W . . . (Open to one)

[Woshington]

Despite the morbidity of his return to Althanas in another mortal shell, Woshington was feeling typically bombastic as his toothy smile shone out from his deep brown face. Lithe yet toned, he stepped with deliberate grace over the disgarded foetus he was first born into and headed directly for the oppressive sight of the Citadel dominating the horizon. Lurching over Woshington’s new world, the city of Radasanth and its most prominent building were just begging for a confrontation with the former street thug.

“Ha, ha” his booming voice proclaimed, “civilisation!”

The black man’s gait was swaggering, he had set off: across the uneventful country miles between here and there.

Authority was something to be challenged. Selfishly. After all, Woshington was no civil rights activist—in his homeland he had painted the streets with his boldly experimental graffiti flourishes, he had ruled the roads ruthlessly behind a mask as your jovial friend, and he had waged urban warfare: held a general’s rank. Woshington has been relegated to the lowest division in a world where, unbeknownst to him, Max Dirks is undefeated and the Bandit Brotherhood has span around the sun on this underdeveloped rock for quite some time. In his mind, Woshington was determined that he needed to make a bold statement to relieve the domination of the very atmosphere around him. Time moved slowly, rubbing abrasively against his soul; it was as if the very clouds above him were slowly compressing his spirit with a weight their blackness portrayed; he could feel the dankness all around him.

But then, as his gaudy sneakers set down on the outdated cobbled streets the clouds began to part. And with the stroke of midday his bare chest began to gleam in the new found sunlight while his open shirt—airbrushed with a likeness of his own face—flapped at his waist in the trivial winds. Woshington thought, “people live here!” with a feeling of triumph in his mind. People, primed for exploitation.

The man was a contemporary beacon in a backward civilisation; his modern clothes and dark skin in an admittedly diverse, but overwhelmingly white, society set him apart in the crowd. People stepped back from him and soon he was floating effortlessly through the crowd with a buffer of a yard or two. Woshington, in all his arrogance, felt his arrival was taking on the quality of that reserved for a messiah.

Woshington’s gaunt face stared up at the Citadel, his contrasting bright eyes examined every detail of the great door before him. When confronted with such a disproportionate expression of tradition and establishment he did what any decent graffiti artist would do. Bony fingers reached to his waist and gripped a well used and slightly dinted can of paint, yellow dribbles had dried crusty down its flank. With mischief in his heart but malice in his eyes he began to squeeze at the nozzle of the aerosol can and before he could finish shaping out the W of his moniker his shoulders were dragged back and he swung out violently before a swath of arms and fingers were wrapped around him. Without an ounce of dignity Woshington was hauled inside by the monks and unceremoniously tossed into an arena to await his opponent.

The crash landing was painless, for at first there was darkness. With time the nothingness melted away as Woshington’s mind began to roam; his thoughts were weaved into reality. The temperature in the arena soared to his tropical preference of 40°C. Meanwhile his ears were indulged with their favourite sound: the hush of a raspy chorus of sand grains rubbing together beneath human feet. Backwash began to fall back along what was soon appearing to Corone’s pre-eminent graffiti artist as his favourite stretch of beach. “Just like it was back home!” he thought. Mountains rumbled as they rose behind him, carpeted in steamy rainforest. Beams of wood flung themselves from beneath the gentle waves and arranged themselves into the form of a fisherman’s jetty. Palm trees dotted this secluded section of beach; contained within craggy cliff walls, which themselves were littered with caves and nature rocky shelves.

[Kell]

Finally away from that cesspool Scara brae....

the thought made her happy just in itself, let alone the sugar coursing through her veins. Four a good fortnight she had suffered the boredom of that forsaken island. At least here in Radasanth she could get a good all out beat down going in the citadel.

Not that going to war on someone's face was the only reason the Feline trekked to the coliseum of dreams. Nope, she was still on that quest for warriors to full fill her group's needs. She had made a new adaption to her normal dress, placing her new colors on her arm, the black and white flag of Geist Fox shown ready for the eyes of all. Even at five foot three, the Ice leopard had that look of “been there, kicked its ass”.

The sun beat down upon her ears as she walked the thick streets of the city, her eyes trying to spy for just about any hopefuls. There was one or two, but they were either butchers or dockworkers. Neither of which were people who would put their lives in any kind of danger for the sake of money.

