Fight:Emrith vs Zendor

Synopsis: Emrith meets Zendor at the Snowless training yard in Frostmaw, and they have a spar.

Snowless Training Yard

Emrith walks confidently into the training yard, sheathed shortswords crossed on his back. The only way to be useful in combat is to train, and the hour matters little to an elf with spare time and a desire to hone his craft. He looks around, noticing a few other warriors currently in the venue. Most of the swordsmanship is shoddy, to his eye at least, and a scoff bursts from between his pale lips. "Rabble," he mutters. "Rabble, the entire lot. No wonder this land is so chaotic." His prospects for a worthwhile fight seem slim, at best.

Zendor has essentially been living at this place. His favorite spinning dummy still bearing newer scars each day, and the human bearing new bruises. He's occasionally the one to welcome newcomers, being a tad more experienced or adept than the other fighters, and so is always readily found near the entrance to the training yard. This elf, is one he recognizes, though not by name. He approaches him, in time to hear his comment. "Some folks prefer to save their best moves for a real fight," he says, then glances back on the men and women training. "Though some aren't as cunning, or as skilled. I recognize you, you helped save Tylania when she stumbled into the tavern. My name's Zendor."

Emrith tosses his head in the human's direction. "I am Emrith." He gives only the barest bow of his head upon introduction. "You say that some save their true skill for battle? Why would they? Real enemies have few scruples. If you train weakly and end up in a fight to the death, you will be unused to the higher stakes. There is no sense doing a thing halfway." The elf's haughty demeanour is clearly in evidence.

Zendor recognizes the name upon two experiences, though he'll be strict to mention just one. "I'm ambivalent. On one hand, you're right. But on the other, one may fight here in this sacred ground as a brother, and meet later on a field of death in war. To add to your thought, the best way to improve, is indubitably by fighting a worthy opponent." Zendor grinned knowingly, his challenge being issued.

Emrith nods his head. "That I was. It was a difficult venue, but an uninspiring combat. This one..." Here, he unsheathes both of his shortswords and falls effortlessly into the posture which signifies flame stance, both weapons pointed toward his foe and angled slightly toward one another so that their tips nearly touch. "This may be both poor venue and small challenge. We will see what skill you have. Being the challenger, you may advance." Emrith bows with a bit more formality this time; confidence is one thing, but there is no sense further insulting his foe. Taunts and constant posturing are for races less apt to suit actions to their words.

Zendor laughed wickedly, "Uninspiring combat, you say? I heard you only just made it out with your life!?" Of course Zendor heard no such thing. Zendor unshouldered a thing from around his back, and shook off what was could be called a sheath, but not for a sword. The weapon was a spiked bat, spikes long enough to penetrate chinks in armor as easily as organs. And they even sprouted close to the hilt ,unlike a typical morningstar. "Very well, I shall." Without another moment's hesitation, he stalked closer to Emrith casually, clutching the weapon by it's obvious hilt, and treacherously in the middle, fingers between the spike's valleys. Soon becoming close, slightly less than the extent of the weapons range, he suddenly pushed it away from him to have it swing horizontally toward's the elf's abdomen. This was mostly a faint, and he watched Emrith's stomach; that always affirmed a man's next direction. The motion of the weapon carried around, spinning around his head, and this time he swung hard with a tracking step, to perforate the elf's side with a stunningly quick heave.

Emrith rises up onto the balls of his feet as Zendor approaches, gaze locked on his weapon. It is a wicked implement, and the elf knows that to be struck by it will mean serious danger. In the brief window left to him, he channels a lick of manna into the blade of the reddish shortsowrd in his left hand; its colour deepens, and heat begins to envelop the weapon. As Zendor swings toward his stomach, Emrith effortlessly slips into water stance, crouching down and shuffling backward while simultaneously bending his upper body backward and away from the blow. The blow never even comes close, and suddenly emrith realizes that this has been a feint. Luckily, the half-step backward causes Zendor's true attack to pass across the front of his body rather than punching into his side. He has dodged a dangerous blow, and cannot cound on such luck again. baring his teeth as the weapon whistles past his chest, Emrith follows behind it with his flame-enchanted sword, using his superior speed and momentum to smash his weapon into Zendor's own, whereupon the enchantment can impart itself to the flammable wood of the nail-studded bat. Hoping that such a mighty swing has temporarily spun Zendor off-balance, Emrith lunges immediately back into the aggressive aspect of flame stance, bringing the sword in his right hand to bear in a quick punishing thrust aimed for the other man's kidneys. The sword in his left hand now describes a short upward arc as it seeks to come at the human's neck from his other side. Zendor is now faced with serious threats from two angles, and may be the bear of a weapon turning rapidly to ash.

