Duel:Jerralith v Lionel
Lionel vs Jerralith
- When: Sat. - 9/20/2008 Trist’oth Arena, week 3 of UFC
- Judges: Keter, Thea, Cyllarus
- Venue: Trist'oth Arena - Saturday Night Fights: Week 3
- Decision: Jerralith wins, Split
Keter enters the arena, taking a place between the two combatants, then turning to face the gathered crowd. ``Greetings all, and welcome to week 3 of the Underdark Fighting Challenge. Tonight we have a legendary competitor in the Saturday Night Fights arena, Lionel, a hero of the 2nd Battle of the Trembling Tree, squares off in a battle with the young Jerralith who looks to prove himself in this Arena tonight. Surely this will be a great battle to behold.``, turning to face the competitors, the Drow continues ``This fight will be for the interim Underdark Fighting Challenge title and, as always, 10,000 Gold; as well as the right to defend your title next week for an additional 10,000 Gold purse.`` With this, Keter returns to his seat at a lofty portion of the venue in preparation for the event.
Lionel holds true to a stance of some renown, his booted feet separated by something shy of several inches. Forward-marching right leg pivots at the kneecap, forcing added weight to the fullness of the lad's left region; muscles in both arms tighten vividly as a tremendous strain sounds the horn of the duel's not-so-humble beginnings. Not one to stall, O'Connor's hands reach for the thick steel handle of his legendary behemoth of a claymore, Hellfire -- and as the pressure of a mighty beast departing merciful slumber echoes in his shaking fingers, an adrenaline-pumping shrill akin to a screeching feral monster is released from the sheath, ethereal madness in its native tongue. Within two seconds' time, a hulking devastator in the form of crimson-tinted metal is revealed upon the battlefield, its wielder taking great strides with both his arms to strike it forth toward the still-distant competitor. Swirling shades of flame are seen to appear from the sweating steel, wrapping about like a venomous cobra, thirsty for mammalian prey. With a triumphant cry, Lionel lunges ahead, these flames fanning out, splitting from the point of origin into two separate pieces, two separate snakes which accompany the runner on both sides like vengeful comrades. As the wind picks up with the race, they grow respectively to nearly the size of their summoner, and then as this bizarre creationism continues its 'asexual' journey, again they split so that now there are four equal parts, all of which in the form of strings of flame. Whilst one remains scarlet in hue, another changes to yellow, one blue and the last green, as though various representations of the elements themselves have come to fruition. And with a sturdy swing, vertical and from the right angle to split apart Jerralith's chest and throat, Hellfire is thrust ahead; the 'elements', on the other hand, see that the blue and red rush ahead toward the foe's skull, seeking to combust raw flesh, though the yellow and green stay on what is perhaps the defensive, stalwart on Lionel's sides.
Jerralith stands quietly as the apparently legendary claymore is brought into play, grey eyes staring cooly at his more than formidable opponent. Not allowing himself to be caught off guard, the brash young man lowers either of his hands, snaking down to locate a pair of hilts at either side of his belt - with a 'snap' to indicate their loosening, the companion axes are branished, single-bladed weapons of an uncertain steel make, smothered in intricate runes. Loosing only a snort at the overly frontal approach, Jerralith takes a simple step in retreat before vaulting his form in a backflip of sorts, the harrowing hiss of the large-bladed weapon heard clearly in the spell sword's senses as evidence to how close the strike was to becoming true to its mark; just as he comes to a graceful landing, the incoming rush of oddly blue and red elements are also given their due, the drow-raised man dropping low to the earth as the scorching flames pass harmlessly overheard, though they -do- manage to singe a blonde hair or two. When they are most assuredly gone, the talanted yet arrogant young man snaps to his feet in an instant, closing the space between Lionel and himself in a forward rush. Once within proper range for combat, the right held axe is sent sailing low for Jerralith's opponent's legs, a faint blue hue giving way to a cluster of ice upon the weapon's already lethal edge, making it even more dangerous...as well, stepping just right back is an inadvisable move, given the threat of the nails just behind - in a bold follow up, a feigned strike is made toward the yellow barrier of sorts at Lionel's side with the free axe, only for Jerralith's left leg to come swinging up in a perfect arc, the lightly plated boot aiming for his adversary's temple for a potential knockout blow
