Duel:Svilfon v Vehara, Semi-Finals Match 1 of the 2013 Frostmaw Tournament

From HollowWiki
Duelists: Svilfon vs. Vehara.
Duel: Traditional 3 posts each, with final defense. 12 minute posting limit.
Stakes: Autohit post. Advancement in the Titans of Winter Tournament 2013.
Judges: Eboric, Tiphareth, & Satoshi


Frostmaw Arena

Svilfon shouted, "(Pretend I am Satoshi) [As the storm still rages over Frostmaw, the arena fills with its usual audience eager for the Semi-Finals match. As with the prior matches, the panels of scrying glass are in place high above the stadium floor, and all around the place of combat: the very top of Eyrie's outpost spire. Despite wind and sleet, the panes of glass do not move more than a few languid inches, held suspended by the same elaborate magics that allow them to serve as two-way scrying mirrors. A dancing spark across each smooth surface brings them flickering to life so that audience can watch combatants, and vice versa--if either opponent is daring enough to let their concentration stray. Here and now, the wizard Svilfon will face off against the cunning half-drow Vehara to determine who will move on to the tournament's Championship Round.]"



Hawk's Eye Roost

You stand on the very top of the Spire, a point thrown so far into the clouds that any view of the surrounding lands below is utterly lost. And yet, the thin air, deep chill, and howling winds don't seem to touch upon this area, banished by a powerful enchantment eternally fueled by the centerpiece of the structure. Here, the Spire's smooth walls finally change, clear ice becoming black and sprawling outwards into a wide platform, the edge of which is rimmed by a number of perches for large creatures to roost upon, one roost larger than the rest and more ornate in shimmering, worked bronze. The center floor of the platform is where the upper oculus resides, over which a great structure has been erected from the same darkly colored ice. Like the talons of a dragon the ice springs up on all sides of the oculus and is drawn closed above it, holding gently between the tips of the claws the crown jewel of the Outpost: a behemoth sphere of Hawk's Eye, bronze sides polished to a mirror finish. This is the Hawk's Eye Roost, the Eyrie's northern observatory, private meeting forum, and the quarters for the force's Leader.




Vehara appears at the end of the announcement as if on cue, finishing her ascent to the top of the spire. The half-drow settles there silently, clad in some sort of ebon cloak with numerous hidden pockets, doubtlessly holding all manner of weaponry and implements. Her ebon-skinned arms cross beneath her chest, standing readily while those green eyes flick hither-tither, scanning the makeshift arena for any sight of her wizardly foe.


Svilfon appears out of thin air on one of the roosts. He crouches down much like the many mounts of the Eyrie do, and stares across the space between himself and Vehara. For a long time he is silent, before a hand lifts and his fantabulous hat is tipped to the half-drow. "I watched your first battle. Most impressive. Let us see how you fare against powers less mundane." He flashes a gap toothed grin at the woman, before a quiet word summons forth his Xalious wood wand. It appears within his pallid grasp, and there the wizard waits. "Let us see what you have, then."


Vehara stares coldly at the wizard when he appears via those undoubtedly magical means, giving only a silent tip of her dark-haired head in reply. No further time wasted, an ebon hand darts to her side and brandishes forth a kusari-gama; it's a most peculiar weapon, a sickle with a chain attached that terminates in a small but doubtlessly lethal weight at the end. At present the chain is wrapped about the shaft of the sickle, but a simple gesture sends the links flailing to life like some sort of sentient serpent, unfurling wildly before it is brought control beneath the adroitness of its wielder. Setting forth on her lead leg, the assassin darts for her wizardly opponent, that cloak about her body fluttering madly in protest at the speed she moves. So great is her assumed celerity that she seems to blink in and out of existence, cutting the space between them like a fine edge through flesh. Reaching proper proximity with Svilfon, the weighted-end of the weapon is sent twirling in the air above her head, the blunt weight crashing its crushing mass for the wizard's skull, ribs and hip in rapid succession, all of those strikes easily capable of turning bones to mulch. The final passage ends with the chain snapping out at Hara's foe like a wicked python, aiming to snare about his hopefully battered body and restrict movement; the assassin is quick to close what little space lies between herself and Svilfon, the sickle catching a glint of light here and there as it hacks and slashes for his legs with animalistic ferocity, aching to carve them up into little more than bloody stumps incapable of significant mobility.



