Duke Dovoryn Terenti of Volhynia

A loud echoing boom rings through the air as a single Seismic Stomp breaches this last barrier standing in the barbarian’s way. Old hinges strain and squeal from the stress of that strike as she slams these double doors wide open, sending splinters and slivers of shrapnel scattering into the dimly lit room beyond.

Krvavy’s lungs fill with air tainted by the scent of blood and smoke, ready to roar her challenge and leap into the fray. “Shit...!” But all that comes out is a heated hiss.

Rather than the **** fight that she expected to see, ahead of this Drakling rests another set of stairs. An upwards path that leads straight forward, as a valley flanked by tall embankment walls, before splitting around a jutting terrace inset with a door and capped by a sturdy stone railing.

The sounds of combat quiet just a little as the Drakling’s dramatic entrance goes unseen but not unheard.

With no time to waste, Krvavy sprints straight ahead, swiftly ascending the first segment of those stairs. Her powerful legs compress like a spring as, rather than turn to either side like this path dictates, she maintains her momentum and hurls herself upwards, gauntleted fingers grabbing onto the railing above to help her hop that hurdle. Her inhuman feet come crashing down onto a smooth hardwood floor, which quietly creaks beneath her considerable weight.

Time slows to a crawl as Krvavy looks past the bodies of the dead, emerald eyes sweeping across the scene before her.

Countless candles line the walls, layered along tiered ledges. Many are lit, those tiny flickering flames filling this large room with the faint golden light of countless rising suns, but even more are not. The thick walls curve inward, ‘broken’ apart by nine tall and thin windows, each set in deep a sloping alcove that gives them even greater height. Naught but darkness can be seen through those cold panes of glass, the smoke outside smothering the sight of the stars above and the glowing cinders of Svaneti below.

Directly in the middle of this temple, huddled close beneath it’s three central windows, are a handful of people. Hardly more than a dozen still standing, all braced behind a broken barrier of overturned pews. Cornered and surrounded.

But the barbarian hardly even notices those figures, her gaze locking onto the four knights that stand between her and that **** struggle for survival.

The leftmost one is a giant of a man, far broader than this barbarian and perhaps even the same height as she. His bulk is contained within a shell of silvery armour, shining like the surface of a frozen lake, and is further protected by an enormous tower shield coated in layers of jagged ice. With casual ease he swings a hefty morningstar mace – its spikes sheathed in twisting icicles – through the air, batting aside a long-poled warhammer that posed absolutely no threat to him.

The rightmost one is far more average in appearance, his height like that of most men and his armour much less eye-catching, being made of a dull grey metal that bears many scratches and scars. What makes him stand out is his weapon: a sword of such incredible size that it makes even Krvavy’s oversized axe seem modest. Yet despite how tall, thick, and wide that weapon is... he has no issue swinging it to and fro, reverting its no doubt immense momentum on a dime.

Between those two knights fight a pair who both have feathers atop their helms, though that is where the similarities between them end. One is thin and graceful, their articulating armour polished to the perfection of a silver mirror. That figure shimmers like a mirage in the mist as the **** strikes of Svaneti’s soldiers are so effortlessly dodged and punished with nimble thrusts of a glaive, its elegantly curved blade biting into even the smallest of weak points. And the other...

Practical plate armour, of a polished dark-grey decorated only by trimmed lines of gleaming silver, covers that final figure. Fairly unassuming, if not for the sheer size of the pieces that sheathe his left arm – its gauntlet and pauldron both quite bulky and its vambrace flared out as if it were a smaller shield – and the silver sash that rests across his torso, matching the modest plume of feathers in its metallic sheen. A sash that Krvavy recognizes and remembers.

“DUKE DOVORYN TERENTI!” The Drakling bellows the name of her foe, rage burning within her heart.

But rather than any sort of response... that damned Duke completely ignores Krvavy, simply swinging his sabre at the shaft of a billhook that dared to stab in his direction and attempt to disrupt his duel, reducing that weapon to little more than a useless stick.

The truly giant knight shifts his glacial shield, blocking any attempt to attack him from the front as he turns his hulking body just enough to let his helmeted head stare towards the source of that shout. “My liege. A demon calls your name.” His voice is deep and gruff... and incredibly disinterested, despite the weight of his words.

