Duel:Gunnar v Nasurate, 2 (DD)
Gunnar vs. Nasurate (Death Duel)
Judges: Rheven, Mahri, Jacklin as mid.
Winner: Gunnar, unanimous vote.
Nasurate action : is already airborne, a flurry of swirling winds keeping the Elf's meagre frame aloft a good twenty feet from the arena floor, causing the hem of pristine runed robes to flutter wildly. Emerald gaze combs the mammoth armoured form before him, before hands previously held behind the mage's back come forward, obsidian wand held tightly in the left whilst the slender fingers of the right ensnare the thin pole of a long blackwood mage's staff, the head of the arcane tool filed into a small five-pointed star, into the centre of which has been set a single ruby. Crimson runes adorn Nasurate's fair visage, as well as the white cloth of his robes, pulsating with magic energy flowing through the symbols. Where some would voice threats and jeers the Elf does not, instead thrusting his left arm downwards towards the arena floor. The tip of the wand in his hand is suddenly wrenched upwards towards the sky, pulling with it the underground lava stream which Nasurate's magics had acted to manipulate. A torrent of magma punches a firm hole in the ground, the jet shooting upwards well above the heads of the two combatants before it falls, the thick substance landing upon the ground with a thick 'SPLAT'. The molten liquid works with a mind of it's own, moving with it's own accord to fall in two small pillars, building the two thick piles until they eventually merge, rising together for form a broad torso-shape. The last to appear is the lump of magma that becomes the Elf's creation's head and the monster stands in it's full glory, magma cooling into solid rock whilst flames erupt from the thing's feet, travelling up the giant form's body to coat the entire posture in blazing fire. The fire Atronach stands twenty feet tall and mimics Gunnar perfectly, the line of every muscle and armour plate crafted masterfully into the stone, and between two mammoth fists is a huge battle axe, blazing orange in colour and emitting a dull glow, as if just removed from the forge. "Kill!" Commands Nasurate, thrusting the head of his staff in direction of the Frost Giant, baiting the Atronach into action. Lumbering, unsure steps soon become a frenzied charge, blazing fists brandished for the moment of contact. One set of rock-hard, flame coated knuckles loosens for Gunnar's midriff, whilst the other sends a bone-shattering punch for the side of the Giant's jaw.
Gunnar Stormbeard, Standard Bearer to the Champion of Frostmaw and Hammer of the Emperor of the Rynvale Isle, stands as a stalwart sentinel before his advisory, the warrior's massive form covered from head to toe in the chaotically imbued armor of the Legions of Cire, adding to the intimidating appearance of this monstrous harbinger of destruction. The elf known as Nasurate falls under the scrutinizing azure gaze of the Frostmaw native, a sinister smirk forming upon thick lips as malign thoughts race through the giant's mind. The fading afternoon sun beams down upon this serene battle field, the various weapons Gunnar carries gleaming as the catch the light of the sun. Three broad headed spears protrude from behind the giant's broad back, each one's head forged out of adamantium, and coated with the rare ore known as quicksilver, giving these projectiles a dangerous advantage over magic users. As the pyromancer loses himself in his castings, Gunnar explodes into action. His right hand moves quickly to grasp the shaft of the first spear, the giant's stubby fingers locking about the metallic hilt as in one smooth motion the eight foot weapon is brought forth. As the magma begins to falls from the heavens like the fiery tears of Aramoth himself, Gunnar takes to back pedaling to a safe distance, several times coming into contact with the dangerous element, the thick volcanic rock melting through his shoulder plating and singing the thick flesh of this burly warrior. A roar of pain erupts forth from the Standard Bearer now, as he doges past the first pillar, and watches in horror as a mosterocity appears before him. This foul beast is viewed by the Frost Giant for a brief moment, before the seasoned veteran takes to the offensive. Nasurate has not moved from his spot, his control over the beast needing his complete concentration to successfully enthrall the fire elemental. And so, with this knowledge, and as the beast charges him, Gunnar arches back his first spear, and takes aim, and in one fluid motion unleashes his first attack straight for the elf. The spear is thrown with an arch, the lenghty weapon hurtling straight up in the air, and then falling from the sky like a hawk upon its prey. As his spear falls, Gunnar quickly brings forth his fabled warhammer, and lunges forward to meet the spawn of the pyromancer, his mystical weapon crashing into the beasts skull just as its fiery axe meet Gunnar's left side. The two enormous beings clash, an a tremendous roar erupts from the chaos as Gunnar's flesh meet the volcanic skin of Nasurate's creation. Pain ravages the warrior, who falls to his knees in pain. But in this moment, the foul monster seems to lose its shape, and dissolve into a formless mass before the giant. Gunnar's warhammer grows white hot, the magical enchantments imbued upon it from centuries past having given it the power to slay such a horrific beast. Gunnar rises, his gaze locking upon Nasurate's form with malign intentions burning like embers within his piercing gaze. Without hesitation the massive warrior thrusts his father's weapon straight towards the frail elf, the mythical hammer tumbling end over end on its way towards the mage. Electricity sheathes the warhammer, adding to its lethality as it nears it mark. Should Nasurate escape the spear, he would find himself the target for a rather large warhammer...
