Duel:Gunnar v Nasurate

Duelers: Nasurate vs. Gunnar Judges: Terra, Cyllarus(mid), Rhian Stakes: Auto Hit rounds, non-lethal damage Place: Execution Drop Off (Frostmaw) Winner: Gunnar (Split)

                            Execution Drop Off

Should you have followed to tracks north to this location, you see blood sprayed among the snow over a large smooth stone. The executioners stone, to your knowledge must have been used not long ago, as the crimson life staind upon it is only a few hours old. Beyond the stone is a straight drop to certain death below, and as you look over the side, you see many frozen, decapitated bodies, some old, some new. It is clear what the frost giants do to criminals as you have found. You can either go back the way in which you came, or you could venture to the east through a set of giant obsidian doors

Nasurate is a elf and seems to be a mage. Nasurate is wearing runecloth-sorcerer robe on his body, painted runes on his face, amulet-of-protection on his neck, white runed-sleeve on his left arm, white runed-sleeve on his right arm, rune-inscribed wristband on his left wrist, wrist watch on his right wrist, rune detailed-leggings on his legs, and leather runed-boots on his feet. On one of his left fingers, you see rune-inscribed wedding-band. On one of his right fingers, you see bone ring. Nasurate is using flaming staff as a weapon. Nasurate is not using a shield. Nasurate has flaming green eyes, light skin, and white hair, and is married to Liana.

You are a giant and a warrior. You are wearing Breastplate of Damnation on your body, Horned-Helm of Chaos on your head, Visor of Eternal Dark on your face, Symbol of Chekari on your left ear, Symbol of Chekari on your right ear, high-collared leather cape on your neck, Mantle of Chaos on your shoulders, Black armoured sleeve on your left arm, Black armoured sleeve on your right arm, Spiky Chaotic Gauntlets on your hands, Black wristband on your left wrist, thunder-rune bracelet on your right wrist, Meterioric Iron Leggings on your legs, and Spiked boots of Chaos on your feet. On one of your left fingers, you see Preklek Special-forces ring. On one of your right fingers, you see Ring of-the Empire. You are using diamond mallet as a weapon. You are using Heavily armoured sleeve as a shield. You have blue eyes, pale skin, and grey hair, and are single.

Nasurate , with an airy flick of his sharp face, dislodges an overhanging snowy curl that had previously obscured the male's vision of the hulking warrior before him, and now continues his shrewed examination of muscle and steel unhindered, a mild frown perched 'pon pale-peach lips. In both hands is the elf's favoured blackwood staff, the tail-end of the thin pole dug into the snow underfoot to steady it as the wood-elf presses his meagre weight against the staff's frame. There are no words of greeting or threat, just the simple act of lurching directly into the conflict. With a hefty yank of both thin arms the staff is wrenched from it's snowy case and lifted so that the star-shaped head trains upon the diamond mallet of Nasurate's foe, magic energy thundering from the arcane tool to entwine with the nearby air particles, bringing them slowly under the mage's contol. Towards the mallet's head the winds fly, with intent to wrap themselves tightly around the weapon and quickly compress into a vice-like grip upon the mallet's head, and with a backward wrench of the blackwood stave drag the blunt weapon from Gunnar's grasp to be despoited over the cliff edge. A follow-up consists of Nasurate taking a single step towards his present foe, twirling the staff over his shoulder to train the tail end square upon the giant's mammoth chest, and with a thrust of the mage's arms send a sudden barrage of strong winds to collide hard with the warrior's frame and send him tumbling after his weapon to his death.

