Duel:Grailan v Varn, Match 12 of the 2016 Frostmaw Tournament

Duelists: Grailan vs Varn
Duel: Opening posts for scenery, then traditional 3 rounds with final defense, 15 minute posting limit
Stakes: Auto-hit to the winner
Judges: Gunnar and Gilwen

Earthen Sentinel

Upon breaking away from the path, you find yourself in a wide-open expanse of land where even the snow has been forbidden from falling. Only the deep brown of the permafrost beneath Frostmaw is to be found upon this ground, for this is the home of the Earthen Sentinel that stands eternally on guard within the center of the field. An enormous arcane circle riddled with sigils and patterns is carved into the frozen ground and glows with a fierce amber light as it serves as the guardpost of the Sentinel. Encased within that arcane light is the behemoth itself, a mountain of rock, mineral, and gemstone molded into a single gargantuan form. Its massive weight rests upon a pair of thick hindlegs that end in wickedly curved talons of fortified crystal, the limbs clearly powerful enough to carry the tons of earth in an earth-shaking run with ease. A long spine, almost perfectly horizontal and ending in a lengthy dragon-esque tail, is covered in jagged spikes of fluorite and stone alternatively that runs from tip to cranium in a razory edge. Short, stocky forelimbs rest curled against a broad chest of boulders that support a rough head consisting almost entirely of its terrifying jaws. Clearly the creators of this golem did not have the typical humanoid shape in mind during construction, but instead have been heavily inspired by the powerful build of one of the tyrant lizards that roam wild outside of Venturil, thus creating a formidable looking beast as sibling to the walking blizzard of the Frozen Sentinel. For now it rests at peace, but should the land of its birth be threatened, the Sentinels will rise to answer their creator's call.

The ground trembles slightly at Varn's approach. The frost giant arrives at the chosen forum of battle dressed lightly in a shirt of tempered ringmail and pants made from mammoth hide. A thick cloak made from ghroundium weave infused beneath the skins of several arctic wolves flows across his immense shoulders and down his broad back. He holds a naked tree-trunk in his right hand, a fourteen-foot oaken club that is mildly heavy even to this well-muscled giant. Gloving Varn's hands are a pair of leather wraps set with faintly glowing stones, and his huge feet are shod in square-toed, bulky-looking boots. The monk's stride is steady, his regard stern as he approaches the sentinel in its circle. He has arrived early for the bout, as is his wont, and after a cursory look around, the monk folds his hands in a silent prayer to Aramoth, invoking his patron god's name in the hope of decisive victory. This done, Varn raises his shaggy head heavenward and issues a titanic bellow: "I am Varn, warrior-monk of Aramoth! Face your demise with honour!" Varn imagines he can feel the strength of his chosen deity thrumming in his limbs, preparing him for battle.

Grailan stood upon the deep brown permafrost that made up the expanse of land that was untouched by the snow. Normally, he would have been in the center of the chosen arena, but that space was occupied by the giant form of the Earthen golem that stood its otherworldly watch both dormant and encased in the apparent cage of amber light. Thus, the undead's frame was several paces behind it opposite the side of the path westward that connected the courtyard proper and the home of the construct. The Dread Knight had been there for days and stood statuesque as he was wont to do in patience for the arrival of the Frost Giant that would be his opponent, and it was only after the bellowing challenge was issued that the damned knight made his presence more apparent. The 'click' of armored greaves brought the stride of that form in obsidian platemail armor around the side of the amber-lit encasement where the golem resided, with the increasing magnitude of his perpetual aura of despair due to the nearing proximity, Grailan revealed himself. Glossy black was his armor and it was adorned with both wicked-looking spikes as well as ivory-carved skulls for some fearsome aesthetic. A black hood hung low over his head and its length to the hem was enough so that only his nose, mouth, and chin were exempt from the shade it cast, though closer scrutiny might be able to keenly pierce that darkness to see the glossy, dead, and gray eyes that stared unblinking and mournfully outward. From beneath the hood were the curtains of hair that seemed a white that was unlike snow but more like a corpse, and they courted his face and splayed around the mass and a few spikes of his black pauldrons. Along his back was a long, flowing cloak of that same night hue, of which the fabric danced on the remnants of a slight breeze. Most importantly was his weapon, the hilt gripped in his right hand; it was connected to a long, double-helix-shaped and black-metal'd chain that was taut the weight of the enormous sphere on its other end. That sphere was crafted to appear as a skull, and covered with spikes more functional, more practical than those upon his armor. The chain shimmered lightly and the sphere dropped to the ground with the upturn of dust and dirt; the dangerous and oversized flail could elongate. Grailan didn't say a word.

