Duel to the Death - Harkon Stormwarden vs Bezeth

The Fallen colony is somewhat bowl like and you are landed at the trade port on the rim. You travel inland to the great spire city which is the capital, constructed long ago by men who then ascended. The base of the tower would take an hour to walk around completely, and while it tapers, it doesn't taper /much/.

After being kindly but firmly made to remove large weapons you ascend in what the Fallen call a “lift” — an automated mechanical device which seems to crawl through tunnels within the rock. You eventually reach the storm lit top of the spire.

The entire top of the capital sports a giant metallic rod, which seems to take little more than a scorch mark from storm strikes, of which there have obviously been many. However the full wrath of the storm seems to be mitigated by the silver rods that ring the edge of the summit. They seem to attract the storms lightning carrying its power away deep into the tower.

An area has been setup for spectators in the shelter of a building made of a similar material to the roof, and seems to offer protection from the elements. This is required due to the strong winds this far off the fragment bottom, and the likely fallout.

A Union Marshall stands proudly at the front of each stall alongside the Unsullied's finest. Both stand to assure a fair and impartial duel.

The Crowd rings the arena, awaiting the signal. Among them are countless famous faces from the Temple Gathering, jostling alongside the varied menagerie of fallen beastmen and machinists. Karbaldi squat in their bulky suits at the back of the stands, elbow to elbow with phytarin and colonials of all persuasions. Some industrious Zwerginn watch from their own vantage points, the ferrymen making a killing on 'premium seats'. Meanwhile Hareppi reel and trill overhead in anticipation, under the wary eye of Unsullied Guards.

Chants for the two fighters mix with chatter and song into a cacophany that bombards the two small figures at the centre of this attention. They need no introduction, and stand ready, entirely focused on the flag held by Sarin the Seeker.

Harkon stands resplendent, his ursine frame plated head to toe in Psychomancers neon red and black armor. The red streaks glow bright while the black blends into the long shadow he casts. One hand is still grafted to the wicked blade of Black Lightning, while the other is gauntleted with a large technical device that intermittently gives off tiny sparks. A second large scabbard hangs ready across his back.

Bezeth stands some distance from him. Smaller, but equally plated in a neon sheened suit and bearing more weapons than her four arms could hope to wield. Two ornate sheaths hang from her waist, along with a number of smaller blades. A large bronze shield is strapped to her upper left arm, and three sleek claws, dripping a nasty black substance, are strapped to her upper right. Her pauldrons are adourned with two tall pylons and an array of squat dormant bulbs, while her breastplate jangles with a dozen small black spheres, most sloppily painted with happy faces. She also sports a stylish bandana and a wicked grin.

How her trousers that can support all this weight is a mystery.

Atop his small judging platform Sarin raises his flag and signals the duellists to get ready. Bezeth crosses her lower arms and twin blades rasp free. The first crackles from its sheath and seems to crack like a whip as it is brought to bear. The second disappears into coils of inky blackness as it is revealed.

Harkon simply cuffs his arm cannon, instigating a loud 'ChaChak' followed by a high pitched whine.

The roaring of the crowd drowns out even the rumble of the storms as the name 'Bezeth' gains unity and blasts across the field.

Without hesitation Harkon raises his cannon and a stream of jagged lightning tears into the spot where Bezeth was. With phenomenal reflexes she tears around the arena, the stream of lightning tearing up the soil in her wake. However, weighed down as she is, Harkon has the advantage and keeps the killer at bay.

Bezeth snatches a bauble from her chest, hooks one fang through a small ring on it and tugs, pitching the thing at the steel knight. It lands several feet from him then explodes in a cloud of stormic fire. Harkon instinctively raises his blade, and staggers back. The moments reprieve gains Bezeth crucial paces.

She doesn't get far before another shrewd blast is aimed at her, this time the volley hits her square in centre of her shield. There is a bright flash from the bronze, stunning the onlookers who miss Bezeth's next stride forward.

Harkon retreats, punching another lever on the cannon and notching up its whine by an octave and a decibel. The sword in his other hand starts sparking, and seems to be reacting to the cannon, feeding it unprecedented power as a gout of flame erupts from it.

