Duel:Leoxander v Thamalys, Match 3 of the 2017 Frostmaw Tournament

Duelists: Leoxander vs Thamalys
Duel: Traditional 3 rounds with final defense, 15 minute posting limit
Stakes: Auto-hit to the winner
Judges: Sabrina, Hildegarde, and Kreekitaka

Scent of Night Blossoms

Leoxander stepped into the area along the path with a slow look around the fog filled scene. A glance was given to the brightly dressed woman at his side, and he reassured Eleanor with a silent nod before he continued toward the center of this makeshift 'arena' on his own, nocturnal eyes still in some struggle to pierce through the gray mists. A moment was taken as he secured a final knot nonchalantly before holstering those steel crafted knives to his waist, absently tightening the buckle and leather strap that harnessed several more thin throwing blades to his lower back and ribs. The heavy, obsidian compound bow on his back was shrugged free for now, due to be placed not too far aside, reinforcing his agility and dexterity in collaboration with the dark leather that would not hinder his movement. An exhale of heated breath made itself visible in the cold before a black mask was drawn up to his nose, concealing the lower half of his face which sported an usual half shaved style, his black color theme assisting to conceal if the darkness within that tunnel remained. With a tilt of his skull to audibly crack the bones in his neck and upper spine, Leo fastened black, fingerless gloves into fit across his palms and wrists.

Thamalys stood tall right in the middle of a soaking patch of murk, two steps only away from the northern entrance, a willowy shape embroidered with a knotty mass of feathers as well as a collection of various metals - a most ungraceful sight indeed. And yet, when he stirred two footsteps to the right - rather close now to that queer cherry tree so out of the sodding place - as if trying to find his balance against the pressing fog, one could have noticed an odd elegance in the way his body seemed to move effortlessly across the frosty ground. He inhaled, avidly, the soft scent exhuming from the unworldly lawn, a broad grin surfacing on that bony, tattooed face at the thought of being about to shatter that almost holy quiet. Lazily, he lifted his head, a cascade of rather untidy ivory braids falling on his shoulders, two solid blue eyes nested into impossibly sharp features, painted, tainted even with the spiralling patterns of ivy-shaped tattoos, covering most of his skin from head to toe. There he was. “Leoxander, I believe?” he inquired in a deep - if rather loud - tone, the slender shapes of the Lycan mingling with those of the many statues near the fulcrum of that dark arena. A proper bow followed shortly after. The Spellblade did care about manners after all, although, apparently, not that much about his attire: yes, some mithril would have loved to shine here and there, legs, cuffs and chest included, and yet on top of that flimsy armour he wore the most badly battered leather pants - possibly black, once - one could have possibly imagined, torn, soiled, whole strips of fabric literally falling to pieces. The shirt hanging on his chest and shoulders was equally awful, with sizeable stains of crimson - blood? - to defile the white silk of the garment. Why on Hollow he opted for such an outfit, it remained to be seen. Quite clearly noticeable, though, was the towering shape of a queer pike the Blue presently freed from a tangle of laces running across his back. Taller than the Avian - which is to say something, the winged creature boasting some 6’8’’ of feathery slenderness - the Gossamer Halberd flashed into the frosty air with an ominous gleam, not too dissimilar from the shade of silver that oddly seemed to radiate from each an every one of the feathers perching from his wings, now neatly furled. “ Shall we?” he began, consequently planting the long weapon into the ground, the hard soil giving way like butter upon the cut of a scorching knife.

Leoxander 's well gripped boots just barely crunched the snow as he approached Thamalys, but he made no real effort to quiet the sound, yet. He did not return any such formal bow, but there was only what came as a natural glare with no true animosity in his stare as he took in the tall, slender frame of the winged man. His covered jaw lifted in acknowledgement to the words but the rogue himself chose to remain silent. Not only was it his given nature, but particularly in the midst of concentration or even uncertainty, it was habit for Leo not to speak a word. Something of a half-assed salute was his only means of wishing his competitor well before he backtracked to return some space between them. Not much. Blue eyes veiled by blond so thickly that it was a wonder the pirate could see scanned from the business end of the heavy polearm, across feathered appendages that looked large enough to allow flight, down his barely armored form to the place where he stood upon (assumedly) bare feet. Hands flexed at his side to keep his fingers warm in the frigid environment, but possibly in a disadvantage, the lycanthrope was practically steaming at the shoulders for his hot-blooded curse.

