Duel:Karasu v Mesdoram, Round 1, 2020 Hero of Freedom Championship
Duelists: Karasu vs Mesdoram Duel: Traditional 3 rounds with final defense, 15 minute posting limit. Stakes: Auto-hit to the winner. If Mesdoram wins, Mesdoram will ask Karasu to carve 'Karasu' into Narvi's (his slave's) arm . If Karasu wins, Mesdoram will not allow Narvi's flesh to be carved up by anyone again, be it by Mesdoram himself or anyone else. Judges: Magik, Meri, and Odhranos
Larket Arena
The arena, like the rest of the city of Larket under Jacklin and Parsithius' rule, has grown in size and splendor. The circular building's walls rise even higher now, to make room for the orderly rows of steps that ascend all the way up to the open top of the arena. Gladiatorial games still seem very popular among the citizens of Larket, for the building is rarely, if ever, empty. The floor is stone, covered with sand, that is replaced regularly to rid the area of the blood-soaked clumps that mark where a fighter has died. The gladiators seem to come in from doors that lead down, into barracks, while spectators file in from both north and south, moving along huge walkways that exit into the stands. The banner of Larket hangs over the arena, where the glory of the city is displayed daily.
Introduction Round
Mesdoram and Nariv arrive from the southern pathway feeding into Larket Arena – only a few days ago, this establishment was enlightened with positive and cheerful energy from snobs and pompous aristocrats: Mesdoram aims to alter this mood. The drow comes will malice intentions, striding arrogantly with his lone entourage trailing only mere feet behind him and to his left. His hooded cloth from his piwafwi rest lazily on his upperback which allows his snowy long strands of hair to compliment his dark complexion. Mesdoram wears his traditional battle mage attire: ebony chainmail armor covers most of his body with few exceptions; pitch black gauntlets and battle boots conceal his far extremities covered with horrific fresh blood-stained spikes surrounding the armor plates; his right arm blanketed with an enchanted sleeve which makes performing elemental blitz faster to execute; and, to some onlookers surprise, no helmet adorns Mesdoram’s head – only charmed warpaint which can glow in accordance to the spell blade’s mental state. Clutched in his right hand is his preferred terrestrial long sword already unsheathed, and behind him Nariv holds Keter’s Twin Dirks enchanted by Thea many moons ago. Through cockiness, Mesdoram has elected not to use his dirks as he’d rather manipulate any environmental disadvantage into a hellish torrent against his opponents – in this case, Karasu. Arriving to his starting position, Mesdoram nonchalantly motions with his hands for Nariv leave which she promptly obeys, disappears into the crowd. Now standing alone, the armed drow waits for the duel to commence, assessing how to implement his environmental incarnations effectively.
Karasu enters the arena, dressed in her newer battle gear. Her hair has been swept up into two pointed buns to keep out of her face during battle. This reveals a discolored red-violet mark on her neck that would otherwise appear to be an injury, purposely disfigured at some point during her self-imposed exile so its resemblance to the Eye of Vakmatharas is no longer apparent. Mirthril plates cover her leather-clad body, save for her joints to allow for easier movement. A longsword is sheathed at her hip, the safety catch of which is already undone. In her hand is a cup of some brightly colored drink with a twisty straw, in stark contrast to the rest of her getup. Slitted spinel eyes glance to Nariv as she moves to the audience stands. "Should I win, I hope that this easement of burden is of some consolation to you." She says, locking eyes with the slave. Turning her gaze to the drow before her, she lifts her chin in greeting. "No offense."
Environmental Challenge
The tournament ushers direct Karasu and Mesdoram to stand on stone circles on opposite sides of the arena. The circles rise 6 feet into the air, lifting the combatants on the cylindrical platforms. Soon after, floodgates open behind each combatant. Dark, murky water pours into the arena until it is five foot deep (just one foot below each raised platform). Soon organic, incongruent shapes breach the surface of the dark water. Upon closer inspection, they look like crocodile snouts! The hungriest among them begin to move towards the platforms to snap up tasty duelists. Some of the snouts-like figures are in truth rocks that can be used as stepping stones. It’s difficult at quick glance to distinguish between a rock and a crocodile. The crocodiles are also enchanted to withstand physical and magical damage. They are not invulnerable, but they are also not your typical crocs. The gong chimes. Fight!