As she neared the great temple, she grew curious of all the commotion going on outside. Only to get a glimpse of the dark skinned man causing it all as he was drug into the long halls of her favorite building.

As the crowed slowly dispersed she walked towards the gathering monks as they thought pondered what to do about the paint.

“Hey, that guy...” she thumbed in the direction of the doors, “is he open for a fight?” she asked none of the monks in particular, yet they all turned.

“Oh yes miss, he is awaiting a partner as we speak.” one said as he gave her an understanding look, quickly stepping to lead the way.

Kell's long tail flicked anxiously as she followed closely behind. For a man to have done such a completely random thing would probably be as notable as when some guy walked in and tried to force some sort of “pay to fight” fee.

Needless to say, he regretted it.

“Miss, would you like to leave anything with me as it is quite temperate in this arena?” The monk asked as he stopped at a door and turned to her with a soft smile.

The thought rolled over in her head for a few seconds before she dropped her backpack and removed her hat and coat, giving it to the monk a little reluctantly.

With a short stretch of her arms she entered the door as the monk held it open for her. There was darkness, which she figured was probably just the change between reality and magic. But after a few steps and her ears becoming accustomed to it all, she recognized it as a cave.

“fuckers better not have set this up in a cave...” she muttered under her breath as she continued forward only to emerge moments later onto a bright beach. Her eyes stung as the bright sun assaulted them for a few moments.

After a few moments she realized that before her, standing like a blood drop on a blank piece of paper, was her opponent.

“Damn, you must either be brave, crazy or stupid to pull something like that.” she said as she walked closer to him, her hand shielding the sun from her eyes, “Well since I like your style, the name's Kell.”

[Woshington]

Woshington’s face creased into a smile as Kell’s diminutive form stepped into the lean horizontals of his shadow. This young female appeared to him as a ray of sunshine, or so he thought until a solitary cloud spoilt the sun’s omnipresent burn for a passing moment—she was not divine sunshine. Woshington lacked awareness of the current situation, but he nevertheless took a precaution; resting his right hand on the crossbow hooked securely to his belt. His mind played with the potential of items at his disposal. Woshing had an array of aerosol cans equipped at his waist and the fully fuelled lighter in the breast pocket of his extravagant shirt.

“Damn, you must either be brave, crazy or stupid to pull something like that.”

“Ha, ha!” it was quickly becoming apparent that a deep “ha, ha” was a prefix to a Woshington statement. “I consider myself bold” he said slowly but happily, contemplation in his tone. He was offended that a woman little taller than five feet would insinuate stupidity in him, but this sentiment was hidden in his thoughts. For now at least.

As the two spoke his elaborate sneakers began to depress the sand beneath, it had been dampened as the ocean waters lapped against his heels. The stretch of beach was only narrow, no more than thirty feet between cliff wall and the evidently incoming tide.

“Well since I like your style, the name's Kell.”

“Thank you, miss. I’m Woshington.” he beamed at her as he spoke, his eyes widening to match the emphasised syllables of his words. “This is a comfortable prison,” he said, his exotic accent following the rhythm of his tropical origins, “if that’s what it is…” he had inquired without committing to a question. Woshington wanted to know where he was, why he was there and what was required next.

[Kell]

Laughter quickly erupted from her as she bent over, putting her hands on her knees for support as she laughed. She stopped and wiped the tears of humor from her eyes as she looked back up at him. With her eyes adjusting and the sun shaded for a moment, she was able to study this dark skinned human.

The sand under her boots crunched softly as she readjusted her stance. A seagull flew over head as she mapped his entirety.

“Were you born yesterday? This is the citadel, the finest of coliseums in the whole known lands. People from almost every part of this planet know what this place is.“

her hand retrieved a piece of candy from her pocket as she unwrapped it and popped it in her mouth. Her tongue rolled around the watermelon flavored piece as her tail flicked.

The battlefield was rather nice in comparison to some of the ones she had been in. even though she really did hate sand, it always got into her fur, and then on top of that it would get into much more personal and uncomfortable places.

[Woshington]

“Were you born yesterday?” she asked, and he smirked knowingly. But the words to come next were a great distraction, “the finest of coliseums in the whole known lands.”

