You got any friends you can PM it to?Viking Incognito said:
Yeah, it's true people shouldn't help write it, but proof reading for things like spelling and grammar mistakes is helpful. =PKhedive Rex said:
The Ratings War VI: Aces High - Round 1 (Closed - Judging)
- Thread starter Lord Krunk
- Start date
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I'll openly state this now. This is a writing contest. Your personal spelling and grammar are part of your writing and your writing ability. When someone else proofreads your battle, it is no longer just your writing because it is no longer just your writing and it shouldn't be allowed.
This. I am looking for some level of competency when I read these posts. If you have to look to outside sources when writing up something because you don't trust yourself to make sure you have something understandable before the judges, then there are going to be problems.elementsoul said:
Isn't that what things like Microsoft Word are for? It proofreads your piece and notifies you of any spelling or grammar mistakes.Viking Incognito said:
I've read through mine so many times I could probably recite it from memory.
I think that allowing others to read your own work is ok as long as they're not helping you write/edit it. Getting an objective opinion is important to know if your work is actually good or bad because, as we all know, critiquing your own work can be difficult.
I, personally, got my girlfriend to read my entry...she said it was good. That is all. Not that I'd ever take her advice on writing anyway lol.
EDIT: I'd just like to point out that my girlfriend reads some real trashy novels, so what she says is good could be utterly wrong lol. ; P
You forget that Microsoft word doesn't catch every grammar and spelling error. It's a good base to start with but proper proofreading is still required after using spelling and grammar check, because it doesn't always pick up incorrect word usage or where commas need to be inserted and such.Tips_of_Fingers said:
Now I agree that having someone else read your battle and give you feedback is fine as long as the ideas in the battle remain yours. This is mainly because they can state what they liked and didn't like about your battle which, could be contrary to what a judge's opinion would be. Therefore it holds a calculated risk against your battle as you could replace parts of your post and lose a judge's vote because of it.
Also, Word hates it when you use anything other than U.S. English. Which is the worst English.elementsoul said:
I kid, I kid.
I'm not going to stop any of you from having your works proofread, because it's fine by me. It's always good to have an outside opinion on your works, otherwise how would you know what you were doing wrong or right?
However, editing is a no-no. Only you are allowed to edit your piece, not anyone else. You can ask for an opinion or some suggestions, but nothing further than that.
Sorry if this has caused any confusion.
James kept an eye on the man to his right. Something about him felt... unnatural, like he was beyond human. And the blur on his back wasn?t helping. More and more James was concerned about being a mere man.
They entered an old church. Light shone through four windows stained with fine shades of red and black above the altar, and panes along the sides told the origins of Chicane. Everything felt like it was before his, or even his world?s time: From the smell of dust in the ceiling to the feel of cobbled stones through his trainers.
The great oak door closed. A loud boom echoed, but James still heard a blade unsheathe. He rolled underneath the sword into the aisle of a pew and drew a knife in the process. Standing up, he faced his opponent, moving his dreadlocks back to see their face.
?Halt!? Called a man at the altar. He wore robes of impeccable white, with scarlet threads woven into the sleeves to form Hearts. ?You dare enter this house, ready to spill blood over sacred earth? To stain the stones of our ancestor?s labours with your sins??
James felt dizzy. He carelessly dropped his blade. Propping himself up on the pew in front of him, the desire for sleep slowly took control of his body. His rival felt the same, bashing his knees against stones as he fell. But something suddenly overtook their body.
?If so, then I send thee to rest. Never again shall thou draw blood.? The man in the long coat stood up, his sword now glowing with fire. As the Priest carried on with his speech, the human marched forward.
Please don?t. He?s not who we have to kill. Thought the man, but the spirit didn?t listen. It never did. The sword went into the preacher?s stomach. The Priest bent over, wrapping round the metal inside him. Tears fell down the cheeks of the man holding the sword and his lips tried to form the phrase ?I?m sorry.? but failed.
With blood filling his mouth, the Priest asked ?What demon would do such a thing to a man of the Full House??
On the man?s back formed majestic white wings, causing the Priest to gasp. ?How can a being so pure-? He coughed up more blood ?perform such evil??
The Priest rolled forwards onto the steps, and the angel removed his sword before soaring high. James watched in bewilderment. The tears particularly confused him. Why was he crying as he killed the Priest?
James took a careful step, but it was enough sound for the angel to notice. Blazing sword at the hip, he dived towards this foe, crashing through several pews between them. The shock nearly threw James, and it was only a second later that the angel swung at him. James grabbed his knife off the floor as he ducked and moved back into the centre aisle to pick up a defensive stance.
The angel was offensive. As much as James wanted to attack, his foe was simply not giving way. He was being pushed along with every advance of this fighter.
James? back eventually touched the cold wall. As the crying angel raised his sword high above his head, its lips mimed ?Dodge!? James sidestepped and narrowly avoided the blade hitting him. The angel swung a fist which James ducked under as it slammed into the wall where his head was. Cracks rattled from the epicentre of the blow. More tears fell down the angel?s cheeks as James stood to face him.
?Look,? James began. ?if winning is that important to you, I?ll surrender.?
The man looked at James, his wings fading into light and his sword?s fire dying. Head down, he dropped to his knees like he was praying. ?I didn?t want this to happen.? Tears hit the floor ?I didn?t want to kill him. But I don?t have a choice.? He rose, swallowing tears with every breath. ?He forces me.? He turned to the altar, the Priest?s body still there. ?He kills them. They?re His murders!
?I joined this competition hoping that they could help me,? He placed his blade on the ground and started removing his long coat. ?but it seems that He has his own reasons for winning.? Dropping the coat, he took off the armour underneath and laid it on a backrest, exposing an old, white shirt. ?Alas, there is only one way to rid this curse.?
He dried his eyes and retrieved his sword. ?I have to put up a fight, but I want you to kill me.?
The request surprised James. ?What??
?We may not have much time; this may be the only chance I get to ensure he never wins. I want you to kill me.?
Swallowing the lump in his throat, James nodded. He had heard about suicides before. But to be an assistant to one himself?
?Okay.? The man tried to relax. ?Go.? The two fighters unleashed a fury of swings. However, his opponent was much less skilled now, and it wasn?t long before James cut the right wrist of his rival.
His foe dropped the sword. He gritted his teeth through the sting and waited. ?What are you waiting for? Do it.?
James hesitated.
?Do it!? He exclaimed, planting a left hook into James? cheek. James tried to recover as his opponent reached for his sword again. The fighter went for a stab, but James saw it. Drawing a knife in his left hand, he sidestepped his opponent before driving the knife through his chest. The smell of blood invaded the air and a look of contempt formed on the man?s face.
?Thank you.?
James withdrew his blade. The man collapsed. Beads of sweat formed on the juggler as he realised what he had just done.
A latch clicked behind him, and the door creaked open again. James stumbled out of the church in a dizzying state, thankful for not having to see that corpse anymore.
They entered an old church. Light shone through four windows stained with fine shades of red and black above the altar, and panes along the sides told the origins of Chicane. Everything felt like it was before his, or even his world?s time: From the smell of dust in the ceiling to the feel of cobbled stones through his trainers.
The great oak door closed. A loud boom echoed, but James still heard a blade unsheathe. He rolled underneath the sword into the aisle of a pew and drew a knife in the process. Standing up, he faced his opponent, moving his dreadlocks back to see their face.
?Halt!? Called a man at the altar. He wore robes of impeccable white, with scarlet threads woven into the sleeves to form Hearts. ?You dare enter this house, ready to spill blood over sacred earth? To stain the stones of our ancestor?s labours with your sins??
