Welcome to Gaia! ::

This is a place where two people can duel their hearts out. There can be more than one battle going on at a time, but no matter what, there can only be one vs. one.

Rules:

1. Before each fight, a destination must be chose to fight. It can be in an active volcano, whatever, but there has to be a destination made up with a little detail.

2. Before each fight, there is to be a profile posted. The profile must be what you are going to fight and go by which should already be posted somewhere in the myria guild.

3. No godmodding, popflying, or invicibilities. Godmodding includes characters that are two thousand years old, invincible weapons, going through battle without taking hits, being able to continiously cast spells and/or actions in battle without rest, etc. Follow your profile once again.

4. A fight to the death, or a spar. One or the other, but make sure to post which one it is. Once agreed with a fight to the death, it is done. You fight till both characters give up or one of them dies or a draw.

5. Follow gaia's own rules and myria's.

Have fun, have at it......

[[To make it far, to determine which hit would hit and which blocks block, roll a single 20 sided die. The player with the higher number wins the turn. ]]

((I like your determination on how hard it hits, but I disagree with Kikuka. Just have someone judge, if they say it wasn't a fair strike/block/counter, it wasn't. It's less chancy, more sensible. More tournament like and less annoying.))
((And I guess I'll play, though I always make new characters, so this one isn't anywhere else. Acceptable?
On that note, Rage the Drow challenges Deadwolf to a duel of his choice: death or spar. If the challenge is accepted, she will be waiting at the edge of Belden's wood))

Name: Goes by 'Rage' Her true name is never spoken, and it is rumored that those who do, die horrible deaths within two weeks of speaking.
Age: 112 (going by Elven years, that not old at all)
Race: Drow (^_^v)
Weapons: A double-bladed scimitar of black titanium, the metal showing the fine ripplings of a damascened blade beneath the shifting shadows. Black leather wraps the center space, providing a secure grip even when blood slicked. unlike many weapons, this one is low on ornamentation, testifying to its nature as a weapon, not a decoration. The weapon holds a faint touch of magic, like a stale wind in an empty plain. The original spells are gone, but whatever they did, traces of that remains. (The blade has a random Fear effect, only possible when a strike draws blood. the more blood drawn, the more likely it is to hit. If it's a person she's fought before, then the chance stays the same height it was before)
She also carries about nine knives tucked in the locales prefered by theives.
Magic: A master of shadows, she can travel through them to any shadow she has seen before, as long as it's big enough for her to get through. She can also turn them into tangible bonds when someone steps into deep shadow, though she rarely does; it makes the game less fun.
Appearance: Elven slender with the trademark ears, her skin is the dark of the deepest mines and her hair the white of a blind man's eyes. Her eyes are pale purple, like faded amethysts. Her long white hair is done into a number of fine braids and pulled back into a ponytail, threaded with tiny amethyst beads of the same pale shade as her eyes. Her clothes are loose and dark: black breeches, black shirt under a jerkin of darkest gray. A black belt and cross-strap offer places for a pouch and her balde's sheath. Black boots adorn her feet. A single loop of the same shaded metal as her blade pierce one ear, and bears a single amethyst bead.
She has a strange visor of dark material she wears in extremely bright areas to sheild her sensitve eyes. Having learned from her mistakes, this eye-shield is generally anchored with magic, and unbreakable, though penetrateable.
Strengths: Due to her long association with her sword, 'Rage' is immune to Fear. That is not to say she does not fel it, when fear is warranted, but it does not freeze her thoughts or paralyze her motions as it does with other people. Fear spells have no affect on her at all. Spells invoking darkness or shadows against her deal half-damage, because she is a walker of the dark herself.

Belden's wood: An ancient forest of giant oaks and deep shadow and mystery. Few dare to travel within for fear of the Fae who dwell there. It opens onto a wide plain of stunted grasses. To the left, the North, rises colosal mountains of dark gray stone, their tips lost to jagged peaks and cloud. The wood itself faces east, and heavy mists adorn the plain and drift between the antique oaks at Dawn. To the south stretches both forest and plain, the ancient trees slowly giving way to newer growth as it near the horizon.
Rage can be found at the base of one such tree, not far from where the mountains suddenly lift into the sky. A slender flute poised in graceful fingers, the tune played both mournful and triumphant.

She looked up over her flute and trilled it to a stop with a last flourish. Bland amethyst eyes trailed across the fires. "The Fae aren't going to be happy about that," She commented in a plain tone, stating fact, not opinion. She rose to her feet and shrugged. "My cousins would say kill you. My brothers would say kill. But I have learned temperance. I look for a victory; if you are foolish enough to drive it to the death, then I would be forced to comply. I believe my challenge said it was your choice." She turned the silvery flute in her fingers and slid it away. He really shouldn't have burned the trees; he'd never hear the end of it, if he won. "Do be more specific when your answering." She made no overt movements, her blade laying at her side in easy reach as she remained seated against the oak. "I may have time, but I don't wish to waste it in chatter, Elf." She had learned temperance, not liking, and the age-old tension between the Drow and High elves remained, though muted, in this specimen of the Dark Elven kind.

She got to her feet, blade in hand now, though not set to guard. The faded hm of magic in it gained an anticipating taste to it, as though the silver-black metal could already taste his blood. There was room to play, even within his circle of light. Her blade was hungry, it didn't much care who, though it was partial to the blood of lighter skinned elves; a trait that came from serving Drow for so many centuries its spells wore thin.
Rage smiled thinly, pale amethyst eyes behind a thin veil of shadow alight with fire. This would be fun.

Of her options, a number of which occured to her, she chose the path of least resistance and took two actions: first, she jumped into the tree she'd been under, into the shadows made deeper by the flames, and then vanished. She reappeared in another tree yards down the line, as the bolt struck her previous perch. Rage shook her head and dropped back to the grass. "And you said you didn't want to kill me..." She remarked with a wry smile, twirling her double-scimitar in her hands so that it began a faint hum as it sliced through the air. She was not worried about exhausting her magic supplies--shadow walking took effort similar to the distance traveled, and once learned was always 'active.' Unlike most spells, the only thing required for it was a shadow of the right size, and thought.
Now she returned the favor of approach. If worst came to worst, her blade could take the force of his lightning magic, fire she could dodge. She had heard tale that he had skill with ice and water, but wasn't sure how far that extended. The hum of her blades was more than just air being cut; the weapon thirsted, and hummed its anticiaption of blood.

"Only a fool drinks where snakes swim." She retorted. In a time past, her blade woud have replied, or growled, or shown some sign of hearing, but now it held no thought, only hunger. but it could not act without its master's consent, so it hummed as her blade spun.
Rage paused in her approach. She was not so follish as to think she could slay a mage who baited her like that. Her magic was very strong within it's boundries, but this was beyond her power. There was no deep darkness around him; she could not stop his breath, or movement. But she could be ready.

Surprise? No, he did not have the element of surprise. And her double-scimitar was still whirling like a moulinette*. She let him come, blades spinning rapidly. A frontal assault was more than fool-hardy, it was madness.
But he could be mad, and he could loose their match.
And he could be glad that the spells on her weapon had deteriorated as far as they had, or he would have suffered a fate worse than death.
If he went through with his planned attack, he would put the primary force of the spin into the block, and the remaining force into a final strike he would be hard pressed to block, charging in like that.

((*I think that's the name of the French quarter-staff style where you spin it))