It didn’t take long for Woshington’s calculating mind to set to work while his selective hearing blocked out his foe’s continuing conversation. As a bónfim martial artist, close quarters combat was his forte and she was right before him in all her furry glory. Feeling an inherent advantage, a rush of characteristic confidence coursed through Woshington’s psyche. But no, he was feeling the audacity today; he was also feeling the malice. A sweeping leg was not the kind of statement he wanted to make.

Calmly he reached for the lighter in his breast pocket, sliding his emaciated fingers in before pulling out the otherworldly device. Woshington rubbed his finger at the ignition and a flame flickered on and off. He began his verbal response “Coliseum, you don’t say, little sistah?”

The twenty something black man, as he had verbally engaged her, lurched back and brushed his left hand across his bouncy ‘fro. An important switch took place, the lighter swapped from right to left hand. “Have you ever seen one of these before?” he held his lighter up to her face, assuming it would be a foreign device to most of the backward people in his new world. Whilst smiling deceptively his right hand grasped the purple spray paint can—his least favourite colour—and he whipped it up holding it behind the open flame for a matter of nanoseconds before the course skin of his index finger gripped the ridges of the can's nozzle; it was pressed down. The organic solvent based paint sprayed into the open flame, igniting in a short range fireball and the low purr of combustion accompanied the flaming chemicals towards her face.

[Kell]

The blue feline could see that her opponent had gone off into his own world for a moment before producing an item from his pocket. The sounds of the surf echoed in her ears for a moment before he spoke.

the look that immediately crossed her face was of complete disbelief in Woshington's clear knowledge of this world. She had heard of people that had come from other worlds, but till now if she had met any, they were naturalized by then.

“uh, yeah...it's a lighter...” she just managed to say as the flames burst forth from his spray can.

Reaction took over as she leaned back and fell low. This wasn't the first fireball that had been launched her way, years of traps and bar room brawls was something that had prepared her for pranks like that.

The hair on the tips of her ears smoked softly as it curled in tight and black.

“Mother fucker!” she growled as the flame passed.

An arc of lightning crossed around her fists as she lunged low, opening her hands for a full out tackle, the energy strong enough to probably paralyze his legs should she contact them.

The treads of her boots sprayed sand high into the air as her tail straitened for the pounce, a deeply hate filled sneer across her lips that showed her pearly white teeth.

[Woshington]

Movement and counter-movement: these were fundamentals for any martial artist. Bonfim in particular though, was centred on the gymnastic and acrobatic. Consequently, as Woshington saw Kell’s reaction to his initial attack begin he set his quickly altered his stance. Woshington’s technique was more than intermediate. As she lowered to release the directed jolt he dropped the purple can but clenched his fist with the lighter inside. What followed was a rapid back flip. His leg muscled tensed with energy and sprang in release. His lithe form sailed into the air, landing hands first in the sand. One palm and one fist. Woshington was accustomed to dealing with gunfire rather than bolts of lightening. He might have moved fast enough to put off a gunman’s aim, but the electricity persisted for a moment and infected his right arm. The limb instantly numbed and he grimaced with the electrical burn. Woshington had underestimated his opponent and he knew it as he tumbled into the sand.

For the first time in a decade he felt like a student once more. What would Mestre Karde think of his failure to counter-strike, and even more so, his failure to even parry? Death had always quickly followed his experiences of being face down, but he was determined this time it would be different. Faith glimmered in his dark iris . . . the ugly purple can rolled towards Kell ominously!

[Kell]

Woshington was clearly more spry then she had figured of any six foot man. Either way she had connected with his arm, hopefully he would be without it for at least a few critical moments. Kell brought her knees forward and under her, causing the sand to kick up towards her opponent before leaning back and swinging one leg out into a low sweep that was aimed for the back of his supporting elbow. The sand sprayed wide as a good deal of it clung to her pants. The moisture almost instantly soaking through the material of her pants.

While thought was usually of a complete lack to her while she fought, relying more on the innate primal instincts of her blood, there bore a thought about her knowledge of chemicals.

If he had ignited the contents with a lighter, then her electricity would easily ignite said contents without their expulsion into the air. It would be like he was wearing volatile hand grenades on his belt, and damn it if she wouldn't try to use that to some advantage.

The first can had left her thoughts as she spun, with all hope she could possibly break his arm and then perhaps gain a small advantage over his upper body strength.

