Duel:Mesdoram v Vexar

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Duel for practice

The Temple


Vexar strides into the spacious temple foyer with a delicate haste, robes whipping mysteriously amongst his legs as he walks. The vampire inspects the room and presents his findings with a less than satisfied scowl. For the necromancer, such accommodations as concrete foundations and similar, encompassing walls were less than favorable. Regardless, his gauntleted hand disappears into the folds of his shadowy garments and thus withdraws, if only of habit, that cursed ivory wand he so cherishes. Its sinister presence is acknowledged by the sudden trembling of the many bone-wrought tools lying precariously throughout the room. With a simple flick, the antlers and sharpened trinkets take flight, where they presume to hover threateningly around Vexar's form. Only once he has achieved this barrage does he turn, finally heeding the other soul that has wandered into the temple. The necromancer offers only a smirking warning before thrusting his wand hand forward, actuating an explosion of bone strewn missiles in Mesdoram's direction, antlers and crafted tools all threatening to impale the drow.

Mesdoram's demeanor changes quickly as the swarm of projectiles are flung towards him. Twin legs instinctively lower close to his ankles and instantly catapult Mesdoram sideways to the left; the drow's effort in vain as a fragment of crude bone now resides in the forearm of his left arm. The spell blade's steel orbs resemble pain and anger as crimson blood now begin to fill his ebony robe, and he yells in frustration for a moment. Without a thought, a shrill of hissing metal fills the temple as Mesdoram's right hand unsheathes the mage's prefered broad sword. Heavily armored feet now take charge towards Vexar, the tongue of the blade teasingly touching the ground behind the stampeding drow. Only the most observant of onlookers would look at the drow's parted lips: they appear to be muttering an enchantment, causing his sword to illuminate very dimly. As Mesdoram comes in ten feet of Vexar, the drow makes his first attack; with a upright vertical swing to the moon, a cloud of debris from the ground now form a cloud of dust. Continuing his momentum, the spell blade makes a full swing horizontally across the misty dirt. The sorcery from Mesdoram manipulates the crescent cut to form into pillars of hard earth, an arc of solid clay sent directly at Vexar, potentially pushing the vampire towards the opposing wall and crushing his ribcage.

Vexar offers a bitter yet satisfied smirk as his bone missiles make a sheath of the drow's appendage. Upon his opponent's recovery, the vampire braces himself with a defensive posture, shield brought to the ready in front. Within his other hand, the ivory wand twirls, dancing between adept fingers with intriguing mystique. The instrument hisses, smokes, and vanishes into the night as though a shadowy wisp. The necromancer's grip does not remain longing, though, as from the same hazy darkness materializes a cursed warblade, tainted with the souls of its victims. Vexar traces the path of the spell blade and sharply raises the black shield at first movement from the approaching drow's sword. His preemptory defense is ill placed, though, as it merely serves to deflect particulates of gravel and sand. In lowering the shield to investigate his folly, the vampire makes another, leaving himself open to the crushing impact of rock and clay. A hideous 'crack' resounds throughout the temple as the pillars slam into the man's chest. Indeed, they drive his frame towards the eastern wall, despite the grinding efforts his boots offer the ground in opposition. He is only just able to roll away from his possessor before the quaking waves of terrain quite literally explode into the wall, leaving a dismantled slab of cement debris in its wake as an eerie tale of what may have been the vampire's fate. Flustered, though not incapacitated, Vexar regains his composure. The warblade in his grasp rises overhead, throwing shadows across the room as a deathly foreboding to his ensuing charge. In turn, the necromancer allows his own weapon to fall on Mesdoram's frame with maniac force, attempting to pierce flesh with its cold steel.

