Duel:Mathollak v Syrri, Match 8 of the 2020 Frostmaw Tournament

Duelists: Mathollak and Syrri
Duel: Traditional 3 rounds with final defense, 15 minute posting limit.
Stakes: Auto-hit to the winner.
Judges: Lionel, ? and ?

Tattered Frozen Bridge

Pre-Duel Banter

Mathollak is dressed fairly unusually today. He emerges from his tent wearing white furs. He looks like an actual Frostmawian! Maybe a little short. He doesn't usually do this, but he's looking for his opponent. Normally he'd be sitting on a comfy chair getting a pre fight massage from a Delish cleric. So where was Syrri? "She should be easy to find, there can't be many twerps this far North." He puts his hands on his hips and looks around. "Then again, the very nature of a twerp is that they are easy to overlook. Hmmm." He earnestly looks for her for maybe a minute. Then begins asking questions. "Have you seen Syrri? Have you? What about you? Do you know Syrri?" Actually he asks a question several times. Eventually he'll find her. People will get tired of him asking them and help look.

Syrri was indeed one of the few half-height humanoids known to frequent Frostmaw, but that wasn't the sole reason she was so easy to pick out in the collection of spectators trickling to the duel site. Although she had suffered a humbling loss to Kasyr recently, the halfling's reputation for being a formidable duelist in past Titans of Winter tournaments was sure to help Mathollak's search. Arriving at today's destination on the back of a dappled pony, someone brought to her attention that her would-be opponent was looking for her, drawing an uneasy grimace from her scarred and marked visage. Alighting from the back of her mare, cleated boots crunched into the ice and snow as she first addressed the care of her animal, handing the reins off to one of the attending assistants. It was too early for many to have gathered, but there were definitely enough to have an excitable buzz going, and the halfling's azure-and-chestnut eyes were wide with anticipation. Finding Mathollak was just as easy, but it took her a moment to approach him. Anxiety started to twist in her chest, and her hesitation showed in the way she tugged at her Nightstone cuirass, fidgeting with the straps of her own furs and otherwise obsessively fussing over her gear. Both Fate and Luck are double and triple-checked that they're secure to her belt, and she raked her hands through the tuft of silver that passed for her bangs. The rest of her long mercurial locks were twisted into a series of war braids, and her freckled features were painted in shades of navy and near-white in what she hoped would further lend to an intimidating presentation in contrast to the nerves she felt. " 'lo there!" she called out, at last, lifting a hand to wave eagerly at the other.

Mathollak knew it was her when she came into view. "Wow finally. You probably don't know this but I'm Mathollak." He knelt down and stuck out his hand for her to shake. "I bet you're Syrri." He smiled, "Know how I know?" Certainly it can't be the fact that she's here or that he pestered numerous people to find her for him. "It's the scars! You've been in a lot of fights! Most halflings only get to have one fight. That's it." He surveys the surroundings a little after that. This was getting tedious. Enough flattery, enough beating around the bush. "Anyway I'm glad I found you. Because you must be an excellent cook. Maybe the only excellent cook in Frostmaw." He smiled and nodded mischievously, excitement barely tempered.

Syrri halted just before the paladin and took a half-step backward when he descended to a knee. "Oh! Oh, well, yes, Syrri Darkfoot, at your service, sir." Trudging forward despite her reservations, the halfling's hand was dwarfed within his for a brief but /relatively/ firm handshake, all things considered. "The scars do often give it away," she conceded with a cheeky half-grin, and she even angled her face away to draw marked attention toward the three jagged lines that started near her right temple and disappeared into her braids. Even the pointy bit of her right ear was missing, and she wore the disfigurement like a badge of honor. "I've been in lotsa fights, only lost a couple, I admit," she continued, bobbing her head in a few nods. But when Mathollak went on to presume she was an excellent cook, she crowed with laughter, throwing her head back and her shoulders shaking as she tried to smother the amused sounds coming from her. "Oh! No! Stop! That's too funny—" She held a hand to her stomach as if pained therein from the force of her laughter, and tears welling up in azure and chestnut, the halfling blurted out, "I'm a terrible cook! You'd much rather die at the edge of my axes; I promise it'll be a lot swifter."