Hopefully she thought, this guy wasn't just lucky, but maybe had some kind of skill. Cause if he did, she wouldn't hesitate to offer him a job.

[Woshington]

Woshington felt his messiah-like arrival in jeopardy. He was already flat on the floor when the cat girl’s kick thumped him in the mouth, his head snapped back and sent a pair of teeth splattering along the sand in notably viscous blood. With an ever increasingly offended ego, Woshington jerked the opposing limb—the one with full mobility remaining—to boost himself to his feet. Stumbling for a second in a daze from the impact, the fit young man nevertheless persevered to his feet.

Decisiveness was generally Woshington’s strong suit, but in this moment, as his body regained a graceful stance while his numbed left arm dangled loosely, he couldn’t decide. Toss his lighter and combust her feet or flee and turn this battle into a long range duel? It was the long-standing conflict in his personality, the flamboyance and audacity of a graffiti artist versus the restraint and efficiency of a martial artist. Woshington couldn’t continue to be on the back foot in this battle, he knew that. He knew it. It was going to have to be both, he thought, "a hit a run."

As his back twisted away from Kell his right wrist hung back and he dextrously flicked the lighter on and dropped it the few feet or so down to the rolling paint can. With blood dripping down his fleshy lip and a deadweight of an arm slowing him down he felt his luck changing as the unlikely connection was made and a small blast popped in the beach sand. Woshington wasn’t sticking around to observe any possible connection and the subsequently pretty radial burst of wet beach sand; he was already leaping and bounding through the little breaking waves on the beach, heading unswervingly for the wooden jetty leading out into the deeper waters.

[Kell]

The connection wasn't as she hoped, but none the less effective. He was already hurt and the feline had pressed him onto the defensive with relative easy.

Her vision was blocked momentarily by her unbound hair as she righted herself to hop back up, just in time for the resounding pop of the canister. The wave of heat burning the air as she drew it through her nose causing her sinuses to burn for a moment as she landed on her back in the wet sand.

A cough expelled from her lungs as she shook her head, trying to clear the wonderment of what had happened.

There was a sting on her cheek where something had scratched her enough to draw blood, but other than that, she felt that everything was in the right place and nothing was noticeably broken. As the feline sat up she saw Woshington running as best he could away from her and the small crater nearby.

With a roll of her head she let her neck pop as she rolled her shoulders before standing and dusting off some of the clinging sand. Admittedly she despised the feeling of the moisture slowly clinging to her fur and absorbing deeper to remain next to her sensitive skin.

Running from her was not probably going to be his best idea today as it only served to heighten her already engaged primal instincts as she took off quickly after him. Even though a good deal of distance had grown between the two fighters, Kelsey ran hard, sending a great spray of sand into the air with each step, her heavy boots carving deep holes.

“Why ya running Bitch? The fun is just getting started!” she yelled after him with a great deal of joy in her voice. Yet again she had a foe on the run from her like a wounded deer. The blood that beat in her veins was like molten hydrogen as it burned for the joys of the good old ultra violence she wanted to inflict on him.

[Woshington]

Lifting his legs up and out of the water for each step, and plunging them back into the tropical ocean, was becoming more and more strenuous for Woshington. The waters had risen to waist-depth and his clothes bore an encroaching watermark. He was going to have swim. Woshington knew this was a problem as he was only just beginning to feel a tingling in his left arm. One-armed swimming, he knew, would give the advantage back to his pursuer.

Nevertheless, the lithe black man took a deep breath, his feet planted against the sandy sea floor before thrusting his body upwards. Woshington breached out and battled against the crest of a wave pushing in the other direction, before lurching forward for a dive. The sun poured into his pupils before he slid beneath the waves.

As he swam, quite slowly, towards the boardwalk of the jetty he could see the structure from beneath. The conflict between his tendency towards foolhardy ostentation and his inward craving for meticulous methods evaporated under the sea; Woshington was finally focused and knew what he had to do. Efficiency was going to be crucial. The boards were laid loosely on top of two main beams running left and right. As Woshington came up for air he could see that only every fifth board was nailed down by the rusty prongs that were protruding on the underside. While the rest of the boards were strung together with a length of rope running flat and adjacent to the main beams underneath, like an old fashioned rope bridge. Seems as if the support beams had been added later, somewhat haphazardly. Woshington smirked and felt the salt water sting in his bloody mouth; “this really is home.” –it was a sentiment with an obvious meaning to any inhabitant of a tropical shithole country: nothing was ever done properly.

