Oona's Gatewarden (Closed)

[Jennifer Oakley]

Oona's Gatewarden (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=emCiD6jgX6A)

1939

Jennifer tucked her hair behind her ears and ran a finger along her right horn with keen disinterest. It had been many moons since her encounter with the pragmatic and arrogant Jensen Ambrose, and she had no desire to fight again. Today however, her appearance so far from her home in the Citadel of Radasanth was her Animus's doing, a bond she shared she was slowly coming to loathe.

The sandy arena of the dome had slowly sprung to life as she had entered and her joy at being once more amongst the trees had repealed her masque and she stood, in all her fae terror, at the very centre of the glade with her staff in one hand and a small verdant bloom in the other. It was a yellow marigold, the only flower of its kind to have appeared in the illusory landscape as it had grown.

"I do solemnly hope you know what you're doing," she spoke to herself, knowing that Faustus’s mind was emerging from the depths of her chest and that he could hear every word she said. She dropped the flower after twirling it twice and rested forwards with both hands on the long rod. The crystal shone in the sunlight as an omen to those who wished the priestess harm.

The arena was a large glade, with no canopy to speak of at its centre. As the wide circle gave way to a dense tree line of oak and mahogany the forest came to life with brambles and vine thickets and darker things still; the radius of the central circle was fifty feet, and it was covered in six inch deep grass that was thick enough to wear as a wig, or dense enough to craft a quilt of summer love.

Jennifer felt at home.

She smiled.

Her opponent would most certainly not.

[Taskmienster]

Nearly a month had passed since former Lord Einar Fenrisson had been banished from Salvar, losing not only his lands and titles but his wife and child as well. It was something that could have been worrisome, something that could have grated on what little reserves of strength and confidence he had remaining within. For the exiled noble, however, it was a difficulty that he viewed as a trial to be overcome and nothing else. Corone had not welcomed him with open arms, a fact that he had expected. Sidelong glances were shot like crossbow bolts to his core. The armor that covered his upper arms and the shield at his side were physical examples of the defenses that he could command, his determination was stronger than even the most expensive armor available. Stalwart in his convictions and new life forced upon him, Einar attempted to make due and continue on as he always had.

Sauntering towards the Citadel, the large man pulled his cloak tighter and made his way up the stairs. His head was down, the hood keeping the light wind from tussling his cropped hair. In a month, Einar had gone from landing with a blank-gaze on the world of Corone to finding not only work but acceptance. Baroness Luca Terlios had taken him in, the daughter of the Terlios family that had long since held an allegiance with the Fenrisson nobles. The woman had the ferocity of the traditional Salvaran people, yet was born and raised aristocracy of the island nation. Snowdale was not only the lands she controlled after her parents had passed, but a place that Einar’s own family frequented often when in Corone. The ties that bound Fenrisson and Terlios were strong.

The Citadel, however, was something altogether different. Salvar had no comparison of the magnificent coliseum for combat. Since Einar had come to Corone rumors had abound about two dominant features of island cultural, the recent civil war and the Ai’Bron monks. Finally finding free time to visit the legendary establishment, the brute of a man readied his weapon and rode the Snowdale coach back to Radasanth to find out for himself what the hype was all about.


*~*

Magic infused the area as prevalently as ale did the lower class taverns in the slums of the capitol. Einar knew as soon as he entered the arena that the construct was an illusion created by the magnificent monks. He had no way of knowing that supernatural forces were at work, but could easily surmise from the size and environment that the room was unnatural. A grove as thick and vibrant as a druid’s grove encroached upon the open glade. Leaves dipped low from stretching branches, emerald gems clinging to fragile threads. The heavy man was one of snow drifts, frozen tundra’s, and rocky outcroppings that were as much a part of Salvar as the former noble once was.

Einar knelt at the edge of the grove as soon as the door behind him closed and the arena consumed his vision. Silently he bowed his head and rested the bottom of his large steel shield against the soft ground. His opposite hand tore free a small clump of fresh grass, quickly he touched it against his forehead and then against his chest. Wordlessly he offered his mute prayers to whatever gods above were looking down.

