Round One

[Aegis of Espiridion]

It was a good day for contrails, he saw. The sky was the vibrant hue of a robin’s egg, so crystal clear that he fancied he could even make out the stars despite the midnoon sun. The only blemishes upon the cloudless azure were a pair of white streaks lazily making their way overhead, thick plumes that trailed outwards in their wake due to wind shear.

Somebody’s already up there.

He stood perched upon the very edge of the sheer precipice, sandy brown rock falling away at his feet like some hungering maw. All around him was difficult mountain terrain, jagged peaks and etched valleys carved into the landscape eons ago by retreating glaciers, but what made his current location especially valuable was the blast of cold wind that whipped violently at his face and harried his long black hair. The thermal updrafts, or the ‘daemon breaths’ as the locals called them, were singularly essential to the task he was about to undertake.

Neither did he stand alone in the face of his undertaking: at his feet rested a Hibernian cloudskimmer, a sleek craft native to the inhabitants of this inhospitable land. Its body was mostly hollow to save weight, carved from fossilised lightwood excavated from the lowland bogs. Attached to this were two gull wings, frames of the same material as the body spanned with lightweight canvas sail, and an upturned u-shaped grip which the pilot could use to steer and control his craft. Vectored thrust was provided by an ancient and priceless mana engine embedded in the rear, which also powered the enchantments that protected the pilot from the destructive forces of flying such a vehicle. The cloudskimmer was about as generic as such craft got – Hibernian windriders were known to be as unorthodox and rebellious as the winds that bore them, and loved nothing more than to display such attitudes on their beloved steeds – but even then it was a lovely natural shade of greenish blue, its nose tapered and threatening, its back slightly hunched so as to give its pilot a better view.

Regrettably, said cloudskimmer did not belong to him. It belonged to the red-haired, red-bearded, red-freckled Hibernian windrider who was currently bellowing at him at the top of his lungs. Not that Ywain could hear him, however, for the howling wind simply whisked every last bellow into the cloudless sky above. He couldn’t even read the man’s lips, due to the bristly red moustache that obscured his view and his general unfamiliarity with the Hibernian tongue.

No doubt something to do with keeping the craft safe, not taking any unnecessary risks, not underestimating the wrath of the sky-goddess Cailleach Bheur, so on, so forth.

Ywain responded as best as he felt able, by meeting his fellow’s eyes – thankfully not red, but the same celestial hue as the sky he sought to ride – and nodding and smiling pleasantly. Unfortunately his actions seemed to have the exact opposite effect as intended. The pale-skinned Hibernian, already close to popping a blood vessel with the sheer effort of trying to talk over the wind, started to accentuate his renewed mute shouting with violent waves of his ruddy hands and viciously flaming glares.

Much more of this, and he’s literally going to fall off the edge. And that would be bad, given that it was a long, long way down… and it was Ywain, not the Hibernian windrider, who had one hand on the cloudskimmer’s controls. I wonder what he’s trying to tell me. What to do if the mana engine fails mid-flight, perhaps? Or how to land the thing?

Whatever it was, the rogue had to admit, it certainly made for an interesting sight – a wild-eyed small Hibernian, dressed in gaudy leather jerkin and breeches and clutching the prestigious winged crop of his profession, capering about the narrow ledge like a madman. No matter how hard he screamed and gestured and bared his yellowed teeth in Ywain’s direction, the relentless gale stole all semblance of meaning and intent into the great beyond. He might as well have been a mummer’s act, or Ywain deaf and dumb, in the face of his unforgiving surroundings.
Time, perhaps, for a slightly different tack.

“Don’t. Worry,” the rogue mouthed, not bothering to expend the effort of attempting to overcome the constant howl in his ears. “I’ll. Be. Okay.”

If anything, the already white face of the Hibernian windrider grew even whiter. The small man redoubled his efforts frantically, and then a desperate wave of his arms overbalanced him dangerously and nearly carried him over the cliff, almost plucked away by pagan Cailleach Bheur herself. He tottered backwards before collapsing on his haunches, suddenly drained by his brush with death.

Well, there’s only one thing to do now, then.

