Duel:Rydian v Tiphareth (DD)
Duel Info
- Judges: Rheven, Sidney, Kasyr
- Stakes: Death Duel
- Rd/time: 3rds / 15 min
- Location: Altar of Domination in the Dead Caves of the Underdark
- Decision: Tiphareth, unanimous
Venue
Altar of Domination
Upon first entering this room you see a large bowl like object, filled with blood, and oddly some brains from the most recent victim of the creatures that worship here. Beside the massive bowl is a squid-faced, looking creature, walking upon two legs, and having robes on its body, its eyes are pure white, with no pupils. It reaches out with one arm and points at you, speaking into your mind. A heavy pain strikes you but soon fades, as you will not be taken slave by this thing, by this, mind flayer. The altar of domination of a reminder to the flayers, that they believe they rule supreme over all beings, they worship themselves. Your only path away from here is to the North.
Tiphareth vs Rydian DD
Tiphareth positions himself across the massive vessel of sanguine ichor from his opponent, cold iniquitous eyes scrutinizing every move of the assassin’s form. The musty, pungent air of this stagnant place stings the nostrils of the venerable mage, his face taking on a slight grimace in response. Tiphareth narrows his glare toward Rydian’s direction, well educated on the man’s skill-set, as one does not reach his age without tedious research of his opponent. “You should have taken the example I demonstrated with your former clan leader Rydian, though you shall pay a much higher price than the paladin for your indiscretions.” As the words complete their journey from his lips, the mage simply casts out a single hand, the well-known orb of darkness descending upon the venue like a thick atrous blanket, rending vision useless to all within it’s effect. The Eldermage levitates upward, rapidly approaching the ceiling of the stone cavern above, soft words of arcane formulae pour outward from his thin ebon lips, as he calls forth on the depths of knowledge within his aged mind. The resulting conjurations, going fully unseen to even the mage himself summon forth a most odious flow of viscous tar from the very aggregate itself, filling the venue floor with easily a foot of the sticky rancorous tar. Mere moments after the spells conclusion, a simple utterance finishes the onslaught against his foe with a column of spiraling fire, sent forth toward the location of his current adversary. The speeding rail of fire meets easily with the tar upon the floor near Rydian’s form, flames spreading with virulent speed to fully engulf the room with a deadly storm of tempestuous fire. Hopefully engulfing his enemy in it’s rapid wake.
Rydian casts his serene gray eyes about the place he now found himself within, he reminded himself to keep a wary eye out for any Mind Flayers. His head full of white silken strands bows to the Elder Drow, "Words are useless, now. Let us dance." Words pour forth in perfect reflection of his stoic features. The Drow watches as the Mage casts a spell, rendering his vision, as well as his dark-vision, completely useless. This only bothered him slightly, as Drow were trained in the ways of blind fighting. Excitement fills his mind as adrenaline begins to course its way through his veins, quickening his heart rate. The thick feeling of tar underfoot was the first thing he feels, slowing his movements by only a fraction. The column of flame, however, was heard as much as the Drow felt it. Extremely sensitive ears picked up the sizzle of air as it races its way towards him. The heat of it drives him back, his movements slightly impaired by the tar underfoot. A low growl of irritation slips from behind his ebony lips. He gives up on the attempt at sidestepping the inferno almost upon him, and instead dives to off to the right; the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as he hears it rain down into the tar, and floor underneath. Although he manages to escape the heavy bulk of it, he suffers a severe burn to his left arm, causing his masochistic personality to reign free. He revels in the pain, it is utter ecstasy to this rather insane Drow. The fingers of his right hand reach back, and tears free the black bow from its resting place, along with three arrows. Knocking the arrows, he silently feels the shaft of each as he pulls them back, the tension of the cord feeling ready to give way any moment. The light touch to the arrow's shafts, shows the Drow what purpose they served. A lightning bolt is etched into the shat of each, telling him that upon impact with anything, they will shock their target relentlessly for a short while. The bowstring is released, sending the arrows in the direction the flame had come from, hoping to cause Tiphareth to make a noise of some sort, so he could pin the venerable Mage' location.
