Duel:Jarith v Syrri, March 18 of the 2017 Frostmaw Tournament

Duelists: Jarith vs Syrri
Duel: Traditional 3 rounds with final defense, 15 minute posting limit
Stakes: Auto-hit to the winner
Judges: Leone, Hildegarde, and Sabrina

Beaten & Broken War Machines

And you run on, the noises fading as you leave their terrible makers behind. Something snags your foot and you trip, sprawling face down in the snow. At last, it has a use, for it has prevented you from breaking bones. Looking down, you see the source of the trip. The wooden arm of a ballista lies in the snow at your feet. And for the first time, the others are noted. Some of the war machines are still whole, towering above the landscape in their readiness to deal death. Others are in pieces; not dismantled for transport, but hacked apart, broken. This part of the war ground must have taken longer to freeze over for, without exception, all of the wood you see here is rotted, looking as though it would crumble at the first touch. You stand and, dusting off the snow, reach out to prod the body of one of the balistas. As you suspected, it crumbles, falling in on itself. These things were useless. You may head north, and east here.

Leone said, "Welcome to the sixth annual Titans of Winter Tournament! Here we gather where the Frostmaw shamans have molded and shaped this area, altering the original state into some fresh hell. An area has been cleared of snow, a circle of ice-coated moss comprising the arena. The dismantled seige weapons have been reassembled, their pieces cobbled together into five or six working, usable machines. The bindings are wholly Frostmawian: made of sheets of ice slathered over shattered pieces and massive, thick icicles acting as pins, shores, and pivots where necessary. Of course, this means that the weapons are able to be neutralized with some effort and work, but for now, all of them remain loaded and aimed at the interior of the designated circle. Good luck to Jarith and Syrri!

Syrri arrived quietly, plumes of warm breath brushing past a pale, freckled face with her sure-footed steps navigating through snow and then sleek, slippery green earth. The seige weapons were glanced upon briefly, but it was her opponent that azure-and-chestnut sought across the battlefield. The halfling, scarely above three feet and lean, not like the studier cousin hobbits, her trim form being lined with a nightstone-hued leather tunic, matching sleeves in the deep blue barding, completing the look with the same material down either leg and ending in Frostmaw's tiniest ice boots. In her left hand, she already wielded Luck, her hand flexing around the leather-bound handle, but Fate remained at her hip. The cursed axeling spotted Jarith, and with a high-pitched scream suddenly leapt forward, wasting no time in skipping and skidding across the ground, using the smooth surface to propel her around, pirouetting clockwise on the ice with the handaxe spinning upward, arcing toward the knight's right kneecap. Her other hand was reaching crosswise over hip to grab the partner'd weapon, flipping it around in her palm with the chipped metallic edge tapering away from her. With a growl, the pint-sized warrior drew the second weapon up in a similar arc, this time propelled with her momentum toward the inner side of Jarith's left thigh. Syrri Darkfoot spun with the force of both axes in their heavenward ascent toward the towering foe, and whether or not the axes made her mark, she used the ice-coated moss to her advantage, letting her movements carry her past his left knee, where she'd spin around onto her stomach, spiked boot-toes digging into the slickened earth to keep her from sliding too far away, positioning her now at his back.

Jarith the crunch of snow is ambient, a slushed footprint marking the knight of the northern reaches wake as he slows seeming strangely familiar with the destruction before him. Birthed in a scene of chaos near such things, his pupil-less gaze of arctic blue twists over the graveyard to the arena now aimed upon by those implements still able to be used, at least in some fashion. Those eyes turn to his tiny opponent and he becomes more pleased with watching the battles in the past weeks, it had allowed some thought on this adversary and he’d come, with a hope in mind for this duel, prepared. In hand was the round spiked-shield again, and in the other his crossbow, altered and fitted to hold two bolts, the weapon is heavy and use limited, two shots are all he will have. The scents are stale, ice and wind holding back and a clink would remind the knight of his shorter blade settled upon his hip and the dirks at the base of his spine, a change from the axes used previously. In his actions, there is only the faintest hitch, show of a still heavily bruised rib that has not quite healed from the previous bout, but the rest of his armor is new and keen, smelling of leather and oil. She’s quick, and tiny, this lethal femme. A fact he had seen but now becomes intimately aware of when after a piercing shriek her lightly covered form races and nearly dances towards him. Jarith is not the same battered elder though, the gift of years from the purge allowing him to compete with that speed of the Axeling and moving to counter her initial strike with a crouched step and turn inwards, shield on his left arm brought forward, wood and spikes of steel out as the lithe Syrri struck home the weapon with a ‘Clang!’ of glancing metal. The knight turns further, but isn’t spared the crunch of her opposing axe as it deflects upon the shield edge and tears into the crimson steel of those new clawed gauntlets, rending blood to the battlefield and a gasp and flare of his nostrils at the sensory overload that wrenched his shield forwards in a thrust, encouraging the axe-ling’s retreat with the threat of those black spikes. Injured hand lifts and cradled his weapon, a grimace timed as the knight spins to track and dropping to his right knee fire upon the leading dot, center-mass, aiming for the half-ling’s gut with his first shot, the second twang heard milliseconds after as Jarith twists from the lowered position, his aim is not the female but a weapon far opposite his opponent at the trigger of a siege weapon, sending its first load of ammunition, frigid stone, in the vicinity of the little Darkfoot’s rushing steps. In turning Jarith stands, tossing the bow aside and draws his sword, Shield hand clenching weakly, as he retreats back for a change, exiting the threatening area of bombardment as best he can.

