Duel:Ginger v Tiphareth
Tiphareth vs Ginger
- Judges: Cuki, Rheven, Dergious
- Stakes: Excommunication from Astrala's priesthood for Ginger, Forced support for Ginger's causes for Tiphareth
- Rd/time: 3 rd / 15 minutes
- Location: Trist’oth Arena
- Decision: Tiphareth, split
Ginger drops to the arena floor from her perch on a hanging stalactite, landing with ease across from her dark-skinned opponent. The mottled green tint of her skin brings back memories of rotting compost, as do the faint odors wafting across the arena from her flithy body. Her lack of armor makes a statement to all the Drow spectators: no man can conquer me. The small quadruple-bladed weapon in her hands spins at blinding speeds as she warms up for the real battle by praticing feats of manual dexterity and advanced prestidigitation. A single flick of her wrist is the only warning the Drow mage has of her attack. The shuriken blinks in the dim light as it circles the cavern, severing the thin threads of the awaiting ambush. A multitude of silver-skinned spiders create hundreds of miniature dust clouds unpon impact and approach Tiphareth with a faint sheen of poison on their potent fangs. When the blade connects with one of the spiders, an unexpected change in the course of the weapon's flight causes Ginger to dive in order to catch it on the return. She grabs the blade from the air and lunges toward her enemy, correcting her balance with the fleshless wings on her back and arcing through the air for his throat, while the metallic avatars of her Goddess creep ever closer to the Drow with unmistakeable intent.
Tiphareth studies the combatant before him, taking in the entirety of her form as he mentally prepares for battle. The soft viridian glow emanating from the cavernous walls cast an eerie aura upon the two opponents as their conflict nears. Tiphareth inhales deeply, a slight wince upon his face as the pungent odor of death from this battle-weary venue hits his nostrils like a fist. The venerable mage foregoes any verbal taunts, the contemptuous look about his visage conveying a sufficient message toward the infidel before him. He knows well that the balance of power in Trist`oth hangs warily on the outcome of this evening`s events. Tiphareth suddenly takes a readied stance, the simple walking stick firmly within his grasp as he prepares for the adversary`s strike. Head turning all about the arena as he attempts to follow the path of the speeding blade, its path unleashing the ominous arachnid army upon Tiphareth`s form. The pixie nears the mage with a bizarre speed, her shimmering blade nearing his wrinkled night-kissed skin as the venerable Drow summons all speed left within his aged body. Taking one step back with his left foot, he dips his head in an attempted weave from the strike, his speed no longer at its prime. The mage avoids the assured death blow, but takes a solid slash from her odious weapon upon his right shoulder, gritting his teeth as the flesh lays splayed, a spate of wine-red vitae spilling forth from the wound. Not affording the luxury to recover, Tiphareth turns his attention to the oncoming spiders. Grasping his wooden staff firmly in hand, he brandishes the implement overhead, the trickling blood pouring down his body as the mage proceeds spinning the stave between his nimble fingers, the still, musty air picking up to a steady breeze. Tiphareth initiates a series of incantations, the arborous staff now only a visible blur as the breeze crescendos to a tempestuous force, a number of large rocky growths breaking free from their home upon the capacious ceiling above. The sounds of echoing whistles builds to a deafening howl, the marching spiders become swept up, along with the stalagmites swirling within the summoned cyclone as Tiphareth completes his maneuvers with a single deft swipe of his rod toward Ginger`s locations. The full complement of rocky growths and spider debris is sent railing toward the malevolent Pixie; the terminating stone points set to impale and crush his odious foe. With only moments to spare, Tiphareth adds malice to spite as he thrusts his hands outward; harnessing his Drow birthright, the wizard casts a spherical orb of magical darkness around the Pixie`s form, measuring some twenty feet in diameter. The speeding projectiles disappear into the void as Tiphareth stands at attention, awaiting the results of his strike, and the inevitable onslaught from his heinous foe.
Ginger doesn't waste even a moment, knowing that any rest she might take could be construed as weakness. She spins in the air, ignoring the catcalls from the crowd. The Spider Goddess needs strength, strength that the female Drow had lost. If it takes a pixie to lead them back to greatness, so be it. Ginger spins to face her aged adversary, holding up her four-bladed weapon to prepare for another dive. The vortex raging toward her causes a moment of worry, and she instinctively covers her face with her wings. The attack batters her against the wall repeatedly, bruising her tender flesh. She murmurs a prayer to her Goddess and throws a vial containing an incorporeal undead into the maelstrom. The glass shatters and a roaring wave of wind and sound cycles opposite the twister, forcing it backward towards the originator. Just above the buffeting winds, the screams of the damned can be heard, begging for vengeance. The shadowy orb engulfs the brow-beaten pixie, and she touches her pendant whispering, "Fear is not the enemy." Her pendant flashes and the orb grows, filling with misty and engulfing the entire arena. The pixie plucks out her left eye, and after sticking it in her mouth spits it out to hunt through the eerie darkness for a target. Upon finding Tiphareth, it sends out searing hot beams, intending to add the pain of a Drow to the bodiless laments of the empty fog.