Woshington was there and he started to slowly heave up onto the decking.

[Kell]

Even with the dreadful moisture seeping through her fur from the sand, the thought of jumping into the water after her prey was beyond her interests for this fight.

Bastard can't swim forever...

Sand scattered as she ran harder, trying to get ahead of him, which seemed to work as he reached the dock. Giving herself a moment to breath as she watched him climb forth form the sea, taking a good look at the surroundings as she stayed back on the sandy beach.

Not exactly a genius is he?

The thoughts came from past experiences at the citadel. Of how her first exploit in combating a local ended with more or less a draw. Her face had been smashed, her body broken by his fists. Yet all in all the feline had given it her all.

Now she stood watching with more caution her prey. She would not take the same ignorant chances as before, having rushed into things without thinking. This time he had made the mistake instead of her, swimming, covering himself with one of the best conductors known to the world. Moisture connecting his head to his toes, his clothes to his skin, his paint cans to his clothes.

But worst of all, his combustibles to each other.

Her eyes narrowed as she watched him, his contacted arm dangling, how he grimaced from the salt in his wounded jaw, how the blood ran nearly unseen down his dark visage.

A smile crested her furred lips as she readied herself, surges of her excitement sending arcs along her fists, making even the thick salty air smell of burning metal.

“Have a nice swim?” she said with a great deal of cocky humor.

[Woshington]

Thud, thud, thud. Woshington’s well-cushioned footwear agreed with the uneven boards beneath; he was fleeing even further out. The agility on show was impressive; his each and every step avoided the cracks in the boardwalk, landing flush every time. The sun was beginning to sink towards the horizon and the ocean was quickly turning an unwholesome orange. His flailing shirt was casting a dynamic silhouette against the increasing flare of the setting sun; Woshington felt the beauty of the moment flood into him. Never more alive than that moment.

Woshington had began to run moments earlier simply because he’d give her a moment, stared her down while she was clearly filled to the brim with pomp. Although in possession of a monstrous ego of his own—and he was self-aware to a certain degree—Woshington was perpetually amazed when his enemies were arrogant enough to believe he would act in such a way required to bring about his own downfall. Kelsey Andrea Tesla stood there. The ostentatious black man felt her trying to gain a tactical advantage. He ran. The choice was logical, Woshington wanted to take a firm footing and win back the impetus.

The jetty itself extended for about a quarter of a mile into the waters. It wasn’t the longest jetty in the world, but it certainly wasn’t short. The explanation lay with the nature of the beach, where shallows persist for an extended distance it was only natural that the jetty would run the same length.

Woshington was young and fit, but even he was soaked in his own sweat. And this was his home, his natural environment. The temperature of 40°C was truly overpowering; and consequently he slowed to a jog. Conversely, his left arm was ready for action, being newly energised with a fresh flow of blood. In Celebration, Woshington raised his arms aloft and signalled to the heavens with both index fingers.

Woshington achieved a distance of one hundred feet along the more than three hundred feet of the jetty. Letting his arms flap to his side, Woshington came to an abrupt stop. After completing an exaggerated turning circle, Woshington began to rock menacingly on the loose board he was standing on. Left, right, left, right—shaking it looser and looser until it rattled apart from the nails pinning it down to the main beams beneath.

Woshington grabbed his crotch with his reinvigorated left hand, cupping the hanging throng of genitalia within. He coupled the obscene gesture with an unnerving declaration, his voice raised to overcome the quiet wash of the fairly settled seas, “you’re gonna have to come here, little sista…”

[Kell]

A deep sigh expelled from her lungs as the cat watched her prey continue to run. The near ancient dock seemed to stretch out for what she would almost figure to be around three-hundred feet. Three-hundred feet surrounded by nothing but water, lots of water.

If it wasn't the feeling of already being too wet for her liking, it was that of having to deal with more water. Let alone her near inability to swim. Having lived in the land locked countries beyond Salvar, water was never something she had to deal with. But here she was nearly surrounded by it.

From behind her glasses she watched him run and turn at only a hundred or so feet, having apparently been thinking up some sort of plan the whole while. From the way he began rocking on the dock, she could only but figure it had something to do with it. There was also the crossbow she had noticed hanging from his hip.