Duel
Karasu takes a sip of the drink in her hand as the murky water fills the arena. "Did you know, cats have no sense of what tastes sweet or not. Felines too." Her stance is strangely relaxed. "So, you've gotta believe me when I say that the blueberry-apricot tea is to -die- for. Glacies." Without further warning, the spellblade launches the cup full of the cold treat at Mesodram and the crocs. The sloshing liquid of the drink hardens immediately into pelts of hail with pointed edges, which the crocs take as an invitation of a moving target. Following the moving food as if it were a diving bird, the crocs begin to converge on the drow, jumping up into the air to snap at the blocks of ice. "Gravis." A pale light envelops the spellblade, lightening her jumps considerably as she moves to another stone pillar for the creatures that did not fall for the trick. "Seorsum." Answering to the simple word, the seven fragments of her sword separate to reveal a bladed whip, held together by tethers of arcane magic and steel. "Obscena stipitem egerunt." The blades of the whip separate and move out towards Mesdoram hovering in a wide circle seeming to follow his movements at the same pace as the crocs. This leaves the spellblade with only the bare steel of her whip. "Fulgris sacrum Xalious praesidio!" All seven fragments of her sword light up, crackling with arcane lightning. The lightning bolts forth, seeking to gain purchase to him through the chainmail armor.
Mesdoram arrogantly smirks as he analyzes Karasu’s dull onslaught against him. Disappointing body language displays rampant disdain as Mesdoram’s muscles become much laxer and looser than his earlier entrance into Larket’s Arena. Appearing to act aloof, the drow fully intents to reveal how childlike Karasu’s techniques are in comparison to Mesdoram’s expertise. In an unorthodox demonstration of reckless self-confidence, Mesdoram shrugs his shoulders while simultaneously releasing his hold of the earthly-elemental longsword gripped within his right hand. As the terrestrial weapon makes contacts the stone circle below his feet, his solid platform begins to quake and tremor as the blade begins controlling Mesdoram’s only footing. Before the enchanted blade can clang on the surface for a 3rd time, Mesdoram’s makeshift boat is propelled forward with great speeds to encounter the first wave of crocs, icy daggers, and eventually a frightening bolt of lightning. Hidden from Karasu’s vision, lying in wait is Mesdoram’s blade patiently patrolling behind him acting like a surfer catching a wave. As the possess sword begins glowing an exceptional greenish-hue, the same type of illuminating aura outlining his enhanced piwafwi. The drow’s deadly trap is set: for when Mesdoram’s piwafwi’s protection is pierced, this simple spell imbued within the cloak will instantly trigger the levitating weapon to sail to the assailant with murderous malice. Mesdoram glides precariously through chomping jaws who try to tip him over and make him an easy meal; sadly for the crocs, no such drow is on the menu today. Feeling the worst is over, Mesdoram peeps out from his protective cloak only to have 4 solid icebolts break Mesdoram pifwai’s protective layer, one which is now embedded deeply in his leg and 2 which skim his helmetless head. Obedient as ever, Mesdoram’s resilient weapon propels instinctually in a direct trajectory towards Karasu’s form. Distracted by mild pain in his leg, Mesdoram is suddenly upended off his heavy raft as the bolt of lightning cracks his vessel in half. As the drow’s ship sinks into the medieval Larket bayou, Mesdoram predicts Karasu will be preoccupied watching the drow’s dramatic defensive performance to notice the soaring missile sword seeking to skewer her body.
Karasu keeps moving from stepping stone to closed croc mouth with her lightened step and slowed fall, making use of whichever beings appear to be the most static. As the drow sails in on the halfling, she lands on what is not one of the tiny snout-shaped pillars, but a true snout. A growl beneath her feet causes the feline to jump again and call for her sword once the hovering blades have spent themselves of lightning. "Paenitet." In rapid succession, the fragmented blades fly towards the center of the circle of dark elf. As she touches ground on the starting stone from her side, she catches sight of the eerie green of the sword's homing attack. Twisting her form away, Mesodram's sword barely misses a fatal blow, but instead peirces through her pauldron and into her shoulder. Karasu snarls, instinctively reaching up to grab the sword, but thinking better of it. "Adolebitque." The shards of the sword return to its owner and resumes its default shape, but quickly glows to a bright orange, smoke rising from the metal and ready to melt through what it touches. Switching hands of the sword, she moves to touch the terrestial sword's hilt with her own superheated one, aiming to burn the drow's hands once it returns to him. In the quick movements of the attacks, a single shard of the blade has remained behind, trained on Mesodram's back no matter how the drow twists his body. With a hiss, she utters again, "Paenitet," Which sends the final shard towards the center of his back.
