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Barvalone and Hemlock versus Pahn
Hemlock starts into a run at Pahn before quickly bounding into
the air. His sword arcs upward over his back and with a square
kick to the do-gooders chest, he kicks himself backwards in an
instant retreat. Mid-propulsion, the assassin's blade slices
downward with the instantaneity of a snapping mechanism, singing
as it aims to lacerate Pahn's face.
Barvalone releases his cantrip at the moment Hemlock moves
forth, as if their minds mechanize. With a quick shout in the
words of the abyss, forth comes a circle of spines, shimmering
along the edges with metallic brilliance. Controlled with
precision, they streak forth, darting between Hemlock's limbs,
narrowly missing his brother in their charge for the fool, Pahn.
Pahn holds his ground, unaware of what Hemlock is doing. Seeing
the drows attack, Pahn readies himself for a defense. An easy
one, it seems. But a flick of the wrist and the attack would be
blocked. However, just as Pahn readies himself in a guarding
position, Hemlock leaps back ward, greatly confusing the gnome.
However, he quickening regains his composer and within moments a
blade is making its way towards Pahns face. Thinking face, the
gnome reacts by guarding his face with the daggers; however it
is not good enough. The blade deflects but at a cost. Pahn feels
it shimmy to the left, taking out of chunk of Pahns left
shoulder. The pain is there, however, Pahn manages to ignore it
for the most part. Reacting on instinct, Pahn leaps onto a table
and then into the air, putting himself above Hemlock. Chanting a
few words of a song, Pahn increases the strength of his next
attack. With the accuracy only a thief (and a gnome at that)
posses, he lets fly his twin daggers. The twins seek a pair of
locations, Hemlocks neck for one and torso for the other.
Hemlock's knees bend almost completely as he falls backwards to
avoid the approaching dagger. Whilst the projectile whizzes over
his head, he jams his sword's point downward, using its steel
frame to support himself before pushing back to his feet with an
unphased grin.
Barvalone thrusts one palm outward, tossing debris and chairs
from his direct path with ease. The force jets forward with
whipping force and a great howl. Falling down to the planks, the
unseen force slips beneath the heels of the youngest dark elf
brother, volting him up and outward towards the arrogant gnome.
Hemlock's feet perform a slow, aerial walk as he is easily
lifted from his vantage and sent soaring towards Pahn. Letting
out a ferocious cry, the assassin then proceeds to collide
forcefully against him, his jagged brand poised in such a way as
to impale the thief in the motion. As a precaution, he leans
somewhat to the right, aiming to twist his opponent's stance
into an open target for Barvalone.
Barvalone's legs give out purposefully, dropping him onto his
belly like a sleek, black worm. Shooting out like a black dart,
the battlemage's hand throws forth a great cloud of powdered
sulfer, along with motes of fire ruby. Twisting his tongue
delicately to call out in the melodic tongue of the drow, the
sulfur reacts, exploding into a great conflagration that speeds
just above the floor, hitting Pahn low as his brother hits high.
Pahn lets loose a smile of pride with his toss of the
daggers. However, the smile does not last long as he realizes
what little it did to Hemlock. Pahn feels a hint of fear for a
moment but, it was only for a moment. For at that moment, he
realized Hemlock would not act alone, for his brother would
shortly join them. Still in the air, Pahn sees (what he thought
to be uncomposed) Hemlock make is way toward Pahn. Completely
defenseless, the gnome has little options. Suddenly, a chant
comes to mind. It is only moments before Hemlock hits his
target, however, that is all the time Pahn needed. The chant
comes off of the bards lips like water in a stream. The
defensive song is meant to grant the user a sort of magical
shield for but a moment. It is enough for him to block Hemlock
(mostly) but not enough to block Barvalone. The force of Hemlock
still sent the gnome backward through the air, making him think
he had avoided all danger. However, there was an attack he
didn’t expect, Barvalone. But moments after Hemlock hit his
target, the sweeping substance of Barvalones combination of
components overwhelms Pahn. The gnome is sent in a flipping
motion for brief seconds only to land face down on the floor
(and shattering a chair in the process.) He cannot help but take
the time to rest, a rest that would last but a moment. A moment
Pahn knew he didn’t have. Raising to his feet as quick and agile
as a cat. Pahn quickly withdraws a small, harp from the floor
near where he was sitting. Pahn takes advantage of the skill he
was recently taught, the skill of a bard. Letting his fingers do
their work, Pahn puts full trust into his harp. The melody
overwhelms all those around. It is an intoxicating song that
leaves most sedated and feeling a deep sorrow. However, it is
short lived, for you can see the music and the notes float from
the harp. At first, you are not sure if it is you imagination or
truly there. However, the notes explode at the touch of another
object, or person. All around, there are explosions, most being
set off in the direction of Hemlock and Barvalone.
