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04-02-2017, 06:42 PM
EREBOS
The queries spiraled through him, one by one, as they measured their strength, their fortitude, their power and persistence along the sands. How had his father endured so much pain, time and time and time again? How had he gone into each and every battle, head held high, proud, indifferent, and nonchalant to the constant onslaughts, the unwinding terrors? How had he persevered through the merciless, unrelenting measures of anguish – when his opponents didn’t seem to care how much they brutalized their Lord, when they all aimed to nip, tear, mark, and blemish the Reaper King? For Erebos was so much less than his sire, and the misery was already getting to him. It curled through his brain, it sliced along his membrane, it mocked, dragged, and rasped until his movements were just agonizing twitches. Her next, powerful assault granted him no favors. He’d been too close, jabbing into her side with a clean slash of his cutlass (no momentary pride again, the sensations gone, lost somewhere in the back of his skull), and then she was there, thrusting her set of swords into his left haunch. The General hadn’t even had time to move away, to think about shifting into the dunes, to run free, untangled, or untethered; incapable of fleeing the brutality for one more round. He held his primal scream inward, but his mouth parted, opened, searing on silence. Her horns punctured and lacerated against his skin, digging, ripping into flesh, blood dripping, utter agony rippling through his senses until he felt blinded by the torment, closing his eyes, begging for the torture to cease. Orsino hissed and howled, grated and growled, and the youth was finally forced to face the devastation, the crippling lure, and the vicious temptation flowing through them; two halves of a bestial whole. The kitsune didn’t have to grant any words, any hints, or any vile, horrendous messages – the thundering, barbaric suffering drumming through the prince’s cranium was enough of a declaration. He’d been driven to it, he could say, quote, or spout later, if she ever asked about the cruelty, the merciless siege, distorted behind his eyes. Desperation, exhaustion, and absolute agony severed the rest of his valor, placed him low and condemned, another demon from the regions of hell, the Reaper’s gallant son torn asunder by weakness, by greed, and by his own rampant stupidity. The sands were too much. His wounds were too much. But he could call on something that required no movement, no effort, naught except the wicked, nefarious, intrepid designs of his existence, of his essence, of his bitter, maligned heart. It’d always been there, and some days he forgot all about it, wore his grins, sketched his smiles, pretended nothing hurt and everything was right as rain. He didn’t neglect the potency now. The beast summoned the darkness welled up inside him, brewing, building, and colliding with all those brave, courageous bits until they were nothing too, breathing quiet, hushed, belligerent incantations. His contempt, his corruption, was mute, poignant, and haunting – not for her, but for all the inaction, for all the blunders, for all the discomfort. The enchantments crooned and rippled without warning, filled with the endless pain surging through his body, intending to let her feel them too, to pervade her senses with the violent embodiment of his anguish, of his torture. He wasn’t aware of Orsino’s pride, an indulgent, glimmering snicker, distorting their connection (the same coin again, the colors and metal twisted, aligned, two heads, two tails). He didn’t comprehend the repercussions of his actions. He couldn’t fathom where they’d go from here – because he was caught, trapped, and tethered on a desolate lifeline, wondering if he’d stumble, if he’d fall, if he’d crumble just like he’d done with Ashamin, a broken, silly, foolish thing. Perhaps he’d done too much and she’d hate him for it. Maybe he’d done too little and she’d only see his weakness. All he could decipher now was how much his body ached, and how much of his soul felt tainted. [3/3. 675 words. * Erebos has no time/is too slow to evade Wessex’s attack, and is punctured by her horns along his left haunch. * In retaliation, he attempts to use his dark magic on her, hoping to embody his pain into her senses. Final Injury Report: * Small cut on right knee * Heavy bruising on right side of his croup, impaired movement/speed. * Multiple bleeding, puncture wounds on his left haunch.] |
Teaching Notes:
What Went Well:
* Advantages/Disadvantages: I thought you played this very well again in describing Erebos’ speed, though it’s a bit pooched now, and the effects of the natural surroundings, here: So she’s at a disadvantage due to lack of a companion and then the anger directs itself towards her own body. She knows it was bound to happen - this sand trap of sorts and That is another area in which her superior has an advantage. Wessex may possess more horns, but unless her opponent is on one of her sides, she cannot use them. offer her thoughts on their differences (but I think I would’ve liked to see her touch base even more on the sand and all of its capabilities/vices/virtues).
* Emotions/Motivations: I still enjoyed Wessex’s thoughts, especially the sudden welling of rage and inspiration. With a great, savage cry she propels herself forward, curving her body around to whip her head against his left side, hoping to either puncture his muscles as a literal thorn in his side, or draw several lines down the length of his body. Let the sand be splattered with drops of both their blood; her own now lies steaming on the white-gold granules. was a great set of lines because not only was she blood-thirsty, intending to do some severe damage (and man, you have a lovely stat to work with there), you also utilized his close range, which I thought was a clever, strategic move.
* Grammar: I thought this post read much smoother. I didn’t notice any grammatical errors or tense shifts. Yay!
To Work On:
* Surroundings: I’d still use them even more. I caught some pieces of mentioning the sand trap, how it was slippery, etc. but I would still hone in on how it’s made her tired, how she might be fatigued, or even how she could throw some of it in his face. Utilize what you have around you. Hone in on key areas around your battle arena. Think about what may be around to help your character or hinder your opponent.
* Damage Taking: First, I thought the way you took the damage was fair. A laceration for a 3 is perfectly adequate, but I would have described it further, especially in how it might have affected her movements. We get this: Her hindquarters swing away, but not before dark red blood wells out and Wessex gasps sharply in pain. Lungs suck in air while the torment from split flesh shoots down her leg like white fire, igniting something fierce within her dragon-tattooed chest. but nothing after: she simply goes to attack. I understand you might have been dealing with the word count by then (however, you can always find something to snip), but it would’ve been a bit more realistic to mention that it tugged at her motions, that the pain flooded her senses, etc., especially since she’s launching forward. I imagine a laceration across one’s thigh would be noticeable when you’re trying to advance anywhere. Don’t make a mistake of relying on the old adrenaline trick – we’re aiming to enhance your realism points.
To Think About:
* Final Defense Post: Since you’ve already done your final attack, all you have left is to defend from the dice roll you receive. During this post, you might consider describing her wounds, her fatigue, her motivations/thoughts/emotions at the end of the battle, how she feels about being attacked by his magic, etc. Remember, the judges are looking for realism – don’t shrug off any pain she might be feeling.
Great job! I thought you improved tremendously (and honestly, you started off well any way ;D) throughout the spar, and I really enjoyed myself. We’ll definitely have to roleplay the outcome, once they heal up. ;D Thank you for the opportunity!
@Wessex
