Duel:Kasyr v Gorehilt, Round 1, 2020 Hero of Freedom Championship

From HollowWiki
Duelists: Kasyr vs GOREHILT™️
Duel: Traditional 3 rounds with final defense, 15 minute posting limit.
Stakes: Auto-hit to the winner.
Judges: Odhranos, Macon, Vexar


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

Kasyr let's out a long sigh as he's introduced to the arena- though it's not because he's finally free of armed shadow his escort provided. Rather, his relief is from his brief emancipation from the sickly scent of fever that still clings to the room that's served as his cell, and the terrible tedium of those 4 walls. One that was only further compounded courtesy of his awareness of Lionel's dissapearance, and worse things still. His release into the Arena meant that freedom was a few breaths away if he so chose- a realization that was comforting in it's own right, but made bittersweet by his awareness of what would occur if he acted upon it. "Merde." His eyes shut for a moment, in an effort to push aside those invasive thought. It's a slow process, but one of the few times he finds himself grateful for the dull throbbing within his right arm, and the sensation of the sling about that limb. It grounds him in that moment, and even serves to stoke an ire within him- as the flesh refuses to heed even the slightest call to movement. "Merde." For a brief moment, there's a flicker of something silvery within his minds eye- some half-remembered figment of some recent nightmare, and yet it slides away, replaced instead by a simple sort of serenity. Because, however bleak things were- one thing was clear. Ever since he'd awoken, the sickness that had sunk deep into him had broken- and though fatigue still resided within his flesh, it had failed to conquer him.


GOREHILT™️ rolls his shoulders, hops from one foot to the other, twists at the waist, and generally tries to make his new set of armor pinch or catch somewhere. It doesn't. "You weren't kidding," he mutters to himself, impressed by the recommendation he'd been given. This drow-made stuff was pricy, but it had been worth every penny. He grabs his spear. It's fun to go through a few mock jabs and imagine being a raider again, but equipped like this! Maybe someday you will be, GOREHILT™️, who knows. Coming down out of his reverie, the hal-orc gathers his mind, steps out of the arming room, and walks down the lonely, sterile tunnel to the arena itself. The growing screams of the crowd have his blood racing already, as does the promise of combat. He emerges at a run and wears a full-on battle snarl. GOREHILT™️ bellows at the crowd, hoists his spear over his head, and beats his chest. Someone with keen eyes might notice the glint of a ring on his finger; another recommendation. Kasyr is a celebrity fighter, and it's no secret that he commands lightning. Rings of resistance are hard to come by, but if you know where to look, well... A fair chunk of gold and a quick visit to Pey's shop might have given GOREHILT™️ just the leg up he needed tonight.


Environmental Challenge

Three statues burst out of the ground, each representing a different Larketian hero. The first is none other than the legendary war hero, Sir Greg, knighted post-humously by pretty much every Larketian monarch as part of the royal tradition, so important is Sir Greg. Known for his icy cool demeanor and talent on horseback with a lance, Sir Greg will shoot lances of ice from his hand at any combatant who gets within 10 feet of him. The second statue is of the fabled Larketian war bard Greg the Entertainer (named after Sir Greg by his parents). Known for his fiery passion and spitfire verse, Greg the Entertainer shoots fireballs from his mouth at any combatant that is closer than 10 feet to him. And lastly there is Captain Greg (also named after Sir Greg), the infamous naval captain of this land-locked city-state, who once led Larket’s tiny naval fleet down the Vibrant River to meet and defeat marauders before they reached the Larketian borders. He throws his iconic dancing scimitar at any combatant who encroaches on his 10 foot radius. The scimitar will boomerang back to him after lashing out in a straight, twirling line. The emcee of today’s duel, Franklin Greg Gregson, explains the duel’s rules then shouts, “Fight!”