Lionel can be said to have muttered something toward the beginning of the ensuing events, though it is as indistinguishable as the meaning behind his cocked brow. Amidst Jerralith's backward step, Hellfire's long-held arc is forced into abrupt cancellation, and as its rushed finale leaves behind trace amounts of billowing black smoke, the Catalian swordsman revels in the partial conceal it awards in its wake. Both offensive beams of fire dissipate as they continue harmlessly past the opposition, though the pair of remaining pieces spark vibrantly immediately following their vanishing point. O'Connor again reverts to his initial battle stance, though in an instant this is replaced as he pulls his exposed leg wayward of the incoming axe-sent strike to susceptible ankles; rather than losing his right foot to an unfortunate run-on with icy weaponry, the fast-acting response brings the two targets to an even standing and the thin strands of chainmail leggings covering viable skin from shattering to Jerralith's best efforts form the boundary for the majority of the impact. Crushed by steel but holding strong 'til near the end, the armor cannot prevent a cluster of inbound ice from puncturing his legs and shooting blood onto the battlefield. Screaming in surprise, the swordsman stumbles back, and as his yellow-tinted ally reacts to the pseudo-strike from another axe, reflexes from time-tested training save the man's temple from ending this duel before it has even begun. Hellfire is shoved between the combatants, though its blade is tilted to the side, the true hero of the occasion a gauntleted right hook, its single protruding spike meeting an enemy leg spot-on for undisclosed potential pain; immediately following the hook, Lionel quite literally aims to pull Jerralith forward with the vengeance of a wounded right leg, its upward-and-roundabout range seeking to backwards-kick the opponent's lower side toward the angry O'Connor. All-the-while, yellow fire and green fire return to the sword, and as both hands tighten their grip, the blade is brought into the close-combat chaos from stage left, pivoting to collide dangerously with Jerralith's shoulder should it surpass a presumably defensive axe. Yellow and green ignite, and like a well-honed firearm, they combust as the claymore is incoming, causing an explosion to slide from steel's surface toward the head of the adversary.
Jerralith cannot even hear the jeers of Dergious within the din of battle, his mind far too focused. With his well-aimed kick blocked, the brash young fellow cannot move it out of the way in time to avoid the spiked swing of Lionel's right hand, puncturing through cloth and flesh alike below the knee yet above the ankle, giving way to a grotesque spray of blood. Giving a grunt of pain, Jerralith plants the now wounded leg upon the ground, the flat of one of his axes placed between himelf and the incoming kick of Lionel, absorbing the impact yet still sending the spell sword reeling back from the sheer momentum of the would-be strike. Catching the sight of the massive claymore sweeping toward him once more, Jerralith drops to a single knee, narrowly avoiding what would likely have been a beheading strike; always moving, he rises to his feet once more and takes a quick step back on his good leg, only to bear witness to the incoming inferno. Though initially aimed for his head, the young spell warrior's changed position sends them rushing toward his left arm instead, ingulfing the entire limb within a cruel wave of heat. A deep cry of pain rushes forth from Jerralith's lips, cursing only a moment later, "Sunuva bitch...!", though he is not so overwhelmed by the agony to avoid responding; with a spat arcane word, the axe within the flame covered arm pulses a pale blue aura which subsequently washes over his burning limb, smothering the flames in short order, the charred clothing falling away to reveal burnt flesh...such a sickening scent left in the air. Dropping that axe as his hand is mostly useless for now, it clatters before freezing into the ground, making it rather difficult for use against him - but again, the spell blade arrogantly rushes forward with reckless abandon, knowing his foe's large weapon has little practical use in close quarters. Another swipe of the axe comes, yet this time it is aimed for Lionel's left shoulder...and just as before, this is not the only attack. Jerralith's left leg rises again for a middle-kick, aimed for the bottom half of his opponent's ribcage, while his axe wielding hand suddenly folds just a tad, sending his elbow forth in an attempted blow for Lionel's forehead, aiming to open up a dangerous cut above the legendary man's eyes.
