Fight:Eboric kills Ymheshphilun

Eboric steps onto the cliff. The giant of a man is clad in new armor, custom made to fit his size. Black ringmail covers his torso, dark mithril of drow origin. His round shield is spiked around the rim, with a larger spike extending from the center. It glows with a faintly magical light. The sword in his hand, a bastard sword for a normal man, yet small on Eboric, is black as well, yet frosted with ice. On his head sits a huge helmet, obscuring his golden hair and beard, a ferocious, snarling boar's face wrought into the visor. Thus clad, he approaches his prey at long last. Enchanted boots make no sound as the warrior charges Ymheshphilun from the flank, and at the last moment, as he flings himself at the enemy's plated back, he roars out his battle cry, thrusting his sword at the joint between two plates. The sword, deadly sharp, is enchanted to spread freezing death throughout the body of its victims, working through to chill the very organs. At the same time, spikes on the man's toes are ready to kick for purchase, to lock himself onto the centipede's shell.

Ymheshphilun felt someone approaching--he hadn't turned to face them because he assumed they were harmless--that is, until he caught the scent of who it was that approached and felt the charge approaching swiftly. Too swiftly to bring his head all the way about, but not swiftly enough to entirely prevent some kind of defense. He rolled over on his side--the side opposite the charging warrior--meaning that every one of his multitudinous taloned limbs could be brought to bear, meaning he could curl in on this foe and use his claws and jaws. That blade--it was aimed so perfectly between plates that it slid directly in--and the cold that began emanating from it was deadly. Immediately the limbs on Ym's underside began attempting to rip at his arms, hoping to land some kind of blow that killed the nerves to the man's arms, hoping to make him go numb so that this blade could be removed. It would certainly kill him in time and it was getting worse but there was a lot of Ym for the ice to spread through. He curled in around the man as his legs tried ripping and tearing, bringing still more claws to bear on him, grabbing for his helm to remove it, grabbing for his face and neck, grabbing for anything and everything in a desperate attempt to flay the man alive so that he would remove his sword. Ym was screaming by now--a shriek of the same kind that had first drawn Eboric's attention so long ago, a shriek that was tuned to cause extreme pain--only now it was far closer, far more powerful. It was the kind of thing that made ears bleed sometimes, it was that painful. Hopefully, it would cause the man to retreat inside himself, to allow himself to be skinned and dismantled and fall limp on the ground. Hopefully. Then Ym could try at removing the sword.

Eboric has come prepared. Since that first fight, he has studied his prey, learned all he can from frightened jungle-dwellers south of Venturil, from former victims of the worm. The helmet is enchanted to dampen mental and sound assault, and so, while disorienting, the shriek does little real damage. As well, the drow mithril shows its worth, the tiny rings holding tight under the battering blows, although the bulging muscles beneath feel the blunt force, and bruise deeply. Still, it cannot hold forever, and the barbarian knows this. He shoves on the sword, hard, before pulling it out with a swift tug. Bracing himself, he holds up his shield in his left hand, the shielding charm placed on it by Eboric's employer activating at once, expanding in a circle, intended to slow and stop the scrabbling legs. Even as the charm deploys, the human is on the offensive again, swinging the sword once more in an attempt to sever one of the hopefully immobilized limbs and, whether or not the slash succeeds, the huge man makes a running leap, meaning to clear his foe's body and latch onto its back. Should he make that, he'd begin to crawl up the body toward the head, stabbing at each segment to induce more icy magic with each wound.

Ymheshphilun got the blade removed--and somehow, the ice inside kept spreading! Also, one of his limbs was removed, but that had happened so many times before that by now he was used to it. He twisted, trying to get his head closer to the stab wound so he could inject himself with firevenom--but then the human backed off and took a running jump. A swift calculation--no, another roll would bring him too close to the edge--unless. Instead of rolling away, Ym rolled into the jump, attempting to play leapfrog and have the man go right over him--and also over the edge of the cliff, if possible. If the man did land on him, he would hopefully be crushed by the titanic Chilopod's weight. If, however, the maneuver succeeded as planned, Ym would follow through on his twisting and unleash a new variation of the powerscream--a far more focused variety that was less noise and far more impact, like getting hit by the fist of a giant. Really, it was a blast of highly pressurized air rather than pure sound but it was focused through vibrations and it would be loud should it hit. Ym was attempting to blast the man off the cliff.

Eboric's leap goes perfectly - until the enemy is no longer there for him to land upon. He hits the ground awkwardly, his leg twisting and collapsing beneath him, arms sprawled out in order to keep both the sword and the shield's spikes away from his own flesh. Thus, luckily, when the blast of sound comes shooting forth, it hits the shielding charm dead on and, while at first it rolls the warrior to the very edge of the cliff, it does not send him over. Using all his considerable might, Eboric forces himself to his feet, pushing against the dampened sound. Standing in the midst of the dust storm kicked up by the attack, the human is hidden from view as he struggles onward, to the very maw of the beast. Stepping once to the side, Eboric is free of the continuing blast, and in view once more - but, even as he steps, he thrusts. The long blade lashes out for the monster's jaws, on a course to skewer its head. Quick as a flash, the sword darts back and out again, this time aiming for the eyes. Again Eboric moves, again without heed as to whether his attacks landed. He ducks under and past, his shield held high over head, his sword stabbing once more at the underbelly of the fiend as he runs by, headed for the relative safety of Ymheshphilun's flank.