James felt dizzy. He carelessly dropped his blade. Propping himself up on the pew in front of him, the desire for sleep slowly took control of his body. His rival felt the same, bashing his knees against stones as he fell. But something suddenly overtook their body.
?If so, then I send thee to rest. Never again shall thou draw blood.? The man in the long coat stood up, his sword now glowing with fire. As the Priest carried on with his speech, the human marched forward.
Please don?t. He?s not who we have to kill. Thought the man, but the spirit didn?t listen. It never did. The sword went into the preacher?s stomach. The Priest bent over, wrapping round the metal inside him. Tears fell down the cheeks of the man holding the sword and his lips tried to form the phrase ?I?m sorry.? but failed.
With blood filling his mouth, the Priest asked ?What demon would do such a thing to a man of the Full House??
On the man?s back formed majestic white wings, causing the Priest to gasp. ?How can a being so pure-? He coughed up more blood ?perform such evil??
The Priest rolled forwards onto the steps, and the angel removed his sword before soaring high. James watched in bewilderment. The tears particularly confused him. Why was he crying as he killed the Priest?
James took a careful step, but it was enough sound for the angel to notice. Blazing sword at the hip, he dived towards this foe, crashing through several pews between them. The shock nearly threw James, and it was only a second later that the angel swung at him. James grabbed his knife off the floor as he ducked and moved back into the centre aisle to pick up a defensive stance.
The angel was offensive. As much as James wanted to attack, his foe was simply not giving way. He was being pushed along with every advance of this fighter.
James? back eventually touched the cold wall. As the crying angel raised his sword high above his head, its lips mimed ?Dodge!? James sidestepped and narrowly avoided the blade hitting him. The angel swung a fist which James ducked under as it slammed into the wall where his head was. Cracks rattled from the epicentre of the blow. More tears fell down the angel?s cheeks as James stood to face him.
?Look,? James began. ?if winning is that important to you, I?ll surrender.?
The man looked at James, his wings fading into light and his sword?s fire dying. Head down, he dropped to his knees like he was praying. ?I didn?t want this to happen.? Tears hit the floor ?I didn?t want to kill him. But I don?t have a choice.? He rose, swallowing tears with every breath. ?He forces me.? He turned to the altar, the Priest?s body still there. ?He kills them. They?re His murders!
?I joined this competition hoping that they could help me,? He placed his blade on the ground and started removing his long coat. ?but it seems that He has his own reasons for winning.? Dropping the coat, he took off the armour underneath and laid it on a backrest, exposing an old, white shirt. ?Alas, there is only one way to rid this curse.?
He dried his eyes and retrieved his sword. ?I have to put up a fight, but I want you to kill me.?
The request surprised James. ?What??
?We may not have much time; this may be the only chance I get to ensure he never wins. I want you to kill me.?
Swallowing the lump in his throat, James nodded. He had heard about suicides before. But to be an assistant to one himself?
?Okay.? The man tried to relax. ?Go.? The two fighters unleashed a fury of swings. However, his opponent was much less skilled now, and it wasn?t long before James cut the right wrist of his rival.
His foe dropped the sword. He gritted his teeth through the sting and waited. ?What are you waiting for? Do it.?
James hesitated.
?Do it!? He exclaimed, planting a left hook into James? cheek. James tried to recover as his opponent reached for his sword again. The fighter went for a stab, but James saw it. Drawing a knife in his left hand, he sidestepped his opponent before driving the knife through his chest. The smell of blood invaded the air and a look of contempt formed on the man?s face.
?Thank you.?
James withdrew his blade. The man collapsed. Beads of sweat formed on the juggler as he realised what he had just done.
A latch clicked behind him, and the door creaked open again. James stumbled out of the church in a dizzying state, thankful for not having to see that corpse anymore.
Chances are I'll do some more editing before tomorrow, but that's the basic idea.
I'm not a big fan with how I deal with the Priest, but seeing as William has 'a resistance to magic' and Hearts magic is essentially the Priest's powers, I decided it should be fine.
Current word count is bang on 1000.
A slow but chilly wind swept through the chamber holding the enormous temple. Possibly existing for thousands of years, this stone structure must've seen its fair share of use. It certainly looked like it was falling apart...
Stories of the throne room, its guardian and its immeasurable wealth hidden inside had found many adventurous ears. Those who returned however, told a more grim reality; practically every stone hid elaborate traps, and the deeper you went, the lesser the chance you'd see the light of day again.
And you were supposed to fight in there?
Despite the welcoming breeze, a sweatdrop escaped under Alex' trilby, slowly making its way down to his chin. The canister holding his trusty weapons felt heavy on his back. Alex shook it in a more comfortable position and continued walking towards the temple. As he took his first careful steps into the torch-lit entrance he let out a sigh.
"Please tell me why I had to be chosen again..." Alex mumbled while trying random directions. Curiosity enveloped his mind. The other contestants... They would be from other realms. What would they look like, what were their stories? And would they be willing to kill for glory? The thought was quickly put aside, he had to focus on the task at hand; find and defeat his opponent. One who certainly didn't look like a serious thre-
Klunk.
Alex froze. His foot had stepped on a stone which suddenly sunk an inch into the ground. Ancient mechanisms turned to activate a trap. A section of wall next to him rumbled.
"Shit."
On pure instinct, he jumped forwards into a somersault. Glancing back to where he stood, the section of wall smashed into the other side.
"Okay, that could've been worse", Alex said aloud, grabbing a torch handle to help standing up.
Klunk. The handle moved down. The floor shook. A stone dropped down into nothingness. Then another stone. And another.
Alex panicked and ran further into the labyrinth with the collapsing floor hot on his tail. It didn't help other traps were now sprung as well; he had to use a lot of his physical strength to keep up with the pace and avoid all the spikes, poisoned arrows and the like.
"You just HAD to jinx it, didn't you!" He shouted to himself. Getting more and more panicked, Alex had no idea where he was going. No way ever seemed the right way, more traps appeared and he still had to defeat his opponent.
The thought of being defeated before the fight had begun snapped him out of his panicked state to concentrate on his surroundings. Barely avoiding traps, a subtle glitter caught Alex' attention. A solid gold door, tucked away in a branched path. Easily missed when running from death. Without much hesitation, Alex rushed towards it with the floor still disappearing behind his back.
As if the door knew he was coming, it opened, tempting any trespassers to its seemingly safe room. Using a large chunk of his stamina, Alex leaped into darkness. The door closed just in time for flying spears to sheer off the metal.
"Well... At least no-one got hurt." He said with a painful chuckle. Standing up from the floor, he took the time to look where he threw himself into.
The room was huge; a stark contrast to the small, trap-ridden hallways Alex ran through before. The ceiling stretched up into dark, the walls decorated with forgotten languages. Torchlight seemed to glow much warmer, reflecting off gold-incrusted pillars.
A large stone seat adorning rare metals stood in the middle of the chamber.
Alex had ended up in the throne room of the Ace of Spades.
"Goodness... look at this place! This must've taken generations to build, let alone decorate!" he uttered. Gazing around, Alex didn't notice a shadow moving past.
"It is indeed a marvelous sight. But you should focus on me instead, warrior."
The sudden voice took Alex by surprise. He drew an umbrella with a 'G' stamped on the handle and tried to locate his opponent.
"So you expected me...? I'm honored!" he shouted. "So, why aren't you introducing yourself?"
"I like surprising my enemy."