The Duel Begins

Leone said, "Welcome to the sixth annual Titans of Winter Tournament! Here we gather where the Frostmaw shamans have molded and shaped this area, altering the original state into some fresh hell. The garden is relatively peaceful, left unmolested by the tribesmen in homage to the soul who built it. The statues, however, have become possessed. Though they remain attached to their bases by one limb, the animals of all shapes and sizes are alive! They growl, snap and claw as soon as anyone is within sight, straining at their proverbial leashes to get their jaws around whomever dares to wander near enough."

Thamalys raised both eyebrows while witnessing the stubborn silence of the steaming Lycan, lips pouting into a rather annoyed expression - but then, he could not even guess the whole extent of that shadowy face. Instead, he let the unnatural quiet of the creepy lane filling the space, the air, to some measure his whole self, recruiting mind and muscles, reason as well as tendons, his focus only to be badly broken by the stony sentinels coming into life. “By the Wind…” he yelled, sprinting toward the northern entrance of the tunnel, as far away as possible from the deadly circus performing nearby. Panting already, the unexpected twist having taken him quite off guard, he would have tried to regain his stance, his eyes pinpointing the Lone Wolf as well as the madly twitching animals dancing into the shadows. Far away enough - for now. “Well then…” he begun, a split second after closing his eyes, bringing both arms along his body, a worrying number of droplets of liquid blue fire dripping already from the ink on his hands, his thin, grey lips intent to mutter with inordinate precision a spell he hoped his broken mind would have recalled well enough. Then, without further ado, he reopened those pits of solid deep blue, nailing his gaze upon the Lycan an instant before throwing both arms up into the air, two arcs painting in the frigid ether. Accordingly, a pair of huge gushes of blue fire would have blossomed from his hands, magnificent flowers on top of those at his bare feet, connecting with the ground and proceeding fast toward the shadowy features of the Lone Wolf. He would have aimed for the two spurts to cross right where his opponent stood, but his splintered memories - or was it the nefarious influence of that place of gloomy shadows? - took their toll once more. Only one of the two flaming strips - the one originated from the Spellblade’s right hand - would have seemed to get going squarely and true. The other, much to the disappointment - and an hint of shame? - of the Avian, would have gone astray, smashing against a dragon-shaped statue eagerly ambling toward the Blue. Less than an instant, and even the cold, frigid stone was set ablaze, a dreadful torch now running cluelessly across the cobblestones - adding some more chaos to the not-so-merry mob. “Getting old…” he would have groaned within clenched teeth, with his right hand swiftly fetching a coil of what seemed to be a sort of spiky rope hanging from his belt. In the meantime, the colourful magic of the Blue would have gained ground, the flames eagerly pointing toward Leoxander now shaping themselves as a whole variety of birds of prey, as if the whole of the fire was anticipating some dreadful feast.

Leoxander should have bloody known that dragon statue at an uncomfortable distance would start snapping his way. But not a second after life sprung into the basalt stone, he was forced to focus on his truly living opponent. In the murky atmosphere, the charging spell dripping a distinct glow from hands might as well have been a target symbol. And rather than race through the center isle to get farther away from those stone creatures, he rushed to the side between two of them, dodging any snap or swing in order to use them to his advantage. Hopefully his timing was just right that the fire splicing across the ground would connect with the base of one of the basalt beasts as he sprinted by, bow swill in hand, and an arrow from the quicker on his back swiftly drawn and knocked onto wire enforced string on his compound bow. Unfortunately for the rogue, the destruction of not one but two traveling magics did not seem to disintegrate them, but instead burst into fiery birds ready to seek and destroy. He had the time to release one arrow, which aimed precisely for one of the spellblade's bare feet, slicing through the air and hopefully landing to pin him to the spot, at least temporarily. Then he had to drop that ranged, obdisian weapon and collect 3 of several throwing blades, lashing his arm at the sky to see if any of those blades would disperse of the blue fire birds coming toward him. All the while, he remained on the move, ducking, twisting, avoiding the flail of stone arms in order to get into close range of the magic crafter and his heavy weapon. Already, another intricately shaped throwing knife was finding it's way into his grip, but he did not release it, yet. And did not yet look back to see if those flame-avians were still chasing his winding path.

Chekhu slips in quietly and takes a seat someplace out of the way, but with an easy view of the action in and near the garden. Her nose is nearly overwhelmed by all the scents from the peculiar flowers, and her head keeps bobbing to and fro as if she is scanning for something. Her vulpine ears are constantly twitching.