Nasurate follows the trail of the oncoming spear, and with staff head trained 'pon the Atronach before him 'tis with the wand that the Elf defends himself. The winds beneath his feet suddenly cease to be positioned so, instead the fast-flowing air currents swirl above the free-falling mage to catch the oncoming projectile, the swift gust knocking the pole arm off course and sending it clattering into the ground. The staff loses it's train 'pon the summoned monstrocity, thus is the creature vulnerable to destruction, which comes swiftly. The staff is instead angled towards the floor, winds returning to catch Nasurate before his fatal collision with the unforgiving earth. Gunnar lunges forward, warhammer in grasp and thundering towards the elf's frail form. Further manipulation is air currents comes swift, and carries the mage in a zig-zag pattern towards, and between, the Giant's mammoth legs. The rush of air disrupted by the falling warhammer graces Nasurate's face, but evasion, whilst narrow, was effective. Onwards and upwards the winds carry their master, bringing him to a similar elevated position, save this time from behind his adversary. Wand now angles towards the blazing battleaxe, dropped when the Atronach had charged with fists balled, and suddenly the weapon begins to emanate a bright glow. Strain is clear 'pon sharp elven features as the wand arm arches, further summoned winds wrapping themselves around the handle of the massive weapon. A finger extends from the wand's handle, thrust in direction of Gunnar and the blade of the axe follows the bidden path, curving in an upward arc across the torso of the Giant, intent to rend a large hold in his person. 'Pon the point of impact, however, BOOM! The added magics within the axe, heralded by the bright glow taken prior, are released to terrible effect. Solid chunks of molten rock fly in all directions, accompanied by a wild outward blast of white-hot flames, the heat from which Nasurate lofts an arm to shield the skin on his face.
Gunnar cringes as his attacks have not defeated this nuisance of an elf, and the warrior quickly brings forth another set of weapons his carries upon his massive form, four bearded throwing axes lines the giants belt. Each is forged out of the rare blue-iron that is only found in frostmaw, each axe's head coated in the enchanted black ice that has become legendary amongst the his people. Two of the four throwing axes are looses towards Nasurate in close succession of one another. There aim is Nasurate's torso, and legs, the projectiles capable of severing a limb with ease. But neither find their mark, as the mage makes haste to move from his position, and flank the burly warrior. Gunnar turns to face his foe, but as he moves, a grimace of pain mares his battle-worn features, as melted bits of his shoulder plating seep down and burn his pale flesh once more. The pain causes the warrior to lose momentary focus of his opponent, the proud warrior falling to one knee, careful of the pool of magma before him, as his wounds take their toll upon his worn out body. Just days before he battled the vampire Kazuma to the death, and it seems he has not fully recovered from that bout just yet. As Nasurate unleashes his explosive axe upon him, Gunnar catches his second wind, the pain used to fuel his tremendous rage, and his rage used to propel his weakend body towards his enemy. Nasurate's frail form now becomes the target as Gunnar dives head first towards the pyromancer in an attempt to drive the third of his throwing axes into his slender form, the exploding axe hurtling the massive giant with incrediable force towards his intended target, whilst inflicting tremendous damage upon him at the same time. This Kamikaze like attack utilizes the frost giant's rage fueled state to keep him alive, as his form is now riddles with bits of volcanic shrapnel, and thus Gunnar is in tremendous agony. The giant's rage drowns out this unimaginable pain for the time being, the warrior's mind solely upon driving his attack home. The gaint's body is upon Nasurate in mere seconds, the mage's own attack adding to the warrior's suicidal lunge. Nasurate would have to be magically enchanted with spell of speed to be able to dodge such an attack...
