Duel:Parsithius v Vornir
Vornir vs. Parsithius
A random spar we had, all OOC, as there wasn't any IC reason to fight. But at the end, we both wanted it judged, so here it is.
Judges: Rikailin, Jacklin (mid), Jerralith
Parsithius takes a simple moment to allows his azure gaze to roam their chosen arena of battle; from bent roots upward past gnarled branches to cast his meticulous gaze beyond wondrous beauty of the towering trees and leafy boughs, before slicing it westward and eastward to note not only vicious outcropping and the continuance of the forest, but also the points of the environment of which are twisting haphazardly and maliciously. A simple 'click' of mithril armor makes apparent the subtle shift in weight, yet the resonance of the sound is enough to cause birds to flee in squawking lack of valor, and eliciting his scrutiny from their departing flocks to another being so settled a distance south of him- Vornir. Like some studious scholar, or perchance with wisdom merely of analytical quality, the golden-haired male allows that aforementioned vision to fixate upon his visage and probe silently for the weaker areas to strike- 'click'. Another accompaniment of noise that echoes throughout the expanse of greenery, and the only herald to forthcoming assailment. Now; let us be fair, here- Parsithius is still mounted upon his steed, Mithiera, which is a Clydesdale horse which is outfitted in its own platemail attire, snorting vehemently as it peers with its own massive upbringing toward the distant Frost Giant. Any closer-than-cursory glance reveals not only the presence of the Knight's massive brand, a halberd nearly twice the size of the human himself, tucked shaft 'neath underarm and pinning it against his breast, which, in effect, causes the enormous axehead to be extended horizontally from his armored visage, and turned with malice toward Vornir. Almost immediately after this long preamble of both stare and pose, the sudden beat of dinner-plate-sized hooves crashing in fervor against the dirt and weeds 'neath their mighty cadence resonates in high crescendo, which plataeus to the synchronization of some ecstatic and lively beat of a startling speed. In proverbial crosshairs is the enormous enemy, to which those blue twins narrow to more keenly analyze in oncoming rush; slanted downward now, is this halberd, and upon enroachment the horse veers to the side with a dastardly snort, all to simultaneously adhere with a wicked upringing of the weapon; axehead first. In layman's terms, the knight has, without provocation or warning, galloped straight at the enormous foe, only to stray sideward and slice in an ascending arc his brand- seeking to slice through both metal and flesh, bone and muscle in a single, morbid rundown.
Vornir Brimirsson towers high at the edge of the clearing, overtopping most of the trees by at least three or four feet, his white, blue, and black form a stark contrast to the verdant lands surrounding him. His armor is spotless, a mixture of blue iron, enchanted black ice, and the brilliant white Everfrost; enchanted, unmelting frost the keeps the cold giant more comfortable in these warm surroundings. His fair hair, which hangs to his shoulders, is kept from his face by a circlet of that famous armor, engraved with the frost giant's personal sigil, flanked on either side by the bearded axe of Aramoth, Vornir's patron diety. These emblems are mirrored in the weapon held firmly in Brimirsson's right hand: his legendary Axe of Northern Winds. The blue iron head, a truly massive chunk of metal, is whitened by a layer of rime which, although the hot sun melts it, seems to be ever there, as though the moisture in the humid forest's very air freezes upon contact. The hilt is of solid oak, sanded and smoothed, then polished to a sheen, stetching out over six feet in length. In the other hand rests a shield, a truly amazing sight, made entirely out of the pale Everfrost. Ridges of the stuff, sharpened into blades, run the length of the tower shield, protruding out nearly half a foot. As well, the edges - top, sides and bottom - are sharpened into matching blades. This is presented to the enemy as he arrives, Vornir forced to squint to make out every detail of the little man and his horse. The paladin waits, impassively, as the knight begins to move, following the horse's journey with the bladed face of the shield. Just as Parsithius begins to swerve, Vornir thrusts out with the shield, in hopes of smashing the horse off-balance, perhaps even killing it with the dangerous tower. However, this leaves his leg open to the pole arm, and the steel bites deeply into the white armor guarding the giant's calf, rending a chilled chunk of frost from the leggings, and starting a slow stream of blood, which trickles down the huge leg. Pale eyes narrow in anger as, with little flare, the frost giant begins his assault. The frigid axe sweeps up, first, severing a limb of a tree whose troublesome leaves stood in the Champion's line of sight. The sound of its crashing descent is drowned out by the giant's stomping feet, the iron boots smashing foliage and small stones alike as he strides after his mounted foe. Now comes the high keening of the air as the axe sweeps around, coming to a stop in front of the horse. The beard of the axe now serves as a sort of shepherd's crook as Vornir hauls back on the weapon, his strength such that it is liable to drag both horse and rider into the waiting shield's blades.
