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[JUDGED] Reap elsewhere [Deimos Birdsong Battle] - Printable Version

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Reap elsewhere [Deimos Birdsong Battle] - Ophelia - 01-04-2015



Ophelia was unsure of how this battle would go, but the herd had planned together to spar. Sparring Deimos made the most sense, currently. The leads were new to each other, and she was new to the Basin. Testing was a way to be sure that they could comfortable go into war side by side and orchestrate a successful field. So, the pale princess took a deep breath and walked carefully to the center of the Aurora Basin. The lake glittered in the noon-day sun to her left with sparse trees to her right. As she moved her toes, she felt the rocky loam beneath her hooves, a good footing for a spar.

Silver armor gracefully accentuated her lithe figure, a perfect gift from a particularly generous tree. She decided not to try to wrap her head around the mechanics of a tree gifting her this metal casing. Some mysteries deserved to stay mysteries.

She needed this now. Emotions from her loss against Mauja still roiled inside, breaking her heart over and over again. Memories plagued her mind with doubts and pain, the feeling of the fire bird howling against her still a reminder of her need for practice. If anger could win, she would have won, but more is required in war than just emotion thrown into muscle and bone. Fighting required careful calculation and critical movements she was still new to understanding. Even if she lost today, she was determined to learn.

She would not use needless words to summon Deimos. He had agreed to this plan of action, and thus she waited patiently, absently rocking her tail to and fro to flick the flies away from her hind legs. Tinek, interested in this, spiraled down from the sky and landed upon her armored spine, waiting and watching for their opponent to arrive. Ophelia tried to go into this battle with a clean mind and open soul, but already tendrils of stress crept through. She would have to rage against not only her opponent but herself.

[[(0/3) (words)
Summary :D Deimos can attack first! ]]

@[Deimos]



OPHELIA
Faith shattered and decays as frosted blood flows in my veins

sdrcow @ DA



RE: Reap elsewhere [Deimos Birdsong Battle] - Deimos - 01-10-2015



He was strung, roped, and tethered on the conviction, on the promise, of violence. Like an old, favored friend, it hung in the distance, relished and polished, eager, ready, waiting for its savored release – and were it not one of his own, he may have chomped and bit down upon the threads holding him back from unholy, unrelenting liberation.

But his spar was to be with Ophelia, an interesting, intriguing way to unravel the chords of seasons past (where he had nearly removed her from the earth altogether, choked and strangling and engulfed her in so much malice, so much hate, for passing through the gates of their home – and in a twisted turn of events, presently occupied the same icy throne). Had she not woven herself so dominantly into their frigid folds, he may have done just that once more, starved and searing, ferociously unwinding the breadth of his domination again, pressing the dark necromancy into her body until she was naught more than a fallen corpse; but now, he was at another fragile crossroads, unknowing of what to do, how to act, where to reap or how hard to assault. The Reaper’s spar with Illynx had proven to be ill-fitting, neither side had relented, caved, or collapsed; it’d only brought them closer to slitting the others’ throats. Would this do the same, where he and the new Lady already wandered over a withering thread, taut, rigid, and unyielding? Would he have to tread lightly, or could he press, devour, and condemn as he would any other cretin not belonging to his empire? Or had his rage already been stifled from years ago, no longer as turbulent, as seething, as vehement?

The conundrum was a constant sentiment ghosting over his mind as he maneuvered amongst their chosen arena, a rocky outcrop, an open copse, the cool, chilling lake nearby with the sun basking above its sanction. His surveying, his scrutinizing, his cold calculations were completely upon the femme, now armored and accompanied by her companion (the draconic beast only chiseled a firm memory of fire and the Edge, where he had tried so desperately to claw his way out of prison). They were of nearly the same stature. He’d have no advantages pressing size or bulk into the fray, and tactics would have to be adjusted and composed for the flying lizard and protective shielding she held in place. Deimos went in without scruples, without furtive boughs, without platelets and carapaces, a war machine brewed from the gallows, from the devil, from the opuses of Lucifer himself. Here, he could sing his one, immoral song. Here, he could brandish the all-mighty crescendo, the outlet of power, the crown of devastation, seize and possess, tear and slash, and show the world where his true talents lay. Not with politics, not with conversation. His dialogue was swift movements and alighted arms, heartless harpoons and seditious fervor.

