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09-29-2015, 08:45 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
Pretty faces never won wars, and ghosts had already lost them.
And he was a ghost, god dammit—the ghost of a King who had fallen in the flames in this place so long ago, the lingering echo of a memory between the trees. He could see himself in the corner of his eye, dancing between the trees, fog swirling around him like a cloak (like a lover—). Between the ghost-bars of his ribs blue fire smoldered.
Mauja was his own ghost.
Nyx had charged him straight-on, ice and electricity crackling along the silver of her skin, and he hadn't done anything but close his eyes and brace.
And perhaps that was how he had died—he had let life ride him and reap from him every ounce of faith, and leave him hollow.
(But the light that smolders between his ribs is still there, he just doesn't know, doesn't see, how it is golden instead of glacial.)
And he felt so foul, stuck in the grime, staring at Tembovu and nearly hating him for the joy, for the mirth, for the greeting—for the grin and the words and saying it was magnanimous of him to come.
He knew—he knew, and somehow could trust it—that Tembovu meant nothing by it. He knew it, and yet, he hated that, too. How mocking it almost sounded.
Queen Mauja the Great, the tarnished, mud-splattered ghost of the World's Edge; the memory of a time past, the embodiment of fallen from grace, the.. the... Oh, blast it.
He wanted to say he had been a brilliant general and had overcome armies, won wars—truth was that he was a failed soldier turned mercenary executioner turned King-who-lost-it-all. He had only won a war once.
Fortunately, Tembovu didn't give him much more time to mope around, charging with a surprising burst of speed over the mud-slick surface. Again, for all the fucks that Mauja gave, he just wanted to close his eyes and remain in place. Wait for the impact. What use was there in moving away? What use was there ever in escape; defense? It never worked for him anyway. And if he should accidentally be trampled beneath the oncoming giant .. well .. at least everyone would know what kind of failure he was at heart, beneath the armor of ice and confidence.
In the end, it was an odd kind of pride that had him moving out of the way—vanity, maybe, the deeply rooted desire to not be bested. “Surely we can elicit some excitement from you, my friend,” Tembovu was grunting in an intimate kind of fashion, calling him friend and simultaneously shattering his heart. His paper-thin soul folded in on itself and drifted out sideways.
(How could anyone see anything in me—)
But if "excitement" meant bruises it had to wait. Mauja had bolted forward a few steps, fresh spots of mud cast upon his legs; large hooves sailed past his ass, and he abused the lousy traction to slide to a gentle stop, head turning to watch his opponent. Lines of tension stood out beneath Tembovu's tan-and-black hide, his muscle mass obvious even in the hazy light.
Damn. He would have to start thinking if he wanted to get out of this on top—he was used to being the hunter, the one with the power, the one with the teeth, the one who drove the smaller, quicker prey down the bottleneck and clack—closed the trap.
Here, he was the prey. It was an odd thing to realize, an odd feeling spreading through his veins as his heart finally picked up its pace.
Here, at last, was a challenge. Something new. Something different.
With a casual flick of his white, mud-weighed tail Mauja reached for the simmering forge of his flames, stoked it gently, gently, teasing those temperamental birds of fire into life; two eagles, broad wings and powerful bodies alight, formed in the space behind his ass and sailed towards the taller, thicker Glazier. He guessed Tembovu was still far enough away to just catch the edges of their bursts, because even if the edge of darkness had crept into his eyes and into his smile he wasn't all that interested in charring his friend (thankyouthankyouthankyou—) into a blackened, sad mess.
[ 1/3 || @Tembovu || 715 words. ]
And he was a ghost, god dammit—the ghost of a King who had fallen in the flames in this place so long ago, the lingering echo of a memory between the trees. He could see himself in the corner of his eye, dancing between the trees, fog swirling around him like a cloak (like a lover—). Between the ghost-bars of his ribs blue fire smoldered.
Mauja was his own ghost.
Nyx had charged him straight-on, ice and electricity crackling along the silver of her skin, and he hadn't done anything but close his eyes and brace.
And perhaps that was how he had died—he had let life ride him and reap from him every ounce of faith, and leave him hollow.
(But the light that smolders between his ribs is still there, he just doesn't know, doesn't see, how it is golden instead of glacial.)
And he felt so foul, stuck in the grime, staring at Tembovu and nearly hating him for the joy, for the mirth, for the greeting—for the grin and the words and saying it was magnanimous of him to come.
He knew—he knew, and somehow could trust it—that Tembovu meant nothing by it. He knew it, and yet, he hated that, too. How mocking it almost sounded.
Queen Mauja the Great, the tarnished, mud-splattered ghost of the World's Edge; the memory of a time past, the embodiment of fallen from grace, the.. the... Oh, blast it.
He wanted to say he had been a brilliant general and had overcome armies, won wars—truth was that he was a failed soldier turned mercenary executioner turned King-who-lost-it-all. He had only won a war once.
Fortunately, Tembovu didn't give him much more time to mope around, charging with a surprising burst of speed over the mud-slick surface. Again, for all the fucks that Mauja gave, he just wanted to close his eyes and remain in place. Wait for the impact. What use was there in moving away? What use was there ever in escape; defense? It never worked for him anyway. And if he should accidentally be trampled beneath the oncoming giant .. well .. at least everyone would know what kind of failure he was at heart, beneath the armor of ice and confidence.
