RP:A Vicious Venture in Venturil

Travelling East Of The Barrows

Svilfon snaps into existence a short way from Eboric. The wizard stares for a moment, before drawing from the air itself his Xalious-wood wand. The magical implement is raised, its sharp tip pointed at the warlord, and only then does the wizard speak in ambiguous tones. "I have been gone a while, Aethling Eboric, Slayer of Beasts and those who hunt them, Titan of Winter, Lord of War." The wizard pauses a moment and offers an almost imperceptible nod of his head. "There are few in this world who've earned the respect of this wizard, and very, very few who have done so without also being a student of the archaic arts... it would sadden me if you'd lost your edge, so I am here to ensure you are still... strong." That is all the warning Svil would give. Before the echo of his words has faded from the air, he tosses his wand high above him, before spinning his hands through a complicated pattern while arcane words flow easily from his lips. Thin tendrils of orange light appear behind his fingers, trailing in the air like the net of some ancient fisherman. Longer and longer this goes, until the wizard's wand finally falls back down. This signals the last portion of his spell. He catches the wand, before pointing it through the net of light he created, aiming it right at Eboric. With a snarl the wizard shoots forth a torrent of arcane energy. It strikes the net, yet doesn't destroy it; instead it splits the pure magic into different aspects of the arcane: a line of fire, a line of ice; portions of decay mixed with the wizard's weak healing. There is pure chaos at one end, pure law at the other; a rainbow of various magics which hurls at the warlord, attempting to disrupt what protection against the archaic he has long enough to ravish his body in many different ways...

Eboric's weapons are in his hands even before the wizard speaks and, though he relaxes somewhat at the familiar face, he quickly returns to ready attention as he hears Svilfon's words. With a muttered curse, he looks around almost frantically, while Svilfon prepares his spell. His gaze settles on a crumbling stone that, long ago, had been set as a grave marker over an outlying barrow, and even as the wand comes down, the big man launches himself for the questionable cover, huddling up behind it. The tendrils of magic wrap around it, though, their ends lashing the werebear's arms and shoulders in a mess of foul sensations that illicit a roar of rage from the Aethling. He hauls himself over the top of the stone, sheer anger in his eyes, and drops down again, ignoring the pain rising from the new, albeit minor wounds. Armed with seaxe and axe, he pounds across the short distance to close with the wizard, apparently intending to run directly past the man, perhaps to inflict a blow with the axe as he runs. At the last moment, however, his left foot plants itself on the ground and he shoves himself out at an angle, meaning to surprise Svilfon by the change in tactics, to bring him down to the hard soil with crushing force, and with all the weight of armor and werebear on top, where the heavy, brutish forehead can snap forward toward the wizard's nose in hopes of cracking it and ending the fight quickly.

Svilfon watches Eboric evade the worst of his attack with a feral look that shows his deep respect for this warrior. As the netting he crafted fades and the warlord begins his brazen charge, Svil is already speaking quiet words. He mistimes his defensive spell, though; it was his intention to enact a barrier behind him, to stop that axe as the warlord rushes past. But instead it was but a feint, and soon enough Eboric is crashing into the wizard. But he doesn't fall to the ground, even with such a weight on him. For the protection he was enacting behind him means instead he is simply crushed between the deadly embrace of the werebear and the power of his spell. Svil is quick enough to move his head so the man's forehead strike merely grazes his own head, but even still it tears through his flesh, sending blood pouring down his face. Half blinded and far too close to a dangerous warrior, he doesn't have time to enact another magical attack, so instead he focuses on the barrier of energy behind him. He forces it to stretch, to pull itself so it holds all of Svil's back even as the wizard grabs hold of Eboric. And only then does it truly move - it erupts high into the sky, pulling both werebear and wizard quickly upwards, before shifting its direction and pushing them both down. It would wait until the last possible moment before twisting from behind the wizard to his front... Svil's intent to use it to crush the werebear between magic and rocks, to end this here and now with a deadly attack...

Eboric, to his credit, retains his wits even as he soars into the air, although he drops his weapons in favor of taking a death grip on Svilfon's shoulders. As they plummet downward again, though, he begins to suspect his danger and, with every last ounce of strength in his hands, he squeezes once more at the wizard's shoulders, hoping to snap a bone or two as punishment for the affront of flying, before letting go with a push, using the invisible barrier as it moves around as a stable object from which to propel himself. He tucks himself into a ball, as best as he can, so that when he slams against the ground he rolls over a time or two before coming to a halt, breathless from the impact. His breath coming in ragged gasps, he forces himself to his feet, noting with a grimace that his hip shoots pain up his spine with every step, but again ignoring it in favor of persuing his foe. His axe and seaxe are too far away to grab along the way, so he draws Eidhur, the black blade almost audibly humming, while with his free hand he unbuckles his heavy leather belt, pulling it free of scabbards and mail in a single, angry tug. This, he whips out at the wizard, meaning to catch the smaller man across the face with the hefty steel buckle, a stunning blow that is quickly followed by the warlord's foot, which strikes out at Svilfon's instep in hopes of laming the man, and of knocking him off balance in time to receive the hilt of the sword full force in the chest.

