Duel:Graem v Mais
Duelists: Graem vs Mais
Duel: Traditional 3 rounds with final defense, 15 minute posting limit
Stakes: Auto-hit to the winner
Judges: Kharnus (mid), Elioyahazer, and Magik
The Green Rose Inn
Named after a giant emerald the founder discovered while mining, this is a prosperous, busy inn. A highly polished granite bar inlayed with golden Dwarven runes is situated along the northern wall; to the left of this on there side is a stack of barrels. The walls have been skilfully worked; reliefs carved into them depicting Dwarven battles, and at various points along the wall flickering sconces illuminate the room. At each table, dwarfs sing and shout, while harassed looking members of other races hurry off with their beer to a more secluded spot. The drunkards leer openly at the female members and make many attempts to reveal more of the female in question. You see one dwarf make such an attempt at a woman with alabaster coloured skin and blood red lips. Before you can stop him, he has reached across and crunch! The woman slams her hand down in a karate chop on the dwarf's arm and breaks it. Luckily the dwarf is too intoxicated to feel much pain, and is dragged away by his suddenly sober companions. The woman smiles slightly, revealing fangs, she is a vampire. She is easily as strong as any dwarf here, and, in their current condition, much, much faster. Looking towards the back of the inn you notice a spiral staircase leading down, intrigued you walk over only to be blocked by two burly looking guards. Trying to peer past them reveals nothing, but cheering, shouting and laughter emanates up the stairs, you feel you must investigate below. One of the guards holds out his hand demanding payment for you to continue down, you think it prudent to either pay or find a seat at one of the many heavy oaken tables, on which stand half burned candles.
Mais paces quietly into the inn. Gray eyes survey the area as he pushes past a group of dwarfs and makes his way to the table. A grin upon his face as he awaits the bartender “A double of your best whiskey” he asks politely, even while knowing that manners would go amiss in this place. He moves to sit upon the closest empty stool waiting for his drink.
Graem just happens to be in this establishment at the time of Mais' arrival. The cleric is conferring with the bartender, sturdy frame leaned against the bartop as he whispers. Viridian hues slide over to the newcomer, to peer upon him betwixt stray strands of his unkempt mohawk. As Mais begins to order, Graem returns to eating from his plate - the smell of alcohol is not on him this day, and his mug of ale remains untouched. Peculiar, or perhaps out of character, for anyone from the surface who might've encountered the seemingly always intoxicated Dwarf.
Mais nods in agreement placing the required number of coins in the bartenders hand in exchange for the double shot. His eyes scan finding Graem. A slight grin crosses his face as he holds up his shot glass “To the gods” he announces in toast to the cleric. He lowers his head and begins to mumble “ithquent di marfedelom, si tiichi dout ominak, persvek nomeno si tor ihk assistance ekess dronilnr ibahalii ekess dout ominak” shortly after the chant, the amber liquid turns a dark red hue, and to any who would be weary of such things give off an aura of evil and necromatic energy before the double is swallowed in a single gulp.
Graem openly glares at Mais and then drops his fork to the plate. He spits on the ground, "Te hell with Vakmatharas. Loda es supreme here an' I suggest ye not forget 'at, lest ye're lookin' fer trouble." He turns in his stool, his thick neck to twist and head to tilt, "If 'at's the case, I'd be glad to flay yer hide in the streets." As a well-learned cleric and dwarf - some would say mortal enemy of dragon-kind, it is only natural that he has long since learned the dragon-tongue.
Mais ‘s smile opens wide giving off a toothy grin as he looks over the Dwarf the effect of the potion flowing through his body. “It isn’t trouble I seek dwarf. Rather… retribution” he says with near gleam in his eyes. His hands begin moving in a controlled manner. One hand moving as speaking sign language the other moving somatically to assist in other. “You may have escaped true justice, but repayment is still required” he says as he finishes off the spell sending it off into relm to be completed.
Graem laughs, shaking his head. "Ye're right thick in the head." He slides off from his barstool, "But if'n ye're lookin' fer retribution, ye can follow me outside and ye'll have at a chance to gain it." Graem gestures to the door, preferring to keep any sort of potential fight from damaging his favorite inn. Whatver hijinks Mais is up to with working the spell falls below Graem's scrutiny, trusting in the ever-present, watchful eye of Loda to protect her champion in what is to come. He steps outside.
