Duel:Grailan v Jesen, Match 9 of the 2016 Frostmaw Tournament

Duelists: Grailan vs Jesen
Duel: Traditional 3 rounds with final defense, 15 minute posting limit
Stakes: Auto-hit to the winner
Judges: Lionel, and Kasyr

Twisted, Leafless Shaking Tree

As you step into the area, you find yourself within that of an old garden of some type. The path in which you walk is made of only dirt, and circles around a large tree, before leading north through a small area, and west. The tree in the middle of these old, dead gardens, shakes slightly in your vision, trembling quietly like a hungry child left in the cold streets. Its frame is twisted, and distorted, almost in a haunted fashion, as its bark is rotted and black. No leaves can be seen upon the tree, and only its gnarled and naked branches protrude out and towards the sky. The other plants in this area are frozen solid by the beating weather, and long dead.

Jesen has had quite the trek out into the farther western parts of Frostmaw's seemingly endless domain. And being native to the island of Rynvale, and thus used to a much warmer climate, the high elf was cursing under his breath the entire way out for ever -volunteering- for this damn misson. Thats how it usually goes, right? An idea sounds good until you end up in some frozen wasteland of a kingdom. But if the weather was bad, the hospitality was worse. Much has been learned about how Frostmaw is run in the absence of it's now displaced Steward, as those wood elves that stayed behind to continue a life remade in the tundra are put alongside the unfortunate centuar tribes that were caught up in the civil war happening within the kingdom of Ice and War. Used as slaves, the xenophobia resulted in harsher than normal treatment for anything not of giant kind. It was only due to his current position as a participant in the Titans of Winter tourny that saved Jesen himself from such cruelty, though its effects were still felt, noted and now used as fuel. Where this competition was originally used as a means to an end to get into the recently closed boarders of Frostmaw, it now has become a place to show biggots what true valor is. With each step does the archer get closer to his destination, and with each crunch of snow beneath his boots does the highborn become more and more ready to face the challenge he was risen to. No name was given, only a destination, but that didn't matter to him, nor was it needed as once the opening described by the Frost Giant who gave him his orders comes into view, all is made clear. This place may have once been beautiful, but for now it is nothing but a desolate ghost of its former self. And standing a few dozen yards off? A black knight that seems more a statue than a living man, almost an ornamental piece to add to the ghastly scene at hand. Either way, no one else can be seen for as far as the eye can see, thus it is with a determination to see this through till the end that the Phenthae noble calls out. "Alright then." As those words escape past now chapped lips does the arcane archer extend out his left hand, summoning forth the bound bow that he favors with naught but a mere spoken word of command. The spectral weapon comes into existence just as the ranger says. "Lets be quick about this, the cold doesn't agree with me." And with that, it begins, as without another word does Jesen erupt into action. His right hand draws back upon the drawstring of his bow, a collection of arcane energy forms into an arrow as the archer takes aim, inhaling deep before releasing as the last bit of air is let loose. The mystical bolt flies forth at tremendous speed, and to most it is nothing more than a blur of greenish light. The arrow, mid-way through it's flight, erupts forth into a hail of seven more arrows. Each carries with it an elemental twist. Acid. Once they hit anything solid, the arrows will burst, thus covering whatever it hits allowing the acid to do what it does best. Eat at flesh, bone and even most metals given enough time. Either way this attack serves as both opening move as well as it will show Jesen who, or what, he is dealing with. Never one to count his chickens before they hatch, the archer is already on the move to keep distance in his advantage. He is ranged, and the hulking brute standing across from him seems like someone he'd rather not tangle with up close. So, for now, the high-elf move with the agility and grace his people are known for, each foot trying to keep sure-footing upon the snow covered ground of this decayed and frozen garden.