Nasurate lets free an alarmed cry, staff lofted reflexively to release a series of quick magical pulses that entwine with the nearby air. Unconsciously Nasurate's favoured shield is crafted, air gathered, balled and compressed into a hard barrier, which sits squarely before the floating mage's person, the elf not having the time to shape the winds to his form and provide maximum protection. The defence is only partially effective, axe blade slowed significantly by the stubborn wall it encounters, yet still managing to slice through and grace the elf's body. Razor-shaped metal rips clean through cloth robes and flesh alike, a large, deep gash running from shoulder to baldric baiting a pained gasp from tightly clenched pale-peach lips. Hold 'pon the air currents loosens, sending the tree-born mage into a tumble through the air once more. Fighting the agony ripping through his chest Nasurate reaches out for the surrounding gails yet again, willing desperately for them to save him from becoming a bloodied splatter on the Arena grounds. Again, 'tis only partially effective, Nasurate's fall slowed but not stopped. Head over heels the mage rolls, landing face-down spread eagle in the dust below, staff having fallen from nimble fingers, yet wand remains ready for use. Hands come forward, pushing the Elf onto his knees. His free arm scoops around the bleeding torso whilst wand alofts, winds yet again subject to magical manipulation. This time the air swirls quickly, kicking dust from the floor. Faster and faster the winds flow, currents circular around the kneeling mage, the pull of the winds becoming stronger, as is shown by shards of molten rock being dragged into the rotating gail. A spark flies from the end of the wand, which explodes into a blazing fire, oxygen from the tornado-like structure around the elf feeding the fast growing fires. Higher and higher rises the blaze, lofting into a towering fire column, dust, blood, rock and lava from the near forgotten pool all absorbed to add to the ferocity of the spell. Wand falls, tip angled for the Giant. The torrent of air and flame turns now upon Gunnar, passing around the Elf's position and thundering towards Nasurate's present quarral, intent to do just as Nasurate had promised; melt flesh and organ clean from Gunnar's bones.
Gunnar is in a miserable state, having crashed into the northern wall of this legendary arena in a smoldering heap of metal, flesh, and bone. Blood coats his parched lips, his left eye begins to swell, and it seems that the same ribs he injured just days before have now snapped in twine. It seems Nasurate has bested him this day, the frost giant's rage fueled fury sapping the last reservoirs of his strength, and leaving his drained before his opponent. The Standard Bearer to the Champion of Frostmaw, Vornir Brimirson, inhales a deep and ragged breath as he whispers a silent prayer to his forfather. His wounds from his prior battle with the vampire Kazuma, as well as those sustained this very day by the hands of the elven mage Nasurate, all seem to have taken their toll upon this weapon of the Empire. But as his fate seems to be sealed, Gunnar begins to laugh. At first it starts off as nothing more than a chuckles, and then it erupts into a fit of laughter that would throw off even the deadliest assassin. Some how, the giant rises to his feet, the frostmaw warrior using the crumbled remains of the arena wall as a crutch, and in this the giant is hit by an idea. The molten tornado that Nasurate has unleashed upon him is eyed, the giant reminded of his bout with Kazuma, and the sands used in said bout. Reaching into his britches, Gunnar brings forth a small pouch, containing the enchanted sands that wield a strange explosive enchantment within them. Gunnar ties this pouch to the end of his second spear, the quicksilver making sure that the vile magic would have no effect upon his course of action. Now ready, the tornado of death nears, leaving a clear target fro the giant to lock upon.With only one eye capable of sight, Gunnar Stormbeard arches back, and unleashes his spear with the last remaining bit of his tremendous strength, the projectile hurtling through the air enroute to its intended destination, Nasurates heart. The pouch upon the shaft loosens, and left fly the mystical sands, filling the breeze with its dangerous contents. The flaming winds meet the explosive sands and unleash a violent collision that rattles the very foundations of this fabled arena. Gunnar's spear, having been coated with the magic nullifying quicksilver, hurtles straight through such an occurrence, unhindered by the magic around it. The broad-bladed spear penetrates Nasurate's magical defences with ease, and continues on its intended course of death. Should Nazurate use his magic, it would have no effect upon the quicksilver coated projectile, which flies with the power of giant kind behind it. Nasurate would be hard pressed to evade such an attack...