Tiphareth watches in obvious dismay as the attack is subverted with apparent ease by the Necromancer. The torrent of wind and undead dismay spins with odious force between the combatants, his attention directed toward her newly formed twister opposite of his own. With a series of adept movements of his staff, the Drow calls the wind to take on an opposing force to that of Ginger`s summoning. The swirling winds meeting force with force as their energies become wasted upon the other, the tempests growing weaker as they pound upon one another to a stalemate, the only remnants being those of the roaming entities of torment wandering aimlessly about the arena air. Just as his success seems assured, the growing orb of darkness becomes apparent to the Drow, its size fully encompassing the venue within its murky confines. Knowing his infravision will be of little help, the Drow returns to his instinctual blind fighting, his hearing, smell and even taste suddenly gaining the well-trained acuity all Drow must attain to survive the Underdark. A piercing pain is suddenly felt upon his leg, a strange searing pain he did not recognize. Retreating backward to find the wall, the Drow listens carefully, the unique smell of Pixie dust carried upon the air finds his nostrils. Attempting to discern its location, he turns his ear about the place, thinking he`s found her direction he attempts his retaliation. Tiphareth raises his hands overhead, nimble fingers dancing amidst the air with adept grace, coaxing the moisture from the dank cavern ceiling. The condensation builds rapidly, developing into a steady drip. The mage`s eloquent actions intensify as the drip likewise grows to a bizarre indoor rain, the porous ceiling emanating a torrent of precipitation as if fed by an unknown river above. The mage covers himself with his cloak, sheltering himself from the rain as much as possible as he prepares the climax of his curious actions. A resounding mantra slips from his thin wrinkled lips as a noticeable drop in temperature descends upon the arena; he continues the chant, the bloody stains upon his robe now freezing, the air falling rapidly to a point well beneath zero. Crystals of ice formulate with haste upon the cavern walls, the earthen floor becoming a precarious sheet of unstable footing as the creeping ice encroaches the Pixie`s curious wings, hopefully rending them useless for competent flight. Having decades of first hand experience with the Pixie race, Tiphareth knows well of their aversion to cold and its weakening effect upon their body. Awaiting the cracking sounds of ice upon her wings, he awaits the peak of Ginger`s vulnerability before suddenly releasing a violent blast of arcane force from the fibrous stave within his hands toward the direction his apparent target. Leaving wispy tendrils of vaporous smoke in its wake, the scintillating orb of raw mystical energy nears the Necromancer with amazing speed, threatening to slam the Pixie with an unyielding blow of concussive force.
Ginger listens to the muffled sounds through the fog, keeping her wings wrapped as tightly around her as possible and creating the same effect as a nervous hedgehog. She whispers arcane profanities into the air, commanding the airborne ocular organ to increase the power and follow the mage. The decreasing heat stops the eye not a bit, though the Pixen is beginning to shiver. Her slowly dropping body heat is a new sensation for her, and therefore, she isn't quite sure what to do about it. She taps her pendant once again, forcing the falling rain into a protective cocoon while her angry eyeball hunts for a Drow. The glow of the apporaching orb, mottled through the encasing of ice confuses Ginger for a microsecond before it crashes into her, snapping her wings wide open, tearing the muscles internally but not snapping due to the durability of dragonbone. She whimpers in pain, and the mindless screams strengthen in resonance. Her weakened hands cover her ears as the voices of the silenced speak out one last time, going beyond deafening to dangerous. One by one, Drow in the crowd fall over in pain and dying, blood pouring from erupting eardrums at the torrential flow of sound. The single-minded eye sends a final blast of cone-shaped fire at the Drow, intending to finish the battle once and for all, that is, if the reverberations of excessive volume don't get the job done first.
Tiphareth glares outward, the darkness still unyielding; he searches the depths for some semblance of his strike`s`s effectiveness. Listening carefully into the void, the Drow`s ear become suddenly pierced by the ghoulish sound, the intensity quickly growing to a nearly unbearable level. The mage attempts to cover his ears, but to no avail, the sound permeates his ebon flesh with ease, attempting with all his might to retain some concentration, Tiphareth searches his mind for a suitable response. Finally, he removes the athame from its confines at his side, the dark blade sliding from its leather home with ease. Tiphareth grips it in his long atrous digits, reciting a brief arcane chant before he plunges the implement into the frozen ground, causing a deep circular pit beneath the mage. The elder mage falls the full distance before landing with a painful thud; a grunt and a grimace accompany his landing as tendrils of pain shoot though his already wounded leg. The deepness of his hole blocking a large portion of the sound, and unbeknownst to him, aiding in his escape from Ginger`s deadly cone of fire. He attempts to regain his composure with reasonable speed, harnessing all his weary body can muster as the mage directs the point of his stave upward into the darkness, unleashing a series of violent blasts high into the arena. Upon the blast`s exit from Tiphareth`s newly formed hole, he quickly utters a second series of mystic words, the ground above him closing rapidly to finally silence the accursed screams. As Tiphareth waits safely in his earthen confines, the arcane blasts take their desired effect. Numerous fiery explosions fill the arena air, each blast bursting forth into subsequent flashes of intense heat. The superheated air causing the frozen arena to rapidly become a sauna of death, the intense steam swirls about the venue, searing all in its path with a deadly boiling heat.
Ginger gasps with the pain of intense temperature change. As the heat grows her mobility returns and she stretches her wings gingerly, wincing with pain. She stares around the re-lit area, the fire having brought everything back into perspective. Nowhere can she see her opponent. Her eye zings back to her face and forces itself back into her face with a wet sucking sound. The absent enemy quickly becomes the least of her concerns with the growing heat. She waits, perhaps a little too long, before grabbing her pendant and chanting desperate incantations. Like a drain, her pendant removes the heat and steam from the area into the vacuum left behind when the pixie had forced it out. The red gem glows with the imprisoned energy, branding the pixie's chest in an outline of her favorite necklace. She falls to her knees, gasping in pain, burned by another upstart opponent, but still she survives.
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