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Lyra versus Hemlock
Death Duel
Lyra tosses her head, her stride an arrogant swagger as the vampiress makes her way to a place in the middle of the chamber.
Her lithe form trembles in obvious anticipation of the battle to commence, and her delicate fingers close around the Forsaken
staff. The woman shifts her weight from one foot to the other as she calmly surveys Hemlock, dark eyes gleaming with thinly
veiled bloodlust and hunger. Quickly, the vampiress disengages one hand from the staff, dropping it into one of her pockets
and retrieving a handful of particles that glow with a blinding illumination, and with practiced skill she places the powder
in a circular ward of protection around herself, meant to shelter her from any sort of harm or falling objects. Only then
does her attention turn upon Hemlock, and the woman’s head bows ever so slightly as her eyes become hidden behind pale
lids. The slight humming that echoes throughout the large chamber intensifies as Lyra begins to whisper words in a harsh,
arcane tongue forgotten by many, and the aura of evil and deception escalates considerably. Runes dance and writhe about the
edge of the circle, intertwining like a magicked fence to form lengthy strands of power that at first appear as transparent
as a spider’s web. Lyra’s thin form sways gently, her mind locked within the intricacies of the spell she weaves
so beautifully, and with a loud ‘snap’ her head lifts and the tendrils shoot toward Hemlock like spider webs,
wrapping all about the room and around the drow, attacking both body and mind. A terrible web of pain is what they attempt
to create, bringing, IF it should touch him, physical agony and the greatest mental attack on any warrior—doubt. Not
weakness or shame does she intend to inflict, but self-doubt as the strange magic attempts to physically eat through the drow
like acid…
Hemlock withdraws into a defensive stance at the first sign of Lyra’s initial movement, his jagged blade coming up
in an outstretched parry as if ready to deflect any oncoming swipe. Under the steel frame of his faintly glowing weapon, the
dark elf stares warily at his foe, deep-set crimson eyes narrowing upon the spectacle of unraveling majiks. Unwaveringly confident
in his own abilities, he allows the vampiress all the time she wants in completing her little ceremony, his vantage and poise
still conveying an unaffected disposition of calm. As the intensity of Lyra’s exertion stacks, so does the brilliance
of Hemlock’s crudely fashioned sword, its ‘aura’ expanding into a deep haze of cerulean luminescence. The
sudden onslaught of the magical webs is of little surprise to the assassin, his sandaled feet already shifting into the appropriate
stance as the weave their way around him. With a lucid twirl on his feet, he brings his vivid brand into the nearest of the
virulent streaks, cutting off its life-force and pursuing in his current trajectory to halt and devastate several more. Leaping
and twisting about in the acrobatic manner of a dancer, the drow capitalizes on his innate agility as he fends off what appears
to be a good majority of the tendrils. However, unable to keep a pace like unto Lyra’s zealous conjurations, he finds
himself caught unawares, and thrown forward as one of the whip-like concentrations of energy slap him furiously on the back.
Near blinded and severely winded from the preternatural impact, Hemlock stumbles forward weakly, only to bring the mass of
his weapon crashing downward, point first, into the onyx floor of the chamber. Shockingly enough, the not-so-simple steel
crashes through, burying itself to the halfway point before exploding into a myriad of colors. The remaining of Lyra’s
mighty are finally vanquished, fading into oblivion as a greatly addled drow leans weakly upon the pommel of his sword. Undefeated,
however, the dark elf focus intently on the magiks instilled within his blade, willing them into a straight channel of unadulterated
fury. The embedded blade once more erupts with another starburst of light, concealing the vibrant image of the land bound
streak of energy that runs with utmost celerity at its appointed vampiric foe. Heating the room to almost unbearable temperatures
in that instant, the broad line of energy covers its pace in almost no time at all, baring all its magical intensity against
Lyra in the moment before it impacts her entire lower body.
Lyra watches carefully as her magics swirls around Hemlock, her dark eyes narrowing to slits. Every muscle and fiber in the
mage’s body tenses quite a bit as her gaze follows the crudely crafted blade of Hemlock. The circle of power, Lyra’s
only protection against anything Hemlock should throw at her, flickers and dances as its source of power swerves and veers
in search of the opposing force. Sweat drips down the vampiress’ pale visage as the temperature skyrockets, giving Lyra
the impression that she is, indeed, in Hell. Hell…the thought of the dreaded place washes over her, bringing with it
memories of the Fallen Gods and another Lyra fought, probably the greatest she ever opposed…and Solaris. Visions of
the two plague her for only a moment, bug long enough to distract her from her spell casting. The vibrant line of energy smashes
into the circle, the impact sending shards of magic outward toward Hemlock and any onlookers present. Lyra herself is thrown
backwards into a wall, the force slamming her brutally against the stone. Languidly she lies there, too dazed even to fall,
the pain coursing through her nearly unbearable even for a vampire. She blinks once, twice, three times, before opening her
eyes completely. The once completely onyx orbs are now rimmed with blood, and her lips part, bringing forth a faint, hissing
sound. Her eyes close again, and her prone form lies quite still against the wall. The woman exhales, emitting, surprisingly,
a swirl of bluish-gray smoke. This swirling fog quickly expands, penetrating the unbearable heat quickly and completely. Again
she breathes, pushing outward more of the magic secured from her latest sired childe, who happens to be present. Between the
two duelists the mass condenses, forming no mere fog but a semi-solid wall of frozen liquid. With its power amplified by the
darkness of the room and fed by Lyra’s own pain from the impact of Hemlock’s attack, the very air freezes in the
wake of this newfound disaster. Suddenly, it splits! Part of it sinks down into the cracked onyx floor, forming a thick layer
of ice that would make the way toward Lyra deathly treacherous, while the other solidifies completely and falls down upon
his head, thousands of serrated shards falling toward Hemlock’s body in an eerie formation.
Hemlock issues an angered growl as he forcefully pushes off the hilt of his floored weapon. Regaining purchase over the
sleek, stone floor, the drow sets his pernicious gaze upon Lyra once again, taking in the sight of her with subtle bemusement.
The smoke-like miasma that seeps from her mouth and fills the room makes him to shudder uneasily, his expression creasing
into a frown as it comes to hover ominously above him. Knowing himself to be impotent against this sort of assault, the dark
elf places one hand securely over the handle of his crossbow while slipping the other discreetly under his piwafwi. As the
gaseous collection undergoes its predictable chemical transition, the crystalline shards of ice falling in bellicose patterns
above him, Hemlock lets out a jarring cry before suddenly vanishing from his place. Only a split second afterward to the piercing
icicles crash and shatter to the floor. With little interval, the assassin appears before Lyra, throwing across the room a
small, ordinary looking stone. The dark elf’s expression is not without severe anguish, a blood-soaked shard of icy
substance jutting painfully out of his shoulder and drawing forth a subsiding fount of blood. Having foregone the obstacle
of Lyra’s barrier, Hemlock takes a clean aim at her prone form and pulls back the trigger, releasing from the device’s
mechanism a poison-dripping bolt which darts immediately upon her. In bold follow-up, despite the pain in his shoulder, he
draws his twin daggers and streaks forward at his opponent’s vulnerable form, bringing them downward to penetrate both
corners of her torso.
Lyra watches the ongoing battle through a crimson haze, growling softly to herself as the majority of her icicles miss their
mark. Stiffly and painfully, she disentangles herself from the wall, leaning heavily upon the dreaded staff of Valzain as
the woman attempts to regain some of her stamina. Blinking the blood from her eyes, it is only by complete accident that the
Fallen Angel notices the stone flying toward her, its multi-faceted surface glittering brightly against the pulsating staff
clutched within the lady vampire’s hand. Her other arm extends, and with little more than a thought, a net of magic
draws the stone into her hand. With a casual, dismissive gesture she drops it, unnoticing of the poisoned bolt until the ‘clunk’
of the rock smashing it to bits is heard. Both the broken stone and projectile sink to the floor, and Lyra slowly stares around
once more. The complete darkness obscures Hemlock’s form from her view until it is nearly too late to defend against
him, and one of the daggers slides beneath her breastplate and into her body. She shrieks, a sound horrible and terrifying
to hear, and falls backwards against the wall, hitting it and falling at just an angle as to miss the second dagger. The blade
slams into her staff, sending small shards of metal outward toward its wielder and then shattering against the powerful magic.
