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11-15-2015, 02:12 PM
EREBOS
It was madness. He thrust through a dark and twisted cataclysm all to save face. All to appear brave, stalwart, and staunch, so he didn’t shudder or quiver or worry about the art of cowardice and its weak, disgusting qualities. He didn’t feel courageous or daring anymore. He felt stupid. The wolf-mask faded, much like his bravado, and he was overcome by the notion of nothing – his horn penetrated nothing, he saw nothing, he cast nothing. His motions, his movements, his sentiments had been completely, utterly undone, and his rampage ended with a collision into a nearby tree, too dark to see. His left shoulder ground against the bark in a fierce, unwinding bite, like thorns, like nettles, like spikes, piercing and lacerating at his skin, limbs altered into claws, pulling away hide and revealing blood. The boy didn’t cry out, but he wanted to. He’d known pain, and now he knew the taste, the acerbic, bitter relish, of fear, and the combination was sickening, surrounding, penetrating his mind so all he could see, touch, hear, were the barbs of the monster coming back – because he’d pursued, because he’d persisted, and he was going to pay for his actions. The prince leapt forward, desperate and wretched, struggling to find swiftness between his sore, aching shoulder and the wet ground, but he could only race so far into the unknown (where was the end to this maze, to this hell?) – he was not Theseus, he held no thread to unwind and unravel the direction of home, of safety, of sanctuary – and the ursine demon was behind him, somewhere in the midst of the rain and twilight. Orsino hissed and growled amongst the underbrush, snapping his thoughts in brutal, vicious haste, because the scion needed to keep it together, to become restored, to cease running and fight. The creature, perhaps just as gnarled and wicked as the skies and the storm, clenched his jaw and reeled through their connection, belligerent, harsh. He comes, and you flee?! No prince, no prince! Where courage? Then, because he was another one of the sick, sinister, twisted things amongst the cretins, he uttered one more bristling, soulless phrase. Sire would not run. No, the Reaper wouldn’t have escaped. Erebos knew his father would have turned and done anything in his power to annihilate his enemy. Was that what he needed to do? His mind was a mess, a rapid flurry of changing sentiments and raw, unfettered panic, and it only escalated as the sound of hooves drove ever closer, towards his right side, near his hind; a whisper on the wind, between the pelting raindrops and the thunder clouds – he tried to dodge to the left, but his shoulder ached and split his skull with the agonizing pain. The beast scraped at his spine, hooves dragged across his back, and the sensation of torment was paramount again, grinding and unwinding, merciless because he’d been foolish enough to encounter another and want to be rid of them. He moved forward, darted, tried to unleash a burst of speed to get away from the foul cretin, and felt the sharp, piercing juncture of a bite glide along the right side of his neck, taking hold of pelt and dragging its fangs down, elongating from his neck to his right shoulder, and both sides of his body were searing, but he was still upright, still mobile. What was to be done then? Was he doomed from the start, a lad who had sought to conquer a monster? Was this how it was to be when he eventually tried to annihilate the Colossus? Was this fate? Was this the Gods’ way of telling him he had no chance? That he was weak, pathetic, fragile? A roll of rage crashed through him, and he took the sole opportunity granted to him. He kicked out towards the beast, hoping to nail him in the chest, trying, praying, to impair him in some way, to grant him just as much pain. The scion’s shoulders told him to cease, abruptly haunted his mind with their penchant for misery, but he ignored, ignored, ignored, too embroiled in this fickle, capricious state. Instead of being paralyzed by his injuries again, he channeled the righteous fury, the glorious hate, the ravaging wrath, into an unwinding scope of his enchantments. If the kick managed to find skin, muscle, or sinew, he aimed to do more than just grind hoof into flesh – but also unleash a vicious torrent of fire. [2/3 + 0/1 defense. 751 words. Due to his critical miss, Erebos does not hit Ashamin, and instead, due to the overwhelming darkness, collides his left shoulder into a tree. The bark scrapes at his hide and draws blood. As Ashamin gets closer, he tries to dodge to the left, but is not fast enough. Ashamin’s hooves scrape along his back. Erebos then darts forward, and Ashamin’s bite, instead of hitting the left side of his neck, drags along the right side and down his shoulder. Using their close quarters for opportunity, Erebos kicks out towards Ashamin’s chest, trying to use his fire magic in case he manages to touch him, intending to set him ablaze.] |
@Ashamin
Notes:
What Went Well:
* I loved the tone and atmosphere you set for the setting. Too often we spar in a plain, open field, and this storm and labyrinth really allow to both of us to embody and use the surroundings to our benefit – and since that counts towards points for the spar, I’m pleased we get to use it so effectively.
* I enjoyed how you used his past experiences to drive him into the fight and to feel confident.
* Directions! Yes! Include them! Always! Thank you!
To Work On:
* When you’re considering your attacks, be careful about how height would affect some of the outcomes. I was very confused in Ashamin’s rearing attack and reaching across to Erebos’ left side, because Erebos is 16.1hh and Ashamin is only 15.2hh, and even when rearing, that’s quite a bit of height difference.
Also I don’t believe this is entirely plausible: If all went as planned Ashamin would strike down with fury in his dagger-like hooves and use the bite to not only steady himself so he could land (hopefully pulling the attacker down with his body-weight as he did so) and do some extra damage, as well. A bite is not going to pull down a horse, especially one larger than Ashamin, even if it has the strength of an enchanted mask, I would think. I’m not sure how strong this mask is or what the restrictions are.
* Emotion. While your writing was still wonderful, I felt it was lacking some pieces of emotion that I know Ashamin has. If he was afraid, even if he was hiding it, he can still show that inwardly. What was he feeling as this thing was heading towards him? How was he feeling about being delayed from finding Lochan? Why did he want to catch them? Tell me more – because emotion becomes a big piece in the scoring.
* Simplifying. There’s no harm in only doing one or two attacks. I actually find that easier, so the timing isn’t difficult to configure. Ashamin unleashed three attacks at once; any more and we’ll be heading into overkill. It’s ultimately your preference, but when things start to get confusing, it goes downhill from there.
