Fight:Arzi and Eboric v Ymheshphilun

Eboric enters the street, livid. The human's anger is frightening to see for the chain-and-fur draped man is immense, uncommonly tall, with a frame to match. The sword that he carries in his hand, though a good three-and-a-half feet in length, seems but a shortsword to the warrior. Likewise, the iron-rimmed shield appears but a toy. The reason for Eboric's foul temper is plain; he has come in response to the painful howl.

Arzi - The pixie man fell back off his perch at the sudden noise then darted high up into the sky with his ears covered. Arzi wasn't prone to headaches, but this was easily the worse he had ever experienced. Finely high enough that the sound had diluted so that he could regain himself. Before he had just been agitated, now he was in a rage. Pulling the sling shot out and loading it, Arzi dives down flitting this way and that until he is in range. With wings leaking green dust the pixie lets loose a quick barrage of sleepy silk pellets at the centipede's face. The force of them hitting anything broke them apart to cling to that which it impacts and sends out a small puff of dust. If the dust gets into the body, through mouth, eye, nose, cut etc., it would make it drowsy or to sleep all together. Arzi darts to the side at the last minute and circles around the bugs back while dense plant matter began to sprout from the ground, reaching out towards the bug to ensnare it again.

Ymheshphilun ignored Korike entirely, disdained to even look at the warrior--even if he had, he wouldn't fear the man at all, being a good deal larger than any human, even one as tall as he--and focused his attention instead on the little pixie that was divebombing him. The shadows that made up his aura lashed out, Spirit energy flowing in a simultaneous attack and defense. Bolts and tendrils of the fog-like shadowy Spirit lauched themselves at each individual pellet, hardening to a near-mithril density the moment before impact, bursting them before they reached their target and scattering the dust in different directions. The lances continued on their path, homing in on the darting little pixie, hoping to skewer him or blow him to pieces or even just cause some kind of major laceration. Some of the powder managed to get into his system after all, though, as the plants rose up--his attention wavered for a moment, but it would take some time for the small amount of stuff to affect the gigantic centipede.

Eboric pauses upon catching sight of the centipede, giving himself a moment to think. Abruptly, he darts off, only to return a short while later with a number of moderately-sized branches, still cluttered with the last leaves of summer. Piling the wood up next to a building, the warrior sets steel to flint and, within moments, has a merry fire going. Sheathing his sword, he dauntlessly grasps the unlit end of one branch and lifts it, revealing the leafy side to be ablaze. With this in hand, he slips out into the street and, nearing the side of the monster's head, he heaves his burden at full force, straight for his enemy's face. With surprising agility, he leaps back to the other burning branch, watching intently to see how the first attack fared.

Arzi instincts buzzed a warning and Arzi looked back to see that the black fog had turned into sharp tentacles and where gaining on him. He also briefly noted a man with a sward coming their way, but he could spare no attention as all went to evading the fog. Now the pixie man puts on a burst of speed, only side slipping slightly when one tendril got to close. One manages to run through the back of his shoulder just missing his wing. It would show the pixie down, but he would still be hard to catch. Arzi turns about mid air and dives until he is weaving in and out of the vegetation that was now wrapping around the bug in a thick intertwined mass. Slowly the plants began to pull the centipede to the ground to restrain as more started their way up to the bugs head.

Ymheshphilun could see, out of the corner of his eye, a fire start. His mind began to think up possibilities, and soon he had a solution. A sickly sweet scent began to emanate from him and he vibrated. The air around him rapidly began to heat with the friction of him against the ground. The plants were helping create this friction, holding him close to the ground--and now here came the fire, rushing towards him. That scent? That was nitrous oxide. A normally harmless anesthetic that becomes a wonderful oxidizer when heated. And Ym had been heating the air (and NO2) around him quite effectively. The flame seemed to light the very atmosphere, a spherical inferno rapidly incinerating the plants around him, expanding rapidly in a gigantic explosion that could likely be seen for miles around. The trees? Burning now. The city? Quite possibly aflame. The centipede? Shockingly, he was unharmed for the most part. Blinded, yes. Getting drowsy from the pixie dust, certainly. But not particularly burnt. It seemed that fire was no weakness of his. Finding his newfound freedom and using his antennae to triangulate the positions of his foes, he made another quick calculation and decided that they should both pay another day, when he wasn't falling asleep from pixie dust and when he had the use of his sight back. He began to charge forward, away from the battle, confident that they wouldn't follow him.

