Duel:Rheven v Sevian
Rheven vs. Sevian
Rheven allows a small smirk to play upon his pale lips as he stares at his elven opponent, stretching either of his robed hands outward. A rather simple looking staff shimmers into existence before the vampire by what appears to be will of mind alone, and within seconds it is set into his grasp, pulling the powerful weapon closer to his body. The mage’s dark green eyes slowly drift from Sevian, his attention more caught by the large fountain in the center of the chosen arena. Lifting his staff, he points the crown of it toward the structure, a simple chant beginning to fall from his lips - no visible magic force extends from the weapon, though it is appear something is happening, as the blood within begins to sizzle, soon growing to a boil. Red hued steam begins to rise above the fountain, gathering in a sanguine cloud of sorts that hangs ominously in the air above. Abruptly, the vampiric mage falls silent, and he again makes a gesture with his staff, indicating the elven bard. The steaming cloud reacts promptly, lurching toward Sevian at a surprising speed. The air itself seems to cry its pain, a sizzling hiss in the wake of the nefarious conjuration – should it reach the elf, not only will it provide quite hazardous to his skin, hot as it is, he will also find it quite difficult, perhaps even impossible to breathe while in its confines..
Sevian arches a brow at the mage's archaic tongue and equally mystifying actions but the look of bewilderment quickly turns to that of trepidation as his burning gaze, filled with the flames of an internal fire, flicker wide to encompass the sanguine smog. It's effect are neither clear nor understood but knowing the vampire, it isn't bound to be something pleasant. It's velocity adds to the elf's fervor as with little introduction, he lifts both lithe arms high and the illustrious scythe gripped by the pommel so that the very apex of the blade is at the maximum point. With nary a grunt, he uncorks the gravitational force withheld with screaming bulging muscles as with a magnificent thud, he slams the blade deep into the barren solace of the earth, the ethereal blade slipping easily into the seemingly dense confines. Perhaps the first sound uttered by the tainted elf is that of true beckoning, invocation, his lips pursing as the word of power near visibly flings from his lips and melds with the blade. As the instrument for the summoning, the scythe undergoes a slight humming, gaining in crescendo by the very milliseconds as if matching the deadly approach of the cloud as with nary a preamble, a resounding crack rips through from the earth before the blade, the minute abyss spewing out a light froth of steam with a rumble, the true fun begins. With a roar and familiar rush of flames, the very air touched by the steam undergoes an ignition as the very molecules themselves burst into flames, one reacting upon the another in a discordant harmony. The flames themselves are a truly remarkable sight, a light flickering crimson at first, before multiplying exponentially before the elf on an inexplicable course to the sanguine manifestation. They meet a few paces before the elf in a new rush of flame, the heat intensifying from the weaker crimson to the orange and tinged with the lustrous white as the manifestation seems to be burning the very smog, a decadent aroma spilling out while invariably, the flame bursts through with an even greater burst, as if it incorporated the vampire’s attack in it’s feast, while now hurtling towards the damned one in a far more deadly replication of his own strike.
Rheven snarls as the flames swallow the sanguine nimbus whole, but he doesn’t allow his frustration to cloud his judgment – instead, the vampire lifts his staff once more, pointing it toward the incoming rush of fire. Another peculiar chant begins to spill from the mage’s lips, but it is lighter this time, drowned out by the deafening roar of Sevian’s flames. The runes upon Rheven’s robes begin to glow and pulse in response to his arcane call, giving off a faint azure hue, which is soon matched by a similar aura the engulfs his staff. As the gout of fire reaches the staff, something rather strange happens; the aura itself seems to push against the heat, and in the next second, the two offending forces erupt in an explosion! The elf’s conjuration quite literally splits in two, sending a wave of fire to either side of the vampire and saving him from the worst possible outcome, though the heat grasps at his flesh even through his defensive spell, causing painful blisters to sizzle onto his delicate flesh. Just then, the mage’s words shift from spellsong and into an agonized scream, the blue aura spreading from his staff and washing over the flames to his sides, extinguishing them upon contact. Through with Sevian’s effort, the vampire turns his full attention to the elf, lips curling into a scowl before a venemous hiss erupts from his throat. The hiss soon gives away to raspy words of power though, calling upon a spell similar to the last one he cast. What’s left of the blood within the fountain suddenly begins to quiver, crawling over the edge and rapidly approaching the bard’s position. Around his legs it stops, though it is not hot like before..instead, Rheven’s tone suddenly shifts, and so does the blood; the crimson around the elf’s feet hardens suddenly, seeking to quite literally latch him to the ground itself. Again the vampire falls silent, pointing his magical weapon toward his foe. A single word is spoken, and the staff seems to react harshly, vibrating within his grasp. Suddenly, a burst of raw arcane force rips itself free from the tip, the weapon amplifying the rather simple spell, as is its purpose. While the bard is hopefully glued to the earth, the rush of energy streaks toward him, rattling the ground beneath it as it grows ever closer, seeking to drench the elf in its wrath.