Lyra pushes herself with one arm, forcing herself away from Hemlock with one arm and keeping the staff pointed at him with
the other. From the newly created fissure within the weapon’s inscribed surface, a greenish-gray light flickers and
dances across the walls. The infamous, soul-stealing power contained once within the staff is not unleashed in a furious onslaught
toward Hemlock, rising from the staff like smoke from a blaze. Bringing with it newfound heat and blinding light, the raw
power attempts to drain the essence of the drow from his body and into the vessel of power Lyra now holds.
Hemlock grunts windedly as the small, metallic shards of his dagger backfire noisily and sink into several various points
of his anatomy. The dark elf’s mouth drops open in a coughing regurgitation of blood, his frame lurching forward weakly
while consequently bringing the remaining blade deeper into Lyra’s shoulder. Laughing manically, he glances dartingly
about at the deathly glow that seeps into him, almost immediately feeling its effects; a sinking in the pit of his stomach
and a seeming loss of all his blood. In the fleeting moments that ensue, Hemlock capitalizes on a sudden burst of adrenaline
by yanking his dagger downward in its macabre sheathe, hoping to rip his vampiric foe asunder before she can continue her
assault. His empty hand goes to uncover a small knife from his belt, and he thrusts it violently into Lyra’s exposed
side, hoping for a mortal wound. With the inherent magical abilities of the drow kind, his feet begin to slowly lift from
the floor, carrying with them, on the point of a dagger, Lyra’s weakened form. However, as the green light more fully
penetrates every inch of his body, the dark elf loses his consciousness, falling from a considerable height and taking the
vampiress down with him.
Lyra hangs limply in midair, her head lolling from side to side. Her breathing comes in harsh, ragged gasps that strain her
impaled form with each movement, yet the hand tenaciously clutching the staff refuses to relinquish the artifact. Waves of
pain swarm over the vampiress like waves over sand, dulling whatever sense the woman has left and bringing into her wounded
mind thoughts left best forgotten. Her eyes slowly open, and she slowly lifts her head and fixates her burning gaze upon the
drow. She stares coldly at Hemlock, unable to move yet perfectly capable of glaring. Blood streams from her body in a river,
soaking the ground below in sanguine vitae and filling the vast darkened chamber with a stench that would appeal to none but
another vampire. She shifts instinctively, attempting to free herself from the impaled dagger, and in doing so spares herself
the brunt of Hemlock’s smaller knife. It slices easily through the pale flesh of her side, leaving a vicious incision
and sending more blood spilling forth, but not enough to mortally wound her. The fall, however, that she fails to notice in
her delirum of pain, just might be, and only by forcing Hemlock beneath her does she save herself impact upon the hard floor.
The collision, while not harming her directly, does send the dagger that held her aloft further into her body, and the vampiress
whimpers in pain. Slowly and painfully she pulls herself free from the dagger, not bothering in an attempt to stand but, rather,
one to free her from the filthy body of her opponent. She crawls away from him, across the blood-saturated floor, and sits
down. Blood streams down her face, through her hair, leaving her once beautiful form in ruins. Dark hair remains plastered
to her strangely expressionless visage, and she glances up at the judges, waiting silently. Her small form gives one last
involuntary shudder of pain in the process.
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.
Braxius versus Hemlock
Braxius nodded to his pet imp, Disease as he studied his opponent. With a scowl on his face and the light reflecting deep
purples and blues off his scales, Braxius began to concentrate. He drew himself up to his full twelve foot height as he spread
his arms parallel to the earth. Disease flittered about Him momentarily before heading up to the roof of the tavern to watch.
The skies grew pitch black as power surged about the draconian, his hellfire red eyes blazing like two rubies against his
black visage. The earth trembled and cracked all about the Way. Moans erupted from the nearby graveyard as the dead stured
from their slumber. Lightning arched across the sky, illuminating the battlefield and revealing the bones that moved in the
earth. Braxius dropped his arms and took a fighting stance as skeletons pulled themselves free of the ground. Legions of the
undead crowded about the living and moaned, looking at their master for direction. Casually Braxius lifted his hand and pointed
at Hemlock, “Kill the Drow” he hissed as he stepped back, his scales shifting and changing color to match the
surrounding terrain. The skeletons lurched forward, spilling into the area and moved towards Hemlock. Up above the Way, a
roar erupted as the Dracolich took flight. It wheeled in the air above them, then tilted its head back and belched forth white
hot fire onto the group.
Hemlock grins perniciously, red eyes narrowing into slits as he surveys his draconian foe with an expression of utter contempt.
The drow’s ebon hand slides down at his side, closing five spidery digits about the hilt of his jagged sword and drawing
it out. The blade lets out an ominous hiss as it slides against the interior of its scabbard, the personified cry continuing
into a whistle as the nimble blade flits hither and thither in a test of balance. As the innumerable undead begin to pour
forth from the earth, Hemlock meets their lifeless stares with his own defiant gaze, not showing so much as a flinch as their
worm-food limbs litter the road with decaying flesh. The assassin darts forward with imperceptible speed, his precise blade
jutting out violently at the foremost of the deathly minions. The skeleton comes crumbling to the earth in a heap, sounding
one last preternatural screech before rejoining the rabble of the underworld. A myriad of scratching sounds fill the road
as Hemlock bolts all through the shambling masses, his glinting blade catching light with every fell swipe. The not-so-living
conjurations of Braxius are cut down with no more than series of grunts that come spitting off his dark lips. As the last
of his many assailants are slain, the drow turns his head to the oncoming rush of fire, swiftly pulling his shield up to catch
the brunt of it. He is carried violently off of his feet as the flames slam against him, sent rolling and sprawling over the
ground with minor burns sustained. With a quick kick of his feet, the assassin regains his foothold, tossing his blade aside
carelessly and drawing forth two finely crafted daggers. These elegant blades he crosses over his chest with a flourish, smiling
upward as he bends his knees and takes artificial flight. The drow darts upward in trajectory for Braxius, his outline slightly
blurring as he exceeds the boundaries of light speed. Upon entering the proximity of his winged foe, Hemlock throws himself
into the draconian, cutting his companion weapons in a wide ‘X’ shape that threatens to not only tear open the
abdomen of his mark, but also shred his scaled throat.
Braxius laughs heartily as he attacks, opening his arms wide and embracing the death that the assassin brings. But instead
the drow is rebuffed by a hidden barrier, his blades cascading sparks into the dark skies. Folding his wings and dropping
like a rock, Braxius lands with and audible thud among the mass of bones littering the Way. Looking up at Hemlock he smirks,
baring his razor teeth in the process. A void opens before him as he mutters and ancient language known only by the dragon-kin.
The air begins to stir and pick up, soon it is a whirling cyclone, with the two combatants at the center. The skulls at Braxius’
side clatter and fall loose from his sash belt, snatched up by the wind. They glow white as they circle in the air, then Braxius
gives a shout, his wirds drowned out by the wind, and hundreds of thousands of spiked chains shoot forth from the void. They
wrap about the skulls, taking on human forms, their weight causing them to fall from the cyclones grasp. Hook Horrors, each
and every one. Several more of the chains flow with the wind, lashing out at the drow to wrench and pulverize his flesh. Be
low the hook horrors watch with eyeless sight, then they too throw their chains up at Hemlock. Braxius laughs again as his
minions do his bidding, and he concentrates his powers once more on the next spell in his arsenal, caring not if the chains
succeed in tearing the assassin apart.
Hemlock tenses the muscles of his legs as he lands back from impact with Braxius' unforeseen barrier, both booted feet
thudding soundlessly against the ground. He shifts his gaze from side to side and watches with delight as the newly formed
chains howl amidst the maelstrom, their silvery lengths reflecting all light in the dusky sky. While the spidery currents
of metal latch on to the many glowing skulls, the drow holds up his twin knives, bending his elbows outward in a mantis-like
stance. He surges forward at the myriad of lanky, formless creatures, swinging his daggers aimlessly as he rushes through
their core. The weapons resound with high-pitched clangs and rattling scrapes as they cut through a mass of Braxius’
horrific beasts; sparks dancing playfully off the fray. A frayed chain lashes out at the assassin’s knee and sends him
tripping forward, yet he recovers with a deft twirl that sends him bouncing off of the floor and back to his feet. In a few
more moments, as lightning seems to sparkle through the road, Hemlock manages to cut down the last of the monstrosities, both
those with bodies and those seemingly disconnected from any form of life. He tosses his dual blades aside, their edges having
been scratches and torn into ineffectuality. A limp in his step, the assassin pulls from his cloak a crude looking blowpipe,
its length covered in notches from victims past. He quickly loads the device with three poison-tipped darts, each smaller
than the last, and covered in aerodynamic perks. The assassin pulls the weapon to his lips and aims precisely, blowing hard
against the projectiles and watching happily as they whistle out, each heading for some crucial point upon Braxius. The darts
give off a faint glow as they sing through the air, and a certain magical hum hints that perhaps these flying sticks of poison
may have more intelligence than would first be expected.