Mathollak thought about the amount of fights he'd lost. "I've lost more than a couple. Hmm." He fondly recalled the time he tried to belly flop on an orc pugilist and got lobbed out of the squared ring. That probably won't happen here, in his estimation. One thing that stood out was her confidence. She was certainly here to win a fight. Much different than him, maybe. He loved fighting, win or lose. It was money he needed. Cash. "That's disappointing," he said with sudden irrepressible glumness. He didn't think disappointing his belly again was as funny as she did. "I might rather die so I don't have to eat another bland mammoth steak..." He sighed and stands. "Well." He actually didn't have anything else to say. He wanted something good to eat. For the first time in days. He pinned his hopes on Syrri, the halfling. "Halfling who can't cook," he said while walking away. "Pure craziness. Incredible." Suddenly he realized something. She isn't a bad cook. She just doesn't want to share her delicious meal with him! The false epiphany stops him in his tracks. For a moment. Then he returned to his tent. Too preoccupied to even wave goodbye.

Pre-Duel Entrances

Mathollak emerges from his tent like a proper Frostmawian! He's wearing armor in key places like on his shoulders, torso, and boots. Yes, of course, but it's strapped over fur now! On his head he still wears a helmet, but the helmet is now wearing a poofy white fox hat. He's very Frostmawian, apparently, but if you have a discerning eye, you might notice that on several spots on this armor, are painted symbols of Aramoth. They're faded slightly, reflecting the age and wear of this suit. It's new to him though. Through each symbol of Aramoth, a triangle is carved. Interrupting Aramoth's flag with a fine line. "Delisha, baby, you're my everything," he begins, improvising a prayer. "It's all for you," he says before smiling coyly, "and a little for me. Help me out? I'll make it good." The hee-haw of a donkey being spurred into action comes from between a few people. On top is an imp. Not sniveling like usual, he hasn't been murdered in quite some time. But as usual, it carries a cup, this one's a dark brown stone. Hefty, to keep the drink insulated in this miserable weather. Delisha's chosen clasps his hands together joyfully. "Oh thank you! Thank you, you really do too much you know." He snatches it from the imp's hands and sniffs the bubbling green liquid. "Oh I'm so excited. Cheers mum." He drinks the scalding liquid without any hesitation. Using his bare finger to catch a drip rolling down his cheek and putting it back in his mouth. Then he plops his greataxe's butt into the snow and waits.

Syrri wasn't any crazy mindreader, so she's oblivious to the depths of Mathollak's dissatisfaction in her apparent culinary skills—or lack thereof. What she does take note of, however, were his mutterings, and they earned the human a still-amused shake of her head. The time to reflect on such things as empty stomachs is coming to a close, however, as the next duel begins to take shape. Although her opponent took extra time within his tent to prepare, the halfling was already itching to cleft his helmet in twain. Taking up a restless figure-eight, she kept throwing glances toward the paladin. Taking Fate and Luck from their respective belt hooks, she secured each of their straps around her wrists loosely, fingers flexing around the familiar Nightstone binding. At barely a few inches past three feet, the halfling's axes were a third of her size, but clearly lightweight with the way she twisted one around in her palm, reacquainting herself with its weight and balance. There were no gods to whom she prayed, but she hoped the fickle finger of fate and luck would guide her true.

Environmental Challenge

Orikahn :: Though the ruined, iced-over bridge is hazard already, the tournament officials have seen fit to outdo themselves. There are a couple of tents, each one set up well out of the way, waiting on either side of the chasm and clearly marked "KEEP OUT". Once the Syrri and Mathollak are positioned neatly in the middle of the bridge, the judges call to wait. There's a fearsome roaring and a deep jingling of massive chains. Teams of beast handlers emerge from the tents and haul out a couple of young, temperamental frost dragons. They thrash, shriek, and spit billowing jets of cryogenic breath. In short order, each is chained to either end of the frozen, tattered bride. The duel begins, and the handlers step away, leaving the dragons to strain at their chains and stretch their long, serpentine necks toward the duelists, teeth snapping just out of reach. Duelists, don't give up your ground! Drive your opponent into the dragon's jaws!