A sudden sharp pain was enough to throw Alex off guard and miss the shadow running towards him. For a brief moment, two warriors met eachother face-to-face; one a feared warrior, one in intense pain from the ice needle in his arm. Alex' opponent whipped around his blade which made water appear, steering it in such a way it knocked him backwards against the fabled throne.
Pulling himself up from it, he saw his opponent slowly walking towards him, his sword dispensing water everywhere, ready to take him out. "Before I defeat you, I want you to know I am doing this for the greater good. For Lord Makoto." The waterjuggler said.
"You can have that unlimited power, I never wanted to be here" Alex replied. "But I'm not planning to die by stupid water."
Annoyed, the waterbender slashed his sword from a distance, morphing the thrown water into a barrage of ice needles. This time prepared, Alex folded out his umbrella to protect himself. The recoil from the many projectiles digging into the kevlar-coated fabric made Alex tension his grip... And fire.
Shocked, he slowly peeped over his protective canopy, seeing his opponent lying on the floor, moaning and bleeding from the scattershot. Alex quickly ran towards him, realizing what he just did.
"Oh god... I- I'm so sorry- I- I'll surrender so you'll win and they'll heal you or we can start over aga-"
"No." The warrior said while sprouting blood. "You defeated me. You win."
"But- What'll happen to you?"
"I do not know, warrior." Alex' opponent said. Placing his hand on Alex' shoulder, he whispered: "What is... your name?"
A once boasting voice broke. "...A-Alex. Alexander Umbra. Defender of the innocent."
"I am... Izumi. The... Frost... Demon..."
Izumi's hand fell off Alex' shoulder onto the ground.
"...Pleased to meet you."
Stories of the throne room, its guardian and its immeasurable wealth hidden inside had found many adventurous ears. Those who returned however, told a more grim reality; practically every stone hid elaborate traps, and the deeper you went, the lesser the chance you'd see the light of day again.
And you were supposed to fight in there?
Despite the welcoming breeze, a sweatdrop escaped under Alex' trilby, slowly making its way down to his chin. The canister holding his trusty weapons felt heavy on his back. Alex shook it in a more comfortable position and continued walking towards the temple. As he took his first careful steps into the torch-lit entrance he let out a sigh.
"Please tell me why I had to be chosen again..." Alex mumbled while trying random directions. Curiosity enveloped his mind. The other contestants... They would be from other realms. What would they look like, what were their stories? And would they be willing to kill for glory? The thought was quickly put aside, he had to focus on the task at hand; find and defeat his opponent. One who certainly didn't look like a serious thre-
Klunk.
Alex froze. His foot had stepped on a stone which suddenly sunk an inch into the ground. Ancient mechanisms turned to activate a trap. A section of wall next to him rumbled.
"Shit."
On pure instinct, he jumped forwards into a somersault. Glancing back to where he stood, the section of wall smashed into the other side.
"Okay, that could've been worse", Alex said aloud, grabbing a torch handle to help standing up.
Klunk. The handle moved down. The floor shook. A stone dropped down into nothingness. Then another stone. And another.
Alex panicked and ran further into the labyrinth with the collapsing floor hot on his tail. It didn't help other traps were now sprung as well; he had to use a lot of his physical strength to keep up with the pace and avoid all the spikes, poisoned arrows and the like.
"You just HAD to jinx it, didn't you!" He shouted to himself. Getting more and more panicked, Alex had no idea where he was going. No way ever seemed the right way, more traps appeared and he still had to defeat his opponent.
The thought of being defeated before the fight had begun snapped him out of his panicked state to concentrate on his surroundings. Barely avoiding traps, a subtle glitter caught Alex' attention. A solid gold door, tucked away in a branched path. Easily missed when running from death. Without much hesitation, Alex rushed towards it with the floor still disappearing behind his back.
As if the door knew he was coming, it opened, tempting any trespassers to its seemingly safe room. Using a large chunk of his stamina, Alex leaped into darkness. The door closed just in time for flying spears to sheer off the metal.
"Well... At least no-one got hurt." He said with a painful chuckle. Standing up from the floor, he took the time to look where he threw himself into.
The room was huge; a stark contrast to the small, trap-ridden hallways Alex ran through before. The ceiling stretched up into dark, the walls decorated with forgotten languages. Torchlight seemed to glow much warmer, reflecting off gold-incrusted pillars.
A large stone seat adorning rare metals stood in the middle of the chamber.
Alex had ended up in the throne room of the Ace of Spades.
"Goodness... look at this place! This must've taken generations to build, let alone decorate!" he uttered. Gazing around, Alex didn't notice a shadow moving past.
"It is indeed a marvelous sight. But you should focus on me instead, warrior."
The sudden voice took Alex by surprise. He drew an umbrella with a 'G' stamped on the handle and tried to locate his opponent.
"So you expected me...? I'm honored!" he shouted. "So, why aren't you introducing yourself?"
"I like surprising my enemy."
A sudden sharp pain was enough to throw Alex off guard and miss the shadow running towards him. For a brief moment, two warriors met eachother face-to-face; one a feared warrior, one in intense pain from the ice needle in his arm. Alex' opponent whipped around his blade which made water appear, steering it in such a way it knocked him backwards against the fabled throne.
Pulling himself up from it, he saw his opponent slowly walking towards him, his sword dispensing water everywhere, ready to take him out. "Before I defeat you, I want you to know I am doing this for the greater good. For Lord Makoto." The waterjuggler said.
"You can have that unlimited power, I never wanted to be here" Alex replied. "But I'm not planning to die by stupid water."
Annoyed, the waterbender slashed his sword from a distance, morphing the thrown water into a barrage of ice needles. This time prepared, Alex folded out his umbrella to protect himself. The recoil from the many projectiles digging into the kevlar-coated fabric made Alex tension his grip... And fire.
Shocked, he slowly peeped over his protective canopy, seeing his opponent lying on the floor, moaning and bleeding from the scattershot. Alex quickly ran towards him, realizing what he just did.
"Oh god... I- I'm so sorry- I- I'll surrender so you'll win and they'll heal you or we can start over aga-"
"No." The warrior said while sprouting blood. "You defeated me. You win."
"But- What'll happen to you?"
"I do not know, warrior." Alex' opponent said. Placing his hand on Alex' shoulder, he whispered: "What is... your name?"
A once boasting voice broke. "...A-Alex. Alexander Umbra. Defender of the innocent."
"I am... Izumi. The... Frost... Demon..."
Izumi's hand fell off Alex' shoulder onto the ground.
"...Pleased to meet you."
Alot -and by that I mean ALOT- was changed in the course of 10 days. At first I had forgotten about the 1000 words limit, so when I rediscovered there was one, I had to cut down alot of content from the original draft.
Alas, it turned out alright and I will await judgement.
It was clear that whatever ruin Izumi had been taken to had not been inhabited for quite some time. The stone that formed it was crumbling, allowing the occasional draft to blow through and there were puddles of water caused by leaks in the roof. But Izumi was in no mood to think about the state of this ruin nor ponder just what sort of man could possibly sit the massive throne he was now kneeling before. He was too busy wondering how he was going to win the fight to come for he was kneeling not out of reverence, but out of exhaustion from the dangers he had faced on the way to this room. When he stepped through door number 5 at the end of that massive corridor the Decimators had lead them down he found himself in a much smaller corridor.
As he ventured further in, Izumi found it was no normal corridor. A few careless steps and he was forced to dodge arrows shooting out of the walls, leap over seemingly bottomless pitfalls, and roll out of the way of falling rocks. Exhausted, he fell to his knees in front of the throne. He had made it through the traps and to what might be the center of the ruin, but simply getting there had left his frail body in poor condition. "And I have not even met my opponent yet..." Izumi muttered as he caught his breath and rose to his feet.