Nasurate action : spies, with narrowed eyes and a snarl 'pon his lips, the sands of his own creation, the legacy of endless hours pouring over research notes and old scriptures. And now, in the hands of one whom would have his death, the product of the elf's own harnessed magics to be used against him. Ironic, he muses. The train of thought is cut short, however, as emerald gaze zeros in 'pon the oncoming projectile. "Shi-!" The tail end of his curse is cut short by the rabid explosion that rocks the very walls of the arena. Elven agility is the product of the mage's safety, instinct taking over into reflex evasive action. Nasurate's meagre weight is thrown deftly backwards, at such speeds that the back of the tree-born's head knocks hard against the solid floor. The spear sails overhead, barely grazing the tip of the mage's curved nose, before a weary Nasurate pushes himself up again into kneeling. "Argh!" A hand clamps the back of his snowy-haired head, the spot on his head feeling oddly sticky, leading the elf to deduce he has cut his scalp on the floor. Pain wracking through his torso, and a dull ache throbbing at the back of his head, emerald gaze turn 'pon Gunnar, hand leaving his scalp to re-take the wand at his side.
Killing Post:
Gunnar Stormbeard's piercing gaze settles upon Nasurate as the mage goes to unleash another spell, the giant's honed reflexes the quicker this time around. As the mage's lips form the syllables of his spell, The Standard Bearer takes to the offensive and hurtles his spear towards his opponent with naught but adrenaline fueling his actions. The spear is nothing more than a blur, the warrior's bulging arms giving strength to his attack that drives the jagged-bladed spear head straight through the elf's frail body. The sheer size of the blade is more than capable of cleaving the miserable elf in twine, and it does just that. Naruate's spell fizzles as Gunnar's spear renders his upper body from his lower, spilling his innards upon the arena floor. Nasurate's wand falls to the ground, clattering as the elf's lower limbs fall to the wayside. Still alive, Nasurate's eyes go wide in horror, the shock of what just happened numbing his sences as the elf's life flows out of his body with each passing second. Bloodied, bruised and half-dead, Gunnar Stormbeard, the embodiment of his kind, stalks towards the dying mage with a sinister smirk upon his battered visage. " I gave you the chance elf, you should have taken it." As the words are spoken Gunnar spots the Champion, Vornir, in the distance. " My friend, let the wolves feast upon his flesh as he dies, let him feel them knawing at his severed body as his life fades into oblivion." Gunnar tunrs to face Nasurate once again, reaches down, and tosses the elf's lower limbs into the last bit of the magma that still lies upon the arena floor, the robes catching fire, and the flesh melting away withing the volcanic rock. Vornir smirks towards his Standard Bearer, and unchained the pack of wolves that the Frost Giant's use to hunt the exile scum. The wolves are upon Nasurate in an instant, the starved animals viciously tearing into the mage's torso as he still lives, the blood curtling screams of the foolish elf only fueling the feeding frezie of these wild creatures. They tear chucks from Nasurate's body with ease, his lunges, and heart becoming the focus of the winter wolves as the elf's life fades away in another glory display of violence and brutality. The lower half of Nasurate was melted by the magma of his own creation, while the rest of his was devoured by the wolves of Frostmaw. A fitting end for a foolish man.