Braxius hardly notices the darts as they find nicks in his scales in which to burry themselves. His skin begins to shift colors
again as his camouflage ability kicks in again, causing him to vanish once more. The cyclone abruptly stops and silence fills
the air. Braxius is nowhere to be seen, but his prescence could be felt. Suddenly the silence is broken by a whisle. Disease
perks up from his resting place and flies into the air, a malicious grin upon his face. He lands a few feet before Hemlock
and hisses at him. A green gas immits grom his skin as he crouches there, smiling up at the drow. The mist grows larger by
the second as it spreads about the Way, curling about peoples feet and filling holes. Rats begin to pour into the road squeaking
in terror, then trippin over their own feet, they fall and begins to spasm. Several people in the gathered crowd begin to
cough and hack up blood before toppling to the earth. Screams of fright and pain fill the air as the realization dawned, it
was a disease, one that made the plague look like the chicken pocks. Those that were nearest to the imp succumbed first. They
writhed in agony as boils and welts appeared on their skin, only to burst and ooze with black puss. The mist was all about
Hemlock and it seeked to kill him. As he watched those that died did not stay dead. As the flesh on their bones quickly rotted,
and turned green, they rose up, attacking the living, spreading the disease even more. Several advanced on the assassin, but
paused. Braxius appeared behind him, a long four foot dagger raised high in the air and poised to strike down. As he began
to slash, he staggered slightly and the blow went wide. Braxius finnaly noticed the darts and glared at the drow with hatred,
“Death cannot stop me” he hissed as he fell to one knee.
Hemlock reels around in confusion, the green pox wafting about his legs with an ominous slowness. The drow’s crimson
orbs narrow angrily as he spots the source of distress, the incorrigible little imp, Disease, Braxius’ lackey. He swings
out his foot in a well-worked, spinning kick, his booted foot knocking the little demon across the room in a heap. The surrounding
chaos only heightens the sense of panic that overcomes him as the gaseous matter seeps up into his nostrils. He begins to
stagger slightly, the toxins quickly penetrating his blood vessels and carrying the plague deep. As desperation latches onto
his every thought, the drow takes initiative and kicks out at his opponent’s chest, hoping to heave him backwards from
where he kneels. Immediately afterward, he bends his knees and rises, spinning, into the sky, both hands hanging limply at
his side. Free from the mass of poison that creeps around the surface below, the drow extends a trembling finger over Braxius.
From his ebon digit, a current of high-density energy comes spraying forth, searing the very atmosphere as it claws its way
down to the dracolich. The air is filled with a scent of burning flesh, and the bellicose mass of energy widens as it descends,
threatening to swallow its mark in its electrical maw. Drained from the exertion of all his energy, Hemlock falls out of the
sky and hit’s the ground with an audible crash.
Braxius lets out a roar of pain as the blast hits him, consuming his flesh. He casts about wild eyed for help of some sort,
but finds none. As the fire and electricity burns through his scales and eat at his heart he lets out a final roar of defiance
and activates his last spell, then crumbles to the ground, nothing more then charred bones. The wind sweeps over the Way,
carrying away the mist. Disease moves his shattered form over to his master and collapses one last time on his corpse. All
is still and quiet, but then a dark light enlopes Braxius’ body. His bones move and he rises to his feet. Muscle and
scales restitch themselves as new internal organs grow. Seconds pass and the draconian stands there, fully healed. He scoops
up his faithfull pet and blows on him. The same dark light circles about him and he too came back to life. Hellfire red eyes
glowing Braxius looks about at all the death and devastation, a smirk on his lips.
Hemlock versus Blackabyss
Hemlock eyes Blackabyss warily from his vantage on the road, a sinister smile tugging at the tiers of his mouth and spreading
his lips over opalescent teeth. He moves one hand upward to smugly brush back a few misplaced strands of snowy hair, his feet
carrying him toward his opponent with a deliberate slowness. In an instant, the assassin draws forth his cunning blade, the
steel edges hissing icily as they slide out of the scabbard. Hemlock continues his tauntingly slowly gait towards Blackabyss,
the weapon twirling and spinning about in his hand as he nears his foe. Suddenly, the assassin’s stoic disposition is
shattered as he breaks into a full run, his weapon rising mechanically over his head in preparation for a massive plummet.
However, the dark elf leaves his footing sooner than expected, leaping into the air and pistoning his booted feet at the chest
of his adversary. Upon the moment of potential impact, he pushes his weight forward, attempting to bend Blackabyss under himself
before swinging down with a merciless sword-swipe to the face.
Blackabyss Stands firmly in place feet planted in place as he looks the drow up and down slowly. After studying his opponent
he watches the man pull a jagged-edged sword from a scabbard on his hip, he smiles wide from under his crimson hood only the
gleam of his fangs visible in the night sky along the road side. Black Abyss watches the elf twirl his sword around like a
fey dancer trying the mock the vampire as he walks tauntingly towards him the vampires chuckles softly. As the drow begins
to run towards the vampire a quick thought runs through Black Abyss’s mind and he lets out a low hiss as he pulls his
dragon tooth saber from its resting place on his hip as the drop leaps into the air aiming his feet for the vampire’s
chest. Black Abyss lets out a loud yell as Hemlock’s feet get within inches of his chest quickly turning into a swarm
of bats causing Hemlock to miss and pass through his new form. The bats quickly swirl around the drow coming up from behind
forming a black shadow behind Hemlock as a blade jets out from the shadow aimed for a small opening in the drow’s armor
trying to hit a soft spot.
Hemlock laughs maniacally as his foe disappears into thin air, the blade’s swipe carrying through past several of
the winged rodents. A few bats fall to the ground in messy splatters of blood, and the drow lands soundlessly to his feet
just before propelling himself upward again. He twirls about midair, his jagged sword following his motion and cutting through
another bunch of the vampiric critters. When they have lumped together to form some sort of shadow-effect, Hemlock lands on
his feet again and backs up a bit, hurling his weapon into the core of the shadowy mass. He leaps nimbly out from the course
of Blackabyss’s own blade, sustaining only a minor slash to the leg. As he rolls once more to his feet, two drawn daggers
are let loose from his own hands, each coursing rapidly towards precise points within the dusky cloud.
Blackabyss Feels a sword pierce him in the chest as he reforms letting out a blood curdling scream. Black Abyss falls to one
knee as he feels the sting of two more blades pierce his skin as one hits his shoulder and another his lower left ribs. “You…Are..Very
resourceful drow.” Black Abyss begins to tug at the jagged sword in his chest ripping it clean blood begins to pour
like a river down the front of his black spiked full plate. Blood begins to drip from the corners of the vampire’s mouth
causing him to smile grimly. “Mmmm.. It has been awhile since I have tasted my own blood, maybe I should repay you for
the treat.” Black Abyss begins to tug at one of the daggers pulling it from his ribs as the wound in his chest begins
to heal as does the minor wound on his lower ribs, he then reaches up to his shoulder and pulls the second dagger clean taking
them both in hand, he lifts himself back up on his feet and stares at the drow his eyes beginning to glow crimson under his
hood he licks one of the daggers. Black Abyss then stares down his opponent as he begins to charge towards the drow he pulls
his dragon tooth saber up from the right trying to slash him across the chest leaping into the air, he begins to flip over
him in a blur of speed letting lose both the daggers from his hand aiming for the elf’s back. “I believe these
are yours!”
