Duel:Maiat v Xzarren
Location: Main Graveyard in Vailkrin
Stakes: Autohit
Judges: Redovian, Oohjmaeyik(Thank God I wrote that name down on notepad), and whoever was the last judge can edit this.
Maiat softly tilted his head up a little to stare at the perpetual dark sky of Vailkrin. It always seemed to draw the kids curiosity, his hood was up on the hoodie he had on. It slightly obscured his vision, but it didn't keep him from seeing his... Enemy, he didn't know why, but something drew him to a fight with the man. He shrugged it off, knowing he had to do as he was always instructed. He flicked his wrist up raising his weapon to chest level, arm fully extended in front of him, the blade catching the moonlight. With the tip aimed at the man no less then twenty feet from him, the shadows shifted around the kids feet. His soft voice drew out, but with the silence of the cemetery it could have been thunder. " Fulmen, " lightning shimmered on the metal of the blade for a moment, from spike to spike of the serration on the upper half. It reached the tip, and with a boom, a solid red bolt of lightning arched across the graveyard towards the mans chest. Lighting up the graveyard, two more words escaped the kids lips. " Fulgur Imbuere. " The same red lighting danced across the blade, but this time is stayed. He wrapped his left hand around his right shoulder. Settling his weight on the ground evenly. Taking up the stance he had been taught, he was ready to face the man, whether the bolt hit or not.
Xzarren stands in the middle of the cemetery with the funeral winds of despair blowing diligently as always. The half-armored, half robed vampire waits patiently for the initiation of combat and as Maiat speaks his words of power the unmistakable flare of magic becomes tangible over the once peaceful place of rest. "Your ruined body will be my stepping stone to victory." This envenomed statement flows so maliciously from the common vampire's mouth as he extends his arm out and pokes a clawed finger at Maiat. He assumes his battle stance, taking off after the 'kid' as it were, his supernatural powers at alignment with the unhallowed glory of Vailkrin's dark lands. The Necroblade is zapped by the lightning, his right armored pauldron being blown off his body brutally yet with cunning grace he continues to stalk forward, thankful that the metal of his armor and the separation of materials saved him from a lethal shock. Two daggers are summoned from their confinements and held with a lethal confidence in the vampire's hands as he stalks forward, his right hand at slightly less effectiveness than his left thanks to the bludgeoning bolt, he could still feel the numbing pain. With skill and aptitude Maiat is struck at, first hoping to parry his blade off to the side with the use of his dual weapons and then cut into the opening of his defenses. His wielding arm would be targeted, stabbed at with his right dagger at place forearm meets bicep and dragged away for maximum damage, a ploy used in the hopes it causes the other to surrender his sword. His other dagger flashes as well making several lightning-quick stabs at the man's chest, aided in turn by the other weapon which repeats the motions. Finally, the warrior slams forward with his shoulder, seeking to further the distance between himself and the human and lessen the severity of his retaliation, were any to come.
Maiat shuddered at the first blade struck, he felt the sudden transfer of magic, when his blade was touched by the dagger, a shock passed through it, throwing the vampire off momentarily, just enough for Maiat to take a step back. He cried out in pain when the blade drove home in his arm though, and dragged along tearing the flesh, dropping his weapon completely. But the dagger pulled free. With the new distance each stab for his chest wasn't as effective, and so when two or three struck, they managed to pierce, and draw blood, but almost nothing more then superficial wounds. He clapped his hands together, and roared out the next words. Magic was to be his weapon this time, it was rare he resorted to just magic, but it was needed now. " Fulgur Ruptis. " Came free from his lips, from no more then five feet away, ten red lightning bolts suddenly shot from his hand. They had no direction, no real aim. But the arching hissing thunder didn't need much of it as it filled the air between them. It was almost like a shotgun blast. And following the force of one, it picked the kid off his feet, and threw him back like a rag-doll, managing to slam him into a tombstone. Along with everything else, he probably just broke a rib. But he didn't even bother to look up for a moment, hoping to god he didn't kill his opponent. He may have been a warrior. But he was still a kid, and almost dreaded being a murderer. But he swallowed his fear, looking up from sitting on the ground, to see what the lightning had caused. Wherever is missed the man, it would have carved swathes of blackened burnt earth, unless it hit something metal of course.