Duel

GOREHILT™️ half-listens to the emcee and spends most of the time amping himself up and working himself into an adrenaline driven rage state. It's a short trip there. The Arena's energy is intense. As soon as he has the go-ahead, GOREHILT™️ seizes his spear in both hands, gives another bellow, and beats a driving charge toward Kasyr. Tied just beneath the blade of the spear is a crisp white feather, as GOREHILT™️ gathers speed, the lone plume is set aflutter. The jingling half-orc crosses the distance between them with alarming rapidity, and by the time he approaches striking range, Kasyr may have figured out the feather's purpose. As GOREHILT™️ begins waving the flexible spear ahead of him, the feather is a surprisngly potent distraction, a low-tech trick meant to draw Kasyr's eye off the blade's true position and, if all goes according to plan, fool him into misplacing his guard. The spear quivers. The gap closes. GOREHILT'S™️ half-orc adrenaline surges, and as the world slows before him, he judges the instant ripe and thrusts for an opening. He wants it very badly. Wants what? To win? "No," his inner voice coldly concludes as he drives the steel tip deliberately, carefully forward, "I want to see him bleed. Now."


Kasyr found himself staring at GOREHILT™️, as the orc steps into the arena - one eyebrow popping up to emphasize the look of incredulousness that creeps across his expression. "Take it easy on him, she said. ...Right." Even when the trio of statues emerges from the Arena's floor, the sword saint forces himself to stay on target- searching for any sign of ranged implement that the man might be wielding. After a few moments, he seems satisfied nodding to himself before pulling down the goggles that normally perch on his forehead over his eyes. Well, that and adjusting the trenchcoat he's wearing about himself, but the motion comes off as more clumsy than dramatic, thanks to the sling his right arm resides in. It's in this manner that the Kensai waits for his opponent, his left hand clenching and unclenching at his side. Even as the orc thunders across the arena towards his position, the Kensai stands steadfast, his breathes measured, his eyes studious. But it's not the feather that ultimately arrests Kasyr's attention- but rather, that singular violent impulse that seems to well up within his opponent- the sense that some bestial desire had bubbled to the surface, and was now seeking to guide the direction of the spear. As GOREHILT™️ begins his violent thrust, the Kensai's left hand clutches tight- as though seized by some anxious tension. Yet, it serves a purpose- muffling the burgeoning array of sparks he's been building the entirety of his journey. With the distinct pop of air igniting and the burning scent of ozone, that energy is put to use- Though it's the orcs weapon that serves as it's target. Beset by the sudden surge of energy, the tip of the weapon is drawn towards the Kensai’s hand with an irresistible force- turning a stab meant to skewer him into a haphazard graze across his gut that ultimately slams into his coat. Without missing a beat, Kasyr steps forward- praying on a combination of his foes forward momentum, and the tug upon his spear to provide the opening he needs. Specifically as his own forward motion would see him stomping down onto GOREHILT'S™️ right foot, even as the Kensai attempts to drive his still sparking left hand into the rival warriors throat with every bit of force he can muster.


GOREHILT™️ only feels his sense of battle rage deepen as his initial attack is deflected, and magically at that! Bringing cheap wizard tricks to a proper fight is a surefire way to get this guy riled. His vision pulses as he watches the lethal blade skewer coat fabric instead of living flesh. Kasyr grasps his spear, but GOREHILT™️ holds tight and lifts the haft. The Kensai pulls, the punch is thrown. GOREHILT™️ leans in to meet the blow early with the hard crest of his brow. The punch lands before it can fully accelerate, GOREHILT™️ eats the hit like a dollar taco, and the lightning surges to ground around him with alarming impotence. GOREHILT™️ heaves and twists. Like a farmboy with a pitchfork and a haybale, GOREHILT™️ moves to toss the comparatively smaller Kasyr off his spear (by the coattails, as it were) and throw him into range of the nearest statue. It happens to be Sir Greg himself, and should the throw succeed, an icy barrage awaits GOREHILT'S™️ airborne opponent.


