Boundless Journey II. (Closed)

[Alberdyne_Cormyr]

(Duffy this one is for you! Use which ever of your toons you want!!!)

Feeling reinvigorated, Al found himself journeying through the halls of The Citadel once anew.

I feel alive again. Al thought to himself as he looked at the chamber dour marked number forty-six. That was the chamber that Henry and his associates had assigned to him. Already making his way back into the fold of things, Al was working closely with Henry on his combat training. He'd neglected his skill for sometime thanks to his single-minded focus on blacksmithing. As Al made his way back into The Citadel's combat league, the young blacksmith wanted to know where he stood. He wanted to know if he could stand head to head against warriors like Metaldrago Scorpio. His desire to defeat the Dragonian warrior was an obsession by that point. He knew that the time would come when he came across Scorpio once more, and the next time, he would be prepared.

That singular focus drove the blacksmith to new heights of preparation. Agreeing to work on polishing Al's skill, Henry took the blacksmith on as an apprentice of the order. Currently, there were training dummies located outside of the combat chamber designated for Al. Al was striking the combat dummy as Henry instructed. Now, Al fancied himself a man of some intelligence and worked to learn as quickly as he could. But speed was no at the essence, quality was. Henry instructed Al on his form and proper striking technique. After all, Al was little more than a street brawler at heart and had never had formal combat training aside from his short military career in The Watch. Even that he had left behind to supplement his blacksmith's career. Each strike of the training dummy sent pain shooting up Al's arm. Hearing the lecture from Henry made Al focus on the pain and attempting to turn the pain into a strength and not a liability.

Al struck at the training dummy repeatedly, watching his form every failed strike. It was difficult work, and Henry was a harsh, but fair, instructor. The Order would take on any new apprentices that were worthy of the ancient teachings. Al was watching his form as much as he could, but he was focused on making the training dummy afraid of him. A brawler through and through, Al did not have the discipline of a trained military agent. Instead, what he lacked in experience, he made up for in determination. By the hundredth strike, Al's knuckles in his right hand were split open. Blood was trickling down from the blacksmith and flowed everywhere, he never winced or complained. He struck with each arm when Henry commanded. Left, right, left right. It was a pattern. But his technique was off, and he was still thinking like brawler might.

"You must focus and make the target afraid of you." Henry was saying. "Fear is the very essence of warfare, you must use the fear as a weapon in itself. When you strike with that fear, you will make the target know that you are striking with conviction! It is the very technique that instills fear in your target. If the technique is off, you will not make your target afraid. So you must repeatedly practice technique until you have harnessed fear itself." Henry continued to talk.

Already, Al wore the combat uniform of an apprentice monk of the order. He was determined to excel in combat training as much as he excelled in blacksmithing arts. Al's blood was splashing on impact now, his fists smashing into the training dummy. There were no weapons in Al's hands, but he worked to become the weapon. Al worked for hours until Henry told him to stopped.

"What have you learned today?" Henry asked.

"Nothing." Al began. "Except how to make the target afraid of me!" He said. Then turned towards Henry. "I am grateful to be your charge. I am ready to begin applying what you have taught me. I must learn to put the street urchin aside, and become a warrior!"

"You want a Skyforge again?" Henry asked.

"Yes." Al responded. And the blacksmith entered number forty-six with new found conviction in his heart.

(Closed)

[Mordelain]

There was a saying on every world that made Mordelain smile every time.

“Dance, and the world dances with you.”

It was a motto Mordelain lived by, more so than any of the tenets of the Troubadours or the divine proclamations of the gods. It did not matter which of nine worlds in the pantheon that made up her universe those gods were from.

“I will test my mettle father, in the arena of sand,” were here last words to Suresh, her mentor and business partner in the homeland she had come to love far too much. Fallien travelled with her as she approached Corone, the sand on her boots, the heat swain in her heart, the fatigue from her travels. The journey to the Citadel reminded her fondly of her long journeys over the desert in pursuit of greatness amongst the il’Jhain runners.

Now that she was here, she was not so sure that the world would indeed dance.

“Nobody looks happy enough,” she had muttered glumly as she ascended the stairway to the Citadel’s entrance hall. It was a grandiose building that was considerably more mesmerizing and alluring than any of the sand blasted edifices of architecture in Ikkaram. It was an astute observation by all means; the people of Radasanth looked distraught, glum and downtrodden.