A low rumbling could be heard from far off and as Izumi listened to it, it began to get louder. Soon, a voice could be heard as well. Like the boulder, it started out faint but grew louder gradually. "ShitShitShitShitShitSHIT!!!" The owner of the voice came running through a door on the other side of the chamber and quickly rolled out of the way, narrowly avoiding a boulder that had been rolling after him. As the boulder crashed into the giant throne, Izumi's opponent got up and dusted himself off, not noticing Izumi.
His foe was a rather large man, his clothing was of a style Izumi had never seen before and the canister on his back was full of several hook shaped objects. It was likely that they were weapons, but what they truly were he could not say. Since his foe's strength was unknown, Izumi decided his best course of action would be to sneak up on him and deal with him efficiently.
As the man looked around the room, Izumi approached quietly but quickly. Before long he had crept up behind his opponent, unsheathing Suijin and slashing at the man's back. Hearing the sword, the man turned and stepped back just enough to avoid a fatal blow. He cried out in pain as the blade sliced across his chest and sunk to one knee, clutching at his chest to try and stop the bleeding.
"That was dirty. You supposed to be one of those ninjas or something? If we're gonna fight, we might as well know each others names eh? I?m Alex Umbra." As the man spoke, he reached for one of the hook shaped objects on his back.
Seeing this, Izumi gripped Suijin tightly and pointed it at Alex as a warning. "I am Izumi, the Frost Demon of Makoto. And I am not one for words so let us finish this."
Alex nodded and got to his feet, drawing the weapon as he did so. Izumi recognized it as an umbrella, recalling that some assassins used umbrellas to conceal hidden blades. Something was different about this one though. The way Alex was holding it was not the way one would hold a sword. It was more like one would hold? "A gun!" Izumi exclaimed, eyes wide with surprise as he realized he was staring down the barrel of a gun. Izumi twisted to the side as quickly as he could to dodge the incoming bullet. He had thought himself successful until he felt a pain in his side unlike any bullet wound he had ever experienced.
I was certain I was out of the path of the gun barrel... No matter. I must strike now, while he has to reload! But as Izumi moved to strike Alex, he noticed that the man made no move. He simply slid a part on the bottom of his gun back and went to pull the trigger. Shocked at the capabilities of the weapon once again, Izumi quickly rolled out of the way to get as far from the barrel as possible. As the shot flew past him he swung Suijin, releasing a small amount of water towards the gun. He then froze the water as it hit the barrel, rendering the weapon inoperable. Alex dropped the weapon and quickly removed his gloves while running towards Izumi. Seeing this, Izumi swung Suijin once more and attempted to form shards of ice to stop Alex before he could get close enough to do anything. Instead of ice though, water left the sword. Izumi's exhaustion and wounds had gotten the better of him and caused Suijin to misfire.
As the water flew towards Alex, Izumi noticed the terror in his eyes as he looked at the water coming at him and then down at his hands. Following his gaze, Izumi soon understood why. Somehow, Alex had gained power over lightning and was gathering it in his hands. The water hit Alex and his body shook violently as his backfired attack ravaged him. When it was all over Alex stood frozen in place, staring straight forward with glazed over eyes before collapsing. Izumi cautiously moved to check his body and confirmed his death. With a sigh he closed Alex's lifeless eyes and sheathed Suijin. "Goodbye Alex Umbra. I had meant to take you alive since you were no enemy of Lord Makoto. But it seems I was not strong enough." Having paid his respects, he stood and waited to be taken out of the ruin.
As he ventured further in, Izumi found it was no normal corridor. A few careless steps and he was forced to dodge arrows shooting out of the walls, leap over seemingly bottomless pitfalls, and roll out of the way of falling rocks. Exhausted, he fell to his knees in front of the throne. He had made it through the traps and to what might be the center of the ruin, but simply getting there had left his frail body in poor condition. "And I have not even met my opponent yet..." Izumi muttered as he caught his breath and rose to his feet.
A low rumbling could be heard from far off and as Izumi listened to it, it began to get louder. Soon, a voice could be heard as well. Like the boulder, it started out faint but grew louder gradually. "ShitShitShitShitShitSHIT!!!" The owner of the voice came running through a door on the other side of the chamber and quickly rolled out of the way, narrowly avoiding a boulder that had been rolling after him. As the boulder crashed into the giant throne, Izumi's opponent got up and dusted himself off, not noticing Izumi.
His foe was a rather large man, his clothing was of a style Izumi had never seen before and the canister on his back was full of several hook shaped objects. It was likely that they were weapons, but what they truly were he could not say. Since his foe's strength was unknown, Izumi decided his best course of action would be to sneak up on him and deal with him efficiently.
As the man looked around the room, Izumi approached quietly but quickly. Before long he had crept up behind his opponent, unsheathing Suijin and slashing at the man's back. Hearing the sword, the man turned and stepped back just enough to avoid a fatal blow. He cried out in pain as the blade sliced across his chest and sunk to one knee, clutching at his chest to try and stop the bleeding.
"That was dirty. You supposed to be one of those ninjas or something? If we're gonna fight, we might as well know each others names eh? I?m Alex Umbra." As the man spoke, he reached for one of the hook shaped objects on his back.
Seeing this, Izumi gripped Suijin tightly and pointed it at Alex as a warning. "I am Izumi, the Frost Demon of Makoto. And I am not one for words so let us finish this."
Alex nodded and got to his feet, drawing the weapon as he did so. Izumi recognized it as an umbrella, recalling that some assassins used umbrellas to conceal hidden blades. Something was different about this one though. The way Alex was holding it was not the way one would hold a sword. It was more like one would hold? "A gun!" Izumi exclaimed, eyes wide with surprise as he realized he was staring down the barrel of a gun. Izumi twisted to the side as quickly as he could to dodge the incoming bullet. He had thought himself successful until he felt a pain in his side unlike any bullet wound he had ever experienced.
I was certain I was out of the path of the gun barrel... No matter. I must strike now, while he has to reload! But as Izumi moved to strike Alex, he noticed that the man made no move. He simply slid a part on the bottom of his gun back and went to pull the trigger. Shocked at the capabilities of the weapon once again, Izumi quickly rolled out of the way to get as far from the barrel as possible. As the shot flew past him he swung Suijin, releasing a small amount of water towards the gun. He then froze the water as it hit the barrel, rendering the weapon inoperable. Alex dropped the weapon and quickly removed his gloves while running towards Izumi. Seeing this, Izumi swung Suijin once more and attempted to form shards of ice to stop Alex before he could get close enough to do anything. Instead of ice though, water left the sword. Izumi's exhaustion and wounds had gotten the better of him and caused Suijin to misfire.
As the water flew towards Alex, Izumi noticed the terror in his eyes as he looked at the water coming at him and then down at his hands. Following his gaze, Izumi soon understood why. Somehow, Alex had gained power over lightning and was gathering it in his hands. The water hit Alex and his body shook violently as his backfired attack ravaged him. When it was all over Alex stood frozen in place, staring straight forward with glazed over eyes before collapsing. Izumi cautiously moved to check his body and confirmed his death. With a sigh he closed Alex's lifeless eyes and sheathed Suijin. "Goodbye Alex Umbra. I had meant to take you alive since you were no enemy of Lord Makoto. But it seems I was not strong enough." Having paid his respects, he stood and waited to be taken out of the ruin.
Man, 1000 words is a lot fewer than it sounds. I might be a little over but it shouldn't be by too much.
Edit: Must've read the word count wrong. My apologies. Chopped down to 1000.
