Duel:Trekia v Vuryal
Duel Info
- Date:July 28,2009
- Judges: Leigh (mid), Thea, Arien
- Stakes: Winner removes loser's wings
- Rd/time: 3rds / 15 min
- Location: Kelay Way
- Decision: Vuryal/2-1
Trekia stands with armoured boots shoulder length apart, strong arms folded before a bare torso as silvery-cerulean gave travelling up and down the form of the Silver's present quarry. A mage of renowned skill and power, legend enough to even fill the brash humanoid with caution when dealing with the Time Lord. Arms fall from their resting position, reaching for the double-ended pole-arm that sits across broad shoulders, the dual-bladed Lochaber axe strapped into place by loose leather binding that could be tugged undone in an instant. It falls willingly into open hands, protected by fingerless gloves of white dragonscale shards, and spins thrice in the dragon's hands, Trekia taking a moment to catch the weight and bearing of the large weapon. Then suddenly do pale lips part, opening a wide maw which begins to suck air into strong lungs, a drawn out inhale of as much gas as the Silver could hold, before, without warning, ducking his bandana-clad head into a charging print, the impact of armoured footwear causing full thuds to resonate throughout the street. The charge continues, axe held to the side, before strong legs bend at the knee, and silver wings burst from Trekia's back to rise and fall in a mighty beat, sending the leaping warrior rocketing towards the heavens. His gaze angles downward towards the mage upon which he aims to land, and that might breath is released. The cold glands atop the roof of the dragon's mouth react with the gases, and the result of exhalation is a thick, thunderous stream of frozen wind. It bares down upon the Time Lord, causing the ground around to frost, and at temperatures able to peel flesh from bone, and freeze blood in an instant. Then the Silver himself drops, landing across Vuryal's shoulders. He grapples, one leg sliding around to grip around the torso, whilst the other leg lists to sink the knee of chainmail leggings into the small of the avian's back, and send him tumbling to the ground.
Vuryal gazes upon the Silver’s complexion with the utmost of fury burning within the loins of the dark avian, sweat pandering upon the brow of the chronomancer in anticipation. Then, as the dragon launches himself into the sky, the blackened wings of Vuryal unfurl, a few obsidian feathers falling freely to the ground as the extra limbs are brought to life. Preparing for the worst and expecting such, knees bend slightly, effortlessly as they prepare for use. The potential energy then unleashed as the searing ice is sent hurtling towards the mage of time, knees locking and propelling the parasite skyward away from such a malicious assault. His prey now upon the ground and some distance away, the staff topped by the amber stone materializing into his right hand as the lord of Rynvale hovers effortlessly in the air. Lowering the weapon to direct the gemstone onto the flailing figure of Trekia, a few chosen words wisp through the air, the stone now flushed with gentle shades of gold and amethyst that swirl about as a funnel upon the sea. That energy within soon reveals its deadly desire, molecules that compose the ice about the dragon erupting with extreme amounts of heat caused by the breakdown of the atomic structures of each. The assault does little directed to the dragon; instead the intense, scorching steam has a devilish intent to roast the beast as if he were a crab in a boiling pot of water, readying itself to soon be feasted upon by the king of the castle.
Trekia lands firmly upon the ground, stumbling a few steps as wings arch, helping steady his return to the earth. Pale lips twist into a snarl as he views the airborne mage, the axe being lifted to rest before the warrior's torso as he buries boot into the frosted dirt, ready to stand his ground. Quite a mistake, for the smell of burning metal soon reaches sensitive silver nostrils, Trekia suddenly letting free of pained yelp as the heat rises to burn his flesh. A fevered hop puts him just distance enough away from the ground for silver-scaled flight appendages to begin a rabid beating, thankfully holding the warrior aloft from the scalding floor beneath. Toward the parasite again the dragon thunders, double-ended Lochaber axe held tightly, and grasped to be level with the male's broad shoulders. But just as he comes within the pole-arms reach of his avain adversary, one hand lets fingers slide from the axe's pole, instead to extend towards the Sands of Time, hanging from Vuryal's neck. Fingers attempt to tighten around the pouch, and rip it from the Time Lord's neck, whilst simultaneously bringing the other hand grasping the neck of the axe forward, lashing out in an awkward stabbing motion with the sharp end of a curved axe blade towards the avian's abdomen., which would hack away repeatedly at the flesh as long as it's end could reach.
Vuryal grins with some amusement upon seeing the uncomfortable position that the steam has placed the Silver in, though it is only momentary as the safety of the skies is soon the dwelling for this pair of foes. Holding the staff before him, raising it from its previous tilt downward, the chronomancer places it in front of chest, slightly off center and residing near the right side as the movements of Trekia are followed closely like a hawk circling overhead of its chosen prey. It comes to no surprise to the dark avian that the dragon is quick to counter, the pole of the malicious axe coming with unrivaled heralding into the foray and abdomen of Vuryal. In addition, the outstretched fingers of the Silver are quickly identified, knowing full well that they seek the pouch of time forgotten sand held fast to the chronomancer’s neck. Reacting to such a calculated assault, the mage of time pushes higher into the air, just enough to outrange the distance of the axe, sending it into a state of denial as the fingers of Trekia, though, find the pouch. Feeling the slight tug upon the necklace, the chronomancer moves directly towards the face of the dragon, allowing the Sands of Time to spill out towards the face of the Silver while loosening the grasp upon it. Soaring downward, now headfirst as the dark avian completes a mid-flight half somersault over his foe, the staff in hand morphs into the amber-stone scimitar, the steel of which finds a directly path to slice the right wing of his chosen prey. Unfortunately, the bag of sand is snapped from the chronomancer’s neck, sent downwards and soon striking the ground and spilling part of its contents helplessly onto the earth.
