Lyra's Duels
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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.



Kaldera versus Lyra


Kaldera lowers her gaze to the scarlet sand beneath her feet, her eyes closing automatically. A cool rasping breeze sweeps through the coliseum, stirring some loose bits of debris. The chaotic skies above the two vampires begin churning, clouds colliding in huge masses of darkness. The dame’s pallid lips part ever so slightly as a familiar hex begins rolling routinely off her crimson tongue. The syllables hang in the air, echoing luridly off the crumbling stonewalls and into the monstrous skies above. Finally the mage snaps her head upward, her haunting luminous emerald orbs transfixed on Lyra attentively. The enchantment grows louder until it sounds like a horrifying scream emitting from every corner of the arena. The skies above flash vividly, crashes of lightning thundering across the murky skies and onto the earth below slamming into the earth mercilessly. The energy strikes leave huge creators into the earth as they quake the ground causing some parts of old walls to fall crashing upon the sand. An ear-piercing crash strikes the hectic atmosphere as to massive lighting bolts collide each adding twice as much energy. The bolt lights up the skies as it plummets towards the ground breaking off into dozens of robust lightning strikes.
Lyra growls lowly, baleful stare falling upon the enemy vampiress before her. Pale, delicate hands clutch tighter the cursed scythe of Kaizer. The vampire shifts her weight slightly, stirring the bloodstained sands beneath her feet as she tests the weapon within her grasp. She flashes a malicious grin Kaldera’s way, brandishing the possessed scythe in an arc. The crescent blade sings through the heated air, slicing through easily. Hair on the back of her neck prickles as electrical charges will the air, adding a violent ambience to the atmosphere. A cold, uunpleasant smile curves Lyra’s lips upward, and a low chuckle escapes her throat. Gripping the scythe tighter; she turns her face upward toward the lightning, blatantly ignoring the craters created by the other vampire’s magery. The massive bolt zooms toward her, its brightness reflecting back toward Kaldera as the scythe is raised once more. There is an earsplitting ‘crack’ as the bolt collides with the arcane weapon of the gods, sending an eerie, dissonant hum through the arena. Lyra smiles—a faint, mocking grin toward her adversary, before half-turning toward the archway. Bloodstained lips move slowly, and the chaos of Hell stills for but a moment, broken only by the continuous noise of the crescent blade. A faint, rasping voice can be heard coming from nowhere, whispering words that should never be heard by mortal ears. The weapon within her hands responds eagerly, twitching as if alive itself, which seems to break the silence. Anguished, nearly deafening screams reverberate through the chamber as multicolored glowing wisps surround Lyra and the blade she wields. The souls of the damned recoil from the destructive weapon, sensing the lighter presence of Kaldera and moving that way in a swarm that quickly surronds her. Descending like a flock of vultures to a kill, do they approach her, surrounding her completely. Each tugs at the fabric of her soul, and attempts to get at her, to fill her with pain and rip her limb from limb.
Kaldera closes her pale lips once more, her gaze locked on Lyra with anticipation. The bolts smother the ground into darkness, small bonfires breaking out all over the arena. The smoldering smoke fills the disoriented skies like a plague of death as they merge with the haze. The souls her opponent had brought forth surround the mage. The maiden’s vacant eyes seem distant as the souls strike all her harshly. Blood taints the sand as the vampire’s surrenders to the strike. A small glow emits deep within the woman as she raises her slender arms towards the wicked skies, immediately plummeting towards them. The souls closely follow the dame’s departure, perusing their raid. Thunder continues to roll over the hellish atmosphere, lighting the war for the vampiress to travel. A rapid gust of wind sweeps across the rugged terrain as Kaldera spills into the skies sending the spirits racing after her. An eruption unheard to man breaks into the unruly arena as the velocity of the woman increases promptly. The wild gust accompanying the earth picks up sharp shards of left over weapons and particles of sand as it expands hastily. An untamed beast forms at the front of the gust as it hunts its enemy, Lyra. Still fleeing the soul’s Kaldera dives down behind the gust thrusting the winds onward from behind. The walls of the arena groan with anguish as the deathly storm shoves into them, their intensions of destruction prevailing.
Lyra laughs mockingly, allowing the wind to toss her raven hair behind her in a wave of midnight. Grinning to herself, the vampiress eagerly anticipates the next move by her foe. The wind shrieks and howls, sounding like a woman in intense pain. The clouds are forced away, revealing the dim light of the red-rimmed sun. Lyra raises both hands, scythe held in one, the other free, a loud shriek emitting from her. The noise is so off-key that even the wind flying toward her reverses direction, taking all shrapnel and other debris and flying toward Kaldera. Cold, onyx eyes survey Algorath’s wife as Lyra slowly advances toward her, small feet leaving faint imprints in the sane. Puffs of dust rise, and from somewhere far away another scream echoes throughout the cruel vastness of Hell. She lunges suddenly, twisting the crescent blade so that the reflection of the sun is shot toward Kaldera’s eyes, attempting to blind the woman. With a harsh zing and a popping sound, the blade of the possessed weapon erupts in flames. Seeing an opportunity, Lyra lunges, bringing the possessed scythe down toward Kaldera’s torso. A wave of hellish flames radiate from it, pouring down toward her both in front of and behind the weapon itself.
Kaldera embraces herself as her own conjured wind is thrown menacingly back towards her. The sun beats down upon the arena transforming its atmosphere into that of a hot unbearable desert. The rush of wind is now warm and wretched as it passes over her, the particles grazing her cold flesh. A blinding flash causes the maiden to stop, her form sliding forward from the abrupt attempt to halt. Moment’s later Lyra’s small form comes into view her weapon at high, as she lunges towards Kaldera. Standing at ease and with poise the vampire grins, her ebony locks lying still on her cold shoulders. The possessed scythe whistles lowly in the air as it rampages towards the torso of Kaldera its scorching flames tickling at the dark armor the dame wears. A blast of inaudible letters burst from the lips of the woman as she pivots on her heel preparing to be struck. The blade embeds itself deeply in the center of the vampiress back sending chills up her spine. Crimson blood taints the sand at the woman’s feet, Kaldera’s eyes bulging from her head. The charm still spills over the mage’s pallid lips as she falls to the ground, the blade moving with her. Suddenly a sapphire glow produces in the wound shooting up the blade, freezing the artic blade instantly. The glow travels up the blade heading into Lyra’s arm frightfully fast. The blade is her opponent hand soon begins to melt as quickly as it had frozen, sending Kaldera crashing to her knees. The glow shivers metallically as more of the energy spins at Lyra’s feet attempting to engulf her in deathly ice.
