Maelcum shakes his head. When will Wundagore learn? Just look at him standing there, trying to watch all directions at once, afraid of a blade in the dark. As he should be. The Tauren's otherwise imposing body visibly trembles with a cute combination of uncertainty and excitement. Quite brave of him to actually request a duel, considering the severe beatings Maelcum gave him in the past. Brave, or oxe stubborn stupid. The night will tell.

Silent like an undeads heartbeat, Maelcum professionally sneaks in for the kill. Well, kill. It's still a friendly duel, so actually cutting of extremeties isn't part of the game. Officially at least. But there still ought to be opportunity for some 'fun'.

Unfortunately, sound and sight dont appear to be all the senses the druid has at its disposal. Sniffing the air, the big tauren lifts his head in alarm, and starts twirling the tree he calls a staff between his fingers. That wont help him much, though.

Only a yard away from the druids broad back, Maelcum considers whispering something like 'boo' before changing his friend into a screaming pincushion. A druid with a staff, ha! If druids pose any threat, its not with their physical weapons. It's them channeling that cursed hippy stuff through your spinal column that hurts. And, of course...ah crap.

With a moo and a flash of light the druids robed form disappears. Maelcum's dagger should be piercing several layers of leather, slitting between the third and fourth rib to finally plunge into a lung chamber. Instead, an insane amount of coarse black hair engulfs his dagger, glove and wrist.

The druid decided his tauren form wasnt woolly enough, and changed into his freaking Bear Form. Great. On the other hand, no magic stuff.

Maelcum, of course, still manages to twist the blade till it hurts. Severing a select few tendrills suffices to stun the bear into a tremor of pure pain. This will be shortlived though, so he methodically starts cutting up the solid mass in front of him. Side, spleen, leg, side, leg, back, neck, and now for a flying kick...what the...?!

A tangle of grass, vines and small branches are holding the rogue's boots rooted to the dirt. Impossible!

Maybe, but still very actual. Irritating. Maelcum was sure druids couldn´t perform magic while in their animal form. The bear in question recovers from the stun and painfully stumbles a few paces away, roaring away at the starlit skies. Ah. Thats does not look or sound like an ordinary bear. So this must be the so called Dire Bear. Interesting. For the legendary great beast of destruction, though, it sure looks a mess. Gallons of blood and patches of fur mark the dirt spot where several seconds of blade wielding rogue had their way. Maelcum points a blade to his damaged prey, and grins.

Green light envelopes the bear. Bodily fluids stops oozing from the many gashes in it's body. Wounds close up. Fur grows back. A fully healed 10 feet meat grinder rises on it's hind legs and roars vengance.

Maelcum's grin gets a bit weak. Dammit, thats not possible either!

Maybe not, but also very happening.

The bear charges. Being rooted to the ground while a dire bear charges you is not, by many cultures, considered a tactical advantage. With a snarl and a cascade of fluid movements, Maelcum dislodges himself forcibly from the roots. Quite a painfull operation, but necessary.

The rest resembles a closed quarters cage fight. A sword and dagger wielding rogue against some 800 pound of pure muscle and claw. Luckily, 800 pounds of bear also means a lot of target. And slow, hulking movement. Not an ounce of nimbleness between all those pounds of muscle.

Maelcum dances around the roaring bear, hitting what and where he can. Claws and snapping jaws find only emptiness, while the next blade sinks in. Darting, jumping and rolling like only a highly trained rogue assassin can, his blade flurry would only be visible for an observer by the patterns of deep red that start to appear on the huge bear. And keep appearing. And some more.

Maelcum is giving the bear all he has, but the snarling beast doesnt seem to notice it. Gods, how endurable do they breed these things, anyway?! Spuriously, some of the claws and even some of the teeth find their mark. Then some more. Maelcum finds his strenght slowly waning. Sweat pours down his tusks, and blood clouds his eyes. Feel free to DIE now, you bloody beast!

Again a blade finds it mark. And again. Still without much discernable effect. Redoubling his efforts, Maelcum tries to cut through the endurance of the bear like a goblin shredder through brushweed. Faster and faster he moves, stabbing, cutting, piercing, slashing. With the last of his strenght, he sets up a combat trap, lures the beast through the motions, and performs a perfectly executed eviscarete. Howling like a...well, like an enraged bear, the monster finally backs off.

Maelcum rolls his shoulders and takes a deep breath. Gods, he's exhausted. But it seems like he finally got the foul beast. Next time, he will...

A flash and a moo. Crap. Maelcum simply turns and flees, sprinting as fast as his tired legs allow. Behind him Wundagore laughs, and begins to mutter coloured syllables in a hoarse tongue. The rogue knows its too late. No harm in desperately trying, though. If he could just....

A concentrated flow of nature's disrespect for trolls enters his spinal column from the way down. During its way up, it entices every single connected neuron to signal a plethora of unpleasant input, to finally reach the top, and explain to his brain the meaning of excruciating pain.

Maelcum slams headfirst into a wall of grass and pebbles.

Some distance away, a moo can be heard, celebrating a victory with the mooooon.