Duel:Rikailin v Tiphareth
Duel Info
- Judges: Eboric (mid), Rheven, Arien
- Stakes: Exile from Sage, permanent scar, removal from Drow/Sage war
- Rd/time: 3rds / 15 min
- Date: 09/05/11, 10 PM
- Venue: Under the Canopy, Sage Forest
- Decision: Tiphareth (split)
Venue
Under the Canopy
Tiphareth vs Rikailin
Preduel scene setting post
Tiphareth makes his way through the clearing followed closely behind by the oft present entourage of sentinels, looking upward for a brief moment at the massive golden tree and its lofty branches in reverence to their aged stature before looking back down toward the forest floor as he heads westward, his path intended to assess the current situation at the defiled Elves Camp.
Duel
Rikailin :: A shape, shrouded completely by the greenery of the majestic tree in which it waits, senses even at a distance the distinct emanations signalling the arrival of its quarry. It is not normally the habit of this druid to ambush fair prey with no warning, but the wretch's actions have merited all the brutality Rikailin possesses. She sets upon Tiphareth not with her own body - not yet, at least - but instead by way of an undetectable but insistent command to the hulking shape almost entirely buried in foliage near the tree's base. In a blur of motion, the chimera's bulk explodes from cover and bears down upon the eldermage. Vraal's goat's head swings to and fro in an attempt to gore its target with vicious horns whilst the draconic head, atop a hideously long neck, gapes open and vents a screaming torrent of raw electricity in writhing chains from as close a range as the enraged beast can manage. It bellows in fury, mouth yawning open even further as its whole body lashes to and fro in its wild charge, spraying its deadly breath across the lower part of the clearing in sizzling ropes. This lethal web has the unrealized but desirable effect of neutralizing the entourage of assassins with which the eldermage is travelling, either by outright death from raw electrocution or by the simple expedient of muscular paralysis. Even as the chimera's sanity takes hold once more and frees it from the impetus of Rikailin's command, the woman herself has begun to move. She knows the aerial avenues of these trees as well as she knows those paths to be plied below upon the earth, and thus her leaps and steps are quick, sure and almost perfectly silent. The vampire's camouflage is aided even further by the ensorcelled bracelet upon her wrist which gifts her near invisibility whilst on the move within the cover of trees. As she moves, her hands weave a dance from left to right, procuring and then tossing small glass objects from a sizable store held singly in soft leather pouches about her waist. These she does not specifically aim, but directs haphazardly with tiny wisps of air magic, causing them to ricochet at odd angles from tree-roots, to batter one another in flight once free of the upper skirts of the tree and to veer at peculiar angles so as to further confound her foe. Sooner or later, each beaker will break, and since the target of each is ultimately the detested Drow, it is hoped that a generous helping of their contents, sprayed either from below or rained from above, will ultimately beleaguer the eldermage. The liquid inside is a noxious oil culled from the roots of tubers grown deep in the southern reaches of the forest which, when treated as they have been, will burst into violent flames upon contact with the air. The chimera, its rage spent, has torn off into the forest to the west, wishing no further consort with the druid who attempted to bid it obey, but the aftermath of its lightning, not to mention the peppered spurts and showers of liquid fire, should be more than enough to first incapacitate and then incinerate the lichdrow, wherever he may be.
Tiphareth continues on his way, though without a moment's notice the vile beast seems to burst from utter concealment. No time to react is offered the venerable mage as his entire entourage becomes overtaken within seconds by the onslaught of the accursed beast. With all the speed his undead body can summon, the Eldermage blinks his companion stave into view, slamming the but of the arcane implement into the soil as the electrified web of force rushes his way. A building of mystic force rises up the Lichdrow's feet and into the Xalious wood wand as he takes the blow head on; the vicious force of the beasts attack seems to quickly flow into the Xalious wood, as if called home as it's redirected into the grounding base of earth below. Blazing eyes dart about as the beast seems to immediately lose interest in the encounter and rush off into the distance. Looking everywhere, his ensorcelled vision notes not a single figure within the vicinity. This pet was no natural being of the forest, nah, this was most certainly a trap. Glare redirected to the trees overhead he scans the vast bows for some semblance of an opponent, though upon his glare comes the terror raining from above, in the form of flaming precipitation. A curse utters through his lips as the fire descends upon him, its ichorous nature covers his being and begins charing away at his decrepit flesh. Feeling no pain from the blow, and only intensifying the Lichdrow's anger, the begins levitation upward into trees, focused on finding this foe who'd so unceremoniously dumped the arcane flames upon him. Short incantations follow his movements as he rapidly ascends toward the treetops, causing flames to subside and leaving only the smell of burn flesh in their wake. Finally reaching the canopy, the Drow's burning glare bounces from bough to bout, scrutinizing each location for the slightest movement. A brief ruffly of branches near the vampire's most recent vicinity sets ablaze his fury as he directs his attack upon her location. A hand reaches into the semi-burned magical garment about his flesh, retrieving a small vial of unknown origin. With a singular deft maneuver, the Eldermage lofts the object toward his foe. It crashes upon the branch of the tree and sends the ichorous substance splashing about, a significant quantity upon the leg of his accursed opponent. A short command heralds the unnatural occurrence which comes to follow, hoards of unholy spiders, enchanted with the dragon's blood mixture come rushing forth from the substance. The creatures crawl with determined speed to find every nook and cranny of the vampire's armor, dragon's blood dripping from their fangs as they seek to pierce her flesh with the toxin.