The grin that spread over Ywain’s face was somewhat cheeky, somewhat apologetic… and wholly lost in anticipation of the thrill to follow. One long leg kick-started the cloudskimmer by pushing it over the brink, honed reflexes ensuring that he was in full control before it was swept away from beneath him. The mana engine stuttered once before firing, and in the brief instant before the ground below disappeared into the distance, he could make out the terrible wrath and despair written on the windrider’s coarse features. And then the Hibernian was just a speck amongst the dusty brown, and the whistling wind finally faded into the background as the cloudskimmer’s protective wards kicked in.

Actually, I wonder if he was telling me not to take his cloudskimmer without his permission?

Ah well, who cared? The entire sky was his, now, and the paired contrails overhead beckoned like an implicit challenge. Keen eyes forward, long black hair streaming behind him like a makeshift cape, Ywain revved the cloudskimmer’s engine and gave chase.

[Whispers of Abyssion]

Ask him which sense he was most wont not to lose, and he would answer sight. Such instinctive feelings were doubtless based in man’s ancient, primal fear of the dark, where the unknown and the predatory lurked waiting to prey on the helpless. Even now he sometimes had nightmares about flailing in such darkness unable to wake up. His fear of blindness was deeply rooted, nurtured in him from the moment he sprung wailing into the light from his mother’s womb.

And to be fair, he found that as long as he had sight, he could deal with the majority of the situations that he encountered. Perhaps not optimally, for his eyes were fickle and unreliable servants at best. But given enough time to concentrate and respond to his surroundings, a solid sense of vision could compensate for all of the other senses combined. And he was nothing if not competent at buying himself time.

Ask him which sense he didn’t mind losing, then, and he would instantly think of taste. But a serpent’s tongue could taste far more than the food in his mouth, and he was loathe to abandon such an advantage even if he could still eat well by retaining his sense of smell. The latter too was more important to him than it might seem at first glance, for his extraordinarily keen and perceptive sense of smell often provided the first sign of warning he had of approaching danger.

Hearing, thus, was not as crucial to him as an early warning as it might be to others. But hearing also implied balance and acceleration and the sense of position, and he knew more than most how difficult it was to move about without those vital inputs. Many were the times whilst he was still learning to control his powers that he had lost control of his inner ear functions, and had been forced to abandon an assignment because he was unable to coordinate his movements properly.

Ask him which sense he didn’t mind losing, then, and he would eventually answer touch. To the untrained mind, perhaps, it was a strange choice. Without touch, they would ask, how could he feel? How could he perceive? Was he not inhibited by the inability to experience sensations upon his skin?

The answer was no.

For touch encapsulated temperature, and if he could sense temperature then he would feel the flames licking at his body, hungry heat charring his skin and melting away his muscle as it greedily consumed him where he stood.

And touch also encapsulated pain, and if he could sense pain then he would be in unholy agony due to the curved blade impaled through his torso, and the myriad of deep slashes, badly bent limbs, and bloody bruises that marred his form.

And neither of these sensations was conducive to the task at hand.

One more step. One more tortured stumble beyond the wide-eyed young soldier who’d just stabbed him through his chest, heedless of the fact that his toes were crumbling away with every passing second.

Just a little bit more… just a fraction…

There. The name on the parchment became clear, even through the haze of smoke and diminishing consciousness that blighted him. The single piece of information that he had been instructed to collect, the one word that would allow him to bribe a nation or ignite a war at his very whim.

As he faded, he was left with innumerable sensations seared into his mind. His sight going blank at long last as his eyes succumbed to the heat. The taste of fear upon his tongue from those who’d finally taken him down. The smell of charred flesh and burning lamp oil as the room and its occupants caught fire. The screams of the damned and the cries of the injured, some of them only vaguely recognisable as his own.

But no heat. No pain.

And then the mirror shattered, and he was back in his own body at last. Seated in the middle of a quiet room full of reflective surfaces, lights dimmed and outside noises muted, the serenity of his sanctum soothed the images from his mind and left only the vital information that he sought.

For Touma Kamikaji was a psy-mage, a mind controller. And it made sense for him not to feel the injuries suffered by his sacrificial pawns as they died to give him power.

The question thus remained… did he feel anything in the first place?

Only he could possibly know the answer to that, and if he did, he wasn’t telling.

[Wings of Endymion]

“By dose is blocked.”