Thamalys had very little time to judge the effect of his own spell, the above mentioned dragon-now-set-ablaze presently leaping toward the Avian, a mass of of ancient stone with the sole intent of mauling and chewing. Even more importantly, the Blue did not even see that arrow making his way toward him, the thin forms of wood and metal lost into the chaos halfway between darkness and fog. He placed the whip resting in his right hand into the left one now, ready to make his way toward his taller weapon, but he had to freeze his first stride, an unbearable pain building into his ankle, there where the Lycan’s pointy gift found flesh and bones. He howled, a primal cry of pain not so dissimilar from the call of a wolf indeed, his tall shapes bending and twisting. Yet, he had to force himself to move before he was too late. Limping through stone and mist the got hold of the Gossamer Halberd, still standing tall there where he left it. The bloody dragon happily chased, at least till the blade of the Blue, swung from left to right, the whole body of the Avian following while pivoting on his heels, connected with his face. The loudest clash precipitated the scene into yet another degree of confusion, stony fragments as large as human fists crumbling on the ground, a beheaded flaming dragon still keen on tearing the duelist apart. His weight oddly distributed to his feet now, the deep wound already claiming some blood, the Spellblade held the whip high above his head, a single word in a forgotten language whispering to the mist. Suddenly, the spiky leather disappeared from the sight of each and everyone, stony statues included. Satisfied, and spotting the impossibly quick shape of the Lone Wolf darting here and there across the arena, the Avian would have waited till the mad circus would have brought the Lycan as close to him as possible - he did not need very much. Then, with a single, fluid move of his left wrist, he called the deadly whip, perfectly invisible, into action. Invisible, but not silent, that much he could not accomplish. The smooth piece of weapon would have elongated softly to try and loop around a leg - why, maybe even two? - of the Lycan, unseen, and yet a loud hiss would have still been heard - at least from ears keen enough. Clenched teeth, now, he did not even dare to look at his left foot, most likely reduced to a messy mass of bloody flesh. He could feels the arrow brushing against his bone, an horrid sound, so far away from the soft chanting of the whip skilfully aimed at the darting features of the Lone Wolf.

Leoxander was somewhat illuminated from his dark, camouflaged shape by the scattering of stone on fire, but he rushed forward with his intention. The blade in Leo's hand wasn't anything exceptional, but it was unique in it's craftsmanship. A curved, barbed peak and a weighted base to grip, almost resembling a sharp, handheld anchor in it's shape. Earlier, so very subtly, he had knotted a sturdy rope to it's end with a technique worthy of keeping sails stable against the force of ocean winds. That particular weapon was already free from his belt as he closed in on Thamalys' somewhat crippled position. Just as a crack rendered through the air, Leo threw it with the force of a harpoon at the left half of Thamalys' upper torso, aimed somewhere between shoulder and chest. The unexpected bonus to this weapon, whether it struck and latched into the avian's body, wing, or both, or his aim was thrown off by the fact that his leg was now tethered by a biting whip, a miss would more than likely still dig the barbed blade into moss or stone. And Leo had been rushing for the avian's right. He was caught either way, and tripped hard and tumbled over stone and dirt with a grunt of pain, temporarily dazed, but due to the fact he was connected to the other end of that rope, it had the possibility of either clotheslining the spellblade backward violently. Or, given the chance, a handful of that rope could be tightened and wound in grip from his position on the ground, to jerk his opponent off his feet by a successful impale like a shark on a hook.