Tiphareth listens carefully to the resulting carnage he expected from the flaming onslaught, though only a slight splash into the tar from his stealthy foe can be heard. Straining to ascertain any movements above the sizzle of flame, the Drow begins shifting to the side amidst the air, knowing that a stationary target will be easy fodder for the trained assassin. His ears tweak slightly as a different sizzle can be heard, that of electrical force flowing about the hail of arrows approaching his former location. Though he had already initiated an attempt of evasion, it was only slightly successfully, for lateral levitation was slow and his opponent rather fast. A single arrow meets flesh in the form of Tiphareth’s arm, the resulting shock of Rydian’s ensorcelled arrow coursing rapidly through his slim aged frame. His concentration lost amidst the air, the elder Drow falls somewhat ungracefully from the sky, landing with a splash in the massive bowl of stone at the center of this ominous cavern. Shaking the cobwebs from his mind, Tiphareth regains concentration as quickly as he can, redoubling his efforts toward the assassin. A short incantation conjures forth a strange dome above his head, completing the bowl into a full sphere. Mere moments after his arcane dome shrouds the mage, it is followed by a likewise shell of stone. Speaking from within his earthen confines, the bowl begins a rapid roll toward the last discernable location he could ascertain from the arrow’s apparent trajectory, the mage levitating upright within it’s form. Bowling forth toward the Assassin, the massive stone sphere attempts to fully crush Rydian’s bones into fine shards of gruesome flesh upon the cavern floor; all the while his fiery pool threatening to encompass his now tar-covered adversary.
Rydian waits upon the tar-filled cavern floor, the thick feel of it was bothersome. Bracing himself for the impact of electrical explosion to the air, the concussion nearly knocking him from his ever ready stance. The splash of the Elder Mage confirmed a hit by at least one of his arrows. A gruesome grin dances at the corners of his lips, as he begins trudging through the thick tar, towards the sound of his fallen foe. A second sound of the squishing of tar reaches his ears, almost blending in with his. It was a constant sound, with no gaps between, letting the Assassin know the noise was not coming from Tiphareth. He realized something had been conjured to smash him. Not knowing the size of this mass come to strike him down in the impenetrable darkness looming up about, that he simply dives off to the left, keeping his eyes fixed on the direction he last heard his opponent, so as not to lose it. His dark form slides across the ooze covered floor, before coming to an abrupt stop, having sunk to much. Whether he dodged the thing or not was now apparent; the conjured stone mass rolls right into him, it slams into the right side of his chest, and right shoulder. The very air from his lungs is torn violently from him, the feel betwixt pleasure and pain. Having been knocked back a few paces, and out of the general way of the stone, the Drow refocuses his mind on Tiphareth. His hand lets go of the bow, dropping it to the floor where it sticks, awaiting for him to come back and retrieve it, should he live. A quick flick of his left hand produces two runed darts, the very same his brother used before his death; their runes invoke simple piercing wards. With unparalleled speed, Rydian let loose the twin deadly needles with accuracy derived from long training in the dark arts. He listens intently, ignoring his pain, for the sound of the projectiles meeting their mark.
Tiphareth rolls amidst the stone encasement, an ominous grin goes unseen upon his face as he feels the contact of his rolling attack upon Rydian’s form. His hearing rather useless inside the earthen ball, he chants a quick incantation to teleport his venerable form to a more suitable location. The words barely escaping his mouth before a sudden feeling of sanguine vitae is noticed running down his shoulder. The sound only a thin, * whoosh * as it passes easily through the stone and a large potion of his shoulder. The pain was minimal with such a small and hastily launched needle, though the blood was significant. Tiphareth completes his spell to remove himself from the tome-like sphere, appearing now high over the flaming venue. The heat was reaching an unbearable level, even at his lofty height, and he knew he must act quickly to end this battle, lest he, himself be consumed by the smoke and flame. His blood can be heard sizzling as it falls into the flaming pool below. Struggling against the injuries upon his emaciated arms, the magus waves his hands about in a series of bizarre gestures, wincing from the pain which shoots through his muscles, the Eldermage commands with silent force for the flaming ichor to seek out his stealthy foe; the viscous floor moving readily to his command. Leaching upward toward Rydian’s form, the black tar moves with eerie silence in attempt to overtake the Assassin’s body, hopefully covering it with a suffocating skin of thick choking death.
