Duel:Lirithen vs Thamior

Judges: Arien, Kasyr

Winner: Lirithen

Stakes: Pride.

Location: Larket Arena

Thamior allows his hands to rest at his side. Idle they may be, but a surge of blood begins to wash through them as a raging river. Keen elven eyes are seated upon the subject of the battle, Lirithen. To conjure up thoughts of the opponent inspires his blood to rush in quicker torrents, seemingly boiling under the seething emotion struck up as the pre-fight thoughts of Thamior begin to drain. Slender feet carry his frail form in a small side to side motion as the elf continues to size up his opponent. Beads of sweat begin to form on jade tinted skin as bony fingers wrap around his bow. The chance of a successful blow would be high, if his opponent was bound and held still. Regardless, a distraction would be necessary. Air tainted by the heat of both bodies and sun and caked with the grime of a light wind draws in a quick burst to fill Thamior's lungs as his arms spring up. Motion fluid with practice trains an arrow on Lirithen, released with slightly skewed accuracy but speed unmatched by mortal strides. Casting the bow aside as soon as the rogue projectile begins its journey, the small frame of the elf begins to race towards his opponent. Archery is certainly a strength of his opponent, hues the color of leaves scanning for any motion to alert the charging body towards such a danger, shield weighing heavily on his arm should he need it. Within 20 strides now, and closing fast, Thamior releases a dagger from his belt, the blade whining as it is ripped from slumber. Eager to draw blood the elf grits his teeth as instead of thrusting his dagger he raises his shield in a rush. In an attempt to unbalance his opponent the elf's shoulder is also dropped, his opposite hand ready to find warrant for striking at exposed flesh should Lirithen's moves be without grace.

Lirithen stood unarmed, for the moment, emerald gaze latched firmly upon his present quarry. Pale brows furrowed in contemplation of the bow as it was drawn, legs bent slightly at the knee and tensed, ready to enact whatever lithe evasion would be needed to avoid the oncoming projectile. The 'twang' of the bowstring kissed keen elven hearing and the ranger was thrown into his theatrical display of beloved acrobatics, hands held high over his head as the elf's spine was suddenly subjected to an uncomfortable bend. Tensed legs released, a firm kick off the dusty ground sending the nimble male backwards as palms planted securely on the ground to steady his vaulting weight. The arrow passed harmlessly overhead, Lirithen emerging from his agile backflip into a crouch, where a hand slipped into one of the many pouches upon the slim leggings of dark leather that shielded his legs. Thamior was almost upon him, so the ranger's silver-haired head ducked off to the side, followed by the rest of his body in enactment of swift sideways roll, bringing the tree-born elf, unharmed, to rise from the floor and pursue the target of Thamior's exposed back. The hand emerged from it's pocket sheath, fingers clutched around the handle of a weighted throwing knife, sent careening forward with a calculated flick of Lirithen's wrist, followed by another, and another, plucked from concealed sheaths upon the ranger's thighs. Each had a specific target, the first aimed to pierce the rear of Thamior's neck, the second to embed in the small of his back, and the third aimed for the rear of the abdomen, just above the rival elf's behind, to rent through his left kidney. 'Twas worth noting that runes etched carefully along the blade of each knife enabled Lirithen to activate swift enchantments, each thrown projectile cackling with electricity as it sailed to meet it's target, electricity that would burst from the point of impact and short-circuit the surrounding nerves, causing further agony.

Thamior closes his eyes as he nears impact, an amateur move he would note in hindsight. With keen sense for depth he realizes his target must have vanished as there was no thunderous impact. Having missed his mark his balance is now skewed, tangling legs as prayers silently shoot to his toned legs to right themselves. Luck seemed to come in abundance for the elf, as he stumbled the dark chain coif providing protection for silver lockes caused his head to dip, evading entirely the first blade without even understanding the threat. Now halted, he begins to turn around, waving his shield in an arc to speed the spin. Thamior's breath is caught short and his eyes coat themselves with the sense of danger as dagger sear through the air towards him. Not able to react in time, the first deflects off of the drow-chain of the back of his midsection. A shower as bountiful as spring rains darkened chain in all directions, the elf now falling forward as his nerves explode with pain not likened to a blade. The third dagger clips the edge of his shield and falters in its aim. With a sound muffled by the well trodden dirt of the arena, Thamior lays in a heap on the ground. Furious, now, that his armor has been the first to be struck he swallows hard the bitter taste of failed initiative, along with sweat stained dirt. Taking note of the familiar reflection of sunlight on a partially hidden coin from an earlier fight, slender fingers reach out to grab a handful of dirt, the coin held within. In an act of desperation he throws the dirt towards the eyes of his opponent, hoping him to perceive it only as a low blow, disregarding the coin now parting air towards him. Full with the appetite for marring the flesh of his opponent, Thamior jettisons his shield, opting for added agility as in a roll to get up his small blade is cast in a short arc towards Lirithen. If all goes according to the devious plan his opponent will step back from the throw dust and coin, his Achilles falling victim to a short dagger waiting in ambush. Failure, however, would result in quite the predicament for the near prone Thamior.