Thamalys was desperately trying to make sense of the throng. How exactly some dire souls could have mustered the courage to witness the duel, he was beyond him - he thought for a split second while eyeing some evanescent figures calmly sitting - and even chewing something, the cheek of it! - in the distance, far away enough from the kernel of the action. A loud crack, though, brought him back to that rather crowded corridor, the moment his whip embraced the leg of the Lycan. He would have laughed, if only yet another deadly dart was not flying toward him already. He actually thought he saw that coming, and to a certain extent he did indeed. What he completely underestimated, though, was the formidable speed of the Lone Wolf, against which he found himself close to useless. “How in the sodding, murky heck…” he not so politely moaned while lowering himself on one knee, at the very same time outstretching those huge wings and in a split second arching them forward, ahead of his own body, their tips pointing downward, most of the extent of that silvery curtains enveloping already the squatted shapes of the Spellblade. A sharp pain, on top of that steadily crushing his ankle, surfaced into his shoulders, loudly protesting against that dire move, but it was probably worth it: the queer blade of the Lycan flew quick and true enough despite the Rogue was thrown off balance by the sturdy grip of the Avian’s whip. With a shrieking sound, the metal slammed against the silver-painted feathers, as if the weapon connected with some odd metallic surface, actual sparks blossoming into the misty air. For a moment, the Blue thought he saved himself from the dire attempt of the Lone Wolf, the Witchy craft of Artia, painstakingly applied on each and every feather in the form of an hardening oil, having so neatly rebuked that blade - an instant too late, though. Catching the very rim of his wing, the barbed peak bounced in and within the feathery cocoon, finding no less than his right eye first, his shoulder shortly after. The blow was nearly enough to make it faint on the spot. He did not even have the strength to yell, he just let go of the halberd - not of the whip, though, that one he badly needed. Presently, he rose to his feet, mad with anger and pain, the whole of his body now absolutely ablaze, actual spikes protruding from the ink covering his skin, his eyes turned solid gold, albeit one had quite a shade of crimson given the deed of the adversary. So much for his decadent attire - here was the reason why. Thus, the Blue let go of a feral roar while unfolding his wings, limping into the air that much he needed to just glide toward the Lycan, at the same time pulling the whip to aid the move - why, maybe the lone Wolf was pulling his rope as well, the attached metal solidly pinned into the Spellblade shoulder. That immense flaming torch was right on his way toward the Rogue - when the sodding beheaded dragon decided to jump into the mix. In an awful tangle of rope, whip, feathers and blades, the flaming Avian and stony statue would have plummeted toward the Lycan, in the attempt to bury the latter into a wall of scorching fire.

Leoxander had to abruptly dodge away as he barely caught sight of a basalt stone fist dropping down like a guillotine for his skull, avoiding a leaking fracture just in time. He managed to roll right into a piece of statue still licked with those spellblade's flames and a half snarl, half yell of pain escaped him, distracted him from getting the more tightly bound leather whip from around his legs. The lycanthrope could not quite help the change that came with those emotions of anger and frustration, as his hands started to slightly rip the knuckles of his gloves and his canine teeth showed a little larger than natural in the sound he made. It was about then he heard that strange roar from his opponent and felt the slack on his legs, not yet unwound, tighten. His left hand instinctively reached for the whip that Thamalys still insistently held, and with the scent of his own burnt hair in the air, eyes that hinted dilated, starburst pupils fixed on the being who took to the air, only to swoop down on him like a bird of prey. Spined or not, Leo's right hand clenched into a hard fist on that leather leash, and along with the descent of that glide, the lycanthrope used his enhanced strength to harshly tug the infuriated avian right down toward him, intending to pummel a sharp, skyward jab right into the center of his face to counter that (attempted) forced descent. It was only seconds later whether the impact landed or not that stone might come crashing down on the both of them. But perhaps Leo would have the advantage of a body to help shield him, even if those spikes impaled his leather and body in several places.

Thamalys was beginning to fade, too much blood flowing away from him in scarlet strips down his ankle and his face as well. What was he doing, trying to burn alive an absolute stranger into some murky pit so far away from the House? He swore to heal, not to maul instead - and yet there he was, engulfing the whole of the Lycan into his colourful magic, pressing, pushing, squeezing. So deep into his mad rage he was, he just would have not cared about whatever blow the Lycan had reserved for him. And yet, that mighty pull he felt crystal clear, the rope shoving toward the Wolf with a strength he never knew. He saw his fist - and could do nothing against it, off balance, wounded, so impossibly tired. He just closed his eyes, the blow hitting his face like a boulder splashing into a pond. A bloody eye he already had, now it was the turn of his nose, presently shattered into a gurgling mass of flesh and blood. His trajectory as whole, though, was true enough to still land on the Lycan, embracing him in fact, moments before their combined weight brought the two duelist down with a mighty thud. Fire, fire everywhere, devouring every single flower, ruining the garden, chewing on the cherry tree like a dog on a bone. If ever hell landed in Hollow, that was close enough. And yet, all of this the Blue barely registered, his eyes closing upon the weight of his tiredness, drained, empty, a single face, nested within a flowing collection of blueish braids, surfacing in his thought before, mustering his last strength, he turned his head to witness the stone falling upon the tow of them. “Oh well…” he just whispered shutting his eyelids, still solidly holding the twitching shapes of the Rogue into his feathery, flaming embrace. Last image before his eyes, while staying himself for the imminent impact, a mad dance of stony animals still queerly bouncing around the tunnel.

Winner: Leoxander

They did not do a winning blow. Both felt that the last post summed it up nicely.