Lyra shakes her head, watching the metamorphosis of Kaizer’s deadly scythe as ice quickly runs along the blade, freezing it entirely and rapidly surging toward Lyra’s freezing hands. Giggling to herself as he ice runs up her arm, she glances to Kaldera. “Havey you forgotten we are in HELLl?” The very ring of the word as it is spoken is enough to melt the ice, and in a businesslike manner Lyra lifts her blade upward. Blood runs in rivulets down the cursed crescent blade, feeding the demons within it. “You WOULD forget, you careless wretch,” the vampire snarls, dark eyes quickly losing the faint gleam of humanity that remains. She tosses her head, posture depicting an uncharacteristic arrogance. “Begone, damn weapon.” She waves her free hand, and the scythe disappears. She turns once more toward Kaldera, bloody hands carefully rolling something only the vampire can see, something that appears to be a giant, geletin orb. This she throws into the sky, where it situates itself over Kaldera’s head, spreading much like a magnifying lens. She murmurs softly, almost lovingly to her spellcasting, watching as the heat of the sun is amplified by the clear magery. Being a vampire, she knows that they are sensitive to the sun, and with this extra light and heat…
Kaldera continues to play her role of helplessness obviously deceiving Lyra quite well. Keeping her gaze averted from the magics her foe is conjuring, the vampire closes her eyes tightly whispering another soft hex. The magnifying glass placed above the woman shoots harsh rays down upon her causing her flesh to steam with agony and intolerance. A small mummer escapes the dame as she arches her back like that of a cat. The gash in her back quickly fills with a white aurora that shines brighter than the sun cascading above. Without any more impediments the mage quickly gets to her feet, her hand stretching towards the magnifying device hastily. A low cloud comes bursting from now where immediately smothering the device. Similar hazes, block the sun the source of this phenomenon, Kaldera. Sweat bubbles on the mage’s forehead as she gazes at Lyra, a cool smile playing about her features. “Your words mean nothing to me, just like these grains of sand,” she snaps, her delicate foot kicking the crimson sand into the air. Dust floats to the skies as the duel finally comes to an end.
Torent takeing a couple steps back from Kaldera and Lyra so that both are in Torent's vision he says, "You both dueled very well but there can only be one winner, The judges have chosen Lyra. Like I said though, you both have done very well."



Lyra versus Narsis


Lyra moves one booted foot carefully behind the other, bracing herself to keep footing. The unstable, slightly burend wood below her creaks and groans, swaying dangerously from side to side in the fierce wind. The cold breeze throws back the shroud from the vamprie’s face, revealing features clearly twisted with anger. Dark, baleful, hating eyes appraisingly overlook the drow’s frame as Lyra mentally makes note of visible weaknesses. Satisfied with what she has found, the mage backs carefully toward the west and safer ground, while in a move faster than the human eye can follow, her staff is lifted and pointed toward the heavens. Almost inaudibly at first, slender fingers begin tapping a rhythmic beat upon the intricately carved stone survace of the staff. The sound echoes only slightly at first, before rising in a rapid crescendo that fills the chasm with loud pounding. Loose rocks and other debris from the bridge itself collapse into the gorge, knocked from their places by the vibrations that shake Lyra’s thin frame. With the sound, in careful, subtle movements, comes a light brighter than day. As it is not the sun itself, it can be of no harm to Lyra, but the blinding brilliance could easily blind any creature not used to living in daylight. Droplets of the colorless illumination gather in strandlike patterns around the staff, leaping into the air like a spider’s web. This flies through the air toward Narsis, landing in a circle around him as the tempo of the drumming quickens. With a slight explosion of its own, the particles expand outward, throwing beams of light at Narsis’ eyes.
Narsis stands firmly upon the bridge. He runs an idle hand through closely cropped silverish hair. The Drows strange serpentile tongue slithers out tasting the air and licking his lips in anticipation. Paying no attention to the vampiric mage Narsis looks down towards the bottom of the gorge trying to figure out exactly where his knife fell to. Deciding he left the woman known as Lyra more than enough time he turns his attentions back to her. Rocks sliding t\down the chasm perk his ears up as he ignores the other noises. With a loud animal sounding roar as a bright light floods his eyes he closes them quickly. Not needing his eyes to move his legs soon piston him forward the strange Drow soon picks up to the same speed as that of Lyra. Stopping suddenly as he nears her the bridge sways back and forth behind him from his movements.Without losing a second he drops down to one knee as if he was praying. Black leather clad hands take great big handfulls of dirt. With an angered scream the Drow Launches himself to his feet flinging the dirt in the direction of his opponents face. Like a dull brown cloud it flies through the air straight for Lyra's face. Narsis tucks himself into a ball the Dark Ranger flips over the strange girl that hurt his eyes, twisting in mid air like a cork screw his body opens back up and he lands upon his feet facing towards Lyra's back.
Lyra growls furiously, releasing her staff momentarily to throw an arm protectively over her eyes. Most of the particles of earth slide down the sleever of her robe, yet a few linger on her face like small insects. The vampire spins toward Narsis, grabbing for the rope railing of the bridget as it swings precariously to and fro. Strands of long, ebon hair are tossed about in the rising wind as Lyra’s pale lips begin to move. Faint, azure-glowing symbols appear and disappear in rapid succession in front of her face, each being carried off by the ever growing wind force. Gripping her staff tightly with one hand, she quickly moves to the safest place—a slight bit of ground near the bridge, before uttering one last sentence. A howl equivalent to a dragon’s roar rocks the chasm as a gust of wind sweeps from the north. The bridge rocks violently before finally giving way to Nature’s power. One side crumbles entirely, and the structure is tilted onto its side in a slant that leaves little hand room. As the gale shrieks around them, the rotted wood threatens to collapse entirely and send Narsis spilling into the gorge below.
Narsis figures Lyra's up to something and quickly follows behind her. Slender fingers reach into his black silk shirt. Dark obsidian skin ripples from chisled muscled. Nimbly he produces five of his trademark daggers in one hand. With a quick snap of the wrist they all follow a straight path for their target. With a sly grin he backflips off the ledge he so precariously was on and drops off. The wind buffetting his clothing, obsidian carved daggers scream through the air flying straight and true. A black flame engulf's each blade. They streak towards thier intended victim going towards different areas at random.