Trekia's eyes widen as the chronomancer's actions come to fruition, and quickly dips his head against the onslaught of the deadly sands. Thankfully the bandana is in place, it's dragonscale surface the sudden obstacle between the oncoming sands. The sands, however, burn directly through dragonscale and cloth alike, and an agonized yell slips from the silver's lips, the burning of flesh and hair teasing the nostrils as the acidic sands inflict their evil upon the warrior. Wings stem their beat, and Trekia is falling even before the amber-stone scimitar collides with the strong silver scales on the wings, slicing clean through a number of the metallic plates to bite into the flesh below. Blood pours from the wound as the warrior falls, and lands quite painfully against the hard earth, followed by the sands of time which come to a thud beside his face. In spite of the bleeding cuts on his chest and face, the destroyed bandana which lies some distance from the male and the bleeding, presently useless wing, the sight of this small victory baits a soft grin from pale lips, and in a moment he is on his feet again, hope welling anew. Muscles suddenly bulge, the skeletal frame suddenly becoming much broad than before. Leggings suddenly burst open as the rapidly growing thighs prove too much for the strong legs, with flesh suddenly clad in silver-scales. Soon the trenchcoat falls ripped from his shoulders, and boots burst open to reveal three-toed feet. In the humanoid's place stands the metal behemoth, wide, icy orbs fixated quite calmly upon the seemingly tiny avian mage. With the wing still sustaining the wound Trekia is unable to fly after his opponent, but does, however, bend broad legs, and give a thunderous beat of the good wing as he leaps upwards, sending his monstrous form towards the Time Lord. From the gaping maw yet more of the ice dragons sub-zero winds come, a torrent much wider than the previously employed gasp, and in the wake of the thick trail comes the maw itself, jaws ready to close over Vuryal and, with a sharp swallow, deposit him within a massive belly.
Vuryal is taken aback briefly by the sudden emergence of the true form of Trekia, though such a pause is soon relieved as the blast of chilling air drives the chronomancer away to warmer pastures. However, the sub-zero winds do their bidding, the obsidian wings of the dark avian succumbing to the extreme cold and becoming virtually useless as they only manage to lessen the impact the mage has with the hard earthen layer below. THUD! Such a noise echoes throughout the plains of Kelay and Kelay proper as Vuryal strikes the ground with such fervor that one might have suspected he would have jumped from a cliff to this very spot. Laying flat upon the ground now, Vuryal arches his head upwards as the right hand of the time lord stretches out, fingers extending outward as far as possible as the last bits of strength are driven into the next words spoken upon the winds of Lithrydel. A brief flash of light bursts from the nearby fallen scimitar, the gemstone erupting to life as if called by the subtle words spoken by its owner to forget its pain and agony and to now spur on the dogs of war. The metallic beast soon becomes encapsulated by the warm golden hues of the enchantment, the assault coming now in the form of the collapse of atoms that surround the dragon. The blasts come furiously and random, chaos bringing forth Hell as the intense radiation, heat, and shifts in gravity assail Trekia from all sides and strengths. The fury of atomic destruction intensifies with each breaking of the molecular bonds, only contained by that soft glow of gold that begins to dissipate as the physical strength of Vuryal begins to wane from his injuries.
Trekia turns his mammoth head sharply upon the chronomancer as he drops to the ground, curling his tail around to bring the added limb to trap the time lord between the tail and the rows of sharp teeth that suddenly seek to devour his body. But no, just as mammoth jaws angle to bare down upon the avian, the sudden forceful blasts erupt all his body. The scales on his body begin to melt with such horrid heat levels, sending heat radiating through his body, erupting into a terrible burns. An agonized roar leaves the metallic giant, and he thrashes in his pain, tail and head tossing from side to side as broad paws stumbling from left to right. Such pain was blinding, and eventually he must succumb to the pain, being driven to slip forward, and fall into the ground with a loud crash. And he so lies, steam rising from the destroyed scales, lids closed firmly over silvery-cerulean gaze, thundering gasps of air slipping into the saurian's mouth. But suddenly the lids shoot open, revealing optics burning with hate, and murderous intent. There was fight still in the beast yet.
Vuryal removes Trekia's wings
Vuryal slowly rises to his feet, pushing off the ground as he sees the giant dragon collapse. "You will never learn, dragon..." he mutters, slowly bending over to pick up his brand and taking strides towards Trekia. Closing the distance between the two, the sword morphs back into the staff, now squarely aimed towards the wings of the beast. "Dust to dust..." he lets off as the wings glow gold for a moment. Then, without as much as a warning, the wings disappear! Gone! Finito! WTF'd! The only thing left are the stumps from the extra limbs, a cruel smirk upon the chronomancer's face now. He then leads foot over foot, going to the half opened pouch of time-altered sand, retrieving it and then starts a path towards the tavern to the north, perhaps to relish the victory by spoiling himself on a glass of milk.