“I can hear that, thanks. Pass the salt, will you?”

“I cadt taste adythig. We sit dowd to a hot beal for the first tibe in bodths, and I cadt taste adythig.”

“I sympathise.”

“… really?”

“Nope. At least have the good grace not to give your cold to me, okay? Salvar is taxing enough as it is without having to deal with sniffles at the same time.”

“I dodt like you.”

“Well at least your inner angel is beginning to show. Maybe the fire is warming you up somewhat. Pass the pepper please?”

“I really dodt like you.”

“You could at least try eating, couldn’t you? Now, I know you’re not a big fan of roast meats… so the broth, perhaps?”

“Too salty.”

“Ah, so there’s nothing wrong with your taste buds at least. You were lying when you told me that you couldn’t taste anything.”

“It was a turd of phrase.”

“I see. Well, if you don’t like the broth, perhaps the fish?”

“That’s Kebiran chilli, isdt it? I’ve already burdt by togue on the shribp…”

“Aha, so there’s nothing wrong with your eyes either! Furthermore, there’s enough sense left between your mouth and your mind that you can taste the spice! Are you sure that you wouldn’t rather burn your nose free of its imprisonment?”

“… I would rather eat raw bidt by the hadful.”

“Bidt… oh, mint. I’m sure that can be arranged, if you so wish. Well, if you won’t have the fish I shall. Pass the sauce?”

“… I really dodt like you.”

“Fine, have it your way. If you’re going to be stubborn, I might just offer you nothing more than this here bread. Would you like some?”

“Too tough, too cold. Whed was this baked?”

“You’re truly in a bad temper today, aren’t you? At least your fingers can still distinguish texture and temperature, though your tongue seems wont only to give a lashing. Shall I invite the kitchen servers out so you can tell them in person? Or would you prefer that I do the job myself?”

“Deither. Stop teasing be.”

“Why should I? It’s so much fun… oh, stop glowering at me like that.”

“I dodt like you.”

“Haha. Now there’s a surprise. So let’s get this straight… you can taste the salt in the broth, you can see the chilli on the fish, and you can feel the staleness of the bread… but you can’t smell the tasty aromas of the rest of the food on your plate?

“That’s what I said id the first place.”

“Oh yes, that’s true. My apologies, I’d completely forgotten. Pass the herbs, please?”

“You’re bead.”

“Bead? Mean, perhaps… actually, certainly. What else is new?

“Dothig buch.”

“Oh, don’t sigh like that. At least you’re well enough to sit here and complain.”

“True.”

“So all you need is food, right?”

“Dot ady of this, though.”

“I thought as much. This is why I took the liberty of using the last of the rice and some vegetables that I bartered from the innkeeper to make porridge for you. Thought it might be easier on the stomach… you know, not so offensive to your remaining senses. Tomi should be through with it any moment now.”

“…”

“Ah, there it comes. Stop crying and eat up while it’s still hot.”

“… thag you.”

[Flames of Hyperion]

His eyes opened with a start. But the world was a hazy blur, an undignified tumult of colourless smears that reminded him of a poor artist’s palette or an incomprehensible painting. No matter how hard he tried to blink the fog from his eyes it would not lift. His head swam painfully as he tried, and failed, to make sense of it all.

He had been dreaming. He was sure he’d been dreaming. Nostalgic and bittersweet, tragic and heartbreaking and oh so real. Oh so real…

… because it was real.

His eyes couldn’t see, but he could still relive the sight of the Prince of Infernal Light as it tore through the Academy like a serrated blade through flesh. He could still watch as spells and swords alike failed to harm the monstrosity, and as six-year-old Kenta bled his last in Kayu’s arms, spitting defiance at the beast until the very end. He could still reawaken in the midst of a burning wasteland strewn with charred corpses, aching in a thousand different places as he wondered where the daemon was and why he was still alive.

His eyes couldn’t see, but he could still recall the banshee screams as he walked the Road of Guilt, mothers and wives blaming him for the loved ones who would never return. He could still listen to the silence etched into his very soul by the path of solitude he had walked for eight long years, studying and training and preparing so that what had happened would never occur again. He could still shiver at Kayu’s final farewell, just before he’d left Nippon for Althanas, as he only later realised that she never meant to see him again.