Lyra blinks, the light from her former spell gleaming darkly off of the obsidian blades. Each no moare than six-inches long, they shoot toward Lyra with the accuracy that comes with practice. Hissing a profanity under her breath, Lyra reaches out for something, unconciously grabbing Vladimire’s arm and pulling him in front of her, between herself and the daggers. “Better that you die than I have to disown you,” she whisperes harshly to her father before releasing his arm and dropping down to avoid a stray knife. Dark eyes quickly scan the vicinity in search of Narsis, and when no adversary is found her lips curve downward in a slight pout. She shifts her one-handed grip on the forsaken staff, placing the other hand upon it once more. The cursed weapon begins to glow a deep, unholy red as an irritating, low-pitched hum fills the stagnant air. The ground beneath Lyra trembles, and with a loud ‘crack’ the staff is plunged deep within it. A massive crack splits the ground from where she is standing to the edge. For a moment, all is silent, but soon you notice a low rumble that is quickly ascending in volume. The side of the cliff itself seems to crumble before your eyes, rocks of all shapes and sizes tumbling down and, hopefully burying the absent drow somewhere.
Vladimire stands still, confused at what is happening. He turns as he hears something whistling through the air. As he does four daggers pierce through his chest, taering through his lungs and various other organs. The vampire stumbles backwards as a gasp breaks past his lips before he falls to his knees.
Narsis cries out as rocks bounce over his head. The Drow holds on tightly to the rope his black leather gloves creak down the rope as more and more rocks crash into him. Finally the whole mess is over with, Narsis soon finds himself climbing back up the rope. He chuckles quietly to himself. Spying a loose boulder a foot away from him the Dark Ranger gives it a few good kicks and it comes loose. He lets out a loud blood curdling scream and then all you hear is a loud carack! as if something had just been shattered far below. Moving with all the quietness as that of a highly trained assasin he moves faster and faster up the dull brown hemp rope. Narsis reaches the top and carefully pulls himself up. Battered and bloody he defiantly stands up. He walks over to Vladimire chuckling softly he looks at his handiwork. A faint whistle is his only response. Kioko travels silently up Lyra's back tenderly the black tarantula's feet probe around the Vampires neck quickly without wasting any time the spider attempts to sink its teeth into the woman.
Lyra stares at Vladimire, slightly shocked at the result of her own actions. The vampire makes a move toward him, but thinks better of it and retreats. Frowning deeply at her bleeding father, she pays little attention to the prickling sensation that runs up her back. It is, in fact, a loud mewling wail that tears her attention from Vladimire, and before she can react a pair of glowing golden eyes appear in the darkness. The furred form of her cat, named for the Dread Lord she remembers best, launches himself through the air, two sets of claws coming into contact with Lyra’s neck and ripping the tarantula from her body. The arachnid and Solaris fall to the ground, the feline tearing at the spider’s flailing legs. Lyra stumbles backwards, one hand moving to press lightly against the side of her neck, where her pet’s claws raked it. Muttering to herself, the vampire turns her attention to her father once more.



Lyra versus Tranzier


Lyra leans back slightly, the cool stone of the altar pressing firmly against her back. A slight, sardonic smile plays across her pallid visage as the ambience of death and destruction from the cursed place of sacrifice filters into her blood. Tightly, both hands grip the dreaded staff that is at stake, one positioned slightly awkwardly as it bears a blackened shield. The shrouded head of Lyra lifts, her dark eyes immediately searching the room for her prey of the eve. The smile widens into a sadistic grin as her baleful gaze falls upon the armored body of Tranzier. After a moment, however, that gesture fades completely, and the woman’s head drops in silent prayer. Her armored hands move rapidly, appearing little more than black blurs against the rune-inscribed surface of the weapon, and as her slender fingers search and activate the necessary runes for her spell, an odd, almost melodic voice can be heard, seemingly from nowhere. Quiet at first, the haunting, almost wailing song crescendos into an earsplitting tone of destruction. Lyra’s body trembles with the sound, her gestures slowing for only a moment before the spell itself is complete. The orb at the tip of her staff gleams a brilliant white, and around the pixie, wraithlike forms appear. Some nearly shapeless, others almost perfect looking; the ghostly victims of Lyra converge upon Tranzier, each with their own weapon, their own power. Instilled into each is that desire to join them…to join them in damnation…so it is with outstretched hands that each one reaches for Tranzier, undaunted by any sort of physical armor and fed by the atmosphere of the place itself; each one seeks to steal a part of his soul and bind it into the staff that contains theirs.
Tranzier Darts immediately lashes out with his arms and hands at the creatures, and is rewarded by a number of bites and nicks from the various weapons. In distress, he drops towards the floor, calling to the earth in a voice that sounds like a rockslide. He meets the ground and with a small puff of dust enters the floor of the temple as if it were water. He erupts some feet away, with the vampire between himself and her conjurations. The ranger flits quickly to the ceiling and whispers again as he moves in what sounds like a cool breeze, calling to the winds and air. Invisible solidified air in the shape of crescents coalesce and launch towards the Mage.
Lyra watches in silence as the pixie seems to all but disappear from her view, thinking to herself that her condemned must have devoured him. So caught up is she by this, that she doesn’t realize those she summoned are now advancing quite rapidly toward her. The vampiress blinks a few times in confusion before realizing that Tranzier is quite alive. The mage curses herself in several different languages, her eyes narrowing to slits. Bloodstained lips begin to quickly move, mouthing the counter-spell that will send these restless souls back into their prison. A cool breeze wafts through the room, and Lyra, believing this to be the work of her own magery, leans forward just a bit to enjoy it. The faint, whizzing whirr is the Fallen Angel’s only alert to what is to come, and it is soon followed by a deafening shatter as the first crescent of air explodes upon the altar like a bomb. She glances up toward the ceiling, spotting Tranzier but seeing little else. Grumbling to herself; the vampire raises the spiked shield placed awkwardly upon her arm. Another crescent slams into it, sending a large crack up the middle of the protective covering. Lyra mutters to herself, raising her staff toward the ceiling and pointing it toward Tranzier. The hold is awkward and one-handed, yet accurate enough. Around the tip of the weapon, some sticky, white-ish goo begins to form, covering the top of the staff in drider web-like material. With a lift of her staff-wielding hand, this icky semi-solid flies toward Tranzier, spreading out in a web that will hopefully pin him helplessly to the ceiling. Lyra smirks to herself, thinking that all crescents are gone, and is badly surprised once more when one slams into her shield-bearing arm, leaving a lengthy, jagged laceration that immediately begins to bleed heavily.
