LCC - R1: Plane Curiosity VS Skullfuckers

[Resolve]

When Luned flew out of the woodwork in a blaze, Resolve was utterly stunned. So was her opponent in front of her, and when he twitched, then hesitated, she realized he was debating whether to go help or not. She didn't blame him in his pause; she had never imagined the little scribe could be so fierce, and while she was distraught at the prospect of potentially seeing Mordelain fall, she couldn't forget to pull her own weight. She owed it to her partner to give it her all.

As the ripple of flame tore through the grass toward her, she attempted to struggle to her feet, but all efforts were futile. Her body was useless to her now; at least one of her legs was fractured to the point she couldn't stand, her back was bruised, and her ribs still felt mangled in her chest. Now hot flame seared the dusting of pollen around her person, lighting her clothing as she laid prostrate on the ground. Resolve struggled to tear the loose end of her sari out of her belt, jarring her broken chest as she did so, the motion eliciting a wail that sang everything words couldn't of excruciating pain. She used the once beautiful fabric to douse the flames, too late for one of her thighs as part of her leggings torched against her skin and burned her flesh with a horrid aroma.

Resolve could have wept, there was no way she was getting back up and the pain was too much to bear, the girl never pushed to this extreme before.

And then Flint glanced back over his shoulder at her, his hard hazel eyes beckoned by her cries, and once again, the exorcist was able to focus what was left of her energy into her hate for this person. Instead of all her friends who surrounded her on the battlefield that day, it was her enemy who served as her anchor and renewed her sense of purpose. Flint might appreciate the irony later, after he recovered from the emotional trauma of having his soul forcibly torn from his living body.

Unable to stand, unable to fight with her hands and arms in the fashion of a truly honorable opponent, Resolve did the only thing she could: she exorcised him.

[Warpath]

Flint clenched his jaw and looked for an opening, any opening. The green was burning, he could feel the heat softening the soles of his boots, but his feet were of pale concern: something was wrong with Luned. He had never seen her embrace the chaos before, no matter how many times he’d coached her on becoming a thing of fear. Now he thought he saw his teachings in action, and fear found him – not of her, but for her.

This other woman was dangerous, fully evidenced by her wholehearted defiance even in the face of someone like Flint. This would be concerning enough, except that Luned was as much a danger to herself. Wreathed in fire and flames, there wasn’t much the brute could do to help her without lighting himself up, too.

And then someone cried out behind him.

Flint turned and narrowed his eyes. His adversary was broken and thus victory attained. A broken foe usually immediately fell beneath his notice, but Resolve had been different. She almost beat him at his own game, and he only won by cheating. He didn’t feel guilty about that – a man does what he must to survive and thrive – but it tainted the win. He decided he did not want this womanly paragon to die screaming. At least, not unless he had more a hand in it.

He began to march on her, forming a simple plan: a harsh blow to the head would render her insensate, preventing any struggle, and then he would rescue her from the bed of fire. Luned would think him very benevolent, and he would ensure a fair rematch. Later, he would break her properly.

Except that something went immediately wrong.

A sudden and profound confusion washed over him, and it took a very long moment for him to realize the source. It was when he tried to express his puzzlement, just by furrowing his brow, that he realized the cause. His body was sluggish in its attempts to obey him, even to do the most basic tasks. He wanted to walk, but his legs defied him. It was not weakness – the strength was there, the will was there, the pain was minimal – it was as if his own legs, his hands, his face were not his to command.

He tried to turn his eyes to his own hands, were they even there? Two heartbeats passed before his eyes turned downward, and another before his chin dropped, and then his brow creased though he’d begun to feel concerned many seconds past. He was afraid, but there was no surge of adrenaline and his heartbeat remained steady, and so the experience was cold and alien and calm.

The towering hedge-walls of the arena steadily faded into the darkness and yet remained unchanged, the darkness spread over the light without either consuming the other so that they could be perceived simultaneously. It was as if he had a second set of eyes, and they saw into a different world. Gradually the green faded away, and the new world dominated, eerie blue and grey and black, and the air itself was thick and still and tangible and interspersed with congealed whispers. It was where wind came to die.

In fact, the brute felt that the atmosphere itself was more tangible than he, that they had switched roles. He was faster and lighter than the breeze, and he could conceive of vast empty spaces in the matter that composed solid objects, and he knew he could slip between that world-stuff and pass through walls of wood or lead or steel and they would be less than wind to him. Now he recognized the cost, and to him it was unforgivably high: he could pass through those objects, but never influence them. All of his strength was stolen, gone in a way he hadn’t thought possible: he wasn’t just weak; he was nothing, a ghost.

He tried to run away, but when he turned he found himself face to face with himself. For a moment he forgot his fate and felt a fierce swell of pride at the thing he’d shaped himself into, and then he felt the loss of it. The ability to strike fear with a glance, the power to crush bodies and shatter a man’s universe, the strength to change the world, all robbed from him in an instant, and he couldn’t understand how or why.

I don’t want this.

He pushed back against these events with all of his being, and the universe lurched around him. He felt his essence dragged through space – without a body to harm it was just another sensation without context, neither good nor bad – and then the dark world-behind-the-world rushed away and he was on the burning green again.

