Duel:Silimaure v Vuryal
Part of the Rynvalian War Arc
Judges: Leigh, Parsithius, Jacklin (mid)
Location: Riverbank (Larket)
Vote: 3-0 Vuryal
Silimaure stands, silent and alert, two arrows already knocked into place in the fine long-bow in his hands in preparation for Vuryal's arrival. Clad in his favoured armour, custom fitted breastplate that fits snugly around his shoulders, hugging his torso like a second skin, along with chainmail leggings forged in a similar matter, both heavily enchanted to reduce the weight of the steel, the ranger keeps hold of his silence as grey optics discern the Parasite, at long last, and only the meagre greeting of a slightly lofted chin, the very tiniest nods. Then do his hands lift, left arm pushing the bow forward, whilst the right pulls backwards to draw the bowstring taunt, the arrows raised to be level with the single eye that now looks to the mage, the other having been closed to allow greater accuracy of the ranger's aim. The bow is turned on its side, with the point of each arrowhead trained upon the avian's shoulders; sparks begin to fly from pale finger tips, quickly turning into bursts of orange flame that travel down the length of the arrow shaft to hug the steel points of the projectiles. The tree-born's hand opens, releasing the bowstring and letting the enchanted arrows fly towards their targets with intent to embed deep into each shoulder blade, with hopes of also gracing the cloth of his robes, setting alight the clothing over his torso.
Vuryal is caught, well, almost, unawares as he enters this peaceful and serene setting, the trickling brook sending its calming tones into the air before it is dashed with the makings of a thoroughfare with dire consequences. The chronomancer, staff already held in his right hand, catches a quick glimpse of the forthcoming pair of blazing arrows, their paths fast and furious though caught by the dark avian's crimson orbs. Reacting with the daintiness of a trained monk, the amber-stoned device aims towards the piercing projectiles, the gem blazing to life upon catching wind of a few chronomantic words spoken like an adroit troubadour. A blast of gravity perils itself upon those simple devices of woe, sending them off target just enough to have them whoosh by their intended targets, leaving only a warming heat that tickles the skin of the beast. "Do I not even get a friendly greeting?" lofts forth the Emperor of Archmosia as the stone, still ablaze with golden and amethyst hues, pushes downward, gracing the nearby river with its hellish intent. Within a few moments, the serene waters begin to bubble; steam beginning to surge skyward as the atomic structures of each h2o molecule is broken, causing a massive chain reaction to come to light. The muddy banks of the stream begin to solidify outward, the mud turning into hardened clay, seeking to trap any who walk upon its banks to become encased as a few fish rise to the surface of the river, boiled and ready to be eaten if one were to favor a feast at this most inopportune of moments. Adding to insult, the staff of the chronomancer now squarely points towards Silimaure as the chain reaction continues. Small globules of gravity now begin to burst all about the nimble ranger, mainly upon his right side as each explosion seeks to drive him closer to the shoreline, the intense radiating maelstrom quite unpleasant to deal with as the trap has been set, all under the ever smirking visage of the one known as Vuryal
Silimaure is already knocking a third arrow into his revered bow, when suddenly all thought of further attack is driven from the nature-loving psyche of the wood-elf, to be replaced with horror. Wide eyes watch in disgust as nature herself is subject to manipulation, steam rising from the waters of the river, which is quickly becoming a river no more. Anger bubbles forth upon the pale visage of the tree-born, whom turns attentions again upon the Chronomancer, already having lowered himself into a brisk sprint, legs pumping furiously in the elf's rage. When, from the corner of a grey optics, the explosion is discerned, causing Silimaure to throw all his weight to the side, ducking over his shoulder in a hasty side-ways roll to evade the spell. Yet the explosion continues, hasty steps carrying Silimaure further and further towards the thick mud. Frustration becomes paramount as he becomes finally aware of Vuryal's plan, and in haste he drops the long bow, driving a leather-clad hand down to the longsword tucked into his belt. Silimaure's own meagre mana reserves would not be enough to enact what the tree-born has in mind, but with the added magic dormant within the elemental-long sword... It comes forth, the handle grasped firmly in both hands, before the ranger slams the blade down into the earth, simultaneously pushing every last drop of the internal energies within into the blade, mixing his mana with that within the enchanted weapon, and releasing it in waves. The earth rises around the tree-born, a large wall of harden soil and pebbles which spreads out to cover the elf's front providing a clean cover for the explosions that pass over head. The chain reaction passes the elf, suddenly very weary from the draining spell, but still he rises, face ashen and blackened with dirt. He starts into the run, slow and clumsy at first, but quickly becoming more focused as he draws on racial stamina reserves, and soon his brisk run is repeated, pale hands drawing the runed-twin elven-blades from their respectful scabbards attached to each hip. Upon the avian the ranger dives, blades brandished, one thundering in a downwards arc to stab into the side of Vuryal's neck, whilst the other comes upwards, point of the blade angled for the Parasite's kidney. The very tiniest drops of magic that the elf can muster are also flowing into these blades, causing the intricate runes to cackle into life, sending nerve-shattering jolts of electricity down the length of elven steel.