It would be nigh pure stupidity for Kell to try a head on approach to this scenario. Granted she could probably run and close the gap within a short moment, but still he would have the chance to get off at least one or two bolts, or even more drastically three or four before she reached him.

Her tongue flicked around one of her teeth as she thought, still standing on the beach, watching and listening to him. Lifting her shirt up with her fingers just enough to scratch her belly as she continued to think.

Not much to really do in this situation I guess...

The thought was followed by a shrug as she turned around and walked away from the beach towards the tree line.

[Woshington]

Time was a great gift, and with her back turned, she’d handed it over freely. A real slut.

Woshington turned his back and launched into a seething series of dramatic back flips in response to the catgirl’s flippant retreat; Woshington was retracing his steps towards the beach in theatrical fashion. In a moment his temper ruptured like the boards of the jetty beneath his feet. The supple black man’s footwork was impeccable, as would be expected from a student of the acrobatic, dance-like martial art of bónfim. Slamming an impact with every fifth board he loosened the nails and sent the boards flailing up into the air, bringing the next four with them as they were released. The flying planks strummed out a whirr against the thrashing rope that held them together as they quickly formed an ominous banner. The first board, the rocking board, had worn and snapped the umbilical connecting the other two hundred feet of jetty leading out into the sea. If Kell was to turn, she would be treated to an image of alternating flips and thuds decorated by a flying haze of rope and wood, like a storm brewing on the horizon—a swarm of locusts commanding the airspace with majestic fluidity.

The tail of the great beast was beginning to settle and Woshington’s energy was flagging; he resorted to a slogging run, springing up and down only when necessary: to bang a board loose from its foundations. Gasping for air he finally stopped his puzzling show of aggression towards the innocent contraption of the local fishermen. Woshington was ten feet from where the jetty ended, and forty feet from where the cliff wall enclosed the idyllic cove.

Feeling the strain for a moment, a mere moment of reflection—doubt flooded the weathered 28 year old before being flushed clean by a blast of determination. The ability, he firmly believed, to motivate himself to fight for the victory was what had gifted him so much success in his past life. It was time again to overcome the physical with the power of the mental. He reached down, his burning muscles fighting his every move, screaming out for him to stop in the name of fatigue. Woshington bore his teeth in a snarling grimace, gripped the nearest beam of the trail and swung with a big, bad, booming roar—twisting like a champion hammer thrower.

“Ha, ha!” he bellowed gloriously from depth of his cavernous lungs.

The mass of wood and rope drifted upwards at an angle of sixty degrees. Woshington deftly unhooked his crossbow from his waist and took a moment aim. With his pink tongue protruding from his lips in an instance of pure concentration he squeezed the trigger and fired off a single bolt. The flying iron pierced a water-warped beam and graciously shared its kinetic energy. Now, as one, the bolt and wood carried onwards up into the fading blue before reaching a peak and beginning the descent. The shot, if intended for Tesla, with her back turned, was a poor one. It was dipping to land well in front of her.

Woshington’s face portrayed a lasting flourish of satisfaction as the bolt and wood combination slammed directly into a particularly unstable craggy outcrop at the top of the cliff. Spiced with a weary grunt, Woshington quickly crouched to the now slack rope remaining at his feet. Critically, the egotistical combatant rose tall for a crescendo he imagined in the third person. His vanity knew no bounds; he wanted it to look good. Tensing the moderate muscle build around his arms caused the sweat to dribble down a different route, causing perceptible drips to fall. Then, with a sudden jerk back he tugged on the forty feet length and loosened the rocks. One large rock fell, a small boulder, it was enough to cause a rock slide. Rumbling rocks reverberated around the enclosed stretch of beach as Woshington fell back from exhaustion—he fell into the gap where the boardwalk had once been and disappeared under the shallows. Secretly, he was disappointed that his final plunge had affected the aesthetics of his exhibition.

Woshington surfaced, laying back in the warm waters of his floating viewing gallery. With tranquillity overcoming him, he waited to observe the impact of the landslide—an attack intended to engulf his foe in one clean sweep…

[Kell]

Just going to have to wait for him to do something....