Barvalone cannot surpress a slight chortle at the sight
of the gnome, seeking solace amidst battle in the notes of
music. Boldly, with a haughty air, he strides forward, fingers
dancing in gestures of the arcane and archaic. Foolishly, the
mage steps right into a floating note, taking an explosion to
his chest that winds him and burns already charred skin from a
previous battle. Already caught in the barrage, Barvalone turns
and focuses upon his younger brother, tossing out a few metallic
sheets that expand and stretch before the assassin as a shield
against the melodic massacre. Een as more sound assaults his
physical being, Barvalone slips a carefully crafted crossbow,
small enough for his hand, out from beneath the fold of his
piwafwi. With one click, the bolt shatters the melody by
snapping each string in unison. Still, the explosions about him
tear in and pummel the drow relentlessly.
Hemlock grins wildly as he watches the remaining few
explosions rock and shudder the adamant barrier of Barvalone's
gracious conuration. His crimson eyes narrow as he looks through
the magical shield, a bellicose whip finding its place in his
grip and unfastening from his belt. The peripheral image of his
brother being thrown to ground, however, shatters the amusement
written over his countenance, transforming his expression into
one of vengeful rage. Bending his knees in preparation, the drow
takes a bold leap into the air, coming up above the top rim of
the magical shield only to let his coiled instrument lash out at
Pahn. The long tendril of well-tanned leather snaps loudly
before coiling about and squeezing Pahn's throat. Hemlock
strongly pulls back on the handle of the whip as he lands once
more behind the protection of Barvalone, hoping to take the
gnome off of its feet.
Barvalone rolls onto his back with a grunt, badly
charred and bruised by the assault. A bit too fatigued for
further spellcasting, the battlemage gives a shrill, cold
whistle that resounds throught the tavern. Immediately, rising
up like a hellish assassin, Alabaster, the shadow familiar
summoned earlier in the day, wafts from between the floorboards.
Where eyes should be there is pure abyss, almost nauseatingly
dark. With no more sound than a light wind, the shadow curls
forth, snaking about Pahn's ankles and up, twisting round and
round. With as much physical force it can muster, the beast
shoves from behind the gnome, attempting to force him into
Hemlock's whip-lash. Each tendril of darkness that reaches out
for Pahn is imbrued with pure frost, capable of halting the flow
of a mortal creatures blood.
Hemlock grins maliciously, firmly setting one foot
against the ground and leaning backwards to support his constant
tug against the whip. With his free hand, he reaches deep into
the satchel at his side and takes hold of some dozen shurikens,
setting them quickly between his fingers in preparation for
whatever assault he is imagining. By honing in on the ingrained
abilities and sixth sense of an assassin, Hemlock lobs the
deadly stars skyward, watching sadistically as they rise and
then fall down towards the other end of the shield wall, toward
the spot where he has calculated Pahn to be. The metallic shards
glint with candle light as they spin and heavily fall over the
sno doubt preoccupied gnome.