Lionel loses momentum; of that there is little question. With a gargantuan hulk of a longsword still eating away at the lad's best efforts still a ways away from Jerralith's reactionary movements, and O'Connor's previous attempted onslaught now but a dangled array of limbs too far ahead for comfort, there is an open range between the enemy and his intended targets. Caught off-guard and though he does try to again bring Hellfire back into the fray in time for proverbial supper, failure rings true for the wanderer; Jerralith's axe and its swing are too adeptly swung in their collective furious arc for the sweet taste of shoulder and a connection is established. To say that blood soaks the loamy sands for a third time this evening would be an understatement; rather, as the interlocking parts of a copper brigandine are torn to ribbons, so too is Lionel's elbow sliced by nearly an inch. Shrapnel in the form of brass covering meets with lost skin and muscle tissue in falling to rest atop a gorgon eyebite for a grueling display of the life and times of a fighter. The Catalian is too overwhelmed to avoid the kick as well; when it slams down harshly upon the ribcage, it quite profoundly knocks the wind from the man and he is flung like a ragdoll some meters into the distance. Too much pain and not enough determination plague his grip on Hellfire, and in a damnable display of lost faith, the weapon's grip is loosened and its tip-forth flight takes it far, far away. Of O'Connor, his collapse brings him with a hard thud to the sidelines, and a pair of hateful screams match their sounds with whatever else the crowd might have brought along for the ride. Desperately he scans his surroundings, knowing full well the foe must surely be prepared to take advantage of the scenario. To his left lies some poor fool's rapier, still shiny for its placement. To his right, six coffin nails and some wooden blocks. With great strain on a wounded arm, Lionel grasps for his hidden-vambrace dagger, leaping to the forefront once more. As this is done, however, he takes with him the rapier, as well as three of the nails. For the nails, they are held closely between his fingers, and, standing at the ready for a bruised, incomplete stance to take its toll, a stilted newfound rush sends the legend blazing ahead full-speed, or as close as can be expected. The rapier is at this time brought in a frenzied arc to the side, the nails flicked forth. One lands upon the sand, its master's intentions clearly unrealized. The others, however, slide across cool steel and come roaring in toward Jerralith, and as fate would have it, they are darting in toward his eyes. The rapier then takes a strong defensive backpedal between the two combatants, holding his aching ribs from openness. And the dagger, with great haste, is thrown toward the foe's pelvis.
Jerralith grunts as the kick with his wounded leg connects - which, while entirely possibly, is also entirely painful - sending another trickle of blood from the open wound before settling back to the ground somewhat weakly. While the spell blade's legendary opponent prepares another approach, the brash young man assumes a defensive stance, one arm uselessly dangling at his side while the other clutches the axe close to his chest, knees bent slightly in preperation for any sudden movement needed on his part. With Lionel again closing in, Jerralith stays in his practiced stance, swiping out the axe instinctively at the incoming rapier and knocking it aside; however, it's only just in time to notice the incoming silvery glints passing through the space between both warriors, only having a moment to tilt his head to the side before a pair of nails find fleshly sheathes along the human's cheek bone with a sickening 'slice' and 'crack', the brief turn of his head saving his eyesight. Another ragged cry of pain comes, accompanied with an involuntary shudder...the nails are left in his cheek for the moment, knowing they will only spurt blood if removed; the dagger is noticed lastly, and with more time than the nails, yet Jerralith still doesn't have a large enough window to avoid it completely. Another swipe of the axe is made, though it merely redirects the course of the jagged weapon cruelly, sending the serrated edge cutting along that forearm, giving way to the familiar sight of crimson fluid. Dropping the axe instinctively, Jerralith is now unarmed, and relying on adrenaline alone to put him through this battle. The vial of fire-breath elixir is noticed through the corner of one of the spell blade's grey eyes, weakly grasped up with his non-burned hand and tilted to his lips, having noticed the label and knowing the effects. Swishing this undoubtedly magical fluid within his mouth, Jerralith again leaps forward, his entire face - embedded nails included - flushing red before a belch of fire comes from his lips, straight toward Lionel's eyes! With his legendary foe hopefully blinded, the once arrogant, now battered young prodigy summons the last of his strength, lifting his free leg to hopefully bury his foot within Lionel's gut.
Lionel has once again left himself in the crossfire -- pun not quite intended -- as a scarring arsenal is incoming; the rapier so pushed, and so light as to be pushed, can do little to salvage the scene whilst a barrage of liquid flame and a display of martial arts shape into respectable threats. Ducking, rapier instinctively held again outward and this time pivoted almost above his vulnerable skull, O'Connor collapses beneath the weight of his battered legs as a byproduct of reflexive repositioning. He is, in fact, bending at the kneecaps, and though the striking sword he has donned does well to stop the primal carnage of Jerralith's foot, perhaps even slicing into it somewhat, breathable fire is another matter altogether. It tinges his hair in a laughable display of continuity when it comes to inferno streams and the arena, but it bleeds his forehead and forces involuntary spasming to toss the tainted soldier to the right and to the ground. Flames do not subside, and it almost appears as though the lad is set to lose his head in a literal sense of the word, when from afar Hellfire roars to life in an identical uproar as had been brought forth upon initial draw. It does not levitate to his rescue, nor does it even rise to attack the enemy; rather, it bursts one final beam into the concluding ordeal, and it is this very beam which engulfs Lionel O'Connor in an aura of beautiful blues. Quivering, the Catalian allows this small rapture to wipe away the last remnants of a crippling elixir's wrath, and as the lights begin to fade, the duel comes to a close.
Keter proceeds down to the center of the arena, the battle seemingly coming to a close. The winner tonight, of the Underdark Fighting Challenge's Saturday Night fights is Jerralith.", with that, he sets a large satchel down, the coins hitting the ground with a loud *clunk* followed by a slight jingle.
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