“Good ‘noon, m’lady,” he gently called with a nod of his head. It was an awkward greeting to his opponent, a woman who looked at home with the arena but out of place in a battleground. Einar held no notions of superiority as a man. He had seen women’s strength as talented warrior with more heart than any male could have no matter the training. Supposition about what type of mentality would bring anyone to openly engage in combat forced him assume that she had adequate skill at the very least. “I am Einar Fenrisson, your most humble and honorable opponent this afternoon.”

[Jennifer Oakley]

With a keen and sudden interest, Jennifer's hatred of battle and conflict fell away like the autumn leaves dying in the embers of the seasons. The man who entered the glade was no more spectacular than any number of soldiers, captains and grizzled war veterans one might expect to encounter in a city as desolate and heart breaking as this. Somehow, he held a power over her, his mannerisms and relative kindness in a sea of racial hatred for mankind were shot to pieces with unexpected shock.

"A pleasure," she muttered, somewhat disdainfully and without meaning to. The strange etiquette of men was something she had slowly learnt of in her tentative years amongst the Nina, but as long as she retained her ancestry and memories of her fae self, they would never come easy to her. "You will forgive me for taking the time to scrutinise your petulant form, and to put you in your place if ever you call me 'm'lady' again - I am Jennifer, Maya Engram, the Autumnal Joy and the Fae Priestess of Concordia. I will not be your opponent." She stepped back and sullenly made way for the man's opponent.

With a boom of light her back arched and she convulsed with raw power. Two helix of searing flame as white as the richest of pearls spiralled out from her chest as her head flung back and arced upwards and forwards. She fell to her knees as the wind was knocked from her and the two spiralling shapes dropped into the dense grass floor.

"Nayen* Faustus!." Her voice harrowed the ethereal connection she shared with her summon, pulling on invisible strings to bring him to life.

The uprush of light mimicked the primal geysers of Salvar, hissing and steaming with energy and holy power instead of thermally boiled water. The faun appeared in the deluge and hissed and stomped his feet with a raw and heavy pattern of steps. He withdrew his blade with a shing of elvin metal and glared at the nobleman.

A wave of jasmine and honey washed over the glade, striking a smile on Jennifer's face as the aroma of the Ancients themselves invigorated her passion. She stepped up to the faun's side and calmed his anger by resting her hand on his shoulder. "There there," she whispered into his long, greying ears.

With a deep voice that had seen cities fall and mountains crumble, Oona's Gatewarden growled his challenge and levelled his blade to the man's crouched form. "I will be your opponent this day!"


* Calm.

[Taskmienster]

“Petulant?” Einar looked at the woman with incredulity clearly painted across his face. In his time amongst people he had been called many things, especially as a noble of Salvar. Cold, calculating, honorable, courageous, but never petulant; he could not help but be overcome with confusion. At hand was a woman in a realm of combat, insulting as she was, he could not help but feel deep down that combat against her frail form went against his beliefs. Striking a woman was not only a social taboo, but something relatively unheard of in the Fenrisson Hold. At times reports of spousal abuse had come to his attention, but it had always been both ways, and even then responding to a physical threat from a wife with a violent action was deeply frowned upon. However, Jennifer the fae priestess of Concordia had come to the Citadel of her own free will, as far as the knightly Einar could assume. Though, she also made note that she would not be the man’s opponent. “A relief,” the former lord thought as he removed the heavy-mace from his belt. “I am unsure of what a fae is, exactly, but she is in all appearances a woman still.”