Rikailin :: Being a creature of magic, the levitating lich heralds his arrival in the treetops in a most peculiar way. The earrings adorning Rikailin's earlobes suddenly flare white-hot, searing her skin and almost eliciting a gasp of pain from the vampire as she moves. She hears the clatter of something hard upon a branch in front of her, feels something splash her lower calf and simply acts without thinking, using more air magic to propel herself forward into a flying leap. The skirt she wears billows in the torrent of wind caused by her impromptu flight, blowing off most of the spiders and blood before they can wreak their venomous work upon her circulatory system. A deep itching sensation on her left shin, followed by a horrible burning agony in the same location, inform the battle-druid that at least some of the toxon borne to her on the circling zephyrs in the treetops is now attempting to corrode her from the inside out. The trajectory of Rikailin's wild leap sends her sprawling across a branch, from which she quickly drops out of sight, hanging by both hands and swinging to and fro before catapulting herself downward and out of entanglement. As she falls, the wily lady slips a length of vine from about her neck, touches it with a caress of her diminished druidic magic and fires it, bearing the knot to which it is affixed, back up into the thickets of leaves and boughs. Aided by the uprush of wind which constantly seems to harass this clearing, Rikailin's fall is slowed enough that she can unlimber her staff before tumbling to earth. She hits on both feet but falls bonelessly to earth, causing Katr'Liana to strike the soil hard. A deafening boom sunders the clearing as two magics simultaneously go to work. First, summoned almost entirely by the staff instead of by her own admittedly beleaguered reserves, a mess of spikes bursts upward from the ground, serrated and snarling like dragon's teeth and almost completely carpeting the forest floor in all directions around Rikailin. High above, Rikailin's long-treasured knot of sharproot, full to bursting with raw manna once culled in drips and dribbles from living beings against future need, bursts apart in a terrific blast of light energy. Intent on being as far from that horrid light as she can get, Rikailin begins to slam the staff-butt against the ground rhythmically, working with all her might to create a pit into which she falls and then encapsulates herself completely a moment later. Focused and contained by the treetop, this amazing display is sure to sunder Tiphareth if he is still high enough to avoid the spikes below and, should be terribly unlucky, it is even possible that, flooded with newfound life, the branches above may very well convulse into some insane form of sentience to grab the first thing they can reach, the better to tear it apart.
Tiphareth seems semi confident that at least a portion of his attack was successful due to the unnatural means by which the vampire had fallen from the trees, though his contentment quickly withers as the druid below seems to have barricaded herself within the earth. Spikes emerge with amazing speed and number from the floor, though his lofty nature prevents any immediate damage to his form. A rapid decent is given to the Drow's body as he begins a controlled plummet to the earth, though only mere moments pass before the first branch reaches out for him, then another, and another. Three large arborous limbs now encircles his legs and his staff bearing arm, though the Lichdrow only shakes his head in amusement. Dropping his unholy grasp to take hold of the first ensorcelled branch, his grip immediately begins a flow of the darkest necrotic energies into the tree. Its form rots with a spreading decay upon only seconds of his grasp before he pulls his leg free from the decrepit wood and proceeds to the next. The short ritual of death leaves a large portion of the tree withered and dying as he lowers himself even more, to a point some twenty feet off the forest floor. This poor deluded fool, burying herself for him in a premade grave, how convenient. The stave within his grasp is send disappearing from view as fast as it had emerged, leaving both hands of the Eldermage to proceed with a series of adept manipulations of his long and decaying ebon digits. Sweeping motions are formed with wide gesticulations of his arms, as if mixing a giant pile of leaves. Arcane verse begins spilling from his lips, reverberating through the trees as the earth begins shaking and trembling at his command. His movements increase in both speed and intensity as the ground belows begins breaking apart into larges aggregate peaces, the soils now solidified into angular rocks begin to tumble about in a violent churning motion. Spinning and churning like a pool of rocky death the magics taking place below threaten to readily pulverize the damned vampire to a messy undead pulp.