The thought had barely evacuated her mind when a great calamity of noise began behind her, to which she passed off as him running towards her. Granting that it would take at least a few moments for him to advance, she kept her ears trained backwards to listen for his nearing. Kell figured that she could continue to rest and grow farther from the sea with every step.

“Sometimes I wonder about these humans, they never seem to be able to fight worth a damn...” she muttered under her breath as she neared the cliffs.

It was in that moment that she twitched from the sound of lumber impacting above her, she glanced up only to see he had rigged up a sort of haphazard fall trap.

With a quick turn she eyed him through her glasses, “You're really not going to try tha...” he jerked, falling himself back into the water. Time and time again of infiltrating the many tombs and ruins of the world she had gained at the least a few bits of intelligible ideas on how to survive such things.

The rumble above her forced a great deal of adrenaline to ignite her blood as she rolled back around on one foot, her tail whipping as she tore across the remaining distance of beach. The first stones began to rain around her as she slid through the portal of the cave and covered her head. Within moments the deafening clatter ended, the light of day was gone and Kell was safely within the cave she had entered the arena from.

A great sigh escaped her as she stood and dusted herself off. Realizing that the near impenetrable darkness around her would make it just slightly hazardous to find the door again, she lifted her hand up, creating a sort of arc light between her fingers. A soft, pulsing blue glow filled the cavern as she began to walk forward, seeing the perfect oak door set directly into the stone.

Giving one look back, she thought of going back and digging her way back out to him to proceed to make him a little more educated in the ways of combat, but on second thought his ego was beyond even hers. The idea of asking him to join her group still set with her, but judging from the way things had gone, he would probably pose more a liability than use.

With everything settled she turned the doorknob, being greeted by the calm, fresh air of the Citadel and the same white hallways and murals. Her stuff approached quickly in the hands of the same young monk that she had given it to. The moisture and sand faded from her body as she stepped onto the marble tiling, making her feel at least clean again.

“Did you have a good battle miss?” he asked as she began to slip into her coat.

“Not really...It ended to soon.” a bit of sorrow filled her words, the emotion of not finishing something hung to the bottom of her heart.

“I am sorry, perhaps I can take you too another waiting battle?”

Kell shook her head “Naw, I think I'll just go get some lunch.”

With that she placed her hat back on her head, nodding with a soft smile to the monk as she walked back into the mid day air of Radasanth.

[Woshington]

Sadly Woshington’s splendid entrance to this particular universe had been quashed by an endlessly evasive foe. Victory via the retreat of an enemy was no victory at all for him, especially considering Woshington’s lip was hanging raw from his face, his incisors had been smeared across the sand in his own blood… the very same claret continued to dip and dribble down the contours of his lips and chin.

Woshington was unaware; there was no way he could possibly know Kell had walked out of the arena. This was absolute immaterial, because Woshington was overpowered by exhaustion and the sinking sun was gently soothing him, its glaring encore performance on the rim of reality spoke directly to the beaten black man. Whispering, “sleep, no, just sleep.” It made absolute sense for Woshington to relinquish control and helplessly wash ashore in the tropical cove. The black body in which he lived appeared as the perfect visual divergence to the almost white sands—time to complete the aesthetic, time to fall asleep.

It had been a tough day for the equatorial graffiti artist, and a wave of pre-slumber contemplation ensued. A marathon of an internal monologue evolved as he drifted away with the mixers.

She must be dead then, she must be…

Am I stuck here forever or what?

I’d like to be stuck here forever. It’s home.

But it’s not real, I can tell.

The lithe black body had been disgarded into a dank alleyway at the rear of the magnificent Citadel. When, or if, Woshington finally awoke, his eyes would welcome nothing but a glimmer of sunlight. The mighty sun was reduced to peering meekly over the steepest of walls and into the darkest of corners. The monks had removed this undesirable young man from one of their arenas with minimal kerfuffle, magically maintaining his state of unconsciousness to facilitate the ejection process. After all, it wasn’t the first time they’d done this.

The end.

[Zephyriah]

W . . . (Open to one)

Woshington = green
Kell = blue

STORY

Continuity ~ 4/10 – 5/10 I felt that Kell was stronger in this category simply because I got a better sense of why she’d come to the Citadel to do battle in the first place. Woshington, your opening sentences were esoteric, leaving me wondering how you’d arrived in Radasanth. “Despite the morbidity of his return to Althanas in another mortal shell”. Because this is a battle, I was looking for some explanation behind this. Return to Althanas? From where? Another mortal shell? What mortal shell? Although the explanation behind how you entered the Citadel was creative, I didn’t understand why the monks would just throw you in a match as if it were a jail cell. Extra elaboration on this would’ve been helpful.

