Duel:Leoxander v Tiphareth (DD)

Time: 5 September 2011

Location: Kelay Way

Participants: Leoxander vs. Tiphareth

Judges: Daath Eboric, Mahri (mid)

Stakes: Death

Winner: Tiphareth

Tiphareth looks over the lycan as he approaches, laughing slightly to himself, the gravely echos of his otherworldly voice reverberating throughout the area as he speaks. "You've truly made your last mistake dog." Overtones of the final word bounce about for some seconds as the Lichdrow reacts. A single hand is thrust outward, the magical orb of darkness so known from his people falling upon the venue like an obscuring atrous haze. The darkness far larger than any he's formulated in the past, encompassing the entire street and surrounding buildings. Rapidly the Patron lofts into the air, levitating upward at an alarming rate until some 30 feet above the roadway, his eyes burning unseen in the darkness whilst his magical vision pierces the black venue. Adept movements begin from his venerable bones, silently manipulating the vast energies within him, a renewed force about the undead as he'd shuffled of his worn and aged body. A tapestry of arcane force begins building about the area, crackling through the darkness as a wall forms about the lycan's form. Continued gesticulations of Tiphareth's adept hands bring the tapestry into a dome like shape over Leoxander's area before a final thrust of his hand sends the entire structure collapsing upon him. Rushing forth with a force of mystic energy rarely seen within these lands, the evershrinking arcane dome surges toward the lycan, attempting to crush the man with an unmistakable blast of concussive force.

Leoxander approached easily enough. Another stroll on Kelay, you might call it. But... he'd about damn had it with this war. This was an effort at 'taking the power back' in a land he never cared to rule. Alpha was alpha, Rynvale or Hive. He'd die with his newfound beliefs, if that was necessary to keep territory for the pack. This arena was nothing strange to the beast's senses, and hearing, sight, sound, they all locked upon his opponent in the crowd at once. If this was one more step closer to Vuryal's end, so be it. Laughter... would go ignored. Battle would begin. It would start like any other symphony, clashes and clangs, something to catch the attention. Drow... Lycan, magic... as expected. It was the one thing he didn't necessary have power or defense to. But was the haze serious? This was a wolf, a nocturnal creature a fog filled forest, and this was one of his greatest hunting assets, this so-called 'haze'. How would Tiphareth know exactly where such a comfortable, feral creature could exist in that blur? He might not, for as he formed this magical spell blades were already produced and splicing from the darkness like crescent missiles - one, two... three, from the six at his ribs, thrown at a thirty foot radius as sharply as he'd fire arrows. He was already moved from that 'frontal' area before the drow might concoct his spell. Now he'd be on defense, rapidly, against the ranged, physical attempt. Aimed precisely for: throat, groin, kneecap. If any of that concussive force hit, he'd hear a grunt from an entirely different direction as aimed.

Tiphareth looks onward with disgust as the rapidly moving lycan evades his best efforts, though even moreso angered by the blades rushing forth toward him. Having moved upwards from his former position, the first couple blades, aimed for his knees and groin, miss entirely as he'd lofted upward, though the third blade meets firmly with the left leg of the Patron's form, penetrating his flesh with a sickening rip before sticking into the bone beneath. As with any undead, the Lichdrow felt no pain and the man's attempted attack was rather humorous, though no chuckle was released, only increased intensity upon the battle at hand. A singular flourish of his hand sends the newly crafted Xalious wood stave suddenly into his grasp, the Eldermage levitating slowly to the side as he moves away from Leoxander's location. The arborous implement is leveled upon the lycan's ever-moving position, finding it rather difficult to track the speedy foe he falls back upon one of his favored castings. Spinning the stave within his deft grasp, a short utterance spills from the mage, causing both ends of the magical object to glow with a veridian hue. The tip is suddenly stopped as it aims toward the ground, releasing the transmutational energy into the earth below as it's rapidly mutated into a vast pool of thick mud some three feet in depth. Only moments are allowed for the lycan to descend into the mire before the but of the Xalious wood relinquishes it's enchantment as the mud returns to its formerly solid form. Two swipes of his wand send arc shaped bands of arcane force rushing toward the lycan's position, hopefully meeting with flesh and rending body in two.

Leoxander had his speed, if nothing else. The rogue's greatest attribute would be his quickness, in this fight, in any other. Combined with the pissed off nature of a lycanthope, very well lethal, but he'd not take that secondary form until necessary. Equally lethal is his human form, which, in this time Tiphareth has taken to acquire a weapon - Leoxander has acquired one of his own. As the drow might look, the Lycan might grin, gnomish firestarter device drawn from pocket to spark into a light that might cause the dark skinned elf to flinch, just a bit. Who knew. The enchantment would unleash, undoubtedly, but so would a fire ended arrow that was aimed from the drawn, metal woven strings of the compound bow he'd had on those person. Given his defense in Rynvale, these arrows were tipped in sticky sap and ready, and that Arcane force would likely not even intercept the flawless aim of cross tipped barb toward the center of his opponent's body, even as he had to realize, right after, he was attacked, too. Not with mere fire bolts, but that vulnerability to magic he could so narrowly escape. A press of the traction in his 'well-gripped' boots meant to send him sprinting, but as those 'forces' of magic hit the ground he'd be tumbling from their impact, not quite rendered in two but perhaps singed at the edges.

