Fight:Rilling v Vaidhe
Grassy Knoll
Vaidhe ambles over the crest of a hill and immediately sets his sights on his newest target. In his current shape, more than seven feet in height and garbed in golden scales, the saurian's presence itself is testament enough to his intentions, especially given the light flaring in his eyes and the set, stern look of his countenance. He comes to a halt, feet spread and hands raised in a moment of introspection, then sets into action. With an almost lazy motion, Vaidhe unlimbers Ligetsleht from its confines upon his back, swishes it viciously in the air before him and then hurls it southward, using a brief push of telekinetic force to speed it on its way. The next machination of the dragon's power comes at greater cost; as the mace's spiked, lightning-ensorcelled head first slams and then sets ablaze the crown of a nearby pine, Vaidhe seizes upon that tree and, with considerable effort, severs its top half and sends it hurtling in the direction of his opponent. The needle-laced obstruction is part flaming barrier, part infernal deadfall as it zeroes in on its target, falling and tumbling in such a way as to partially shield one combattant from the sight of the other. It is Vaidhe's hope that Rilling will be caught in the merrily burning mesh of boughs, needles and sap and quickly cooked. Ligetsleht, summoned with a tug of that same telekinetic impetus, zips back to Vaidhe's hand, still sizzling with lightning about its enchanted head. If Rilling should emerge from the conflagration, the golden dragon will be waiting to meet her.
Rilling whilst currently standing at the bottom of the hill was currently practicing her ice manipulation, such is higly evident by the large irregular ice formations currently placed askew around her. She is currently absorbed in a very basic easy read tomb, the dragon gal really can't read that advanced of works even in hr mother tounge of Draconics. A strong aura is currently present around her emitting subzero temperatures, this aura is permanently present and can be strengthened or weakened when needed. The small human looking dragonett stood at the feeble height of only 30 and a half inches in this form, it had advantages from it's compact size and utterly harmless looking disposition, yet one can not rule out the severe set backs also associated with it. As she struggles to make our which word is which in her book, she senses a whirling sound, being as easily distracted as she is, she is highly drawn to any sort of noise to shift her attention to. One must also not rule our the excellence of a youth's hearing. Her eyes nearly bug out of her head as a rolling monstrosity of death seems to be headed straight for her. The whelp rapidly flips through her book looking for an answer. However it is quite evident there is no time for that as it readies to steamroll her into tonights dinner. Well she wasn't being mounted tonight. No sir way! Eagerly grasping at her twin duel twig-wands; Brandt and Bradly, Rilling acts in desperation raising her arms up in the sky. She raises the floor around her, or herself rather on a column of thick durable ice. she raises herself above the terror of the flaming log of death believing she is safe from these heights. However, she underestimated the power of the log as it colides with her massive makeshift tower making it shake and quivver until it eventually gives in and falls over. Thinking quick, Rilling conjures up a mountain of snow that in which she falls into drastically softening her fall. She having fallen on her rear is quick to be back on her feet. Her inner mana pool is surging with emotions of fear and desperation simply making her stronger. She scans in all directions until she detects a sign of life. She intends to drain all of her power in this assault to end the conflict quickly. She unleashes all of her power taking in even her aura as she rapidly swings her wands with demented fury. She let's loose her barrage of irregular shaped icicles intended to crush with blunt as well as cut with that of a blade. She alternates the swinging of both arms sending out a flurry of well.. erm flurry at the rate of essentially two attack every few seconds. Getting so passionate, she cackles out loud in her power even at times swinging both arms at the same time doubling the blast. She is intent in finishing this early and quick due to her weakness of running out of juice and steam early and inconvienetly.
Vaidhe is unable to see precisely what transpires beyond the streams of smoke issuing from the burning pine, but gauges by the sudden drop in temperature that his foe is handy with cold. He winces, an inward cramp of distaste at the thought of dealing with the element against which he is weakest. As a means of combatting the threat he strongly suspects, Vaidhe begins to draw upward about himself a cloak of dust, dead grass and stones, then superheats it by exciting its component parts until a hot shield of sorts encapsulates him. It is this weak buffer that ultimately saves him from being eviscerated and frozen solid; Rilling's fuselade carves rather effortlessly through the physical barrier, but much of its frigidity and a fair portion of its momentum is absorbed by Vaidhe's heated cocoon. He suffers many small gashes as chunks of ice score grooves between his scales, and the din of frozen water on armoured flesh is both musical and alarming in its furor. Bellowing his rage in the direction of the tree, whose flames are now nearly extinguished, the dragon hefts his mace, then hurls it toward his foe with much more force than he has expended previously. The attack is simple, direct and deadly; a small creature struck dead on by Ligetsleht's spiked head will be seriously electrocuted and perhaps even torn in half on impact. As he stands in the dissipating remnants of his hot bastion of dubious safety, dripping blood from a multitude of slashes and puncture wounds, Vaidhe prays silently that his mace will meet its mark.