Tranzier closes his eyes and reaches into himself, into the deep murky parts of his essences his essence where his soul is attuned to the land itself, and all of it’s creatures. He brings for the hunter, the spider and as he embraces the spirit of the spider his body changes, 4 legs erupting from his sides, and powerful mandibles ripping through his face. The web strikes him and for a moment he struggles. Soon the spider/pixie is free and moving along the webs with a surprising alacrity. He stops and stares down upon the mage below, then leaps towards her. As he falls towards the vampire he communes with the earth, and with a great rumble the floor of the temple buckles and then drops into a gaping sinkhole beneath her. A slender line leads from his hind quarters to the ceiling above, and the mandibles move as if already tearing flesh.
Lyra narrows her eyes, ignoring for now the intense bleeding from her arm. Once more her head lifts, those piercing eyes studying intently the ranger that somehow has the ability to shape-change. The vampiress releases her staff for a moment, quickly undoing the straps that hold the shield to her arm. With a clatter it falls before the altar, and quickly she resumes a better hold on the forsaken weapon. A sickening ‘crack’ alerts the vampire, and without so much as an attempt to defend, she falls down into the shallow hole. Debris from the collapsing floor falls like rain around her, driving into her head a wonderfully awful idea. With a malicious grin she glances up toward the descending spider, and then back down to the staff. Quite easily despite her injury, she begins to spin the weapon with both hands, clutching it tightly as the staff whirls. The bits of stone cease in their descent, hovering in midair for a mere few seconds. With a burst of energy, the third cycle of spinning is finished, and the sharp shards of collapsed floor ascend toward the pixie-spider, each edge serrated and sharp enough to slice a man’s arm off cleanly with one sweep. The momentum carries the shrapnel upwards at a deadly speed. Lyra’s staff falls, and her with it for only a bit. The tip of the weapon sinks a few inches into the ground with the bloodied Lyra leaning against it.
Tranzier shudders and shards of hard rock slice through his flesh. He screams in pain as he falls, then his voice changes, becomes a bubbling brook… and the Spider’s body changes, becoming translucent first, and then loses form entirely. He grows, and swells until he is that appears to be a large amount of water. Then the water takes shape, a huge water-elemental takes form and it reaches for the Wounded mage, launching a hard torrent of water with hundreds of points of pressure. Though it falls towards the bottom of the sinkhole, the elemental seems to smile.
Lyra smiles tiredly to herself as the water begins to pour down around her in a torrential rain, her head falling and her good hand reaching for a pouch filled with white powder at her waist. With a slight tug at the string binding it shut, the highly reactive dwarfen metal is free for Lyra’s use. The mage grips the pouch tightly, while still leaning against the staff with her bad arm, and hurls it at the falling water. An earsplitting BANG! Echoes through the chamber, sending a few rocks falling from the ceiling. The air, however, has suddenly become filled with a brilliant light. The white powder reacting with the air itself explodes outward in a miniature inferno that turns Tranzier’s falling water into naught more but wave after wave of scorching steam. The vapor fills the room quickly, blocking any and all from Lyra’s vision. She drops down to one knee, clinging tenaciously to the dread staff of Valzain.



Lyra versus Immaneul
Death Duel

Lyra bows her head, reaching up with one thin hand to remove the leather band that holds her hair in place. With this movement, a dark glimmer of something shiny grasped within her misshapen, scarred fingers catches and refracts the pounding light of the red-rimmed sun. Iridescent beams shimmer mysteriously through the heated atmosphere, absorbing the tension as each erupts in an impressive display of color. The vampiress releases her ancient treasure, and the crystal dangles from her hand by a tarnished, silver chain. A cruel, wicked grin spreads across the pallid countenance of Lyra, and her eyes—each a color akin to onyx—bear hatefully into the body of Immanuel. Small beads if precipitation break out upon her face, however the vampiress is too distracted with her workings to notice. Her hand motions to and froe, dragging with it the iridescent crystal, and a slight tinkling melody echoes through the way; driven by the breath of wind. Crimson-stained lips part, and a glimpse of a pink tongue is momentarily offered before harsh words are whispered forth. Haunting, melodic, and nearly forgotten in language, this strange spell at first has no effect. Only when the precious stone falls from Lyra’s hand, much happens. The thin, laceration-like scars upon the woman’s hand burst all at once! Each spurts blood and even fits of flesh in a gruesome, painful display. The small rivulets drip to the ground, falling upon the crystal and staining its multi-faceted surface a hellish red. The stone begins to shudder violently, and without warning shatters like a bomb! Columns of multicolored smoke blast forth, each one undulating to its own rhythm. The air sizzles and crackles, and the contained power of the stone given to Lyra by Syadon zooms in force toward her adversary. It spreads in a vaporous cloud upwards, offering the vampire no escape from the terrible, physical and emotion burning that broken constraints offer—bringing forth a power even Lyra herself had no idea existed. The vampiress drops into a crouch upon the ground, her good hand gripping the horribly injured one. She watches emotionlessly the effects of her broken word.
Immanuel lets a small smirk play upon his lips as the power of Syadon’s gift is released. As it charges towards him the mage raises his staff above his head and holds it with both hands parallel to the ground. The smoke washes over the still vampire and from the depths of his very soul a scream issues forth. The pain, which ravages both his body and soul, is complete. He loses all sense of everything, hanging on to life by a single thought. A single glimmer of hope in these dark, dark times. Alexia Isis. He holds the memory of her to him, clinging to it like a child... As the smoke begins to wash past him, what is left of Immanuel is greatly changed. His shining armor shines no longer! It is ravaged and rusted by this single attack. His eyes that once glowed with such rich, tainted life now gleam with pure hatred. The smirk on his lips was burned off almost instantly and his pale skin no longer seems healthy; it seems more like the flesh of a two-day old corpse. All this is lost to the dark vampire though, he shakes his head, lowers his staff and simply charges forward, his long forgotten family war-cry screaming from his now cracked lips! His crimson and white-hued weapon begins to whirl around his pallid form. Small storms of dust fly up as his feet glide across the road, the small ‘thuds’ are all but drowned out by the fierce cry Immanuel screams. As he reaches his vampiric opponent, the mage leaps towards her! He brings his staff slashing in from the left, from the right his now rusted, clawed hand slices the air, aimed directly for Lyra’s neck. As the two attacks swoop in, Immanuel stops his cry and whispers a single word of power. Though spoken softly, it carries such weight everyone can hear it with crystal clarity, the word is, ‘muffin! The odd command uttered in a whisper has violent effects, it causes Immanuel’s black flames to roar into life! In an instant they have flared around his body, and with their almost soft touch, seek out the damned child, Lyra.