Parsithius Mediccino's eyes take a single, brief moment to widen with the sudden shock of his own horse being hurled off-balance by the amount of force unprecedented by any being making the mistake of bearing ill toward the Knight; the dinner-plate sized hooves momentarily threwn askew to bedrock cropped just beneath an overlooming tree, which thereafter is maimed with a single, insidious slice of blade through branch to quell any further insurrection from the downed steed. That gaze once widened now narrows to more easily discern the hook-shaped impasse that abruptly appears before knight and horse, and with a sudden change of plans the human male wriggles from hold, grasps halberd again, to dive as soon as he can out of the way. Unluckily for Mithiera, however, the steed's cry is cut short by the sheperd's crook of the bearded weapon, flung and dragged into its inescapable demise; lacking blonde-headed youth as he swiftly rolls to cover amidst rock, branch, and root. Taking this single, passing moment to further steady himself with another subtle 'click' of armor, the human employs both gauntlets to wrap tightly about the mighty weapon; only to emit yet another subtle 'clack' of greaves to make apparent sudden sprint from his relative nook to the giant's enormous figure. It is with that otherwordly determination is his intent trained upon legging; of which the man twist torso, legs, and arms to bear with him a wide, wicked horizontal slice. This, with all of his might; there is no fallback plan, no 'if he should miss', there is only this simple, semi-circle of motion after a rapid and startlingly quick recovery-turn-approach. If, however, he should succeed- aim reign true, and thereof- the enormous axehead of the polearm would find itself in nook of previous wedged wound; like some sort of mithril-plated lumberjack.
Vornir, trained warrior from birth, recovers from his own attack immediately, crouching back behind his shield, axe held at the ready after pushing the broken, bloodied body of the horse from the shield's blades. So it is that when Parsithius begins to charge, Vornir simply sets himself once more, waiting. Only when the knight's weapon begins its arc does the giant turn, swinging his shield sideways to meet the pole of the halberd, though the movement places his kneecap in danger. The blade smashes solidly into the joint, illiciting a roar of pain from Brimirsson, who staggers back, not bothering to notice if his shield had bent or broken the knight's weapon at all. Instead, he roars once more, limping off to one side. With a furious wrench of his arm, the giant swings his axe off to the side, the icy metal passing through a small tree's trunk as if through butter. With a groan of wood grinding against wood, the tree begins to fall, its branches forced from the net they've woven with the surrounding trees with a hiss as the weighty oak picks up speed, making right for Parsithius. Vornir moves forward now, waiting for his foe to emerge from beneath the falling tree, the axe now whistling in a diagonal arc, smashing down toward the human from above, intent on crushing the knight of Larket like an armored insect.