“Mm?” That swift sabre slices through the air, its tip carving open an enclosed helmet and drawing a pained cry from the older man that the Duke is facing. The brief opening that creates gives him the chance to quickly glance back over his shoulder. “That is no demon,” the Duke plainly states, iron eyes hardly looking at the Drakling before returning to the fight at hand. “Merely one of the Beastfolk. A lizard, nothing more. You should know as much, Ingvar, or has your mother never told you of what else resides in the north?”

A grunt serves as the massive man’s only response.

One of Svaneti’s remaining soldiers, of which there are fewer and fewer as the seconds pass on by, screams in agony as an utterly oversized greatsword cleaves through his collarbone and all but bisects him down to the hip.

The knight wielding that excessively sized weapon steps back from the fight, turning towards the Drakling. “I will handle this, sir.”

“No,” the Duke denies that request, his heavy gauntlet grasping onto his opponent’s longsword by the blade... before his own chops off the hand that holds it. “Our position was not undefended. That this beast has made it here shows us its strength.”

“Which is all the more reason –!” A single gesture silences that slightly heated protest.

“Hold steady.” The Duke pulls away from the man he had disarmed, letting another drag that bloodied casualty back. “I will see what it wants.”

For a brief moment, only one of these knights truly remains in the fight. A fact that doesn’t go unnoticed by the few remaining soldiers of Svaneti. One in particular – a man clad in more mail than plate but still better equipped than those he is fighting beside – takes advantage of that fleeting moment of reprieve, swinging his broad-bladed sword at the elegant knight’s glaive and swiftly raising his shield to fill the space that parry created.

A soft, static sound buzzes through the air.

The glaive-wielding knight dashes forward... but isn’t quite fast enough, their advance halted as a gentle blue light bursts from that soldier’s shield, rushing out to the sides and above and below. In the span of less than a second, a translucent wall of shimmering mana reminiscent of a bright and cloudless sky has sealed off the survivors sheltering within the alcove of those three central windows.

“Tkk.” The elegant knight clicks their tongue, sparks sizzling out from the spot where their graceful weapon is attempting to touch that still-raised shield. “Their barrier is back, Dovoryn.” A lighter voice comes out from beneath their helm, stern and... not too feminine, but still that of a woman.

“Let the princeling waste his energy, Inessa,” the Duke dismissively responds, his harsh eyes narrowing just a little as he spots the small coat of arms resting where Krvavy’s pauldron meets her breastplate. “Maintain pressure on the barrier but do not breach it. Ensure that they do not escape. And do not give them any openings to strike.”

The corner of Krvavy’s eye twitches with rage, her fingers tightening around the haft of her axe. She grits her teeth and stares straight at the man stepping towards her. If it weren’t for the fact that each of these knights seem like a challenge on their own... she would have already rushed in and driven her axe into that bastard’s skull. But at least her... patience... has paid off, as the Duke seems intent on facing her alone. Hopefully it stays that way.

“Beast,” that cruel sabre is flicked to the side, the droplets of blood lingering on its blade joining the mess seeping into the hardwood floor, those puddles and rivers slowly streaming towards the Drakling. Which is, thankfully, something the Duke and his knights do not seem to have noticed. “What is it you want from me?”

“Your. Head.” Krvavy coldly returns, moving forwards just enough to ensure she isn’t too close to the railings behind her. As helpful as it is for her foe to separate himself from his allies like this... she does still need some room to fight. It won’t do her any good to get cornered right off the bat.

The Duke simply nods. “In that case,” he raises his sword, pointing its curved tip towards Krvavy. “Come, try to take it.”

Emerald eyes glance past that arrogant man. Beyond, sizzling sparks arc from that **** barrier, drawn out by the towering shield, agile glaive, and titanic sword simply pressing against it.

Krvavy rolls her jaw... and lunges forwards, going from still as a statue to a blurred blitz in an instant.

Ice, clear and almost black in colour, sprouts from the Duke’s heavy gauntlet as he raises that hand up to meet this Drakling’s axe.

117.12 Damage dealt to [Duke Dovoryn Terenti]

Small specks of frost go flying, the enchanted armour beneath that protective layer of ice shimmering with magical might as the **** of a channelled Seismic Stomp is diffused throughout it. The faintest hint of discomfort flashes across the Duke’s face, visible through his open helm, as his hand is budged back just a bit.

Duuun...!

That dull sound thrums through Krvavy breastplate and chest, strands of her crimson hair blowing away from her shoulders while the air in front of her ripples, as if struck by a near-silent sonic boom. In that same second, her foe shoves her Soulbound weapon away... with far more strength than she could hope to resist. “Hhhhh...!” A hissed breath passes through her bared teeth as she swiftly steps to the side, narrowly dodging a probing strike aimed at her exposed midsection.