Rydian casts his arresting gaze about the darkness, but he was still unable to make out anything distinguishable. The darkness was causing him to panic, as he feels the heat of the flame dancing up to meet him; unbeknownst of the tar rising to its master command, come to engulf the unsuspecting Drow in its inky black depths. His thoughts were scattered, as he tries to figure out how to get himself out of this rather nasty predicament, and find the bothersome Mage. He had to bring justice to him, the spirit of his brother passed demanded it of him. The Assassin bends his knees, his corded muscle ripple beneath his ebony skin as he prepares to leap away from the sizzling inferno nearing him. He had to simply escape the heat. His right hand flexes, as he bends farther down, his knee almost gracing the surface of the tar. The tension of his muscles release, as he springs into the air, with help of his magically imbued muscles, he jumps higher than most his size can. The wall of tar sent at the Drow slams into him with full force, though because of his elevation, the wall was thinner, allowing him passage through. Some of the inky black mass was inhaled; lining the inside of his lungs, as it slowly suffocates him. He lands with a splash to the ground as an audible pop of his right ankle echoes throughout the pitch-black cavern. He undoubtedly broke it. The Assassin rises to his feet, right hand instinctively going to his hip. He pulls free his beloved dagger, the metallic ring cutting out into the air, announcing the blades arrival. Instantly he is inundated by its enchantment, filling every fiber within him the urge to kill. He surrenders himself over to the rage; he gives himself over to reckless abandon. This mage had to die. His blade hand recoils, preparing to throw this blade. The smell of the others blood forming a perfect target in his mind's eye. With animal grace, he spins around in the thick tar, his breathing ragged from it, he lets loose the powerful blade. The very air hisses as it makes it's way pass, the friction of the blade to the air the source of the noise.
Tiphareth hears the obvious splash, and accompanying crack, of the assassin as he lands with a commotion after deft evasive leap. His position fully known, the wizard swirls his hands before him, a hazy glow seen before him as he awaits yet another weapon to be launched in his direction, the seemingly obvious conclusion given his opponents history of strikes. The impromptu shield of arcane force forms a thick barrier for the aerial assault directed his way, though it was not summoned with the intention of such a blood lusted attack. The weapon speeding with every growing velocity as the mage smiles behind the wall of mana. Meeting the mystic shield with a dire force, the shield suddenly weakens, it’s energy depleted rapidly by the massive intent behind the blow. A sudden piercing of the blade into the mages gut, releases a loud groan from deep within, though it’s speed was lessened to a great extent by the wall of energy, it was not enough to prevent his opponents strike. Feeling the blood flowing freely down his body, the mage shouts out with stentorian force, echoes of the eldritch words bouncing amidst the cavern walls as the dispelling sorcery causes the darkness and flames to dissipate rapidly into the air. Falling unceremoniously into the thick tar, Tiphareth lands firmly, barely cushioned from the unyielding stone floor by the viscous smoking pool.
Autohit kill post
Tiphareth struggles to his feet, his opponent now clearly in view for the first time since the battle’s inception. Laughing to himself as he knows his adversary is near helpless with the broken limb he’s sustained. Raising his hands high above his head, occult verses pour like wine from his lips; utterances not heard for centuries fill the cavernous space as he combines them with an impressive display of articulate hand movements, a rich demonstration of his deft Drow grace. The energy in the room is palpable as a static force builds within the space with each passing word of the Eldermage. Suddenly, the building energy is released, the full compliment of it’s power directed into the chest of his daring rival. A sudden flash of scintillating light burst forth from with the assassin’s bosom, his body torn asunder in a gruesome shower of rubicund matter. Pieces of dark elven flesh and droplets of blood scatter outward, raining down the vile precipitation onto the whole of the venue, leaving little but remnants of flesh where Rydian formerly stood.