Grailan stood like some otherworldly and haunting sentinel of contrasted black against the background of grays and whites that made up the setting of Frostmaw's bleak, frozen landscape, and the old, dead gardens were a perfect accompaniment to the general malaise that emanated from the Dread Knight. He was clad in glossy, obsidian-hued armor that was adorned not only with spikes, but also ivory-colored skull ornaments for such garments as his belt, the clasp of his thick, black, and hooded cloak, as well as a plating over the knees of his greaves. The winter winds were cruel and chilling today as they were every day in this place and, by virtue of their persistent slices, caused the fabric of both black hood and cloak to dance on the remnants of its idle speed. The man was startlingly still, even when the air pulled at his locks of pale hair -white, but as if the color had long since died away rather than a natural onset of age. It only helped his overall aesthetics and dominating presence, however, because they were combined with two eyes that were glossed over and gray like those of a long-dead corpse, and pallid, bloodless skin indicative of the state of death that the armored figure was in; most of these features took a closer than cursory stare to really pin down, however, because the hood draped shadow by its hemline along the contours of his cheekbones and above. This gave the impression of an expression not of apathy but of pity and mourning as if Jesen were a victim to be grieved over despite that it would be Grailan to face him in combat. Most oppressive of all was the aura of dread and despair that perpetually, overwhelmingly emanated from his melancholy form. Most deadly of all, however, was the enormous flail that his right gauntlet held the hilt of; the chain was perhaps the length of his arm itself and wrought with obsidian-colored links that connected the end of an ornate hilt to beach ball-sized skull with several-inch-long spikes that stuck out all over its surface. Thus the morbid appearance of a sorrowful and damned warrior, who had remained utterly statuesque in a grim pose until the onset of the attack that the high elf attempted. One green and glowing arrow became a veritable seven like a rain of neon and sickly hail, but the Dread Knight did not move. The first struck him in the chest, dug right into the breastplate, and three simultaneously bounced off of his black plate armor with echoing and hollow 'pings'. One strayed too low, and the head buried into the brute's knee, as the other pierced deep into his bicep, and actually protruded out the other side. That before they exploded; he became splotched with sizzling green ichor that steamed into the cold and dry air as they ate away slowly at armor, flesh, anything. Unfortunately, the pace of disintegration was woefully inadequate, and the armored man finally broke his stillness to advance. Several steps brought him in Jesen's direction with a simultaneous and gradually increasing momentum of the skull-shaped weapon swung in steady circles at Grailan's side, before he enacted his own attack attempt. The weapon's massive and spiked end arced high into the air before it plummeted even faster downward, in an aim to not only smash the skull of the high elf, but literally squish the bone into shattered pieces and pile of mutilated brain and flesh. But the undead was cunning for his lack of speed; he anticipated an evasive movement. So, subsequent to that swing, he yanked back tremendously on the chain, to straighten it entirely before the spiked ball woudl come back toward the Dread Knight -a trap for the obsidian links to serve as a tripwire and entangle his foe.

Jesen was a bit startled at the speed in which his hulking opponent managed to catch up to his evasive tactics, but is not afforded the time to dwell upon that. The immediate threat was trying to find the grip in this slipper terrain to come to a quick enough halt -not- to become obliterated by that deadly flail. This knight knows what he is doing, that is certain, but Jesen is no greenhorn either. Adapt and overcome is the creed that rynvalian rangers live by, and that is exactly what the highborn attempts to do. The first swing of the Dread Knight's massive weapon comes in, and right as it's arc reaches it pinnacle, Jesen finds good enough footing to stop himself, and enough traction to actual reverse him momentum and allow himself to dive forward just as the spiked head of Grailan's chosen weapon flies past it's intended mark. Quite literally within a hair's reach does one of those elongated protrusions whiz by. Thinking himself slick ad already commited to his forwards lunge that would have taken him well past the advancing knight, the archer does not anticipate, nor see, the reversal of the flail's head and thus gets hit hard on his left shoulder. A spike digs through the hardened leather he wears beneath his cloak, but it is the sheer force of the blow that sends the smaller combatant flying. The spike is ripped forth from his shoulder just as quick as it buried itself, and Jesen end up rolling across the garden leaving a small trail of blood in his wake. But the archer is no stranger to battle, and quickly does he scramble to his feet once more. What he does first is a mad dash in the same direction he was tossed by Grailan's attack. Away from the Dread Knight. And it is within this all out sprint that the rynvalian uses a gift given to him but Ranok. His boots, capable of storing kinetic energy are activated and thus propel him in a leap forth. In this seemingly insane jump away from his opponent does the lithe ranger turn about, his bow once more brought to bare and another magical arrow knocked back. As he decends down towards the snow covered ground once more does he release his next arrow. This one is not as the others, this arrow flies forth straight towards the Dread Knight, the arcane energies stored within are of a simple manner. It it hits, it shallbegin to spin itself rapidly, much like a drill, going on and on with such speed and force that it will burrow through that platemail and through the Dread Knight himself if he allows his hubris to let him take the brunt of this blow headon. Hoping ample space is between the pair, Jesen lands upon the ground with a "thud!". Tumbling in the roll and quickly returning to his feet to see if his attack had hit its mark, as well as ready himself for Grailan's next attack should it fail.