Deimos arrived from her left front, staring at the armor, tracing over the foundations of where a weakness could be pinpointed. The chest? The lower points of her legs, her hind? His movements would need to be precise, exact, in order to extort any damage – magic could wait. The behemoth wanted to see how she moved first, how she maneuvered, how she exploited, and utilized the dragon, a test of craft, a honing of skill.

He charged towards her left, lowering his skull as he attempted to get closer access, aiming to slide his blade towards the left side of her barrel, yearning for just a nick, just a scratch, just a hint of capability, just to register her ability. Within the same range of movement, he attempted to elongate his neck, stretching towards her left hind in passing, and nipping at the lower portion of her hip.

[Birdsong Seasonal Spar with @[Ophelia]! 1/3. 633 words.
Setting: Noon; within basin, by the unfreezing lake. Rocky soil.
Deimos arrives towards Ophelia’s left front. He charges towards her left barrel, aiming to slide his horn lightly across it. In the same range of movement, he tries to nip at the lower portion of her hip (hopefully below the armor!).]









RE: Reap elsewhere [Deimos Birdsong Battle] - Ophelia - 01-14-2015



Tempered rage, anger captured in the grip of serenity, was power. Had Ophelia known his inner turmoil, this would have been her council. Impotent rage so often expressed by the lesser warriors gave way to fast shame and crushing defeat, but the desire for blood that grew as a tree, slowly and surely, was not so easily suppressed. This emotion was not so tied to arrogance, learned from defeat, and excelled under noses, unnoticed until unleashed and the world bowed at your prowess, wondering ‘how did this happen?’ The pale princess believed Deimos to possess this tempered fury, conviction awaiting a crown after longsuffering stealth. Though the magnitude of her passions was less, she too waited for opportunity to display the might of not only herself but the entire Aurora Basin.

The girl who had wandered so ignorantly into the World’s Edge was dead, murdered by bloodshed, heartbreak and reality. Feeling the life drain from her body had been impetus enough to make a change, reason enough to stop fighting the prematurity of her emotional aging. Older now, she could lament the loss of her childhood without raging against the injustice with naivety and foolishness.

Strange, dual colored eyes watched as his similar form twisted onto their impromptu field of battle, his stature and mass very similar to her own. Without watching him move, little else could be surmised save for the initial thought that they were evenly matched. Granted, her armor and Tinek provided her additional comforts, but the wicked magic possessed by Deimos was no small concern. She was understandably disinterested in feelings its effects once more and would adjust her tactics considerably. Ophelia did not stand before him as a wall to tear down to reach the goal; she desired to be the mastermind, moving the pieces one by one into position until foreign kings found themselves cornered and yielding to his queen.

Shared words were an unnecessary and forgotten exchange as Deimos approached, his ropey neck arched and bearing the sword on his brow. Though her silver tongue could weave beautiful lies and stunning compliments, she could not talk her way out of damage. The ground beneath her hooves shifted, the sensation gritty and real, and the blood she intended to shed would drip in reality. Confidence, not arrogance, settled into her soul. Confutatis had run in the face of her prowess, and Elsa had fallen. She and Ktulu had swept a herd clean with war, claiming it as their own. The pale princess was a close friend to violence.

Left, elegant ear shifted in his direction, and her movements, swift, made to dodge. Fleet hooves danced away, but his physique belied his agility. Ophelia lacked practice bearing armor, unused to movement altered by protection. Tinek took flight and screeched a warning, large metallic wings sweeping the air in his ascent. Hooves twisted in the gritty loam, left shoulder spinning away from his advance, and the point of his horn grazed the purest white hair of her side where armor exposed a fleshy weakness. The pressure ached, but no reward of crimson leaked from her belly. Forehooves touched the ground again, and her haunches compressed like a coiled spring to launch her away.

Speed propelled her swiftly, but not before the brunt of his fangs pinched the skin below her left hip. Ow. Ophelia’s ears flattened against her skull, her migration yanking the hide through the ivory weapons and cutting a small gash. The Forsaken’s temper flared, yawning like a great chasm in her chest and exhaling fiery smoke. Prompted by pain, the pale princess jerked her hind hooves up, threatening to catch the offender in his chest with a wild kick. Deimos was the first to draw blood. Damn.