Rikailin :: Centuries of familiarity with magic and with the earth that spawns it have warned Rikailin that her temporary shelter is about to come apart around her. She does not need to recognize or even detect the individual weavings of spell-forms to know what is happening, and her defense is swift, confident and as absolute as she can manage. Every forest is underlaid by vast quantities of water, the better that trees might be nourished through their long lifespans, and since the battle-druid's strongest element is water, she uses her lessened abilities to affect the water table which is, in this portion of Sage, fairly close to the surface. Bearing down with all of her considerable might, shrieking with the effort, she pulls up great gouts of water and then begins to flash-freeze them around her as needed, deflecting the majority of the chewed detritus up and away from the depression at her barricade's center. Indeed, much of Tiphareth's own maelstrom may now assail his airborne and presumably helpless form by way of rebounds and sprayback fueled by the eldermage's own terrible might. Chunks of ice and rock occasionally punch through, pounding her body mercilessly and scoring her flesh in dozens of places. The vampire lunges to her feet, standing on one foot to avoid stressing her previously injured limb, and braces her staff against the ground for support, beseeching the sky with all of her might as the tumult continues. That previously-released ball of light, now freed from the haven of tree-branches in which it had been imprisoned, has just begun to spread into a blanket and dissipate when Rikailin screams skyward toward it: "Strike! Strike it down! Turn its flesh to ash!" No doubt the druid would not have been able to actively summon this much raw light magic alone, but its transmutation and position lend the vampiric elf a chance that is not to be denied. Obeying the desperation of its protector if not her raw prowess at this given moment, the great film of light coalesces into a deathly umbrella of hideous brilliance which collapses in upon the eldermage from all sides, intending to smother him in a cloak of relentless life against which the dark energies which make up his being will have no chance of fighting. The battle-druid stands still amidst the wreckage of the clearing, bleeding from various places and weakening gradually from the influx of dragon's blood, which at long last may be permitted to do its work; if her last salvo is insufficient to the task of laying her enemy low, the vampire will no doubt have to seek a safe bastion, there to heal and rejoin the fight as soon as her wounds have been mended in some ssemblance of peace.
Tiphareth hovers wearily above the tumult which takes place below, peppered from time to time by a blow of ice and debris from below, though his form remains intact through the minor onslaught of frozen aggregate. The vampiric druid is seen crawling from the rubble down below and struggling to her feet, the Lich seems content in her injury, though seeking far more to supplement it. A warning of sorts is issued as she screams her command to the sky; the Lich's glare directed upwards into the descending light which races toward him with amazing speed. The umbrella of light quickly approaches and so does the Eldermage make his descent. Falling downward rapidly to meet the ground with a thud. The tapestry of natural light surrounds his form as he screams out in anger, scintillating light bursts forth from the encapsulement as his flesh is withered away in smoking display of holy light. Eyes flare up from within his sockets as fingertips thrust into the ground below, calling forth into the earth Tiphareth draws from the everpresent death within, decaying plants, animals, organic material of all sizes and descriptions riddle the fertile soil, and the Lichdrow summons forth all of it, drawing the essence of pure death into this body as he begins to exude with unholy corruption, his everpresent aura of malevolence now growing, thickening into a shield about him, fighting, beating back the light. A scream emanates from deep within his unnatural chest, billowing outward to shake the trees as the light around him is suddenly overcome by the shadowy essence which has descended on his visage. Turning his glare toward the weakened vampire, the Lichdrow raises both hands high overhead, melted flesh dripping from his bones as he utters a flowing line of archaic verse, its dark vocalization ringing through the air as death permeates the locale. A single digits is pointed toward her form, its tip glowing with an eerie violet hue as he suddenly releases the onslaught of necrotic force toward his foe. Blasting outward like a shower of deathly sparks the minuscule sparks of death fall from all directions about the foe, raining down a torrent of decay upon the unnatural beast before him.
