that she managed to avoid the brunt of the axes. With a stumbling twist, Fate -or was it Luck?- sliced cleanly through the elf’s leggings, splaying open the flesh of her outer thigh, centered on the trunk of her leg, rather than the necessary knee, all thanks to being off balance. Her own sylvan worded curse spilled from her lips, and she grasped at her new wound while trying to navigate the interwoven branches and tree trunks that had once been her defense, and now was her dungeon. The ominous rumbling that heralded the avalanche had been missed in her desperate attempts to put a solid distance between herself and Syrri within the hell she had created. Around them the branches of the rhododendron danced as if caught in a breeze, and each of the hundreds of flowers that decorated the sprawling, thick growth, shook free its pollen. With no wind to catch the miniscule granules, they hung in the air, impregnating it with toxins. Excessive salivation, perspiration, weakness and vomiting were all initial symptoms of poisoning from grayanotoxins, but in higher doses, severe and progressive muscular weakness, and loss of coordination were dangers to look out for. Gilwen was no exception to the dangerous of the toxins, but she turned to face the halfling within the hazy pollen, and daggers in hand and free of their sheathe, she met Fate and Luck head on. One dagger was used to catch the next attack of one billed blade, while the other was used stab downward toward Syrri’s left shoulder. The undulating vines that encircled Gilwen’s arm then lashed out, four shooting to curl around the halflings throat in a strangling hole, with two snapped out like whips at the girls face. This was a dangerous place for the elf to be, her movements slowed by the poison in the air, her balance once again thrown off. She shook her head in attempts to clear the fogginess of her movements, but to no avail. Outside, the ice devils howled and battered at the cage that held the two fighters.

Syrri didn’t have time to relish in the minor victory of Fate, the leg’s sacrifice of blood coating its chipped edge as she swung it and its partner, Luck, again toward the druid. At first, she didn’t notice the pollen that hung heavily in the air, but it soon clouded their close quarters, and she found herself shaking her head, as if disturbed by some small insect buzzing around her ears. Her head began to hum, dizziness creeping up on her as blade clashed against blade, but unbeknownst to the halfling, her curse was fighting against the toxins on her behalf. Her right shoulder still throbbed with pain, each heartbeat bringing her closer and closer to her own demise, and it was clear she favored her right side, throwing far more weight into each deflected blow, while Luck sluggishly followed its partner, slicing through the vines that sought to grapple and entangle her. The dagger narrowly missed lodging itself in her unharmed side, but soon thereafter Syrri found her cheeks cut open by the razorsharp vines, thin rivulets of warm blood streaking down either side of her face. Choking and gasping against the vines that threatened to cut off the flow of blood and oxygen to her body, Syrri brought Luck dangerously close to her own face, drawing the bill down toward her shoulder in a daring attempt to rid herself of the plant-made noose. Gulping for air once she’d been freed - but with a small gash on the side of her throat as a result - Syrri wildly threw Fate toward Gilwen, but her stance was thrown off by another foreboding rumble, and then another, greater trembling of the earth signified that the snow had at last come loose, and all around them tons of snow began to rush toward their camp. The first slurries doused the firepit, the ice devils leaping out of its way before practically skiing across its surface toward the opponents, and almost in unison, they propelled themselves over the floral barricade like flying bullets of hellish ice. Syrri stumbled to the side, the ground shifting beneath them as the weight of thousands, perhaps millions of tons of snow came crashing toward them, and with what little time they had left, the halfling threw all fifty pounds of herself toward Gilwen, leaping off the ground to kick at the druid with the spiked cleats of her ice boots with the intention of driving the elfess to the ground to be buried beneath the coming snow.

Gilwen fought again and again to retain control of her failing limbs, and she struggled on her feet, her knees buckling under the slight weight of her body. It was a mixture of the poisons, the axe wound, and the rumbling ground that brought forth her struggles, though the toxic air was the main contributor. When Fate was thrown at her, she reeled backward, tripping over a low slung branch, and falling into a mass of flower and leaves that constructed a rhododendron bush. Swallowed by the vegetation, Syrri’s spiked boot connected with the stock of the shrubbery, and not Gilwen’s body, but the elf remained downed despite the onslaught of snow. In a last ditch effort, and a final disbursement of energy, the flowering hell around her was coaxed to curl inward on itself; branches and leaves melded together, creating a capsule around the elf, while the root system dug deeper, branching out as far and as fast as it could, clinging to the earth to prevent it and Gilwen from being swept away. In the end, after everything had settled and a blanket of pristine snow covered the arena, a single sapling emerged, and blossomed with a single, pink flower.

Winner: Syrri

Syrri was unprepared for the avalanche’s assault, sidetracked as she was by the fight, and it easily engulfed the lilliput beneath several feet of snow. The harsh pain in her shoulder was masked by frigid numbness that suffused through her limbs, and this helped her as she struggled to free herself of her icy prison. Several minutes later of burrowing through the snow, the halfling emerged - first a few frozen fingers, frostbite creeping into the bared fingertips, nails bloodied from digging through the unyielding blanket. Grasping for anything that she couldn’t see but hoped would be there, fingers that had by this point lost all feeling soon curled around the forgotten trunk of a tree that had been carried downward into the valley. Using it to hoist herself up and out of her makeshift tunnel in the snow - the second tunnel she found herself making that day, must be a record - her steps were slow and lethargic, her lips blue. At last she was free, snow and ice clinging to her body, bits of it falling off as she practically crawled toward the only hint of life in the vicinity. The ice devils were nowhere to be seen. Instead there was that tree sprouting from the white, and toward it the halfling dragged herself on hand and knee. Slipping, sinking into the snow, she made her way toward that pink flower, determined not to let the druid get away with hiding herself from further pain. As before, Syrri Darkfoot grit her teeth, although this time to muster up the remaining dregs of her strength before she began slashing at the tree; past the tree, through the layers of ice and snow, she knew the druid to be hiding. The branches that encapsulated the druid were no match for the ragged, weary hacks of Luck, the petite warrior’s stubbornness lending her the will to drive that chipped edge down and down again. At last the white gave way to brown, then a patch of red, perhaps even green, could be seen between the plants, and in one last ditch effort to ‘have the last say’ as it were, Syrri dove down toward Gilwen, Luck cast aside as she instead gave the druid a good couple of jabs to her pretty little face with a fist that couldn’t even feel the pain of impact anymore.