Pahn feels the strings of his harp slowly come apart
but does not stop playing. Not until the last string was severed
did the gnome consider dropping the harp to the floor. This was
foolish and he should have known better. He sees the succession
of his spell as the chared Barvalone lay before him. However,
where was Hemlock? Looking around Pahn caught out of the corner
of his eye, the younger of the drow, whip in hand. Turning
forth, it was too late. Lashes strike the gnome on his armor
less arms and some skimming his face. Blood splashed all around
the tavern, Pahns blood. He could do all he could to out
maneuver the whips and was quite successful. For some time, he
dodged the blows. For but a moment, he stopped to rest and gain
his breath. It was at this moment he felt something attack him
form behind. The shadow demon sent the gnome flying forward,
causing the blows of Hemlocks whip to be much more effective.
Staggering back, the gnome is dazed with confusion and fear and
a wild rush of excitement. However, he managed to harness his
fear, making it serve him and not the other way around. It was
in doing this that he managed to stay on his feet. However, this
was short lived. Half blinded by the lash that struck his eye,
the gnome did not see what came at him next, a half dozen
shurikens, hell-bent on taking the gnome out. Falling to the
floor, he managed to avoid most of them. However, four of them
pierced the gnomes small body just as he was getting back to his
feet. They sent him though the air a few feet, sending him
though a chair on his way back to the floor. Half nailed to the
floor, Pahn could do nothing. The drow brothers had won and he
could do nothing about it at this point. Blood poured from the
gnome like a steam. At first glance, you would think him to be
dead (and wouldn’t be to far from the truth.) Pahn lay there,
defeated. Blood matted a large area of the tavern. He could do
nothing by lay there and await death. A death he did not fear. A
death he awaited like a old man awaiting the bus. So callous he
was, one would think he didn’t know what was going on. He slowly
fell into a deep, intoxication sleep of unconsciousness.
Magik blinks at Pahn then rushes to his side. He places
a hand on Pahn's shoulder as a bright, blue light begins to flow
from it.
Barvalone rests on his back, groaning slightly from the
burns and aches in his body.
Barvalone versus Narsis
Barvalone assumes a casual stance that squares his slim shoulders up to his unlikely Drow enemy. With meticulous grace,
he stretches his bare, toned arms in front of his chest, interlacing each slender digit between the next. After flexing his
fingers outward with a crack, Barvalone unclasps them and slips back into a more relaxed mind-frame. Dark lips move in a slow
incantation that gradualle ascends in loudness while the dark elf's hands begin to pilfer many of the secret pockets of his
crimson and black piwafwi. Numerous spell components are pulled from his cache: a feather which Baravalone casually tosses
upward, a bit of emerald shavings that he sprinkles beneath the drifting feather, and a vial of blue liquids. This, Barvalone
drops, allowing it to shatter and spill upon the rocky cavern floor. Even as the contents of the glass begin to form a blue
and green haze as they touch the emerald shards, Barvalone reaches a husky crescendo, crying out the last word to his spell.
Blue, roiling smoke explodes from his feet, swirling about in a makeshift tornado that sweeps the fluttering feather up and
around. With a steady wave of his dark-skinned hand, the Drow dismisses the blue cloud, leaving only a still feather, beaded
at Narsis, hovering motionless in the air. With another trigger phrase, the feather explodes, leaving two in its wake. Then
three. Then four. It continues until the sharp-tipped things surround the opponent Drow. They shudder for a second, then streak
forth in a blaze of blue, fiery fury, shattering stalactites in their frenzied haste towards Narsis.