Svilfon watches keenly as his opponent begins her brazen rush. There is no amusement in his eyes - he had seen her lethality before. As the first strike comes, the wizard's legs quickly straighten, causing him to leap off his perch upon the roost. The first blow aimed at his head instead strikes his legs, sending him cartwheeling through the air with arms flailing. A dull 'thud' sounds as flesh meets the ground, but he's quick to rise, before realizing the woman is far form done. That coiled weapon seeks to wrap around his body, and he reacts with atypical gracefulness for a spell-caster. It isn't his skill which grants him this fleeting grace, though, rather it's the whims of capricious gods which cause his boots to slip on the black-ice as Vehara's vicious attack comes forth. The wizard is saved from the further strikes which whip the air above him, and without time to properly react he simply screams words that do not ring with the usual eloquence of magic being summoned. He calls forth power blindly, deafly; summoning a wave of force which shimmers the air in front of his two hands. The limbs are raised almost immediately before Svilon releases the thin strands of his control over the magic. It causes a wave of force to lash out. The vampire himself is sent hurling entirely across the platform, stopping only when his back strikes one of the roosts with a sickening thud. But the pain is ignored as his eyes seek Vehara, watching keenly to see if she fell for his unintentional trap: for the wave of force, rather powerful as it is, was poised to strike her with enough strength to send the woman flying off the edge of the tower, and down into the deep, unforgiving ice below...



Vehara grunts in exertion as her strikes largely fail to meet their vampiric target, turning swiftly to face the visible wave of force that rips ominously through the air, no doubt seeking to plow through her lithe body and send it to a certain death below. Rather than retreat from the threat, however, the assassin gives a flick of her wrist that sends the chain furling back in a sort of command - perhaps the weapon is imbued with sorcery - and leaps deftly into the air, the chain links flailing out to coil and wrap about the girth of the dragon-claw structure that lies in the center of this platform. The crushing wave of power passes by harmlessly beneath her while the weapon pulses with a sort of magical intelligence, pulling her in swiftly. Her booted feet gain purchase on the black-ice surface soon after, landing safely while the chain furls back to coil about the sickle once more. Fastening the unorthodox weapon back to her waist, the half-drow draws a single dagger up and out an unseen sheathe with a cool hiss, flipping it about readily in her palm while she streaks for Svilfon once more. Her only free hand rummages about in a pocket, grasping at something unseen just as she comes upon the skilled wizard; it is cast out at his face now, only to reveal…nothing! It's a mere feint, knowing the vampire has watched her previous duel and will likely expect a blinding agent. Instead a second dagger is brandished in short order and thrust straight for his face, aiming to give it a fleshy sheathe right between SVilfon's eyes. The companion weapon lunges in underhandedly as well, seeking to jam it deep inside the navel of her foe and eviscerate him with barbarous brutality.