Mais stands from his bar stool and moves to follow Graem outside the inn. “Then let the fun begin”
Dwarven Lane
The lane runs north-south beneath thick columns on either side that hold seven beautifully crafted arches far above, each the Sigil of the Old Clans. All seem represented; from the formidable clan HeavyHammer's Eyes in the Dark sigil that sends shivers down those who walk beneath, to The Hairfoot Clan's Blindfolded Basilisk that radiates barely-restrained power. This is where young warriors come to show their Dwarf to their ancestors by performing tests of strength, endurance and battle skills. West leads to a well-equipped looking supply shop and to the east a mysterious sign reads 'The Green Rose' in stylized thorn vine letters.
Graem exits the Green Rose Inn and stalks down the ancient, historical halls of Dwarven Lane. Viridian eyes fall upon his own clan sigil, the Stormforge clan - a bolt of lightning being tempered at an anvil with a hammer. With that sigil at the focal point of his attention, Graem whispers a prayer,"Loda, I hope to make ye proud this day." The cleric turns on toe, metal armaments to suddenly clank at the abrupt switch in momentum. He reaches with burly, armor-bound arms and plants his helm upon his head, leaving naught but his eyes and raven's black beard open to the elements. His gaze sweeps up to meet Mais' own, he gives him a sneer as one final exchange. Next, he draws free a dwarven towershield, it's edges etched in archaic symbols that speak of ancient rites of passage, empowering the otherwise exceptionally crafted, yet unremarkable shield with holy magics of warding. The shield is hefted, testing it's weight, before Graem draws free his trusty hammer-pick. The reliable weapon is clanked with one solid 'thud' to the surface of the tower shield. "Grahh!" He bellows with ferocity, mithril plated boots grinding into a rapid dash towards Mais. "Sunder will and rend earth!" He shouts, the hammer-pick is swung overhead and with one leap, the Dwarf crashes into the well-trodden hall with resounding force, his hammer slamming down and fracturing the surface with ease, a mere few feet from his opponent. A wave of rock rises to the occasion, bidden on the current of holy magic. The rock wave rips forth, building like a snowball rolling down hill, it ushers forth a wave of panic from any onlookers who dart into alleyways for protection from the sudden attack. Graem's intent is to bury the black dragon alive before he's gains any further chance at his so-called 'retribution'.
Mais moves from the exit of the Green Rose in, his eyes following the dwarf as he walks down the hall. The effects of the potion still running through the dragon's body, bringing a dark near sadistic smile to his pseudo-drow face. He holds still as the dwarf charges forth, a spell readies in his mind as he watches the dwarf leap up only to crash before him piercing the ground before him the rock wave rushing toward the necromancer, quickly eyes dart from side to side looking to spot any lapse in the wave. He spots an opening where the ground rises up next to the building. Using his natural speed he rushes over to the wall separating the green rose inn from the outside. Realizing he wont have enough time to jump the gap he begins to chant his spell while in motion once he makes toward the opening he shoots off the final word of the spell, his eyes locking onto Graems. Should Graem return the look he would notice his insides growing hotter as the alcohol in his blood starts to boil.
Graem does indeed watch the movements of his opponent, withholding any reaction from beyond the face of his helm, save for a look of determination - even in the face of his opponent narrowly escaping an unceremonious burial. There is more yet to be had! And that's when he looks into Mais' eyes... his body heats up, but if one were to recall, his mug of ale was left untouched and the smell of alcohol was not on the cleric. It was a wise day indeed to forgoe the drink. The slight increase in his blood temperature is from vestiges of alcohol that remains in his system from the night prior, next to nothing. Instead, this further aids his body, garnering a second-wind, if you will. Muscles work at maximum, his brain renewed with the newfound vigor. Graem brandishes his hammer-pick with an eccentric swing, then suddenly hunkers down behind his shield and bolts forward, his shoulder and all of his weight leanining into it. He whispers into the shield, sending holy magics into the finely-crafted item. Just then, the tower shield begins to glow, the emblazoned effigy of Loda at it's center somehow wrathful in judgement, and a wall of light erupts, expanding to fill a large stretch of the corridor. The tower shield is given a strong push forward and a wall of light erupts, a towering testament to his devotion to Loda. The wall of light continues forth ahead of him - Graem's hope is that it will blind and confuse Mais, for he follows in it's wake with a hammer-pick poised to strike. "Have yer retribution!" The dwarf shouts. A bolt of holy-lightning streaks into existence and strikes the hammer-pick, empowering it for one unforgivably violent strike, aimed to crack Mais' skull.