Misunderstanding gave way to disbelief like the bloom of a night jasmine with the falling sun. Lips loose and willing to retort, he watched the magical display. Twice his mouth opened as if to speak, words on his tongue that were not shared with his thoughts. Twice he was forced to close his mouth like a gaping peasant, unsure of what he was seeing. Ethereal light glimmered and twisted, warping from an image of supernatural prowess into a dishearteningly devious display. The orbs of light, which had torn loose from Jennifer’s chest, danced overhead before dropping in pillars of calculated beauty. The immensity of the movements, the terribly inspiring amalgamation of nature and personal prowess was enough to bring tears to one who watched. Einar, however, was standing on a precipice. A proverbial line drawn between combatants, he looked past the open expanse of quivering grass and felt its concern deep within. His own hand was moving, unhindered by the will of the master to be still.

Einar waited till the mask of mist cleared and was struck with the aroma of passion. Before the beast summoned was clearly visible the waft of soft scents of honeysuckles and jasmine touched his nose and filled his lungs. He breathed deeply, not knowing what had been done that had changed the still air and caused its movement or sudden appeal. Crouching, with shield held before him and his weapon ready in his opposite hand, he saw the creature and the woman touching its thick fur. At its side she cooed softly in its ear, the words too silent to hear.

“A summoner,” the knightly figure whispered. Magic was as pervasive in Salvar as the suns warming rays. At times it sprouted and flourished, but for the majority of the year it was a passing but ever present element that could offer more than a few surprises. Never had Einar met a caster in combat, or met a creature of nature itself. Honor, duty, loyalty, integrity, personal courage, and respect; these six totems of Salvaran society spurred his desires and way of life. Standing against things that could threaten the way of life was not only a necessity, but a personal crusade. In the Citadel things were allowed not only to exist, but be expected. “It is an honor indeed. I have never once stood against a sorceress or a beast of her control and creation. May we meet with a conclusion fitting and worthy of such an encounter.”

The length of steel, less a true mace and more a fighting rod, was pointed at the goat like beast in the exact same form as the sword pointed towards him. Einar steadied his nerve and rose from his crouch with a stalwart nature and a façade of determination. Inside he was in turmoil. Nobility, it seemed in most parts of civilized Althanas, were raised with the notion that putting their lives on the line for the sake of bettering society was not only polite but expected. He had learned and heard tales of knights of old, slayers of mystic beasts and preternatural abominations that had roamed the lands as frequently and commonly as man did. Inspired he had trained countless years for combat against such creatures, always keeping a level head and meditating to force his mental state into one of calm collection. When standing face to face with a monster of myth, a creature he had only learned of in legend, all training and sense of inner tranquility was lost.

[Jennifer Oakley]

"Civility stretches through time, as will our conflict here today," she bowed and cut her response short. The man clearly possessed the acumen of the court, but she had no patience to converse such trivialities here today. There were more pressing matters to attend to, ones which were answered with the clash of steel and the ringing of blade against buckler, not word against reason.

"Let us begin, good sir, and may my Animus provide you with the noble sport of war competently," she cocked Faustus a glance and smiled, hoping her father was not too old and crinkly to stave away the paladin's blows.

Not today, Jennifer, not today. He spoke in his mind as he advanced, his hooves bouncing delicately over the moss and grass which formed a dense blanket beneath them all. There was no longer any turmoil in the faun's mind, the seasons had changed and lightness filled his heart akin to the blossoming pleasures of the High Season. Summer and Spring gathered as forces of spirit in his mind, and carried the strength of his blade so that it weighed only in metaphor, not metal.

With a sniff and a scuttling stoop, Faustus tucked his knees and brought his blade up, over and down, a cleaving motion aimed straight through the man's centre. It was no more than an opening strike, a test of the defences, a paring of the sparing stick, but Jennifer flinched all the same, and stepped back from the battle, staff raised, heart racing, nerves aflame.

[Taskmienster]

The beastly goat moved with a grace unexpected. Its hooves appeared to glide across the glade, almost ballerina like in its soft stride. Einar watched uneasily, each foot tapping against the soft ground just long enough for the next leg to continue. It was a creature of nature itself. The reverence for the environment was self-evident, and yet the grass and scattering of moss and twigs also seemed to accept the goat monster as it moved. No cracking of fallen branches was heard and the light steps could barely be traced back, leaving the only creature out of its element the human clad in armor with weapon and shield ready. He leaned forward to the balls of his feet, waiting and watching.