Rilling continues her onslaught of freezing cold until her body literally can't exert itself anymore. She pants with fatigue hoping that her efforts had allowed her to best her new apparent foe. She looks in his general direction blinking nervously as she gazed with pure fright just wishing he was dead. She dosen't hear anything and slowly stumbles to make her approach to better access what has just transpired. It is then that she heard it though again the ringing sound associated with airborne assault. This alarms her as it means that not only is he still alive, but also in great fighting condition. She dosen't feel she can fight back all is doomed. She cowers awaiting the end until suddenly am explosion of frost goes off as all the sap in the surrounding trees explode from increasingly lowered tempertires inside of them. Her mana was now in control as it combusted upon leaving her body and being exposed to oxygen. A wave of ice crystals fall from the sky at such an angle that they strike the incoming mace throwing it's angle off somewhat so she dosen't have to endure the blow. The crustals don't stop there however as they continue on perfectly directed to fall upon her attacker. This all cane at s price however, the unstable mana was ravaging her body and she screamed bloody murder from the pain as her nerve endings seemed to be contracting from the chill enduring a great deal of strain. At this rate she wad contending with her attacker to he her own worst enemy. She was a mess as her body shook from the immense pain and fatigue. She fell to the floor weakened on her knees trying to support her forged with her hand just trying to bare it all.
Vaidhe watches in disbelief as the ice crystals deflect Ligetsleht from its course, sending it spinning off in an errant spiral toward the nearby hillside. Suspecting at once that the rain of chill will soon descend upon him, Vaidhe breaks into a shambling backpedal, hoping in vain to entirely avoid the cold falling toward him. Gravity alone appears to be the harbinger of doom directing this threat, so the gold dragon is able to avoid being caught in the middle of tha maelstrom. This is not, however, enough to spare him the ravages of cold. His body collapses in mid-step and he begins to shiver uncontrollably, snarling through gritted teeth as the freezing ice goes to work upon him. His breath explodes from flared nostrils in rhythmic pants, and it is this struggle for air that prompts him to react in the way that he does. Summoning a deep reserve of inner strength, Vaidhe takes in one desperate gasp of cold air, then belches it out in a blast of fire. It is somewhat larger than might be expected of a creature this size, but still far from dangerous, a nearly reflexive action meant more to warm the air around him. Vaidhe falls onto his belly and begins to roll pell-mell down the hill, lungs working like a bellows as he continues to jet forth bursts of fire at regular intervals. The friction he creates at his passage helps to nullify some of the deep-seated ache in his bones and scales from the earlier onslaught, and with what remains of his telekinetic prowess, Vaidhe sets about turning this admittedly compromised situation to his advantage. Many errant skeins of grass and weeds have been set ablaze at Vaidhe's passage, and the battlefield is thus littered with patches of burning flora. Anything that burns creates particulate matter which can be manipulated and, so thinking, Vaidhe continues his mad roll down the hill toward Rilling, now bringing with him an ever-growing sea of charred, smoking debris. He hopes that the cloud will somewhat obscure him from his foe's eyes and nose, the better to attack from a semblance of cover. Perhaps the greatest danger yet, however, is the ground itself; Vaidhe's own friction has caused him to tap the very earth itself, heating it as he moves and channelling that warmth in a platelike projection all about his form. In fairly short order, the entire hillside will resemble a bumpy, hissing griddle, the better to grill his tenacious adversary. The hotter it gets, the more this dragon's spirits and vitality return; he basks in the growing heat as he bowls downslope, intent on seizing his opponent, bearing her to terra firma and clutching her close while she roasts.
Rilling despretly attempts to gather a grasp over her situation. She is troubled not able to make the unbearable pain go away. Matters only get worse however as the giant spiral of flamey death begins to approach her, heck even the floor is unbearably hot. She really wishes that she would of worn shoes now. With her last bit of magic, that she is able to control I mean, she conjures up a patch of snow where she stands to avoid her feet being seared off. She dosen't know what to do about the flamey ball of death headed straight for her though. She quickly ponders how to deal with the situation. Quickly she ducks for cover behind the mounds of broken ice blocks created from the earlier incidence of when she dodged the log. However, age still sustains the blow from the quaking earth the rolling of such power. This throws her body down to the ground and she lays there feeling all is lost, she has to end this, and quickly. She brought up her wands and prepaired for a second onslaught. This was to be more dangerous however, she was running on essentially empty which means any power she excreted from here when be very unregulated and dangerous to both parties. With that she swung her wands intending for some horrid affect to take place. She was not dussappinted as large jagged chinks of hail proceeded to fall in each and every conceivable direction, they were large around the size of a medium sized bush or shrub. Her heart was ready to beat out of her chest as she collapsed to the floor holding her hands over her head in an attempt to shield herself from her own attack.
Vaidhe is braced for the imminent collision between himself and his hapless foe, but it never comes. Instead, he bowls headfirst into a huge mound of ice and snow, mostly arresting his progress. He does not see Rilling's raised wands, but at the first sound of a hailstone striking the hot ground and sizzling away into nothing, Vaidhe simply buries himself in the cold barrier created by Rilling not so long ago. Being temporarily entombed in ice is far preferable to being hammered with it from on high, after all. He waits out the fury of her assault from relative safety, muscles tightening and breath coming more and more slowly, before at last the tempest seems to have subsided. He labours upright, most of his wounds having either been sealed over by the regeneration present at high temperature or more seriously abraded by his reckless tumbling. Wounded but still alive, he gives the pile of ice and snow one petulant kick before turning and striding off in the other direction, trusting that an attack toward his unguarded back is not in the cards. One twitch of his right hand is enough to summon Ligetsleht to its place within his palm, and the golden dragon picks up his pace, hoping to be free of this chilly battleground before more devilry can be brought to bear upon him.