Duel:Isen v Rikailin
Isen vs Rikailin
- When: Sat. - 9/06/2008
- Judges: Thea, Tiphareth, Keter
- Venue: Trist’oth Arena – Saturday Night Fights: Week 1
- Decision: Isen wins, split
Isen stands silently near the northernmost side the arena, his rune-covered feet bare against the gritty sand beneath. He is clad only in serviceable leather leggings, a sturdy belt, and a leather harness which holds a strange-looking stone disk firmly against his otherwise bare chest. In one hand he carries a strung bow, the dark wood covered in symbols matching those tattooed into his skin. In the other rests a single arrow, the iron tip glistening, as though coated in some unknown bale. A haughty nod is directed to the spectators, the merest lift and fall of his head. He waits for Keter to leave the floor, then bursts into action at the drow's shout. The arrow is slammed against the string, and with an effortless heave the lycan draws the string back with his right hand, the fingers hovering near his cheek. Aiming directly for Rikailin's neck, Isen lets loose, the arrow buzzing like an angry hornet as it cuts through the air. Reaching out through the disk at his chest, the lycan latches on to the arrowhead with the Chaotic magic, controlling and speeding its flight so as to give the vampire less of a chance to escape. Should the missile pierce flesh, the thin coating of poison, a knowledge earned by hours of study under the Lich Diiroehn, would work to bring a mild sort of paralysis, sapping the strength and energy of Isen's prey.
Rikailin awaits the fight's commencement with half-held breath and a predator's stance, positioned as far from her opponent as she can manage so as to maximize her potential reaction time in the face of his first attack. Even at a distance of nearly two hundred paces, and with the smell of old spilt blood thick in her nostrils, the vampire has no trouble placing the lycan, and will hereafter rely on auditory and olfactory clues to keep him well within the scope of her considerable range and influence. The incoming arrow does not catch the fallen druidess by surprise, for even as that boisterous shout begins the fight, the woman is weaving magic into the ground around her with all of her speed and skill. The buzzing thing is flung loose of its arrow just as a throaty rumble gives testament to Rikailin's defense. Thick plumes of dust spew upward in a circle around her, followed only a split second later by a blast of compressed debris consisting of crushed stone and superheated sand. This impromptu barrier serves not only to absorb the incoming arrow - which surely will lose its momentum or be incinerated - but also to initiate the druid's own offensive effort. With a wave of her gauntletted right hand, Rikailin sends this newly-risen wave of detritus streaking toward Isen, some tearing along the ground and digging a smoking furrow in its wake while the remainder soars high overhead and rains down, molten and deadly, toward the far side of the arena where the chaotic ranger awaits his doom. In the aftermath of her violent counter-stroke, the fallen druidess hops nimbly sideways, trusting that she will be partially screened from sight by the pall of dust and ash hanging in the air, meaning hopefully to slide around the arena undetected and, by way of a surprise flank attack at some heretofore unknown juncture, finish what this terrific maelstrom has begun.
Isen flings the bow aside as the rumbles first begin, churning up the sand in a hasty dash along the parameter of the arena. His left hand rises to the disk, grabbing a tight hold as he once again calls upon its power. The flying debris suddenly drops, as though a giant, invisible hand had slapped it to the ground. Chunks of rock, both large and small, extinguish themselves in the soft floor of the battleground. One especially large piece, however, continues on underneath the surface, clipping Isen's foot as he runs, spinning him about and dropping him to one knee. Gritting his teeth, the lycan struggles to his feet, favoring his injured leg. Slightly shaking arms then spread wide as Isen turns to locate his foe, golden eyes glittering dangerously through the darkened air. Catching of a shadowed figure, he stops still, his rasping voice echoing throughout the arena in an eerie chant as he calls upon the arcane power of the runes. Galdra, the rune poems, follow each rune name as the lycan cries out for aide. An intense roaring drowns out his voice as the air to each side of him catches flame. With a feral baring of his teeth, Isen swings his outstretched limbs together, the clap of his palms meeting one another going unheard as the scorching flames sweep forth, melting the sand beneath as the twin trails of flame seek to engulf his adversary from either side.
Rikailin continues her sidelong progress even as the lycan begins his arcane chanting, intending to make of herself as difficult a target to strike as possible. The trajectory of his voice and the echoes it creates is enough to pinpoint Isen's location to the vampire's keen ears, but she is unprepared for the waves of flame which, by way of intense baking heat on either side, announce their onrushing presence in unmistakable fashion. The druidess flings her arms wide and screams, a drilling sound overlaid atop the roar of Isen's arcane fire like taut and jagged lace stretched across burning steel. The water-bound cuff circling each wrist explodes outward at her shriek, striking the flames and expanding in the same instant to yield nothing more than twin waves of superheated steam. Steam can burn almost as effectively as fire, however, and as the druidess flings herself forward into one of the aforemade rifts in the arena floor, a terrible liquid heat pours over her, searing flesh and curling skin. She screams again, this time at a far greater volume and pitch...and from high above, in a dark corner, a scream answers her. Even as Rikailin is stumbling blindly to her feet and plunging toward the center of the arena, spreading her arms wide in preparation for another attack, Ialisaede, the dire hawk, is streaking out of darkness from on high, intent on the back of the lycan's neck. Rikailin's own onslaught, prompted by panic rather than pure cool logic and planning, is far more haphazard but no less lethal than her first. Huge stones, some as thick as pillars while others are half again as thin as conventional spears, burst from the ground in chaotic profusion; none will strike her own form as she moves, but the vampire is still possessed of the certainty that motion is commotion, and that her offensive capabilities - not to mention her ability to stay alive in this brutal battle - will be much enhanced by never remaining long in one place. With staccato booms these spikes continue to erupt from the ground across the enclosed battleground; it is hoped that, while the lycan is dealing with Ialisaede in some manner, he will fall afoul of one of these upthrust teeth and be impaled or perhaps torn asunder instead. Rikailin skitters about, pain heralding speed and evasiveness, hoping to weave her way close enough to the beleaguered ranger that, in a moment of distraction or misery of his own, she can perhaps land a killing blow.