Hemlock roars with laughter as Blackabyss charges forward, bending his elbows and holding out both arms in a voracious
manner. The drow licks his lips, red eyes narrowing to accompany his sadistic smile. As the Death Knight’s saber slices
across his chest, he rushes forward brashly, both hands clutching at the attacker’s shoulders. Blood sprays out from
the wound, ignored by the drow as he uses Blackabyss’s body for leverage. He swings around the vampire and kicks him
in the square of the back, easily avoiding the daggers that have been thrown from one hand.
Blackabyss flies forward as he is kicked in the back he slides across the dirt getting slightly pissed. He stands up and looks
over at the sign picking it up deciding to make it into a good beating weapon. “Hey hemlock I got something for you.”
Black Abyss charges towards the drow bringing the sign up over his head swinging it down towards the drow trying to imprint
“Imadumbarse” on his forehead, he then quickly spins around bringing the sign around from behind chucking it at
his head as he pulls another sword out from under his cloak as he lungs towards hemlock as he begins another assault on the
elf aiming for the heart this time as he jabs quickly and precisely avoiding the drow’s reach, not about to let his
attack be turned against him again.
Hemlock gets stabbed, hit on the head, lunged at, stabbed again, and falls down…and stuff.
Hemlock versus Deavanor
Hemlock begins to encircle the fountain, crimson eyes slowly assessing Deavanor with predatory astuteness. The drow's weapon
rises sleekly from its scabbard, the jagged blade issuing a soft hiss as it slides against the metallic interior of its previous
confinement. With a sneering bout of laughter, the assassin leaps into the air and lands into the macabre fountain, painting
himself in the sanguine liquid. He bounds out once more, this time ascending over his draconic foe; trailed by a spray of
blood that shimmers from his blurring outline. A loud swish resounds as Hemlock swings his brand into Deavanor's chest, an
emphatic grunt escaping his lips. The drow rolls forward in a continuation of the initial passado, twirling about on the floor
and slicing his grim blade into the back of his foe's knees. As he leaps back to his feet again, he propells himself backwards
in a mighty volt, a simplistic channel of forceful energy secreting from his hand in a torrent that threatens to plough through
Deavanor. The straight current seems to upset the many cobblestones as it passes speedily over them, rattling each in its
place.
Deavanor Opens his azure eyes while looking to Hemlock as he galiantly slashes toward his exposed chest. He leans himself
backwards just in time to dodge the first vicious attack. He sees the blade shimmering in the sunlight, Speeding towards his
scaley legs. Having no time to move the mighty steel crushes its way into his legs going to his bone. He quickly launches
himself into the air stretching his wings wide in an vital attempt to avoid being hit by the large blast of energy. He soars
over his foe, and stretches his large palm out towars him. As you watch, you se a small black ball of dark matter forming
in the center of his crimson palm. Lightning sparks about it as he vaults it towards his foe. He the swoops down with an ear
shattering screach, snapping his strong jaws at Hemlocks neck.
Hemlock closes his fingers into a fist as he lands soundlessly from his backwards jump, cutting off the flow of energy
that seared out from his ebon palm. He wipes away at his face with one hand, clearing the film of perspiration that shone
from his brow and forehead. The dark elf's eyes dart keenly upward, narrowing angrily upon the coalescing orb of Deavanor's
conjuration. He backs up some few steps and holds his weapon readily before him, the jagged blade slanting sideways in his
parrying grip. As the projectile enters proximity with his scimitar's reach, he swings the mighty weapon forward in a clublike
manner, colliding steel with magical energy at a fearsome velocity. The sphere of dark light explodes into a massive black
cloud, tossing Hemlock backwards with a careless force yet otherwise leaving him unharmed. The drow flips midair and lands
on the ground with an aerial grace, his booted feet sliding backwards somewhat as he grabs his purchase on the terrain. As
Deavanor comes plummetting toward him, the assassin rolls nimbly out of the way, his leg sliced open superficially as the
dragon's wing crashes by it. Hemlock leaps to his feet with a scowl, haphazardly tossing his signature weapon towards the
soaring creature's throat as blood begins falling in rivulets from the open wound. To further aid the accuracy of his cast,
the drow heaves himself into Deavanor's path with a celerity surpassing even his own flying weapon, hoping to halt the dragon
just long enough to wound him. He swings his shield furiously at his opponent's crocodilian snout.
Deavanor look swiftly over his shoulder only to see the ominous blade careening through the open sky towards his crimson back.
Suddenly he sees Hemlock vaulting through the air towarsd him with incredible speed, even as that of the eagles diving on
its prey. He quickly barrel rolls to the left to avoid being struck by the sharp jagged sword, taking the hit to the face
with agony as blood runs down his leg dripping to the ground. He quickly blasts seering fire in a frenzy at his seemingly
flying foe before collecting another ball of dark matter into his claws launching it with his weak hand as he uses the other
to swinging his large sharp claws at his opponents exposed neck.
Hemlock roars angrily, jetting forward to snatch his blade out of its course. The drow lands soundlessly on the stoney
floor, his weapon slicing lightly through the air as he crouches slightly. With tension mounting in his knees, the assassin
vaults off the ground once more, holding his shield out before him to block the oncoming rush of flame. The searing inferno
curves voraciously about the sides of his blockade, licking harmfully at his dark elvish flesh. Hemlock hisses in a mingling
of fury and pain, landing with a stumble that forces his grip to loosen. The tower shield collapses to the stones from his
hand, leaving him unprotected by the sphere of magic that darts towards him. The drow grips his weapon desperately in both
hands, aggressively cutting through the precarious orb before being hurled backwards from the ensuing eruption. Hemlock rolls
backwards briefly, recovering only after his clothes have suffered most of the damage from the scraping floor. As he commands
his footing on the ground, the assassin brings out a small packet from his sleeve, breaking it open and sprinkling its liquid
contents along the edge of his blade; poison. The actions that come next are almost undetectable, only signalled by the vision
of a night-colored blur that repeatedly crosses past Deavanor on either side. Hemlock's laced sword slices across the draconic
fiend in a rapid cadence, intending to create several small nicks of almost certain infection.
Deavanor is caught unaware as all he sees is a blurred figure galabanting before him. He rapidly throws himself backwards
toward the fountain of blood as he feels a sharp pain, almost instantly followed by an extreme nausea, causing him to nearly
fall from the sky. He focuses his ever weakening mind to center it all into a final blast to try and completelky evaporate
Hemlock in a vicious explosion of justice. He summons the blood from the fountain below into a floating orb in fromt of him.
"May the strength of many warriors be your final undoing" . He calls the souls he has stolen in the past into the massive
ball. As the souls are removed from the pit of hell itself, and they pour themselve into the orb, it begins to glow bright
purple, then cyan, and the the purest white, Even whiter than the lillies of the field. The energy sparks about as the screams
of the death can be heard resonating from the explosive ball of energys core. He then takes every ounce of his being that
still remains and throws his large draconic body onto the orb. The lightning that sparks about it seering even his scales.
It catapults toward his much weakened foe with speed and accuracy as deavanor falls to the ground landing on his injured leg,
barely conscious from the poison.
Hemlock is instantly ploughed through by the boulder of power, its massive form mangling his limbs intensely as it crashes
into him. The drow spins out from the trajectory of the ball, his eyes closed as he plummets limply to the ground. Blood flies
up from his body as he falls in time with Deavanor's attack, colliding forcefully against the stoney floor as the beastly
summon sets the entire area alight. Streamers of energy sparkle out from the mushroom explosion of the 'soul meteorite', many
of them lacerating the lifeless limbs of Hemlock as he lies weakly on the ground. As the inferno subsides, leaving only wreckage,
the assassin attemtps almost vainly to climb to his knees.
Hemlock versus Siolad
Hemlock digs the toe of his boot into the road‘s trodden dirt, his line of sight lowered as he braces his still frame
for combat. Methodically crossing both hands to either side of his belt, he reveals and unsheathes a pair of ornate daggers
from their leathery hilts, no more than a faint hiss given off as the weapons gain a comfortable position in the palms of
his ebon hands. The drow’s dismal eyes glance up to assess their opposition with a faint disposition of nonchalance,
his arms falling slackly at his waist. Suddenly, he streaks forward, both wielding appendages jetting downward behind him
as the cadence of nimble feet gently thud against the terrain. In a slight blur, Hemlock pistons himself into the air off
bended knee, descending shortly after for a destructive landing over Siolad. In an initial swing, a single dagger slices precariously
at the drow’s face, allowing swift passage of the second blow. Like speedy clockwork, the assassin’s ceremonial
blade underhandedly lunges for the midsection of it’s mark with an assumed precision. A swish sounds out as the primary
weapon slices back into Siolad’s other cheek.
