Fight:Helich v Naith
LOCATION: Kelay Tavern
From the ever-present throng of drinkers and merry-makers emerges the wyrm, and he looks none too happy. In fact, one might say his expression is decidedly murderous, and he approaches with a purposeful stride. Hands, covered by a pair of steel, spike-tipped knuckles are balled into tight fists, and silver flames dance in the depths of hate-filled cerulean eyes as armoured boots carry his well-built frame toward the Illusionist. Porc suspects trouble (and with good reason), so moves forward to take a protective stance before Helich, but Naith is having none of it. Both hands dart forward, fingers poised to grab a tight hold of either side of the greenskin's head, and with a measured twist of the wrist, aim to cause a sickening 'crack' from within, heralding a sprained neck that would instantly put the Orc into a sound sleep. Now Naith's strides form an angry sprint, and large hands swat the Black's table from the wyrm's way like a fly before he lurches for Helich himself, grabbing the Illusionist by the collar. “What the bloody 'ell do ye think ye're playin' at?!” the Silver roars, his face but mere inches from Helich's own.
Porc. The incredible hulk of Hollow, the jolly green man-giant. An Orc. Named Porc. Emotions pearled before the orcin mans orbs before they closed. Surprise. Dismay. Fear. A quiet hump on the ground. The saurian male is grabbed, raised to the tips of his toes - yet his composure doesn't falter for a hair. Already the upperhand rested in the fact he was touching the Wyrm. Yet he does allow confusion to enter his tone. "Hello to you as well." A smirk follows, he was rather certain he was either destined for the floor or a wall after a snide remark like that. His hands raise to rest atop the one holding the collar of his button-down shirt, gaze narrowing. "I suppose I have angered you in some way then?" Mana began to seep into his form. His eyes had taken a dangerous light now, he would hold no qualms against driving the man insane if needed.
Naith's grin is in jest, feigned. Muscles bulge beneath the coat crafted from the scales of Helich's kind as adrenaline pulsed through the wyrm's veins, andin a mockingly jovial tone he replies: “aye. Ye may 'ave done.” The wall is what Trekia has in mind, and is into the wall that Helich would be tossed, adamantite heel digging into the floor panels as the Nord turns on the spot, releasing his grip on the Black's clothing in time to fling him into the nearest of such. Whence Helich is released he is replaced by the pole-arm resting upon Naith's back, the leather-straps that bind the wooden pole of the Lochaber axe in place being easily ripped through to make the Mage's Bane fall readily into the berserker's hands. Toward the illusionist the humanoid now creeps, crouched low and ready, the curved blade of the Mage's Bane fixated upon the Black. With the bandanna of warding (and racial boost of resistance) to keep psychological attacks at bay, and the Bane held to deflect any solid magical attack, Naith is... Confident.
Helich recoiled against the wall with a feigned shock. Outcomes were weighed, possibilities. Expenditures. Hell, even Naith's life was considered. To kill a fellow saurian would be frowned upon by Solaris. This was the reasoning behind the quiet shuffling to his feet, knees leveraging against floorboards as the ebon colored man pushes himself upright. "I will not fight you." He said boldy, a shake of the head followed - and with that same nonchalant composure, begins a rather casual walk towards Porc. Eyes never settled upon Naith, sif the wyrm had been disregarded and still the saurian was plotting out his next move while predicting Naith's own. Soon would come the rage-filled charge after a quick cutting comment. He knelt at Porc's side. Next would come Helich's hand into the throat of the beast, where he would quite simply trick the mans brain into ceasing to beat. A simple thing, a parlor trick. Then he would save Naith, be a hero, and continue to sow the seeds of dissent amongst the fold. He stood, expecting to see Naith begining his charge, and faced the man.
Naith wasn't here to kill, only to rough up. That, thankfully, could be done from a distance, due to the length of his weapon. For a few moments the tip of the lochaber axe's curved blade remains trained upon the Black's form as he picks himself up, and strolls past to tend to his Orc. Or rather, attempts to stroll past. No need for a charge, with Helich on the approach, and just as the illusion comes into range the axe is tipped head-over-heel, blade substitutes for the blunt end of the pole arm, the thick wooden rod careening through the air on course for the illusionist's jaw. The intent is, at the very least, to loosen a few teeth.
Helich stood quietly and watched Naith's form contort in preperation. If he'd time to think, he would have thought a singular word. Predictable. Yet not quite what the saurian -had- predicted, in truth. He narrowly avoided the swinging weapon by crouching low. His patience was wearing thin. Raising now, he idly stroked his chin, "My my. Someone needs a spanking. Tisn't very polite to try and kill me." a snide comment. He took a step back from Naith soon after, only to trip of the lump on the floor known as Porc and fall flat on his back. His eyes widened just a tad in surprise, no more. Things were escalating now, careful planning turning into reactive motion as opposed to proactive initiative.
The blade is again on the humanoid, and this time, it's curve but an inch from the Blade's nose. One should practically be able to hear the runes inlaid on the blade, listen to their thirsty cries of the magic energy the Bane so loves to feed upon. The wyrm's teeth gnash together hungrily, and his eyes rest briefly on the meat of Helich's stomach before breaking into a tight lipped smile. “So 'ere's 'ow things'll be,” Naith speaks, his voice barely a threatening whisper, “Rynvale be liberated, all fine an' dandy. Then, ye feck off. Leave the elf alone and 'er group in peace, er else,” the very tip of the axe's curved blade traces a thin line along the Illusionist's neck, the press not even forceful enough to break through the flesh, but the message quite clear.“ah'd give me left arm fer a reason, ah would,” grins the Nord, before again rotating the axe to bear down on the Black, wooden end coming for a painful thrawk against the forehead, then Trekia straightens his back and prepares to leave, whistling merrily as he twirls the axe between his hands.
Helich nodded. Hell, he even smiled a little for reassurance. Until he was hit on the head. The smile vanished, but a lump appeared - and his eyes rolled up into the back of his head. So now, within the middle of the tavern, were two random lumps. One, an Orc - and beside him, a finely dressed man.