Round 1: Team B

[Storm Veritas]

Goddamnit, Ebivoulya. You chickenshit son of a bitch.

The wizard knew that the assault was actually quite brazen, but being consistently bested by the heavily muscled elf-thing was beyond annoying at this point. The monster moved with such quickness and agility that the group had no chance to stop him. His boldness also created confusion, earning him precious seconds. The lightning, which had incented men to holster their weapons, deafened ears and offered a great means of egress for the thief. With a couple steps, the athletic monster was bounding about, racing past the cat-men and remaining rangers alike.

“Kill him, you stupid motherf*ckers! Don’t let him go with the artifact!”

There was a frenzy of confusion, white noise and anger about him as the refugees mewed loudly. These fur-covered buffoons were nothing like their silverbacked counterparts; they were timid, tired, underfed and disorganized. The rangers, proud men who had fought bravely, were also fatigued, slowed, and dehydrated. Their usual discourse was thrown, and none took well to Storm’s offering of orders.

Slow shits. Want a job done right…

With a single bound, Storm leapt back upon the waiting saddle of Attila, hoisting himself higher and above the heads of the fray of creatures about him. The elf was racing, and would turn a blind corner out of the chamber in a heartbeat. Without another moment’s hesitation, the electromancer yelled a guttural shout, firing an incredibly powerful blast of twisting white-blue anger at the old partner in crime. The crackle-bang sound of lightning was immediately followed by the deafening roar of thunder, as stone and rock yielded like grains of sand in a violent explosion near the aperture of the chamber.

Maybe… didn’t hear him yell above the thunder. Maybe I got that whore this time. Maybe this time I get to –win-, and take that precious little box that seemed made for me.

Ahead of them all, the dust hung high, the air obfuscated as it slowly fell upon a large pile of rubble. Iron rich rock, Storm estimated he’d have no trouble clearing it, but with Attila beneath him, he would not be able to sneak through the now tightened gap in the channel. It had been a big gamble he’d taken. With such an attack, it was unlikely that Nyadir was anything but dead or long gone.

Frozen, he watched as rangers began to clear the rocks away before him. He desperately hoped for the next rock removed to unearth the charred remains of that wretch, who now may have stolen impossible power from him twice

[Ebivoulya]

Crazy son of a bitch...

Smaller chunks of rock slid from the swordsman's back as he sat up, and he groaned to pull his knee out from under a larger piece. The box was wedged between two sizeable slabs of stone, but despite the tingle he latched his good arm onto the thing. No one crawled through the gap to face him, though they were already clearing the rubble. A stumble got the smuggler to his feet with gritted teeth, but he could feel his enhancement slipping. His mind had grown hazy, unsurprising when someone drops the f'king roof on you. It was impossible to focus on such a strong enhancement, and still stifle the looming rage that whispered sweet vengeance. No amount of madness would keep him alive if he went back in there. So, he tugged at his glowing prize in vain, the energy for his enhancement abandoned in favor of healing his knee before anyone crawled through. A few moments later, a shift in the pile drew the smuggler's sharp eyes to the widening gap. A green-cloaked ranger was leveling a bow right at him.

Clever dick-

He twisted and leaned, and the arrow buried itself into his arm. Someone yelled for the rangers to back away on the other side, and that was his cue to leave. With one last, forlorn look at the faintly glowing puzzle-box, he ran for the exit on his mended knee. He couldn't acquire power dead, so the smuggler ceded this round to the theatrical thunder-f'ker, may the bastard burn himself to ash. A thump resonated through the stone after a few moments of running, so the half-elf dredged up what energy he had left to get the hell off this mountain as fast as possible. He should've just stayed in Radasanth. The mottled pelt he had wrapped underneath his vest wasn’t worth the annoyance of today; the meat had been far too stringy, as well. It might even be time to head back to the mainland. There could be an army of pissed off cat-people sweeping up from the south right now, for all he knew. Let the Prince of Precipitation have fun with that one. The swordsman's secretary Dulan would be back with the airship soon enough, so at least he'd have an escape handy. He would stick to smuggling, it was a much safer profession. In the meanwhile, he'd have to regale the finicky Fordstein with his stringy tales of tasting some pussy.