The Duel

Syrri should have known what to expect, having been in enough of these darned fights. But as she crept carefully along the tenuous bridge and sized up Mathollak up-close and personal, she was unprepared for the appearance of those dragons. Azure-and-chestnut snapped wide, and she drew in a deep, steadying breath, swinging her gaze behind and before and back again. It's all right. It's just dragons. Nothing wrong with dragons. Nope. Any dramatic irony is, of course, naturally lost on the cursed halfling, and she faced ahead, fixing Mathollak with a glare so broad, her eyes were mostly white. And then the fight was on! Wasting no time the moment they're given the go-ahead, the miniature fighter launched herself at her opponent, hoping her feisty energy will carry her forward despite the odds stacked against them. The bridge wobbled and begun to slowly sway beneath their uncertain footing, and she nearly stumbled along the slickened slope. Luck is drawn behind her, and she leaned into the icy terrain to pirouette around. Bringing both the first ax and its duckbilled partner together in a kneecap-aimed double-whammy, she allowed the momentum to carry her through. Whether her first attack of the day met its mark or not, Syrri Darkfoot was already trying to correct her revolution, kicking with cleated boots into the bridge itself. The ice fractured under her assault, sending spiderweb fissures outward and further compromising the bridge's integrity. As if to punctuate the growing threats, both frost dragons growled and huffed plumes of numbingly bitter cold at either end of the bridge, new layers of ice sliding down the bridge behind both combatants as a result. Without mercy, Syrri continued to advance, daring Mathollak to retreat into the waiting maws.

Mathollak takes a deep breath. When he exhales, it's steamy. The warmth of his breath mixes with the frigid ambient air to create a smoky plume. Except it doesn't dissipate like everyone else's, it coagulates around him. Each breath he takes forms a mist that eventually shrouds his body completely. It blows away by the time the handlers emerge from their tents with their scaled pets. It's a different animal now, inside the armor. Literally. The armor he wears that belonged to an Aramothian zealot is completely changed, evolved, to reflect its new master. The fox face worn over his helmet has fused with the metal, into a creature not readily identified. Though it is hungry. The visor is formed by two pairs of elongated metal teeth meeting just in front of Mathollak's face. The furs are black and sleek now, not white and fluffy. And his left bracer is grown into a spiky gauntlet with hooked metal talons at the ends. He charges out of the smoke, away from the dragon behind him. What he notices is a lack of grip in his boots. He slides a few inches forward when he intends to stop. So his steps will have to be more measured. He may not have the advantage of traction, but he did have weight, didn't he? And perhaps more critically, a free hand if he wanted. He did. He grabbed the rope railing with his clawed gauntlet. His next step was a heavy stomp toward one side of the bridge, where the planks were woven into the ropes. And Syrri was here, aiming for a scissor type attack against his leg. He planted the head of his greataxe down into the bridge's floor to bar the scissors, and does. His shaft interrupts the blades of her axe swing, yet they do have enough momentum to cut into either side of his knee. The pain is less than he expects. But he knows he's hampered anyway. With his axe still planted, he shoves the shaft against her, over her two axes, intending to bonk her with the butt, then he lets go of the ropes for a moment to grab the shaft with two hands so he can continue that circular momentum into an overhead swing that would cleave her, or a couple of frozen planks, in half. He doesn't intend to retreat.

Syrri didn't notice the changes in Mathollak. He's a blur of fur and metal as she danced along the precarious path. Her first attack was blocked, and aftershocks traveled up her muscled arms, drawing out a deep ache in her right shoulder from a years-old injury. Hissing in a breath through grit teeth, the halfling allows her boots to slip out from underneath her, and she slides along the ice, thankfully missing the brunt of the greatax's butt. Despite her attempts to dodge the undodgeable, the force of his pommel buffing against the side of her cheek was enough to send her head snapping back. For a brief moment, a flash of white and black sparkle across her line of sight. The momentum of her luge was enough to draw her through Mathollak's legs, however, spread as they were to brace himself on the now wildly-swaying obstacle course of death. That weakness in his design brought his ax blade down into the bridge above her head, and those eyes of hers got wider again before she flipped over onto her stomach. Propping herself first up on an elbow, she used Fate to push herself to a stand, dropping Luck onto its appropriate belt hook in the same movement. The next moment found Fate's edge fatefully destined for Mathollak's delicates in an underhanded maneuver, the cleats of her boots piercing ice and wood to propel all 30 pounds of her upwards into the swing. Great gaping holes had been left by the taller fighter's weapon, and sheets of ice crumpled through them as one of the frost dragons managed to snap free of its chains, lumbering and slithering down the bridge in front of Mathollak with its furious frost breath aimed at the Delish devotee.