Svilfon was not entirely idle as the woman so skillfully evaded his trap. He pulls himself to his feet, wincing as weight comes onto the leg which was brutally struck earlier. And as he watches her weapon pull her forward, he snarls. Words begin to flow, then, as he sees her reach into the pouch at her side. Eyes shut in preparation for the blinding dust, and he doesn't even see the first strike which tears into his face, cutting through flesh with a vicious ease. The spell he was to cast dies instantly, and in a panic borne of agony he enacts his teleportation magic, tearing himself from the spot where the next dagger strike comes. He appears again almost to where he started the battle, though this time he is behind the perch. Hoping this will give him enough time, and after spitting out a thick globule of blood and even half a tooth, he begins to paint upon the air a tapestry of magic invisible to any eyes not trained in the arcane. His wand flashes to and fro, twisting through almost impossibly complex patterns while his voice begins to ring out in a chant rich in sibilant tones, made worse by the hissing of air coming from the hole in his cheek. He continues for as long as he can, before letting free his spell with a flourish of his wand and a word of command. Between the assassin and wizard a large scarlet-hued sphere is born. It pulses with magic, languidly floating to a rhythm unheard. Svilfon allows a very bloody smile to form upon his lips, satisfaction evident in the look, before he moves to the side of the roost, retracts his hand and hurls his wand right into its center. When ancient wood meets newly born power, the two explode into a vicious fireball that lights up the cloud-covered skies of Frostmaw. The heat alone is intense, but it was never Svil's intention to use it to burn Vehara. Instead it has a more subtle and far more deadly effect: The air so high above the ground is already thin, already partially incarcerated by the magic which keeps this roost free of wind and snow. And the fireball, more hungry than a ravenous beast, consumes what oxygen there is much faster than it can filter through, fuelled by the unburnable wood of the Xalious Tree. Within mere moments there would not be enough air to breathe, and the vampiric wizard wonders sadistically what the fate of his opponent will be amidst the vacuum high above the City of War...


Vehara curses as Svilfon teleports away, the normally iron willed woman growing frustrated with the slippery wizard's tactics. Spinning swiftly on a heel, she spies her foe not too terribly far from where he began their treacherous meeting, trading those daggers for a simple bamboo pipe. The half-drow is not ignorant of his spell weaving, but she stands her ground and plucks a few crimson-tipped darts from a pocket, fitting one into the device just as the vampire's fiery spell blazes into existence. Hara's eyes narrow and wince, expecting hellish heat but finding little; instead the air begins to thin rapidly, a sort of gasp leaving her lips as the true intent of the wizard becomes known. Utilizing what little time she has, the assassin's feet carry her toward Svilfon at a rapid speed, lifting that pipe to her lips and blowing what is now a rare puff of oxygen; the dart spits out of the weapon and instantly hums to life with a mystic intelligence, relying on arcane direction more than the air to guide it. Vehara's breathing grows heavier by the minute, sucking in what precious oxygen is left as the other dart is loaded into the pipe and puffed forth, collapsing to knees and begging for air in ragged gsaps. All the while, those ensorcelled darts stalk Svilfon, aiming to move as he does to evade evasion; should they come close, he'll notice a very ominous scent: these are tipped with dragon blood! It is Vehara's desperate hope that they'll reach the wizard and stop his spell before her life expires…


Svilfon watches the darts come with a dark look on his face. He cannot scent the dragon's blood, his own which pours from the vicious wound on his face masks the scent entirely, but he knows it will not be pleasant. So he twists back behind the roost, thinking he is safe, and begins to prepare another attack. Knowing the air in his lungs is now a rather important asset, and not having to control the fireball he cast - the complex spell now having a life of its own, and fueled by the Xalious wood, not the wizard - he readies himself for a quick chant. He begins with simple gestures and a few words spoken, before the first dart sinks through his robes and into his chest. Immediately he feels the burn of dragon's blood; that insidious acidic like poison which tears apart his concentration almost entirely. The vampire was stubborn, though, he would not give in. He carries on, gurgling words which should be spoken keenly, making crude gestures where eloquence is required. And at the end of it all a twisted opening appears in the air; a dark, cavernous hole that gives birth to a series of grotesque creatures, one of which is killed instantly by the second dart which sought Svilfon's flesh. They look like a snake had a baby with a scorpion, then the snakpion child had babies with a spider. Eight legs slither out from their long bodies, which end in a tail holding a stinger undoubtedly filled with some kind of pernicious poison. Their heads, which seem to be nothing more than fang-filled mouths, have two pincers where a normal creature would have ears. They skuttle about, snapping at each other, before Svilfon waves his hand at them. It is a simple gesture, one usually seen in taverns by wandering magicians who bring forth their beverages with magic to impress oogle-eyed whores. But this time, no drink floats languidly to a thirsty grasp. Instead the creatures, now more than a dozen of them, lift off the icy ground and soar through the air at Vehara. They fly quickly, though wizard's aim isn't great, and as they land again beside the assassin, they quickly begin to skuttle towards her - seeking to rip through her flesh with fang, claw and poison in an orgy of snakpioner and half-drow. In the background, Svil cannot even watch her fate as the insidious dragon blood continues to wash through is system, even as the hole he created snaps shut...