Siolad clasps a strange cane tightly, a smirk quickly filling his face. When Hemlock takes flight, Siolad seems almost ready
for this crude attack, as he lifts his cane up for a moment, whispering some words quickly. Smoke starts to empty from the
robes Siolad wears, the smoke the color purple. The smoke surrounds Siolad as he pushes off with his right foot, letting his
body travel backwords swiftly. That would put Hemlock right in the middle of the strange smoke, possibly blind him from view.
Siolad lets his hand tighten around his cane, whispering something again. His words almost seem to bounce around the area,
getting louder and louder. In fact, his whispering becomes a more of a speech. Every second, the words seem to rebound off
the walls of the tavern, being contained in the area. To many's suprise, the words refuse to die, as more speaking is heard
from Siolad, his eyes closed. It is soon apperent in Siolad's attempt, a sound attack. In fact the people around the roads
words seem to echo as well, and the pitch gets high, and very quickly the sounds get unbearable. You notice small bits of
blood trickle down from Siolad's ear, and one must wonder what is happening to Hemlock.
Hemlock curses in frustration as he misses every single attack, a film of sweat forming over his brow from the exertion
of the vain swings and lunges. The drow leaps forward only to be surrounded utterly by the miasmic, purple smoke and robbed
of advantageous sight. In the midst of the detrimental cloud, he miscalculates his falling position and trips into a crash
landing, choking from the horrendous vapors. In his state of confusion the all-encompassing crescendo goes unnoticed, the
challenge of rising to his feet now taking priority. Hemlock’s crimson eyes dart about, their gaze slowly beginning
to permeate the thickness of the cloud, allowing him just enough vision to locate and lock onto his sneaky foe. As he darts
forward, he releases from his hand one of the bedazzled weapons, its spinning body stalking Siolad’s vantage with its
caster following shortly behind. The weapon continues on, Hemlock does not. The amplifying screech becomes more coherent,
ringing with such fury in the dark elf’s ears that he stops his run and grabs at either side of his temple in vain squeezes.
His bones seem to rattle under the flesh from the intense vibration, and in a fleeting attempt to knock out of the concentration
of his ‘screaming opponent’, he tosses the second dagger at the illusionist, this one with even more strength
and precision than the last.
Siolad continues his chanting, oblivious to the attack against him. But that is one of the sacrifices some take as the first
blade catches upon Siolad's robe, tugging it with the blades path. This jerks Siolad's eyes open, though he continues his
attack. He watfches Hemlock release the second blade, a moment of wonder in if he should take the blow and let his sound attack
continue, or break it and dodge the blade. Thinking aloud within his attack, he speaks on the first time he met Hemlock, and
remembers poison. With that, Siolad haphazardly lifts up his cane, shutting his mouth and ending his spell. The second blade
sinks deeply into the cane, strangely. Siolad smirks, reaching up and feeling the blood that he has caused himself, though
he watches Hemlock for a moment. Possessed by some strangeness, Siolad's owl seems to fly and land upon Siolad's shoulder.
It engulfs Siolad in size, though the man doesn't move, his eyes watching Hemlock still. More strange words seem to fill the
air, as Siolad reaches into his robe and pulls out some sand. More words are heard, chanting heavily, though the majority
of the chanting comes from the owl. As if two minds working as one, the owl casts a spell as Siolad uses the components to
cast it. Siolad reaches out and sprinkles the dust infront of him, letting thier spell have effect. The drunken fool falls
over harshly, and you hear snoring coming from him. A sleep spell, and it is being casted at everyone in the area, though
the focus is upon Hemlock.
Hemlock smiles wickedly as the sound ceases and the miasma fades into the nothingness from whence it came. Reaching the
gradual realization that physical prowess will do him little good in this contest, the assassin unfastens and opens up a long
satchel that hangs suspended from his belt, searching quickly but carefully through its contents. Aware of Siolad’s
incantation but uncertain of it’s effect, he removes a vial from the bag; a small glass container filled with the some
reddish plasma. His eyelids begin to droop from the slow grip of the tiring spell, yet still he heaves the small arc at his
opponent, where it crashes upon the ground at his feet. The gooey, red content of the vial neatly splatters the dirt at Siolad’s
feet, only emanating a faint noxious gas that rises ineffectually past the drow. Unexpectedly (at least to Hemlock) the assassin
falls to his knees shortly after his seemingly vain cast, about to topple over from the drowsiness that poisons his mind.
However, in the nick of time, he retrieves a small herbal clump from his satchel and pops the entire mass into his mouth,
chewing it as quickly as he can. From the red liquid at Siolad’s feet, a massive explosion suddenly erupts and carries
a rippling effect through the air that surrounds it. The very earth, in fact, seems to shake from its fury, and Hemlock himself
falls backwards onto the ground. Though floored, the consumed herb slowly works its way through his body, giving rejuvenation
to an otherwise sleeping mind.
Siolad doesn't seem to notice the liquid, as he is once again deep within his magic. The only realization that he has is the
strange noises that the owl seems to spew out. The words, "Run!" Seem to fill the air, and it is apperent that Siolad didn't
say them, as it must have come from the owl. Siolad comes back to reality as the bird flaps away, blinking a few times. Almost
waking from a dream, he mouths something and looks down, eyeing the liquid. The explosion ripples through the air and Siolad
goes flying, his weak body easy flinging for the spell. He lands with a thump, a loud moan escaping his lips. Weakened from
the spells he has casted, the man slowly tries to sit up, but not finding much energy to do so. His eyes narrow as he realizes
this, wondering how to make his next attack. Words seem to spew from his lips, many curses and the words of his spell seem
to be there as well. As his words fill the air, so does the strange purple smoke once again. It fills the air like a heavy
fog, seeping around everything. Desperation is upon the mind of him as he continues his spell. The air seems to shutter, and
the purple smoke does the one thing that might not be natural. It flashes and catches fire! How can a smoke catch fire like
that? It doesn't matter as the flames seem to spew around the road everywhere, threatening everyone, including Hemlock and
Siolad himself. Though Siolad doesn't seem to really care as he is half way knocked out from the impact of the ground, and
is unaware of where the flames might be spreading.
Hemlock lies weakly on the ground, recovering his strength as if waking from a long sleep. The dark elf’s limbs stir
slightly as the purple smoke begins to fill out every crevice and crack of the road, though he not enough to have any effect
on his position. Hemlock, lethargically complacent, keeps his place on the ground, surrendering himself to whatever horrors
Siolad has now seen fit to unleash. The fiery maelstrom erupts instantly, a great surprise overcoming the floored assassin
into a renewed vigor. He throws his hands up and rolls across the floor, soon engulfed completely by the purplish flames.
Agonized screams fill the air, along with the din of explosions and sparks, and in a moment, the flaming body of Hemlock can
be seen desperately fleeing the scene.
Azalea said, "The winner is Hemlock."
Hemlock versus Tevyn
Hemlock bends over to collect a small bit of dust in his palm, rubbing it against his other hand once he straightens out
again. Finishing up with a caustic smile, he tosses the debris aside and reaches for a prominent scabbard at his side, fastening
both hands about a scimitar’s hilt and loosing it gracefully. The weapon flickers weightlessly through the air, completely
disciplined under the adroitness of its wielder. The drow suddenly lets himself move into a lunging run, the weapon winding
up behind his head in preparation for a devastating swing. The light thudding of his booted feet against the dirt gives way
to a crescendo of amplified pounds, signaling the new arrival of magical energies in the vicinity. Upon reaching a melee proximity
with Tevyn, Hemlock releases the tensed position of his curving blade, the scimitar’s outline blurring as it sets a
course downward. From its silvery wake, a wreathe of blue flames burns into the air, nearly blinding to any with sensitive
sight. The assassin himself tightly closes both eyes, relying on his innate skills as the weapon finds its mark with assumed
precision. Upon completion of its downward plummet, a tall, fin-like wave of cerulean magic shoots out from the scimitar’s
tip, leaping downward and cutting a wide laceration into the ground as it speedily makes its way towards the half elf ranger.