Einar turned as soon as the blade fell. His calculating hazel eyes watched the weapon fall and waited till the optimal time to react. His right foot stabbed into the soft loam, digging the booted foot firmly into the yielding ground. The left arm swung sideways, allowing the lackluster steel shield to catch a glancing blow. At the same time the heavy-set man spun away from the attack. His heavily armored arm reached out with the blunt, devastating mace. There was no chance of striking the opponent, not from the distance he had put between the two, but he moved it through the air to secure his position. The shield and mace met each other, crashing against one another with a vibrant ring.

“I am the antithesis to this beast, and this arena. I am not one with nature. My weapon is an extension of my arm and I am one with only myself.” The thoughts were unsettling. Metaphorically he was not the same as what he had come to face. Einar was a man of the mountains, the snow, and the industrial world. The fae princess and her companion did not stand out as he did. Even the ring of steel against steel was unnatural in such a pristine paradise. Instead of lunging forward, giving the monster and his weapon a chance to find an opening in his lightly armored body, the knightly figure raised his shield and prepared to counter as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

[Jennifer Oakley]

The shining glimmer of the steel amidst the heart of nature acted as an icon anathema to Faustus. With boisterous steps he retreated, blade held haphazardly to one side and breath hot with the draining fatigue of living. The man's defence had been flawless, perhaps too well poised to parry his weapon. He scuffed the grass and snorted, his temper flaring as his temperature and brittle emotions struggled to maintain mortal levels.

To the rear, with a shine in her eyes that reflected the sun's rays, Jennifer observed proceedings. Her Animus was a strong, good natured creature, but as he drew near to being overwhelmed by her own familiar emotions, she saw a side to him she did not wish to see. Confrontation was alien to her, as much as the rain to the desert and the Jay's song to the jungle - they were not to be, not to be held dear, not to exist.

"You stand strong against nature's wrath mortal!" The faun shouted, a deep booming voice to proclaim his frustration. "I shall relish the thought of breaking you in two!" He stepped back into the close quarter exchange, and found Einar's blade barring the advance of his own no matter how hard he tried. Time and time again, his efforts are rebuked with alarmingly quick movements.

"You're not even trying!" Faustus roared, so loud and angry Jennifer felt her chest quiver as the bond between them flared with momentary aggression. If Einar were attentive, alive and alert, he might've caught her wavering and propping herself upright with her staff firmly in both hands.

"Fight!" The elven blade flew back, and as he brought his arm upwards, his torso, midriff and legs revealed themselves in their unflavoured glory. Temper once again offered the faun's soul to his opponent, and in that brief moment of rage and foolishness, Jennifer hung her head and took a deep breath.

Lavender and sap tinted her senses as the flash of the future crushed her sight. Blood ran into the natural ambiance, and she knew her Animus would regret his mistake.

[Taskmienster]

Disturbingly the beast bellowed; his voice a cry of anger and annoyance. The pair were intertwined in combat, but differed in every way. Whereas the ancient blade of the satyr was swung and whirled with the speed and grace of the elven people, Einar was parrying and deflecting blows with the strength and resolve of the Salvaran style. His shield was moving quickly, switching angles, and catching glancing blows as equally as it was pushing aside others. The mace caught the blade twice, and with a twist was putting the sword at distance. Initially the soft grass was scratched and torn with the footwork of the former lord, simply creased and left in place by the beast. As combat continued, and emotions flowed, the hooves began to lose their placed perfection and grooves were formed by both parties. Fenrisson could see that the composure was being lost.