The flame consumes two more hurled grenades, leaving another crater in the arena, then tears towards its mutant target. At the last moment the flame seems to hesitate, then writhe away from a proffered blade. The blade cracks in Bezeth's hand once more and the poised flame blasts instead towards one of the stands. A great claw of mud is gouged out just before the crowd, and the shriek of fleeing onlookers adds to the chorus of the cheers.

Harkon is desperate, shield, sword, armor and quick reactions sending all of his blasts wide as Bezeth cartwheels around the knight, flamboyantly inching closer. Somehow, her challenge can be heard amid the chaos, delivered piecemeal, whilst dodging fire.

“Don't you get it? I've already won. I've made you the biggest joke in the Broken World. If you win this duel, then what will they say? That you killed an entertainer. Who had no storm magic. And you had to be possessed by a better mage to do it. But if I win… then the great Haarkon Stormwarden and the Black Lightning together were defeated by a circus juggler because she was just that damn good. That's your doom, Stormboy. To live in the eye of scorn, or die to the sound of laughter.”

“What bugs you most about me? The fact I'm a woman, the fact I'm Fallen, or the fact that even your dreams aren't as cool as my off-days?”

The cheer of the crowd is stopped short when Harkon snaps off a third lever. The cannon ceases whining, then births a new humm. It starts vibrating, shaking, then rumbling… more violently than Harkon's powerful arm can control. It sucks the light around it, and even the crackling Black blade buckles and warps towards it's event horizon. With all his might the rasping death knight hurls the fritzing contraption at Bezeth. The grin freezes on her face as it fills her vision.

Several things happen in a split second; The contraption explodes just before her; sparks of chaos ark towards the baubles on her chest; a shockwave races out causing every stand to quiver; a web of fissures spread out beneath the device and Bezeth's armor glows white amid nine clouds of storm and smoke.

The pilons on her shoulders flare into life, diverting the maelstrom of energy into the bulbs, which promptly burst in a brief, painful blast of light that blinds everyone… particularly Harkon.

A burned and battered Bezeth clambers over fissured ground towards the broken storm mage. Her armor is in tatters and her shield is elsewhere, plummeting towards the canyon floor, but four mismatched blades race towards Harkon's throat. A heartbeat away Harkon finally frees his second and undamaged blade, which suddenly pulses with energy.

The blast throws the dazed beastwoman offbalance as Harkon struggles to his feet. His vizor missing, Harkon's blackened gaze finally meets Bezeth's and a feeling of vertigo overtakes them both.

The ground lurches up to one side them as their section of spire gives up its own fight and breaks free. Only the bravest of the crowd peering over the edge, or those afforded Zwerginn luxury, get to witness the two locked in combat, indifferent to their ponderous descent.

Now Harkon is clearly outmatched. his one remaining blade can't hope to parry Bezeth's armoury and the lightning skill behind it. When his face is scratched by the claw, it marks the end for the warrior. His defence falters, and a patch of darkness in which a sword must lurk find's his gut.

A tiny gasp escapes his lip as the lightning sword does his grip. Only Bezeth hear's his final words.

'no… I… am immortal.'

…As the shard of rock is moments away from escaping the spire completely. Bezeth finally acknowledges her predicament, and pushes past the staggered knight. She sprints on Exhausted muscles towards the edge of her shelf, then leaps for safety as behind her the stone and its dying occupant tumble into the basin far below.

Still trailing smoke from a miraculously surviving bauble, she arks towads the spire. She lands, badly, on a concave slope of rubble and scree before losing her footing and tumbling amid debris back towards the edge… then over it.

The onlookers gasp in dismay as they watch a trial smokey rubble descends from sight… Then cheer in elation as smoke dissipates: Bezeth is braced over the edge, her bandana taut between her four hands and hooked over an outcropping, the material miraculously bearing her weight.

A crowded Zwerginn fragment descends to rescue the victor, and she is shepherded to safety by a squad of Union Marshalls.

Meanwhile both Union and Confederate troops hasten towards the wreckage at the spire's base, Harkon's body lies somewhere within.