Parsithius is quite outmatched in terms of size and strength, so with his meticulous gaze he attempts to calculate and discern the oncoming attacks from his opponent; just the way Lord Guildocious taught him so long ago. His blade, however, became rather blunt at behest of his opponent's shield- blunt being an understatement. With cunning efficiency, the man continues his path to move just behind the Frost Giant, twirling his halberd within those platemail gauntlets to oppose him with the length of the wicked beak of the polearm instead of its axehead- 'Smash!' Gods damn him to hell, this armored monstrosity, as Parsithius just narrowly leaps aside the falling timber with a swift exhale and mighty 'clackclickclack' marking evidence of his movement, only to be assailed by this inhuman axe. An axe, borne of frost and forged in ice, at the behest of Parsithius is met with the stave of the enormous polearm- of which snaps in two like some taut twine robbed of strength, allowing further wound to entail in the means of the brand's edge slicing right through cuirass and just beyond skin. The weapon is met with a rush of sanguine that immediately slackens as the effects of frostbite sink in, causing man and disfunctional halberd to both leap backward in some heap of armor and body. Through narrowed eyes, veil of hair once carefully done, and gritted teeth, does that determination revert back upon the wicked, monolithic figure of Vornir. Instead of immediately rising, the human grips hold of the head of weapon, which bears blunted axhead, speartip, and wicked beak, only to notch arm back before snapping his elbow forward- loosed, is this fragment. In rotating circles the piece barrels in uncanny precision, thrown off only by uneven weight, in a narrowly arching path toward the kneecap of the opponent; a joint now the main focus of Parsithius. His other gauntlet grips tightly the remaining piece of the shaft, only to use the buttspike to wedge- amidst pain- between the crack of the hindering cuirass in a winch to lobby it broken, discarding the metal piece from his body. Pauldrons, greaves, footwear and gauntlets, the man's torso is exposed, and bears that wicked, darkened crimson line right down the middle of his chest to his stomach.
Vornir again staggers back after his assault, his movement drastically slower this time, his shield arm hanging a bit as he absently tries to clutch at his injured leg. Then, the severed polearm hurtles in, the point thudding sickeningly into the blue iron gauntlet, spearing the hand within. Another roar splits the air, frightening flocks of birds the forest over as Vornir brings his injured hand up, teeth closing on the blade and wrenching it out while the shield, left leaning against his leg, takes the buttspike's blow, slowly toppling forward as its balance is upset. All this goes unheeded, however, as the fury of Aramoth fills Brimirsson's mind and body. He stumbles further back, then hurls his axe at Parsithius, not the careful, aimed toss like the knight's own, but rather a wild throw of blind rage, the handle or flat of the blade as likely to hit as the edge. Letting loose yet another roar, the giant lumbers to the recently-felled tree, his gauntleted hands snapping the branches as he siezes it. With a grunt and a heave he pulls it aloft, wielding it like a massive club as he swings it at Parsithius, sweeping the thick end along the ground, back and forth in hopes of bludgeoning his enemy into unconsciousness, blood raining thickly down from his hand. Finally, as his strength begins to wind down, he simply hurls the tree at his opponent, then stumbles back, collpasing into a sitting position with a thump, where he stays, growling and muttering at something unseen.
Parsithius cannot quite comprehend the motions and antics depicted in the rage of Vornir; his mind warped by pain just enough to satiate the giant's wild axe-throw to strike handle against pauldron. This? Shatters the piece of armor, snapping the bones within in a distinct 'crunch' of sickening volume, only being drowned out by the wake of the attack in the Knight's cry of pain, following thereafter is the Frost Giant's enormous bellow. Stumbling for a moment, the male surnamed Mediccino narrows his azure gaze upon Vornir, leaping backward in pained movement to employ an evasive technique against both branches and hurled tree; the movements a bit slow, but otherwise satisfactory for forcing the enormous opponent to fail in attempt to render the Knight's exposed head nil. And, upon the sudden, abrupt seating of Brimirsson, the ground quakes and heaves in struggling support of the action, essentially rising in some earthen waves to knock Knight off-balance; lain upon the ground in his own, sullen daze.
Jacklin told you, "ooc: Vornir wins."
Vornir = 5-0