Mathollak didn't know it, but Delisha chose a sun bear as her motif. Or maybe it was his strong feeling of dissatisfaction with the food up here. But that was him now, a creature of extremely discerning taste and desire for what it loves. Would he climb a tall tree and risk falling, or endure a hundred bee stings for a lick of honey? No. Not literally. But he could sacrifice his walking speed on a treacherous bridge if he could get what he wanted. He felt the thud of his wooden shaft smacking her, but he was too slow to merge her with his axe blade, and she slid between his legs. 'She wouldn't do that to me', he thought to himself. That little twerp! She would! That wasn't allowed, no matter what. He needed his delicates. Not that he used them all that often, he was saving them for someone very special. When his axe head went through the wood planks, he decided to follow it. Normally he'd never do this, allow his feet to come off the ground behind a swing. But this time he did, quickly turning his heels over his head in a somersault. His jewels were too high now for her to hit, but she slammed her axe head into the back of his heel. It actually propelled him down under the broken planks faster. But he was ready. He took his clawed gauntlet off the shaft of his axe and grabbed onto the ropes of the bridge. With a grunt of effort, he pulled the ropes down, which caused him to circle around the side of the bridge. She'd need to hold on to stay put on the swaying bridge now, which is what he wanted, because he was going to land right on top of her. He would take the brunt of the dragon's frosty breath though as it swooped by, and all he could do was hold his axe head in front of his face to protect his skin.

Syrri ; The bridge was bobbing, shock rippling outward from several points as at least three creatures struggled on its uncertain planks. With all things considered, Syrri Darkfoot was going to be very, very sick after this fight. Her stomach somersaulted much as her opponent did, and she had to reach out for /something/ to hold onto even before Mathollak began to evade her again and placed the bridge's barrier between them. Rope slicked beneath blight escaped her grasp once, twice, before she managed to grab hold. Ignoring the sting of cold as her skin stuck to it, she was tossed about on the swaying bridge, and the silver-haired warrior turned a sickly shade of green. She'd been in worse spots, though, and it was this internal reminder that emboldened her to move once more. The frost dragon advancing on Mathollak growled and exhaled a rimy arc, brandishing its head back and forth to sweep one half of the bridge in its deadly breath attack. The bluish flames licked around Mathollak's impromptu shield but were still just as likely to weaken the ax blade itself, depending on its material. Meanwhile, Syrri had taken up Luck once more, but her shoulder screamed in pain at the renewed injury, nevermind the throbbing bruise forming on her cheek. Both were coming together to dull her senses, but she was here to win, godsdamnit. Vision blurring as bits of frost stuck to her lashes, the brave fighter stumbled along the half-broken bridge, each step sending another plank plummeting below. The second frost dragon finally managed to free itself, and with a flying leap, it descended upon the dueling duo, sending new shockwaves outward. Wood and frost were blasted from the fridge, and Syrri's feet were thrown out from under her, skidding toward the edge before one of the spikes on her soles caught, and she flailed against the rope railing. The remaining sheets of ice cracked under stress, and she knew she didn't have much time to catch up with Mathollak before the entire bridge would collapse. Kicking at what bits of support endured the tribulations of their fight, Syrri threw herself toward the paladin once more, and although she lacked the weight to disturb the bridge like he had, she had one eye on the dragons sandwiching them. Hoping to time things /just right/ she saw one of the frost drakes coil up in preparation of the attack, she waited, breath bated, and once the dragon's front claws slammed into the bridge behind Mathollak, she watched the ensuing shockwave approach. Once the peak of the bell curve was beneath her boots, she used it to launch herself up and up and up! Both dragons unleashed another frosty assault, flanking the foes as the Lilliputian lady flew through the air. Bringing Luck and Fate down in unison, she aimed the blades alongside Mathollak's helmet on either side, sinking through armor and fur, muscle and hopefully bone as well to disable where it counted most.