Lyra allows the most grim of smiles to stretch her pallid features—a ghostly, unpleasant appearance in itself. She releases her injured hand, dropping the better one to grasp a long, dark weapon. With a glad, triumphant shriek the Forsaken staff is wrenched forth! Blackened runes gleam along its rough surface, illuminated with in a hellish aura by the quickly fading sun. Lyra relishes its presence, for with it not only comes the ambience of her lover, but the nearly forgotten visions of another—the creator of such a destructive power. To both does Lyra cling as the Forsaken staff whistles through the now dead air. With a sickening ‘crack’ it collides brutally with Immanuel’s staff, exploding immediately into dark flames that leap and dance with horrific ferocity. The vampiress growls furiously, her injured hand falling into its place upon her weapon. New blood only encourages the dark power, and tendrils of darkness extend from the forsaken staff towards the blazing body of Immanuel. Her magicks cut through the fires that dance around her, even as they eat away at the woman’s soul. Lyra’s ebon head falls back a bit, strands of her hair catching the flames in an eerie display, yet through this all, the grin remains. “I grew up in Hell, Immy, in the shadow of a dead god…you think I know not how to deal with fire?” Little more than a hoarse whisper, her voice is still heard above the chaos. The robed body of the Fallen Angel glows an electric blue, and, as if burned themselves, the flames fall away—leaving only Immy’s clawed hand, which she has failed to notice. Only at the last possible second does the woman stagger backwards, dragging the dread weapon of Valzain with her. The staff slams into the clawed hand, and begins shaking violently with the impact. Knowing well that the possessed weapon would burn any but its proper wielder, Lyra quickly yanks it away. The flames are nearly out, but not quite, circulate around the woman…not hot, but COLD! A fierce northern wind begins to whistle, carrying frigid air in its wake and a sense of unreality. Lyra’s eyes close, becoming hidden behind pale lids as he ambience leaves her body behind, traveling toward Immanuel and a wave of both ground and sky. Small plants wither and die in its path, frozen in mere seconds with what is only basic cryomancy. Lyra herself steps back, only now beginning to feel the waves of pain inflicted by the various burns that cover her body.
Immanuel screams in rage as Lyra manages to block both his weapon and his claw with her single staff! The scream soon dies as the dark staff of Valzain burns his hand. He retracts the wounded limb quickly before staggering back in pain. As the terrible cold surges forward, Immanuel wraps his burned and still dead-looking hand around his staff. The dreaded wind consumes him, freezing all life. As it clears the mage is standing frozen as a popsicle! The only part of him not frozen is his weapon. The white spirals on his staff have begun to glow. They cover the icy vampire in blinding light and when it has died down he stands tall, and unfrozen once more. “I have part of Shylah’s soul, child. You think cold would affect me?” He lets out a nervous laugh, before a simple plan comes into his mind. “You baught this upon yourself, damned one! Now feel the power which my family used to rule their world!” Immanuel calls forth the power of his brethren. The power he denied so long ago. The power which turned his brother insane! No words are uttered. No movements noticed. The power used needs no war-cry! Needs no summon! It is eternal and it is complete. Immanuel lets go of reason, forgets his own will to survive. Forgets anything other than the destruction of the bitch before him! As the demons of his past return, the mage tears one hand off his weapon and points a single bony finger at Lyra while muttering, “And now, you die!” The power streaks forth silently, invisibly and with untold velocity. It covers the ground between them almost instantly. Its effects are noticed as a small bird gets between them. The birds flesh rots straight away. Both wings fall from its feathered back and a small thud breaks the oppressive silence as the once-winged creature falls dead. This alters little of the powers intent though, it still flies right at the damned one, wanting nothing more than to add her to its collection of souls.
Lyra shifts stiffly, the aches of her charred limbs increasing fiercely as the initial rush of adrenalin fades from her stolen blood. The vampiress stares at her foe, a puzzled frown adorning her light, nearly translucent countenance as he simply—is there, frozen like one of Nyterath’s ice sculptures. The thought brings a smile to her lips, and soon after a light chuckle echoes through the air as Lyra forgets all else but what she seeks most---revenge! All this instantly fades as Immanuel’s invisible attack forcefully enters her mind. She falls backwards, her back arching as the woman rolls across the frozen ground. Broken images and thoughts of incomprehensible malevolence rock her unstable mind, and with sudden, shrill violence Lyra screams! The muscles in her arms tighten instinctively and she pulls Valzain’s staff towards her, holding it tightly against her. Bloody tears stream down her pallid cheeks, the faint trails they leave freezing and falling away with faint clinks. Lyra’s body trembles as the delicate bonds that hold her soul to her body are tugged and twisted at. The Fallen Angel lays motionless for a few long moments before something else comes into play—memory! Images of days gone by, of people long dead and better gone, flood her. Valzain, Solaris, Crisiant, flashbacks of so many others that this woman somehow loved invade her mind, weakly pushing away the insanity of Immanuel, the madness that threatens to overwhelm her. Only later does Lyra rise, the winner of this internal battle wills, and with slow, painful steps she rises from the ground. Dark eyes narrow to slits, and a hateful, feral growl is sent forth in the direction of Immy. “You use your past to form the present. so I shall take it from you!” The shrill anger of her words pierces the silence. Her hands move quickly, tracing complicated patterns along the surface of her staff that form into one blinding illumination—a spell directed toward Immanuel that will wipe everything from him. Every memory this creature has will be smashed into oblivion—if her magic prevails.
