Duel:Krice v Kuzial
Duel Info
- Judges: Tiphareth, Thea, Hector
- Stakes: OOCFC Round 2 Advancement
- Assigned Duel Details: Revenant bards, fighting for the leading role in a play the Theatre is putting on about a revenant's (Rheven) life. The director wants someone who can both fight and act, so the duel is also your audition. Each person has 1 Masterwork, non-magical musical instrument.
- Rd/time: 3rds / 12 min
- Date: 07/24/2012
- Venue: Theatre Stage
- Decision: Kuzial
Venue
Theatre Stage
Kuzial vs Krice
Krice :: Azaezl may have been a Revenant, evil and saturated in an aura of death, but he was alluring. He stood before the officials as a tall, dark, left-of-handsome creature with gaunt bone structure and deep, piercing eyes. He was imposing, enigmatic, and unmistakeably attractive. With a wingspan twice the height of his body, he no doubt prowled the sky with skill and ease. But this was an inside venue, a theatre that imposed the need for decorum, restriction, and etiquiette. Azaezl stood in the middle of the giant seashell with his wings curled around him like a blanket of black, their flexible tips compressed against the floor by his bare feet. Within moments of the director's call to begin, the Revenant unfurled his wings much like the theatre would draw open the curtains on a production's debut; anticipation and excitement building with every inch the leathery membranes gained from their anchors at his shoulder blades. The director would choose him. Azaezl would ensure as much. The opening of those wings revealed his frame, dressed in simple black garb, respectably authoritative and conducive to the image he sought to portray. Tucked between his right elbow and his right hip, and secured in his hand, sat a wooden lyre crafted with contours and curves that not only amplified the sound of the strings but also accentuated his spell, which came forth in the form of smooth, flowing words followed by a slow, poignant flurry of fingertips plucking to the drum-free beat. "It is a tale of a beast, who heralds from the east, and brings with him chaos and death. But under music's spell, which captures him well, he learns contentment and love instead. It seems an unlikely, event that he could have went, from a monster to a man. But let it be known that his fate is sewn to the marching of the band." His melody, ominous and flowing, weaved through the room like a storm without hope, enveloping the hearts of his audience, and hopefully dissuading his foe from pursuing the role that he was so eager to claim.
Kuzial || Gardicus the Fair has been a performer for longer than there have been stars in the sky. His bat-like wings are sprinkled with the glitter of a hundred pixies, ensuring they catch every drop of light and reflect it back in a thousand different shades. And here he was, with a role that is perfect for him. He would not allow his opponent this chance at glory... it would surely be his. So he skips out onto the stage, his movements languidly graceful, and erupts into an eloborate bow, filled with every flourish available, before he brandishes his trusty flute, 'BlowHard'. He plays a small tune, before speaking in a devilishly euphonic voice. "I am Gardicus the Fair, this role will be mine." He smiles a sickeningly sweet smile, before turning to face Azaezl and offering a small nod of his head to the man, before watching him pull forth his lyre and sing the song... Waves of warmth wash through his corrupted body, making him want to reach out and hug this man... to offer him the role... to befriend him, to learn from him... But no! The Revenant bard hears the mistake, and soon puts BlowHard to his lips and begins to play along with the tune, before lowering his instrument and singing in a deep voice, "The beast came from the west, surely not the east; he was not in search of chaos, instead a simple feast. Nor was it music that he heard playing, it was the sweet sound of silence which had him delaying." The bard acts like he is going to continue singing his counter song, before all of a sudden he screams into the theatre's roof, "Alas, he seeks to slay me!" The bard dodges an invisible thrust with all the flourish he can, before stepping forward and bringing BlowHard around in a counter, like it were a sword, right across at Krice's head in a theatrical attack that is more than just acting, fueled as it is by revenant's innate strength, and nefariously aimed for the deceased singer's temple...
Krice Azaezl didn't -make- mistakes. The very word 'mistake' was not one he kept in his vast vocabulary, which had been refined over centuries of existence, let alone something that could hinder his success. Please. Preposterous. As Gardicus sung his counter-song and played with that pretty little flute, the more talented, more handsome, everything-Gardicus-wasn't Azaezl plucked his lyre in accentuation of his opponent's melody, but sought to depress it beneath his interpretation of the song. But then, at once, the atmosphere of his tale hitched with the success of his foe's second attack; the flute hitting him thankfully across the edges of his temple rather than the flesh between. The first attack, the interruption of his music's mood, would not happen a second time. Azaezl produced a whoosh of air across the house when he curled his left wing down, halfway blanketing him from the lights that shone above. He spun with the momentum of his enemy's blow to lessen the impact, though it still bit him. And he had fashioned such an elaborately respectful show for the house. Finding his opponent far more aggressive in this theatre than he had anticipated, Azaezl had no choice but to dispel his image, at least in part, or he would lose for sure. But then again, 'losing' wasn't in his vocabulary either. Strumming his lyre hard like the strings of a guitar, he produced a cacophony of sound; notes hit on point as well as conflicting with one another, heightening the intensity of his story. "You play with fire, Gardicus the fair, hastily approaching your death, which draws near." The lights overhead faded as a shadow swarmed forward from behind Azaezl, curling toward his opponent like a black tsunami... which erupted into blue-tipped flames upon impact. Black, pointed teeth debuted as he lifted his head, releasing an uproarious laugh that further accentuated his tale. He was a beast, a creature of death and malice beneath the music, and this 'Gardicus the fair' saw fit to disrupt his development into the antagonist of the story. This would not do!