[Leoric]

Holy mother of …

Leoric stared in disbelief as the rubble collapsed on the entrance. This man could throw literal bolts of lightning. He was powerful, someone Leoric didn’t want to get on the bad side of. Leoric immediately shook his mind clear as the ringing in his ears began to fade. The rangers were already hard at work as the dust was beginning to settle. They were clearing the tunnel to try and find the body of Nyadir. The brawler bluntly brushed the dust from his leather vest as he began his walk over to assist the rangers in clearing out the rubble. A sudden shout of everyone to fall back hastened his approach to the rubble.

“What is it? Is he still alive?” Leoric asked as he knelt down next to the ranger who had just loosed an arrow.

“Affirmative, he looked to be in bad shape and he now has an arrow in his shoulder. However, he managed to get away. I am unclear if he still has the box or not,” the soldier said as he stood back up and motioned for the crowd to help him clear out the rubble.

Leoric closed his eyes for a second and began to absorb the natural energy within the room. The dust around the brawler swirled in an ever twisting double helix pattern before it quickly dissipated, and fell back to the ground as Leoric’s eyes opened again. The monstrous amount of natural energy that was erupting from the pile of debris told Leoric that the artifact was safe. However, there was a similar energy radiating from the man on the horse. Leoric was going to have some questions for him.

“Don’t worry too much, the artifact is safe. It is buried in the rubble. Seeing as mister horseman back there decided to use his magic I guess it’s my time to shine.” The determined man flexed his muscles as he let out a flurry of blows that never connected with any of the debris.

“You might want to move closer there if you want to try and punch the debris young man.” one of the rangers snickered from the group. Before anyone else could say anything there was a clap of thunder, which caused just enough vibration to resonate with the quaking strike damage that Leoric had done. The front few stones broke apart into smaller, more manageable chunks, and collapsed on the floor, revealing the artifact.

He stared at the puzzle box as he got lost in thought. The other day he woke up planning to finish building his house for him and Marina, next thing he knows he is playing driver for a cart full of cats, now he is tied into a weird invasion over an artifact. With the news of more hostile cat people coming after them, he feared his hometown, New Brookshaven, would be overrun. Marina could be injured or worse, he had to get home quickly.

[Les Misérables]

“Let's allow the box to rest a moment, shall we?” Phyr cautioned as their circle closed curiously around the artifact. Such powerful forces of magic made his skin crawl. The cat folk took a closer look, examining the strange metal box without touching it, perhaps checking it for damage. Their tongues clicked and mewed in rapid discussion. Phyr pulled the linguist closer. “What are they saying?”

“It's difficult to tell, exactly,” the mousy man said. He scrubbed a hand through bleary eyes and rubbed dirt from a pudgy cheek. The poor fellow had been ousted from his regular life by the strange group, only to wind up trapped – however temporarily – inside a mountain. All the same, the lad's tired eyes flashed from cat to cat as he followed the conversation.

“Something about the box,” the linguist muttered beneath his breath, “something about the others. What others?” He called to the cat folk, and then repeated his question in a series of clicks. The rapid fire staccato response lent a little color to his pale face. “The pure-bred, they call them.”

“Those must be the silver furs we encountered south of Gisela,” Phyr mused. “Ask them about these others.”

The linguist took a moment to find the right phrasing, but got an onslaught of clicks in response. The cat folk seemed nearly frantic, gesturing to the south and then to the box as they spoke.

“They say we should find a safe place for the box, before the rest of the pure-bred cats arrive.” The mousy man coughed violently, choking on the dust that lingered in the air.

“What rest of the pure-bred cats?” Phyr demanded, instinctively clutching the pommel of his sword, “how many of those silver furs are coming?”

The linguist translated the question and gulped as he heard the response, his throat bobbing visibly in the dim light.

“All of them,” he breathed, “their entire civilization.”

An uncomfortable murmur passed through the group.

“Preposterous,” Phyr scoffed, “they can't have brought their entire race-”

“Actually,” one of the rangers interrupted, “based on our scouting reports, there are enough ships floating off the southern shore to carry an entire nation.” For a time only silence greeted the sobering statement.

“But why?” Phyr grabbed the linguist's collar with his lone hand and practically shook the man, “why would they bring their entire people to our shores?” The mousy man clicked at the cat folk, and got a fairly long-winded response, complete with gestures and pantomime. A cold hand clasped Phyr's spine. He understood enough from the gestures that he didn't need to hear the linguist's words.

“Their seers have predicted a natural disaster,” the man stammered, “a tidal wave so great it will tear their lands apart. That box is the only thing that can save them.” The linguist tugged at his greasy hair. “It seems these mottle-furred cats represent a small group who wanted to treat peacefully with us. The rest of them...” he gulped, “the rest of them favor taking the box by force.”