Mais quickly raises his arm, covering his eyes with his wrist to block out the holy light. He quickly begins to backpedal moving backwards to keep distance between himself and the imposing light. With the sense of sight now nulled he concentrates on his other senses. Hearing and feeling the sudden rush of static electricity he judges it’s only a matter of seconds before the strike hits, blind timing the unknown move he drops down and pulls to his left thinking a side swing. The mistaken guess is paid in kind as the pick finds its target piercing into the pseduo-drows muscle between his shoulder and neck. Emitting a loud echoing growl that reveals his true race he curses for a moment. The pain blocking any chance of using an intelligent spell leaves the dragon with one form of attack. Inhaling quickly and deeply he pulls his head back and exhales outward sending a wave of black acid from his mouth blindly in front of him
Graem has very little time to revel in injuring the accursed Vakmatharas worshiper. The dwarf had an inkling that the fellow was something more than a simple drow. Those Saurian words were spoken far too naturally for anyone but a dragon. "Dammit," he curses aloud at the telltale sign of a dragon breath attack, the very kind of thing that killed so many of his ancestors. Of course he would be keen to recognize such a thing, but little prepared he is for the acid that flows forth. He recoils the hammer-pick and then the cleric holds his tower shield up to use as a barrier between him and a most unsavory end at the hand of one of his mortal enemies. The holy wards hold up for a few moments, but alas, parts of the shield begin to corrode away and splash upon his gauntleted forearm beneath. Simple mithril, of course, serves very little protection against it, and a sharp gasp issues from Graem's lungs as he pulls away, discarding the tower shield as he does so. He shakes his arm violently to remove whatever acid remains that hasn't already fizzled out. The dwarf grits his teeth and releases a mighty roar of his own, raven's black beard whipping about as he shakes his head to-and-fro. The dwarf spikes the pick end of his weapon into the ground and heaves with all his strength. A slab of the rock floor snaps apart from the rest, aided, of course, by the use of holy magics. He flings the rock up and swings into it with the hammer end of his weapon, which shatters it and sends piercing projectiles in a flurry toward Mais.
Mais halts his breath attack and moves his hand to cover over the wound dropping down to a single knee. Heavy breathing drags from Mais’ mouth as he tries to push past the pain. His eyes gaze up watching as the large rock is lifted from the ground then shattered. As the shards begin to descend he rolls back to avoid the bulk of the incoming shards. The few that manage to hit their mark pierce into his leg ripping into his dress pants, and into his leg. A glare is given as he begins to chant, his eyes look around scanning the onlookers of the match until he finds a few dwarfs off to the side that didn’t run off. He begins to chant a quick spell. The onlookers undertaken by the spell gain a ravenous hunger and begin to look around finding Graem closest to them 4 dwarfs begin rush over to the cleric mouths open in an attempt to, rip bite and tear away flesh from him in order to sustain their new found hunger.
Graem backpedals from Mais, expecting further Saurian tricks, if only to find himself rapidly becoming surrounding. By his own kin! In his homeland!? Nay, the cleric pushes past the fatigue threatening to overcome his dwarven fortitude and drops to a knee, simultaneously hammering his weapon down once again into the earth - alike a dwarf striking the anvil, the ancient act plays out, sending an otherworldly ring of metal striking metal out all around him. And just as the four dwarves bear down on him, their hands and arms enveloping him as they move to bite, the sound washes over them. A blessed sound, it fills them with vivid memories of camraderie and brotherhood, of alehouses and wild fist-fights. They stop and begin to look at one another, uncertain of exactly what the hell it is they're doing. The slowly recoil, confused, hesitant... before they bolt to the four cardinal directions. Graem rises slowly, casting a withering glare upon his opponent for daring to use his own people against him with such disregard for life.
Winner: Graem
Auto-hit Stake
Graem half-drags his hammer across the floor, weary and worn as he slowly bears down upon the psuedo-drow. His left arm stings something awful, and his blood still courses through him with a steady heat. The cleric will definitely be having a drink this eve... but right now, it is time to deliver that 'retribution' Mais was so anxious for. Graem drops his hammer-pick into the loop at his belt and gestures with his now-free right hand in a flourish. "Loda damn ye to whatever dark hole ye crawled outta, worm." Two fingers come to rest gently upon Mais' chest and the pent up power of holy magic unravels in an instant blast, which sends the black dragon reeling across Dwarven Lane and solidly into the column that bears the sigil of clan Stormforge, so that he might never forget the dwarf that bested him this day.