Sevian can do little more to watch in a state of helplessness with his scythe firmly entrenched into the barren ground, spewing a greatly diminishing fire before flickering out and completely dying with a wisp of smoke. With a grunt, he attempts to withdraw the blade from the ground and can do little but look grimly at the viscous liquid surrounding and encasing his leg in a prison. With an ever grimmer note, he gazes at the approaching archaic blast. Oddly enough, the look of defeat is replaced by one of more manic designs. A broad grin of true bloodlust wraps itself about his lips, bearing his naturally sharp canines in an eerie mockery of the damned one's prized possession. With a great grunt echoing out amidst an accumulation of forth and visibly shifting muscles, he tears the very earth asunder in a maniacal fit. Unfortunately he can do little else, as the scythe, with clumps of dirt et all, meets the blue aura, the elf's grip tightening considerably about the warped handle in a steely grip. the conveys blade sweeps it's deadly arch out before the impending explosion. In a poor attempted imitation, to rip the aura in two as was done with his strike, the array of mana implodes at first touch against the blade, the minute distance between blade and body severed by the resulting shrapnel which embed and correspondingly sizzles against the elf’s silken shirt, creating jagged pockets of ash in the alabaster flesh. As for the mass accumulation of force behind the strike, it translates into one benefit. Small spidery lines criss cross across the obsidian creation about his bootstraps before, in a satisfying crack, breaking the imprisonment. This results in the elf falling quite unceremoniously flat atop his back with a groan of pain. With weakened and battered limbs, he gathers the near last vestiges of strength left in him, and slides the scythe across the gravel and once more and in a near pitiful mockery, sluggishly raises it high in the air and performing and arching down stroke. Whether by the mass accumulation of magic present in the weapon, the blade seemingly strikes and embeds the air, hovering unnaturally in a perpendicular fashion over the elf’s near prone form. His arms hang limply, as with a hoarse shout, he once more repeats the word of power, with far more greater an explosion. Unhindered by the barrier of earth, the metal scythe glows an eerie crimson, as if heating while a corresponding sizzling noises spreads from the flat of the blade when in a magnificent pull and rush of air, a great torrential burst of flames rips through whatever mystical barrier out in a wide diameter from the blade and into the darkening sky. One can only watch the column of fire as in a deadly application of physics, the pull of gravity beckons it towards earth. Racing eagerly, the fall back towards earth in blinding speed, invariably catching the Vampire in it’s wide area.
