LCC - R1: Rage vs Lone Wolves

[Skie and Avery]

Avery thought he was being clever. As his feet carried him closer on the precarious path towards the orc, he had a plan in mind. The bridge lurched and tilted more, but he was more sure of his footing now. He almost stumbled, but with his fingertips on the still-taught rope, his wing behind him acting as a balance, he managed to stay the course without plummeting to the fiery pit below. His still-nameless opponent brought forward a shield and came to meet him, and just as the distance between them closed, Avery leapt. As his feet left the planking, wood giving way and rocking as he left it, he wondered if it was just him or did it feel like it had too much give? He held his hands out before him, and as they met the orc's shield, using it to catapult upwards, he cast the illusion. A burst of light and stars erupted where his body had been, his form disappearing in the cloud of sparkling dust that seemed to spread and dissipate before Orun.

His brilliant plan had been to use the light show to mask his somersault over the larger warrior. He would land behind him in style and grace and then strike out at the spine of the beast, using his steel-lined claws to do as much damage as possible. And yet, he was over Orun, having jumped and spun, but something wasn't right. He did not land on solid board. He did not really land at all. As he came down, he saw that the bridge was falling away, swinging down from the side whence he came. All that he could do was to reach out for slack roping or loose timber and hope that this was not the end of him.

As his palms and fingers, sweaty from the heat and nerves, grabbed at the rope, he slid. The bridge was still falling, in a fast arc towards the far wall of the chasm. His grip slipped on the braiding, pain exploding through his skin as the rough threads ripped into his palms. He screamed, the sound nothing like the manly roar of vigor that he might have thought befitting a king. It was more of the yelp of a puppy. In the moment he was grateful he hadn't brought his shield to this fight, but questioning if it had been wise to bring Crispen.

He knew the other man didn't truly care for him as much as he cared for his own agenda. The lack of love was something the incubus king found almost comforting. They both shared a burning desire to achieve their own ends, a passion that ignited something angry and violent in them. Avery understood why Cris had cut the rope of the bridge, because the end was so much more than the means. The savage practicality almost made Avery want to leave the arena and take the Akashiman to bed right then and there. However, there were more important things to do, such as keep a tight hold on the rope, his feet wedged as best he could between slats of the bridge, and brace himself for the impending impact on the rocky side of the cliff.

[Green is the new black.]

Annoyance. That emotion, not shock nor fear, tingled behind the half-Orc's eyes as events rapidly unfolded around him. First, his foe evaporated just as Orun's shield struck it, bursting into a spray of dazzling light like a snow drift in the sun. He felt an impact on his shield. Something sailed over his head. Before he could react, the bridge lurched for a final time and fell.

Annoyance. With his right arm already hooked through the guardropes, Orun merely tightened his grip and grunted as the bridge swung toward the cliff. As often happened in such moments, time slowed and disjointed details came to the forefront. Ash and embers scalding exposed skin. Rotten sulfurous fumes stinging his throat. His naked foe sliding down past him, clawing for purchase like a cat on a swaying branch. With a clattering cacophony, they crashed into the cliff. Given his ample time to brace himself, the impact only jarred the half-Orc's shoulders.

“They fight like children,” he muttered, glancing down to where his would-be attacker had secured himself a few feet below. “Silly tricks and antics that accomplish nothing.”

On the ravine's opposite side, Orun's ally clashed with their second foe. He spared the human little attention. The two of them had an understanding born of their harsh homeland. Death was the cruel reality of their lives; neither would shame the other with fear or grief when it showed its fangs. Let Ywain kill with the North's fury in his blade, or die with its ice in his heart. Orun focused on his own trial.

He wasted no time; he had seen the nude lunatic's speed and could only guess at his strength. Squeezing his shield arm through the guardropes, the half-orc freed his weapon arm and pulled himself to the bridge's left side. He pulled the crude axe from his belt, recalling war spirit's words. Threads converge...

“Some must be tied...” Orun breathed deep the foul air. He swung the axe with all his strength, chopping at the bridge below him again and again. Wood splintered; ropes were severed. His voice rumbled like distant thunder. “...others cut.”