Kuzial flails about within the conflagration of fires that Azaezl creates, his emotions changing in heart-beats: first he yells with terrible fury, "You shall not defeat me!" Before he spins a tight pirouette away from the worst of the fires and in a voice far calmer says, "We should not fight, for are we not all equal?" Before, with a cartwheel, made bloody hard by having large sparkly wings, he stands and in a regal voice says, "Nay, fine sir, I do decree, perhaps we should seek an amicable ending to this frustration?" Yeah, he has character depth. The flames themselves are defeated in part by the layers and layers of makeup Gardicus the Fair wears, as well as the innate durability a Revenant has, but with the heat increasing he is forced into spreading his sparkly wings and soaring up from the flames like a rising sun. With a small smile, he stops his flight so he is still in view of the play's director and with BlowHard against his lips he begins to play an increasingly complicated series of notes which fill the air with an almost tangible sense of coming menace. Around and around the tones do dance; twisting amongst themselves, forming into the constant echo of a sound which grows ever more louder as moments pass by. While the tune is being played, Gardicus the Fair begins loudly flap his wings, forming a rhythm with his limbs that mixes with the coming noise - creating at last a wave of music that blows at a single, horrific tone. There is something entirely wrong with the note that rings true... it's effect, if done right, is to cause the sound to grow more and more annoying - a combination of all the terrible noises added together - from nails on chalkboard, to cats fighting in the street - it would try to grate more and more upon Azaezl's nerves as moments pass, hopefully reaching its peak when the role-stealing bard is forced into tearing his own ears off to escape the sound... Luckily, Gardicus the Fair is not so bothered by the noise... he is safe as long as he is the one making it, and the effort required is clear when thin tendrils of smoke begin to float up from his fingers and mix with those coming from his body as they play BlowHard with ever-increasing speed. The crowd is spared from the worst of the noise, though it's safe to say Gardicus the Fiar won't be asked to play his flute in the show, if he can indeed secure the role...
Krice :: Azaezl's black flames swarmed around Gardicus like a flock of vultures, each particle changing direction as he did to follow his undead flesh, picking and gnawing. But the violent bard was apparently no weakling. Azaezl may have been the more impressive and delightful of the two candidates, harbouring prowess far beyond that which Gardicus could ever hope to achieve, but he was no fool. His confidence was not arrogance, and therefore would not be his downfall. Long, solid knees bent as the Revenant descended low to the ground in a fluid collapse of his body, his lyre cradled against his right side and his left fingers tenting on the porcelain floor of the seashell. His flames dispersed and disappeared. Oh Gods, that sound... Gardicus was murdering music in the most delightfully -disgusting- way that music could be murdered; his notes careening through Azaezl's mind like barbed wire coiling swiftly into his every mental orifice. He groaned, the discomfort near unbearable, but his wings lifted at their antebrachial coverts and the primary flight arch of each folded over him, to shield him from the ghastly noise. "Do you see, my good men and women, how filthy be this vermin?" He screeched, strumming his lyre once more. The very air around him reverberated, his instrument's sound rippling into and off of the contours of the theatre. "That he would contort the beauty of music, to the point that his audience becomes -sick-!?" He trembled, but his wings protected him from permanent damage. He would have to put a stop to this. Whilst Gardicus took to the air, Azaezl himself had not the room to do so. As such, he remained anchored to the theatre floor and leapt from the seashell to the stage stairs, his left foot on the topmost level and his right foot two tiers down. Opening his wings into a semi-circle arch around him, the right one bent more so to amplify the sound of his instrument, Azaezl wriggled his fingers vehemently across the strings and sung again, this time a forewarning: "To sing of her name is to unleash her power. Perhaps I should do so, and laugh as you cower?" He breathed, "Validia..." and squinted up at his airborne foe, malice twisting his gaunt face with unseemly wrinkles that, for the first time, showed his age and his benevolence. Validia began to glow with the prominence behind her name, the Revenant's abilities pouring into the instrument and buoyed upward in a long, slow-curving arc of blinding-white light that illuminated the entire area, ridding it of mood-lights and shadow. It seemed harmless at first, and surely was avoidable given its lack of speed, but once the sound surrounding the spell caught wind of Gardicus' comprehension of it, that colourless arc exploded at its tip into rigid needles, soundwaves condensed so tightly that all around them, not a decibel was heard. The needles thrust upward with a simultaneous swing of Azaezl's right arm, the sweep of his lyre directing the weapon of light toward every aspect of Gardicus' body. Including those sparkling wings.
