Duel:Mahri v Vornir
Judges: Gunnar, Rikailin (mid), Jerralith
Mahri is a lycan and seems to be a druid. Mahri is wearing black shirt on her body, black-leather-fingerless gloves on her hands, black-leather cuff on her left wrist, black-leather cuff on her right wrist, leather pants on her legs, and black-knee-high boots on her feet. Mahri is unarmed. Mahri is not using a shield. Mahri has grey eyes, light skin, and black hair, and is single.
Vornir is a giant and a paladin. He is wearing Everfrost-Tribal-Full Plate on his body, Everfrost-Tribal-Enchanted Circlet on his head, Black-Ice-Stud on his left ear, Black-Ice-Stud on his right ear, Everfrost-Wyvern-Fang Amulet on his neck, Black-Ice-Shoulder Guards on his shoulders, Everfrost-Tribal-Plated Sleeve on his left arm, Everfrost-Tribal-Plated Sleeve on his right arm, Blue-Iron-Plated Gloves on his hands, Everfrost-Wyvern-Fang Bracer on his left wrist, Everfrost-Wyvern-Fang Bracer on his right wrist, Everfrost-Tribal-Leg Plating on his legs, and Blue-Iron-Plated Boots on his feet. On one of his left fingers, you see Black-Ice-Carved Ring. On one of his right fingers, you see Ring of-the Empire. He is using Axe of-Northern-Winds as a weapon. He is using Everfrost-Bladed-Tower Shield as a shield. He has blue eyes, pale skin, and blonde hair, and is single.
Plateau Overlook
The combination of this high vantage point and the low lands of the wastes give an excellent vantage point at this location. Unfortunately there is precious little to see to the west. The barren wastelands seem to stretch almost to the horizon, dull yellow grass, patches of sun scorched earth and grubby little yellow plants without enough water fill the area with a sickly neglected look as if perhaps this area was once more than it was. Far to the south the city walls of Rynvale can just be made out, a pinnacle of white life amidst the nothingness. To the east and south this rocky plateau appears to continue with rocky winding paths and stinging dust storms.
Vornir Brimirsson approaches the plateau from the north, patrolling out from the Castle Archmosia. The Champion of Frostmaw is truly a sight to behold; radiant armor covers him from his feet all the way up to his neck, the shining, pure white Everfrost that the Frost Giants so favor, while a thick band of it encircles his hulking forehead, engraved with the paladin's emblems. A massive tower shield of the same substance hangs strapped to his left arm, while his right hand grips the handle of a long, coiled whip, the braided, eighteen-foot long lash strangely blue in color, made from the hide of a Frostmare and tipped with jagged fragments of the bones of the same beast. The whole affair is dusted with a light, white coating of enchanted frost, matched by that on the blue-iron blade of Vornir's legendary Axe of Northern Winds, which is currently strapped to his back, the bearded head protruding over one shoulder. This splendorous sight is yet further heightened, for the paladin rides in on nothing less than a bull mammoth, its curled ivory tusks sharpened at the end and painted with bands of blue, the reigns lying slack against its back as it moves slowly forward, quite obviously well-trained. The gargantuan pair seem to almost glow, the wild glory of Aramoth already surrounding his chosen warrior. With a softly murmured word, Vornir calls his beast to a halt, his pale eyes narrowing as they focus in on the lycan woman before him, this trespasser in his liege-lord's lands. Almost casually, he snaps his arm out, causing the lash to uncoil with blinding speed. The weighted ends, with their wicked shards of bone, fly straight at Mahri's face, capable of tearing the very skin from her skull. But even this is not enough for the giant, for whether or not the first strike lands, Brimrisson smoothly flicks his wrist once more, the hump generated by this motion soaring down the length of the leather to snap once more, this time liable to coil tightly around Mahri's neck.
Mahri herself is no stranger to these lands, often hunting them for the hides of beasts and the meat they bring her pack. It is with this in mind that she stalks to olyphant. It is her misfortune that another has found his way here, the stench of the mammoth preceding his arrival. Swiveling her head around to see who it is exactly that approaches, she catches the glimmer of a familiar ring. Silver eyes narrow as the giant dismounts. Instead of idle chatter, he's right down to business. She has only a moments notice before the whip is hurled her way, the whistle of those flayed ends alerting the lycan's preternatural hearing to the danger. Snapping up her left arm, she catches the wrapping end around a leather protected forearm only to be jerked forward with the flick of a thick wrist. Gritting her teeth, the druid plants her feet,leaning backwards to counter any sudden jerks that might yet come while her right hand slides down to grasp the hilt of her dagger, the silver blade brought to the blue-tinted leather to slice through and free her arm. During the interlude, she isn't doing nothing. Her lips move, just barely, offering prayer and askance to the gods of nature to aide her in bringing the giant to his knees. It seems, the archaic words are met with agreement for beneath Vornir's feet, silver green vines rise up, thorns along the stalks dripping with clear liquid as they seek a chink, any tiny opening in his armor with which to gain entrance. Eager, hungry for the taste of flesh, they'll wind their way up, into and over armor if the giant can't break their sinewy hold. Each thorn, upon contact with skin, injects a potent tranquilizer. Not meant to kill, only to sedate.