Tevyn interlocks his fingers, cracking them outward as he stretches his arms, the dark mage's soul by now having eased into
this young ranger's body. He watches Hemlock drawn forth his curved blade, as soon as his eyes fall upon it he begins to mutter
a spell, his words flowing by rapidly, almost incoherently as he rattles off his spell. He does not move as Hemlock comes
within range, his lips hurrying the spell to completion on time. As the blade swings through the air a slapping sound rings
out, the once solid metal blade now in a liquid form. As the blade makes the transformation, inches from his chest, the liquid
flies about, no longer held in shape. The chasm opens before Tevyn can stop it, and instantly the change in his spell can
be heard. No longer as commanding, his words begin to take control of the liquid metal, forming it to his needs. The puddle
begins to stretch, flowing over and across the laceration, the malleable metal stretching until it solidifies, now a large
metal platform making up the area. No longer threatened by a steep fall, Tevyn turns his focus back to the drow. He lifts
his palms, revealing identical cuts running down the length of each. He utters the necessary commands and as he does dark
tendrils of energy issue forth from each slit, snaking their way quickly towards Hemlock like the tentacles of some mighty
sea creature. One hand tenses, the tendrils from this hand turn, arching around behind Hemlock from a distance before attempting
to latch at his legs from behind in an attempt to keep him under control while the tendrils from the other hand barrel forward
directly at him, some in an attempt to pierce directly through him, others aiming for his neck so that they may strangle all
life from his form.
Hemlock smiles snidely at Tevyn, propelling himself backwards from the assault with an arching volt. The assassin’s
ebon lips twist into a cold, disdainful sneer once he lands, crimson eyes now narrowing onto his foe with calculated malice.
As the mage’s palms extend to release their onslaught of spindly majiks, he broadly unsheathes a secondary brand, miraculously
averting the course of two initial currents. The channels of energy branch outward as they reflect from the magical sword,
striking a nearby tree and erupting it in flames. Twirling deftly, he swings his blade so that another tendril of energy merely
coils around it. The weapon seems to absorb the magic, giving it no more than a faint ebon glow. The assassin, in fervent
concentration, fails to notice the two whips of energy that encircle him from behind. The paired coils latch around his ankles,
spitting up flesh-scented smoke as they burn through his pant legs and into the skin beneath. Hemlock struggles briefly before
being pulled off his feet and slamming into the ground with a sickening thud. Before long, a moment filled with pained grunts
from the felled assassin, he gathers himself quickly to his feet and heaves the glowing weapon at Tevyn. The coalescing frame
of the brand seems to brighten as it nears its mark, and just before it does, the entire weapon explodes into a starburst
of virulent light. Beneath it, the ground blackens, all life dying in its presence. The blast expands outward rapidly, threatening
to encompass the half elf in its radius.
Tevyn drops his hands to his sides, letting his arms hang limp as he watches the tendrils go to work, his face remaining emotionless.
He nods, clearly impressed by the sword display until he sees the object hurling at him. He momentarily considers jumping
bodies, but knows the spell would take to long. His mind systematically begins to run through the seemingly endless list of
spells that fill his mind until he settles upon a certain spell, all this done in the elapse of a second's time. Tevyn closes
his eyes and begins to speak, his words moving as the gibberish that makes up this certain spell flows outward. The ground
beneath him shoots upward, the first layer the steel of the platform, beneath that a pillar of solid dirt pushes his form
upwards, soaring through the air and out of the way of the sword. I grand escape, at least it would have been had he only
been dealing with a hurled sword. The explosion crashes into the pillar's side, shaking Tevyn free from his heightened reign.
His body drops like a rock, crashing into the hard metal ground with a bone sickening crunch. With little delay he stands,
his form straightening without any thought given to the pain that ravages his body. A low growl emits from his throat, a moment
of emotion sneaking through before Tevyn begins the incantation he has already planned to use upon Hemlock. Any and all clouds
in the sky disperse, the sun overhead allowed to shine down upon the road unhindered. Tevyn's gaze lifts to the trees bordering
the road, glad that they are well maintained and do not cast shadows upon the road. His spell drifts lightly upon the air,
carried into the sky as they leave his lips. With this spell the sun begins to intensify, bringing forth an almost unbearable
heat. Adding to this almost painful daylight Tevyn begins to speak to Hemlock's mind, not words but feelings. Longing for
the darkness that is home, the wonderful caves known to be the favored place of most drow. The light begins to brighten, almost
to a blinding stage, Tevyn still filling the drow with urges, desires to leave the surface and run back to the cave he came
from.
Hemlock’s faces suddenly loses its expression of total confidence as the already annoying light of the road intensifies
abnormally. The drow’s hand rises instinctively to shield his eyes from the amplifying luminescence of the road, beads
of sweat leaking down his face from the heat. Moments of confusion carry forth, the dark elf in awe of Tevyn’s magical
aptitude until finally he regains his presence of mind. With a wave of his hand, something seeming like a cloud of black smoke
begins to materialize from around his legs, crawling upward until it completely surrounds him. The cloud, in actuality a drow-magiked
void of light, shields Hemlock’s eyes momentarily, the red orbs shifting over into the infrared spectrum. Laughing sardonically,
Hemlock leaps forward into the air, the cloud dogging his every movement with loyal persistence. He plummets over Tevyn and
attempts to aim a square kick at the mage’s jaw. Midair, midkick, two daggers find themselves within the grips of either
one of his palms, soon being let loose upon Tevyn with accurate celerity.
Tevyn allows his lips to cease movement as his opponent forms a darkened cloud, no longer feeling the need to burden the observers
with the heat. As all begins to return to normal his eyes follows the cloud, unsure of what Hemlock will do. He concentrates
his mind, focusing all his attention on a spell to stop the daggers mid-flight, so that he may turn them to his use. The spells
begins to slip from his lips and the daggers slow down, but his concentration is broken as Hemlock's leg snaps his head backwards,
throwing the entire half elf backwards. The daggers continue on their way, not completely hindered by the half finished spell.
One dagger collides with the metal ground with a flash of sparks, the other digs into Tevyn's leg. His hand wraps around the
hilt of the dagger, wrenching it free from his flesh. His other hand rubs his jaw lightly, angered at himself for allowing
the blow to land. He eyes the weapon slowly, his eyes dropping to the end, still soaked in blood. His looks to Hemlock and
says, "From dust..." before allowing the spell to take shape, the blood flows off of the dagger and drops to the ground, dirt
and earth from nearby flowing like a stream towards the puddle, manipulated to Tevyn's desire. The blood and earth begins
to mix, surrounded by a misty gray aura. Slowly, a form takes shape, standing from the concoction. The half elf being flexes,
adjusting to life for the first time. This new body listens to the will of his master and boldly attacks Hemlock with no thought
given to himself. He takes up the dagger offered by Tevyn and lunges at Hemlock, his free fist swinging full force for the
drow's throat while the dagger jabs forward in an attempt to spill his stomach's contents.
Hemlock’s eyes narrow upon the materializing being that sprouts up to the ground, his own arrogance stopping him
from simply assaulting the creature before it finishes. Secretly, the assassin reaches one hand behind his back and slowly
draws up a knife from the fold of his belt. As his opponent’s conjuration makes its way towards him, the drow merely
watches it with anticipation and menace, his hand toying with the dagger at his back. Suddenly, the two warrior’s meet,
the golem’s fist forcefully striking Hemlock at the throat. His dagger immediately swings around, deftly slicing the
being’s throat open before taking its weapon deep into his stomach. The assassin careens backwards a bit, dropping his
own weapon as his opponent falls dead. After a moment of staggering, he falls to his knees and watches Tevyn with angry triumph.
Atropos doesn't much feel like making a big spill over who won, "Hemlock has been declared the winner."
Karitha versus Hemlock
Karitha steps back once, assuming stance as she focuses upon her mark. Lunging into an all out sprint, her shapely legs thrust
strong with each step, bringing her ever closer to Hemlock. Leaping foreward, she digs the butts of her twin daggers to the
ground as she handsprings at Hemlock. Her legs split as the males head bears between them. Using that same strength as she
did in her run, she closes them, locking her ankles behind his headas she arches her body backward between his own legs. Bringing
her daggers to bear upon him, she makes a single stroke with each down accross his ankles and the tendons behind them. Using
the full force of the momentum gained, she pulls her legs forward as Hemlock is sent from his sturdy place, swiftly off balance
and finally into a flipped throw behind her. Karitha lands on her front as she looks behind her, witnessing her throw being
completed as she rolls back up to her feet. There she crosses her arms and watches Hemlock closely, awaiting any form of retaliation
with the keen precision only a master of her trade can posess.