Eboric, upon seeing the failure of his flames, wastes no time. With instincts born from a lifetime of fighting, he dodges back behind a building to escape the brunt of the explosion but, even as it passes him by, he is on the move, leaping along the same course as the centipede, although behind the buildings of Kelay Way, his sword clearing its sheat has he runs. As an alley appears, he slides through it and, leaping a clump of burning plant life, hurls himself at Ymheshphilun. Such is is aim that, when his leap intersects with the monster's forward movement, Eboric is positioned on the armored plate just below his enemy's head. He pours all of his strength - a considerable amount, given his size - into a single, vicious thrust aimed for the softer flesh between the plates; a blow liable to reach into the beast's brain, if given the chance.

Arzi , having been slowed by the injured shoulder, was not able to get away before the flames began to lick his feet. A brownish dust fell from him and the cobble stones of the street rose up and formed a wall around him until the fire passed. Inside it was very hot like a sauna, but he was not burning up so he put up with the stifling heat. When he finely came out of the stone a few minutes later, the bug had fled. "Worse than a fly. Couldn't even stay to finish fighting." grumbled the small pixie as he went back to the broken compass to sit and start the healing on his burns and leaking shoulder wound.

Ymheshphilun could sense the tall human following him with his electroreceptors. He had no particular quarrel with the being today but still, something in the way his pulse was racing said the man was out for pain. He stopped and reared up to his full height of nearly seventeen feet, turning his sightless gaze on the man, claws reaching out to--was that a stab wound? In his head? It hadn't hurt at first as it had come in right as he'd begun to twist and thus had barely missed his brain, but now it was annoying. He snapped his antennae backwards towards the man, claw-like tips opening, revealing small, sparking tentacles. Should he touch the human on his back--or the sword, which was his secondary goal--what would feel like eight thousand volts would fly silently through the person's frame. No pretty electrical arcs, no flashes of lightning or thunder or glows from the man's body. Just invisible energy, and possibly a very loud scream or a quiet whimper. Hopefully it would be enough discouragement to force the being off of him.

Eboric rides the beast like some sort of gruesome steed, clinging on tightly as it rears up. His sword, a servicable weapon with a leather-wrapped hilt, remains buried in the centipede's head, protruding but a few inches out to the hilt. AS the tentacles come in the warrior, though not recognizing them by sight, at least catches on that they are a danger. A heavy, booted foot swings around to collide with the harmless side of an antenna, knocking it down to strick the blade of the sword. As the energy ripples along the weapon, the leather grip begins to smolder, and despite its reknowned insulating power, it still delivers a rather nasty shock that rocks Eboric to the core. All the same, the majority of the shock travels along the blade, back to the originator of the attack. Grunting in pain from the electricity, the enraged human flings his wooden shield aside, aiming at the other tentacle, and reaches to the baldric on his belt, which carries a heavy axe. This, he pulls out and, left-handed, hacks at the base of the antenna, in hopes of severing it completely.