[Skie and Avery]

Stars had erupted in his sight. As prepared as he thought he'd be for the impact, it was a pain like he'd never experienced. His neck whipped back and cracked, a warm ache spreading up it into his head. His teeth rattled in his skull, his breath gone. As he struggled to fill his lungs again, the oppressive heat making his throat burn as violently as his arms shook to maintain their clutch, his addled mind took note of his injuries. He didn't think he had a concussion but it was hard to tell, so hard to think with the unbearable pain and angry swelter assaulting his senses. As they had swung together, the rope had twisted between them. As the end dangled and whipped below Avery, he hit the side of the canyon wall with his back. He was smashed between the bridge and the bedrock shelf like a pate between two crackers. At least the bridge was mere rope and wood and not like the steel vaulted contraptions that Skie had told him of seeing in Alerar. His body remained uncrushed, though a telltale ache in his ribs suggested otherwise.

He could not say the same for his wing. The black leather was ripped and bleeding, creamy tips of bone sticking from gashes and gapes in the flesh. He tried to use it to push himself away from the rock, the hard surface that had sunk into his back, pulling long lines of puffy reddened flesh and scratches like a lover. It was useless. Only further pain took him when he tried to move the appendage, so he gave up. And that was when the rope began to give.

The planking jerked, the ladder formed by the dangling bridge jangling and joggling as the orc above him began to cut. Avery glared upwards, but his vision was still filled with sparks and spots, sweat falling in his verdant eyes to further mar it. There was nothing to be done. The orc was armed, and he was not, not truly. There was no way he could scamper up and overcome his strong opponent before he would inevitably fall to his death in the bubbling mire below. He had one choice, to search the rock behind him for a hold that he could cling to and begin the climb upwards. If he could find one while the orc was still focused on cutting free the bottom trail of bridge, he felt he may be able to find his way to the top before his massive opponent and cut the bridge from that side.

Using a hand to feel among the rock as he climbed downward despite his fear of the fiery death that awaited, Avery began to search frantically for a safe precipice on which to perch.

[Less Careful]

"Let's say a little of both," replied the Akashiman, his cudgel dancing through defensive arcs. Every strike against his opponent's blade would make it less effective as a tool of slaughter against him, and a blunted and bent sword was no good to a true swordsman.

As the knight-errant pranced about in his leathers, drawing out every flourish to emphasize his left-handed style, Crispen laughed darkly. "You face few seasoned warriors," he remarked. "A novice might fall for that trick, but an off-handed fighter isn't so rare, even for a brainless Ethereal Sucker. You've been in the North too long. Your wits have been dulled by the ice." There was something in the way his opponent carried himself, as well, the way his free hand hovered just a little closer than the norm, that suggested more to the ONI graduate.

"You are not left-handed, either," he barked just as his foe tossed the weapon to his right for a trick shot. So focused on the sword work was he, however, that when the knight's foot lashed out, he was unbalanced and thrown to the side. The witchhunter took the fall into a roll, burying his frustration into the stone, commanding it to grab the witless soldier's dancing feet.

Hopping up from the fall, his boots scratched the scorched earth as he launched himself back at his trapped prey. In a two-handed swing, he brought his steel into a hammerblow to the knees, intent on laming the wretched Salvaran.

[Aegis of Espiridion]

His feint struck home, and the point of his blade whistled through sultry air.

In that instant, that one perfect moment of clarity amidst the adrenaline-fuelled instinctive rush of battle, he knew he was outmatched.

Only the assuredness of his footwork, drilled into him by none less than Sir Finath Scifion himself, saved him from certain death. Where a less experienced fighter might have lost his balance after extending his blade, Ywain managed to keep it by darting backwards instinctively. As he did so, stone encasements powerful and unforgiving gripped at his legs. His right tore free, jagged rock clawing deep gashes into his upper shin. His left stuck fast, swallowed whole by warm pyroclastic pumice.

The narrowed black eyes of his opponent twinkled in glee, manic mirrors that had seen through everything the northerner could muster. They belonged to neither desperate thug nor war-weary soldier. They belonged to a gladiator, a bloodthirsty butcher. A daemon that delighted in death. It rolled clear of the ash and the dirt. It pounced without hesitation.

Ywain cursed, a coarse and expressive Berevaran epithet barely audible over the rumble of lava. The sudden arresting had overbalanced him at last. He had to think fast. Thankfully, perhaps, he didn’t have many choices. And he couldn’t find any incentive in standing his ground.

Disengage.