Varn offers both sentinel and adversary a bow of his head before striding forward. Talk is done, and battle is begun. Varn's training as a monk has ensured that his body is in the very peak of physical shape, honed to maximize both economy of movement and brute strength. He puts both to good use as he raises his chosen weapon and then breaks into a loping, ground-pounding run toward Grailan. Long before he reaches the apparent range of the other man's wicked-looking flail, Varn leans forward and drives his right arm out toward his foe, using his tree-trunk like a spear and jabbing for Grailan's midsection, attempting to simply crush his ribs and pulverize his chest, abdomen and spine. As Varn's body slows and then stops its forward trajectory, the monk snaps his wrist downward and brings his weapon in for a second attack, a punishing low sweep intent on shattering the undead's legs. Varn is poised to react quickly - considerably more quickly than an onlooker might expect from one of his size and girth - but he hopes that his decisive attack will have devastating results.

Grailan normally employed the defensive tactic commonly suited for those of his ilk -that is, the undead- as a tank that simply could continue to endure without pain, without fatigue, and without remorse. Unfortunately, his current opponent's strength clearly outclassed that of Grailan's, who was a big man but not in the same league to go punch for punch with one of Varn's kind; he was not going to be able to endure repeated strikes from an opponent like that. So Grailan, who remained motionless as Varn began to close the distance between them, abruptly broke his stillness with a violent burst of action with his body. The warrior monk's treetrunk column of a weapon was thrust forward and the undead whirled around it with a flourish more commonplace in rapier duels than hulking brutes. His black cloak suspended around him in swirls of the fabric and caught at the head of giant's weapon, which, in its continued momentum, yanked hood and cape from his armored frame. But it wasn't just the fabric that followed in the wake of Grailan's motion, because so too did his weapon. The chain brought the skull with him and around in a wide arc that gathered force as it rode the ferocity of the dead man's movement, and was expertly situated to, if Varn did nothing, smash into the side of the giant's skull far faster than the trunk could be re-routed. Which, it was -which, disgustingly, smashed into his armored leg with a sickening crack that snapped the limb to an unnatural angle at the knee of the man, who, remained silent as he toppled to his palm and opposite shin.

Varn has no plans of reusing his tree-trunk; such a fantastic bludgeon gets one swing, perhaps a little follow-through, and is then discarded as unwieldy before it can lead to a fatal lapse. Varn simply releases his hold on his makeshift weapon, letting it slam to earth, and then, seeing the oncoming flail-head from the tail of his left eye, Varn makes the most of his training as a monk. He hurls himself forward and downward, feeling a brief sear of pain as the flail's chain scrapes across the left side of his neck. His hands hit the ground and send his body upward into a somersault, from which Varn uses both feet in a downward double axe-kick toward the now partially-downed undead. As his body finishes its arc and begins to return earthward, Varn tucks his right arm in, elbow on his belly and clenched fist near his collarbone, to be used to guard a strike against his vulnerable vitals as he falls. Hit or miss, both feet find the ground, and Varn, in an awkwardly hunched position, lashes out with his balled right fist, intending to strike at Grailan wherever he might have moved in so short a time. Varn is not confident that either of his brutal kicks will land, but closing with and then swiftly overwhelming his assailant is the primary objective...and if the dread knight has perhaps been surprised into a mistake by Varn's contortionism and unconventional method of attack, so much the better.