He went down to one knee growling, raging. Now he felt a cold surge of fear, and his mind locked onto the only possible cause.

He raised his eyes, straining against the unknown, and locked his gaze on hers.

She hated him. It was hatred so ferocious that he didn’t know how to protect himself from it.

“You,” he growled, but his lips were heavy.

He tried to say more, but then his body fell away again as it collapsed into the smoldering grass and he tumbled through the ether, panicking in the detached way of souls. He willed himself forward and darted through the incorporeal air, but as the material world faded so too did all sight of his body.

He was alone.

Nononono

Flint wanted adrenaline, he wanted dread and pain and desperation, but all he could feel was a distant loss – a chilly regret. He couldn’t even make himself hate Resolve for what she’d done. All pride and sense of self were gone. If she were here, he would beg unabashedly.

“What are you doing here?”

Flint turned, and then recoiled. The shade of a dark elf stood against the vast plane of ether. She looked far younger than she had when he murdered her. He wondered what she saw when she looked at him.

“Ezura?”

“What did you do with my daughter? You told me she was killed, but I can’t find her.”

“She’s alive,” Flint said. “Luned saved her.”

“Oh,” the spirit said. “What are you doing here?”

“I think I died.”

“No,” she said. “You don’t get to do that.”

“What?”

“Death isn’t yours to have,” Ezura said. “You don’t belong here.”

Flint wanted to raise his chin and back away, but he didn’t really have one and space was just a concept.

“You’ll never belong here.”

[Mordelain]

Flames and famine were two things Mordelain Saythrou hated. She loathed the waste of life that came with nature's advance so much, that she now hated Luned more still for her recklessness. She watched the flames burn, until they could burn no more without burning her, too, and then vanished. She re-appeared, lithe and nimble, some ninety degrees around Flint. She would not give up her opportunity to fight an honourable fight, even if the world itself were engulfed in a maelstrom of heat and melting flesh. Her right would not elude her, not again.

In the brief moments she had vanished, to occupy herself with a long trek north from Bulganin's Wold Wood once more, she missed the crucial parts of a scene which unfolded between friends and enemies. She made to charge Flint, but then stopped, mouthing her surprise. The gazebo flickered in flame, like a firefly's tail burning out quickly, and the smell of wood smoke and freshly cindered grass clung to her nostrils. Honeysuckle on the far side of the gazebo caught flame along with it, adding a sweetness to the destruction.

It was over.

Mordelain slouched. Quite suddenly, all the fight left her like a scared antelope skittering across the savannahs of Hudde. Without warning, Flint, who had been a lethal thread mere seconds ago, dropped to the ground. For all intent and purpose, he appeared to be quite dead. The troubadour dropped her partisan and unsheathed a kukri, taking it firmly into her left hand with the grip of a titan. She approached, slowly but surely, with feet splayed and eyes glinting in the sun light. She resembled a stalking beast, edging towards its prey moments before it pounced.

“What…” she said loudly, in Resolve’s direction, “on earth, did you do?”

It was an earnest question. Given her last command to the plucky woman had been to contend with Luned, and not Flint, Mordelain found it immensely difficult to accept that it was anyone’s fault but Resolve’s. The swell of energy from her alone made the troubadour reel, though she knew nothing about its origins, or indeed, its purpose. She swerved in and out of the rose bushes as the petals danced a soft dance in the breeze which dropped down into the garden as the midday became the early afternoon.

“I should probably ask you why you did not do it sooner…” she added, her maudlin’ tone sombre and respectful. Though it was every bit her intent to kill in the rounds of the Lornius, she was still saddened to see the man’s lifeless, contorted, and cold body lying on the grass. She stepped one final step, and extended her toe out to tap him on the knee. She leaped back when contact was made, like a kitten toying with a ball of wool.

No movement or sound came from the body. Mordelain instantly relaxed.

“I…” Resolve said, her breath strained, her eyes fiery with zeal, “exorcised him…”

The term was familiar to Mordelain, but she had only seen the rituals that went with it, far from here, in a time of war the likes of which Althanas would never see. She narrowed her gaze at her companion, and pointed slowly over her shoulder. She was certain, from Resolve’s winnowing expression, that her intent had been understood. Though Flint was exiled from the arena, another, smaller, and more virulent conundrum remained for them both to contend with.

“Luned, I will give you one choice!” she roared, a strong, thick accent akin to a noble cry slipped from Mordelain’s lips. It was alien in quality, yet charismatic and strong. “Lay down your weapons,” or whatever magic the girl claimed as her own, “and concede.” Once, long ago, she would have stopped there, and made it quite clear there was no alternative. As a troubadour, respected across nine worlds, no-one ever disagreed with her. Nobody ever said no. Resolve turned very slowly to face her friend.

The little scribe, still maddened by the toxins inherent in the garden’s deadly décor, was clearly beyond the kith and ken of hearing Mordelain’s words. She could only shake her head solemnly, relinquishing Resolve to make her choice. She turned away, uncaring for what would transpire between them, and turned her attention to the nearest rose bush. For the entirety of their lack lustre engagement, she had been too frightened to touch them, too scared to enquire as to their purpose. Now, with Flint’s corpse at her feet, and the sound of a distant crowd rearing and relishing another death for their pleasure, she understood.