Once settled firmly on the ground again, the Lady circled with ethereal calm, the façade hiding the determined burn within. Ophelia twisted, horn lowered and leapt forward with bated promise of impalement of his left pectoral. Simultaneously, powers of magic twisted from her mind to that of Deimos, and she attempted to delve with the plan to remove the memory of her approach. The tactic had worked against Elsa, serving to make her nearly invisible but as if she had never been there at all. Ophelia neared, unsure of her success but with every objective to prove her skill and assert ownership of her position. The throne of Lady given, now earned.


[[(1/3) (736)
Summary Ophelia took a light scratch on her side from Deimos' horn but her spin helped her avoid most damage. She took the bite to her left hip but the skin was torn away as she jumped out of his grasp. Once landed, she kicks out at him and then circles to impale him. She uses her magic to try to erase only the immediate memory of her position ]]


OPHELIA
Faith shattered and decays as frosted blood flows in my veins

sdrcow @ DA


@[Deimos] ----> do you want to be tagged? D:


RE: Reap elsewhere [Deimos Birdsong Battle] - Deimos - 01-18-2015



Deimos’ opus unleashed, his composition reworked, his oeuvre refined, the monster courted the fine enamel of battle, of bloodshed, of tactics and movements erupting into pain, torment. The infidel had to give the new Lady some credit – at least she didn’t squeal, didn’t panic, didn’t flail, and didn’t whine when his first actions corrupted her flesh. When there was no begging for mercy, when she’d accepted the macabre onslaught, his mind settled into bestial contortions. He wouldn’t have to dance and shirk and ensure he didn’t press too firmly; she wasn’t going to cower or cry. The battle could be a ringing of clarity, a testing of skills, rather than tumbling deeper and deeper into loathing and contempt.

She drummed out attempts at releasing her own potential, kicking out towards the left side of his open chest. The only thing he could do to avoid the blow was shy to the right, swift and fleeting, before it scorched across his muscles and flesh. It grazed along his hide, a flailing strike not quite leaving its intended mark, not dominating him with the indignation, the ire, of pain and agony. He twisted around, settling to devise his own plan of actions, when something utterly bizarre and strange occurred.

His mind felt occupied, like knotted, gnarled fingers traipsed amongst its gallows, its secrets, its haunting, poignant thoughts, sliding and slithering, crawling and crooning. In the confusion, he nearly ceased all movement, too befuddled, too perplexed and bewildered – the shards of his reticent features all collapsed to reveal undying incertitude. His eyes widened, and he shook his cranium back and forth, yearning for the anomaly to cease and desist. So foreign and peculiar, it seemed to run around his skull like a barbaric, impish invocation, exploring regions of his ruminations, his patterns, and a desperate, beguiling worry stole over his body as he wondered at what it saw. What hidden barbs could it reach? The Plague? The murders he’d committed? The distaste and derision he felt for many Helovian citizens? The wicked, demonic loathing contained and lodged deep into his core?

But then, as if it had never been there at all, the sensation was gone. His gaze ended up staring at the vast plains before them, the twinkling lake, the rich loam, lost and baffled, mystified and disoriented. He could no longer remember when and where his opponent had last been, where her companion had gone, where he’d stood, what he was supposed to be doing. It riled and rattled his core, shunned and mauled his senses, shuffled into his barrel in an unfamiliar curl of unease. But, at the last moment, a glint of armor shone, gallant in the noon light, towards his frame, and he swept over to the right to refrain from her devious actions, lunging across tundra grass, evading and ducking (battle, you are in the midst of battle. Here is where you dominate, not shirk and stare). Was that her magic, to lodge herself into one’s mind and wrap amongst it, trap and ensnare, confuse and allure? How much more could she see, and how much damage could she do?

The silent questions, the unsaid inquiries, left him unsettled, caustic, and rancorous. The villainous raptures carved all the more back into his face, heaved nonchalance over apprehension, built domination over misgivings. The beast, the Lord, the Reaper could show her more enchantments too, more unrelenting, pernicious schemes, more daunting, heartless motions. She’d pricked and poked and barbed a vicious, ferocious cretin, and couldn’t get away with tumbling about his designs. Longing to prove that she couldn’t have all of his secrets, he sculpted a seething, searing crescendo through his hide, allowed it to simmer, to burn, to flail along his mouth until it coiled and curled across the roof of his maw, and unfurled a molten throng of fire. The Red Bull’s gift, a scythe’s reward, a calamitous sedition, bridged over their skirmish. Like a vicious dragon, he aimed it towards her left barrel again, intending for it to hit another open chink in her armor.

