Duel:Jerralith v Kaydar (DD)
Jerralith vs. Kaydar
- Judges: Thea, Leigh
- Winner: Jerralith
Jerralith assumes a readied stance, spreading his feet apart and drawing both of his runed axes from their respective loops at his waist; flashing Kaydar a sadistic grin, a few choice words follow. “We’ve waited too long to begin this, Ebony and Crimson Inept. Good luck, cause you’re gonna need it..” Trailing off with the taunt, the spell blade rushes forth, each footfall surely growing louder to his opponent’s drowic ears as the space between the two combatants is erased within mere seconds. Once within adequate range, the lycan in human form sends his right-held axe blurring out in a swipe for the drow’s right shoulder, while the left held weapon spins in his hand, jutting forth so the heavy, blunted edge crashes toward the bridge of the dark elf’s nose.
Kaydar watches the Human behind the concealment of his Imp Mask, standing at alacrity, only until that first step of his foe has begun. Where some may stay back and wait, the Drow leaps ahead, each footfall resounding within the tight confines of this street, echoing off from the tavern's wall, much like it does to the opposite shop. The quietness of this city, Kelay, is disturbed as Kaydar tears free his jagged longsword with his left hand. Pulling that silver blade back, nearly tucking it into the cradle position within his armpit, it is readied for a sudden thrust. His thickly leathered glove sticks out to the side--ripples begin to follow in the wake of that hand, ripples in the fabric of reality. Then, he grasps something firmly, tearing it forth from the void. A black flame, it's shape alike a sword, suddenly appears, ethereal, and is brought high, intending a downward slash, perhaps. Quickly, the gap is abridged betwixt the two, whom are both bearing down upon each other; a sudden aberration from the Drow, sidestepping to the Humans left, just when the two might have cause to cringe at the expected clash of flesh, and steel--fully avoiding the otherwise deadly attack of Jerralith. With this quick step, his right hand, bearing that grisly black flame, it's cold akin to Frostmaw in midwinter, tears through the air, aimed for a simple close-line to Jerralith's chest.
Jerralith turns about swiftly to face Kaydar and the strange flame he seems to wield, moving one of his axes before his chest; when it comes into contact with the runed metal of the lycan’s weapon, the inscribing flares to life with a crimson aura, nullifying the effect while he leaps backward, putting some space between himself and the drow once again. As might be expected, the red aura along the axe gives off what sounds like a soft, low moan before flames burst to life along the forged metal, while its’ sister weapon takes on a cerulean glow of its own, a palpable sort of cold gathering around the axe before the blade becomes encrusted a thin layer of ice. With two enchanted weapons in either hand, Jerralith gives a low snarl before lunging at Kaydar once more, bringing his axes to bear in a multi-hued flurry; the right-held, flaming weapon comes in a swift swipe for the drow’s neck, while its icy counterpart comes blurring down in a strike for the wrist of his opponent’s flame wielding arm, surely cold enough to induce frostbite to any wound it may incur. Not satisfied with the simple one-two combination, Jerralith’s left leg snaps up, aiming for a painful collision between his shin and floating ribs protecting the drow’s liver.
Kaydar is a bit aghast that the fellow had managed to come out of his batter with such practiced ease, yet this sudden feeling is knocked down, giving way for malicious intent. The dark Spell Blade follows after Jerra, whom is making a quick retreat, only until sight of that terrible axe blurs into his peripherals--instinct kicks in, as the Drow ducks only moments before his assured decapitation; a few fine silver hairs are perhaps even severed, to demonstrate the fervor of the word -close-. That diaphanous blade of his is brought to arms once more, hissing sharply as he swings it with practiced aim for his combatant's right leg, his intent perhaps to handicap the Human. Heat and cold, the Drow could match such. A flick of his left wrist cast the silver jagged weapon into a sudden burst of flame, reaching all the way from pommel to its viciously sharp tip--the Dark One follows in, driving the opposite of his cold weapon straight at the softer flesh of Jerralith's underbelly with absolute violent disregard for life. However that same thrust is impacted upon by the left-wielded axe of Jerralith, sending his own skewering off to the right hip of his enemy. The mercurial Drow lets out a fit of mock laughter, attempting to abase his very formidable challenger, after backpedaling enough to escape a further flurry of axes.