Syrri hissed out a sharp breath when the jar of axe blade against shield throbbed all the way up into her still-healing left shoulder. The wound had been shallow, but the healing process was slow. Fate dripped with crimson from her right hand, leaving dark marks on the cold, white earth as she dug her boots harder into the ground, launching herself beneath the volley of that first bolt. It zipped through her left shoulder as she lunged at him - go figure - and the cursed female cried out in fresh pain; the gods hated her! Spinning away quickly, she glanced at her shoulder, features twisted in an annoyed scowl as the bolt stuck out of that mesh of stitching, and while Jarith was distracted with summoning the ire of that siege weapon, she moved on him once more. Her left arm she didn't move from her side, Luck held loosely in her palm, but her right still gripped the blood-spackled Fate. The axeling dashed forward on slippery footing, using the height of the shield held in that arm to create a barrier for herself, which she dove under like she was sliding into home plate, feet first and using the rush of adrenaline to dodge the first eruption of stoney shrapnel in her wake. "You idiot!" she cried out, twisting quickly around underfoot, "you're gonna get us both killed!" No matter, Fate would have its way as she swung it toward his retreating knees again as she chased after him. The siege weapon's stirring seemed to summon the others, and soon the area boomed with fire after fire as the arena became a wild display of shrapnel flying in all directions; before them, behind them, all around, with Syrri making herself as small as possible and using the taller man as her shield -- while also being the punk that she is, swinging again and again at his lower legs, dodging left and right to avoid becoming a victim of their environment.

Jarith continued his tactical advance to the rear until he heard her shout, and it had him shifting his gaze from the siege weapons to the axe-wielding assailant he was facing. The knight would pirouette on his own, showing a flair of skill as he too, twisted away from a blow, but not before the blade nicked his lightly armored upper calf, catching the point of her axe head upon the plating that made up those guardians and jerking a section free, taking the blade from play only with the luck of that action. Jarith was bleeding more now, but facing the smaller attacker was easiest as she charged him and he met that attack with shield and sword, block, parry, block. The crescendo of sound seemed never ending and the noise of erupting siege engines followed, cued by perhaps his own initial use. The Knight of Frostmaw, acted on spite and a mix of anger, as the next blow rained upon his Shield Jarith set his feet and surged forwards, churning the near-frozen dirt as her axe severed the remainder of one armored plate only to bury in the wooden outer ring of his shield with a thunk! The northern borne’s jerk upwards at such a time would be mere happy coincidence, blood dripping from his wounded hand and down his boot allowing for only a squelchy slip; nary enough to cause a grand issue as he forged his own charge into the fray, of those stones, pushing her towards the center of the ring with a followed stab of his right arm, the shorter blade faster in this instance as he made for the smaller warrior’s right breast, just as a stone impacted into his plated back and shoved him with a gasp of pain forward.

Syrri's left arm remained useless, shoulder radiating with a fiery pain which each belabored breath, but her right she used to her full advantage; Fate met time and time again with the chinks in Jarith's armor, and perhaps she was getting greedy, cocky even as his blood spurted and dripped at her behest. There was a ringing in her ears that only barely drowned out the cacophony all around them, a raucous symphony of bellows and booms. The two would dance together, it would seem, sure steps on icy ground as the taller of them pushed her deeper into the arena, but suddenly she felt stuck, sluggish. Dual-colored eyes widened with anger as the chipped blade of her handaxe dug into the wooden shield; she gave it a yank, but it was too late. It, and shield, were beyond her grasp them, but the strap that held her axe to her wrist was still attached, leaving mottled bruising under the simple gloves she wore. The halfling struggled against the trap, twisting and tugging and pushing her hand into a small fist until at last the strap was free, and she dropped to her feet just as the blade sank past her right clavicle, severing the barded leather at its seams and only barely missing her sternum as it chipped away at her topmost ribs, slicing clean through into the top tip of her right lung. It caught her off-guard as Jarith was flung into her, the blade sinking deeper as surprise and shock captured her freckled features. Shrapnel rained down on them, battering the two of them from all sides as the halfling stared up at those pupilless eyes. What felt like an eternity of icy pain in her chest was really only a fraction of a second, and while disabled from the left-shoulder down as any movement brought great pain, and that dagger embedded in her chest, it might seem the halfling was on the losing side of this game. But, the fight wasn't over yet! Regaining her seconds with a weak shake of her head, she winced against the pain now that the knight was up close and personal, lifting Luck just high enough for her to grasp it with her other hand. With a deeply-pained grunt, she gripped the axe with her right hand just below the blade, and swept upward inward toward his elbow of the blade-wielding arm, her teeth grit and that stare unwavering. As she did she, she cried out in pain, clenched her eyes shut, and hoped to dislodge the blade from his hand if nothing else.