[@[Ophelia] 2/3. 679 words.
Deimos shies to the right to avoid the first attempt towards his chest; her hoof grazes him only slightly. Her mind magic, however, sends him into a nervous, bewildered state. He becomes distracted with her whereabouts and movement, too worried about what she’s seeing in his mind, and only at the last second is he not overcome by her horn, dodging to the right again. In response and anger, he unleashes one large blast of fire from his mouth towards the left side of Ophelia’s barrel.]









RE: Reap elsewhere [Deimos Birdsong Battle] - Ophelia - 02-03-2015


Memories like foxglove bloomed in her mind, erupting from the ice and snow like a plague. Poison. She attacked, her actions on instincts she had yet to form on the battle field. Her heart hammered too quickly, flashes of pain from Mauja’s teeth along her spine making her twitchy, actions uneven and off. For as graceful and calm typically displayed, Ophelia was a child in battle, so new to the art of war though she had been born into a cacophony of violence. Bloodshed was fickle; you could be born from his loins but never be claimed as his heir. She felt the bastard child now, feeling the aching pinch from his teeth at her haunches as her hind legs whistled without impact behind her body. Hooves met the ground awkwardly, movement still restricted by the silver plates adorning her pale form. Ungainly steps faltered as she approached his body, intent on settling his skin around the tip of her sword.

Magic echoed between them, peering just in the immediate future of his precarious faculties. Panic, if you could call what Deimos felt as panic (he was quite the enigmatic man), rang like a warning sign in her head, startling the pale princess. She was unused to being recognized while refiling and categorizing as the secretary of memories. Ophelia blinked, the disruption breaking her connection and thus her physical actions since the two were so intimately linked. Mid-step into the swing of her neck, she felt her powers wane, the expression of confusion faltering on his face as her steps did. The great stallion dodged while she was plunged into the ocean of her memories – the last one she had recalled. Her battle with Elsa. Sand sank at her hooves, and she stared out over the cascading edge of the sky-island. The pegasus mare shifted at the opposite end of the arena, about to move into her attack, and Ophelia inhaled ice. No, this was not right.

One foot forward and one foot fell. Ophelia hit a rock in reality that did not exist in her memories, and she blinked, conflicting images overwhelming her mind. Dual colored gaze swept upward, seeing Deimos dodge her grasp and Elsa lunge forward simultaneously, the weight of stress on her body breaking the flawless synapses firing in her brain. As if time had slowed, her two knees landed on the hard gravel and scraped up the skin of her otherwise pristine pelt, past and present merging into now. Pain shivered up her legs, and she scrambled to regain her footing, shaking the last of the memory from her mind and trying to reorient her position. Battle. Battle with Deimos. Do not look a fool!

The graceful dodge of her ferocious opponent escaped from her periphery, and she turned her head, quickly, snapping into movement though her forelegs groaned in protest. Move. Just keep moving.

What felt like minutes lasted but seconds, and she had little time to avoid the billowing flames from his draconic jaws, erupting in cataclysmic agony against her left side. Mauja. The heat kissed her sides again, guarded only by the silver surface as she groaned, shoving her toes into the ground and launching herself forward and away from the brunt of the blast. Lacking natural instincts, every action was calculated, sometimes just a little too late. Tinek, unable to endure the confusion and pain jolting through their bond, swept downward in a pointed arc, opening his jaws and exhaling a bolt of ice and winter. The fire around her barrel puffed out, releasing her from its cruel embrace and chilling the pain at her side. Vision, fogged by pain, cleared long enough to act. Her breath shook as she tried to move, every step yanking bubbled skin over ribs where empty slots of her armor failed to keep her safe.