Vehara tosses the pipe aside and draws what little oxygen is afforded to her deep within her lungs, the rest of the air rendered entirely useless to her. Still, the woman has been forced to hold her breath beneath water for a prolonged period of time before while lurking there for insidious assassinations, so she is not entirely unprepared for this situation. Those foul creatures converge and the daggers are brandished once more, brought to the ready as the half-drow prepares to fight for her very life. She moves at a decent speed for a woman who is holding precious breath between her lungs, but she is notably slowed as she attempts to dart to and fro like a hummingbird, narrowly avoiding lunges of those scorpion-like tails. Her daggers catch a glimpse of moonlight with each passage, knifing through the wicked creatures with ruthless efficiency. She cannot possibly hope to avoid them all while attacking, however, and this holds true when one of the tails lunges in and laces into her shoulder. The rapid influx of agony contorts the woman's face, but she turns and jams the dagger into the thing's skull, the wick of life cast out with a dying cry. The last one approaches her, but she merely flings one of those daggers straight for it just as the stinger jabs in; to her luck, blade meets creature before tail meets flesh, the threat of these insidious things extinguished entirely. Still, she finally opens her mouth with a deep exhale, not able to hold it a second longer. Taking one last effort, the other dagger she holds is sent sailing toward the orb of flame and the Xailious wand above, pitifully hoping it will somehow stop the evil spell before it consumes her life. No longer can she stand; her legs give out and she's forced to kiss the black-ice of the platform, her face turning a purply hue from a vicious combo of poison and lack of breath as she clings desperately to the fickle threads of life…




Winner: Svilfon


Svilfon drags himself back to his feet. His body is filled with vicious pain, the dragon's blood eating away at his insides. He knows he must deal with it quickly, but first a measure of revenge. With the woman already on the ground, Svil is very, very tempted to just leave her here to die. But if one of the dragons landed on the roost while his power still burned, he knows he'll be turned into a Svilly-snack. So waves a hand and summons forth his wand, breaking the spell he cast. As air refills the top of the Eyrie Roost, the wizard limps over to Vehara before speaking in tones made hissing by the wound in his face. "You..." he kicks her, "used..." this time in the face, "dragon's blood. Dirty rotten...." the rest of his words fade as he kicks her a few more times, though due to his injuries they are hardly vicious blows, before he attempts to enact his teleportation magic. He is too wounded, though, and nothing happens but a puff of smoke. He is angry, of course, though not so angry he wants to fight the assassin again when she wakes up. So with a final snarl at her, he turns and begins to descend down the stairwell, back through the tower, and eventually to the arena where the giants, and others, were watching. He raises a hand in a half-hearted gesture of triumph, once again seeming to bask in the cheers, before turning and staggering out back to the library. There he collapses, unmoving. This time he won't be telling Alahir about the noble battle, instead he merely waits while the couatl attempts to bring him some blood wine, knowing if his system isn't soon flushed, he'll die a second, more permanent death...


Vehara breathes in a deep gasp when air is finally afforded to her lungs again, coughing violently as if she's been drowning. By now the outcome of the duel is not in doubt, and she attempts in vain to pull to her knees. She never quite makes it, though, because the first kick crashes into her form and sends the woman back into a heap. The kick to the half-drow's face sends a gush of blood pouring forth, hands instinctively to shield her head while she absorbs the rest of the blows. After what seems like an eternity, they stop, and she's left in a beaten heap. The assassin clings to consciousness by a thread, knowing better than to try and move with some sort of pernicious poison coursing through her. She can only lie there hopelessly and hope someone will come along to assist.