Rheven grins devilishly at his spell’s effect, though the grin itself causes the vampire to grunt a moment later, the blisters upon his face popping and oozing with a grotesque mixture of blood and puss. Not allowing his attention to falter, the mage watches the scythe begin to form another mass of flame, and despite the vampire’s own wounds, a newfound confidence brews within Rheven. As the column of flame descends, the vampiric mage sets into motion, another chant of ancient magics coming from his lips all the while. Just before the fires reach the mage, he dives behind the massive fountain, using its bulk as a crude defense against the flames. It doesn’t prove entirely to his advantage though – instead, the column of crimson impacts with the structure, setting the entire thing aflame. Unfortunately for Rheven, a stray tongue of flame licks from the fountain and grasps onto his robe, setting it on fire as well. Knowing the danger fire represents to a vampire, Rheven begins to panic, leaping to his feet; he does not shout, however, he only drops his staff and continues the chant he started, the runes against pulsing along his garments. Wildly he dances about on his feet before diving into the earth, again becoming engulfed in that strange blue aura. The aura, combined with him diving and rolling across the earth, prevents the wicked fire from consuming his life, though he still evident suffers as he lies there, writhing in pain. The back of his garment is burned away, revealing a reddened, horribly blistered and singed back, yet it only fills the vampire with more lust for Sevian’s blood. Crawling to take his staff in hand once more, he weakly indicates the elf again, a new chant of power dancing from his tongue. That same aura that surrounds his body suddenly moves to the staff, and is amplified by the focus of the weapon, combined with the caster’s mind. Another streak of blue force bursts free from the weapon, though this one is different – it brings with it a stifling cold, causing ice to form in the wake of its path. Onward it goes, snaking through the air in a unpredictable pattern; once it reaches Sevian, it begins to wrap around the elf, though it never touches his flesh. Instead, it forms a mass of ice around the bard, which then begins to shrink, leaving only inches between him and the shrinking mass, eager to crush and freeze. Meanwhile, the vampire lies on his stomach weakly, only guessing at Sevian’s fate...
Sevian can only incline his head by the barest of degrees, his face dispelling the pain into a look of eager satisfaction at the massive embodiment of fire plunge the arena in it's alluring call, the elf's hues mimicking the descent in perverse enjoyment. It quickly turns to that of disgust, when a single azure speckle amidst the torrent of crimson stymies the flow. As all things do, Sevian's ill fated attack flickers the last reserves of his innate antics, while the scythe equally loses grip on whatever preternatural purchase it had and falls limply to the side. With a broad grunt, he hobbles himself unto the residue sanguine encased boots when the ball of ice does mimics the much maligned vitae and encases the elf in another prison, albeit one much larger. His gaze flickers past the crystallized sheen of ice unto the mage's prone form. Anger anew courses through his veins, coupled with the fact that his voracious blood lust has not yet been sated. With limited options remaining, and the imprisonment shrinking in upon itself, the tainted elf raises the scythe once more, limited parameters limiting the height of it's ascent. Instead, he slips the blade in the somewhat singed digits so that he grips it just beneath it's imperious gleaming blade. With a quick recession, he rockets the ethereal weapon out, it's molten tip still suffering from the after effects, which allows it to cleave deeply into the ice. Tightening his grip about the warped column, he grunts and pushes the blade forward, centimeter by slow centimeter. Ever continuously, the prison shrinks about him as frustration peaks. Brows furrowing together and teeth clenched in a jaw breaking force, he calls on whatever strength he has left for some last ditch effort attack. Suddenly, his call is answered, as the raging flames within his gaze flicker out. With an empty gaze, his jaw slackens and hands slip away slowly when, in a burst of sudden heat, his scythe blade gains an unearthly crimson embodiment across it's surface. The added stress is too much for the physical aspect of the ice to bear, bursting forth the prison and sending multiple shards of jagged ice this way and that, with a particularly large one heading invariably to Rheven's prone state. The success of the attack barely registers upon the elf's lifeless face, while the shrapnel embed his form, particularly his chest and arms as he limply falls forward with a thump unto the barren earth.
Rheven can do very little as the massive shard of ice approaches. Slowly, and with much apparent agony, the mage lifts his way to his feet, hissing in pain all the while. It is all the mage can do to weakly lift his staff toward the incoming projectile, pitifully thrusting it forward toward the large slab. The magical properties of the weapon and the ice collide, and hundreds of spidery lines form across the shard, splintering it into multiple slivers and much smaller portions of jagged ice. The mage doesn’t even have time to scream before several fly into his chest, finding inconvenient homes in his clothes and flesh. The vampire convulses violently from the multiple impacts, ending up in a heap once again – there he lies, blood streaming from the wounds on his upper and lower chests, somewhere in a void between being conscious and unconscious, his strength sapping as blood is lost, though it appears he will live, at least for now.