Knowing she had little time remaining in this fight before succumbing to exhaustion and agony, she rested naught before attacking once more. Carefully, she schooled her features, unwilling to allow her king the pleasure of seeing the inner evidence of his destruction written so plainly on her elegant features. The glint of her eyes narrowed, and she loped forward, attempting her magic once more out of desperation rather than logic. Again, she attempted to filter his mind, trying to erase her most recent position as she stabs wildly with her horn toward the point of his left shoulder. If her powers did not hide her from his sight, she prayed that they at least distracted him long enough to lay damage which displayed her prowess rather than taxed thoughts. Though, from the blood dribbling down the front of her canons and the festering burns at her sides, she honestly doubted the positivity of this impression.


[[(795 words in word) (2/3)
Ophelia falls on her own knees for the critical miss and takes a burn to her side for Deimos' damage. She then lunges forward and tries to stab him in the front of his left shoulder while attempting to, again, erase her position from his mind!
]]]

@[Deimos]



OPHELIA
Faith shattered and decays as frosted blood flows in my veins

sdrcow @ DA



RE: Reap elsewhere [Deimos Birdsong Battle] - Deimos - 02-08-2015



Confusion, frenzied and chaotic, seemed to be the theme of their skirmish. He hesitated, he paused, he broke step and merely listened, struggled to grasp the strange segment of her movements and motions – for they seemed so fumbling, stumbling, and befuddling. Perhaps he had mistaken Ophelia the Forsaken, believing she’d been granted her title through bloodshed, through war, and had tokens and ages of experience under her isolated veneer and draconic mastermind. Maybe she hadn’t been given her armor through the pledge of crusades and granted its shining exterior amidst graces and bestowals. Was she unseasoned? Was she unschooled? Were all the pompous, arrogant speeches made by the General truly naught, just pieces of information combined to appease the crowd? How had she come so far, and not known how to play on the stage of violence? Of warfare?

His anger almost ebbed – it seemed mundane and foolish. Would he have been furious at a staggering, tottering foal? Would he have been malicious towards a newfound soldier, pledging his heart and soul for the Basin? He knew the answer, and it drummed mercilessly through the folds of his membrane; all their past experiences now seemed so utterly stupid, stemmed and honed by a constant strain of ignorance. She’d churned whatever enchantments she’d held towards him, and in fury, in agony, in panic, he’d lost segments of control. The Reaper didn’t even think to preen or show satisfaction at her failures, and watched as she continued her launch, her attacks, her assailments, drawing a thin line across his mouth, claiming reticence all over again.

But then, like a haunting, poignant reminder, the Lord’s thoughts were interrupted once more. Tied and chained, tethered and grating, she plagued over his mind, reigning, dominating the traces and threads of his memories. You can’t have them, he wanted to yell, he yearned to bellow, because they were his scars, his ruminations, his sentiments, and he’d never deigned to invade hers. He wanted his secrets kept right where he left them, behind his black heart and amidst shadows, and he knew all his previous efforts at not maiming, at not scorching, at not pressing forth and ensuring she bore some of this misery were not going to last.

He succumbed to the pressure, to the distortions, to the acrimony building in an endless cycle throughout his veins. Fight and kill, murder and slay the devilish claws told him, rasping along his muscles and sinew just like when he’d been a child, bloodied and confused. The fuel of his magic rushed and lanced, extorted and exhumed, and while he yearned to plunge his aching cranium into the depths of the nearby lake or hot springs, just to feel whole, just to feel empty of her rampaging through his membrane, he heard movement. From where? How?

Released and liberated from her enchantments, he felt drugged, listless, strange and stupefied (and the minute portion of his skull rampaged that he’d been caught as a victim in her clutches again), listening for a chance to return to the battlefield, to the tundra expanse and the wide-open air. Her motions caught him off-guard, towards the front of his left shoulder, and he swayed, enervated, towards the right, feeling only the slight tip of it graze his skin (a promise of an assault, but nothing more – what were her true capabilities?).

The Reaper tried to shake it all away, the fury, the restlessness, the anxious pull sculpting a cumbersome ardor across his crown, but it drowned and beleaguered him, forced him into retaliation. There could be no more of these head-games, no more of her flying and gliding through his inward possessions; and he thought, perhaps, with the inkling and memory of his feral invocations, she’d take the warning and heed its tangible threads. I could kill you. Don’t make me do it.