In the end, it was an odd kind of pride that had him moving out of the way—vanity, maybe, the deeply rooted desire to not be bested. “Surely we can elicit some excitement from you, my friend,” Tembovu was grunting in an intimate kind of fashion, calling him friend and simultaneously shattering his heart. His paper-thin soul folded in on itself and drifted out sideways.
(How could anyone see anything in me—)
But if "excitement" meant bruises it had to wait. Mauja had bolted forward a few steps, fresh spots of mud cast upon his legs; large hooves sailed past his ass, and he abused the lousy traction to slide to a gentle stop, head turning to watch his opponent. Lines of tension stood out beneath Tembovu's tan-and-black hide, his muscle mass obvious even in the hazy light.
Damn. He would have to start thinking if he wanted to get out of this on top—he was used to being the hunter, the one with the power, the one with the teeth, the one who drove the smaller, quicker prey down the bottleneck and clack—closed the trap.
Here, he was the prey. It was an odd thing to realize, an odd feeling spreading through his veins as his heart finally picked up its pace.
Here, at last, was a challenge. Something new. Something different.
With a casual flick of his white, mud-weighed tail Mauja reached for the simmering forge of his flames, stoked it gently, gently, teasing those temperamental birds of fire into life; two eagles, broad wings and powerful bodies alight, formed in the space behind his ass and sailed towards the taller, thicker Glazier. He guessed Tembovu was still far enough away to just catch the edges of their bursts, because even if the edge of darkness had crept into his eyes and into his smile he wasn't all that interested in charring his friend (thankyouthankyouthankyou—) into a blackened, sad mess.
[ 1/3 || @Tembovu || 715 words. ]
OOC TEACHING NOTES
* I'm going to start by saying I haven't taught anyone in a while so forgive me for being a bit rusty! Ahem. *
PROSE: I've threaded a bit with you before, and I feel like you sort of.. fell into the whole "ah shit it's a fight I have to remember to include all the details and all the things and ALL THE THINGS" and that usually means a sacrifice in writing quality. Try to, for a moment, ignore that it is a fight. Find your same flow; you have beautiful writing and in this post it felt crippled by your desire to get the "realism" aspects of the fight down.
Also, watch your tenses! You swapped a bit between past and present. Always proof-read! It enables you to pick out odd wording, grammatical errors, tense changes, etc. It also gives you a fair idea of if you have a flow or not.
When I write a fight post, I just write. I try to think realistically about it. The ground is slippery, so, of course, there's gonna be some slipping! But I don't slip "because the rubric judges terrain mentions". When I proof-read I usually edit in little tidbits to clarify direction, a specific action, etc. So for me it's more of an afterthought, which usually enables me to retain my flow. I had a period when I got super technical and it just killed all emotion for me. I've decided to sacrifice some Realism score in order to write better posts that make me feel better as a writer. :P
But it's great that you include terrain and breed differences! I'm not saying "don't do that" I'm saying "do that but try to get it as a part of your natural flow".
DICE ROLLS: Pay attention to the dice. I got lucky and got a full dodge here, but the damage rolls actually matter (which I sometimes forget...). If Mauja is charging you with his horn and I roll a 1 in damage, you should just get grazed - if even that. If I roll a 6, you should get speared pretty bad and lots of blood etc. So this is just a heads-up for your next post (unless I miss lol ;D) so you try to find some realistic balance between your damage taken and the dice roll.
THE ATTACK ITSELF: I actually had a bit of a hard time following it, mainly because I think you messed up left and right. The only way I can read your attack as making sense is, Tembovu charges Mauja from ahead, tries to slam shoulder to shoulder, pivots against Mauja, and attempts to ass slam/kick his hind legs. When you meet head on like that, it's always right shoulder to right shoulder, or left to left. But you said you came with Temb's right for my left, which means you had to be facing the same way as Mauja from the beginning, which would make the rest of your attack not make sense. If you find left/right difficult take like, two sheets of paper. Write "L" on one side and "R" on the other and an arrow for which way the horse is facing. Then you can pit your paper horses against one another and never be confused about direction! :P
There was a certain flow to your attack, because it happened in a narrow time frame, but generally I advocate sticking to one, maximum two, attacks in a post. For example, I'd say, don't rush me, buck in passing, run off, then run back in for another attack in the same post. It's difficult to manage that kind of timeline. Just rush me and buck in passing and then don't run too far off because for all you know, I might buck right back and shatter your hock and suddenly you can't run anymore! (Extreme example but again it's more to simplify my theory/stance on it. ^^) You've already tasted a bit of it here - Tembovu is trying to slam into Mauja, pivot, and kick at him. But before he has even slammed into him Mauja has already moved away; why would Tembovu then pivot and kick, when his opponent has already vacated the immediate premises? If you see my point. :)
So.. my biggest advice is actually this: put your writing first, and all the details second. I know I know, there's a reason I don't get as high realism scores as I could theoretically get, and I shouldn't preach for you to get worse scores!! What I mean is, I think that if you relax in your writing the rest is going to come naturally, and you'll be left with well-balanced, well-written posts that include what you need without having sacrificed writing quality and emotion!
I HOPE I MADE SENSE ;~;