Rikailin :: Bloodied, battle-weary and nearing exhaustion, Rikailin cannot help but bare her fangs in a spitless snarl as she senses Tiphareth's misery. From her lips pours a cascade of scorn, in the form of heartless peals of cold, chilling laughter. She sways, steadies herself and then reels as the first of Tiphareth's new onslaught assails her. In a moment, it is clear that, while the actual force of the eldermage's attack is potent enough to drive the vampire to her knees and cause her body to shudder with each impact, the intended result is not, in fact, occurring. Being a vampire, and long since dead, death itself holds no dominion over her animated flesh. "You fool!" she gasps, glaring up toward Tiphareth where he stands. "You cannot kill what has already died! You cannot corrupt what has already passed beyond the realm of life! Have you lived so long without knowing...without knowing..." But here she falters, for although she will not simply wilt and rot as the lichdrow intends, she may very well succumb to her various other weaknesses before long. She simply crouches there on the ruined ground, shivering and clutching Katr'Liana for dear life, now reduced to the wordless entreaties which might spare her the indignity of falling completely helpless at this man's feet before he, too, can be brought down by his own maladies. The world wavers, then stabilizes again as Rikailin's body weathers the worst of this pocket storm of death. She does not attempt to rise nor attack, somehow knowing that neither she nor her prey are in any further condition to continue this epic struggle.
Stakes Posts
Tiphareth steps forward, snarling at the scorn issued upon him by the Vampiric Druidess. A grin spreads upon his cracking charred flesh as he continues the approach, portions of skin fall away with each step, the Lichdrow quickly recovering from her holy onslaught as he pulls necrotic energy from the ground below with each passing step. By the time he reaches the tired Druidess, her power already drained prior to this battle, the Patron is once again at full strength. A flourish of his ebon digits sends the Xalious wood staff once more into his grasp as he slams the butt of the implement firmly into the soil, setting his foe to sink up to her waist within the earthen confine, a rocky grasp reaching up to take hold of her by the wrists. He knew that in her current state she stood no chance of making such a ready escape as before. Removing the House D'Artes insignia from about his neck, the Eldermage holds it outward toward her thrashing form, planting the seal firmly against her forehead as it begins to glow with mystic light. Slowly the insignia burns a permanent marking of his seal into her flesh before the Lichdrow retracts the item. As he returns the Insignia about his neck, the Patron paces back and forth, staring down at the vampire. You've been beaten druid, you are hereby banished from this land, never to return. Shall I see your face within these lands it will mean certain death; furthermore, you will recuse yourself from this war in any and all ways. Tiphareth walks over the satchel he'd been carrying on the journey, long since dropped in the encounter. Reaching inside he retracts a scroll of paper, a deathly finger traces upon the velum leaving arcane words in its path as the contract is draw. A quill pen is produced from within his satchel and swiped across a bloodied portion of Rikailin's flesh before being laid down near her trapped hand, along with the magical contract. You'll find a pen and contract awaiting your mark, sign it or meet your end here today. With that, the Eldermage waves his hand to the side and releases the entrapped hand near the document.
Rikailin remains still as her lower body is encased within the earth, unable to affect any form of escape due to her weakened condition. At rest in this fashion, her vampiric body begins immediately to regrow her wounded flesh and to flush the remnants of dragon's blood from the spider-bites on her shin. When the brand sears her forehead, the druid does not give her foe the satisfaction of even the slightest sound. She clenches her teeth hard enough to send twin bolts of pain through her jaws, then slowly lets the tension ease as the insignia is withdrawn. She snatches the provided writing implement, scrawls an approximation of her name somewhere upon the contract, then takes a deep breath. "I cannot come back to my home. I understand. But I dare you, fell creature, to leave it. It will be your only sanctuary from me and my kind. Mayhap the war is beyond my reach, but you, yourself, are not. Did you relish those good men dying all around you in service? Did you enjoy being smothered in the apotheosis of life? I hope your every waking moment of rest is plagued by the ash you almost became this evening. Leaving me alive is a mistake that another of your kind has made. Forcing me from Sage is a blow to my heart, and to what remains of my soul, that I can never forgive." Having mustered at least some vestige of strength as she soliloquizes, Rikailin's body suddenly bursts upward, wrenches away from the abominable creature and free of her captivity. Her first bound is faulty, almost resulting in a tumble; her next is the first in a series of fluid moves that send her deep into the fastnesses to the southwest. Aided once more by the sanctuary of her bracelet, the vampiric elf is all but invisible as she sets out for the mountains to the west."
Tiphareth snatches up the signed document, placing his insignia against its surface as the entire document begins to emit a slight crimson aura, the binding document having been sealed with her blood and his magic. Carefully he rolls up the scroll and places it into his satchel before checking on the status of his injured entourage which was so unexpectedly attacked during the encounter.