Immanuel lets forth yet another colourful string of curses as Lyra once again evades death. As the power he allowed Hollow to witness begins to fade, the truth hits him like a spade to the head. Almost forgotten fear enters his tainted orbs, his slightly blue-hued lips turn into a feral snarl and he knows deep down he cannot defeat Lyra. This single thought enters his mind and burns away all reason. At this moment the power of the damned child enters his head. Oddly, its effect isn’t quite what Lyra had in mind. It doesn’t burn away all his memories; it burns away all his doubts. That which consumed his mind completely is destroyed and leaves the mage feeling content, though he still knows now he has not the power to win alone. Once more the vampire uses the power of Shylah. He lifts his weapon to his face and speaks inaudible words to it. The white spirals begin to twirl rapidly, they surge up the weapon and are released into the sky. It glows a perfect white, its power unaffected by the taint that is Immanuel. Crimson, rage-fulled orbs are lifted from Lyra to fall on the power above him. And with an almost loving voice he speaks to it. “Destroy her, soul of the queen, and I swear I shall free you to return to Shylah.” The soul above the battlefield begins to take shape. Wings emerge from the light, long legs, short arms and a massive head for all to see. It has formed the figure of a giant dragon. The wings that decorate its back begin to flap slowly. Its head turns to look at Immanuel for a moment, before roaring at him and twisting to face Lyra. Little time is wasted as it cuts through the air, its wings are not needed as it keeps flight by will alone. As it reaches the damned one, it wraps its claws around her form, and in that instant explodes! Everything is thrown into chaos by the power released on this day. Birds bark. Lizards debate the higher forms of philosophy. The tavern itself lets out an annoyed moan. In that one instant everything changes. Immanuel is thrown off his feet. He surges through the air coming to rest only when the unkind ground catches him. Horrible wounds seem to have found themselves a home all over his body, though their cause is all but unknown. He lies there withering in pain. Crawling on the ground like a beggar; begging for the pain to stop. All thoughts of Shylah, Alexiaisis and Aniquilar are lost. Pain consumes him completely. Throughout this though, he still manages to lift his head and look over to Lyra, he is more than a little curious to see what the horrendous power of Shylah has done to the proud, damned child.
Lyra stares in awe, her jar nearly hitting the ground, as the purified dragon sweeps grandly through the chilled air to encircle her, exploding at the very instant that its claws contact her perfect skin. The effects are immediate! Lyra staggers backwards, collapsing into the tavern wall. The blinding whiteness shimmers around her, the savior and destroyer that consumes all things great and evil. Horrific burns and lacerations appear from nowhere, and blooming crimson stains soon overtake the once back garments of Lyra. The Fallen Angel lays quite still, her body wracked with too much agony to move. Only one hand—the once-scarred appendages now freed of the corrupted power. Bony fingers close around her Forsaken staff, and it begins to rise. Strands no thicker than a woman’s hair pierce through the freezing luminescence of Shylah, cracking and severing bits and pieces. The exploded dragon begins to crumble, much like a window would if it had a rock thrown through it, and the possessed weapon of Valzain pulsates with a life of its own. The runes dance and writhe along the dark surface of the unholy weapon, and a small crack in the stone opens a bit wider. With a loud ‘thwoop’ sound, the essence of Shylah is sucked within the Forsaken staff, bound eternally by the dark magic. Its wielder, however, is surprisingly motionless.
Rudra sighs before stepping forth from the crowd. He takes a bow and clears his throat, preparing to speak, "The votes have been counted, and the judges decisions have been made. The winner is...Immanuel."
Rudra takes yet another bow before the two combatants, "Very well fought though. You have my utmost respect."
Immanuel gets slowly to his feet. His body is a tattered display of wounds. Flesh drips from more than one place on his pallid body. He sways around like the drunken fool, though his eyes lock onto the form of Lyra. A dark, tortured scream is ripped from his throat as he sees her lying there. he once again lifts his ruined hand and points what can only be a finger, though it looks more like a hunk of raw steak, at Lyra. “Die…” From the tip of his digit comes once more the power of his family. It surges through the area and engulfs Lyra. Immanuel holds to his feet for as long as he can, before dropping his hand and fainting face first onto the ground. Dust has erupted around the damned child, and when it finally clears, all that is left is a withered, dead corpse. Her dreaded weapon seems to have vanished with her life…
Rudra sighs sadly as he approaches the Fallen Angel's corpse. Something unseen suddenly appears as a single, solitary tear wells within Rudra's eye and begins to slowly trail his cheek. He kneels and leans, planting a delicate kiss upon Lyra's forehead and wishes her the best journey in her walk.
Immanuel lifts his head from its place in the dirt and whispers that famous word of power, "muffin." Black fires explode from the corpse of Lyra, burning away her corpse till nothing remains.
Siolad glances towards Immanuel, and sighs, "You know.. You didn't have to.."
Immanuel 's face once more slams into the dust covered ground. This time, he doesn't rise.
Itarilde frowns, turning her head away...
Shogo bites firmly on his lower lip, hardly able to watch the scene. He does not blink, and his expression shows little.
Rudra mutters quietly to himself.
Ciya whispers a prayer for the fallen Lyra.
Lyra's corpse burns brightly into nothingness, taking with it the possessed staff of Valzain, as well as the secret to where Kaizer's scythe once lay. Beside it, the small form of a tabby cat curls up, its fur lighting with its' mistress' corpse, until both are gone.
Immanuel coughs into the dirt, causing a small amount to fly up and stick to his horrible wounds.
Caiban having witnessed the merciless battle quietly he now breaks his silence, "Does he have no family or friends? For the gods, see to him already! He needs your help now."
Ciya said to Caiban, "What would you have us do?"
Immanuel gets to his feet slowly. He looks at everyone here for a moment, before letting out an insane laugh. This lasts for several moments, stopped only when Immanuel enters the tavern. And once again falls flat on his face.



Suchevane versus Lyra
Death Duel

Suchevane leans against the tavern wall, her expression masked by the structure’s overcast shadow, as well as the rest of her curvaceous physique. Pushing herself away from the wall with poised fingertips the druid takes two deliberate steps foreword, one to mark her anguish, the other to mark her resentment. Out in the pale moonlight the woman’s skin fairly glows, giving her a spectral aura to accent unbound hair which tumbles attractively to frame her delicate face. The vampire’s lean body begins to rock back and forth as she stares vacantly through Lyra, her eyes a drained green hue. In a blur the lady drags the clawed tip of a nail along her right wrist, vivid indigo veins faintly visible beneath her translucent flesh. Blood oozes from the lesion sluglishly, the Noirean being’s pent up pain seeping out with it. Fluid trickles from the abrasion, cutting a network of paths down her lean wrist. The beads of blood betray their magical quality when they float upwards instead of following the preordained path to earth. Dozens of globules bob and dip before the woman, patiently waiting. Stiff legged the druid leans forward wavering ever so slightly on buckled knees. Her dark lips, a sharp contrast to the rest of her skin tone, part. Suchevane’s tongue slips out to caress them before puckering up and releasing all the air within her lungs with a single swift outtake, sending the drops towards Lyra. A lone bubble wanders away from the cluster, brushing against a rock. The rock explodes on impact, sending bits debris into the atmosphere creating a globe of haze where the stone previously sat. Unheeding their lost sibling, the mass persists, planning the same demise for the Forsaken Knight.