Gunnar Stormbeard stands as a stalwart sentinel, clad in his full battle attire which consists of a mix of the alien Preklek black armor, as well as the chaotically infused armor used by the Legions of Cire. The frost giant's steel-hued hair cascades down to rest upon his broad shoulder, his battle-scarred visage hidden beneath a visor that resembles a terrifying demon's face that sends a shiver down the most heroic man's spine. Twin orbs of a brilliant azure hue peer out from beneath such a terrifying mask, a malign smirk forming in secret beneath a thick beard that is proudly braided into a pair of identical knots that are fashioned in the ancient ways of his people. In his right hand the warrior holds a massive war-hammer, forged of the rare blue-steel that is native to only Frostmaw. The emblem of the Jarl of Frostmaw is etched into both sides of this fabled weapon. as well as several runes of mystical properties. The shaft, made of finely polished oak, is bound by hide of leathery hide of the legendary frost dragon's that have made the frozen tundra their home. A sense of confidence fills the devote of Aramoth as he brings chosen weapon before him in a mock salute to his adversary, those icy-orbs locking themselves upon the elf as the battle begins to unfold.A whispered prayer to the god of war is uttered in hushed tones as Nasurate begins his castings. The air current that the mage unleashes upon his weapon nearly catches the Standard Bearer off guard, but his quick reflexes react in time to save his weapon before it was dislodged from his powerful grip. The truth of his opponent now out in the open, the giant's hatred for magic users becomes apparent in the snarl the erupts from his massive form. " Your one of those weaklings who relies upon magic to win your battles, aye?" Comes the thunderous voice of the frost giant just before the second torrent of wind slams into his bulging chest. The spell is strong, as the winds are capable of moving most men like a rag doll, but Gunnar is a giant, and a massive one at that. His saving grace comes in the way of his own weight, which reaches numbers over seventeen-thousand pounds. Though this doesn't mean the giant is home free, as the force of the blow knocks the wind from his lungs and ends his statement before he could finish his monologue.A few steps backwards are taken as Gunnar clentches his chest tight, a few deep breaths needed to catch his breath once again. Rage fills the warrior now, as he begins to focus upon calling forth the powerful enchantments that are embued within his fabled war-hammer. The mystical runes flare to life at his call, causing the blue-steel head of the weapon to become sheathed in a powerful electric current that instantly doubles the weapon lethality. Once again a confident smirk forms upon his battle-worn visage as the warrior explodes into action. His war-hammer is arched back as Gunnar nears his foe, only a few strides taken to close the distance between the two. His bulging arms add to the power of the mighty swing that is unleashed upon Nasurate's slender form, the fabled war-hammer aimed to crush the elf where he stands. Should the mage now find a way to evade such a large weapon, in such a small space, he would indeed find himself stricken by a force that can easily cripple, if not kill, the frail mage in a single blow.

Nasurate lets the points of the staffs head embed within the snow as one hand falls from it's tight grip of the thin shaft, in favour of leaping upwards, nimber fingers spread wide to tease a more compact weapon from it's hiding place behind a pointed ear. Black obsidian gleams in the day's light, fair colours fingers shaping themselves to the handle of a small wand, heavily inlaid with arcane symbolisis, runes, from handle to round tip. Magic continues to radiate from the tree-born's frame, continues to flood the nearby air with mana essence, binding more and more of the nearby gases to the elf's control. Winds swirl in circular currents about the elf's robed frame, to suddenly come swiftly upwards and fall in upon each other, molecules colliding ferociously in rabid attempts to bring a large plate of compressed air before Nasurate, angled skyward specifically to protect from the oncoming warhammer. The collision is thorough and forceful, baiting the mage to bring both arms upwards, both staff-head and wand tip held aloft to keep the hammer in place. The strain is evident upon fair features, contorted in effort, bringing whole the knowledge that such a deadweight cannot be sustained upwards for long. Another attempt to send the weapon coursing from his opponent's grasp takes place, the wand suddenly being thrust violently upwards in the release of the fresh string of mana bound winds, hopefully having a sling-shot effect, catapulting the weapon from Gunnar's reach. Between the legs the lithe elf then darts, dropping his hold of the air to tap into a much more useful resource, when faced with such an opponent. A grin cracks into place upon his lips as the tip of the wand suddenly sparks alight into a tiny flame, and upon swift emergence from a lovely view of Gunnar's armoured crotch, wand and staff both angle towards the small of the Giant's back, hopefully caught in the act of turning and slowed by his bulk. Energy floods wand tip and staff-head the form of a bright orange torrent of flames, a rabid blaze thundering forwards on course for the elf's adversary. Arms part, bringing the two arcane weapons apart, and thus parting the fiery stream, the wand arm drifting up to aim for the face, whilst the staff's blaze remains fully trained between the shoulder blades.