“I do not wish to embarrass and belittle nature itself,” Einar responded with a huff. His lungs were filling and exhaling as quickly as possible, trying to cool his heated body. Sweat beaded and traced his thick jaw, dripping from his chin. Even though the aggression of the summon was unparalleled, it had not found an opening in his defenses. Stalwart defenses and constant movement had kept the exiled noble on fair footing, yet he knew much about warfare. Salvar had taught him time and again that defenses could only hold for so long. A siege could allow the defenses to outlast the attacker, but eventually there would come the time to mount an offense or concede from being worn. “However, a time will come when I shall strike and this combat will be decided.”

In a moment of miscalculated anger, as if to confirm his retort, the blade of the creature rose and he was exposed. Had the knightly figure carried with him weapons of the trade befitting his appearance he would have cleaved his opponent in half. However, the brute weapon at hand offered no such ability. He darted forward and swung with the strength of his heritage, a grunt of determination passing his lips. The length of steel reached broadly towards the ribs, attempting to break them even as he passed by.

“The woman, the fae, she controls this animation of nature.” Einar looked at her momentarily as he swung. The distance between the two was minimal. The mythic creature protecting its master had allowed the warrior to gain a potential advantage. She was helpless, her staff appearing to be more for assistance with walking than fighting. The satyr was her weapon, and she was the reason it existed. A single blow to her and the contest would be over. The former Lord Fenrisson nodded politely in her direction, turning as he did so to face her champion instead. “I would be remiss in my principles should I harm her. I will defeat her beast and this fight will come to an end without having to harm a woman.”

[Jennifer Oakley]

As the mace raised into Faustus's chest, it was not the beast that roared in pain, but Jennifer. She gasped, clutching her own torso with a hand and a dramatic flair. The bond between Animus and summon had grown monumentally over time, and now they shared more than thoughts, obsessions and convictions. Whilst the faun's ribs cracked in the wake of impact, the summoner felt a painful wave wash over her, and then the deep seated rise of agony in her stomach.

She turned pale as Faustus stumbled, his sword dropping to his side and his legs half-buckling beneath the adrenaline addled reflexes. He suddenly felt weak, hindered, broken. Whilst the glory of nature glimmered around them, the reality of combat and the death soon to come to all or one stripped it of its poignancy. With determined hands, she held herself upright on her staff and leant forwards to the wind.

"Come, father, show me the strength you gave me in the darker days, fight!" Her voice was calm, if not tinted by vanity and assurance. Einar spoke of the finale, the moment he would decide his and their fate, but Jennifer did not believe in the finality of such talk. It was not over, as the humans said, until was over. "Raise your blade, fight in Oona's honour, and fight in the name of Concordia!"

Faustus nodded gruffly, his own trademark stubbornness dribbling down his chin in a mix of spit and bile and blood. He stood fully erect and clicked his spine, rolling slightly on the crest of his hooves to remove the crick in his back. His fur was matted at the impact site, sodden by the deep inner light that poured from within. There was no blood to speak of, only the spirit of the heart that summoned him to the world and the grace of his daughter, who held him in reality.

"You may wish to decide my fate, but fate is subjective...fate is like nature, eternally changing, eternally fickle!" He stepped back into weapon's reach as he nodded to Jennifer.

His blade swept in from the right, starting its path below Einar's waist and rising into his shield arm to begin yet another tirade of violence against man's impossible dreams.

[Taskmienster]

Grandiose encouragements by a non-combatant were as useful as muted prayers to the uncaring gods, at least as far as Einar was concerned. The fae princess’s words were spoken as if they were a call to arms for warriors about to meet their end. She called for honor of some unknown person. She called for the name of a large forest. None of what she said made sense to the knightly figure, and he did his best not to spout a diatribe of disgust her direction. Einar could think of only two reasons a call such as hers should be lifted. The first reason was before a battle, to inspire and encourage troops to fight courageously. At hand the conflict had already been raging, leaving him with only the other reason. A rally cry. Her champion was injured and fighting on unlevel grounds against an opponent who was far superior. Though the smirk did not come to his clenched jaw, his mind was elated in the joy of knowing that possible anxiety was creating such desperate measures.