The sorcery whispered and crooned in bestial sketches, an outline of demise and upheaval. An acrimonious vice, christening and anointing those it touched with an infernal imbalance; death, it sang, death, it hummed, a dangerous, lethal incantation. It pulsed from him as a wave of monstrous memoires – their first meeting at the Edge’s border, her idiotic rampage, his infidel threats, her sister’s timely arrival the only thing saving her from the brink of quietus. It surged towards the Lady and her dragon, a constant indication he was not to be trifled with.


[@[Ophelia] 3/3. 733 words.
Hit by her magic again, Deimos is caught off-guard by her movement, but only feels the trace of her horn as he dodges to the right. In retaliation, he sends his death magic towards her.]









RE: Reap elsewhere [Deimos Birdsong Battle] - Ophelia - 02-18-2015



Desperation never wore well on anyone, and the actions born of such passions were faulty and poor. How many times would she fall before she realized the truth in her own thoughts? Halfway between memories and magic, she attempted to lift her damaged forelegs, blood crusting the white fur as it struggled to coagulate with movement. Skin stretched and oozed over her sides, the stench of burning hair poisoning her nostrils and clouding her judgment, and she landed, feeling pain shudder throughout her form. Stars exploded across her vision, a night sky fading over her mind, and she fought the need to suck in air that expanded her damaged sides. Muscles and will gave way as she tumbled downward, trying to catch herself and stretching as her haunches, mostly undamaged, tucked to carry her weight. Rocks scattered around her hocks, chipping and the tender, split hooves and catching around her skin, leaving pinpricks of blood like a hundred needles sucking life from her very bones. A heavy breath plunged from her lungs as she shook, fibers and sinews of her lithe form trembling under the straight, groaning beneath the untried weight of armor and agony.

Shitty luck, new equipment and overwhelming memories all compounded into a droning failure, the universe howling in laughter at her pain. Battles which mattered were misery, losing by disastrous proportions while others were clean sweeps of victory. However, in all her life, this would be the most pathetic of defeats. In fact, this battle did not speak well for those she had conquered, and her expression soured as she wondered how to scrape herself up from the pit she had fallen into, by tooth and nail if she must. Little else could be done this late in the game and this damaged, and she tried to focus, throwing herself into the battle again after mere seconds of reprieve.

Steeling her mind against the pain, Ophelia shoved her bones forward, her horn whistling at empty air with the swing of her skull. Bloodlines wept and the gods turned their faces upon another miss, all attempts at wrestling her position from his mind seemingly falling away. Time moved too quickly and their spar accelerated beyond her capabilities of metal reach, leaving all of his thoughts and memories intact and buried in secrecy. All she had wanted was to erase her position, and whether or not the power was successful was a mystery. He seemed to still miraculously predict her actions, dodging every clever advance and leaving her drowning in the aftermath of self-injury. Explanations were lost in confusion, and she settled on the fact that she had never fought anyone so evenly matched. From their height to their build, she and Deimos were meticulously crafted and similarly constructed. Advantages she was used to possessing over others were now in his grasp as well, and despite every coordinated effort, she came up short, hurting.

Exhausted limbs carried her swiftly still, increasing the distance between them after her attack missed to regroup and rethink her plummeting tactics. Barely feet away, she felt a familiar tingle, a raising of the hairs on the back of her neck and whisper from the reaper on the other side. Death. Finality. Closure. Despite the afternoon sun, a shadow cast on her soul, blotting out all light. Lethargy, sweet lethargy hummed up her legs, drawing her into the abyss as her soul, siphoned like a kiss, billowed into eternity. Ophelia closed her eyes, embracing death with open arms, knowing that in her time, the Sun God would walk her from this life to the next, but she owed him a fight. When she transcended this world, truly beaten, her steps would echo in Valhalla as a warrior, welcomed in to the great halls as a queen.

But like all warriors, she would not go willingly. Ophelia opened her eyes, bright with clarity only the end can bring as Tinek, shrieking in fear, swept from the skies and howled in anger. Open jaws released a torrent of frost and shock, the very air charged and dragging the ends of her crimson and white hair upward along the field. Brief seconds of cold, and she tore her body from her grave, gathering strength in her haunches for a final push. No magic. No tricks. Chicanery tossed to the wind. Ophelia shoved through the white frost, feeling cold, numbing flakes settle into her burns, and she dipped her horn once more, aiming to flay his stony physique from left shoulder along his left side. This would be her final attack – her last chance at redemption. Damage control would follow, and she was determined to show that this was not the disastrous apex of her skills.