Gunnar curses as his attack is dodged by means of the mage's powerful magic, and this only adds to the frost giant's already terrible hatred for such a foe. When the elf once again attempts to dislodge the war-hammer from his grip, he finds success. The powerful winds sends the fabled hammer flying end over end over the side of the drop off, the blue-steel echoing as it falls into the pit of death far below. Though Gunnar is now unarmed, he has not become any less of a threat. While he is a master in the ways of using his war-hammer, his preferred method for fighting is with his hands, and that's exactly what the massive warrior starts doing. Nasurate's swift movements bring him to the giant's backside, his flames meeting the broad armor that protects his back, and forcing him to stumble forwards by the sheer force of such a blow. The heat is incredible, the openings in his armor resulting in flesh becoming charred, and a pain filled roar erupting from Gunnar's thick lips in response to such agonizing pain. The second torrent, which was aimed for his head, only grazes the left side, which leaves a nasty burn upon Gunnar's upper left brow. The pain soon becomes the giant's weapon though, as he uses his blood and wounds as an offering to his chosen god, the result being that the giant is launched into a frenzied rage that nearly triples his strength, as well as his threshold for pain. Gunnar spins about with blinding speed, the giant's massive fists covered by the spiked gauntlets that are worn by the legions of Cire, goddess of chaos. With a malign sense of glee that frost giant unleashes a barrage of furious blows upon the elf's lithe form. His blows raining down upon the mage with blinding speed, as well as tremendous strength that only one of his large stature can muster. While he is lost in his rage fueled frenzy, he is still capable of unleashing calculated and precise blows. The elongated spikes that adorn his gauntlets add to the danger of such blows, though the pure size of such fists as well as the neargodly strength that the giant has makes for a deadly combination that can spell the doom of Nasuarate, should he not find a way to maneuver past this vicious attack.

Nasurate narrrows his eyes, brows furrowing into a knit as the evaluation of the inflicted damage is assessed. The burns seemed deep set, yet they still seemed no hindrance to the behemoth which is suddenly upon him once more. In the merest seconds he can spare before those giant fists rain their intended death down upon the tree-born's meagre stature the blackwood staff is dropped, in favour of dipping a hand into a small pouch adorning the leather belt going around the waist of pristine white robes. Black sand falls from the clasped fist that removes itself, and what is held onto is cast at the ground. The seperate grains of the black sand split upon contact, sending upwards a hefty cloud of ash-black smog, obscuring a vision of the lithe elf from all eyes. This decreases the accuracy of Gunnar's shots somewhat, though the first still falls true enough to place some harm upon the frame. The force of the collision between the hard ground and the black-spiked gaunlets alone is enough to send the thin stature of the elf flying, thrown clean off his feet. From the body of smoke his rolling form emerges, to climb swiftly back to booted feet.The staff remains within the cloud, forgotten for the moment, and while the wand remains clasped firmly between long fingers, 'tis not the means used to deliver the next assault. Continuing the internal energy flow into his right arm and down into his free hand, the mage extends the index finger of his right hand, bringing it close to his face. The deep set scowl upon fair visage is thrown into an ominous bright gloom as a single sphere of bright orange light sparks into existance upon the very tip of the lofted finger, which is suddenly thrust in Gunnar's direction, again aimed towards the face. A blazing streak the orb becomes, such speed does it move to close the distance between the Frost Giant and the elven spellcaster. Mere feet from Nasurate's foe, however, does the small orb take it's true form. Exploding from the shell of the tiny light capsule comes a monstrosity, a sudden burst of fiery plasma that streams forward. Jaws shape, as does a snaking tail, a pointed snout flaring back into a fiery mane. Sixteen feet in length and a body thick as a tree-trunk, the fire wyrm darts forward to strike, maw widening to clamp flaming teeth around around the frost giant's head, whilst newly formed claws attempt to rake deep wounds through the warrior's broad chest.