Svilfon screams as the man's powerful fingers grip into his shoulders, heavily bruising his flesh, yet the gift of vampirism is enough to stop the force from actually snapping a bone. But one doesn't fight Eboric without knowing there will be pain; if a single sound follows the warlord's march, it is most assuredly the scream. As Eboric pushes himself off, Svil follows the path of his own attack. He slams into the ground with enough force to drive whatever air was left in his lungs out. He is dazed for just a moment before pulling himself to his feet. His eyes, which are half blinded by the blood from his forehead, open in time to see the buckle snapping forth, and all he can do is raise a hand to ward off the attack. He is too slow, and catches it full in the face. This is too much for Svil to take. He begins to scream a series of convoluted words which overlap each other with a disgusting, in-human noise. It rings with an almost tangible sound of corruption, of hatred; disgust for all that grows straight, all that follows the laws of nature, the laws of life... even the laws which the Gods did decree. He carries on with this chant, even as he snaps his leg back, evading the warlord's kick, before crossing his arms before his chest and using Eboric's final attack as a means of putting some distance between them. The impact is strong, it numbs his arms and bruises his chest. But it has the desired effect. Far enough away now, the wizard speaks the final word of his vile spell. It gives unlife to a sickly ball of green-hued light, which snaps and cracks at the air, devouring it like a ravening beast, before Svil speaks the name of the warrior under his breath, "Eboric..." As if this were an archaic command, the sphere snaps forward at the man - following him with an almost sentient intelligence, even as it begins to expand. For its intent is to envelop him within a cocoon of chaos; to rip and tear at his body, mind and soul in a thousand different ways at once... pure entropy... shifting and changing faster than thought, without any design, any pattern - and leaving behind something of which no sane mortal could ever name...

Eboric is, for once, unprepared, not having expected the severity of the attack, not from one who he can tentatively call a friend. He stands, as straight as he can on his injured leg, with Eidhur in hand, even as the green orb flies toward him. It wraps around him, just as intended, so that the towering figure is obscured from Svilfon's view by the light, without a single sound escaping to give a hint as to what might be occurring. To Eboric, however, all is sound; deafening, confusing sound as the foul magic begins its dastardly work, bringing unimaginable pain. So much pain, in fact, the the warlord's own barriers within his mind shatter, and that alone is his salvation. Alimer and Ine, trapped within the werebear's mind, surge free, and briefly fight for control. Ine wins that bout, however, and although the magic he knew in life cannot be harnessed with Eboric's body, the warlord having no experience with such energies, the dead king's soul can reach through the black blade, with its gilt runes and inherent might. To Svilfon and anyone else watching, the ball of green light gains a black center, which slowly emerges into shadowy shapes, looking at first as though three men stride forward through the storm of chaos, an image which wavers into that of a single man, mounted upon a horse. It is that which appears outside of the spell; Eboric's form, torn and bloodied, upon a white stallion, painted with red runes. At a gallop, it charges the wizard, ghastly teeth flashing out in an attempt to lay Svilfon's face bare to the bone, rearing to bring sharp hooves down from on high in a blow capable of crushing through even an armored foe. As well, Ine swings down with his brother's sword, meaning to hack the enemy's head from his shoulders.