Xzarren , as already determined, is staved off partially by the electricity, yet the leather-bound hilts of his daggers stop more than a fair share of the current from making it into his body. His attacks were executed so sluggishly afterwards that Maiat was able to escape his full fury. The human staggers back, unleashing a shotgun blast of undivining electricity. One, two, three, the bolts pierce the vampire directly, one stabbing his shoulder, and two making contact with his chest; instantly de-beautifying the state of his robes and leathers and leaving black, scorched wounds on the vampire's flesh, his skin sizzling. The haunting miasma of death now permeates from his being as he is clenched forward in pain, one step from falling to his knees but staying standing by sheer perseverance, his breath ragged from the abuse. He resheathes his daggers, not prepared to meet with another blast like that, the magic around his body being called from the very stillness of Vailkrin's graves and dark history. In his leather-palmed gauntlets he crafts an orb of death, like a mage would fabricate a ball of elemental fire. This black sphere held a sickly green tint to it that burst with the powers of necromancy. As it was ready, he hurls the bolt at Maiat so that he might feel his suffering and be eaten away by the devouring magic. In the worst case scenario for Maiat it could reduce his body to a fleshless pile of bones, but Xzarren knew his magic was not that strong yet and it would be more probable that it would only tear away a small portion of skin, muscle, and cloth, but cause intense, even crippling pains.
Maiat wasn't exactly in his own form of stupefying health, his eyes flicked over the smoldering robes and the vampires flesh, he shuddered a little, not exactly happy with the damage he caused. He was happy with the amount he inflicted, not to be mistaken, but he didn't like using dangerous spells. Due to his own safety of health, and for others. The bolt started to float across the cold ground drew a puzzled look from him, but he scrabbled to get up. The divines weren't exactly smiling with the child, and he couldn't risk hurting his hand. He shoved his foot into it as a last resort as it drew close. Sure it meant he probably wouldn't be standing anytime soon, but he didn't exactly care. This was where he chose to rest, and as the flesh peeled away from his foot underneath the Vailkrin made iron which held together under force of its own native magic. He was whimpering, and a few tears came to his eyes. But he dropped his foot back down too the ground heavily, squirming under the spells effects. He didn't exactly expect to do much more to the Vampire, I mean, how could he? He didn't even want to see what his foot looked like underneath the boot. His ragged pants didn't have much to lose at the bottom. So he could see the loss of flesh along his leg. But his foot was probably worse off. He leaned his back against the tombstone. And shuddered. This fight was probably over. Seeing as neither of them could barely hold themselves up.
Xzarren had meant it when he said he would obtain victory over Maiat's ruined body. The loss of will to fight on the boy's behalf only quickened this outcome. The Necroblade's blood barely ran, the extreme heat of the conjured red lightning bolts cauterizing his wounds instantly. Only a tiny rivulet of crimson blood leaked down the common vampire's mouth that was frozen in a glacial rage. Maiat had chose the wrong night, and the wrong vampire to attack. Though his breath wilted from his lungs he slowly gathered enough concentration to hold his arm out to the side and speak an enigmatic mantra. The powers of darkness swirled to his outstretched hand, taking the shape of a vicious scythe. Slowly, carefully the renegade steps forward, weapon finding purchase in both leather-covered palms before the jagged blade of the scythe flicks out. Maiat suffers at least a dozen or so passes of this deathly weapon, the glinting metal leaving visible, pale arcs in the air before his body is torn asunder and rent open at various junctions. He would look like a bloody mess, life matter oozing out quickly from the sheer number of wounds before the final, lesson-imparting blow is given. A slash from left hip to right shoulder, tearing open a deep swath in his aggressor's torso and chest before he falls to the ground motionless in a bloody defeat.