Jerralith grunts, attempting another simple leap backward to escape the wrath of Kaydar’s attacks – the swing for his leg is avoided, but unfortunately, he is not fast enough to avoid the other and the tip scrapes his right side right above the hip, tearing through his leathery clothing and scoring a wound that both sings with agony and scorches with the hellish flame. A deep growl is heard while the lycan’s eyes drift down to the laceration, biting his lip to force the searing pain to the back of his mind, gaze soon shifting from that to the drow once more, carefully calculating his next phase of assault. Though the toll of battle demands more and more oxygen from his tiring muscles, Jerralith again starts for a run for his foe, but halfway there, he drops into a roll, the still-icy axe swiping out for Kaydar’s shin; snapping up to his feet and facing the drow’s flank, the flame-enveloped axe sings a path for his opponent’s sword wielding arm just along the elbow, obviously aiming for a crippling blow. In a bold follow up comes the lycan’s right leg, sailing high for a potentially spine-shattering head kick.
Kaydar is callous to the sudden burst of pain, stretching across his entire shin, having been to held up in that same fit of laughter to avoid such a horrendous cut. The cold… oh how he disliked that. His own Crimson, so to say, begins to flow freely from the wound, staining his clothes forever more. Issuing a grunt from his lungs, the Drow is the epitome of lethargy as he sidesteps--having realized his opponent was now… behind him? Nonetheless, the Drow pivots on his good leg, forming a complete one-eighty degree turn only to continue with another quick step backwards; the pain from his shin hindering him from moving about too much, made quite clear by the sudden bit of laziness behind his dodge of the remainder of his foes attacks. Truculent, he kicks a mound of dirt up at the charging man with his wounded leg--such was possible, yet only at the cost of a great deal of pain--hoping for a bit to mist the opposites facial orifices. To exacerbate this, another brazen swing with his own left handed sword is issued, cutting into the airborne dirt only to turn such into tiny flecks of smoldering silica; the heat easily changing the matter. The effect of this dirty move -pun entirely meant- would cause serious eye and breathing irritations, perhaps evening poisoning of Jerralith. Prevail or fail, he is quick to jump into combat, lowering his left shoulder for a hopeful tackle, his black enflamed blade brought down with all the remaining strength left in him, in the direction of Jerra, where it would hit would be determined by the factor of the tackle. Sweat beads his stark white brow beneath that Imp Mask, running in near-streams down his face, as well as beneath his armor.
Jerralith sees the clod of tainted dirt coming and raises a hand before his eyes, preventing the seemingly hazardous substance from hindering his vision, though some of the particles do make their way into his nose, sending him into a fit of violent coughs as it reaches his lungs, taking further toll on his tired body even if it is expelled soon after. Lowering the arm away from his eyes just in time to see Kaydar duck his shoulder, the lycan doesn’t have the room or time to evade, the collision sending him reeling backward. The swipe of Kaydar’s blade comes imminently close to his face, the black flames singing his hair and the skin of his cheek, but offering no other damage. Withdrawing into a defensive sort of stance, Jerralith heaves a sigh from his tired lungs..is it in relief? Too early to tell.
Jerralith offers another cough, the last of the seemingly tainted debris leaving his lungs before a grim smirk appears along his lips. “No mercy, drow. It seems your river of blood will dry before it runs with a single drop..except that of your own.” With that said, Jerralith returns the left-held axe to his loop and lunges in, the only weapon he still holds singing as it cleaves Kaydar’s head clean from his shoulders. Lifting his leg, a kick sends the headless corpse to the road, dirt arising from the impact as blood pools from the newly created orifice.