Mesdoram's guard drops dramatically as his opponent struggles to be freed from the drow's elemental blitz. Mesdoram scans for his opponent through the smog produced from the collision of earth and wall. The nagging injury of a punctured arm distracts the drow; making haste, a now empty right hand clutches remains of steer bone and pulls the object upwards. Although the sleeve conceals the circular piercing, the drow allows a single shout before clasping his circular wound, wincing in anguish. After his battle cry, drowen ears intercept treacherous footsteps approaching at high speeds. Mesdoram scans the room quickly: to the wall where shroud of earth has now dissipated, to the right, left, back right. A surge of panic-induced adrenaline courses through his system for he had lost sight of Vexar. Only for a moment does the man see Vexar with arms collapsing towards Mesdoram's knelt form. Instinctively, the drow propels himself with all four limps away from the attack, smolder sparks flickering from the vampire's blade as it tasted iron from Mesdoram's battle boots. Although Vexar's advance seemed to fail, Mesdoram is momentarily is unarmed as the drow's favorite blade, and a bone projectile for that matter, now sits harmlessly below Vexar's form. Angered by such a foolish mistake, Mesdoram quickly produces one of his twin daggers, the hilt held firmly as to make sure not to lose this blade. Still knelt near Vexar, the drow takes a vicious sideways swipe with the pointed iron, the sharpen blade wanting nothing more than to render the vampire's hamstrings useless.

Vexar allows the blind momentum of his swing to continue through, the shower of sparks serving well to cast a mortal glow over the sincerely sinister aftermath of the slash. Indeed, the force of the thunderous swipe left the blade imbedded within the rock beneath, where it would likely stay relentlessly sheathed for the remainder of the exhibition, despite the thrashing protest offered by the manifest shadows encompassing the sword. With a thrilled and arrogant grin, the crouching vampire glances over his shoulder to inspect the befallen drow. Content, he reaches for the uninhibited brand now resting at his feet, and it is only from this new vantage that Vexar finally spots the dagger cutting for his legs. A deft reaction springs the Harbinger skyward, though his prowess is quite impeded by the glancing blow that swings his legs from beneath. With no means of recovery, a desperately flailing body crashes to the ground, his silken hood doing little to dampen the impact of his skull. Having paid the price of a dizzying spill to avoid the maiming of his muscles, it is all the vampire can do to reproduce the sinister death baton from the shadowy void. Obedient as always, the corpse that had been lifelessly watching the fray springs to life at its master's beckon and leaps at the drow from behind, entirely unbeknownst. If successful, the entity would grapple Mesdoram's neck into a strangling hold to render the man defeated.

Mesdoram hastens to his feet as the vampire awkwardly evades the slashing dagger. Fully erect, the drow promptly provides his vacant hand with another dagger. In one motion, Mesdoram raises the twins above his head to ended this battle. At the peek of the blades' travel, decomposed forearms hinder the drow's breathing patterns completely; the newly acquired knife effectively removed from grip as it clangs uneven metal sounds against the hard floor. Desperation inhabits the constricted drow, the clasps of the undead abomination squeezing tighter with each acute afford to breathe. The strength of the mangled-being sweeps the spell blade to his own clumsy fall; the creature's grip does not waiver even as the duel because a wrestling match. The drow takes a chance and begins sawing away at the corpse's right hand. The brittle limp is severed, and Mesdoram is freed finally. Deep breaths are briskly taken as the battle mage prepares for a final assault. Mesdoram retrieves a vile of water from cloak and soaks his blade in the liquid. Instantly, the dagger becomes frigid as a hexagonal charm chysyalized around the blade, engulfing the blade with elemental fury. The mage performs a single slash vertically, and six icicles from head to toe are now discharged from the enchanted aura, soaring menacingly at Vexar, each projectile hoping to mount the vampire like a trophey.

Vexar writhes himself free of the blinding dizziness that had overtaken his sights, alabaster locks lazily framing his stricken demeanor. Warily, the vampire stands in time to view the unsightly dismembering of his puppet. Overwhelmed with a sudden inspiration, his wand hand springs to action, sweeping fluently to and fro. In response, the amputated appendage screams its final blood cry, the lone hand lurching through the air to grasp at the wrist in which the spell blade's enchanted knife resides. Indeed, the slight disruption in the controlling instrument's focus is all that is needed to send the frosty projectiles spiraling off course. To his dismay, however, the vampire is nevertheless struck by two of the frenzied, frozen missiles. A glancing blow produces a slight yet vicious gash across the necromancer's now pallid cheek, while the second struck home deep within his shoulder. Instinctively, Vexar clutches at the wound, looking onto his assailant with a wry grin. Even as fresh blood drips freely from his face, the Harbinger bows, respectfully indicating to his opponent the bout's finish.