Hemlock grunts in shock as his opponent’s legs wrap firmly about his head, closing upon it like a vice. His hands
shoot upward in immediate response to the impact of her body’s weight, ebon fingers grabbing on tightly, instinctively.
The dark elf, surprised at the ease in which he was totally overtaken, throws his legs backward in a deft, forward tumble,
avoiding the fine edges of Karitha’s blades while propelling himself further into her mechanic throw. As he flips overhead,
his cloaked frame somersaulting midair, he agilely draws his jagged blade and cuts it in an arching, downward swipe, the brand’s
point blurring slightly as it slices imminently close to the assassin’s skull. Hemlock lands some distance away from
his initial vantage, knees bending under the his weight as he hit’s the ground with a softened thud. He immediately
spins about, eyes staring haughtily at Karitha as he draws from his waist pocket a small, throwing knife. The blade sings
from his grip and spins out rapidly towards the tender throat of its human mark.
Karitha leaps backwards towards the ground as her boots connect with Hemlocks wrists, barely making a parry as the metal comes
dangerously close to her feet and legs. Augmented by her acrobatic technique, the jagged blade is sent away from her as she
lands upon her back, pushing hard with her hands as she springs upright once more. Without a moments notice nor warning, Karitha
drops the dagger in her left hand as her head feints and turns to the left as her hand comes up and catches the knifes blade
between her index and middle fingers. Her eyes widen for a moment as the impact of this close brush with death sets in. When
this brief moment completes itself, she notices a single trail of blood seep from a small cut in one of her fingers. She turns
her head to Hemlock as the side of her mouth curls into a half grin. Dropping the throwing knife to the ground, she reaches
down to her waist and begins to unbuckle her belt. The moment the latch unsnaps, she pulls hard on the leathered end as it
slides along her body, freeing itself from around her. A simple flick of the wrist and you notice the leather belt extend
to near three times the length it was previously as she pulls it back, cracking the tip of it in the air. Armed now with this
whip like weapon along with one of her dual blades, she lashes her whip out at Hemlock, wrapping its end tightly around his
leg as she pulls hard on it to disorient and distract her foe. Whilst this happens, she repeats Hemlocks minor move and casts
here own blade back at him. More of insult really than attack as she well knows he too could catch the blade with as much
ease as she did his. Now taunting him as well as maintaining this distracting effect with her whip, she reaches down into
her bodice, between her breasts as she draws out a vial of brown liquid. Flicking the cork from it, she takes precise aim
and casts it in an arc above her target. As the vial turns in the air, a spray of liquid spews forth from within. As it touches
ground, plant, armor and skin among other various things, you notice a strong hissing noise as the very things this liquid
spray touches eats away viciously like the most deadly of acids. How it was contained in a mere glass vial you cannot be certain,
but this spray now falls like a small rain upon Hemlock, threatening to do the same to him as well.
Hemlock stares grimly at Karitha, his crudely fashioned blade held readily at his side as he assesses the damage done by
his prior cast. His lips tighten noticeably as the weapon is halted within her fingers, a deadly light sparking up in his
sanguineous eyes. The drow clucks his tongue impatiently, setting one foot forth in preparation for a run. His intentions
are stopped however, the leathery coil that once served as his opponent’s belt lashing out at his ankle and catching
on with a small tug. Hemlock’s bellicose stare moves down from Karitha to the small whip subduing his leg, a subtle
grin showing. With an upward swipe of his sword, the assassin manages to cleanly cut his assailants belt in twine, carrying
through with the motion so that the human’s heaved projectile is reflected in a clang and a small shower of sparks.
The dark elf sets forth once more, his eyes locking upon the woman he seeks to kill as her toxic vial erupts midcourse, its
virulent contents spraying out over him in a mist. Hemlock leaps into the air in a bound, taking no notice of the assault
until it is literally in his face. He carries through with his descent however, a faint scream sounding from his lips as the
sword he holds bears down over his foe. When he lands, both feet pounding the ground directly in front of Karitha, his grimacing
face is somewhat cauterized, the collar of his mail and the shoulders of his cloak also singed with the chemical burn. He
tosses his weapon aside and lunges into her with barbaric fury, both hands closing tightly around her neck as he attempts,
with all his weight, to force her backwards. Both knees rise up in a quick assault to her midsection, and when the drow bounces
back from the first assault, he releases her throat and pistons both feet into her sternum with a steel-cracking force. Hemlock
backflips away from her, landing on both feet with a snap, and drawing two accessory blades to his side.
Karitha is sent hurtling backwards as she lands forcefully on the ground. Coughing a few times to catch her breath as she
notices that with the impact of her attackers, she had dropped her whip in turn. She half rolls onto her hands as slowly,
elegantly, she rises to a handstand, then slowly to her feet once more. She wipes the saliva from her mouth as she grins in
an almost sadistic satisfaction at her opponent. Karitha clenches both fists and smashes her bracers together forcefully.
A loud 'CLANG' is heard as metal strikes metal when suddenly, two long blades spring forth from the confines of her armored
forarms. Her fists clench even tighter as she lets out a shriek that could make even the most evil of persons flinch as she
darts directly at her opponent. Bringing her bladed bracers down, they leave two lines in the dirt as they pass, sparking
on small rocks as they hit. As Karitha comes upon Hemlock, her foot sweeps the dirt in front of her, causing a wave of dust
and earth to lift up towards Hemlocks face. Karitha uses the momentum and leaps into a spinning roundhouse kick to Hemlocks
head. As she lands, She leaps upon him with a vicious tackle, wrapping her legs around his waist. As she locks herself in
like the coils of a viper, she bears her fangs in the form of her blades, piercing, thrusting, digging at Hemlock in a bustling
fury as Karitha refuses to let up her relentless assault.
Hemlock holds up one knifed hand to his face as the onslaught of golden dust assails his sight, choking his throat as it
blinds him. He takes a step backwards, swinging out with imperceptive swipes at the assassin who was just moments ago visibly
charging at him. A loud crack sounds as Karitha’s foot connects with the line of his jaw, blood cascading over his lower
lip from the impact. The drow careens backwards, his sensitive, red eyes recovering from their momentary oblivion as he regains
purchase over the ground below. As the squeeze of her legs takes effect around his waist, Hemlock swings out a desperate punch
to her face, not in time, however, to resist the rising and falling of her attached blades. The first shard of steel bears
deeply into his shoulder, summoning a small fount of blood over his mail as it is pulled out once more. Another fierce blow
carries its way through his chest plate, narrowly missing the heart as it traverses past bone and muscle alike. Hemlock, grunting
with pain, shoots out both hands to clutch and hold back Karitha’s own, his arms trembling as he struggles against her.
In a deft, fleeting moment to loose himself from his opponent’s grip, he brings down her own bladed hands towards her
legs, forcing upon her the choice to release or accept the blow. Regardless of her course of action, he gathers to himself
a minute magical energy, concentrating it with much physical exertion before allowing it to manifest in a form resembling
some huge miasma. The impact energies force themselves against Karitha, aiming to fell her completely.
Karitha fights against Hemlock as her blades slowly begin to turn at her. Gritting her teeth, she releases her vice grip around
Hemlock and places one foot upon his chest. As the area between her blades begins to close, she pulls her free leg down and
with as much strength as she can muster, uses Hemlocks moment of concentration against him as she pushes against his chest
with one leg, and launches a front kick below his jaw. As his head backs from the impact, his magical energies explode, sending
Karitha high in an arc away from Hemlock. Trying desperately to control her body in mid-air, she flips backwards, allowing
her front to become near parallel to the ground.. Lowering one hand and pointing her toes down, she lands on all three as
the force of the momentum sends her slightly back, dragging on the ground as she looks back to Hemlock, lowering one knee
to the ground before clashing her bracers once more, sheathing the blades as easily as they had been drawn. A grin forms on
her face as she raises a hand to her chest, rubbing the effects of his previous attack, noting a bruise already beginning
to form as she grins even wider, seeming to almost enjoy the pain and discomfort.