Vornir, though unprepared for the sudden appearance of foliage in this cracked and desolate plain, is saved in part by his steed. The vines climb the hairy creature's legs, expending much of their poison there. When they reach the frigid armor they slow, the icy temperature retarding their spread. All the while, the mammoth, lowing piteously, sways and falls, the poison overcoming it just as the vines freeze to the giant's boots. Brimirsson attempts to push himself clear, striking the earth with only his left foot stuck beneath the creature's weight, while the whip skids away across the arid earth. With a heave of strength, the Champion kicks himself free, struggling to his feet while he frees his axe form its bindings with practiced ease. Once on his feet, Vornir strides forward, limping heavily on his injured leg. However, despite this, such is the length of his stride that he closes the distance between himself and his foe in a matter of seconds. His shield, now held cautiously in front of his body, proves to be lines with vertical ridges, ground down to sharp blades, while the bottom and sides are sharpened as well. This, then, strikes at the lycan woman first, the tower held at a slight angle, lifted, then thrust down, aimed to take Mahri directly in the chest. Ever the trained and wary soldier, the Champion simultaneously brings his axe around in a low swing, meant to clash against the side of his shield - after passing through his enemy's midriff.
Mahri is probably cursing mentally if not under her breath. With the giant heaving the mammoth off himself and now coming at her, she has to think fast. He is bigger, stronger and with more weapons and armor than she currently has. Going backwards would only give him room to come at her again, and that limp is noted with narrowed eyes as she does the only thing left to her. When the shield goes up, the alpha is ducking and moving forward, twisting her dagger in such a way as to put the blad parallel to her protected wrist. The dagger probably won't even put a dent in the glimmering armor he's protected by, so she doesn't bother to try and use it just yet. First, she needs to make things a bit -uncomfortable. As she passes under the shield, she doesn't quite escape injury. The razor sharp bottom curve slices its way down her back, from shoulder-blade to hip. A gash opens through the shirt and skin, parting a bit of muscle as well. With a cry of pained rage, she tries to get close enough with a burst of speed lent by the virus running in her veins, to place a hand against the armored leg. In that touch, ambient heat is called to, intensified and transfered into the metal so that when she goes past, a print is left melted into the metal. Not being of normal heat and magically embued, it'll spread, increasing in temperature the longer the frost giant kept the armor on. Hopefully this will put the lycan behind her opponent, pivoting on a heel and shifting the dagger so that the tip is held between forefinger and thumb, ready to be thrown at the massive male's trunk the moment it's exposed.
Vornir rears his head back, shattering the air with a howl of rage, a cry to his god, as heat suddenly flares in his injured leg, searing the flesh beneath the armor even as the enchanted ice starts to melt, if only slightly, exarcerbating the pain. Abruptly, the Northern warrior slams his axe against his own leg, penetrating the softened armor to slice the skin beneath, the blood flowing slowly as the chilled axe's enchantment drives the heat away. With this cry and self-sacrifice, Aramoth seems to heed his paladin's call, for a new light seems to shine from beneath the giant's pale skin, flooding him with the mad of the God of War. Even greater strength floods through his limbs, and he cuts the air viciously with the axe, a ecstatic grin splitting his face as he turns to focus in on his small prey. Putting all his weight on his uninjured foot, he swings the other out in a ponderous, yet powerful kick, aiming to slam his heavy, spiked boot into Mahri's chest. Utilizing the burst of divine energy, he continues the motion, propelling himself forward despite the bite of pain shooting up his leg. He swings the axe again, the blood-stained blade aiming to split the woman from shoulder to hip in a diagonal slash through her torso, while the giant shield swings out in a slow arc in an attempt to meet with the scything axe, the frenzy leaving him heedless of his own protection.
Mahri does curse now, and rather inventively. Dancing backwards to avoid the massive boot, she stumbles over the corpse of the mammoth. This might be her lucky day since it saves her from being gutted and suffering only a deep gash across her chest. It'll require stitches to repair and as the blood from both wounds stain the bare ground and fur of the mammoth, she takes her opportunity and draws back the dagger at the same time trying to avoid the wildly swinging ax. Scrambling further backwards, she holds her arm cocked until she has the beasts body between herself and Vornir's rage. If Vornir is wearing facial protection, it's made for a giant, lending reason to her thought that any slits for seeing out of would be larger than normal. Normal for her size anyway. If not, well, she is going to aim the dagger for the same general area. An eye. With held breath, she sends her arm forward from her crouched position behind the mammoth. At the pinacle of the arch, she releases the silver blade, oddly enough not cutting herself with what would have poisoned the lycan. Sucking in each breath, she watches the dagger flip end over end, praying for guidance from what Gods might be listening that it fly true and hit its target.
Vornir stumbles forward as his blows again go wide, the ecstatic fury of Aramoth draining from him as his whole weight lands on his injured leg, the sharp burst of agony tearing an involuntary gasp from his lungs. He stumbles forward, dropping to one knee. Slowly, he begins to climb to his feet again, whien the silver dagger is launched. Luck is on the Champion's side this time, however, for the dagger strikes the edge of his headband, the dull ring of metal on ice sounding clearly as the little blade scores a small nick on his forehead before dropping harmlessly to the ground, leaving Vornir to struggle upright once again, wearily grasping his axe.
Rikailin said, "(OOC: The duel goes to Vornir.)"
Vornir = 7-0