Mesdoram regains his composure with his head barely above the 5 foot of water, feet barely able to touch the arena’s old floor plan. The drow grins a satisfied smirk feeling incredibly pleased with himself; however, this is short-lived when Mesdoram’s vision become obstructed with a significant collection of blood originating from the drow’s forehead. Mildly annoyed with this situation, Mesdoram zealously cleans the crimson liquid by vehemently shaking his head left and right – sending unwanted chum surrounding his as an appetizer for these twisted abominations with his impaled leg as the main course. Eager to avoid becoming croc excrement, he instinctually squeezes right hand where his pulsing ring and enchanted sleeve command the old Arena floor below him to emerges from the depths, no wider than the original pillars created for this bout. Hoping to reclaim his blade, the man extends he right hand horizontally; with a beckoning ‘come here’ motion, Mesdoram’s earthly is on track to return to him– but his brand no long glows its bright jaded color when it left his side. Though not seeing his favorite sword become bewitched, he elects to abandon his main weapon for now. Twin Drow leg’s instinctually propel Mesdoram’s body sideways with the intent of falling back into the treacherous waters. While airborne, Mesdoram flings his right wrist back into the direction of Karasu and sends his new acquired substantial stone sheet flying at Karasu’s form. With Mesdoram’s back facing his brand and the feline’s final projectile, the earthly elemental brand sinks into the depths and thereby creating an instant steam bath for the Drow to land in. Seeming to have missed the deadliest of attack, Karasu silvery shard missile makes contact with Mesdoram’s backside of his pifawai. The combination of steamy gas and the meniscal metal sandwiches the drow back into the water, leaving him submerged while he hopes to speed of the stone slab is enough to press Karasu on the opposite wall.
Karasu clucks her tonuge, trying to flex her left arm. Useless. More useless than telling a Larketian official that burning people is wrong! Sweat beads at her temple as she tries to keep her mind off of the searing pain in her shoulder. "Occult--ugh!" So focused on her own attack, she fails to see the stone slab fly so quickly out from the mist. There is a resounding crack as stone connects with mithril. The woman sails back, smacking into the wall of the arena where there is only cold water below. But, little known facts about Karasu, she can't swim! Taking the opportunity, the beasts bite at the drowning halfling, sinking their teeth into her midsection and legs. Lifted out of the water by the tail of a croc about to descend on her as well, the shivering woman seizes the opportunity to jump from back to snout to back of the swarm of crocs, aided by her earlier jumping spell until she reaches the safety of the single stone platform. Seeing Mesdoram disappear beneath the water, a cruel idea for an attack crosses her mind. Little does she know that the idea for this is not her own, as the discolored mark on her neck has already begun to enroach on her jawline, creeping upwards to where black taints the edge of her sclera. "Moventur, o deas." She chants three times, plunging the searing metal of her sword directly into the brackish water below. Much like how the steam billowed out when the terrestial sword hit the water to return to its master, steam billows forth at an alarming rate, and sends the nearby crocs away from her to avoid the unnatural warmth. The water begins to heat up to nearly a boiling point. Bubbles dance forth from the blistering water, moving towards the shadow in the water to the submerged drow. Soon, nearly the entirety of the arena is shrouded in fog as well, concealing her form as she does so to the hungry beasts in the water.
Mesdoram, despite having several baths today, emerges from the waters again with blood over his face: collecting into a crude collage of his dark drow skin, blood-stained alabaster strains of hair, perfect pearly teeth revealed in cynical smile, and igniting in a vibrant viridescent-shade of green shrouds the left side of his face. An uncontrollable convulsion flails the drow’s small statue, almost as if the inadvertent activation of Mesdoram’s charmed warpaint flip the metaphoric switch inside his head. Mesdoram’s biological primal personal multiplies several magnitudes: the drow’s natural cruel depravities consumes him with his malevolence mannerisms ready to put Karasu decisively in her place. Mesdoram’s devilish demeanor intensifies instantly: the normally cynical nature of the drow drastically converts into a frigid façade fixating on Karasu. As sharp silvery eyes lock onto their foe, a lone hand forcefully flings out of the water with his now cooled earthly blade from the water. It is just then that Karasu’s boiling stew recipe was ready for its final ingredient: 140 pounds of dark dumbass drow meat, extra crispy. Temperatures reach scolding levels that even a weaken man fueled by grit and heavy blood loss can feel everything thanks to the copious amounts of adrenaline keeping the drow momentarily functional. Mesdoram swings his earthly-brand erratically around his form and a spherical piece of Arena breaches out of steam bath, carrying this drow out of the swampland for the final time. Although there is a calm in Mesdoram’s face now, the damage that over-heated chainmail leaves a myriad of 2-inch ring-shape brandings across his form hidden to onlookers – Mesdoram’s ‘delicates’ have seen better days. Having enough of his foes experimenting with new recipes, Mesdoram throws the brilliantly green sword like a torpedo downward and disappearing below the surface of the floating fog colliding with the original Larket Arena floor. With a loud thunderous crackle, multiple seismic fault lines begin breaking the foundation of all remaining pillars for combatants to perch upon. The very ground ebbs and flows as the remaining pillars collapse below and possibly crush all the hellspawn alligators flat, tenderizing them for easy BBQ. Seeing the arena collapsing around him fills this drow with glee and drops to his knees with a job well down. With enough luck, the giant boulder-size pillars might have enough wherewithal to fine an unsuspecting Karasu and Mesdoram can finally make his favorite breakfast.: alligator sausage and kitty cat pancakes.