~*~

The sounds of a thriving war camp filled the road and adjacent forest. Men hammered tent pegs, smiths sharpened spear blades, and large pots burbled with oatmeal that smelled of cinnamon. The breeze ruffled the tent flaps and swayed the trees, and gave life to the Coronian banners that had been mounted on tall pikes driven into the ground.

Terrence Edim limped along a neat row of tents pitched at the side of the road, lengthening his stride as much as he dared. The camp's surgeon had done a wondrous job of sewing up his wound, and he would hate to waste the man's work by rupturing the stitches. Edim sipped a foul-tasting tea the man had given him to ward off infection and paced up the slope of a gradual hill.

The lieutenant in charge of the camp had chosen to erect his command tent on the top of the hill. It was little more than a canopy atop four poles, providing a full panoramic view to anyone sheltered beneath. Terrence gave the commander a respectful nod as he crested the hill and leaned on one of the tent poles, his old eyes gazing into the distance. He could see the camp of the silver furs, which still bustled with activity. The cat folk were digging in, constructing a ring of spiked palisades around the plateau. Further out Edim could see the cats' ships bobbing with the tide, at anchor in the bay below.

“Looks as though we've got the numbers advantage,” observed the commander as he sidled up to Edim, “even so, I wouldn't favor an open charge. Not against those muskets.”

“Aye,” Edim chuckled dryly, “no sense presenting targets for them to pop off at. You'd do well to line the trees with archers. Their longbows should have a range advantage over the gunpowder weapons.”

“I'll take that under advisement,” the commander said, one eyebrow raised. Perhaps he wondered how a simple guardsman from Serenti would know so much about mixed warfare. In truth, Edim was just copying Phyr's tactics from the previous day. “We are just here to monitor the situation, after all, but if nothing else changes in the coming days... our orders may.”

Edim opened his mouth to reply, but a familiar sound interrupted him. The patterned peal of signal bells ringing out from Gisela.

“Ships on the horizon,” the commander said, “hopefully it's our allies from Akashima and Serenti.”

Edim fumbled in his pocket and withdrew his telescope. He raised the long tube to one eye and looked out over the waves.

A fleet of ships appeared on the horizon. Large, armored ships, flying familiar orange banners.

[Max Dirks]

This was an action-packed story that certainly kept the reader engaged. The introduction of the civil war arc added depth and purpose to the prompt, and the tidal wave concept was intriguing. I liked that you turned Ebivoulya into a secondary antagonist, though I felt that arc fell short with a disappointing conclusion. It was just another obstacle to overcome. Your strengths in this thread were action and mechanics. I did not appreciate any spelling errors, though there were several usage and grammar errors. Your weaknesses were in pacing and persona. Ebivoulya used his abilities in a manner that advanced time unrealistically and broke the flow of the other writers. He literally travelled from one end of Corone to the other and back in two posts. The only significant character development, incidentally, was from Ebivoulya. Phyr stayed true and Storm’s inner monologue was entertaining, but Leoric seemed like he was just there. His role was ultimately no bigger than Fordstein’s and unnecessary to the plot. Overall, your thread contained the best writing and action, leading to an above average score.

Story- 6 (The civil war arc added depth and purpose to the story and the tidal wave concept was intriguing)
Setting- 6 (Despite the variety of settings used, nothing came alive)
Pacing- 5 (Ebivoulya’s passage of time broke the pace and, upon review of his profile, constituted impermissible powergaming)
Communication- 5 (Storm’s inner monologue was entertaining)
Actions- 7 (Easily the best action of all the threads)
Persona- 6 (Too many NPCs were introduced and followed, with little development. Leoric seemed unnecessary to the story)
Mechanics- 7 (No spelling errors. There were a few usage and grammar errors)
Technique- 5 (There was a very good bit of foreshadowing w/ Ebi’s feeding and Phyr subsequent discovery, but otherwise nothing unique was utilized)
Clarity- 6 (Harmed primarily by pacing)
Wildcard- 8 (All prompts met. All players posted timely and participated. Powergaming)

Total- 61/100

Ebivoulya receives 683 EXP and 73 GP
Les Miserables receives 634 EXP and 73 GP
Leoric receives 529 EXP and 64 GP
Storm Veritas receives 1171 EXP and 73 GP

[Rayleigh]

Rewards added on 4.0.