His eyes couldn’t see, but he could still remember the stench of his flesh smouldering beneath the Dread Necromancer’s spells as they carved a wound that would never heal into his chest. He could still retch at the rank reek of the underground lair that had become both prison and sanctuary, the aroma of necrotic death mingling with desperate heroism as he fought to keep placing one foot before the other. He could still smell the faint vanilla perfume of Kayu’s hair as she slept in the towers of Winyaurient, oblivious to the darkness that loomed over her as he watched on helplessly.

His eyes couldn’t see, but he could still revive the taste of failure crowning his tongue like stale fur as he watched the world burn. He could still force down the dusty ash that was all the sustenance he could find in the ruined heartlands of Raiaera, the murky muddy streams of Salvar that had clogged rather than soothed his parched throat. He could still gag at the blood and herb poultice the healer had used to counteract the corruption coursing through his veins, in an attempt to slow the plague that was eating him whole.

He had been dreaming, to be sure. But the dreams had been rooted in true memories, and his mind had recreated them so well that he had almost relived his entire life in a single night. The frosty steam of his pulsating breath brushed the skin of his upper lip, laboured heaves of his chest echoing throughout the empty room and its bare wooden walls as he only slowly regained control of his thundering heart. Even with all his willpower focused on restoring reality, it was a long and cold eternity before he had calmed himself enough to unclench his fists, thus releasing the sharp nails from where they had embedded themselves into his palm.

Only then did he realise that he was biting his lip to stop himself from crying out, hard enough to draw blood. The salty metallic tang lingered accusingly in his mouth, blocking his nostrils and making him want to retch once more at the nightmarish memories of war and death. Another eternity passed before he could convince his jaws to relax.

I have to stop doing this, said the rational part of his mind. But another, quieter voice told him,

Don’t you deserve it?

At last, he opened his eyes again. But the world was still that hazy brown blur, cold and hostile. He shivered once more as he shrugged the blankets from his spare frame, trying to picture the room in his mind’s eye. The scent of molten candle wax was the bureau, and the muted murmur of voices was the door, which meant…

He vented all of his anger and frustration into a surge of arcane power, and the extinguished fireplace roared into flame with an explosive woosh. Streaks of brightly dancing red and yellow now joined the background brown, but still his vision did not clear. It was almost as if his body did not want him to see his current surroundings, refusing to transmit the information gathered by his eyes to be comprehended by his mind.

But he knew that there was one last thing that he could – that he had to – try.

Slowly he forced his weary limbs from the bed, fumbling along the wall until his calloused fingers finally found what he sought. They closed, with a gentle touch almost unthinkable from his previous outburst, around a thin metallic frame. The movements that brought it to his face were not graceful, but they served.

When he opened his eyes for the third time, he was greeted by the spartan decor of his host’s bedroom. The fur-strewn bed from which he had just risen, the violently erupting fire in the far corner of the room, the rest of his belongings arranged neatly upon the wooden floor.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with crisp cold air, and exhaled slowly. Then he began to gather his effects upon his person.

The road ahead was still long and perilous, and he had come too far to turn back.

[Bloodrose]

"You're cheating." Sidsa's tone was indignant. "You can still see."

"No, I can't." Teric countered, straightening up and squaring his shoulders with the source of the witch's voice. He had a wide length of burlap tied over his eyes, which on its own was good enough to blot out his vision. It was also scratchy enough that the mercenary kept his eyes shut under the blindfold anyways, for good measure.

"Can." She didn't sound convinced. On top of that, there was a little grunt in Sidsa's voice as she argued; a sound similar to the exertion involved in throwing something. Teric put his hand up in front of his face just in time to intercept the snowball meant for his forehead. "See!"

"You want to come redo this blindfold yourself?" Teric responded. "Will that satisfy you?"

Sidsa didn't give him an answer, but the veteran could hear her moving forward. Standing just over five feet, and weighing eighty pounds soaking wet, the young woman was extraordinarily light on her feet; as one might expect. Even still, being light-footed could do nothing to muffle the soft crunch of snow being packed underfoot.

"Down." Sidsa ordered.