Mordelain had no idea that the country she had arrived in as a tourist was riven by civil war. She had no idea that Ranger and Empire clashed in the wilderness, and the political fabric of the entire island was hanging in the balance on the whims of tyrants, gods and freedom fighters. Nobody would have had the strength or courage to tell her the truth if she had asked them with a tap on the shoulder just why they looked so desolated.

Her feet padded lightly as she crossed the threshold into the Citadel, which was as every bit the spectacle on the inside as it was the out. Instead of sandstone pillars, gargoyles a thousand years of age and lofty church-like bridge work, the interior entrance dome housed a thousand floating candles in its lofty heights. Inside was a cloud obscuring the view of the lofty roof. It swirled as she entered, as if unseen winged monstrosities fluttered in the mists.

She shuddered nervously and steeled her advance and attention to the wide circular desk at the centre of the hall.

With a flash of colour in her wake, the troubadour leant against the rough counter and smiled politely at the closest monk she could attract the attention of. Her headdress, a vibrant set of tightly wrapped ribbons tinkled with a chorus of bell chimes as she nodded and adjusted her stance into a relaxed, unthreatening lean-to.

“A very good day to you sir, I wish to enter the arenas. I have no aim, no goal, and no preference.” The monk moved to stand opposite, his hooded figure silent and promiscuous at the same time. Mordelain could not help but feel intimated. Suresh had instructed her to be direct, blunt, and almost monosyllabic in her conversation when she departed the shores of Fallien. Talk was cheap in her homeland, but out in the wide vast world it could get you killed.

The hood nodded.

“We have an opponent waiting that suits your,” for a brief moment Mordelain felt judged. She was certain that the monk had cocked his head beneath the robe, “particular merits.” She rolled her eyes, but felt no gumption to contest his judgement.

Suresh had instructed her to train her hand on the pole of her partisan and to wield the kukri he had given her once she had achieved her first promotion within the ranks of the il’Jhain. Whilst she had been pleased with her progress along the long, harsh ladder of adoration that existed in the culture of the Outsider’s Quarter, she had hoped for a respite in her labours. She had been woefully incorrect. Her success in the spice fields and as a messenger had just been the start of a long ordeal.

“Lead the way sir; I am ready for whatever these sandblasted walls can throw at me.”

The monk strolled along the length of the counter, weaving his solemn way through a line of kin before he stepped through a gap in the circular reception. He indicated briefly towards a shadowy hole in a distant wall and without further communication he streamed away. Mordelain realised a second too late what she was supposed to do, and was left trailing, gasping and flapping after him. Her pole-arm trailed its polished tip along the sandy floor. Every few seconds it crossed stone and sparked a flash of heat.

She shouted, “Good lord, slow down won’t you?” but her words fell on deaf ears.

Onlookers paid brief attention to the bundle of ribbon, nerves and youthful vigour as it danced, skipped and leapt between the folds and swells of the crowd of like-minded competitors. She blended in well, despite her curious attire, in a sea of men, women and beasts carrying all manner of cruel blades and archaic staves. She had longed to learn how to defend herself, and if her momentary glimpses of the potential horrors she could find in the arena ahead were anything to go by, that is exactly what she would have to learn to do – fast.

With no idea about what awaited her, she steeled her breath and kept it tight in her lungs. She was a woman who had walked between worlds, wandered through battles and lunged head first into a sea of sand with angels and demons…but whatever awaited her in the shadows was utterly terrifying to the troubadour – to the last of the Tama, and the daughter of the desert.

There was a taste of vinegar and bile in her gullet as she streamed after her guide into one of the many dark tunnels leading away from the central auditorium.

[Alberdyne_Cormyr]

The Skyforge was a divine place to work. The elder blacksmiths whispered that these holds were hidden throughout Althanas. That the Thayne themselves manufactured each of the divine holds for the students of freemasonry to learn and hone their craft. Al was smelting ore by then. A delicate and secret process that the smiths knew how to work. He would periodically remove ore from the smelter machine and place them in a liquid to cool. In the form of craftable bars. He was forming quite a pile of bars by the time his opponent would arrive. In the meantime, Al was just happy to work in The Skyforge. Even though it was an imagined Skyforge, he could still get valuable experience there. He had somewhat of an adequate imagination to envision what a Skyforge might look like. This Skyforge was the same one he had used for his previous battle in The Citadel. It was an ideal combat arena for the blacksmith.