Zendor was often the one to initiate attacks, yet always the one to bleed first. An irony he deeply regrets. His weapon at least, was spared from the majority of Emrith's intent, as Zendor never intended on slowing it down. The fiery sword gives it a gentle nudge on it's predetermined path, enough to spark an ember that would surely consume the weapon. Unfortunate thinks the mercenary, that he should have to replace such a beautiful thing. Zendor's balance of armor, speed, and strength, allows each only to consist of a moderate attribute, but his philosophies combined have allowed him to live thus far. Zendor sees the elf's thrust as one of a few logical counters, and makes an effort to dodge, this coupled with the chainmail shirt's links imposing an altered course, means that Zendor is left with a scratch on the side of his belly. Whether it is superficial or into the muscle is unclear as of now. Before his weapon is reduced, he seeks to make use of it. He turns his head to allow Emrith's uppercut-slash to glance along the side his helmet, and slide off the top. Now that Emrith is vulnerable to attack, Zendor allows himself to lose balance, or so it appears superficially. The human spins with with the weapon, and at the end of the revolution, falls to the ground, and gives the weapon one final heave into the middle of Emrith's knees. The spikes, the weight, and the blazing fire should make this a devestating move if it connects, to elf and club.

Emrith has been the victor in countless skirmishes over the last several decades, and is well aware that past a certain point, instinct wins the day over planning in any tight-quarters bout. Rather than gloat or wobble when both of his strikes go slightly wide of their intended marks, Emrith does the next logical thing while in the mindset that governs flame stance. He explodes upward from the ground out of his half-crouch and vaults forward, jackknifing in the air as he moves. This he does even as Zendor is falling, momentum pushing him up and over the tumbling human. The man's flaming club comes in too low to hit his knees, but strikes his left foot a painful glancing blow which turns his landing into a graceless stumble. Thankfully, his weapons are still in roughly their original positions, one poking straight forward in his right hand while the other juts diagonally skyward in his left. Wincing at the pain in his left foot and hoping that the snow in the training yard will put out the flames on his boot before they can do serious damage to the leatherwork, Emrith pistons his left arm downward while driving his right arm across his body at a descending angle. Since the spell-blade has contrived to return to terra firma facing his downed adversary, both blades will taste flesh before burying themselves into the ground; should Zendor somehow be able to roll free of this deadly dual assault, Emrith is confident that he will be able to avoid simply sticking his weapons into the ground blade-first and rendering himself defenseless. He is still cat-quick and relatively unharmed, his only wound a growing numbness in his left foot; his hands are as lethal as ever they were, and his twin shortswords are more than capable of spilling a torrent of blood.

Zendor realizes his mistake after the elf jumps, and once confirming the weak hit against Emrith's foot. As punishment, he's forced to relinquish the burning weapon and forget it, in favor of quick hands. Lying on his back, he braces himself for the coming blows. His mobility's ultimately been reduced to pivoting his torso, and it occurs to him that since he can only dodge one way, he can at most dodge one blow. He has no choice, one side has been sliced and he has no intention of stressing muscles which may be wounded. It's difficult to know, the cold numbed the pain. He dodges the stab pivoting in such a way that the blade goes just under Zendor's armpit. This same arm, he loops around Emrith's and grabs him tightly by the shirt. Unfortunately, this means he has to take one blow. Normally, swords are ineffective against armor, but the fiery enchantment softens the chain-links as it cuts, allowing the blade to slice into his belly, and cauterize it at once. The pain ripples through his body and under his helmet, there is a gross grimace. Desperately, Zendor loops his other arm around Emrith's, locking them both. Using most of the muscles in his strong arms, he pulls Emrith to the side, spinning over him while aiming to keep both arms tangled. Having no other limbs, and no secondary weapons, Zendor must use his head. And he does, his helmet is hard, and fitted perfectly, without a second thought, he tries to plunge it into Emrith's fair face, and again, and again, and again. Until he's stopped, or he's won.