Mathollak :: Beneath the shroud of his helmet, Mathollak's jagged white teeth shine brightly in a smile he's unable to restrain. A strange side effect of the molten brew he drank? Or evidence of his enjoyment? He doesn't care to examine. All he does know, is he -is- enjoying himself, despite his hobbled leg. He does his best to pronounce his appreciation to his mother without the use of his lips. All Syrri would hear is a chuckling gurgle of words in an unintelligible language while he bounces rhythmically on the swaying bridge. And teeth chattering. He is very cold. His armor, though changed in appearance, still does a decent job to guard him against the freezing breath of the young dragon. He'll live. Still, he's stiff, at this point, he's likely the sturdiest component of the bridge. After a few seconds, he cranks his joints aside from his wounded knee and sheds a skin of ice. Now where is she? There. Toward the other side of the bridge. And so was the dragon fast approaching. He had to act. He had to embrace his inner sun bear. And so did everyone else! Mathollak almost never knows what magic Delisha's blessing will give him until he has it. It's usually extremely limited, which unfortunately probably means she doesn't love him as much as he loves her. But that's okay! He loves her for her, and is (mostly) grateful for all of her gifts. That said, when he does receive the blessing, he knows what he's capable of instinctively. He begins chattering his teeth in prayer again, while weaving his clawed arm into a rope railing. When he's done, he throws up. A massive glob of Delisha's magical honey lands one of the bridges last surviving planks. He kept track of Syrri while the wave of planks went cascading past him, and he held on thanks to latching himself to the ropes. The dragons meanwhile, were instantly incensed by his magic. Its magic infused in them the same sense of desperation a sun bear has when it goes for honey. Syrri and each of the dragons both dove toward Mathollak's position on the bridge. What was he doing? Using his axe to sever the ropes that held the ends together. Before the crash of dragons, Mathollak starts descending, falling away toward the wall of a great chasm. But not before Syrri connected her axes to his helmet, cleaving through both sets of metal canines, and slicing a gash across his mouth and the bridge of his nose. A horrible parting gift. He waved goodbye to Syrri as he sunk away on his half of the bridge.

Syrri had at least a little self-preservation behind the wild azure-and-chestnut twins, and although everything was a nauseating blur of color and shapes, she got the sinking feeling things were about to go horribly, terribly wrong. And she was absolutely right. Both dragons descended upon the duo, but the Delish devotee drove a metaphorical wedge between them. Once the ties that bound the bridge were severed, she leaped off his shoulders, inadvertently driving her spiked boots deep into Mathollak's fresh head wounds in her desperate bid to save herself. It's every halfling for herself now with both juvenile dragons angrily yowling and sending bone-chilling blasts in chaotic arcs. Syrri echoed them as their bluish flames thrashed at her from both sides; bits of fur from her armor and even one of her braids became caught in time, hoarfrost paralyzing the tufts in place. It was about then that two sets of underdeveloped wings snapped out to deliver the beasts to safety, but Syrri must rely on frozen fingers. She watched as the bridge became no more, its frayed edges falling toward each respective cliffside in slow-motion. It was like watching her life drift away from her outstretched digits, and a shriek of panic bubbled up in her chest. Locking both eyes tightly shut, she braced herself for an inevitable demise when she felt the stiff length of corded rope gripped in her hand with such tenacity, it nearly disintegrated. Instead, it somehow carried her toward the rock wall with increasing speed, knocking the frostbitten breath out of her lungs as she crashed into it. Limbs scrambling to grab hold of what remained of the bridge's ropes, she ignored her aches and pains as best as she could, and relied on years of rock climbing muscle memory to pull herself to freedom.

Winner: Mathollak

Autohit Stake

Mathollak fumbles around a little with his axe before finally managing to stick the handle through a loop on his back. Then he bravely, bravely, bravely untangles his arm from the rope and begins the arduous process of pulling himself up. It's a race to the top between him and Syrri now, but he has the upper body strength. He gets there moments before her and heaves in and out on all fours. Enough time to take a breath, or enough time to cut the last remaining ropes and send her into the frozen abyss. He's not a gentleman, but he waits for her anyway. When one of her hands reaches solid ground, he grabs it and yanks her up completely, and holds her down with one hand while his other reaches back. He hammers down once with his metal fist against her bracing forearms, to bat them away, then once more into her forehead and she falls asleep.

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