Grailan was certainly surprised -Varn was not all he appeared to be, after all, and managed to successfully bring the Dread Knight down. Neither the deception nor the success were anticipated. The undead, however, was not out of the battle; he felt no pain, no fatigue, and held both the skill of his station as well as the ruthless determination of his damned brethren. Absolutely no attention was given to his unnaturally and disgustingly broken leg, which was bent sharply in a manner it wasn't supposed to be, at the knee. Instead of that, the armor-clad warrior kept his sight -and his attention- on the giant that sought to make certain his foe would not rise again with that martial attack. There was no pain felt that would hinder Grailan and, thusly, the only problem that he faced with his injury was the limited movement due to the awkward angle of his limb; powerfully, the creature pushed off of his gauntleted hands and healthy leg to propel himself in a sideways tumble along the ground that rolled him out of the path of Varn's would-be deadly attack, and the chain of his flail wrapped around his body as he did so along with the lift of dust in plumes. But, like out of some horror story, the creature's halt caused his ascension not by means of his limbs, but literally to rise straight-backed and at an angle to his working boot with complete, unnatural balance, as if some mummy rising from an open sarcophagus. Chain still wrapped around his body, the undead abruptly began to spin -from standstill to a violent spur of speed that was obviously augmented with his haunting magicks- in a manner that caused the chain to unwind and the sphere to spin around with him, stretching out longer and longer as it sought to smash into his foe again and again, and all over again with every revolution of his body.

Varn feels both of his booted feet strike the ground and immediately sets himself in a crouch. Grailan has evaded both his fist and his kicks, and Varn is not left wondering long what devilry will come next when he sees the undead begin to unnaturally rise. As the chain unspools with the dread knight's spin, Varn does the only thing he can think to do; he reaches up with both arms and seizes hold of it, yanking his hands back toward his own face and shifting his center of gravity back a little. The flail's head thunks into Varn's back, eliciting a bellow of pain; even through a ghroundium-woven cloak, such a heavy impact is going to leave its mark. Grunting with the effort, Varn attempts to yank Grailan's flail away by way of the chain, which he securely holds. With a roar loud enough to puff up dust, the monk explodes to his feet and hops forward on his left foot, raising his right to strike once again toward the knight's middle. If this man's broken leg will not keep him down, then the only way to be certain will be to quite literally pound him to pieces. Varn looses his grip on the flail-chain, hoping that his interruption of its momentum, at least, has served its purpose even if he has not managed to wrest it from Grailan's grip. Gritting his teeth, Varn pushes forward, attempting to crowd close to Grailan before delivering a furious fuselade of punishing overhand blows. Skull, shoulders, hands, chest; no target it safe, and every blow driven by the giant's pain and fury. This phase of combat is artless and savage, but in the rising dimness of his rage, Varn seizes one last initiative, bringing a little light to the growing inner tumult. He taps the reservoir of power in the stones embedded in his hand-wraps, and they begin to glow with a bright white light. Some monks of Aramoth use such gear to fight the undead, others to store kinetic energy to be released in times of need; Varn has decided, in this extremity, to use both. Now his near-frenzied blows bear both extra clout and the blessing of a righteous soul.