Grailan 's body, by now, was relatively exposed in various patches where the acid had eaten through and in some cases beyond pallid flesh to bloodless muscle, tissue, and aged bone. Still the Dread Knight did not seem any slowed by this and he felt neither fatigue nor the pain thereof; there was no groan that signaled any suffering, no cry, not even the grit of teeth evidenced in an otherwise relaxed jaw. Such was the case of a sort of unchanging melancholy of his expression even when his weapon struck the smaller high elf in the shoulder with a satisfactory sound of metal crunched against limb and flesh. It was the case of being struck with the arcane archer's next attack as well; he offered neither signal of pain nor suffering as he was struck straight in the center of his chest with that magicked arrow. The force of the blow did manage to cause the undead to stagger a step backward, and momentarily halt as if he were pressed against with a force opposite his advance. The arrow bore its spinning head further and further into the Dread Knight, crunching through metal, flesh, muscle, organ and bone all until, with a morbid 'pop', the projectile escaped out the other side and left in its wake a hole that could clearly be seen through the chest of Grailan. The Dread Knight afforded but a slow moment to peer over this new wound, before his attention and glossy-eyed stare lifted back to fixate upon Jesen. Then, abruptly and violently, the black-armored man wrenched his weapon to swing with a thunderous, deafening crash of the metal skull of the flail into the frozen tree; it literally shattered upon impact to become a veritable hail of shards, splinters, limbs and woodchips all in the general direction of the undead's opponent. As if that weren't enough, the free hand of the creature thrust forward as if to grasp his opponent from clear across the arena; an ethereal and phantasmal blue hand shot out of his own, screeching through the air as it sought to grapple and suffocate his foe like some deranged ghost.

Jesen cannot deny the pain he is in, as with each passing moment waves of wave course through his left shoulder and thus cause his arm to deny proper movement when trying to use his bow. Add in the blood he is losing from the hole left behind by one of those vicious spikes, and the lean elf is really feeling the toll of Grailan's first successful blow. But again time is something he cannot afford to spend dwelling upon such things as in comes the dark knight once again. Like some unstoppable force does this creature manage to push through all manner of punishment the high elf can dish out. And, as if that wasn't enough, the monstrocity he faces utterly destroys the leafless tree that stood as a morbid reminded of where life once was in a single powerful blow. The shards rain down in a hail of debris of decayed and rotting wood, mostly harmless simply due to how dead they were, it distracts Jesen long enough for that ghostly hand to nearly find its mark. It is -only- because the wounded ranger reacted out of instic to evade the falling shards, splinters and chucks of the now obliterated tree does he manage to avoid that phantasmal limb in time. Normally any elf could dodge such shards with ease, as their natural dexterity seems almost godly at times. But wounded and still bleeding Jesen didn't have the usual pep in his step, and thus does not avoid a solid chuck of wood and one falling splinter that was as long as his forarm. The more sqaure chunk is a life saver here, as the impact upon his right hip is what sends the elf ina spin that causes the wooden spike to miss, well... mostly. Luckily leather is more durable against decayed wood than it is metal spikes, and his greaves take the brunt of the blow. Tired, aching from top to bottom and wanting to finish this before the dread knight's seeming undead nature grants him the win if this keeps going on, Jesen goes all out. If his last attacks would not stop him, then he is left with one more trick up his sleeve. Again that spectral bow is summoned forth, the cost of it use felt even more in his current state. But with a sheer determination to keep going forward does the Phenthae noble draw back another arrow. This time, the chant is mumbled, nor spoken softly, but rather he screams the verses of magic as if it adds power to his attack. The arrow he knocks back grows in size, and when released by the archer flies forth with such tremendous velocity that snow is blow up around Jesen in a clowd of snowdust. The arrow, much like the first, erupts midflight into a dozen more smaller arrows. These, a redish hue, serve one purpose. To utterly destroy whatever they hit. When an arrow lands in a solid object, they will detonate, expelling the arcane energies stored within in a violent display of power. Should Grailan decide to take this hit, little will be left of the undead save small bits and pieces.

