The heated bolero stoked a meticulous, haunting beat, a crescendo of fortitude, a din of might, a resonating, pulsing, pervading stroke of rapacious rapture in the heart of their valley. It clung to the shackles of his Lucifer iniquities, unabashed, unrepentant, undaunted by the flare of banshee eyes or the malice contained amongst the vast corridors of her sinister stare – only an added number to the assembled masses who’d sneered at him in the same way. As he neared, as he set to display his dominion, she attempted one last sliver of hope and ingenuity, and he couldn’t yield from it. The minutest motion shackled his movements, swinging his head to the right for a few moments of precious time, taking her golden spear along the left portion of his nape, slicing skin, flesh, sinew and hair, the reeling persistence of pain searing across his eyes once more.
He’d wanted to show her his capabilities, his prowess, his power and mastery, fuel and channel it into understanding, comprehension. Death smothering trespassers, annihilation strangling the inept, the inane, the weak and the foolish, persuading breaths and beats to cease, for calamity to rise, for acrimony to simmer, brim, froth and foam, and perhaps, for her to truly decipher and fathom the depths of his ruthlessness. She was only saved by the glacial twists of their herd, of her dedication to their cadre, of her loyalty to the branches and boughs, the caverns and lake. Never rendered a full attack, not a slaughter, not a massacre, but the quiver of a heart line narrowed, taut and rigid, somehow became twisted into a ridiculous display. Her spark of outrage, her cry of indignation, spiraling them back to where they’d started, spouting nonsense and ignorance into the void of icy skies.
The GildedBlade dropped to her knees amongst the frosty wake, and if he were younger, a bit more brazen, he would have rolled his eyes. Instead, he ceased all movement and stared as her flaxen frame withered into the grounds, and considered his next actions. Had he truly unraveled her into such a fiendish state? He’d given Faelene and Arah the same sentiments, the same orchestration of power in the past, to which neither had cowered, fumbled or coiled into the earth. She’d delivered him blow upon blow, and the stinging barbs of aches and pains were still a dominating force, flashing each time he made one calculated stride (his haunches, his shoulder, and now his neck). Was this the full weight of her endurance, mettle and resilience? Was this a Queen of the Basin, pushed to her floor by a minute demonstration?
If she were any other creature, he would have ended her there.
A quick strike to the skull, a shove to the ground, a rising of daggers and puncturing blades, one sinister plunge of his rapier – the notion and motion would have been easy, effortless. But for another day, like all the passing hours (trespassers flung to their deaths, battles waged and scorned, herds defended time and time again), he saved her.
He didn’t attack, he didn’t assail, he didn’t assault. Instead, his movements, ghostly, slow, writhing things mauled and bludgeoned by her prior vexations, advanced towards her dropped frame, ignoring the layers of menace directed by her gaze. The deep, piercing slate of his vocals rang out over the battlefield, one solid command poised from the depths of his immorality, all he could muster from his aching jaw. “Get up.” He offered his injured, bruised left shoulder, tucking, storing, contorting the acrid rise of his enchantments into the gulley of his sinister veins, for another time, another place, where it could strive to annihilate again. The Reaper’s cranium gestured once towards the hot springs (rewarded with the crush of pain along his neck), a sudden spout of divinity amongst all their parallels of debauchery and satanic reverie. Along the heated grandeur, she could ease her wounds, and likely unleash her temper (and he could ignore it again, continue reviewing the art of cycles and idiocy), provide some temporary relief in the constant, unwinding storm she seemed to cultivate. Their points had been made, disassembled, and then disregarded.
[Deimos is using the buffs BULK and SWIFT.
698 words. 3/3 posts. 1/1 magic used.
As he nears Illynx to unwind his assault, he cannot miss her horn. He manages to swing his head towards the right, and the tip of her serrated edge scores along the left side of his nape, pulling off hair and skin, leaving a streak of pain and blood.
However, instead of attacking her fallen form, he tells her to get up and offers to take her to the hot springs close by. No attack is given.
Injuries: Severely bruised left shoulder, jaw, and haunch. The left side of his nape has also had hair torn off, and is left bleeding.]
OOC Comments:
Yikes, sorry this took so long!
To start off, Illynx’s emotions are still wonderful. She’s so irritated, and it comes across smoothly. You’ve also taken my critique from our prior posts and built in her pain, ensuring that its still there, and managing to describe the effects of Deimos’ magic upon her very convincingly.
So, what we still need to work on.
Taking more damage than necessary. There’s a fine line between how to measure attacks and how severe the damage should be, and I try to consider that in a spar, it shouldn’t be as much (unless it gets very heated), especially if its stated as such. I made sure to explicitly describe that Deimos did not get her a full dose, but we have Illynx now collapsing on the ground.
It’s completely your choice in reacting to an attack, but you also need to consider the weight and might behind it, and where it may leave you in scoring. Having your character collapse is usually a big no-no. I would consider it not out of the ordinary if this were a challenge or in circumstances where the damage would be greater, where the impacts would be stronger, etc. But at this point, Deimos had one more attack to go, and leaving Illynx on the ground, at his mercy, is foolish. Does it make for good drama? Absolutely. Does it seem very plausible? Eh, it could be a stretch. Ask yourself: does this make sense?
It would be the same as having your character break a leg mid-challenge/mid-spar. Do you want to give your opponent ample opportunity to crush you? Or are you gearing up for a big resurgence of strength? At this point, with only a defense to go, I would have avoided putting my character at their knees and waiting for the final blow. Had this been a challenge, neither Deimos nor myself would have hesitated to put in one more strike.
And just to be nit-picky:
Vainly (she assumed) casting her own golden namesake to the side in hopes of gouging those hideously devoid eyes before he could touch her with his sinful rapier, the cries of her injured nape a faint noise to the true sound of horror that broke from her lips as she felt her already injured right side die at the cold, slithering touch. It was a sound of outrage, of agony, and she funneled all of her temporary terror and now full blown hate into the noise as it rose through the early morning, burning the pink tinged sky with it's atrocious lilt. We know that Deimos’ attack hit, since you continue to describe the magic’s effects – but what about the edge of the horn? Did it puncture, bruise, bleed etc.? Don’t forget to describe all of the assaults occurring - otherwise it looks like a dropped attack.
For your final defense post, make sure to include all of your injuries, have Illynx reflect on them, etc. Best of luck, and thank you for allowing me this opportunity! I’ve been very pleased to see how you’ve taken my advice and applied it to your writing. :)
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[JUDGED] Iron Indignation [Training Spar]
