Duel:Hadrian v Jerralith
Duel Info
- Judges: Tiphareth, Redovian, (no third judge)
- Stakes: 10,000 Gold, autohit rd
- Rd/time: 3/15
- Location: Trist'oth Arena UFC
- Date: 06/23/12
- Decision: Jerralith
Hadrian v Jerralith
Arena Prep Post
Tiphareth offers a nod toward both duelists, taking note that they are each prepared before he climbs the long ascending staircase to the VIP section in which he normally sits. Upon reaching the apex of the stands, he turns back around to face the arena. Arms are spread wide as he proceeds with a haunting and fully audible summonation, the Lichdrow's voice still ringing through the venue with equal volume as before. Midway through his arcane verse the arena floor seems to begin emitting an orange glow in a grid like pattern; increasing in intensity with each passing utterance of the Eldermage they finally take form as what seem to be small, 1 foot wide rivers of magma dividing the entire arena floor into 3 foot by 3 foot squares of gridded soil. The mere heat within the air is near unbearable, as a choking sulfur-like aroma fills the arena. "Your arena is prepared... the battle May BEGIN!!"
Jerralith 's eyes widen in surprise as the arena becomes decidedly more hellish, though it hardly affects his readiness. Setting his gaze upon Hardian with a sort of cool arrogance, the longtime veteran of the Underdark Fighting Challenge draws both of his infamous runed axes to match the twin gladius' of his foe's own, lips curling into a full smirk. "I hope this isn't your first rodeo, pal. I'm not known to take it easy on newcomers." The taunting words die from the lycan's lips, an unheard command bringing a single rune on each axe pulsing to life, one flaring red while the other a chilling blue. With a sort of playful salute the spell blade takes charge, mindful of the miniature rivers of molten rock as a quick hop here and a swift skip there leads him over them with precious few inches to spare every time. By virtue of the speed gifted to him by the bestial curse Jerralith reaches melee quarters with his opponent in a matter of moments, one of his axes throbbing into a crimson burst of fires as it flies toward the face of Hadrian; not only is it perfectly capable of rending the steel from his helm and the flesh from his bone, but the flames upon the whetted edge lick out voraciously to rob him of his vision. The axe's companion arcs low in a seamless follow up, a thick blade of jagged ice forming on the blade just as it nears the warrior's legs, quite capable of delivering frostbite to any wound incurred.
Hadrian , as he has done many times before, envisions the Gladiators that have come before him, to meet in combat beneath the eyes of their audience. It is the creation of Arcane magic, borne of Tiphareth himself, which draws him from his silent brooding. He shakes his head, clearly disturbed by the added difficulty of having to sidestep frothing rivers of glowing magma. Despite his familiarity with arenas in general, the lack of light would have originally provided a disadvantage for him. However, with everything cast in an orange glow from the molten earth at his feet, he decides this is an advantage in its own right. The lightly-armored Gladiator is clad in his typical garb; his legendary helmet, an Elven made Mithril shirt, and a sleeve of metal bands encompassing the length of his left arm. As testament to his trade, a metal-plated skirt hangs about his waist, and soft leather boots the assured protection from the rough sands beneath. He lift his hands to fan the Valkyrie-styled wings upon his helm, delineating his intent to join in combat, and then he trudges a few steps forward--careful to step over the first stream of arcane magma--acting as if he will boldly meet Jerralith in the middle. Instead, Hadrian roars ferociously, spitting forth the age-old battle cry in retort to Jerra's taunt. His hands snake to either hip, ceremoniously drawing Widowmaker and Bloodletter in quiet expectation to reciprocate with steel just as his foe has run the length of his attack. While Jerralith's axes harbor the grisly image of fire and frost, of elemental twins in constant battle with each other, his own Gladius' sing of their enchantments. They are clashed together and brought to the ready, Bloodletter hissing red-hot, its brother Widowmaker seemingly lacking anything. Heat and rot. Humidity and plague. Hadrian pulls his head to the side, his body to follow, if only to keep the first axe from separating his eyes, and instead to slide down his metal-banded arm ineffective. The second axe is met with Widowmaker, stealing most of its momentum and garnering Jerra only a small gash upon Hadrian's leg. The first wound is wholly ignored, the Gladiator springing forward at Jerra and hopefully impale him upon the Mohawk of his helmet, and simultaneously push him back into the fate of magma. Furthermore, he strikes brashly with Bloodletter for Jerra's waist--the same tactic as his first attack; to push the man back.
Jerralith smirks with grim satisfaction as a wound, however small, is scored to Hadrian's leg; he cannot savor drawing first blood for long, though, greeted with the sight of that hideous mohawk upon the helmet coupled with Bloodletter slicing in for his waist. Taking heed not to back right into the short river of magma, the spell blade deftly maneuvers away from the warrior at a careful angle, the heel of his boot flirting precariously with that river of wicked hot magma - the movement alone is enough to evade being kissed with the vicious helm, but the blade still poses a significant threat and his burning axe is brought to bear, snagging the gladius in the beard of the weapon. The muscles in Jerralith's arm grow strained as he tests his strength against Hadrian's own, forcing bloodletter up and away from his person with a snarl of pained exertion. In the blink of an eye the two blades are untangled and Jerralith ducks his head, darting just underneath and missing the lethal edge with but a fateful inch or so to spare. Capitalizing on being slightly behind his armored opponent, Jerralith briskly spins and snaps a kick out for the back of Hadrian's knee, the same one that shares his scored leg, aiming to slew foot him right into the liquid fire. Not yet done, the axe empowered with a layer of ice is brought lunging in for the warrior's shoulder, the lethal combo of frost and steel more than enough to bite through armor and taste flesh and bone beneath...