Lirithen's arm raised instinctively to shield green orbs from the oncoming handful of sand grains, the tiny specks serving only to sprinkle harmlessly along the surface of the armoured garment as the elf took an accompanying step-backwards, the coin colliding flatly and uselessly against the mithril plates that adorned the sleeve of the male's coat. Thamior was seen darting forward, frightfully close as it were, though not close enough for evasion to be fully out of the question for this most agile of beings. A hand leapt forward to grapple at the wrist behind the oncoming blade, Lirithen releasing a bent knee in upwards propulsion of his form, teeth gnashed tightly to help still his shaking hands. If all proved well, the elf would vault, steadied by his grip upon the Thamior's arm and the momentum of the rival elf's charge, clean over the head of present foe, once more avoiding an attack without penalty. A knee surged forward, aimed to collide with the gap in Thamior's chainmail and send the wraithbane tumbling to the ground while Lirithen landed with both feet firmly on the floor. Upon his downed opponent he would dive, after dipping both fair hands into his coat to retrieve, from their respected concealed sheathes within the coat's flaps, two silver hand-sickles, curved points gleaming evilly in the day's bright sunlight. Thamior's rear he would once again strike, blades careening downwards intent on renting two deep, long wounds from shoulder to hip, carving through chainmail ringlets, flesh, bone and organ alike.

Thamior hears coin rebound fruitlessly of armor, though not dismayed as his assault continues. A moment of long serenity culls the focused mind of Thamior as time grows slow. His opponent seems to be all about him, far exceeding the speed of his own form. As his silhouette forces itself to the ground, now fully prone yet not placid, the crowd begins to roar with excitement. He lays on the ground, if only for a moment, ears flushed with roars of those whose fight this was not. Thinking of how pathetic they must view him caked in dirt, ivory begins to grind ivory as rage now replaces the planned movements of the elf. His dagger is left on the ground as boiling blood mixes with adrenaline to form a dangerous cocktail, spurning the elf to spin and vault himself up in contest to his opponent. Dipping to one side to avoid fighting two sickles both sets of thin fingers guide themselves towards Lirithen's left hand. As a metallic medley of loose chainmail begins to drown out the crowd as the two are locked in a deadly dance his opponents wrist is grabbed. Where wit is outmatched by speed, perhaps pure strength will trump and prove decisive. Having not fully articulated the angle of his body Thamior's upper thigh is struck hard by the untended sickle of Lirithen. A glorious sanguine waterfall began to weave and drip down the uncovered chain of Thamior. Beautiful it would be if he saw it, but adrenaline now lit ablaze Thamior holds the opposite blade at bay with one hand, his free hand stripping itself from the grapple, conjuring an arrow of pure magic by ways of a common cantrip well practiced by the elf. Now holding the shaft in the middle and between the guard of Lirithen's other arm a well placed thrust of the arrow would put its arcane tip through his throat. Only the rage of a barbarian could match the tenacity that sat upon Thamior's features as his gambit set forth.

Lirithen yelled in surprise as gauntleted fingers clasped tightly around his wrist, the inherent racial agility of the rival party having been forgotten. The sickles fell as his hands burst open to allow fingers the free movement they needed in the face of this sudden assault, each long digit extending to bend and curl around the wrist of the rival who bore down upon him, just as magic surged around Thamior's hand and the arrow began to form. Noting the severity of the situation, and the superior physical strength of his quarry, the ranger was forced to resort to drastic acrobatics to avoid the skewering the wraithbane was intent on delivering. Thamior's arm was yanked downwards as Lirithen dived on the floor, long legs lashing outwards to plant both feet firmly into the abdomen of the opposing man. Shoulders tensed as the ranger threw his weight over his head, aiming to send Thamior travelling with the momentum from Lirithen's legs and send the armoured elf over the tree-born's pale-haired head, where the wraithbane would once again be on the floor, this time on his back. The opposing male's assault wasn't completely fruitless, the head of the conjured arrow dragged through mithril plating and leather alike to rent a deep gash along the length of Lirithen's chest, and when the nimble tree-born rolled onto his side and rose into a crouch it was with an agonized gasp as pain shot from the wound. Adrenaline fuelled the pumping of long legs, stilling slightly the stabbing ache that welled with furious step of Lirithen's frenzied charge, hoping to catch Thamior off-guard in mid rise. No blades assisted this next assault, the tree-born's own body enacted the accurate strikes; one leg sent in a wide arc to smash the heel of an ebony boot against the armoured silvan's face, followed both flat palms as they dove down to chop both sides of Thamior's head, specifically aimed for both temples, to cause a quick slide into a short unconsciousness.

Thamior finally finds his mark, though unable to take full bearing on the fruits of his labor. The reaction is quick, however, and wits are now rounded and well worn by a prolonged battle under the sun. It was in the moist recesses of the forest that he felt home, and his muscles now felt the torment of being caught out of this element. Unable to now resist the elaborate actions of his opponent Thamior is flung hard to the ground, flipped seemingly over himself. His nerves prefer to sting rather than sort out the true nature of his injuries as he lands in a heap that they cannot quite sort out. His vision crisses as he sees twin Lirithen's approaching him, his focus regaining itself just in time to shoot his shin towards the incoming kick. The pain of the collateral damage from this defense was keen to tear at him, but he need to persevere to evade the relentless assault of the opposed ranger. Throwing a punch to rob the momentum of one of his opponent's advances Thamior opts to roll the same direction. Landing on all fours a safe distance away, his legs are lengthened as he raises to full stature, seeming now inflated by the emotion and adrenaline coursing through him. The final assault had been avoided, though the remnants of the battle stung throughout his core. 

Knock out:

Lirithen could hardly be blamed for getting carried away. The crowd roared for it, pounded their fists and stamped their feet as they cried for blood. And blood they got... Though not a lot of it. Thamior rose to full posture, only to be cast immediately down to the floor again as the heel of an ebony boot collided squarely with the chin of the battle-weary elf. The aforementioned blood spurted from the man's nose as he descended upon the dusty floor, and men and women cheered in unison, coins, flowers, praise and insults all flung with equal vigour toward the upright ranger, whom gifted the wanting crowd with a few showy bows and flashy flips.