Narsis cocks his head one way and then the other while rolling his shoulders. Iron like muscles ripple seamlessly under ebony
skin. Silver shimmering hair bounces lightly but stays firmly in place tied back in a tight pony tail. He wiggles his fingers
one by one the slender digits relax getting ready for whatever might come his way. The movements from the undead drow ruffling
his torn and shredded black silk shirt. Cold grey eyes twinkle as they lock onto Barvalone. Wondering to himself could this
person finally be the challenge he had searched the land of Hollow high and low for. Deciding to unleash his fury on one so
undeserving of it. The dark ranger roars letting his anger be known red hot flames shoot out from his figure incenerating
the feathers before they can even get close enough to him to cause any harm. With a loud crash stalagmites thunder upon the
rocky ground cut loose by the feathers. Deciding not to waste much time with this big cumbersome oaf his right arms darts
into the overlapping fabric of his shirt quickly retrieving a slender obsidian dagger. Chuckling to himself he lets a wry
grin part his onyx lips. With a light snap of his wrist the hybrid sends the assasin blade soaring through the air. The holes
punched into the dark ore let out an eery whistling whine that echoes accrossed the cavern. Black flames emanate from its
obsidian tip quickly enveloping it entire flame as it targets the drows beating heart with its enchantment.
Barvalone shifts into a melee stance, watching the ring of flames erupt in a burning light -- which causes the Drow to
wince painfully -- that rips through one of his lesser spells with slight ease. Muttering a few words to make a drunken Dwarf
proud, the white-haired elf begins to flex his fingers in intricate designs, summoning the natural magics from his surroundings,
reciting the words from the photographic memory which only a wizard could possibly assume, or an elf. Nearing the end of his
spell, rings of flame spark up from the emptiness of the cave, ringing his thin wrists in a spinning fashion. Unfortunately,
he never comes to the finale of the flame-spell, snapping from a deep concentration upon hearing the low whine of sharply
cut air. Moving with honed reflex and pure instinct, Barvalone shifts his weight back on one leg, bringing the opposite swinging
around in a roundhouse kick that crashes into Narsis' flaming projectile, its heat searing through the thin, magical boots
on Barvalone's feet. Still, through the pain, he brings the blade off course, sending it rebounding off of the cavern floor.
As his foot comes full circle, the nimble elf plants it and goes into a few balanced back flips, bringing him, inevitably,
up back-to-front with Narsis. Bypassing the lengthiness of spellcasting, relying upon the fast-paced energy of the melee arts,
he leaps up and brings a booted foot curving around for Narsis' jaw. As any Drow, Barvalone hardly plays fair. There is a
silver glint before a globe of impenetrable darkness falls over the two duelists. Inside the ball of ebony, the spellsword
brings a slender stiletto to bear, heaving it with perfection at Narsis' smooth, black throat.
Narsis drops down into a kneeling position just as the globe of darkness envelopes them both the fiery inferno of his flames
stil flickering outward in a wide ring around himself. The flame covered Narsis chuckles to himself realising the futility
of the others attack. Chuckling to himself he rubs his hands together gleefully. Hearing the crunch of the others boots upon
the rocky surface right in front of him. The air whistles a few feet above his head where the long blade cut through the air
where he had been just moments before. Closing his eyes in deep concentration from many years of being locked in battles the
half demon drow vampire grins a large canine filled smile. Thin fingers reach in and produce two more dagers. Quickly he retaliates
sending his fiery blaze heading straight for the drow. While th flames shoot upward towards Barvalones face Dual daggers slam
downward point first intending to pin the wizards foot toe the hard rock filled ground.
Barvalone lands lightly upon the floor in pure darkness, his skin tingling against the forceful inferno he knows is somewhere
near. His senses tune fully, focusing all around in the dark matter. At the last moment, he leaps aside in a twisting roll
that brings him beyond the lick of Narsis' deadly servant flames. Still, he feels the blisters well up upon the side of his
dark, once unmarred profile. Gnashing his teeth through the pain ofr heat, Barvalone leaps forward, sensing his enemy. The
clang of metal on stone sounds where he once stood, but the Drow ignores the sound, focusing on the present. He lands, cat-like,
poised for a deadly strike with the magic that begins to grow at his fingertips. With a screamed word, the globe of darkness
dispells, leaving Narsis and Barvalone face to angular face, they dark skin seeming connected by the ebony backdrop of this
large cavern. The weapons master rises up like a serpent, rearing his ensorcelled appendages back for the strike. In a multi-hued
flurry, his motions quickened to mere blurs by a silent spell of haste, Barvalone lashes at Narsis with a devestating combination.