His broadsword whipped upwards, slicing cleanly through the sooty smoke. In its wake raced vacuum, a scything body-blow of hard-hitting oblivion like a boxer’s right jab. At this range and angle it wouldn’t do much, but it would keep his opponent honest.

In the same movement he tore his foot free of his opponent’s trap, regretfully abandoning one laced boot of fine Salvic leather encased in the smouldering stone. Something in his ankle twisted and snapped as he tore loose. Fresh waves of agony joined the throbbing pain in his other leg, and he had to bite back another, even more inventive curse. Ywain staggered backwards, flailing dramatically.

He fell from the cliff just as the daemon renewed its advance.

***

His new vantage gave him no view of the clifftop. The remains of the rope bridge – the pitiful stumps, a few frayed strands of rope – and the jagged precipice lay hidden beyond choking smog. By the same token, however, his opponents would have lost him. Hopefully.

He grit his teeth against the searing fury, seething and boiling so far below, and tried to ignore the similarly throbbing pain in both his legs. At least his right foot could still bear his weight, unlike his left, and it currently found purchase on a shelf-like outcropping. His right hand, conveniently enough, wrapped around something he thought he’d lost – his wayward quarrel from earlier, now lodged firmly between volcanic rock. It too bore his weight, if but barely.

It would suffice. He didn’t expect to stay there for long, only as long as necessary for the daemon overhead to move on. He could then make his way back to the clifftop, and recover his boot. He could find Orun – doubtless lurking nearby – and together they'd work out what to do next.

For the first lesson the north taught its children was that you didn’t have to win to be victorious. All you had to do was survive.

And Ywain Lazarev was a survivor.

Not necessarily a victor, but a survivor.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

Rage VS Lone Wolves

Plot
Storytelling: 7/6 – The story of both teams was well written and developed, and the conclusion left me satisfied but hungry for more in a good way! Rage picked up the edge mostly due to having a more round about tale.

Setting: 7/6 – Both teams used setting to their advantage, and I was really pleased with everyone’s opening post especially Skie’s. I was on that bridge, feeling those cold planks, and I loved it. Towards the actual fighting however it really began to fall to quick mentions and the atmosphere dissipated until the end where it was slammed back to the fore. Not a terrible thing, but one to keep in mind.

Pacing: 6/6 – You all worked well to keep a story flowing and I never felt like it was majorly dragged down. It concluded exactly when it should have. Neither side really seemed to take the edge here, and that’s more a hallmark of good collaborative effort to tell a better story. If this is true or not is a different story all together…

Characterization
Persona: 6/7 – I really found the dynamic of Aegis and Green is the new black to be a rather interesting tale, and the characters you guys portrayed. Rage’s team was interesting, but I didn’t get a great feel from Less Careful’s character.

Action: 6/6.5 – The pendulum swings to favor Lone Wolves on this one, as Green is the New Black and Aegis really pulled out the stops to edge past Lone Wolves. I was impressed mostly with the interactions of action between the scene and characters as well, and by no means should this mean you did a bad job Lone Wolves.

Communication: 7/7 – Everyone here did a great job communicating with the environment, each other, and the teams. Nothing new to report outside keep it up.

Prose
Mechanics: 6.5/6 – There were more errors on Lone Wolves with missing words and a few mis-spelt words and tense use. Nothing a little proof-reading can’t fix.

Techinqiue: 6/6.5 – I noticed more literary techniques from Lone Wolves over Rage. Aegis more than any of you all which helped spear this in Rage’s direction. Aegis I have always enjoyed your way of bringing your words to life, and to help you all improve is to just keep reaching further past your comfort zones.

Clarity: 7.5/7 – Rage came out the winner here, as what I enjoyed about Aegis’ posts also hurt in the long run. What will help everyone here is what I enjoy about Skie’s posts the most: If a sentence gets to be long winded, the words used are softer and easier to connect too. Of all the reading, Skie’s posts were the easiest to follow along with.

Wildcard: 6/6 – Both teams did an exceptional job here, and shows the quality of you as writers. Well done all around and best of luck in the future.

Total Score: 65/64

Team Rage Advances!

Skie and Avery receives 2475 EXP and 52 GP
Less Careful receives 2475 EXP and 40 GP
Green is the new black receives 675 EXP and 51 GP
Aegis of Espiridion receives 675 EXP and 39 GP

[Mordelain]

Experience and gold added.