Vuryal is struck! The electricity jars his weary body causing the dark avian to stagger backwards and flail his arms about as a spat of smoke flits skyward, the singed skin giving off a rather pungent odor that eviscerates the entire area with its tainted smell. With some fortune of luck, the shrieking blades both narrowly miss the parasite as the secondary assault comes mainly as a blessing, though the scarred skin upon the upper body of the parasite might speak otherwise to the untrained eye. Quickly recovering from the unsuspected bolts of electrical current, Vuryal's crimon gaze narrows in upon the elf, rage and anger building within the usually calm façade of the beast. Then, the dark avian lashes out! The staff in his hand transforms into the familiar scimitar, stone embedded into its butt and all, that now comes screeching like the cries of a wraith towards its prey. Finesse and talent of a skilled swordsman embodies the motions of the chronomancer as the blade dances through the air, effortless and efficient, giving no sudden indication as to where it intends to strike its fatalistic blow. Surprise! Flowing down the morphed steel of the brand now comes an obsidian light, streaking directly towards Silimaure as bolts of amethyst show the chaos of the gravitational spell. Right before impact, it suddenly bursts! A horrific wave of gravity pummels through the air, the intense force of which would surely rip asunder anything unfortunate enough to stand in its path of utter destruction.
Silimaure brings his arms backwards, resting his blades before his armoured torso in a diagonal cross, forming an x shape before the tree-born. Heavy breaths circulate from nostrils to lips, the signs of fatigue evidently upon youthful visage, coated with dirt and sweat. White hair is no more, bits of earth trapped within tresses soaked in perspiration. This is an encounter as Silimaure could have never envisioned. The amethyst staff morphs into a blade, recognised as a scimitar by the ranger, and it comes swiftly forward to slice the elf into ribbons, but no! Elven blades fall to the floor, dropping in favour of bending his legs and throwing his arms over his head. Now the enchantment of his armour comes into play, for unhindered by the steel thanks to the magics which make breastplate and leggings feather light, Silimaure can throw his legs upwards, simultaneously bending his back to place palms flat against the floor, weight careening over snowy-haired head in a clean back flip, ending with Silimaure in a standing position. But before the pale hand can reach for the dagger housed within a holster strapped to his thigh the blast from Vuryal's spell reaches his form, blowing him clean off his feet and sending his agile body flying through the air, to land hard against the earth. And even then he is travelling still, rolling thrice, head over heels, sending the world into spinning chaos. Pain thunders through his form as he comes to a stop, lying face down in the dirt, but still undeterred he climbs to his feet, revealing his mangled visage, decorated with clean gashes, with blood pouring from both his broken nose and split lip. Into a small pouch upon his belt the ranger reaches, plucking free from within a shuriken, the steel gleaming with the monkshood juices which coat each point. With a deft flick of the hand the tree-born sends the throwing weapon towards his adversary, the star-shaped projectile whistling as it slices through the earth, on a path to slice into robed, and hopefully embed within the skin beneath the ribs, allowing it's deadly poison to enter the blood stream. But this is merely a distraction, and the last enchantment upon the elf is demonstrated now. Leather boots, caked in runes, are suddenly subject to a light brush from pale fingertips, releasing a small measure of energy into the item, before Silimaure thrusts himself in a sprint like no other. Like a colourful blur he moves, quite difficult to discern with a naked eye, the leather boots-of-speed living up to their name well. Mid charge the aforementioned dagger is removed from it's place, and a timed leap just as Silimaure is before Vuryal sends the ranger into the air. He resolves to wrap his thighs tightly around the Parasite's middle, whilst reaching forward to bring his back into the elf's vision, so the steel blade of the dagger may come in a downwards arc, intent on embedding deep within the small of the avian's back.