That is 187 words over. Trim it up. There should be no reason why you get a larger limit than everyone else who managed to drop theirs down to 1000.Fragrance of Mtn Dew said:
Rrr...
My computer's internet has failed, leaving me with only my phone 3G. I had been hoping to post now, but instead it'll have to be this evening.
Is this acceptable?
My computer's internet has failed, leaving me with only my phone 3G. I had been hoping to post now, but instead it'll have to be this evening.
Is this acceptable?
I'm afraid its not your place to say that element, if he gets any punishment, or should get any punishment for it, it'll be from the judges.elementsoul said:
That I will allow. Fragrance has until then to edit his piece as well.ThreeWords said:
I won't stop Fragrance from going over the word limit, but the judges will take it into account when they make their final verdict, should he decide not to.
A couple of words is forgivable, but 187 is almost 20% extra space to write your piece - it's a handicap that I have to enforce for everyone. After this round, I assure you guys that you can go nuts.
I was dreading you saying that... xDLord Krunk said:
When is the official time for the first block closing? Or has it already closed >.>
I'll post it up here when I have closed it - I'm just waiting on Threewords, Nukey and RBMidknight's entry. Threewords has asked for a day's extension and RB is definitely active, Nukey I'm just waiting for a reply on.sky14kemea said:
Anywho, I'm going to bed soon. I'll close this round when I wake up tomorrow morning, provided I don't hear back from anyone in that time.
I post, despite a wait of actual minutes to load a page. If I didn't have my phone, I don't know what I would do...
Furthermore, the Escapist doesn't seem to agree with my word processor as to what certain punctuation means. I've gone through the piece replacing all the offending bits and pieces, but I apologize for any confusions caused by strange grammars...
They were lined up and paired off with little ceremony. William was only slightly pleased to find that his opponent looked outlandish, but boring; while he would regret this death at the Angel's hand, he supposed that it would it least be an easy step toward being rid of it's curse.
William followed his rival through an ancient looking door, and they found themselves in a cold, echoing corridor of stone situated, they had been told, in a ancient and venerable church. Behind them, the door closed with a resounding finality, and when he looked back, it seemed to have merged imperceptibly with the wall. There would be no escape until one was the victor, he knew, but that didn?t necessarily imply death.
They faced each other, silent and awkward for a moment. "Look, this is nothing personal," he said, finally, "I don?t want to have to kill you. Just back down; we can end this peacefully"
His foe laughed, but without mirth or mockery, "Y'think it?' going to be easy?" he asked, "No offence, but with that sword you?ve got, I don?t really feel like putting myself at your mercy. I agree that this is nothing personal, but I'd rather I made sure you won?t get a chance to lay into me. Besides, they told us to fight, and we can?t leave till one of us is down."
William smiled sadly, and rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. At least he'd tried; he thought, it was on his foe?s head now. One last thing: "Before we fight, I would know your name," he asked, carefully. "James Elroy" was the curt reply. William nodded, and continued; "I am William Darke, and I-" He cut himself short as James' hand blurred. Throwing himself to the ground, he barely avoided a flying knife Landing heavily, he rolled sideways to dodge a second, then scrambled to his feet. Any minute now, the Angel would come forth and this battle would be over.
But the Evening Star gave no sign. William lunged, trying to buy time until the Angel showed its hand, but James only laughed and danced backward; his arm blurred, and William stumbled away from a third blade. He swung wildly, only for James to dive sideways, roll smoothly, sweep up a knife and throw it in one single movement. As William threw himself down again, a tiny part of him marveled at the sheer grace of his opponent.
Somewhere, at the back of his mind, the Angel was laughing.
"Cease."
The one word seemed to roll like thunder, and shake the church to its foundations. Inside his mind, he trembled. The Angel, too, fell silent.
"Face me."
Together, the combatants turned like puppets, and found themselves looking upon a figure, robed in white and red. The diamond-topped staff it held was no weapon, but its eyes shone with power, and its voice still echoed in their minds and down their limbs.
Sd the Priest's made eye contact, William could feel their minds connect. The Priest forced his way in, expecting no resistance, expanding into the poet's head with aggressive abandon. The Angel, finally aware that its realm was under siege, began to fight back
As the two forces met, William felt his mind freed from the Priests grip, only for the evening Star to take hold. His wings unfurled, and his sword burned with wrath, but the Priest remained unperturbed. Instead, he merely stood back from the Angel's reach, and spoke again:
"Kneel."
William was shocked to find himself falling to his knees; indeed, the Angel's rage was like a tangible force, for despite its power, it could not shake the shackles. But together, William noticed, they had taken a step before the Priest cut them down. As James knelt beside him, William approached the bright, harsh part of his mind where the Angel resided.
You need me, he thought, We can be free of these chains, but you'll need to let me my way...
Abruptly, the fire was gone, winked out in sign of assent. The psychic grasp faltered for a moment, and William surged to his feet, blade raised and threatening. The Priest blinked, raised a hand, and pointed.
"Drop your weapon!"
For one awful, drawn out moment, William tried to fight back, then the sword clattered loudly to the floor. He had not been able to resist for long, but it had been long enough. Wings unfurled, and again the corridor filled with light. The compulsion, aimed at a mortal poet, was wasted on the Angel, and together, they took one more step forward, and that was all they needed.
Wielding William's hand, the Angel reached out to the Priest, batting away his feeble defense. The other hand found it?s way to the Priest's forehead, and for a second, through the Angel's connection, William saw the Priest's own mind: a manicured garden of refined though protected by labyrinthine mental defences. Through it all, the Angel cut a swathe.
As suddenly as it had come, the glimpse was goes, and the Angel was lifting the Priest by the neck. William felt himself throw the Priest against the cold stones of the wall, head stone and bone crack, and knew sadness. As they strode back toward James, the Angel stooped to pick up the sword, and sadness turned to dread.
As the Angel raised its burning blade, James looked up, stunned after the mental assault, William tried to shout, to fight, to do something, abs for a moment the blade hesitated, but as always, he was powerless to prevent the slaughter.
Suddenly, everything buckled; a storm of mental force strong enough to physically knock the Angel from his feet. Reeling, he spotted the Priest, propped up against the wall, somehow still conscious. As they met the Priest's eyes together, William understood; this would be the only chance.
They switched, one last time, and William turned back to his opponent, sheathing his sword as he did so. ?I claim victory? he announced, hoping that he would be heard, "For I could have slain this man with my blade as he lay fallen, and instead I have spared his life."
In front of him, the stonework shifted, and peeled aside to reveal the exit. Helping James to his feet, William walked out of their arena. Ignoring his victory, his spirit soared; for he had, for the first time, defied the will of his Angel.
William followed his rival through an ancient looking door, and they found themselves in a cold, echoing corridor of stone situated, they had been told, in a ancient and venerable church. Behind them, the door closed with a resounding finality, and when he looked back, it seemed to have merged imperceptibly with the wall. There would be no escape until one was the victor, he knew, but that didn?t necessarily imply death.
They faced each other, silent and awkward for a moment. "Look, this is nothing personal," he said, finally, "I don?t want to have to kill you. Just back down; we can end this peacefully"
His foe laughed, but without mirth or mockery, "Y'think it?' going to be easy?" he asked, "No offence, but with that sword you?ve got, I don?t really feel like putting myself at your mercy. I agree that this is nothing personal, but I'd rather I made sure you won?t get a chance to lay into me. Besides, they told us to fight, and we can?t leave till one of us is down."