Ymheshphilun could withstand a good deal of electric shock--being able to dish it out meant he had to take it, and since not even all of it was returning to him it really didn't hurt much. Feeling the vibrations on his head, he managed to snap his antennae closed again and out of the way of the shield, although--arg, there was always more, wasn't there? Being blind, as he was, and succumbing to the powder, he had no way of defending as the axe came down and lopped the antenna off--although, he still had his other one. As the arm moved, -during- the attack on his one antenna, the other snapped open again and attempted to plant itself directly into the flesh of his assailant's arm, hoping to severely injure the man in some way--burn, maybe, or brain damage, or lifelong twitching, or even inducing madness or something equally as terrible--he didn't know what, all he knew was that he didn't like this being on his back and wanted him gone. -Now-.

Eboric's cloak of wolf fur comes in handy here as Ymheshphilun's lone antenna comes down; catching the attack, the cloak moves it aside and, like the leather grip before, dulls the shock. However, the small amount of energy that makes it through is directed to Eboric's shirt of metal rings, instead of simply his arm. A choked yell of pain and rage escapes the giant of a man as, with a hiss of smoke, the rings burn through the leather beneath to singe the broad torso, leaving ring-shaped burns. Rather than forcing him to let go, however, the jolt only fuels the warrior's determination and, flopping over like a fish out of water, Eboric slams his axe through the air toward the remaining antenna, meaning to sever it as easily as he had the first. Regardless of whether or not that succeeds, the fighter uses the rebound of his body striking the centipede's own to flip over again, letting all the force of his muscles and weight carry the axe around again, in an attempt to bury it deeply in the wound left by the missing antenna.

Ymheshphilun thrummed musically at the sound of pain and smell of singing flesh, but there was no time to celebrate because the man had flipped himself over--and, incidentally, right into the path of one of Ym's massive main crushing claws--crab-like and three feet long, they were, covered in thick black exoskeleton. He swung it up at a slightly awkward but still possible angle, meaning to catch the warrior's wrist in it and halt the attack. He aimed closer to his antennae than the arm, so even if he didn't manage to clamp down he'd at least block the attack. Should he grip, he'd lock on, tightening and crushing down with force enough to hopefully splinter bone; should he block, he'd twist and push, trying to force the man to the ground with muscle power this time.

Eboric jerks his arm back just as soon as he feels the touch of the claw - or rather, he simply bounces it back, a maneuver sure to leave a nasty bruise. Off balance by the unexpected block, he is dislodged from his seat and, due in part to gravity, and in part to the beast, he begins to slide. However, he keeps a firm grasp of his sword hilt, ensuring that one of two things will happen. The first is that he will slide around to the beast's side, his sword shifting in the wound on Ymheshphilun's head to carve a circular and potentially fatal wound (as the point may well rotate around into the brain). Should this happen, Eboric is perfectly positioned to jerk the blade out upon touching the ground, and to roll off and away from the monster's retribution. The second possibility is that, rather than moving, the sword stays put and, using that for stability, the warrior is able to swing his axe down and around to disable or remove the claw.

Ymheshphilun felt the sword begin to rotate and, hissing in pain, clamped down on it with the plates to either side, locking it in place. The man was now able to swing the axe down towards the claw. Weapon met multiple-inch-thick near-metallic exoskeleton, and Ym felt vaguely satisfied as neither one broke. However, he was running out of ideas and his mind was beginning to blank from the pixie dust. Letting out a roar, he allowed his thoughts to leak from him, into the head of the one on his back--the words were foreign and strange-sounding, a thousand-mile-an-hour slideshow of images and ideas that resolved themselves into understandable speech. ~Cease!~ he exclaimed. Just that one word--a demand for no more fighting today, a query as to whether this could wait 'till later, a tired plea for mercy--well, that last one was only just a slight hint. First and foremost and drowning out the undertones was the demand for stillness.

Eboric, giving his head a shake like a confused bear, speaks for the first time during this skirmish; "Shut up!" The words are yelled with a thick accent, tinged with a sort of manic edge as the monster's voice shatters the human's thoughts, keeping him from forming more than the two words. Doggedly, he hauls himself up by the sword's hilt, effectivly swinging his legs out of the way of the claws. Again Eboric shakes his head to clear it and, with a sort of primal instinct, he brings the axe down next to the sword. Lifting it up, he strikes again, and again, aiming for the same spot over and over and over as he attempts to cut deeper into his foe's head, seeking the mind from which the irritating thoughts stem, seeking to silence that mind once and for all.