Vuryal catches a fatal glimpse of the poisoned steel, pirouetting upon the balls of his feet with the grace of a skilled ballerina. Pushing his arm downward, the one grasping the scimitar, left hand now goes flying over the head of the chronomancer, adding to the spin as the dark avian circles clockwise. The gentle sound of the shuriken screeches by, falling into the river as it strikes not its intended target. In the same manner, the flash known as Silimaure streaks downward, a flailing leg kicking out to strike the parasite in what was once an intended clasp about his waist gone awry, sending the creature into a rather ungraceful plummet to the ground as the blade falls into the creek, away from the mayhem to sleep for a forgotten moment. Slowly rising to his feet, the chronomancer pushes off the ground with his right hand, left one going to dust off his tattered shorts as teeth bare themselves in a show of utter contempt for this nimble ranger. "Enough of this..." growls Vuryal, tone guttural and coming from deep within as his pupils begin to cake over, ruby tones devouring the snow colored bits. Now fully erect, the chronomancer claps, a thunderous burst of noise produced that ensnares the entire area with its cacophony of clatter. Unabashedly, the making of a blackened orb in between the hands of the time mage appear as he gradually opens his clapping hands. Once opened, the orb dangles in the air, moving nowhere as it hovers without a purpose. That purpose is soon unleashed onto the scene, the heralding ball sent directly towards the presence of the prey, enlarging itself with each passing moment. Then, it explodes! However, it seeks not to propel the elf outward. Nay. It seeks to devour and fill its needs upon the flesh of the ranger, the extreme forces of a black hole now wishing nothing but to feast and have its fill upon anything and everything. Fish, once boiled, now are hurtled into its pit, soon followed by larger animals, its appetite horrendous and without end.
Silimaure lands in a crouch, wondering how his dagger had left his tight clasp and ended up in the river. But no time to muse, and he quickly rises, turning his body to face the chronomancer, contempt written across pale visage. Weaponless the ranger now stands, shooting glances towards his dropped blades nearby, and sword embedded in the earth some way away, and the bow next to it. He drops back into the crouch from which he had risen, ready to press a hand against his boot to reactivate the speed enchantments when the orb comes hurtling forward. No time is wasted, and energy is indeed siphoned from the ranger's reserves to entwine with the runes, sending Silimaure into another hasty dash towards his dropped bow. The sucking force of the black hole, however, is a wondrous counter for this plan. Surprise comes to the elf's psyche as he notices that he doesn't seem to be going either forwards or backwards, rather caught between the two forces acting upon his body, the boots attempting to whisk him away from the orb, whilst the black hole seeks, with equal force, to engulf him. A cry of alarm leaves pale lips as one of the nearby trees, its roots pulled clean from the ground, comes rushing towards him, and with an agile leap the tree-born manages to avoid it's base, hopping clean over the trunk, to continue his suspended sprint. The spell fades, as all spells must at some point, leaving an unknowing Silimaure to trip over his boot, and fall face-first into the earth, which becomes stained with the blood that still drips from his face. Rolling onto his back he angles his sight towards the mage, his hand inching forward to grasp the handle of the runed-elven blade so fortunately within grasping range.