William smiled sadly, and rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. At least he'd tried; he thought, it was on his foe?s head now. One last thing: "Before we fight, I would know your name," he asked, carefully. "James Elroy" was the curt reply. William nodded, and continued; "I am William Darke, and I-" He cut himself short as James' hand blurred. Throwing himself to the ground, he barely avoided a flying knife Landing heavily, he rolled sideways to dodge a second, then scrambled to his feet. Any minute now, the Angel would come forth and this battle would be over.
But the Evening Star gave no sign. William lunged, trying to buy time until the Angel showed its hand, but James only laughed and danced backward; his arm blurred, and William stumbled away from a third blade. He swung wildly, only for James to dive sideways, roll smoothly, sweep up a knife and throw it in one single movement. As William threw himself down again, a tiny part of him marveled at the sheer grace of his opponent.
Somewhere, at the back of his mind, the Angel was laughing.
"Cease."
The one word seemed to roll like thunder, and shake the church to its foundations. Inside his mind, he trembled. The Angel, too, fell silent.
"Face me."
Together, the combatants turned like puppets, and found themselves looking upon a figure, robed in white and red. The diamond-topped staff it held was no weapon, but its eyes shone with power, and its voice still echoed in their minds and down their limbs.
Sd the Priest's made eye contact, William could feel their minds connect. The Priest forced his way in, expecting no resistance, expanding into the poet's head with aggressive abandon. The Angel, finally aware that its realm was under siege, began to fight back
As the two forces met, William felt his mind freed from the Priests grip, only for the evening Star to take hold. His wings unfurled, and his sword burned with wrath, but the Priest remained unperturbed. Instead, he merely stood back from the Angel's reach, and spoke again:
"Kneel."
William was shocked to find himself falling to his knees; indeed, the Angel's rage was like a tangible force, for despite its power, it could not shake the shackles. But together, William noticed, they had taken a step before the Priest cut them down. As James knelt beside him, William approached the bright, harsh part of his mind where the Angel resided.
You need me, he thought, We can be free of these chains, but you'll need to let me my way...
Abruptly, the fire was gone, winked out in sign of assent. The psychic grasp faltered for a moment, and William surged to his feet, blade raised and threatening. The Priest blinked, raised a hand, and pointed.
"Drop your weapon!"
For one awful, drawn out moment, William tried to fight back, then the sword clattered loudly to the floor. He had not been able to resist for long, but it had been long enough. Wings unfurled, and again the corridor filled with light. The compulsion, aimed at a mortal poet, was wasted on the Angel, and together, they took one more step forward, and that was all they needed.
Wielding William's hand, the Angel reached out to the Priest, batting away his feeble defense. The other hand found it?s way to the Priest's forehead, and for a second, through the Angel's connection, William saw the Priest's own mind: a manicured garden of refined though protected by labyrinthine mental defences. Through it all, the Angel cut a swathe.
As suddenly as it had come, the glimpse was goes, and the Angel was lifting the Priest by the neck. William felt himself throw the Priest against the cold stones of the wall, head stone and bone crack, and knew sadness. As they strode back toward James, the Angel stooped to pick up the sword, and sadness turned to dread.
As the Angel raised its burning blade, James looked up, stunned after the mental assault, William tried to shout, to fight, to do something, abs for a moment the blade hesitated, but as always, he was powerless to prevent the slaughter.
Suddenly, everything buckled; a storm of mental force strong enough to physically knock the Angel from his feet. Reeling, he spotted the Priest, propped up against the wall, somehow still conscious. As they met the Priest's eyes together, William understood; this would be the only chance.
They switched, one last time, and William turned back to his opponent, sheathing his sword as he did so. ?I claim victory? he announced, hoping that he would be heard, "For I could have slain this man with my blade as he lay fallen, and instead I have spared his life."
In front of him, the stonework shifted, and peeled aside to reveal the exit. Helping James to his feet, William walked out of their arena. Ignoring his victory, his spirit soared; for he had, for the first time, defied the will of his Angel.
Furthermore, the Escapist doesn't seem to agree with my word processor as to what certain punctuation means. I've gone through the piece replacing all the offending bits and pieces, but I apologize for any confusions caused by strange grammars...
Forgive me, but I fail to see how your character can claim a victory over his opponent.ThreeWords said:
The road to you is paved right through with bloody good intentions,
And missing you-
-----------
Life: is confusing, multi-layered, joyous, sad. Life is: existing. Existed. Existed around Shanks. It didn't just exist. But progressed, somehow. Somehow, life was still progressing. No, that was wrong. He of all people should know that. Life didn't progress. Progressing would suggest advancement, enlightenment, moving towards a goal.
There was no goal in life. See; emptiness, see; dying alone, see; misanthropic self-talk.
Shanks had died once. At least, he'd thought he had. A godforsaken mausoleum. Decrepit. Ancient. Rotting like the world the challenge was held on. Life in rapid decay. See; maggots, time lapse nature documentary.
The battle had felt like he was living two lives. In one, he tranq'd his opponent and won. In the other, he'd been stabbed and bled to death. It got hazy after that.
Shanks had died once. But not alone. She'd lain there with him. With him. Then it had gotten hazy. See; essential amount of blood required by human body, see; exsanguination.
Dying. In short. Was. Life is. Dying was. Was strangely liberating. Because no matter what he saw with his visions, he knew it couldn't be any worse than choking on his own bodily fluids while being held by the only woman he'd ever loved.
Life existed around Shanks. Currently, it existed bizarrely, but all things considered, at least it existed. See; small miracles.
A wizard. That was the only way to describe it. Holding a staff, whirling his free hand to trace gestures, gestures that stung and burned the eye.
Glass shatters.
Whirling his staff to strike blows ineffectually.
Paperwork scatters.
Step,
left,
step,
right,
and,
swing. slash. left parry. right parry. advance.
See; basic knife fighting, see; pub brawls 101, see; working behind a bar for years and not having a scumbag carve his initials on your guts with a broken bottle. A broken bottle you probably sold him. See; short term regrets.
swing. left parry. slash. stab.
This isn't happening. At least, not yet. Not currently. This might happen. This isn't happening.
What is happening: The Jack of Hearts is explaining the rules. Shanks already knows the rules. This is happening.
What has happened: Shanks arrives in Chicane. This isn't happening. This happened. And while it was happening, Shanks was-
What is happening: -seeing, hearing, understanding the Jack of Hearts explain the rules. This is happening. But of course, while this is happening, Shanks isn't here, not his mind, because his mind is-
What might happen: -here. Knife, switch left, step right, palm back to right hand, step left, step left, slash right.
Knicks knuckles, staff blocks, scratches embedded crystal. Pain. Head pain. See; unknown force discharge, see; this is fucking magic, do you really think there's a reference for it?
Crystal is; emitting white smoke, resonating oddly, apparently burning. Wizard is; frantically trying to contain cosmic forces.
Floor, is shattering.
Shanks is up, is up,
is fast,
is holding knife against wizards throat. Shanks is finishing up the briefing from the Jack. Shanks is arriving in Chicane. Shanks is lying in a rapidly cooling red mess. Shanks is lying in her arms, Shanks, and her, are silently crying. Shanks forgets which of these moments he is in.
Shanks freezes. In all of them.
For the record: Temporal backlash (See; strain from overlapping, interconnected psychic visions) is always a *****.
Shanks is off balance, the knife is- slip from his hand, the staff is -thwack to the face, that turns into -repeated strikes for the chest and abdomen as wizard stands up. More for the face.
Shanks is down. Is down.
Is down hard.
Shanks tastes floor, cracked glass. Crystal is dead, burnt out. See; needs recharding, see; how Shanks feels, see; file for later use.