Teric took a knee, bringing him down low enough for the young woman standing in front of him to reach behind his head and untie the blindfold. When the burlap came off, Teric opened his eyes - blinking several times as the cold Salvic air hit them. Sidsa was standing right in front of him, her face just a little higher than his own.

Not exactly what one thinks of when thinking about witches.

She was in her early twenties; short and slender, with hard but beautiful features. Like a lot of the wilder folk who made their homes north of the Osolav river, she had a rugged sort of aesthetic about her; more muscular than a waif, with a lean, almost gaunt face. That face, and her sapphire blue eyes, were framed by long dark hair gathered into braids and dreads, decorated with feathers and a few beads. She wore an odd assortment of black leather and mismatched fabrics in a dress-like configuration, reminiscent of the Esseker gypsies in Fallien (only a continent and an ocean away).

"Cheater." Sidsa said again, as she unfolded and refolded the strip of burlap to make the blindfold wider.

"Like I said, I don't need my eyes to beat you at darts." Teric replied, very matter-of-factly. A dozen paces behind Sidsa, hanging from the wall of the small cabin they shared, was a cork board sectioned off into scoring areas. It was old, beat up, and covered in mildew from hanging outside for what looked like years, but the small iron darts they'd found on the mantle still stuck good enough.

"We'll see." Sidsa said. Newly widened blindfold in hand, she covered Teric's eyes once more and tied it securely behind his head. The burlap covered his face from the tip of his nose all the way to his hairline now, eliminating any chance that he could see past the layers of folded cloth.

"New wager?" Teric asked, rising blindly to his feet.

"Closest to the bulls eye wins. Loser does dishes for a week." Was the witch's response. Her hand took his, and Teric felt something cold and metal being pressed into his palm. With his off-hand he held the dart sideways by the tip, and carefully positioned the fingers of his throwing hand around the projectiles heavy middle.

"Go for it."

Sidsa stood to his right, and there was a moment of silence as she (Teric assumed) aimed up her throw. A light breeze wafted through the clearing their cabin sat in, sending smoke from the chimney blowing in their direction. Another minute, and the breeze passed, and Sidsa finally threw.

The sound her dart made when it hit was not the sound of an iron point biting into cork. Instead, it sounded rather like an iron dart hitting the log wall of the cabin itself.

"Shit." Sidsa hissed under her breath.

Teric smiled. He raised his arm up so that his upper arm was parallel to the ground - his elbow pointed at the target. He knew where it was because he had squared his shoulders to it when Sidsa removed the blindfold, and had been careful getting up to keep his shoulders facing straight ahead. There really wasn't any sort of skill or trick to it, but Teric wasn't about to reveal that all Sidsa had to do to win was make him spin a circle a few times. Fingers already wrapped around the dart, he made a few practice motions, careful only to move at the elbow while keeping his shoulder and wrist firm. With a flick, he sent the dart flying, and was rewarded with the sound of iron hitting cork.

"Cheater." Sidsa said again, a little less convinced this time.

[Lillith]

Daggers drawn and hair tied back, Lillith Kazumi resembled an epitome of efficiency and murderous intent. Without a word she cleared the expanse between the tall double jade doors of the winter palace and set foot on the top stair that marked the beginning of the long descent into the village. For centuries, the geisha of Imamate household had begun this very same journey on the first day of spring, relinquished of their duties as house maid and confident to the Duke of the frost spires.

Few people knew of this tradition, save the Duke and his unfortunate charge. Meiko in the cities of Akashima grew up through hardship and trials few could imagine with the hopes of one day being an attendant for the royal houses, but few would ever find out the truth – the richer you were, the fouler your manners, darker your obsessions, harsher your punishment for crossing lines not yet set.

This time, however, Lillith Kazumi had not taken the duke’s rage to heart. She had returned it, full force, and buried her tanto into the circular depths of his shoulder blades mid-coitus. His groan had mingled with his screams, despite his continued throes of pleasure whilst she twisted the steel red handled blades in polar circlers to twist sinew and grind bone.

She had of course been grateful for the invitation to the palace, her third in a run. Other geisha had vied in secret for the luxury, waiting at midnight for a courier to deliver the fabled rose scented scroll over rooftop and steeple and palisade. The only visitor to their chambers at night was the bitter cold of the north region of Akashima. If they had dared to look outside their windows, to poke their painted, porcelain visages of beauty and conviction into the brisk night air, they would have caught a glimpse of a female ninja stealing away their dreams.