Crisiant glances between Hemlock and Karitha, her gaze finally coming to rest on Hemlock. "Both fought well, but judges
agree that Hemlock wins."
Suchevane versus Hemlock
Suchevane makes eyes at the little fairy by her side, snickering as Cyliea blushes. The temptress blows the flying woman a
kiss, smirking smugly when Cyliea falls back in a hovering swoon. Suchevane takes it a step farther, tapping on her soft milky
cheek twice, and motioning for the fairy to give it a tiny kiss. Cyliea’s face flames as she wings her way over. Hands
out foot popping up, she leans in, planting a sugary smooch on the druid. Just as Cyliea’s miniature lips land on the
temptress, Suchevane’s hand blurs upward, snatching the fairy right out of the sky. The woman gives a helpless squeal
just before the vampire tears the tiny head away from the body with a bone-chilling crunch of her teeth. Blood pours down
Suchevane’s face as she spits the head out, letting it carelessly tumble down to Hemlock’s feet. The druid cackles,
dangling the body by a toe, letting its life force pour out. The eerie eyed woman spins fluidly in one full circle, surrounding
herself in a fountain of fairy fluid. The liquid shimmers in the air, expanding into a crimson cloud that hangs heavily about
the lady. The mist caresses the druid’s ghostly skin harmlessly while it grows. Once becomes full mass, it wafts over
to the drow, turning a sickly olive color the closer it gets. The form encompasses Hemlock, giving off vaporous fumes that
will stop at nothing until every breath of sweet air is sucked from the man’s lungs.
Hemlock folds spreads his black lips thin in a smug grin, his arms held across his thin drow chest. Even as the druid's
vile magics encompass him within its deathly grasp, the assassin breaths in a final gulp of air. Kicking up a cloud of dust
to match the vile green mass, Hemlock's feet shift into numerous positions, his blade slashing wildly, seemingly sporadically
into the thickened air. Randomly guided, the blade takes in the surrounding miasma with momentum alone, bringing the dust
and choking debris into a quiet, swimming sheathe about his weapon. Without missing a beat, the drow lunges forward, twisting
his body forward so that his shoulder blades slam against the path, turning him into a roll which he last at the feet of Suchevane.
Roiling green mist, coupled with stinging grains of dirt, shoots forth towards the druid from the suddenly still blade. Pleased
with his work, Hemlock rises from his kneeling position and heaves the balanced sword overhead, through a swarm of snowy locks,
meant to cut Suchevane in two.
Suchevane howls with fury as the sword comes down upon her. The blade sinks deeply into a heavily armored shoulder. Though
the protective covering takes the blunt of the blow, her skin is licked by the edge. Wincing she pulls back her shoulder coverings,
letting the ruby plasma ooze down her side to pool at her feet, to angry to pay any heed to the wound, yet. Suchevane glares
wickedly at Hemlock, rage blurring her vision. The druid stays focused upon the drow as she sketches various shapes in well-trodden
walkway. Her nimble fingers dive into a doeskin pouch hanging loosely from her waist, as she shuffles through its contents
for something. After a moment she brings out an onyx rune stone. Still shooting daggers at the man with her eerie green eyes
the druid crouches down, knee joints cracking with the effort. Delicately, Suchevane sets the stone amongst her hastily drawn
figures. Rising as soon as it’s to par with her standards. Intently she stares at the stone, as small black tendrils
creep from its center. The vines like arms gather each design, melding them together into one seamless structure. The sandy
figure rises, stone embedded into its forehead. The dirt being spreads two large, tanned wings, beating them with an impressive
strength to get aloft, stirring up small dust storms in the process. As the thing’s face comes to bear, the form of
a harpy can be made out. The filthy bird’s eyes flash as she screeches out a string of insults that could make even
the most barbaric blush. Giving a satisfied chortle the half woman flexes her curved talons experimentally before swooping
down upon the assassin in a flurry of feathers, accented by a pecking beak and clawing vicious claws.
Hemlock stumbles back a few steps, feet shuffling amongst the dirt as his eyes widen in amazement. Mouth agape, flashing
eyes locked, Hemlock can only stare at the summoned familiar, the half-beauty, half-beast. With the first subtle hint of animosity,
the assassin snaps back to the here and now, readying the dastardly blade, which had lilted slightly, tighe within his right
hand. Quickly turning his amazement into arrogance, the dark elf sneers and leaps up to meet the challenge, the magic of one
of his armaments lightening his form and pulling him into a hovering vantage point. Working his arm with swift, precise movements,
the harpy's initial attack is thrown off, as well as a few of its sharpened talons. Overbalanced, Hemlock's blade goes out
wide of the beast, missing the second swoop and the digging, painful talons that tear into his shoulder, bypassing his armor
through a chink. Concentration broken, the drow falls from his levitation and crouches low upon the ground. Forcefully, his
legs unfulr, springing him upward as the harpy is still flying past. With a roar of triumph, Hemlock claps the handle of his
blade in both hands and jams it upward, tearing through the bird-woman's flesh and shattering her conjured spine. The beast
explodes into a hazy smoke. A hiss of the blade leads Hemlock's second assault, a fall from the air that slices the smoke,
making it seem like a million curving and twisting snakes. His blade comes down with unstoppable force, curving in a deadly
slash downward for the vampiric druid.
Suchevane’s statuesque form contorts in almost unimaginable ways as she tries to dodge the assassin’s next assault.
Yet, his blade again makes contact with her soft, supple flesh, almost in spite of her desperate attempt to miss the sword.
The blade slices through her snowy skin, making her mouth open in a silent scream as her eyes roll back. She collapses down
on her back armor rubbing against the ground to make a soft grinding sound. Blankly the dark haired woman stares up at the
stars, hands clasped upon the deep, pulsating gash above her hip. Slowly she brings up her arms, holding to the heavens a
stream of fire shooting up from each. The bolts cascade down in a graceful arch, lapping down the druid’s body, caressing
her with their scalding breath. The two trails twist around each other almost as if they were taking part in a mating ritual.
At the tips of the vampires toes the twin flames arc into the sky, weaving towards Hemlock. Releasing one another the fire
blots twine themselves about the drow, hungering for his dark flesh.
Hemlock submits to the flames, unable to recompose himself in time to fend of the vehement, burning kisses. The roiling
conflagration slams into his lithe form again and again, pounding him with its breaths of dire, deadly heat. Blisters grow
and pop upon his ebon skin, pussing and sizzling beneath the force of the magics. Darkened flesh turns to charred, ashen,
and misshapen lumps that seem fitting to Hemlock's agonizing screams. Every flame that touches him sends his body into a fits
of convulsions, which tumble him to the earth in writhing heap of burnt drow. When the flames disappate, the dark elf is hardly
moving, his breaths coming in shallow, difficult gasps. Slowly and amazingly, the massacered elf clambers to his knees, flakes
of flame-eaten skin fluttering away in a slight gust of wind. With even more difficulty, Hemlock gains his feet, swaying slightly
and stumbling from side to side with a drunken composure. The top of his head it a greyish color with his hair burnt partially
away, but upon his charred face two orbs still glow. They flicker red, turning in a steely gaze upon Suchevane. The assassin
raises his blade and rushes forward. Hemlock pounces from the ground, spinning about in numerous tumbles before kicking out
with one leg as he drops down upon the druid. His devilish, spiked boots lead the fall, while the jagged blade arcs from below,
a green tinge flickering along the edge, most probably one of many poisons. The blade tip sweeps along the earth and tosses
up a bit of dust into the druid's face, obscuring the booted foot coming in at an angle for her throat. Of course, the primary
problem would be the envenomed blade that relentlessly fords on, following the given path between her legs.
Suchevane Lets a horrified, gasp form her mouth into an ‘O’ of exclamation as she sees the drow lung for her like
some insane brute. Before she can even loose the shuddering intake of breath a spike severs the lobe of her left ear. Pain
sears across her features as scuttles beyond reach of the malicious blade. Suchevane will not allow the drow the pleasure
of seeing his blade best her agility once more. The woman plunges between Kelaria’s forelocks, yelping as her exposed
flesh skids on the dirt and worsens the flow of the precious she’s accumulated from countless feedings. The vampire
closes her eyes tightly praying for her horse to protect her from this mad man to any god willing to answer her pleading call.
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