Isen snarls in anger and pain as the hawk appears from behind him, talons rending the flesh of his left shoulder; sheer luck causing him to turn slightly to follow Rikailin's movements, saving his neck the brunt of the blow. Immediately he throws himself into a tumble, rolling along with the momentum of the bird's strike, and perhaps carrying his attacker to the ground with him. Either way, his evasive action is cut short as he slams into a stone column that had not been there a moment before, knocking him back. Yet again he reaches to his disk, leaning on its aid to save him. Too mentally worn to attempt to stop the eruptions, Isen merely uses the Chaos weapon to detect where the next attacks will rise, and he steps nimbly around these areas as he rushes to meet the druid. As he draws near, Isen whips his hands to the vambraces on either forearm, pulling free the long daggers strapped there. The blade in the left hand glistens, much like the arrow Isen had released at the start of the fight, though the acrid stench of dragon's blood leaves no doubt as to what danger awaits the vampire here. The other knife is clean, however, and polished to a mirror-like sheen, the pattern tapped into the metal itself designed to catch the light, to call attention away from the darker threat on the left, which is held low, next to the lycan's thigh. Reversing his grip on the right-handed dagger so that the blade emerges from the bottom of his clenched fist, Isen releases a hoarse cry of pure hatred, launching himself bodily at Rikailin. He swings his right arm down with every intent to pierce the vampire where neck and shoulder meet, while a vicious thrust is sent a split-second later toward the soft flesh of the belly, aiming to paint the arena's tortured floor with Rikailin's blood and vitals.
Rikailin begins to laugh as she glides from one pocket of safety to the next, a mirthless echoing sound prompted by the lycan's tumble and her familiar's bloodthirsty shriek. Ialisaede's scream of pain and her furiously beating wings cut the druid's emotionless peals off in mid-spate; the dire hawk had drawn blood, as proven by the tang of copper in the air, but was now circling high above, nursing bruised legs and a broken-off talon. In the next moment, a blurred snarling shape, heralded only by an influx of that same sullen blood-stink, tells Rikailin that not only has Isen evaded most of her projectiles but has managed to creep close and to launch a melee attack. She throws her right arm forward, slashing with her ebonthorn claws in hope of catching him and partially deflecting his charge while drawing yet more of his precious life's blood. In the next moment she is struck sideways and hurled to the ground. The soft whicker of a blade buries itself in the knot of sharproot at her throat and quivers there, dripping onto the mass of writhing vines that garb her upper torso. Another dagger makes itself known only by the heated sting of a slash across her left hip, followed by intense burning pain like nothing the vampire has ever known. Lying on her back with Isen atop her, knowing it might be death for her to end the fight in such fashion, the fallen druidess bears down with the last ounces of magical strength she possesses in her much-depleted internal reservoirs. Upon her sides, where they are unimpeded, vines lash and needles ripple, as if nerving themselves toward some ultimately frantic moment of ignition. Rikailin uses her powerful legs to pin the lycan to her chest as her druidic armour forcibly repels her adversary. The knot of sharproot glows bright green and sends the dagger straight up, perhaps at an angle sufficient to smash Isen's face with its hilt. The vines shrouding her shoulders, torso and back lash upward in an attempt to further the impromptu pin affected by the rduid's legs. Worst of all, however, is the evergreen raiment, which bristles fully to life like an agitated porcupine and then looses its thousand needles, stippled with blood but wickedly sharp, straight for the lycan's body, hoping to puncture any soft flesh they can reach. If Rikailin is to die today - and the exploding pain in her right hip rippling up her side in dizzying waves suggests it might be so - she will not be alone in transit.
Isen does not even feel the claws rip across his shoulder as he leaps, though the thorn tattoo that they rake across reacts to the affront by sending stabs of fire through Isen's body. Distracted by this, he is stunned to find himself held close to his foe as her very garb seeks to absorb him into her prostrate form. The dagger hilt does indeed strike him, releasing a flow of blood from his nose and sending him into a semi-conscious daze. It is this that saves his life, however, as the protective tattoos make their power known, glowing a faint red as they sputter to life, activited by the lycan's dire need. Smoke spirals into the air as the arcane symbols burn through the ensnaring vines, allowing the lycan's nearly comatose form to roll off of Rikailin, the needles of greenery filling his already wounded left arm like a pincushion, though the rest spend themselves harmlessly in the empty air. Gasping in pain, Isen starts to drag himself away, trying to escape.
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