Jarith is growing tired, and the cold is numbing the wounds in his hand and leg with a threatening intent as this battle wears on. He can feel the toll of this battle, his chest aches from the rib now re-injured by the boulder’s crash into his form, ploughed earth and frozen moss is the scent of the evening air now. There is also blood in his senses, and the air as the pair of them stumble forward like some macabre work of battle-art. He very near fell in the battering of stones, old iron, and wood as it battered and pelted the arena around and even over them. Silence for a span of moments would allow him to note all was not safe, one of those missing pins for the machines easily found in the lower right of his back, skewering a kidney and releasing more fluids inside and out of him. The last of those machines however brought chaos to the silence with a resounding POP! An ice-made gear shattering from the strain of its load, only to cast the arm forwards and into the ring assailing missiles of broken and frozen timber at the pair in a condemning final aim to rend them both incapacitated or so it would seem. Eager to be free as the recognition of further agony impending, as his gaze had spared towards their final outwards foe, Jarith misses Luck, and the axe tears into the joint, deadening his sword arm as he attempts a retreat that, is as hoped, sans that blade. The knight refuses to back down completely however, and in his agony, lashes out not with the dirks at his spine but his mangled shield, now cracked and showing signs of near breaking. Two duels of vigor having worn it down, the northern borne stabs forwards with bloodied black shield, and arm in a shout of feral animosity; aiming his blow for the cursed half-ling’s head.

Syrri sagged into Jarith's sword, the hilt clattering to the ground as she leaned into it heavily, suspended from falling merely by its length, but it was then slipping, and she with it, releasing her ax as she stumbled to the ground. It clanged, resting beside her as she fell first to her left knee, and then her right. Her features were twisted into a grimace, and she'd begun to tremble as the icy air caught up with her in these rare moments of stillness. With an agonizing yowl, she gripped the blade with her right hand, the edge slicing through her gloves and calluses as she struggled to remove it from her chest. The breath whooshed from that wound when at last she was freed of it, and she slumped forward, bloodied palm meeting the cold earth as she held herself up like a three-legged dog, her left arm held close to her. Scrambling to her feet after a painfully shallow breath, she could waste no time in paying attention to the blood that now spurted from the gash in her chest as soon Jarith was descending upon her with renewed passion with that battered shield. Shrieking, she managed to roll away to her left, the tips of those spikes slicing through the right side of her skull, tearing silvery braids from her crown and staining the haphazard waves with bright crimson; her right ear was not saved, either, its tip catching the nearest spike, inducing another high-pitched squeal which was tempered into a low growl. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Fate still protruding from the shield, but that eye was soon curtained with her own blood. She blinked away blood and sweat and tears, eyes squeezed half-shut as she took aim for a final blow. Syrri was pummeled as she staggered to her feet, knocking her forward, and ducking down, she used it to her advantage, worrying about the bruises and jagged cuts later. Her legs at least had gone unharmed, and she now launched herself up, kicking off the shield with her right foot and propelling herself upward toward his head as her left foot she kicked up, spiked toes directed at his jaw.

Winner: Syrri

Syrri's boot connected with the mandible with a resounding crack of bone and even metal, if he was wearing anything to protect himself. Jarith was likely to go falling backwards, either way, Syrri definitely was. The duel had caught up to her, her wounds still oozing, a wheeze coming from her chest, and a sway to her head. She'd barely had enough energy to ascend the shield after those screams of pain, and she spun with the force of the momentum before tumbling to the cold, hard earth. Her right ear was half-severed, the tapered tip dangling thanks to cartilage, not totally removed from its place, but the other wounds were more grievous. Both arms were useless without immediate attention, but darkness and blood overcame her vision and she lie prone, propped up partly on her left shoulder by that bolt still sticking out of the recent self-stitched wound.