“I guess it’s almost ironic…” she held out a shaking hand to stroke one of the leaves. “I spent all that time in the Library looking for a secret that was as clear as day and as humble as a simple goodbye.”

When Flint had swung his makeshift club with the force of a hurricane at her torso, Mordelain had, quite by chance, planes walked to a realm called Petra. There, in a sky whale’s skeleton, she had spent three days trawling through the catacomb like libraries that contained the wealth of knowledge collected by the long dead Unary. She had delved into flora and fauna, investigated poisons and traps, and read accounts of the world’s, and all the worlds beyond. Nothing had been revealed to her, save for the funeral rites of thirty cultures, and the horrible wickedness of war.

She caressed the petal, and moved her hand down the flower to its stem. She snapped it satisfyingly with a twist and a pull. She pulled it close and nestled it on her bosom, as if it were her own heart revealed for all to see.

“For our heroes gone, and lovers reunited, may war be defiled by the simplest notion?” She recited the line she had favoured the most, from the Bedouin tribes of her newfound homeland in Fallien with pride and passion. She knelt. “You are gone from this world, though only temporary, but rest now, sire, and sleep.”

With a great heave, she pushed Flint onto his back. His meagre attire was outdone by her elegant, though singed costume, and his rugged looks and brutish musculature were counterpoised with her slender and lithe form. There was little in common between them, until the moment Resolve had claimed his life. Now, they were together in one precious moment; remembrance. She took a deep breath of honey scented air, and then reached out gingerly to cut a small piece of cloth from his clothing. She pocketed it quickly, for a memento, and then folded the man’s arms palm over palm over his clavicle.

She rose, stepped backwards, and dropped the rose onto his chest. It bounced with vibrancy and life, its leaves fluttering, its thorns refusing to penetrate skin or cloth out of veneration. The very second it landed, every petal, on every rose, on every bush changed colour. From deep, blood shot red, to a bright, porcelain white, not one flower remained unchanged by the sentiment expressed by the troubadour. Mordelain looked up, surprised, and shed a tear. One tear swiftly turned into an ocean.

She did not look up at Resolve.

She did not care if Luned lived or died.

She vanished, and left the memorial garden to long dead kings and queens of Lornius to grow anew, and forget that it had ever witnessed such horrors.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

Plane Curiosity VS Skull Fuckers

Plot
Story: 7/7 – The dynamic between Luned and Resolved really stole the show, and it didn’t hamper the thread’s other participants, but enriched the actions they performed as a whole. I enjoyed this thread very much and am pleased by what you wrote here as a collective whole instead of four people groping in the dark for progress.

Setting: 6.5/6 – I find the carry for this in Mordelain for the setting. You all did a superb job in creating a worldscape with which to play in, however it was at times tossed behind you in your mad rush to finish this story out. It’s one of those situations where your fun made you forget to bring it back to the fore. It happens, just be mindful in the future.

Pacing: 7/7 – There wasn’t a skip in the beat at all, and what few hiccups interrupted the pacing were quickly left in the dust as you all picked it up again. Good work.

Characterizations
Persona: 6.5/6 – This thread oozed charisma from every character, but the edge goes to Plane Curiosity. The reason that Luned and Resolved worked so well was a prior history, and Mordelain fit in well with Resolve. Warpath, your work with Luned before helped you, but the biggest reason Resolve and Luned stole the show could probably have something to do with the fact they’re both the same author.

Communication: 7/7 Great work between all parties, and the use of OOC really helped to keep you all on the same page.

Action: 6/5 – Action here was intense and well thought out, however Plane Curiosity really pushed the edge in this battle. Nothing new in terms of battle was really seen, but at least you kept it all consistent and I as a writer can appreciate that.

Prose
Mechanics: 7/7 – Didn’t really see any huge glaring errors outside a few missed words/punctuations and the occasional mis-spelt word or tense. Remember what Bookie McBookerson says: Proofreading can save lives!

Clarity: 7/7 – Here’s another category that you guys once again had zero issues performing well in. Nobody really had the edge here as I never was pulled away from the story more than once or twice but was easily sucked in. Softer word choices in the longer winded sentences can improve this category.

Technique: 7/7 – You both did great here as well, but I do have to admit, the OOC tags, while great to communicate with each other as well as with characters in the thread, do detract from the story as a whole. Those things really should be left in the PM’s and not in the story. As you both did this, you both suffered the same penalty of a single point.

Wildcard: 5/5 – I cannot give an edge to one side over the other here. You both did a fantastic job, and this is a close battle and the losing side shouldn’t feel bad at all for this performance. I am happy to have read your works and look forward to your writing in the future.

Score: 66/64

Plane Curiosity Wins!

Mordelain receives 1325 EXP and 80 GP
Resolve receives 1325 EXP and 66 GP
Luned receives 375 EXP and 64 GP
Warpath receives 375 EXP and 77 GP

[Mordelain]

Experience and gold added.