His right arm comes around in a clean haymaker, powerful enough to shatter steel, while he whips his snowy mane around to
block his foe's view from that side. With the hair in place as a beautiful, flowing distraction, he swiftly raises his foot
in a snap kick, easily powerful enough to snap Narsis' head back in a spine-shattering finisher.
Narsis lets out a howl of rage to end all howls. It echoes and screams throughout the entire length of the cavern. Not understanding
whats truly going on his opponents arms movins so fast that not even his eyes or reflexes can stop it as the Drows fist slams
into his jaw. Saliva and a loud cracking sound soon follows. Expertly the man blocks Narsis's line of sight. Already off balance
the drow soon feels another wave of pain as the vicious kick catches him square in the chest. The undead warrior struggles
to rise but somehow his strength fails him. Somehow he finds enough strength to at least sit up and look at the one who had
beaten him. Bowing his head he recognises one mightier than he.
Barvalone versus Redhale
Barvalone rises from his chair like a storm, tossing away chair and table. His hand go up, each gripping some clandestine
component for a spell. Spinning quickly, allowing a trail of silver dust to trail from one hand, the spellsword encloses himself
in a circle of powder. As the cricle closes, he drops to his knees and tosses the other item into the air overhead. A dozen
small crystals rain down from on high, clattering to the floor outside of the metallic circle. Sickly sweet and dark, the
inflections of the drow pour from Barvalone\'s lips like a river. One by one the crystals begin to glow, burning inside with
a myriad of hues that grow in intensity with each forthcoming word. The silvery dust levitates from the floor about the battlemage,
collecting upon his snowy lengths and his ebon skin, caking into a glowing carapace. The polychromatic crystals do the same,
but each one warps and shifts to suit the body of the elf, creating a rocky and colorful exoskeleton. Rising to his feet,
a colorful golem in the midst of the tavern, he strikes out with one crystallized arm, which stretches and shifts into a deadly
projectile, one with the force to shatter tone. One with the force to crush Redhale.
Redhale stands confident, the grey in his eyes storming to an ill black. A small shroud begins to surround him, starting first
at a cream colour which slowly swirls through magenta to a dark crimson. He concentrates on the glistening crystal projectile,
brow furrowed. Slowly a form begins to materialize infront of him. Before it fully shapes itself the projectile rips through
it, only slowing slightly. Finding his plan not working his eyes cover completely in black as the shroud grows bigger, completely
engulfing him, now the shade of blood red. The crystal enters it but no sound comeout. Instead a small burning flame flies
out the other side. The shroud dissapears showing Redhale standing a few feet left from where he previously was. His hands
come together and another flame, this time larger, kindles in them. He then throws his own projectile at Barvalone, and while
doing so continuously moves left, side facing his enemy, making a harder target to hit.
Barvalone moves with seasoned agility and strength, mentally willing the crystal armor to work with him. Forearm first,
Barvalone lunges forward, the flaming projectile exploding against his magically armored form without so much as a scorch
mark. Even with his movements stilted, the accomplished battlemage turns and lunges again, following as swiftly as the heavy
crystal allows in Redhale's strafing footsteps. Barvalone stops, giving up on the tiresome chase, settling on a new course
of action. Light gleams off the multi-facets of his armor with every slight movement, reflecting an assortment of colors and
light intensities, but they all begin to change, contorting to the will of their summoner. Blue crysal-light melds with gold,
and red with yellow, and so one until the entirety is no more than a jumble of colors. The light contorts, breaking away into
a sphere at the tip of Barvalone's crystalline digits. The drow cocks back his arm and sends the orb spinning, moving with
the speed of light and more as it burns chairs and tables in pursuit of Redhale.