Ymheshphilun had turned his head in to inject himself with his venom, and had just sprayed some into the wound to heat it--when he felt the human move again. Letting out a pained hiss of a sigh, Ym turned to face the man, infrared vision locking on, head beginning to lift up--bugger, too slow. It ripped a gash in his maw, damaging some of the muscle there. ...blast, and now ice was forming there too! Ym needed to act swiftly, and he had no greater weapon at the moment than his size. Except maybe his physical strength and the fact that his head was right near th--ow, the eye! It sprayed a toxic, acidic sludge from the stab wound, but again the being was moving. Ym swung low with a main crushing claw, aiming for the legs whilst he was distracted with clanking his sword against exoskeleton and holding his shield up--attempting to floor the man with his own inertia, to cause him to faceplant. Should this maneuver be successful, Ym would proceed to drop his full weight at his foe's back, collapsing on top of the human in a potentially skull-crushing piledriver hammerblow. This was to kill--Ym was done swinging claws and rolling about and dodging. This was going to end.

Eboric's already unstable legs are swept out from under him, and he clatters to the rocky ground. Instinct alone saves him as he rolls, wincing in visible pain as his twisted leg flops loosly in the spin. Ymheshphilun's body slams down mere inches away from his shoulder, the shockwave from the heavy beast jarring Eboric to the bone. Still, he does not cry out; rather, he slams his right elbow hard on the ground mid-roll, reversing his momentum at the cost of yet another bone-deep bruise. Now, all his weight and strength are focused on his sword arm as, with a grunt of pain and hatred, he slams the black, icy blade straight for the gap between the beast's head- and neck-plates. Should it land - and even if it shouldn't - Eboric twists himself to his feet, perhaps twisting the blade in the wound, too. Again the shield is held before him, its shield charm still in place, though flickering.

Ymheshphilun was not in good condition. The ice inside him had caused his plates to become more brittle, and that slam had weakened them further. Hairline cracks could be seen in places as well as the various puncture wounds, and now there was a sword coming for his head. He wouldn't be able to dodge it, his exoskeleton wouldn't be able to block it, and he couldn't muster the focus required for a Spirit barrier--he was out of options. The blade struck where it was intended and Ym reacted purely by reflex, head jerking up, gap between plates slamming shut--and as luck would have it, his body writhed in such a way that would pull his head away from the blow. Whether or not it pulled the sword with it was left up to chance, but should it somehow leave the grasp of the human it would quite likely fall off the cliff. This would be Ym's best chance for survival. In fact, Ym's writhing so close to the cliff might in fact sweep everyone involved away--centipede and warrior, depending on whether the man could make another leap like he had earlier. This was pretty much it. Ym wasn't really even conscious anymore.

Eboric lets the sword go without a second thought, too aware even while half-mad with pain and exhaustion to let himself be thrown so easily. Instead, he stumbles backward, all but dragging his injured leg, pure adrenaline the only thing power his battered body. Dropping the shield, Eboric pulls a trio of javelins from a strap on his back, their heads the same dark metal as his sword but, rather than glinting with ice, they simply glisten as though well-oiled. His jaw set in a stubborn cast, Eboric throws the javelins in rapid fire, one after the other. His aim is deadly - one heads for the centipede's head, one for the most brittle plates around the wound, and one is simply sent sliding along the cliff face, on a coure to fetch up seemingly harmlessly against the massive body. It is only on impact that the spears' true nature can be seen; whether they hit beast or rock, the weapons explode with surprising force - the oily substance is none other than Oil of Impact, harvested for the human by his employer, and capable of shattering small amounts of stone, as the cliff face is sure to show.

Ymheshphilun 's writhing halted a few seconds after the sword was flung from him, consciousness returning to his mind. He shifted, trying to--trying to nothing, now. Boom, explosion--his sight was completely gone. Boom, explosion--now his was bleeding more profusely than ever before. Boom, third explosion--and this gave Ym an idea. It was a suicidal idea, a kamikaze idea, one that would inevitably kill him but would hopefully take down this foe with him. He began to leech a gas into the air--nitrous oxide, a colorless, sweet-smelling gas that was both an anesthetic and a wonderful oxidizer. The burst from the explosions caught the gas and burst into flame--there was a sudden roar--it seemed as if the very atmosphere itself was catching fire, as if the sky had decided it had had enough and was ending it all. What came next was the game-ender--a terrific explosion from the pent-up gas inside the centipede's plates, a fireball that would likely be seen for miles, a white-hot blast of heat and flame and pressure and acidic bug guts and exoskeleton bits. Ym blew himself up like some kind of terrible bomb in a last-ditch effort to kill his foe with him, trying to blast him off the cliff again or perhaps incinerate him to death or maybe just rain shrapnel on him. Whatever happened, after the blast there would be no more Ym. All he could hope for is that there would be no more Eboric, either.

Eboric remembers all too well the smell of that gas; in his first conflict with the beast, it had used the same tactic. So, as the air begins to blaze with fire, the man makes a run for the feline's statue, standing near the grave. With a strength born of desparation, Eboric pulls the stone down and dive behind it, his drow-made armor repelling the heat of the fire as it is. Nothing can repel the full effect of the explosion, however. The wave of fire washes out, incinerating Eboric's leather boots, crisping and burning the flesh beneath, as well as searing any other exposed skin, and nearly melting the dark mithril itself. Still, though, when the fire is gone, leaving a blackened scene of destruction behind, Eboric still breathes, his every movement agony. Lifting his head, he stares over at the charred remains of his foe, and burned lips crack into a smile of victory.