Tiphareth curses under his breath, the slippery foe had indeed once again escaped his trap and attempted strike, this could not stand. Looking down upon the situation, the Lichdrow notes as the lycan sets the arrow ablaze and launches it in his direction, unaware of how the man had ascertained his possition so adeptly, the Eldermage glares onward at the approaching bold. A palm aimed outward, he chants a short incantation setting the arrows blaze into a fiery inferno, its size and turbulence having completely consumed the arrow within moments after its departure from the string, the metal tip of the arrow arches upward and falls harmlessly some feet below the Lich's form without the increased enertia of the arrow. Growing angry at the lycan's continued resistance to his attacks, the energy builds within him, gathering within his chest as he utters a sereis of arcane summonations, gripping his staff with increassing pressure he directs the energy suddeenly onto the ground some feet from the lycan's area. A small portal seems to open within the earthen path, out from the enchanted hole comes pouring a bevy of scorpion like creatures. A final shout emerges from the Eldermage, shaking the buildings with stentorian force, as the sumonations rush to surround the lycan, stinging tails dripping with an unnatural toxin as they threaten to pierce his flesh.

Leoxander meant to end this. It wasn't as though he hadn't warned the Eldermage, before. Casualties in wars were casualties, be it wolf blooded body or dark elf. If only the Parasite would fight his own battles, perhaps Tiphareth and Leoxander would be splitting a bottle of rum, rather than feuding in the streets. Such was, sadly, not the case. Magic took moments, and in those moments Leoxander was watching his hovering chanting enemy the whole while, a little annoyed with his arrogance. Who the hell did he think he was fighting? Leo took that borrowed time for summoning to grab the grenade Jolie had leant him for the time lord, as it seemed no better time than now to take advantage of the Naphtha she'd offered. Ten grand a pop, and yet he threw it down like it was a ceremonial wedding glass, shattering it not far from his feet. That same firestarting device would be sacrificed, once again, to the fray, for an eruption of flame that might keep those poisonous creatures at bay for the time it would take him to grab one of those precious, wickedly curved, dragon forged blades from his belt. They wouldn't so typically hold fire if not for the fact he stooped to drag it in that hour-burning fuel, catching the lengthy knife aflame, before he would chuck it violently in a boomerang arch for Tiphareth's throat. True. He'd have those creatures to deal with when the fire should subside, or perhaps when they circled 'round, but he seemed to have a certain affinity for that hellflame that the Kit Vampire had invoked. It hardly phased him, as it would the arachnids and drow.

Tiphareth grimaces as the man once again fails to fall to his attacks, he was growing more weary with each passing moment of this battle and indeed wished its eminent end. Though as his ire had been raised, so too did Leoxander thrust the blade with astounding strength in this direction. The fires blaze with increasing fury as the blade nears with each passing moment, the newly formed Lich now eager to test the strength of his unholy bones. Both arms are places before his visage in a shielding motion, the sword coming with perfect aim to meet direction at the location of his forearms, snaps of sinew and muscles may be heard along with the sicking sound of blade meeting bone. Set deeply into the Lichdrow's arm, the sword crosses his bones in a T shape. Dropping the newly adorned arm to his side, Tiphareth looks down at the weapon embedded into his flesh. "How quaint."

Tiphareth's Autokill Post

Leoxander hit the street, then, hard. He did not move.

Leoxander was overwhelmed by a pile of scorpions.

Tiphareth floats amidst the air, flames licking about his form, charring the undead flesh which hangs loosely upon him. A short incantation sends the fire squelching with a hiss as he lowers himself to the ground. He had grown weary of this battle, and it needed to end, now... There would be no more 'playing'. A swipe of his hand sends the magical orb of darkness out of view, restoring the moon-glow once more upon the streets of Kelay. Arms spread wide with palms faced forward, he suddenly clasps them together with a rapid movement as sticky webs of spider silk rush outward from a number of unseen locations. Rushing forward to ensnare the speedy lycan, the Patron finally has his chance to keep Leoxander in place within the unyielding web. Unholy steps upon the soft soil bring him ever closer to the lycan as he ignores everyone and everything within the area, extending his hand to place his now-charred hand upon the pirate's forehead. The darkened aura of pure evil seems to thicken and grow upon his contact with the man's flesh as Tiphareth issues a laugh which echoes through the forest. Decay begins to appear upon Leoxander's flesh, holes of rot spreading with each passing moment as the touch of death claims more of the lycan's life force. Finally, Leoxander's skin takes on a blackened hue, shriveling with desiccation before the Eldermage releases his grasp. It is unknown what is to happen with the man's soul, but his life has most assuredly been drained by the unholy Lichdrow.