In the epicenter of the chamber, there was a giant blacksmith forge that generated incredible amounts of heat. The heat was the most critical aspect of The Skyforge since near limitless amounts was required to work the blacksmith trade. Al had manufactured a considerable amount of smithing bars, and was prepared to use them in conjunction with a collection of leather. Al had a general idea of what he wanted to smith. It was a pair of weapons he had wanted to work with for a time now, but had not actually purchased them. He was a blacksmith and abhorred buying what he could make himself. Since he had largely used bronze gear for a time, Al had to learn how to smith Iron and Steel items. That's what he was currently working with in Skyforge, Iron. He was taking the smithable bars and manufacturing into an adequate pair of weapons for himself to use. He had long ago let go of his bronze gear, but had never updated it. So that's why he worked Skyforge then.

The only suitable weapons he had with him were his pair of Iron daggers. All though smithed by his own hands, Al did not want his combat focus to be on bladed weapons. Nay. Instead, he wanted to make himself the weapon and learn the warfare tactics of the ancient highlanders and warrior poets. So, he worked to make the weapons he envisioned. Simplistic, crude, and better suited for close-ranged combat, Al worked the forge to fashion himself a pair of leather combat gloves. Now, these gloves were particular in that the inner patting of the gloves had a thick layer of Iron ore embedded into it. Getting hit with the gloves would hurt...a lot. Al forged a pair for himself, and once the hour had come, placed them on his large hands. He was ready. He kept his daggers with him, just in case he absolutely needed them. He doubted he would though, he had to practice the techniques Henry had taught him.

Once the combat gloves, average quality, were equipped he sat down in front of the central machine in Skyforge. As he did that, he closed his eyes and meditated, waiting for his opponent to arrive. All around him, he could hear the devices of Skyforge and his blacksmith's soul was truly alive. He would work hard to master the technique Henry had taught him, even if it would kill him. As Al closed his eyes, his thoughts went back to the short training session he had. Henry's words echoed in his mind, and he repeated the training session over and over in his head. The images, the pain, the blood, everything. He focused as hard as he could to recall the technique he had taught his body. And in so doing, would someday turn fear into a weapon. Knowing that, the young blacksmith prepared. Seconds slowly turned into minutes as he waited for Henry to bring him an opponent. Until then, he would use his vast patience to wait.

[Mordelain]

Mordelain had seen countless weapons forged on the nine worlds, but she had never seen a forge as wondrous and expansive as this. She entered the arena with dainty steps, bouncy advances across the borderline that were more akin to gallivanting than combat movements. Her bells tinkled on the ends of her elaborate hat and on the ribbons of her Bedouin garb as she climbed up the first set of steps. She ventured into what appeared to be an ore repository.

“Malachite,” she recited, pulling on the memory of her education on the crystal world of Tama a century ago. There she had learnt about all the common metals amongst the worlds of the Kalithrism. The vast mountains of green chunks to her left were half the height of the one to her right, and she tossed her attention between the two as she walked by. “It forges weapons akin to glass, though half as stable as the Nirakkal blades of Fallien’s sand dancers.”

That had been part of her more recent education as a newcomer to the civilisation on the Rock; Fallien’s capital, Irrakam. Mordelain was a bright eyed sprite in a world of war and she learnt like a fish drinking water, consuming information in vast gulps like a man would air – she needed it to survive.

“Oh wow!” her gaze drifted to the steps ahead, which rose up to a new level where vast blackened domes cast plumes of black, acrid smoke into the illusory sky.

The smelting domes were arranged in no particular pattern, but Mordelain found symmetry in their structure all the same. Though the malachite mounds were steeped behind her, ahead there were raised piles of iron and steel bars and shavings from the sharpening grindstones. Each smelting done had its own grindstone; each grindstone had its own rickety stool. The chain of industry was clear as day to Mordelain.

It was then that she caught wind of a sound that could not be mistaken.

It was a hammer striking metal.

She was not alone.

The wiry look in her eyes vanished, replaced instead with a sudden Fae wisdom. Though physically she looked no older than a girl of perhaps twenty, Mordelain was three centuries old and counting by the standards of Althanas. She could play the coy victim and brandish the standard of the civil war veteran as if they were natural parts of her persona. Here, realising that she had arrived late to the engagement she had sought out in the sandy domes, she brandished her standard with pride.

She advanced quickly and the sound made by the wrappings binding her feet faded. Her agility was the one saving grace that afforded her the ability to approach the centre of the arena without clumsily falling down the stairs in an awkward bundle.

The stacks of smelting ore and their flaming domes gave way to a vast circle of sunken sand. Mordelain instantly set eyes on a figure resting on his laurels on the far side. He stood with a grand furnace looming behind him that shone like an incandescent ruby set against a black band of burnt iron.