The Duke’s icy fingers clench together, the chilly crystals coating those gauntleted digits cracking from that motion. Snowflakes rise from that frozen fist, the moisture in the air condensing into jagged needles and razor-sharp shards. A mere gesture sends the summoned snow and sleet shooting towards Krvavy, even as more continues to form and join this barraging blizzard.

-4.29 Health
-4.38 Health

Chunks of pure cold crash into Krvavy’s chest and strike her stomach, smaller shards scattering off her arms and thighs as well. Being hit by that hailstorm hurts, of course, but only a few of those pummelling pieces are capable of overcoming her defences. And even then they barely deal any damage at all.

-5.02 Health
-4.04 Health
-4.23 Health
-2.51 Health

Frozen fragments shatter against pale skin, black scales, and sparse armour alike, leaving hardly a scratch and barely a bruise. An icy chill battles against the rage burning within her heart and flowing through her veins. Her clawed and inhuman toes scratch at the hardwood floor beneath her feet, finding purchase in the minuscule cracks between those long planks as she pushes against the blizzard aimed at her, steadily advancing through that snowy storm.

-5.52 Health
-3.43 Health
-6.01 Health

The frigid wind whistles by the Drakling’s pointed ears, that cone of cold blasting into her belly and breastplate as she swings her axe in a wide sweeping strike.

93.47 Damage dealt to [Duke Dovoryn Terenti]

That armoured hand is swatted to the side, the ice and metal which sheathes flesh and bone turning what should have been a rather debilitating strike into hardly more than an aching annoyance.

“Mn.” The Duke makes a thoughtful sound as he dodges Krvavy’s follow-up attack, the sharp spike at the other end of her axe just barely failing to catch his sash. Has he realized how useless his Ice Magic is, offensively speaking, or does he need her to prove that fact even further? “Why do you fight for Svaneti?” He idly asks, looking once more to the small besagew shield that Krvavy bears.

The Drakling’s upper lip lifts into a snarled sneer, that so casual tone prickling at her nerves. “To keep them out of my way...!” She hisses back, wincing slightly as the razor edge of the Duke’s sabre just barely slices her left leg, stinging like a papercut. Frost gathers around that little line.

-9.8 Health

“And why are you so intent on killing me?” Comes the next calm question... which causes Krvavy to hesitate for just the briefest of moments. And a split second is all the Duke needs.

-26.57 Health

A thin glaze of glass-like ice spreads from that shorter but slightly deeper slash at the edge of the barbarian’s belly, creeping across the glowing lines painted onto her pale skin and distorting the crimson light of those defensive runes even more than the bark-like mirage of Oakflesh already has. Droplets of water run down the surface of that thin, icy sheet as the Drakling’s heat grows in intensity, the great pyre burning within her very being melting away the cold before it can so much as slow her down.

Those two cuts may have been rather small, left by attacks that could only be described as casual and laid back, yet still they passed through her flesh with surprising ease and little resistance. Either the Duke is so strong and the damage he deals so immense that even his slower, scrutinizing strikes could be a threat if not taken seriously... Or he is dealing True Damage. Judging by how this blade had, only just minutes ago, cut through a helmet and an armoured arm... the latter is more than likely.

The hammering of this Drakling’s heart grows louder in her ears, muscles going tense and taut.

More ice gathers around the Duke’s gauntleted fist, adding onto the armour already there. “What reason do you have for this animosity?” He steps back and to the right. “It sounds personal, yet...”

“Hrrnhh...!” Krvavy’s grunts and slams her Soulbound weapon through a wall of frost and snow that rose to meet her strike, the shrapnel scattering out from that violent impact little more than harmless powder. Her carnivorous teeth clamp together, her jaw clenched painfully tight, as a frenzied fury fills her very being with incomparable rage.

Does this damned Duke not recognize her!? Does he not remember ordering her to be executed!? Does he need to be reminded of the agony she was **** to endure in those last moments of her life, before her body had been reduced to ash by arcs of lightning!?

All of that bitter hatred and indignant anger flows through this Scion of the Dragons, her heart and core beating as one. Her veins shine brighter through her skin, the spilled blood that would seep into wood if not for her influence roiling like the surface of a violent sea. Her emerald eyes glow around the black of her pupils, those pits of utter darkness almost appearing to flare more vertically than horizontally as they grow larger.

“RRRRRGHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!”

Candles flicker and go out all across this expansive room, leaving only a few still burning... that soft light drowned beneath the flickering blue of the magical barrier struggling to stay active.

43.6 Damage dealt to [Duke Dovoryn Terenti]

Her foe skids back across the wooden floor, his armour rattling and ice cracking as that Requiem Roar bashes against his braced body, stripping away at least some of his defences.

“THAT ROAD!” The barbarian’s booming voice echoes through this temple turned arena, “QUESTIONS ABOUT BANDITS!” Spittle flies past her parted lips, accompanying those hardly coherent shouts, as she launches herself towards her target with magical wind at her back. “YOU KILLED –!”

A deafening bang drowns out that final word as metal is bent beneath the brawny might of that attack, her axe’s long beard severing a silvery sash as it bites into a breastplate, letting loose an earthquake into the ribs and meat within.

Critical Hit! 1,273.53 Damage dealt to [Duke Dovoryn Terenti]

But still, so much of that **** is spread throughout those armoured plates, the enchantments within shimmering as they serve their purpose... mending that metal enough for it to not restrict the breathing or movement of its wearer. Much as Krvavy’s own armour is capable of, albeit far faster and far more effectively.

“Ahhh... yes...” A degree of recognition fills the Duke’s iron eyes, accompanying the pain that he can’t quite hide. With the ease of an experienced warrior, he regains his balance and deftly angles the tip of his swinging sabre towards Krvavy’s throat. A retaliating strike that is easy to avoid, though it still drives this Drakling back before she can follow up her attack with another. “A sibling, or –?”

A deadly chill looms overhead as the Duke cuts himself short, greying brow knitting together while neither moustache nor neatly trimmed beard hides the frown filling his face as he truly recognizes Krvavy for who – for what – she is.

“I see.” A soberingly serious undertone fills Dovoryn’s voice. “So Grigori was right... The Gods are playing another game with our lives...” Even distracted as he is, the Duke still strikes at the Drakling with skill and speed, keeping her on the back foot and not giving her the space to wind up for another attack. Not without the risk of taking a hit that, even in her current less than stable state, she knows would be better to avoid.

Each opportunity for an attack that is lost... Each strike that she narrowly avoids... This little dance only serves to agitate the Drakling. Yet it is little more than a minor annoyance compared to what is truly fanning the flames of her rage, the blaze burning within her very being.

No, that would be the fact that the bastard in front of her refuses to see Krvavy as the threat that she is...! Even knowing that she can come back from the dead, even knowing that she is backed by a God... this damned Duke is fighting so... so casually! Focused more on his thoughts than his foe! As if this was just some friendly sparring and not an attempt on his life!

“Grigori...!” Krvavy hatefully growls the name of the first man to kill her. “The Patriarch...! That lightning wizard, yes...?!” Hot air hisses past her bared teeth like a puff of smoke, pale lips pulling thin as they spread into a wide and sadistic grin. “Did you ever find his body? Or did the wildlife make short work of it first? I just dumped it into a ditch, so the beasties would have had plenty of chances to nibble away!”

The Duke narrows his eyes and clenches his jaw. The swift strikes of his sabre, that flurry of frost-wreathed thrusts, slows just a bit. He doesn’t pursue the Drakling as she takes a few steps back, prowling beyond his reach.

“I wonder... how much was even left by the time your men found that corpse?” Emerald eyes gleam with a cruel joy as Krvavy arrogantly glares down at her adversary. “The hands? Those clumps of charcoal clasped together in a prayer that went unheard and unanswered? I’m sure they were still there...! Not the head though! I stomped that into oblivion!” A callous laugh underlines that honest taunt. “He died without dignity, his guards torn apart and fed to the trees and the beasts! The same...! Will be true...! FOR YOU!”

840.32 Damage dealt to [Duke Dovoryn Terenti]

Ice shatters and cracks beneath the considerable weight of Krvavy’s Soulbound weapon, all that **** concentrated into its ridged hammerhead. Yet still most of the damage that should have been done by that strike, and the Seismic Stomp channelled through it, is diffused by the shield-like vambrace that blocked her attack.

An infuriating fact, regardless of how hypocritical that may be. This is, after all, what anyone facing Krvavy has to deal with. Except with her it is a bit more bullshit...

“Gnnh...!” The Duke grunts from the pain his forearm is **** to bear, but he doesn’t let that slow him down, his gauntleted hand snapping out and grasping at the haft of that halberd-esq axe before it can fully pull back. His sabre slices through the air.