Redhale shields his eyes, at first blinded by the dazzling rainbow light. He soon realizes the danger he is in and, without
hesitation, bounds to the left again. He is shocked to find the sphere move with him. He tries again, several times, each
with the same result. As the sphere draws closer Redhale seems helpless against this strange weapon. He slowly gets backed
into a corner, trembling. Suddenly his eyes light up. He takes out his dagger and cuts off his left pinky finger up to the
first knuckle. Blood flows freely from the wound, dripping in dark splashes to the floor. He winces in pain as he throws his
finger at the ball. He watches in fear as the end of his digit it burnt up by the ball of energy then exhales in relief as
the sphere shrinks away having hit at least part of its target. His attention the draws back to his enemy. Blade still drawn
he runs towards Barvalone, large drops of deep red blood trailing behind him. As he charges he yells loudly "ITE! BESTIA!"
and his dagger grows longer to the point where it is a short sword. He draws nearer his enemy, crimson trail still following
behind him and raises his now-sword. Another yell, this one unrecogniseable, emits from his open mouth and he swings the sword
back down and scrapes it along the wooden ground, bringing it up as he reches his target in a quick, swift movement.
Barvalone frowns as his spell begins to wear off, his dual carapaces beginning to soften with each passing second, but
the rigidity of his own movements remains. He hardly has the force to move away from Redhale's arching blow, but manages to
lean back enough. The sword tip sweeps upward, carving through the weakened armors, and cutting a long, vertical gash into
Barvalone's torso. Split by the blow, the enscorcelled shielding explodes into motes of useless crystal, making Barvalone's
impact with the floor that much harder. His hands go to his abdomen, and he smirks, noting that his smithied armor held and
took much of the blow. With the knowledge of the attack be much less brutal, Barvalone easily find his feet again and begins
another casting. This time, the theatrics are useless, and he leaps back, hair trailing over his angular facial features and
muffling the canticle. A few rose buds in his outstretched hand bloom rapidly, their red petals going a deep crimson, then
a smoldering black. From the battlemage's palm shoots forth a ball of roaring black flames, each spire licking out for Redhale's
flesh.
Redhale concentrates again, as he did on the crystal projectile. His eyes now simply pools of darkness. He sheaths his sword
that turns back to a dagger. Raising both his hands infront of him he mutters a few words, blood still dripping from his finger,
though now it seems black, "You are good, I grant you that." He chuckles softly, the corners of his mouth curved upwards slightly
in a fiendish grin. He then closes his eyes and the shroud begins to surround him again, though much closer to him, almost
a smoke like aura drifting around him like a second skin. Suddenly a ball of water appears infront of Barvalone's flame. At
first it looks almost fake, then it solidifies. Suspended in mid air it is hit by the bolt of fire. The fire is put out, but
the water immediately boils, scolding Redhales face and hands. Yelling from the pain but still concentrating hard he turns
to face his enemy. "You said you would kill all elves, let me give you some more to worry about." Shadowy forms begin to surround
him, slowing forming a humanoid shape then becoming exact copies of Redhale. They each leap in different directions then dissapear,
leaving only one. Redhale stands directly infront of Barvalone, his dagger raised high. He whispers something under his breath
as his stabs the dagger downwards with both hands, using all his might.
Barvalone leaps back as a burst of scolding steam issues from the illusionist's conjured ball. The drow growls and unsheathes
his ruby blade, stalking forth with fires alight within his deep red pools. His expression shifts from animosity to confusion
as the multitude of Redhales begin to leap about. Each shadow that passes, Barvalone slices, turning it into nothingness,
revealing the illusion, but not subjugating the danger. Round and round, the battlemage spins, always on the defense from
nothingness. Sensing another strike, he spins about on the ball of one foot, bending his other leg slightly and snapping it
out again mid-turn for more force. With a dagger-and-foot combo, the battlemage dispelled another phantom, only to catch a
sharp, agonizing bite in his shoulder. A gout shot from the wound, and rivers of red boiled forth as he tore off the blade,
falling foward into a roll and a twist that squared him with Redhale once more.
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