Emrith is surprised, to say the least, when the human's entrails do not at once spray across the trampled snow. When that self-same human somehow grabs his shirt and pulls him downward, Emrith realizes that he is in trouble. Gods, but this man is strong! Up and over Zendor goes, and Emrith is momentarily locked in a tangling clutch of flailing limbs. Hot human blood sprays his face as Zendor torques past, and Emrith simply opens his left hand in order to let that fiery sword go free. He will need to free this arm in the scant seconds before the clinch can definitively favour his foe, and trying to do so while clutching a shortsword is likely going to be an impossible task. He seat-drops to the slush and tries to tuck his left elbow against his chest; his arm is free, but at the same moment Zendor's head looms in his vision. Emrith puts up his now-freed left arm just in time to take a smashing blow across his knuckles; the blow which would have knocked him unconscious has simply pounded his upthrust hand instead. He puts his forearm across his face as Zendor makes to headbutt him again, realizing that at such close range, he can do little except defer the punishment with some other part of his anatomy instead of his face. He leans his head back and rolls his hips forward and to his left, attempting both to maneuver on top of the human sprawled half in his lap and free his right arm from Zendor's pinning grip. It works! Now Zendor is lying on his back beneath the elf, still very much capable of battering his arm to pulp with that helmeted head. Emrith cannot muster anything from this position besides a single inelegant swing with his right arm; the shortsword in his hand glows blue as it arcs up and over, meaning to strike down at the juncture of the human's shoulder and neck. Emrith's broken left arm still bars access to his face - although not for much longer - and the elf is near dizzy from the sickening ache in those shattered bones; still, he hopes that one last downward thrust will stop his assailant's misery and struggles at last.

Zendor is mostly gassed by this time, and hasn't enough torso left to combat Emrith's wrestling, even with superior strength. Naturally he just lies on his back and rests. But there is one thing he notices: Like Zendor, Emrith relinquished his weapon. His will partially rejuvenated, he deduces that Emrith gave it up while his hand was locked, so he could more easily slide his hand out of his grip. He reaches over his head blindly, and grabs it. Exactly where it had to be. Now he shoves it against Emrith's opposite blade, deflecting it into the ground. If Zendor moves his blade, Emrith could easily slide the icy death up into Zendor's across Zendor's neck. But if Emrith lifts his over Zendor's, the human could slide the fiery one between elven ribs. He resigns on a tentative stalemate.

Emrith is gasping, badly spent and trembling from exertion. He glares down into the human's face when steel meets steel, not having expected him to find a defense in this last extremity. And the elf's own sword! Emrith will do well not to make this mistake a second time. "Enough!" he growls, and heaves himself backward, rising shakily to his feet. His left arm hangs uselessly, and the rest of his muscles are thrumming with effort. "Get up. We are done here. You have a stomach wound. Seek the medics." The elf's words are curt and dry, as if he wishes to be done with the whole affair. After a moment he grudgingly concedes, "You fight well. You put truth to your words, and behaved as if your life was on the line. Perhaps it even was. You have my respect." He gives a bow of his head before turning slowly, the better to make off across the yard for healing of his own.

Zendor stays lying for a moment, mostly trying to decide how to get to his feet without using any stomach muscles. He wings his arm over and uses that to spin onto his stomach. From then he pushes to his knees, and finally, stands on his feet. Somehow he still has Emrith's weapon, "I suppose I'll be keeping this then. You broke my weapon after all it's only fair." He begins a tentative wobble to the healer, but he's made friends here, and soon one of them comes to check on him. "I suppose you're not as much the pansy you appear to be either, by the way.

Emrith whirls back around, having temporarily forgotten his other weapon his his disorientation. "No!" His voice is like a whipcrack. "Yours was, as far as I understand, a length of wood full of spikes. Mine is an heirloom, an enchanted blade of elven make. Do not make me wrest it from your dead fingers. I will have it back. I can do my utmost to provide you with another weapon, but you will not keep Heleg's twin."

Zendor takes off his helmet with one hand, revealing his face, indubitably a sign of respect to the elf. "Of course. I was only joking," he says. Deftly, he flips the sword, where once he was holding it by the hilt, now he holds it by the blade. Emrith may take the hilt now. It hurts, so hopefully he'll take it soon. Or maybe pick it up when Zendor drops it... "Meant no disrespect. Though I will count on you keeping your word, since you offered it. Mine was a spiky length of wood, yes. But it carried my fond sentiment." Sure it did. That thing was crud! The reason he kept such a thing was because it didn't have to be sharpened.