Grailan was the stained soul that was contrasted to the righteous one of Varn; he was a reason that living mortals made such gear; he was a knight condemned by the deities for thesin that was committed against them. Varn's holy-driven attacks were, of course, a wise course of action and would surely prove to be effective against the walking and armored corpse that he faced. But the Dread Knight was not one to be underestimated, as made apparent by that perpetual aura of overwhelming despair and exotic abilities -both have proven that, unlike many of his shambling kin, Grailan has existed for a time long enough to have explored his 'un-life'. Contrary to that, however, was the success of Varn's initial kick, which smashed into the middle of the creature and likely shattered bones as well as ruptured inner organs, plus, more visibly, both caused him to release his hold on his flail and fly backward to crash to the earth and slide further with a trail of plumed dust in his wake. Which abruptly dispersed by the momentum of the giant as he did not relent on his attacks; Grailan had ascended eerily again only to be, once more, assaulted by limbs of the warrior monk, which were augmented by divine aid. The Dread Knight was more prepared as the onslaught came, though, and both armored and spiked arms rose in order to form two haphazard barriers against the attacks; the limbs remained there by the currently-mute undead even as their bones broke again and again under the onslaught. But even before this brutal assault could conclude, Grailan issued his own in response; while those arms and fists mercilessly and powerfully fell like warhammers against his limbs -which only remained due to the lack of pain coupled with his unearthly abilities- the Dread Knight snapped his head back to look toward the face of his foe with a melancholy expression. His mouth opened unnaturally wide, as if his jaw unhinged, and smoke that was so saturated that it could not be pierced by sight erupted forth at his foe's head. It sought to encompass the skull of the giant, to invade nostrils, mouth, ears, and eyes and engulf the head entirely with its too-thick yet vaporous substance; it sought to incursion into the lungs and throat of his foe, and suffocate him both at his cranial openings as well as inside-out.

Varn continues his rain of blows upon the barrier Grailan presents, hoping to both destroy that defense and to suffuse it with an unbearable amount of holy energy. When the smoke begins to billow toward his head, however, Varn ceases his onslaught immediately, knowing even in his combat-fevered state of mind that speed is of the essence. He does not know the nature of the smoke, but is well-disciplined and well-read enough to understand that it cannot be good; thus, the monk attempts to put an impediment between himself and the cloud. He reaches to his throat, winces in pain as back muscles creak from their previous stresses, and unclasps his cloak with all the speed his wrapped hands can muster. The bulky hide garment comes loose quickly, and Varn quickly whirls it about his person, attempting to disperse the fumes even as the first coughs rack his enormous lungs. Around and around the cloak whips, snapping and cracking with the ferocity of Varn's muscular arms. He begins to backpedal as he moves, intending to regroup before once more mounting the offensive. The wretch before him, largely blocked from his view by the monk's own whirling cloak, is broken and left bereft of his weapon; Varn, by comparison, has a scratch on his neck, a very sore back and a throat that feels like he has not quenched his thirst for a night and a day in a hot and inhospitable clime. All unknowing, Varn reaches the warding-circle and stumbles into it, feeling it push back against him as if in warning. He stands solidly now, cloak draping down from his right fist, expression resolute. "You are finished!" he thunders. "You are bested! Come, if you are coming, but your fight is over!" With his back hopefully protected by that circle of magic girding the peculiar stone golem, with the sheer unbending resolve of Aramoth in his blood and his bones, Varn makes his stand, and waits for whatever comes next.

Winner: Grailan

Grailan was not motionless as Varn backpedaled and fended off his underhanded attack; the Dread Knight's arms fell to his side like useless rags, dents in his armor, bones shattered, and even parts of his face practically caved in. Yet half-a-second was all it took between the lifeless limpness of his limbs and the violent contortionism that followed. His arms snapped and turned and bent and straightened in a series of quick, erratic movements, that had them straightening themselves and mending themselves. Even his face had those hideous wounds began to churn and shift beneath the pale, dead flesh in order to piece together the fragmented spots of his skull. This did not regenerate entirely the creature, but enough where he could once more move, once more see, and function altogether. And he approached; it was a haunting, eerie approach that closed most of the distance between monk and damned. Glazed, dead eyes stared at Varn as his steps came to wane, ebb, and cease their limping strides before the giant. "No," his voice came forward; it was a voice that was deep and monotonous, but simultaneous to another voice that spoke the same words simultaneously, except with a distorted, disembodied sound like it belonged in afterlife, or to something ethereal, "it is not over. It is never over. Rest, child of Aramoth. You have not failed. You have done well." No strike was given after the silence that was maintained this entire tournament was broken. Instead, the Dread Knight turned away from the giant, and upon the 'click' of his black greaves, was limping away.