The truth of the matter was that the duke invited as many geisha as he could pay for, a desire not tempered by his diminishing wealth and receding hairline. Thirteen in all had arrived at the bottom of the winter palace’s steps three days ago, and it had been Lillith’s delight to inform each of them in turn, waiting of course until at least half way up the four thousand great steps to turn them back – threateningly, delightfully, with whatever means she could bring to bear to achieve her goal.

Her experience alone would have to suffice the duke.

Many things had been acquired during the night, some which would require poultices and atonement. Most important of all however, was the small jade effigy of a lion that jostled in her pocket as she let out a sigh, stretched her blades overhead and clanged them together with a clash. Her wrapped feet began to move and she picked up a quick pace, half running against the cold howl of the peak’s wind yet making work of the long descent with little exertion.

With the effigy in her possession, Lillith’s mind settled on the things she had lost during her stay in the north. Though the war between the spirit warder tribes had reached its inevitable conclusion, her endeavours here were to aid the progress of the civil war – to free Akashima from the Empire’s grip whilst the tyrant is weak and its enemies are at their strongest. Once she might not have thought twice about it, but this time, the loss of the last dwindling shards of her dignity troubled her.

Though the assassin had a cold, almost psychotic glare expression on her face, in her heart and mind she was a scared and lonely woman. Beset with troubles, emotions long thought abandoned or conquered and left to fight on the frontier alone with her brother’s return to Scara Brae, care and concern had become sisters to her tanto and wild passion for espionage.

Looking to her left, the Cliffside quickly turned into a perilous and sheer drop into the snow bound mist. Though the wind was howling, it did so only with passion and not with strength. It caressed the lofty heights of the upper peak to Lillith’s right before it dropped in an arc into the unknown. In summer, when the sun thawed the snow and left the pine crofts resplendent with green foliage brighter and more radiant than the most precious of jade artefacts, the palace became a warm and welcoming fortress of solitude.

She cared for her home above everything else. Even her family were expendable when it came to the kingdom, to its heritage, people and its wile. Like men to money and woman to pleasure, Lillith served the interests of the kami, the god spirits of her people with an unwavering, immortal dedication. Everything she did served a higher purpose than the reunification and emancipation of Akashima – she was working for the return of the Elder Kami to Althanas proper, to free them from the exile inflicted upon them by the ancient Spirit Warder Guido.

“Love me in winter, loathe me in spring, fight me in autumn and laugh through summer,” she recited the first line of an old poem she had recited to the Duke the previous evening. His jasmine scented chamber, a cliché on all accounts in the long list of men she had slept with and their strange attempts to seduce their charges had swirled with pleasure when she had spoken the verse. The pleasure had been hers at hearing the history of her lands given poetic justice.

She could smell nothing at all now; the cloud of mist had dredged away all sensation from her nostrils.

She could feel nothing but worry in her heart, and the snow turned the world into a long ladder of black lines against a piercing white background. The snow blindness would take days to fade if she did not hurry.

She could taste nothing on her tongue, which was fur lined and dog breathed from too make rose wine, sake and Ambrosia gin she had deemed appropriate to bring as a gift for her host. That would not change for many days, until she settled her battered and worn body into a hot, scalding bath filled with flower petals and lavender soap.

Why did I do this? She wondered.

“Hate me for all the things I have done, but not for why I do them,” and with that, she turned a bend in the winding road, feet slowly cooling and skin half blue, the road ahead long and her words her only comfort.

Lillith Kazumi was slowly losing her senses to the bitter disposition of nature, but she was willing to make the biggest sacrifice of all to fulfil her dream – she would give her own lives to return glory to the world of the dancing dragons and lantern kami, her mind, tongue, eyes and nose were put fragments of that pledge.

[Atzar]

First of all, thank you all for participating in this round! Following are short assessments of each entry, in the order they were submitted, with the winner’s assessment in bold – aside from that, the rankings will not be revealed.


SirArtemis: In this round, I felt that several people took awhile to ‘get into the flow’, so to speak. You were one of them – the first few paragraphs seemed awkward and forced to me, almost as if you weren’t entirely comfortable with the beginning of your post. Once you got going, however, I felt that your entry got much better. Your interactions with Daros are entertaining, and lend a depth to your character that I feel is sometimes missing.