Setting ~ 6/10 – 4/10 This belonged to Woshington, not surprisingly since he set the stage for all the events that this thread entailed. However, there wasn’t a whole lot of interaction with the setting. Woshington had that nice move involving the wooden panels of the docks, but for the majority of the thread, it was a close quarters fight, with general references to the world around Woshington and Kell. Kell, even though Woshington had laid the groundwork of the setting, you still should’ve shed your own light on it. I felt that too often since Wosh carried the weight here, you fell into a backseat position, riding the “coat-tails” of what he’d described. Take what is given to you, but put your own unique spin on things.

Pacing ~ 6/10 – 5/10 This was a short fight, and you both did a decent job with the pacing. I wished that more of the setting had been incorporated though, since this would’ve helped move the fight along better. At times it seemed the close quarter exchange dragged on longer than it should have. A break in this action didn’t occur until Woshington broke for the dock. Both of you need to be mindful of when to elongate events and when to cut back on them.

CHARACTER

Dialogue ~ 5/10 – 6/10 A fair job was done here overall. Kell won this category, as I felt her dialogue better portrayed her character. As for Woshington, since you state that your character is the arrogant type, I expected to see more of that show through your words. Other than the occasional “Ha, ha!”, you came off as more introverted than anything else. If being that way had been your intention, you would’ve done well to work that reasoning into your posts.

Action ~ 5/10 - 6/10 While Woshington battle tactics were better than Kell’s, consisting of a very good use of his skills from the aerosol can, the lighter, the usage of the dock and cavern rocks, and even showing his combat knowledge, the reason I felt that Kell did a little better in this category as a whole was because of the theme that she held true to through out the thread. She stated very early on that she was recruiting for her power group and showed at various points that she was gauging Woshington’s strength, debating if he would be worthy enough to recruit. Wosh, your package as a whole didn’t hold up like Kell’s did.

Persona ~ 4/10 – 5/10 Not much to say here since both of you didn’t show a whole lot of emotion. Kell was more consistent when that emotion was shown. Woshington, it was tough to really get a sense of who your character is. Based on the tagging he’d done on the Citadel in the beginning of the thread, I thought that comedy would be the driving force behind him, but when the fight started I didn’t really see anything in depth. The most you showed in this category to me was in your conclusion where you made the connection between him feeling alone, sad, happy about being in an area that was like home, but then rejecting the false reality at the end.

WRITING STYLE

Technique ~ 7/10 – 4/10 Woshington, you’re a very good writer and you clearly shined here. Kell, your style was clear, cut, and dry which is a good thing. However, It would’ve helped if you expounded a bit on certain things (setting is a good example where you could’ve used that opportunity to show off your personal style. Or even how you would react to one of Woshington’s moves). Try using a thesaurus to possibly describe things in different ways and to add to your vocabulary in order to take your skills to the next level. I’m not sure if your new, but if you are, make sure you take the time to read the work of some of the veterans on this site and see what separates them from the average writers on Althanas.

Mechanics ~ 7/10 – 3/10 Once again, Woshington was the better of the two. Kell, there were way too many times where you did not capitalize the first letter of the first word of a sentence, or where you’d use the wrong word in a given sentence. For example, in the 10th post of the thread, in your first sentence you wrote, “He was already hurt and the feline had pressed him onto the defensive with relative easy.” Clearly you meant ease. These types of mistakes require you to read over your work after you’re down writing it. I’ve been on this site since 2004 and I still have to do that. Get familiar with doing that since it will only help you in the long run.

Clarity ~ 7/10 – 5/10 Both of you were clear for the most part, but Woshington was better here.

MISCELLANEOUS

Wild Card ~ 5/10 – 5/10 This was a decent battle, but I definitely want to see more from the both of you. Improve upon the things you need to.

TOTAL ~ 56/100 – 48/100

Woshington wins!

EXP Rewards
Woshington receives 525 EXP
Kell receives 150 EXP

GP Rewards
Woshington receives 151 GP
Kell receives 115 GP

[Witchblade]

EXP and GP added!