“She stands aside to watch, linked with her warrior yet little more than a voice. In this conflict I fight not one warrior, but a two parts of a whole separated. The emotions and will in the feeble summoner, the strength and skill in the sword-bearing summoned. Such a split must have lapse, and yet must have connection. Being but one warrior, able to still emotions and place passion subconscious, I am stronger.”

The satyr spoke, but the knight was oblivious. He watched with a collected calm, calculating the movements of the stretching beast. Mythic though it was, an amalgamation of magic and ancient nature, it was still a being of matter. Fenrisson’s mace had made contact, connected with matted fur and what felt like ribs. The clash of steel on material bone was unquestionable. Worry seeped from the knight’s mind slowly, drips of sap trickling from an overburdened trunk. Initial shock and awe, worry and loss of tranquility, were cast aside as confidence in the power of humanity grew. Time for talk was past, and the retort of the wretched monster was one of hyperboles and metaphors. Such flowery words from a creature of flora and fauna, despite uttered in a rumbling tone, meant nothing to the man of Salvar. Nature had its place, and purpose, but combat was not it.

As the next stroke slid through the air Einar moved. He planned a sudden jolt forward, a closer proximity to his opponent in order to remove the momentum of the blade and in turn the power the longer surface area could muster. However, his footing was compromised. Instead of a quick surge, his back foot created a groove even as his body moved forward. Thought was replaced by action and instinct. His shield arm, opposite the incoming blade, came around his body directly in the path of the elven sword. The pointed bottom of the chunk of steel pierced the soft ground and held. The rest of his body moved with the motion, even as the sword slammed heavily into the defense. His mace was fully extended and moved in a wide arch, following his body as it turned, aimed for the back of the knees of the foul goat-creature.

[Jennifer Oakley]

As the metal connected with semi-tangible flesh, Faustus roared with a shrill agonised tone and fell to his knees. His furred limbs slammed into the ground, pressing the edges of the newly formed glowing wound together and blanching them with fire. Jennifer too fell to her knees, as if knocked from her pedestal of pious grandiose by a sudden and invisible force. Her staff fell to her right and she slumped, offering no resistance or attempt to right her as she descended.

The blow had come from nowhere, a carefully planned and meticulous undercut of Faustus's limited ability and her own self-doubt. No sooner had she resigned herself to defeat, to her father's loss, it was as if she willed it, as if she had drained all knowledge from his mind to convert him into her...a warrior into a pacifist. The breeze which rolled through the forest clearing carried the lavender scent of the faun's energy to her nostrils and she sobbed.

"I am sorry, father..." she mumbled, despite her words not reaching the faun physically, she knew he would understand her. "You fought well, and bravely."

Einar was a strong and poignant example of man's accomplishments on this earth. To weave steel and story from the harsh fabric of the world was a destiny she wished she could share, one she wished she could behold in more close wonderment than from her vantage point in the three tops. She secretly admired them, as much as she hated and loathed their very existence.

Slowly she pulled her mind together and stood, blood trickling from a graze on her knee and a cocked smile brandished cleverly. She examined Faustus from a distant, and realised why he had not retaliated, why he had not struck out in anger or countered weight. From the injury on his knees he was disappearing. Like cracks in reality, parts of him were simply breaking away into nothing, all his form was turning into bright yellow energy and then drifting upwards with the wind into nothing.

"It appears I am defeated, good sir. My Animus and father has no strength left to fight, and so it shall be proclaimed - you are victorious!" She bowed politely as she scooped up her staff and leant on it, a customary stance of sagely wisdom and reverence. "Unless you too will betray my wishes and strike me down, like all the other broken sons of Althanas?"

Faustus' horns spiralled away in a flourish of light, and then he was gone. The playing field was levelled in numbers, and the buoyant grass bobbed upright where the creature had been moments ago, as if he were never there. In Jennifer's chest, a weight returned, as her heart found its way back to her soul in the wake of its madness.