Svilfon watches the corruption of his magic get eaten away by the spirits which reside within the warlord... within the odious blades he does carry. He can feel it, even as he takes time to breathe in air - to calm his mind and ready himself. His face is a bloodied mess, his body a bruised one, yet he stands there tall and proud in the swirling dust of Venturil's day, ready to face whatever comes... Yet, like Eboric was before him, Svil is caught very much unprepared. For it isn't a charging warrior which comes from within his shifting spell, but rather a man on horseback, riding forth like a knight of old; lacking, Svil can't help but note, any restraint. This was a dance of death. As the hideous teeth lash out, Svil snaps his arm up slams into the horse's mouth. It crushes the bone beneath his robes, snapping it easily, yet when it rears up Svil is pulled with it - causing him to take the flailing hooves on his body, not his head. His uninjured arm wraps around the horse's neck, and using strength born of desperation he hurls himself forward, into the swinging weapon's path. He catches the warlord's wrist with his head, and though the whiplash of the attack causes a deep cut on his back, his head thankfully remains connected to his neck. With an arm broken, his wand dropped, Svil can only push himself off the horse. He dives back across the dusty ground, before lifting up his free hand and speaking. Though he doesn't raise his voice, it easily whips through the air, reaching Eboric's ears with a power that shows he is far from defeated. "Enough! You have.. proved you're still worthy, mighty warrior. I have no desire to kill you, and I know you do not wish to kill me..." A dark, sadistic grin splits the vampire's face in half, showing bloodied teeth. "At least, not this day... Let us walk away from here alive, Lord of War... far better than one of us stumbling from here with a corpse in their wake."

Eboric's horse trots in a slow circle around the wizard, the barbarian's face a cold mask as he looks with eyes not fully his own upon the bloodied vampire. For a moment, it appears as though he will attack again; his torn, blood-slicked grasp on the sword tightens, and he half-raises the blade. But, perhaps of his own accord, or perhaps because of Svilfon's voice, Eboric forces his will over the dead king again, driving Ine back. His answering grin shows white beneath the blood, and he rests Eidhur flat across the stallion's neck. "If I killed you, Svilfon, who would I have to perform amusing tricks when I am king?"

Svilfon does not relax as the horse trots around him. Though he likes the barbarian more than most, he would not hesitate if the man kept seeking his death. Yet, thankfully he does not. At his words Svilfon cannot help but laugh, "A king has many enemies, warlord. At least I give you reason to rest assured... If you can survive against me, you have little to worry about from them." The wizard spits another globule of blood from his mouth, "Mighty still, you are. It is good for your health you did not disappoint me." That may seem ludicrous, considering the state they are both in... but Svil knows how close they both came to death during their fight... and they are, in their own way friends... their enemies had best beware.

Eboric slides from his horse, which stands unnaturally still once he has left it, and begins the task of retrieving his weapons and sheaths. "I don't believe I've ever worried about anyone I've fought," he says, arrogant as ever. He slides Eidhur into its sheath, gritting his teeth against the pain as he hobbles over to lean against Beorhtanfeax's solid flank. "Tell me, though, what do you know of the rune magic?" Here, he gestures to the angular designs that mar the horse's white perfection.

Svilfon can feel waves of agony washing from his broken arm, meeting the oceans of pain from his ravished face. Yet when he speaks to the warlord very little of this is shown. "Nor have I, Eboric. Would I appear out of nowhere and challenge you if I had even a modicum of fear? I am not like the peasants of this land." In truth, the wizard does it more to test himself. Yet he has no desire to stroke the man's ego. At his question, Svil shrugs in a lopsided gesture. "Little, if truth is to be told." The wizard moves closer, then, and eyes the patterns on the horse's side. "I have means of researching them, if you would like? But my knowledge itself isn't great."

Eboric laughs, wincing as he does so. "No, I don't suppose you are, Svilfon, and that is why I like you." He, too, looks to the runes. "It is the ancient magic of my people, and I suppose it is less...objectionable than other magics. I would learn of it, if I can, and I don't much trust other wizards."

Svilfon laughs along with the warlord, the sound unforced and filled with genuine good humor. "Aye, the same can be said of you." To the last words, Svilfon nods. "I have access to two libraries greater than any other. One in the heart of Frostmaw, one deep within the hidden confines of the Mage's Guild. I will look into it, Eboric, and make note of what I can. Just be wary when learning about such things... often they have a way of awakening beasts best left in the past." Whether he means literal beasts or mere figurative ones, it's not clear. But Svil will remember these markings, and already he knows where he will begin to research.

Eboric hauls himself into the saddle once more, taking a moment to catch his breath. "I'll never be a wizard, my friend, nor do I have any desire to be one. But I would know more of these runes, and the other way of learning of them is...unstable, at best." He looks off to the west, where his men are encamped among the barrows. "We had best tend to our wounds, though. It is not fitting for us to be out in this state, after all." He grins again, as the horse begins to move westward. "Perhaps, when next we meet, you'll have to kneel and call me king."

Svilfon snickers at the warlord. "It will be a cold day in Hell when I kneel to anyone, lord of war. I might bow, though... if you're lucky." The wizard grins then, before a wave of flame wraps around his body. "Rest well, Eboric! If I find anything you need know of them, I will... find you again." That said, the wizard vanishes back to Frostmaw to rest and recover.