Kuzial || Gardicus the Fair plays as fast as he can, unhearing and unseeing of the other bard's actions as the hideous note rings out. Before he feels within his legs the agony of a thousand wounds. His fingers falter along their path, and the sound begins to fade until it is little more than an echo. The flying Revenant opens his eyes to the remnants of a blinding light that is now assaulting his entire body. Instinctively he brings his wings to his front, using them to defend himself, but this causes a serious problem: the sparkles of a hundred pixie's dust acts to enhance to attack, stopping the bard from reflexing his wings and carrying on his flight. He may have rose like a sun, but he falls faster than a stone, and only stops when his body slams against the hard wood of the theatre's stage. He lays there still for a moment; he is durable, as is all of his race, but the pain from the many small wounds is enough to cause the awakening of the true darkness that lurks within this somewhat girly bard. He feels it rising, flowing from his corrupted body as tangible aura of destruction and desecration; a palpable evil that warns all who are not heroes that the time for locking doors and windows is upon them. He lets the waves wash over the crowd, letting the director know what he can do; the realism of death could well be the cherry upon his play's pie. And finally with an enraged snarl that is in part a flourish and in part a desire to release some of his anger, the vampiric bard pushies himself off the floor launches himself forward. Upon reaching Azaezl he begins to sing the words of his attack, "Claws do come forth to seek your flesh," He slashes his left hand forward, sharp nails aimed at the man's face, hoping to ruin his chances of securing the role further, "As feet swing about to crush you like a pest." With a flap of his wings that sends him back just a touch, the bard flips a tight forward summersault and kicks out with his heel, again aimed to take the fellow bard right in the face, "For though you can dance and apparently sing, this role is mine, you will not win!" With the final word sung, the deceased bard puts BlowHard to his lips and lets forth a final note; freeing some of his darkness into the tone, which causes a wave of force to come forth from the instrument's end; its simple aim to push Azaezl off the stage and ensure only one bard is standing...
Krice :: Azael's head was hurting. Gardicus the Fair's hideous monstrosity of a melody must have dealt him permanent damage after all. He remained crouched as he watched that blinding arc of light pierce through his enemy, and, contrary to his previous disposition, he didn't seem gleeful. Whilst it may have been in the handsome Revenant's interest to be the violent and encompassingly-evil creature that he was, he had come here to secure a role in a play, to extend the touch of his music beyond the screams of both terrified and mesmerized villagers on the outskirts of the great cities. Gardicus the Fair may have suffered injury from the swell of condensed sound and light that emanated from Valida, but Azaezl felt no victory. The atmosphere was changing again, darkening further, and he felt a flutter of uncertainty as the role he had fought so valiantly to secure drifted away from his reach. Dark eyes pierced through the remnants of his most recent blow, which faded the moment Gardicus hit the ground, splattering around their victim like one huge, disintegrating raindrop. Azaezl did not stand at once, perhaps not trusting his mind to communicate efficiently with his legs, but he was forced to act as his foe rushed at him with words of malice and accompanying blows of death. Due to the previous hit of that hideous tune shredding its way through his head, the handsome Revenant was devoid of the heightened speed and strength he needed to fully deflect or avoid the oncoming blows. Gardicus' claws sliced through the left flank of Azaezl's throat as he stood and tilted his head back to avoid the true attack, already-congealed blood thickly oozing from the torn flesh. He growled in discomfort, both due to the most recent blow and the compressing dizziness in his head, but he could not lie down. He -would not- lie down. Azaezl thrust his arms up, threatening the safety of his lyre as he crossed his wrists to catch the brunt of Gardicus' somersaulting kick. Boot hit bone and, despite his formidable size, Azaezl was sent back a few paces, his boots screeching across the polished floor of the theatre. Light flared between his lashes as violence unfurled in his chest, but he forced it at bay. Trembling, he stood where he had stopped and reached his left hand out, fingers slightly limp, to entreat Gardicus. "Let us stop this madness!" he called, cradling his fractured Validia to his unbeating heart. His legs wobbled intermittently under his weight, and his wings drooped elegantly at his sides. "In the best interests of beautiful music, I shall offer you the role of my understudy, in candidness."
Autohit
Kuzial || Gardicus the Fair is not eloquent in victory. His stinging sprinkled wings spread with wild flair; sending shimmers of light dancing throughout the theatre. To his opponent, the bard extends his hand like he will shake it, before sticking his thumb on his nose, poking out his tongue and wiggling his fingers. "Nahh, nahh, nee, naaah, naaaaah." For an ancient vampire Revenant, a Lord amongest other vampires, he is far from mature. A few dance moves later (and even I must say, he's got some good moves), the triumphant revenant jumps in the air and lands in a graceful bow to no-one-in-particular. "Gardicus is Fair is still the most handsome vampire in the land!" What he doesn't know is that the role is best suited for a hideous, untalented Revenant - it is Rheven they are probably playing after all - but nevertheless! He will have his moment in the sun as his opponent is asked whether he will be Gardicus' understudy.