Hadrian quietly watches, as if secluded to a bench in the stands, his opponent narrowly avoid his onslaught of attack. It isn't a bother to him, and unaffected by the lack of blood spilled, Hadrian pushes on. Although he wears armor, the make and style of it is to sacrifice protection for speed, allowing him to move deftly enough in close quarter combat. He is the former Champion of Gualon's arena, steadfast in resolve and nary a foe can match his reserves in brutal combat. Hadrian is smart enough not to allow Jerra an open flank to attack, and just as the man moves to strike, he too is moving. His wounded leg slides back reluctantly, avoiding the kick. The axe is altogether a different problem, and it is met with equal force; Hadrian backhands it away with his metal-laden fist, intent on disgruntling Jerra's stance. Brashly, he places his weight on his wounded leg--sure to bring a sear of pain up his thigh--and kicks forward at Jerralith's chest, to gain ground and keep himself from the fate of fiery magma. Even so, he strives to rend the flesh of his counterpart, striking out in a flurry of blows with both weapons. Widowmaker and Bloodletter scream silent retribution for the wound delivered earlier, first a thrust with the heat-stricken brand for thigh and then a vicious hack with Widomaker, aimed to rid Jerralith of his right arm. Teeth grit behind his gruesome mask, his breathing heated and echoing all round him.
Jerralith balks as the blow of his axe is slapped away so easily, perhaps caught a bit off guard as that kick thuds forcefully into his chest, sending him reeling backward. Always aware of that freshly added hazard, the Champion of the Underdark Fighting Challenge regains his balance in short order and withdraws into a defensive stance, his feet held apart and his axes ready to greet the onslaught of his opponent. Windowmaker is met with a frosty parry, robbing that blade of the opportunity to taste flesh, but Bloodletter is another story; that gladius too is met with his own fiery blade, but the deflection is at such an unlucky angle that it merely veers off course and strikes slightly higher, that viciously jagged weapon ripping through the leather of his pants with violent ease and bringing the heated tip tearing along the flesh of his hip. Howling in a furious blend of anger and pain, the spell blade takes a pained hop backward, moving onto the nearest 'grid' of land just behind the two of them, though the alighting of his booted feet brings a surge of pain that is quite evident on his features. Afforded with valuable space between Hadrian and himself, Jerralith lifts his burning axe and levels it at his foe, screaming a drowic word into the heated air of the arena, "Chath!" True to the meaning, the flames leap off of the axe in a vicious torrent of fire, splitting in two half way and landing to either side of Hardian where he stands. The two small pillars of fire flare to something much more violent, growing in size and ferocity as they aim to close in on the armored warrior, licking at armor and limb alike as they aim to bathe him in their fury.
Hadrian grins with sickening effect, reveling in the horror of blood spewing out in the wake of his weapon. This sight serves only to bolster his spirits, and lift the strenuous burden he has already brought upon himself in this fight. And then
brows furrow in quiet wonderment of what the other has just called upon. Hadrian is no connoisseur of magic, and it is with this, that he attempts to remove himself before the flames encompass his body in their spitting ferocity. His leg burns already from the wicked axe and its enchantment, and the fire around him promises more heat to be had. Grunting, Hadrian springs away from the columns of fire, but not without fire purchasing upon his legs, arm, and neck. A howl of pain is brought unbidden to pass his lips, yet he holds tenaciously to the will to continue on. He cannot be bested by this wily Human. "Let's give them a show, aye?" Hadrian calls out to Jerralith in a gruff voice stricken with the toils of combat and pain. He bends low, dipping Bloodletter into the line of flowing molten rock nearest him, if only to quickly fling up a decent amount of it at Jerra. The hissing embers flare to life as they pass through the air, Hadrian quick in the pursuit of them, ready to clash in a brutal show of manpower. He daringly springs over the 'grid' of magma separating them, but his movements are slowed by the pain coursing his entirety. Bloodletter is discarded to the wayside, and in its place screams the horror of metal-banded fist intent upon leveling the man in quick and efficient order. A dastardly haymaker. Hopefully distracted enough with the flung fire-liquid Hadrian might purchase a one-hit win on his counterpart. Prevail or fail, Widowmaker is brought with reckless abandon for Jerra, aimed to hack cleanly into collarbone.
Jerralith stares haughtily at the sight of Hadrian dipping his already hot blade into the molten liquid, taking a readied stance as he predicts exactly what is coming. Though a line of blood pools from the wound on his hip in doing so, he deftly hops aside and avoids those scaling embers just in time to welcome the charging warrior. Quirking a brow at his foe tossing Bloodletter aside, Jerralith is once more caught slightly off guard in his confidence, not able to step away and completely avoid the winging punch; still, in his practiced experience he rolls with the punch rather than let it catch his chin going the other way, clipping his jaw and sending stars into his vision rather than separating the lycan from his senses. Stumbling backward, he brings his feet to a stop just in time to avoid dipping a foot into the magma and sends the icy axe into a collission course with Widowmaker, the frozen layer cracking apart noisily and giving way to the shrill, ear-piercing sound of metal upon metal. With the latest threat evaded Jerralith sets a weary gaze upon Hadrian, his chest heaving and needles of pain shooting through his hip as the battle comes to a temporary close.
Autohit Rd
Jerralith growls as the heated battle resumes, if only for a few precious moments. Again axe and sword cross perilously, tit-for-tat until the Champion slickly steps away at a smooth angle, turning his whetted weapon and bringing the hefty butt of it crashing into Hadrian's jaw. That blow is enough to rob the warrior of his consciousness, sending him slumping before Jerralith's feet. Giving his opponent a gentle nudge with the boot of his toe to ensure he is off in dream land, the lycan spins on his heel and stares up at the eldermage, lofting a hand out expectantly. "My reward, mage."
Relevent links