Grailan still exerted neither contortion of his face nor any sound as his attacks varied in their success; the pale and dead face -splotched with a few bits of exposed muscle and bone from the acid that afflicted him via Jesen's first assault- remained permanently transfixed in that expression of melancholy and remorse. It had throughout the entire combat, and still it persisted even as his glossy dead eyes turned their attention slightly upward to view the hail of reddish-glowing arrows toward him, made evident by the slight incline of his neck as his head tilted subtly backward. The Dread Knight was not fast. He definitely was not fast enough to evade the onset of this veritable rain of missiles. Although in his un-life he had the fortitude of some everlasting creature and all the single-mindedness of a zombie, the creature's mind recognized that there would be no way he'd be able to take the brunt of this attack, compounded on the strikes of the previous, and persist. Yet there was an arsenal with the armored creature that had not yet been explored in the combat of tournaments, made apparent by the ghastly hand that he had previously flung at his foe, and he was particularly accurate with that enormous flail (not that one specifically needed to be entirely accurate, considering its size). So as these arrows came sailing down toward him, Grailan wrenched his weapon in violent jerk that sent the spiked skull in a wide arc overhead, and crashed into a good three-fourths that dozen; they erupted, his weapon erupted, and still three sailed by unimpeded. One missed him by sheer virtue of luck, be it that it was a scatter-range, and exploded behind the undead in a furious eruption of snow and dirt. His arm, the one absent the weapon, rose and crossed his shoulders as if to block a strike, and effectively was placed in the path of the other two. The effect was disgusting. His limb literally exploded, which deafeningly echoed throughout the area as skin, metal, bone and muscle were all flung. The dust cleared for the man, splotched with innards showing, missing an arm, and with a hole in his chest through even his breastplate, to stand across from Jesen. No cry. No look of pain. Just pity, remorse, and sorrow. The useless hilt of the weapon was flung aside and the now-vacant hand thrust back toward his foe; instead of a phantasmal-blue ghost-hand, however, was something more sinister. Sickly green fire erupted from the guantlet's palm in a conical shape toward the arcane archer and spreading the closer it got, meant to scorch the archer and purge the arena of him. As if that weren't enough, yet again, the severed hand promptly propped up on to its fingers like they were some makeshift legs, and skittered across the ground toward the elf with the intention of climbing up along the man like a spider, and grasping his neck to choke him to death.

Jesen watches as the arrows find a mark, even if the first eruption causes even more snowdust to block even elven eyesight for a breif amount of time. Truth be told, he'd rather have not scene the result of his attack. The black knight is a horrendous sight to behold, and the gore is almost enough to make the archer's stomach churn. But, as if the staple of this bout, the highborn is not given the time to dwell. The pace of this battle weighs heavily upon the ranger, but more so does the physical toll his living body has endured. Where his foe seems uneffected, dispite the appearence, by the damage he has taken, Jesen is not. His legs are getting weak, his breath comes is ragged gasps he tries his best to calm. His left arm is all but useless, and his right hip is causing movement to be a burden. It is here the would be hero sees his inadequacy. For a moment he deemed himself worthy of standing besides the likes of Lionel, to fight the good fight. But recent events have shown him his own short-comings. When the were to fight the blackness that was Corruption, the best he could do was be bait. When the likes of Xersom showed up upon the field, it was all he could do to stand in such a powerful evil's presence. And here, now, against this undead monster of a fallen man, Jesen seems unable to move forward. The flames come, and truth be told part of him wanted to welcome them. To allow them to purge him from existence so as to atone for his own hubris for thinking himself more than what he was. But, life was sacred to all elves. And it is because he has sworn to see his duty to his people, and honor his pact with Hildegarde does the ranger use the last bit in him he has left. The majority of his mana left is uses not in his bow, but to power those boots he has. The tranfer is taxing, and the elf goes a bit pale in the exchange, but he manages to give them enough juice to allow him to thrust himself out of the way of those hellish flames that rush forth to devour him. And, again, as he soars through the air he gets off a single last shot with his bow to at blast that hand that crawls towards him from existence. A kind of final "F" you attitude he picked up from hanging around a Catalian. And it is here that the highborn lands upon the unforgiving earth a second time. Its not as graceful as his prior experience, more so a crash of exhaustion and pain as the ranger gave all he had to try to earn the right to be one of the land's heroes. Looking up at the sky, the bleak greyish clowds that dominate the landscape, the highborn manages a smirk as he wonders how he will look anyone in the eye after this..

Winner:Grailan

Grailan did not strike Jesen; he did not move toward the fallen arcane archer. He stared with all of his wounds, stared with all of his melancholy. But the fact of the matter was that the two men were on the same side. And thus, were the elf expecting a blow, the undead did not deliver it, because he was walking slowly away instead.