Fuzzie: This was funny! Your entry was a unique take on the prompt – while most people saw the loss of a sense as an impediment, you treated it as an advantage (albeit a temporary one). You don’t make as much of an attempt to add detail or depth as some of the other entries, but this was a fun, creative entry to the contest.

Sagequeen: You have a definite voice with your character – her personality comes through not just in her thoughts or words, but in the way you write. I felt that your entry was an effective snapshot of Erissa’s training; well done.

Joseff: Your entry was creative, and I liked the “witch’s brew” direction you take with your potion-making. To improve your writing style, focus on adding detail and refining your technique. It’s impossible to discuss technique in any depth in a single paragraph, so my advice is this: there are several excellent writers here on Althanas. Read some of their work, and pay specific attention to what you like about their writing. If you see something that a writer does that you especially enjoy, write something of your own while trying out that technique, and see how you feel about it (this can be something you show to others, or something you simply do on your own).

Bayne: Your story was solid. The best way to improve your writing is to add detail. For example, some mention of the difficulties he faces while trying to walk through the forest blind would have really helped bring this to life. Also, read Joseff’s assessment – I think my advice to him would help you a lot as well.

Restless Soul: Had I written one of these vignettes myself, mine probably would have been most similar in concept to yours. In place of the lost sense, you paid a lot of attention to the other four, and there was a tension in your story that I felt was very effective. You were another case in which I felt that the beginning was forced, and that you improved as you got into the flow of your post. Overall, though, this was a very good entry.

Silence Sei: This was a good story. What kept it from being great, in my opinion, was a lack of imagery and powerful details. The story itself was very good, but I feel that there are times where your writing could be enhanced by stronger, more poignant words and phrases, especially in a dramatic tale like this one.

Blackdog1: I’m very pleased with the variety amongst the entries thus far – they’re all very different from one another, and this one continues that trend. I did feel that you rushed the ending of your story – it ended quickly, and it left me wondering what happened. Were all of the monks blind? Was Aiden really deaf? The end of your story left me guessing a little too much.

Orphans: Typical Azza! You still have a cheerful, “bright” style of writing, and your portray Azza’s childish personality well. It seemed like you were just getting started, though, and then it… ended. What happened next? Was the loss of taste permanent? I hope not. I think you had the makings of an excellent entry here, but you pulled it out of the oven before it was cooked all the way through.

Aegis of Espiridion: I enjoyed this interpretation of the prompt – the inability to hear over the gale was a clever idea. You have a clean, refined style of writing that I was very impressed with (and that goes for your other entries as well, even if I don’t explicitly state it three more times). Well done – I enjoyed this one.

Whispers of Abyssion: Another creative use of the prompt. I also enjoyed the way that you withheld some important information until the end, leaving me in the dark for much of the story.

Wings of Endymion: The lighthearted tone that you used in this entry was effective, especially given the darker nature of the stories you submitted with Whispers and Flames. I was a little bit hampered by my lack of familiarity with your character in this case – I didn’t know who was who.

Flames of Hyperion: This entry won the round – congratulations! Aside from your effective writing style, the thing that set this one apart from the rest was the powerful voice you used in writing this. In this story, I got a good glimpse of what Ingwe has been through, and I thought the detail that you gave me was very strong. The bit with the glasses at the end was also a nice touch.

Bloodrose: You are another writer with a clean, effective writing style. This was a fun, lighthearted entry. Your use of the prompt and the story you attached to it was entertaining and made for a fun close to this round.

Lillith Kazumi: Sorry! The round ended at 11:59 on Friday, and this entry was more than a day late. For future reference, each round begins at the beginning of each Monday and ends at the end of each Friday. This entry won’t be ranked, but please still feel free to participate in the rest of the tournament!

Congratulations once again to Flames of Hyperion, the winner of this round!

I recognize that my critique of each entry is brief. If you'd appreciate a more in-depth assessment of your post, please contact me through PM or AIM (my handle is Ark Ether) and I'd be more than happy to give you a more thorough response. Thanks!

EXP rewards will be posted shortly.