-42.36 Health

There is only so much Krvavy can do to dodge that shimmering blade. Its curved tip sinks into the underside of her tail, close to where the second padded strap clings tightly to that meaty thing, as she takes a step back and to the side. “NNrrgh...!” A snarled sound passes through her parted lips as she wrenches her weapon free from this bastard’s grip.

Which is not as easy as it should have been, the oversized axehead... heavier... than usual. As is her body, the faintest pressure weighing down on her. But... only where she is covered in armour.

Warmth flows through Krvavy’s skin, emanating from the trinket that Shadow gave her. That little metal disk dangling from her loincloth belt only grows hotter as the Duke’s expression hardens.

“Your magic is useless against me!” Arrogance underlines those bellowing words, purposefully exaggerated to not let her foe realize he can just push through her defences. And to hopefully piss him off. It isn’t easy to concentrate on casting magic when overwhelmed with anger. Not unless you’re very used to doing such a thing. Like she is. “I! CAME! PREPARED!”

For a moment, it almost seems as if Krvavy’s axe is going get blocked by that heavy gauntlet once again. But rather than carry through with her incredibly telegraphed attack, she instead reverses the momentum of her Soulbound weapon and strikes at the Duke’s more lightly armoured right wrist with its solid wood shaft.

405.16 Damage dealt to [Duke Dovoryn Terenti]

He keeps hold of his sabre, unfortunately, though the **** echoing through his enchanted vambrace does keep him from immediately retaliating. “Gnnn...!” The Duke grunts, gaze briefly flicking down to those pale and well-defined abs that are conveniently left uncovered by this barbarian’s armour. “Those markings...!”

Even as heated as she is now, Krvavy knows that it would be best to not let her foe learn what is really making her resistant to his magic. So if he wants to assume that Inanna’s runes are to blame... “That’s right! These glowing lines aren’t just for show! And don’t they look familiar to you? Maybe a bit... Dwarven!?”

Those iron eyes narrow, piercing into this taunting Drakling like a pair of razor-sharp daggers.

“HAHA!” Krvavy lets out a cruel laugh. “Were you expecting a certain Runesmith to come and serve you? To help equip your men with gear that isn’t as weak and useless as they are? Well, too bad! Because I took her too! She is much happier being MINE~!”

The Duke has no response to that, instead he swiftly springs forwards, sweeping his sabre in a wide horizontal arc. A single step back isn’t quite enough to dodge that abrupt attack.

-340.41 Health

“Hhhh!” A deep line slices across the barbarian’s bare belly, opening up her abs and severing many of the glowing lines painted across her pale skin. Crimson light crosses that chasm of a wound, shining onto the organs and entrails within, those runes burning more power to maintain their connection and remain active. At least long enough for her flesh to knit itself back together, muscles writhing like a mass of snakes and skin stretching across that raw meat. “Nghhh!” Hardly even a scar remains as memory of that pain.

+100 Health

The Duke glances downward for just the slightest of seconds, his iron eyes going wide as he sees a tiny island of dry wood around this Drakling’s inhuman feet. An island surrounded by an ocean of blood, that liquid life carried closer in an unrelenting tide... only to fade into nothingness before a single clawed toe can even risk dipping into those crimson shallows.

“INGVAR!” He bellows the name of his largest knight. “FREEZE THE BLOOD! LET NOT A DROP NEAR THIS BEAST!”

The flagging and flickering barrier is given a brief moment of reprieve as that giant glacier of a shield pulls back... and then slams into the ground with enough strength to splinter the sturdy floorboards. A wave of frigid **** echoes from that strike, coating the pale corpses littering this temple in a layer of crisp frost as the blood flowing from those bodies begins to crystalline into a disgusting slush, slowed considerably but not completely stopped.

A deep, polar chill hangs in the air. Cold enough that even the Duke’s shallow breath can be seen, the hairs of his moustache and beard quickly coated in flakes of frozen dew and ice as he stands there, eyes closed and face crinkled in concentration. The very tip of his sabre slowly sways side to side... almost like a conductors baton.

Heat, intense and impossible to ignore, emanates from the trinket on Krvavy’s belt. Her armour and axe tremble slightly... before ultimately falling still once more. But the metal further from her body doesn’t share that protection.

All around this room, the weapons of the dead rattle and leap into the air. Spears and billhooks, poleaxes and warhammers, daggers and knives...