Kasyr doesn't even have the time to feel a momentary sense of satisfaction before awareness dawns on him that his well executed ploy fell a bit short of it's desired effect. And though he's already in the process of sliding his weight onto his left leg to draw clear- he's not quick enough to get clear of GOREHILT'S™️ toss. That said- the Kensai is nowhere near as light as the orc may have estimated- courtesy of the mithril mesh and preklek plating that was woven throughout the trenchcoat. Rather then being hurled safely into Sir Greg's Glacial Goring zone, he lands far closer to the periphery. It's enough, at least, to buy him time to roll clear of the initial volley of frozen lances, and drag himself, however painfully, up to his feet. He's harder pressed to outright evade the next volley- instead resigned towards curling up within his trenchcoat as another projectile slams into it's surface, the fresh impact rippling through his form and sending a fresh stinging sensation through the graze in his guts. Yet, once he's recovered, he doesn't retreat, his focus instead settling somewhere between that statue and GOREHILT™️. Something the Kensai makes just a touch easier by deliberately stepping so that he stands between the two. Once more, the scent of ozone ripples through the air- but this time, it's contained within the swordsman's cast- spatters of blood beginning to seep into the fabric as he offers up his own flesh as a catalyst. Seeking to attune himself to the element he wields in order to alter his perceptions and reflexes- if only so that when the next snowy salvo shoots towards him, he's able to weave clear of the projectiles, sending them hurtling towards GOREHILT'S™️ position. At this juncture, Kasyr's tactic is clear- if lightning fails to make an impact on the Orc, he'll send a constant array of icy lances at the man- and steadily fall back towards the statue as much as his enhanced reflexes allow, in order to create an opening.


GOREHILT™️ grunts with exertion as he realizes there's a little more heft to Kasyr than he figured. The throw falls short. "Less distance to cross," the cold voice reminds him, and GOREHILT'S™️ legs are already moving, spear whistling as it rounds toward the Kensai once more. The half-orc shouts another battle cry as begins flexing and warping the spear, again making the blade to dance and the feather to flutter. Ozone fills his mouth and narrow nostrils, and through the adrenaline haze, GOREHILT™️ can watch as the ice lances bend their path midair. More wizard tricks! The spearblade sings as it flickers through the volley of ice to deflect and shatter the frozen lances and clear a path for GOREHILT'S™️ unbroken charge. The throw was short, the spear is long, and Kasyr won't have time for a second volley. As the fragemts of the broken ice lances bounce off his chainmail, GOREHILT™️ closes the last of the gap and drives once more to skewer his opponent through his torso.


Kasyr 's doing his utmost to conserve his energy, and not just due to the manner in which his gut stings with every one of his motions. Much as he wished it were otherwise, he still carries the sickness and weakness brought about by his match with Vexar, and captivity in Larket had not served as a balm. Faced with that, and the unknown qualities of the orc, whom Kasyr was still at a loss for ascertaining what Inks hired him for, his stance had been clear: to avoid overexerting himself, and create an opening. Even now, as his own affinity with electricity devoured the surface tissue of his right arm, turning the sling into an ever darkening hue of red. But the pain is worth it, it helps to keep him focused even when the vestiges of sickness that coursed through him might muddle his mind. GOREHILT'S™️ plumed poker certainly arrests attention, but in the face of the Kensai's years of experience on the battlefield, he's able to keep his attention upon ther pointer end- something which ultimately serves him well when it's driven forward with furious intent. With a surreal-y swift motion, Kasyr's entire body falls backwards, the spear raking a long streak across his stomach and along the side of his neck as he collapses parallel with the ground. But he doesn't fall the entirety of the way. A sliver of something metallic flickers within his grasp, solidifying into a sheathed sword and avoiding the outright collapse of the Kensai- even as a fresh volley of glacial spears fires out from the statue and occupies the space that his torso formerly occupied. Without waiting to see if they impact, he forces himself back into a lurching stand, his motions a fluid blur enabled by the cobwebs of electrical energy coursing through him. His sword's drawn up between himself and GOREHILT™️, and yet it remains still sheathed- even as the temperature behind himself begins to plunge anew, hinting at the start of a fresh barrage. It's with this awareness that the Kensai shunts the entirety of the energy he's built up- not towards GOREHILT™️, nor towards his own reflexes- but instead into his blade, effectively setting off an immense concussive force meant to blow apart his sheathe, and send a storm of metal shrapnel tearing through him at near point blank range. That, and the final glacial volley he predicted, as he teeters off to the left.