Lyra folds her thin arms across her chest, her darkened eyes fixed calmly upon her Noirean foe. A soft, sardonic smile crosses the woman’s delicate features, allowing her a deceptively innocent, almost childlike appearance, and one pallid hand lifts from beside the vampire, the pale skin of which is roughly scarred. Slender fingers move fluidly through the air, encircling a glimmering crimson stone that rests peacefully against the lady’s throat. With a slight ‘snap’ the chain binding it to her shatters, links falling upon the muddy ground. Crimson lips part slightly, issuing forth words of damning nature. The tormented soulstone given to her by Valzain brightens considerably at the speech, feeding from the waves of torment and malice that drift through the stagnant air, and a slight, nearly inaudible humming whirr begins emanating from whatever entity is trapped inside. From everywhere, the drops of sanguine fluid come to a halt, each bubble hovering motionlessly in midair for only a moment before their course changes considerably. Instead of moving toward the fragile form of Lyra, they shoot for the powerful stone clutched within her disfigured hand. The f first collides, sending a shiver throughout the gem and the vampire herself. With the second, however, a powerful explosion echoes through the vicinity. Cracks appear upon the multi-faceted frame of the stone, and with a violent surge of energy, it explodes. Shards of crimson glass shoot in every direction, propelled by an incomprehensible amount of energy. Lyra is thrown backward on her butt, and helplessly she watches as the once-trapped essence breaks free. The energy ripples through the air, incinerating any other drops of blood that may be present and expanding rapidly toward Suchevane, intent on doing the same to her.
Suchevane reels away from the waves of heat pulsating throughout the narrow path, barren arms instinctively shooting forward to block angered presence. She double takes when a face flashes across the essence, breathlessly whispering an astonished, “Valzain…” The energy mass halts momentarily, recognizing the name given to it’s body. Tentatively it examines the woman from head to toe, the face becoming more visible bit by bit. The thing reaches out a vaguely formed arm, stretching to touch the Noirean’s cheek. The appendage sinks into her jaw, reappearing on the other side, sending a cold shock through Suchevane, making her head spin. Without hesitation the dark druid mutters a simple incantation, summing the soul to the confines of her rune stone. Begrudgingly the apparition disappears into the smoothed onyx, shooting his trapper a sulky glare. “Funny, isn’t it? Names hold so much power, if you know a form’s true name it becomes helpless to your every whimsy.“ The woman eyes Lyra, masking her displeasure at the lack of wounds on her rival with a twitch of her lips, a meager attempt to form a smile. Suchevane taps Kelaria’s lustrous ebon flank twofold, emphasizing her command with a derogatory phrase to identify the mare’s opponent. The war steed’s ears swivel forward when the druid’s words cease, concentrating fully on the dark mage now. A shriek of compliance spreads the horse’s mouth, exposing strong saffron teeth. Kelaria canters in the direction of Lyra, spike surrounded hooves pounding rhythmically against the packed earth. The horse rears before the opposing woman, hindquarters bunch with the effort. Her hooves flail inches before the vampiress’ nose, in attempt to intimidate the ‘lady‘. Without warning the beast plunges to the ground, landing hard on her forelegs. The impact of the blow sends the poison hemlock lathered spikes protecting her hooves careening toward the mage as Kelaria cranes her neck out to deliver crushing snaps upon Lyra’s undoubtedly sensitive shoulders. “I guess you’re right, I do hide behind hemlock.”
Lyra shakes her head silently from one side to the other, tendrils of ebon hair gently brushing her shoulders. Painfully she rises, rubbing one hand against her rather sore posterior. A slight giggle escapes her lips as the Noirean utters the name of Valzain, and her bloody lips curve into a faint, unpleasant smile. “Fool!” she hisses. “Did you really think I would use HIS soul against YOU? Though he did bind it within there for me…” Her voice falters, and her head swivels to the right as the sound of pounding hooves echoes through the night. Onyx-hued eyes narrow to slits as the vampiress searches for the oncoming adversary, yet all she can see is a silhouette of black. Cursing to herself, she places both hands flat against the muddy earth and pushes, rising to her feet just as two small spikes go whizzing through the area where she had just been. One buries itself in the crumbling wall of the Hanging Corpse Tavern to the south, while the other flies harmlessly east toward a random spectator. Shifting her attention elsewhere; Lyra prepares for further onslaught, and so distracted is she that the mage fails to notice the horse itself until Kelaria’s head slams against her shoulders. She cries out, more in surprise than in pain, and falls forward once more, landing hard upon the ground. Instinctively rolling to the side; the Forsaken Knight avoids the equine’s plunging head by a finger’s length. She growls lowly, the rumbling coming from deep within her chest, and stands once more. Instead of advancing toward the Druid, Lyra takes security in the shadow of the Hanging Corpse, a slight grin replacing any expression of resentment she might have. Again that scarred hand comes into view, this time pointing upwards…not at Suchevane herself, but at the full moon behind her. The Fallen Angel murmurs quietly to herself, and a misty, blue-gray aura surrounds the celestial being. The light intensifies to burning brightness, pounding down toward Suchevane with deadly intent, as Lyra waits quietly in the shadows and out of harm’s way.