Gunnar 's eyes go wide in awe of the fiery wyrm is unleashed from the mage's fingertips, the monstrous creation aimed to devour the devote of Aramoth in a single gulp. But quick reflexes, honed from years of training within the frozen tundra that is frostmaw, have the giant turning towards the very stone that is used to execute the criminals of this land. With the last bit of his furious raged filled strength, the frost giant'sup-heaves the massive executioner's stone and tosses the massive block in between himself and the powerful arcane creation that is unleashed upon him. The resulting effect ifdevastating, the massive block of stone is obliterated by the sheer power of Nasurate's spell, the resulting explosion sending chucks of stone flying about, one particularly large chuck slamming into Gunnar's broad chest and crushing him against the solid wall of the cliff. The force of the blast, paired with the force of the frost giant slamming onto the mountain the battle under, bring forth from it anavalanche of tremendous proportions . The falling snow is upon the elf within moments, the wave of ice and snow capable of crushing the elf, who has very little chance of escaping such anoccurrence in this small place. Gunnar watches from safe distance, under a slope in the cliff where the head quarters of the clan known as Vlos Lustros used to be. The empty cavern has enough room for the giant to fit securely, while his opponent is left "out in the cold" to die. A malicious cackle erupts from the frost giant as he watches these events unfold, for surely the elf has no means of escape from such a naturaloccurrence such as this.

Nasurate spins upon the heel of a runed boot, quickly thrusting his empty hand out towards the discarded staff nearby, simultaneously making to stow the wand away within a robe pocket. The winds are again reached for, and wrapped around the body of the staff which suddenly flies for the elf's awaiting hands, nestling itself into the mage's snug grasp. The staff is lofted, held above the tree-born's snowy haired head, while as much air as is possible gathers, seperate winds tumbling in on each other as they compress into a hard, invisible capsule, held in stasis around Nasurate's person. The roar of the tumbling snow which is suddenly upon the elf is nearly deafening, face contorting in pain and effort from keeping the barrier aloft. Under a good fifteen feet mould Nasurate finds himself trapped under the barrier, teeth gritting as he summons the remains of his strength into a final spell. Heat flows through his body, into the pole of the staff, and with a mighty cry and an abdundant release of gathered energy, robed arms are thrown forwards, accompanied by a final burst of all-encompassing fire. 'Tis a single flash of a blaze, but it is sufficient, and leaves a panting, doubled-over Nasurate gasping for breath, surrounded by a very large, very cold pool of melted snow.

                            Winner's Revenge

Gunnar rises from his slumped position within the empty chasm that once held the head quarters of the clan, Vlos Lustros, before their expulsion from the lands by Vornir, the Jarl's Champion. Pain ravages the giant's back, as the furious rage begins to subside, but his enemy was defeated, and he had to make a statement to this fella. So with careful steps does the giant lumber over to the fallen form of the elven mage, a wicked grin birthing upon his visage as his massive form now towers over the man. " Just another example of how useless magic is..." Are the words that escape past the thick lips of the giant, who raises his right arm high as he swiftly licks over the exhausted elf and pins him under his boot. From out of an azure haze appears the giant's fabled war-hammer, the massive weapon gripped tight within Gunnar's powerful grip. " Now... your magic won't be too powerful without your arms workin' aye?" These words prelude the frost giant's next vicious assault, the giant using his incredible weight to squeeze the breath out of the elf while he raises his hammer high. In two swift swing the war-hammer is brought down to shatter both arms of the elf, the bones shattering under the power of the Gunnar's chosen weapon with ease. After this vile attack is completed, Nasurate is picked up bu the giant's left hand, and tossed into the slick walls of the cliff with malign glee. The elf's head ricocheting against the hard stone and knocking him out in a savage manner. " Fool, now you know your place within these lands." Are the last words Nasurate hears as Gunnar's takes his leave of this place, the elf left to freeze in the harsh winter cold that is Frostmaw.