GOREHILT™️ knows he can't stay within range of the statue. The sight of Kasyr's opening flesh elates him, and the opposing duelist will see this in GOREHILT'S™️ face, but there's no time to properly enjoy the moment. He points his spear-tip into the ground, where it sticks. The spear bends like a wound spring, catching the half-orc's momentum and reversing it in time to escape Sir Greg's icy volley. What GOREHILT™️ cannot escape, however, is the improvised shotgun that Kasyr's made by shattering his scabbard. Mid-leap, he is peppered by the blast. At first, he's scarcely aware of it, only of a flash and some far away pain, but by the time his feet touch the ground, he knows that fragments have punctured through or slipped through his armor. Does he taste blood? Yes. "Savor it," his inner monologue reminds him, and pride swells within him. Hopefully these wounds scar attractively, but for now, with his warpaint and dark armor, it's hard for the crowd to tell he's even been hit. GOREHILT™️ gathers himself, spins his spear over his head in a taunting flourish, then circles around to swipe at Kasyr in passes, careful to stay out of Sir Greg's range. If he can, he'll hit at the legs and ankles, which are closer, maybe the hamstring if GOREHILT™️ is lucky. Wouldn't it be nice to hobble him?


Winner: Kasyr


Auto-Hit Round

Kasyr 's recovery from his teeter is languid, his movements guided by a grace honed over a career of dueling demagogues, demi-deities and their assorted minions across Lithrydel's battlefields. That GOREHILT™️ has remained so steadfast in the face of that experience is a testament to the orc's prowess, even with the Kensai’s current state- his enduring stamina serving to wear down the Kensai’s endurance, as he's obliged to weave between his onslaught of spear pokes, and the statues ceaseless barrage. Yet, the youths eagerness presents opportunity, as the empathic swordsman can feel the way his enthusiasm and bloodlust flares up with each strike- urging him into further recklessness. It's with that in mind that when GOREHILT™️ next strike winds up, the Kensai allows his right leg to buckle- providing what seems to be an ideal opportunity for the orc to bring a decisive end to the fight. His foes battle-lust is intense enough that Kasyr can feel his vision swim, a roar emerging in his ears as finds himself vicariously experiencing GOREHILT’S™️ imminent victory. But that roar serves to deafen the orc to the desperate hum that emanates from the Kensais lips- from the prayer to Daedria that serves to reinforce his limbs, and numb the pain that had slid through his form. Instead of finding purchase in flesh, GOREHILT’S™️ spear is firmly ensnared within Kasyr’s grasp- and refuses to be pried free when he tugs upon it, unlike his earlier experience with this maneuver. He doesn't get the chance to change up his strategy other, the Kensai's augmented form bursting up into a shoulder tackle that catches the orc by the chest- the metal armour denting inwards and contorting around where the blow impacts, even as Kasyr continues to desperately stride forward, weaving the pair of them away from Sir Greg The Knightlys frigid reception. This impromptu pilgrimage has another destination- one that sees them rushing forward towards Greg the bard, and the warm reception he has in store. After all, whilst GOREHILT’S™️ armour has served as a solid bastion against those lances of ice- they're less adept at preventing the rapid fire way in which his armour begins to heat up with each successive blast of fire that's slammed into it. Especially not when the Kensai culminates his frantic dash by quite literally impacting the orc Into and -through- the statue, so he might endure the raw fiery fury contained within it.


GOREHILT™️ realizes his mistake and, in the thought that follows, realizes this is going to be a rough ride. GOREHILT™️ crashes through the statue and emerges from the other side in a fiery streak. Blazing plumes billow sluggishly after him as the orc darts darts like a meteor into the stands. A vendor's cart breaks his fall. The last thing GOREHILT™️ will remember is being smothered in hot sausage, steamed buns, and condiments. "Not a bad way to go," the cold voice distantly echoes as he fades into the deep, black water of unconsciousness. Someone get this man a medic.