"I am Daman Ra. Perhaps you have heard of me, it.." pause for thought, "it matters not." Grim stare like the best of them. "You can live or you can die," he states quietly. "The Joker must be destroyed, and you are in no position to continue the tournament."
"Hey.. Daman.. Ra.." wet spittle flies off lips. "I just want to... say.." except spittle isn't red. Drags in some of that oh so important oxygen.
Leans in close. "Say what?" Eyes sharp for trickery, Daman didn't become a spellcaster of such power and wisdom by being stupid. See; never believe your opponent is defeated just because he's on the floor, see; Shanks isn't trying to defeat him anymore, see; remember, this hasn't happened yet.
"You just lost."
Ra flicks his fingers, withdraws, scrunches into a fist, holds the flat palm to his forehead. Soft thrumming. Staff falls from the opposite hand. How do you prepare for this trick?
"Hey Ra, this is not happening,"
"But, that means, you, how? You cheated! You-" See; realising the fight you just won only exists in your opponents mind, see; it took him half a dozen play-throughs of this battle, but now he knows everything to beat you.
What has now happened: See; this is the actual fight, see; what is happening. Crystal went first. Shanks bolts back, avoids the discharge, kicks the staff away while Ra recovers, opens red-mouthed smile in the spell casting hand. Throws a boot in for good measure. See; bar-fighting habits die hard.
"My name is Dimitry Shanks perhaps you have heard of me. It matters not-" Life is: painful, hard, rewarding. Life is: existing. Around Shanks. Currently. Life is not progressing.
But the tournament is.
---------------
-is like, kissing,
cyanide.
And missing you-
-----------
Life: is confusing, multi-layered, joyous, sad. Life is: existing. Existed. Existed around Shanks. It didn't just exist. But progressed, somehow. Somehow, life was still progressing. No, that was wrong. He of all people should know that. Life didn't progress. Progressing would suggest advancement, enlightenment, moving towards a goal.
There was no goal in life. See; emptiness, see; dying alone, see; misanthropic self-talk.
Shanks had died once. At least, he'd thought he had. A godforsaken mausoleum. Decrepit. Ancient. Rotting like the world the challenge was held on. Life in rapid decay. See; maggots, time lapse nature documentary.
The battle had felt like he was living two lives. In one, he tranq'd his opponent and won. In the other, he'd been stabbed and bled to death. It got hazy after that.
Shanks had died once. But not alone. She'd lain there with him. With him. Then it had gotten hazy. See; essential amount of blood required by human body, see; exsanguination.
Dying. In short. Was. Life is. Dying was. Was strangely liberating. Because no matter what he saw with his visions, he knew it couldn't be any worse than choking on his own bodily fluids while being held by the only woman he'd ever loved.
Life existed around Shanks. Currently, it existed bizarrely, but all things considered, at least it existed. See; small miracles.
A wizard. That was the only way to describe it. Holding a staff, whirling his free hand to trace gestures, gestures that stung and burned the eye.
Glass shatters.
Whirling his staff to strike blows ineffectually.
Paperwork scatters.
Step,
left,
step,
right,
and,
swing. slash. left parry. right parry. advance.
See; basic knife fighting, see; pub brawls 101, see; working behind a bar for years and not having a scumbag carve his initials on your guts with a broken bottle. A broken bottle you probably sold him. See; short term regrets.
swing. left parry. slash. stab.
This isn't happening. At least, not yet. Not currently. This might happen. This isn't happening.
What is happening: The Jack of Hearts is explaining the rules. Shanks already knows the rules. This is happening.
What has happened: Shanks arrives in Chicane. This isn't happening. This happened. And while it was happening, Shanks was-
What is happening: -seeing, hearing, understanding the Jack of Hearts explain the rules. This is happening. But of course, while this is happening, Shanks isn't here, not his mind, because his mind is-
What might happen: -here. Knife, switch left, step right, palm back to right hand, step left, step left, slash right.
Knicks knuckles, staff blocks, scratches embedded crystal. Pain. Head pain. See; unknown force discharge, see; this is fucking magic, do you really think there's a reference for it?
Crystal is; emitting white smoke, resonating oddly, apparently burning. Wizard is; frantically trying to contain cosmic forces.
Floor, is shattering.
Shanks is up, is up,
is fast,
is holding knife against wizards throat. Shanks is finishing up the briefing from the Jack. Shanks is arriving in Chicane. Shanks is lying in a rapidly cooling red mess. Shanks is lying in her arms, Shanks, and her, are silently crying. Shanks forgets which of these moments he is in.
Shanks freezes. In all of them.
For the record: Temporal backlash (See; strain from overlapping, interconnected psychic visions) is always a *****.
Shanks is off balance, the knife is- slip from his hand, the staff is -thwack to the face, that turns into -repeated strikes for the chest and abdomen as wizard stands up. More for the face.
Shanks is down. Is down.
Is down hard.
Shanks tastes floor, cracked glass. Crystal is dead, burnt out. See; needs recharding, see; how Shanks feels, see; file for later use.
"I am Daman Ra. Perhaps you have heard of me, it.." pause for thought, "it matters not." Grim stare like the best of them. "You can live or you can die," he states quietly. "The Joker must be destroyed, and you are in no position to continue the tournament."
"Hey.. Daman.. Ra.." wet spittle flies off lips. "I just want to... say.." except spittle isn't red. Drags in some of that oh so important oxygen.
Leans in close. "Say what?" Eyes sharp for trickery, Daman didn't become a spellcaster of such power and wisdom by being stupid. See; never believe your opponent is defeated just because he's on the floor, see; Shanks isn't trying to defeat him anymore, see; remember, this hasn't happened yet.
"You just lost."
Ra flicks his fingers, withdraws, scrunches into a fist, holds the flat palm to his forehead. Soft thrumming. Staff falls from the opposite hand. How do you prepare for this trick?
"Hey Ra, this is not happening,"
"But, that means, you, how? You cheated! You-" See; realising the fight you just won only exists in your opponents mind, see; it took him half a dozen play-throughs of this battle, but now he knows everything to beat you.
What has now happened: See; this is the actual fight, see; what is happening. Crystal went first. Shanks bolts back, avoids the discharge, kicks the staff away while Ra recovers, opens red-mouthed smile in the spell casting hand. Throws a boot in for good measure. See; bar-fighting habits die hard.
"My name is Dimitry Shanks perhaps you have heard of me. It matters not-" Life is: painful, hard, rewarding. Life is: existing. Around Shanks. Currently. Life is not progressing.
But the tournament is.
---------------
-is like, kissing,
cyanide.
A moment before, he held a burning sword above James' head. He claims that sparing him then entitles him to victory.CounterAttack said:
Here's my entry, though it is not due until the third. Call this a first draft and a placeholder in case I choose not to edit it
1007 words
The first thought Barry had was that libraries always smelled the same. It was a strange thought considering the circumstances he had found himself in, but regardless, they really did. It was this lingering odour of 'old,' like an old countess's living room. Heavy layers of dust lay over most of the library save for one area where it had been disturbed. There was a visible handprint sitting horizontal on one of the shelves and the book was ajar somewhat deviating from the rest of the shelf.
A curiosity took him and he took the book off the shelf in an attempt to browse its pages. Instead he heard whispers, "So you too, have accepted the challenge presented in my pages; there was one other that wrote in my pages, to answer the question hidden in my pages."
Barry quickly opened the book and scanned the pages. All throughout it, in different pens, different languages and in different ways, the same question seemed to have always been attempted. The question: What is Life?
"Look at the back pages," the book whispered in his ear, "Look at what your opponent has wrought."