[[(788 words in word) (3/3)
- Ophelia takes damage to herself by the rocks slicing up her legs and hooves as she skids to a stop
- Tinek swoops down to separate them/possibly injure with his frost and shock breath
- She lunches at him and tries to use her horn to slice him from left shoulder and along his left side ]]


OPHELIA
Faith shattered and decays as frosted blood flows in my veins

sdrcow @ DA



RE: Reap elsewhere [Deimos Birdsong Battle] - Deimos - 02-19-2015



Ah, so there was the spark of indignation. She had it, lodged somewhere between their battle, incensed and curled, uncoiling and unfurling. There was some amount of relief traipsing through his membrane, because he surely didn’t want a fellow leader who deigned and longed for warfare, but then couldn’t compose the task, and he wouldn’t have felt much satisfaction or contentment in a one-sided onslaught. The Forsaken was no longer the enemy, she was no Lace he yearned to scorch and maul, she was no Regime member wanton and plaguing – in fact, she was now configuring as an ally (and if that was a bitter message to swallow, he rummaged his thoughts quickly away, vexed by the mere statement).

Her flying companion was the first to burst, arching over him in a torrent of frost, as if he were being burned and frozen by his own homeland, encased and emboldened by winter’s grating fringes and fingers. It touched and mauled along his spine, cold, chilling, embittered knives clawing their way across his backbone; his muscles recoiled and shuddered, jaw unclenching at the tremor of a shiver. It seemed to freeze his movements, and he was sluggish in its upheaval, digging against rock, gravel, and remnants of snow to get away from the dragon’s might (and only a little gratified the lizard didn’t bear arms of fire, he had enough anguishing memories of being encased in an infernal threshold). Perhaps this series of circumstances allowed her an opportunity to come upon his left side, because even while he jerked to the right, she maneuvered beside him, sword sliding and slicing against his left shoulder. Was there hate in that stroke? Was there menace in that touch? He reeled away from the pain, side stepping over from her entanglements, heaving one molten snort of agony as his blood dabbled in cool rivulets along his skin, down his foreleg.

Ceasing movement, gesturing only once to gaze upon his new wound, his piercing stare ruminated and scrutinized over her mangled frame, the gashes and scrapes caused by her own follies, the bestial claim he’d held and scorched beyond her armor, but there was something else lingering there, perhaps behind her eyes or snared within her brooding core. Prowess, potency, potential, all twisted and distorted, and maybe, with the right tactics, the right ruses and strategies, she’d be able to gain more acclaim within their frozen midst. Only time and experience would tell.

The Reaper granted her a singular nod, possessing his thoughts and speculations upon the fight in the solo maneuver: pride, for himself, for her, and a fleeting nuance of curiosity and inquiry. He’d save the queries and questions for later. The only thing remaining was healing.

[1/1 final defense post. 454 words.
Deimos feels Tinek’s frost attack run down his spine, rampant and chilling, it feels like knives and slows his body down. In this circumstance, Ophelia is able to stab his left shoulder as he tries to duck away to the right.

Good fight Tamme! Thank you!]







RE: Reap elsewhere [Deimos Birdsong Battle] - Official - 03-08-2015

By my verdict: DEIMOS is the winner!

DEIMOS
Realism [+3.5]
:: I might have missed it, but I didn’t see mention of Ophelia’s magic in your post 3.


Emotion [+1.5]
:: There was a lot going on at that point, but in your post 2 it might have been nice to see some thought given to how Deimos felt about Ophelia trying to puncture his chest with her horn.


Prose [+4]
:: Obviously well edited


Readability [+3]
:: No comments or concerns.

Finally tally: 59.5+(12*2)= 83.5HP

*******************************************

OPHELIA
Realism [+3.5]
:: Post 1 you might have taken slightly more damage, but there wasn’t a huge discrepancy between what I wanted and what I read.
:: Good job taking your critical miss, in post 2.


Emotion [+1.5]
:: Your emotions seemed sort of cursory towards the end of post 1


Prose [+3.5]
:: She was understandably disinterested in feelings its effects Feeling.


Readability [+2.5]
:: Just briefly, I was confused about where Tinek was aiming his ice in your post 2

Finally tally: 29.5+(11*2)= 51.5HP