Karasu is absolutely putting this day down in history as the worst duel ever, if only for the fact that the feline is about to be submerged twice in one duel. The boiling water has done well so far to keep the gators away from the copious amounts of blood pouring into the water, but just not well enough. A steaming gator flies over the Steward, sending boiling droplets raining down on her armor as the stone beneath her feet begins to crumble. "No no no no!" The woman curses, forcing herself to her feet. With her one good arm, she utters a final spell, "Ventus!" Sending a powerful gust of wind through the arena and blowing away the remaining steam just long enough for her to get a glimspe of the drow's perch. The sword leaves her hand and sails with the wind into the walls of the arena. Feeling the effects of her weight-altering spell fade, she uses what little is left to traverse across the bloated bodies of what the spectators of Gualon must consider to be a delicacy, to where her sword has embedded itself into the wall. The feline perches up, balancing her battered body on the blade of her sword, and withdraws a small dagger from within her boot for any crocs that have not fallen victim to the impromptu cook-off.
Winner: Karasu
Auto-hit Stakes
Karasu clutches her good hand to the opposite shoulder as she becomes able to at least flex the fingers of her left. "Oh, thank Xalious." She whispers as the steam disappates. Looking up at the drow's terrestial perch, the feline whose eyes are halfway coated with the strange darkness utters, "Ventus." A second gust of wind rips through the arena, knocking the drow from his perch and sending him to the ground. Given the seismic activty, the murky water has all but seeped into the ground, leaving only mud for him to fall into. The spell-blade crosses the threshold, her Sagaribana left behind. "As agreed..." She snarls, her hair having come undone in the duel and matting with blood against her face. "You will never mark that poor woman again." The feline raises a heeled boot and presses it on Mesdoram's chest as she leans down. The piwafi is torn away to reveal parts of the dark skin untouched by the chainmail's burning. "To carve something so horrible into a poor innocent, let's see how you like it." The spellblade kneels, fueled by an unnatural spite, and carves her name in her home country's language on the drow's chest. カラス "May you never forget who it was that changed the fate of the woman you call a slave."
Mesdoram ’s flesh burns with every rough stroke Karasu inflicts upon his skin – admiring the work with every moment of her ‘pen’, the drow forms a creepier and creepier smirk. Between pauses of her craftmanship, Mesdoram would speak cryptically. “Yes, my dead Karasu…” the feline had just finished the ‘r’ in her name… “… perhaps it was not my ‘Sin’ I should have focused on…” with every word the drow speaks, Karasu’s penmanship gains extra leverish to inflict more pain. “… nor Nariv’s ‘Sin’” Karasu’s increases the depth of her final letters in hopes to shut Mesdoram up. “… but maybe your ‘Sin.” With a final exclamation, Karasu seems to rip away a chuck of Mesdoram’s skin with her parting signature. This causing the delirious drow to going into a fit of laughter, incoherently saying, “Feels good, doesn’t it?”Holding true to the agreed states, the drow collects to his feet and motions to Nariv to stand by his side. A sunken, but slightly elated elf, comes to her master’s side. Mesdoram asks Nariv while glaring at Karasu, “Wrath… I think he Sin is wrath, don’t you Nariv?” Nariv does not answer, so Mesdoram interjects. “As agreed, Karasu ‘full of wrath’, no one shall every mark this elf’s flesh again.” A playful wink is the final thing Mesdoram offers to Karasu. “You have my word.” With that, Mesdoram exits the arena, leaving Nariv standing alone in the broken arena.