Ymheshphilun was now officially out of ideas, for the most part. Asking for a ceasefire hadn't worked. Electrocution hadn't worked. His claws couldn't reach the man now, and he was hammering on exoskeleton. It would likely take a while to get through, so he had time to try something--there we go, that was it. He figured out his one remaining option and raced back towards the Kelay tavern, blasting past it and grabbing that drunken idiot that so often sat in front of it. With his claws, he broke the man's neck, killing him instantly, then inserted his one remaining antenna into the head of the deceased. A flare of energy and his prey's eyes opened--they were entirely black. No iris, no whites. Blackness. Then he tossed the new undead man behind him, directly at the barbarian. With a ferocity and determination of something only that of someone as single-minded as a zombie, the little thing tried to latch onto the living human and drag him away. A plate began to crack. Hopefully the minion would do its job...

Eboric feels the fingers-turned-claws of the undead fool on his leg, tearing gouges in the skin as it attempts to haul him down from his perch. Stature comes in as an advantage again for the warrior, as the drunk was puny in life, and only slightly less so in death. Twice the zombie attempts to grasp Eboric's leg, and twice the huge man sends the creature stumbling with a swift kick to the head. Finally, it climbs its own master to meet the warrior face to face, clawing at the living man's fingers. As the blood begins to flow, something within Eboric's mind snaps; emotion drains from the craggy face, and unfiltered rage sparks in the blue eyes. Rearing back, the large man snaps his head forward with wicked speed, smashing the steel helmet into the zombie's slack-jawed face. It reels, swinging back just in time to receive the second smash, which spatters gore all over both the warrior and his insect foe as the ruined and lifeless minion falls from the centipede's back, landing in the dust. With new bloodlust, new rage fuelling Eboric's body, injuries and weariness go ignored as he again swings the axe with almost superhuman strength, the adrenalin pumping like lava through his veins. Back to the same wound as before, Eboric hammers away with the axe and, locking his legs around the edge of a plate, he wrenches the sword free, alternating blows of that weapon with those of the axe as he savagely attempts to butcher and decapitate his prey.

Ymheshphilun felt as the plate was ripped away, and now there was nothing to stop his weapons from repeatedly crashing down on his head--except, that is, the spray of caustic, basic blood that burst from the wound with every stroke, flowing like a fountain all over, rapidly congealing and sticking, eating away at the leather armor should it touch, sizzling through the material of the mail to begin burning skin. This pain would be more intense than the electrocution and far more dangerous--if unchecked, Eboric might find himself without skin or clothing. It was agonizing to the centipede in his state, but with no other alternative he dropped to one side and rolled like a log, trying to crush the hopefully-burning-in-alkaline-blood man beneath him or at least dislodge him. Following this, he'd vibrate all over, weakening the soil, and begin to plow through it and down, tunneling below the earth. Should the man be off him by now, great, if not, Ym would try to scrape him off at the ceiling of the tunnel. Regardless, he'd seal the hole behind him. Escape was his primary goal.

Eboric barely feels the burning blood, so intent is he on killing the beast. However, his legs' grip on the monster is weak and, as the thing begins to roll, he is thrown free, the hook of his axe catching on the severed plate and bringing it with him as he thuds to the ground, and rolls, wiping the worst of the blood off in the dirt and grass. Struggling to his feet, he frees his axe from the plate and, with practiced ease, lobs it at the centipede as it begins to shiver, letting it return to the gaping wound he has left on the monster. The accented voice sounds again as he yells out, "This is not done! I will kill you!" Collecting the plate, and his fallen shield, Eboric walks away, limping, but proud.