The pages appeared to turn themselves quicker than Barry could have managed on his own and soon an elegant script met his eyes; unexpected considering the aesthetics of his opponent, Barry was surprised to see that he could read or write at all.
What is life? Life is the gift given to all the species, all the creatures that have ever strived to it. This gift is not given by Gods, nay, but rather given to us by us; our life is not the blood beating through our veins, it is not the electrical currents that move through our conscious creating us as we know it. Life is simply what we make ourselves; Self actualization, self realization, whatever you wish to call it, this is what we call Life. Life is a way of thinking; Life is a way of functioning in a psychological, physiological and biological state?
"Life is simply what we make of it," a voice finished behind Barry, causing him to spin around almost dropping the book.
There his opponent stood in all his underwhelming glory. He was a goddamn hobo, a vagrant, a useless flake of filth from what Barry could tell; his clothes were tattered rags, his eyes, sunken and unnaturally black and beady.
"And what have you made of your life beggar? It looks as if your own definition is worded only so you can validate your own pathetic existence. What are you but a burden; what kind of sick twisted life is that, which you would tear down your own society's goals, hold back progress and cause unneeded economic problems? "
His opponents eyes flashed for a moment and he seemed to cloud over for only a second before responding, "I am no plague as you attempt to portray me; I was not so different from you, I am a Speaker for my people," his voice lost strength for only a moment, "Or rather was chosen to be."
The word escaped Barry's lips as quick as they left the other mans, "Reject."
"Ai, that is indeed my name, for there is no other word for what I am."
Barry walked up to the man and stared into the depths of the man's eyes, "What is your game then Reject, that you would turn away my words but concede that you are nothing but scum?"
"There is a difference between your definition of rejection and mine," Reject said, but it appeared that the headstrong words that Underwood had uttered had him rattled, "Rejection is many different things; I was rejected for being who I am, that is different than being rejected by some kind of failure; I was created wrong, thus it is not my fault."
Barry chuckled for a second, "You were created wrong," he murmured through pursed lips, "Reject you are indeed then, not just at a social level, but a biological one as well."
It was tragically hilarious, by trying to convince Barry that rejection could exist on different levels; this Reject had condemned himself to be a problem in the evolutionary chain, an even greater crime than the sociological reject Barry had picked him to be, "Well there's only one cure for one who is created wrong," the drawing of his sword was as quiet as a whisper, the book fell to the ground, its movement appeared slowed, as if time itself was allowing it a cushion before it struck the ground. The quiet thump of the book striking the floor contrasted with the scream that the Reject uttered, the rapier plunged into his gut and twisted.
Barry pulled the sword free and wiped it on the rags that the Reject wore, "Be quiet," he said over the screams of terror and pain, "You're in a library."
The Reject, surprisingly obliged, his screams fading into ragged gasps instead, "What does life mean then? What do you see in it that you can end it so quickly, and yet so slowly, do you see yourself as Death, as God perhaps to deal this punishment?"
Barry picked up the book that he had once dropped and flipped the pages until he found a blank one. Off a nearby table, he procured a fountain pen and looked at the Reject as he wrote. As the final full stop was dotted, the book became hot in his hands and burned; purple flames crackling and sparking, although not burning Barry.
A floating ember landed on a bookshelf and the dried paper immediate lit and carried the flame quickly to the corners of the library, in colours of green, purple and red. Barry walked away, only he seeing the door out.
The Reject watched the fires consume the works around him. The page Barry wrote floated to him.
Life is prolonging your life. Life is making yourself relevant to the survival of all. Life is your victory over Death.
Signed Barry Underwood
A curiosity took him and he took the book off the shelf in an attempt to browse its pages. Instead he heard whispers, "So you too, have accepted the challenge presented in my pages; there was one other that wrote in my pages, to answer the question hidden in my pages."
Barry quickly opened the book and scanned the pages. All throughout it, in different pens, different languages and in different ways, the same question seemed to have always been attempted. The question: What is Life?
"Look at the back pages," the book whispered in his ear, "Look at what your opponent has wrought."
The pages appeared to turn themselves quicker than Barry could have managed on his own and soon an elegant script met his eyes; unexpected considering the aesthetics of his opponent, Barry was surprised to see that he could read or write at all.
What is life? Life is the gift given to all the species, all the creatures that have ever strived to it. This gift is not given by Gods, nay, but rather given to us by us; our life is not the blood beating through our veins, it is not the electrical currents that move through our conscious creating us as we know it. Life is simply what we make ourselves; Self actualization, self realization, whatever you wish to call it, this is what we call Life. Life is a way of thinking; Life is a way of functioning in a psychological, physiological and biological state?
"Life is simply what we make of it," a voice finished behind Barry, causing him to spin around almost dropping the book.
There his opponent stood in all his underwhelming glory. He was a goddamn hobo, a vagrant, a useless flake of filth from what Barry could tell; his clothes were tattered rags, his eyes, sunken and unnaturally black and beady.
"And what have you made of your life beggar? It looks as if your own definition is worded only so you can validate your own pathetic existence. What are you but a burden; what kind of sick twisted life is that, which you would tear down your own society's goals, hold back progress and cause unneeded economic problems? "
His opponents eyes flashed for a moment and he seemed to cloud over for only a second before responding, "I am no plague as you attempt to portray me; I was not so different from you, I am a Speaker for my people," his voice lost strength for only a moment, "Or rather was chosen to be."
The word escaped Barry's lips as quick as they left the other mans, "Reject."
"Ai, that is indeed my name, for there is no other word for what I am."
Barry walked up to the man and stared into the depths of the man's eyes, "What is your game then Reject, that you would turn away my words but concede that you are nothing but scum?"
"There is a difference between your definition of rejection and mine," Reject said, but it appeared that the headstrong words that Underwood had uttered had him rattled, "Rejection is many different things; I was rejected for being who I am, that is different than being rejected by some kind of failure; I was created wrong, thus it is not my fault."
Barry chuckled for a second, "You were created wrong," he murmured through pursed lips, "Reject you are indeed then, not just at a social level, but a biological one as well."
It was tragically hilarious, by trying to convince Barry that rejection could exist on different levels; this Reject had condemned himself to be a problem in the evolutionary chain, an even greater crime than the sociological reject Barry had picked him to be, "Well there's only one cure for one who is created wrong," the drawing of his sword was as quiet as a whisper, the book fell to the ground, its movement appeared slowed, as if time itself was allowing it a cushion before it struck the ground. The quiet thump of the book striking the floor contrasted with the scream that the Reject uttered, the rapier plunged into his gut and twisted.
Barry pulled the sword free and wiped it on the rags that the Reject wore, "Be quiet," he said over the screams of terror and pain, "You're in a library."
The Reject, surprisingly obliged, his screams fading into ragged gasps instead, "What does life mean then? What do you see in it that you can end it so quickly, and yet so slowly, do you see yourself as Death, as God perhaps to deal this punishment?"
Barry picked up the book that he had once dropped and flipped the pages until he found a blank one. Off a nearby table, he procured a fountain pen and looked at the Reject as he wrote. As the final full stop was dotted, the book became hot in his hands and burned; purple flames crackling and sparking, although not burning Barry.
A floating ember landed on a bookshelf and the dried paper immediate lit and carried the flame quickly to the corners of the library, in colours of green, purple and red. Barry walked away, only he seeing the door out.
The Reject watched the fires consume the works around him. The page Barry wrote floated to him.
Life is prolonging your life. Life is making yourself relevant to the survival of all. Life is your victory over Death.
Signed Barry Underwood
1007 words