Suchevane throws her head back with throaty laughter, causing her corset to slide down a hair, as her chest pushes threateningly against the silky lace holding together the burgundy bodice. The vampire’s eyes close, head still tilted upward. A moan of pleasure passes her opal fangs, floating along the breeze to rap against the damned angel’s ears. Throwing her arms outward, Suchevane welcomes the tender kisses of the moonlight, blaring brilliant light tanning her milky skin. The moon replenishes the vampire’s energy as she cocks her head in the direction she supposes Lyra to be, “You silly girl, I’m a vampire, moonlight strengthens me, you should know that! And as for your precious Valzain…he is indeed mine now. When that little stone of yours exploded his soul was unleashed. Apparently smarts seem to have fallen short within the Forsaken ranks.” The druid shakes her head, clucking her tongue with disappointment as she redirects the light to shine upon the tavern, weaseling the mage out of hiding. Suchevane slips a hide out from a magic shielding pouch tied to her belt. The glossy opalescent skin is easily identifiable as a unicorn’s. The same unicorn, in fact, which plagued the Legions for a time. Suchevane throws the hide over her milky shoulders, overlapping her own cloak. Venomously the Noirean commander whispers audibly enough to catch Lyra’s ears, “This ‘corn’s hide was to be a gift for Isora. It would have gone with her well with her lovely silvery hair. But you ruined that…” Impervious to magic, the druid feels her own protective spells shying away from the makeshift mantle. With a wicked grin, the woman runs at the Knight, polished rune stone in hand. With a catlike pounce she lands before the lady, cloak pushing any wisps of magic away with it’s aura of immunity. Once the mage is trapped within the dome, the Temptress lashes out at her skull with the heavy stone bashing repeatedly at Lyra’s head with anticipation of rending the woman’s cranium with a severe blow.
Lyra shies away from the burning illumination, knowing well the consequences of standing in any sort of light that bright for long. She leans back against the crumbling wall, wincing visibly at the pain in her shoulders from the Noirean’s horse. Another low, hateful growl is sent Suchevane’s way as her words of Valzain reach the Fallen Angel’s ears, and those baleful eyes burn with a hatred that is almost tangible. Slowly she backs away once more, pallid hands reaching into the shadows and closing around the rune-inscribed handle of her Forsaken staff. The unholy weapon gleams darkly with its own power, and Lyra’s grip tightens considerably as Suchevane rapidly approaches. Up comes the damned weapon as the rune stone drops down toward Lyra’s head, the orb at its tip pulsating with a crimson that matches the soulstone she once possessed. With a ‘chink’ the two weapons of magery collide, and a deafening, thunderous roar resounds throughout the makeshift arena. The impact of two creations of such power sends Lyra flying backwards toward the middle of the road, and for a few moments she just lays there in the mud, unwilling to move. The once-possessed staff lies across her chest, and when Lyra rises a few moments later she places it into the ground for support. Motionlessly she waits for a few moments, her breathing coming in ragged gasps, before pondering her next move. Without the least bit of hesitation the vampire’s hand drops to a tightly closed pouch. With a sadistic grin, Lyra pulls away the string holding it shut and hurls its contents toward Suchevane. Small, dust like particles dance through the air, some landing on the ground, others on the unicorn pelt that shields the Noirean from any of Lyra’s magic. Not magic this time, but a quite reactive metallic powder; the ground between the two vampires immediately busts into bright, completely natural orange flames, soon followed by whatever tiny projectiles landed upon Suchevane—hoping to burn her out of her magical shield, naturally.
Suchevane grins, stepping back to admire her handiwork. Shrieking indignantly the woman’s mouth moves, with half created words, coming out as no more than an incomprehensible babble. Dumbfounded the druid stands frozen in place, a comical expression painting her visage. A powder rains down on Suchevane, catching her hair and cloak alight. Skin boils up almost instantly in regions licked by the dust’s combustion. Writhing and screaming with sheer agony Suchevane turns on herself, tearing away chunks of blazing flesh. A pungent aroma expands from the ignited unicorn pelt, the first thing torn from the vampires twisting torso. Clumps of fizzled hair and barbecued skin adorn the dark path, making for a grisly scene. All traces of flame are shredded from the vampiress’ horrendously disfigured frame. Adrenaline mercifully sets in, handing the Noirean commander over to numbness. Detatched like, the druid gives her clotting wrist wound a flick, tearing the gash anew. Blood spews forth leaving what flowed formerly to seem no more than a lazy trickle. The plasma fans out, dousing everything within a few feet in scarlet slime. The druid’s hair and clothes are utterly saturated giving her a vermilion coating. Grinning, the woman’s eyes dance with insanity, her eerie green orbs flecked with scarlet, making for a truly grisly image. Suchevane flickers out of sight leaving only a pool of her fluid to account for where she stood. The dark stain shimmers in the moon light for only a moment before unexpectedly vanishing much like its owner. Within seconds everything once touched by the blood is under its spell of invisibility. The blood drenched vampire props herself against the tavern wall once more, steadying her breath. She sinks back into a state of utter mindlessness, focusing only on willing her body to live on.
Azalea said, "Lyra is the victor!"
Lyra grins wickedly.
Immanuel mumbles something no one else can hear.
Crisiant smirks down at Suchevane while pushing herself away from the wall, making her way over to the rest of her clansmates.
Siolad utters, "And so it is going to happen.." He shakes his head, "Of course it had to.."
Lyra said to Suchevane, "Look at me, wench."
Suchevane said to Lyra, "Force me, bint. You may have won but I do not obey filth."
Siolad growls lowly, eyeing both Suchevane and Lyra.
Immanuel moves himself over to his clansmen. A small smile pulls at his lips as he speaks to them. "The Forsaken will once again bring fear to these lands. This is an example for you all. Go destroy those who oppose you."
Lyra places one hand beneath Suchevane's chin, lifting the woman's head so that she can stare into her eyes. "I told you what would happen. I told you that my Forsaken would kill you, the lot of you. Now I get to prove it." She steps back, still leaning heavily upon Valzain's staff. "Does someone have a sword?"
Siolad twitchs, his eyes not leaving Lyra nor Suchevane. Though he hears Immanuel's words. He turns towards the man and utters some curses under his breath, before turning back to watch the women.
Immanuel eyes Siolad for a moment, before he too returns his gaze to the women.
Lyra said, "A sword."
Immanuel said, "I don't have one."
Crisiant said, "Nor do I."
Terces reaches to his back and clasps his hand around the bone hilt of his short-sword, hidden under his pick. With a metallic 'shing', he unsheathes the blade and makes his way to Lyra. He then hands her the blade with a sadistic grin on his face.
Siolad frowns once again, a strange cane forming in one of his hands. Siolad almost seems to make a step foward, but stops. More cursing coming from his lips.
Lyra lifts the sword, quite unskillfully, and swings it in a wild blow toward Suchevane's neck. It hits with barely a sound, sending blood gushing in all directions as the vampire's head is severed from her shoulders.
Lyra lifts Suchevane's severed head from the ground, holding it by the woman's long, ebon hair. With a smirk, she places it on a spike outside the tavern for all to see.



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