[Taskmienster]

Blunt and powerful, it was the way of the warrior and his style of combat. He had learned much from his time in Salvar, and at the heart of it was that defenses were paramount with a rational mind encompassing the only other part of fighting. As his mace met semi-real clumps of fur, he could not help but smirk. The Citadel was something he had never expected, fun. It was not just a place for the head-strong to gloat or the weak to learn, but a place to test ones mettle. Einar was the victor. As soon as he felt his hands quiver with the impact of the blow, he dragged his shield free and turned to face his summoned opponent.

As quickly as it had come, the satyr was diminishing. It was not with a fanfare of honeysuckles, but a split in reality itself. The spell that supported the creature was broken. With it, the creature itself began to crack. A shattered spell, a shattered hope. Within moments the cracks of light covered it, breaking it into smaller pieces. Like ash from a fire, flakes began to flitter in the breeze. Into the sky they reached, yet it was the warrior left standing that was in awe. He had never conquered magic, never seen the effects of its dissipation, and his eyes were privy to what he expected few others were.

“A broken man of Althanas I may be… but it is not my sense of honor that has taken the damage. I am honored to have fought such a unique opponent, and am flattered by this victory.” No sense of narcissism touched his tongue. He was neither egotistical nor rude in his destruction of what she called her father. Instead of striking her down, as a less honorable man may have, the knightly figure simply put his mace and shield back in their places. As soon as the weapon was replaced he places his empty hand against his chest and bowed to the smaller woman. “May we meet again, be it in combat or in a more amiable setting.”

With his words spoken and his respect paid, he regained his posture and strode through the door back to the halls of the Citadel.

[Revenant]

Full rubric, full commentary requested. Jennifer Oakley’s scores will be in Red. Taskmienster’s will be in Blue.

STORY

Continuity (3/6) – Jennifer, I never quite understood the human/fae dichotomy of your character, or how your summoned creature fit into the mix. You call him ‘father’ but is that a term used in the literal sense or is it just an honorific. Jennifer doesn’t care for battle but is pulled to the Citadel by Faustus. Why? Does he just want to vent a little? You never really explained why your summon was dragging you to fight. Task, I got a very good sense of your character’s back story and the little blurb about the Fenrisson/Terlios bond added some depth without being distracting.

Setting (3/5) – The dense grass nature setting was fairly bland, but Task’s repeated references to the loam and the earth, coupled with his prayer at the beginning gave him the lead here. Jennifer, once Faustus was actually in battle your references to the forest and dense grass almost completely dropped out.

Pacing (6/6) – Both of you maintained a nice flow throughout the thread.

CHARACTER

Dialogue (5/6) – Short, clipped dialogue from both of you yet it really gave a decent feel for the characters. Task, your words really put me in the mindset that Einar is a stoic, tactical kind of guy; one that is give to logic over emotion when it comes to combat. Jennifer, your phrases are filled with passion but the words you use aren’t always clear.

Action (3/5) – Jennifer, your actions in combat seemed solely to be ‘attack’ and ‘attack and accidentally leave an opening’. There’s more to swinging a sword than just swinging a sword.

Persona (4/6) – There seemed to be a bit of a disparity between what Jennifer was thinking and what she was saying/how she was acting. Upon seeing Einar you say that her hatred of battle suddenly falls away and that he somehow holds some power over her and yet she continues to treat him with as much cynical disdain as she does to everyone else.

WRITING STYLE

Technique (5/4) – Jennifer does a bit better of a job using words to stir the emotions.

Mechanics (5/7) – Jennifer, there were several minor mistakes that I noticed which were glaringly obvious.

Clarity (4/6) – Again Jennifer, some of the phrases and language that you use tripped up my reading and I found myself going back over your posts a couple of times to make sure I understood what you were writing.

WILD CARD

Wild Card (5/5)

TOTAL: 43 / 56

Taskmienster wins and receives 1837 exp and 105 gp.
Jennifer Oakley receives 350 exp and 80 gp.

[Taskmienster]

Exp and GP added.