“Greetings good sir, I see you have been hard at work!” her voice was a lofty appraisal, friendly, gratifying, welcoming. It rolled down the steps into the central bowl and bounced over the sand to the sweltering aura of the forge.

The brown and steel backdrop, drab colours unbefitting of a carnival faded as Mordelain’s brightly coloured garb bounced down the steps.

“My name is Mordelain Saythrou; it is a pleasure to meet you.”

The very second she pressed the tip of her shoe into the warm sand she was reminded of two things. Firstly it reminded her of Fallien, her new home. The warm caress of the sun against the white washed sand stone walls of the il’Jhain quarter, the smell of poppy seed bread and chapattis wafting down the wide, arid streets. Secondly, it reminded her of Hudde, the arid desert tomb where criminals from all the nine worlds found themselves through fate’s cruel and fickle nature.

She pressed the end of her partisan into the sand, testing it for traps and pitfalls with overcurious zeal.

“Might I have the pleasure of knowing your name sir?” she cocked her head to one side with a cheeky grin. The tip of her pole-arm caught the overheard sun, bursting momentarily into colour as it wavered to and fro in the throes of the plucky dancer’s happy go lucky momentum.

She guessed now that the lessons taught to her by Suresh and his desert friends would be tested to their limit. Here, in the forge beneath a sky pure and bright, she would learn just how much she wanted to protect the world that she had come to call her own.

It was her duty to dance a dance of protection for the last planet with life left in its core in all the cosmos.

[Alberdyne_Cormyr]

Al sat on his haunches for what seemed an eternity. Carefully, he listened to the machines of the Skyforge. Each individual piece of Skyforge was as a living organism, a sentient. Seeing the heat as it flowed through the air like a vibrant vein, he considered the heat no different than the blood of mortals. Soon, another presence touched Skyforge's thickly heated air. Al opened his eyes to see the least likely opponent he would consider seeing in this environment. An Elf. It did not matter that she was male or female, but Al held the Elves in high esteem. Standing up from his current position, Al bowed gently towards his opponent. Al was a descendant of the Corone Highlanders. The classic features of the Highlanders were visible on the blacksmith. He had long, exotic red hair, and deep green eyes filled with a fierce intellect.

The most interesting part of the young man's physique was his face. He wore glasses tight to his nose, and he was currently sporting a beard that was also ruby red. Al stood up in a fluid, controlled movement. The tell-tale sign of a veteran warrior. Al was bare-chested for the moment, the only article of clothing he wore, was the pants on his person, and his belt. That was all. His blacksmith's hammer was located nearby, balanced on the head. A long, well-woven handle touched the nearby master-forge just so. Seemingly unarmed, the blacksmith was adorned with just the pair of gloves he had fashioned himself for training. Also, Al was bare foot. Which was another interesting observation. Looking at the forge behind him for a moment, Al turned his attention back to the Elf woman before him. She was an artistic vision of beauty finer than any of the artisans of ancient Radasanth could muster.

As was customary of the Elven folk, she revealed a polite nature. Elves were famous for their high poise and firm character. Al immediately decided that his newly acquired opponent was at least likeable. She wasn't like the usual brutes that waltzed into that building to display some arrogance and horrifying nature to the masses. Al was no fool however, he knew the purpose of The Citadel was to worship Gods of War. Since Al was a learned philosopher and artist at heart, he could appreciate the beauty of the woman before him. It's like walking into a dream, she absolutely shines. Al had left the question hanging for the better part of a full five minutes, and his face turned crimson. He sighed afterwards, and looked at the woman with a sincerely kind expression on his face. Despite some shady moments in his past, Al fancied himself as one of the ancient Heroes of Radasanth's past.

"Do forgive me, dear lady." Al said. "I am different from those savage brutes that come through here." Al said, and continued. "I'm not here to destroy, but rather, I am here to learn to protect that which matters the most." Al bowed again. "The name is Alberdyne." Al said. "Son of Melothac Cormyr."

"Of the House of Cormyr." Al always felt that he was at least partially distinguished from the rest of the dregs that ventured into The Citadel. "But feel free to call me Al." Al said. "Not oft I see your folk around here." Al said casually speaking of her Elven heritage. "This place is not for us...civilized folk." Then Al became somewhat sad. "However, the world outside, is rapidly becoming an ugly shadow of this place." Al walked over to her person, standing about a pace directly in front of her. "Mordelain was it?" Al asked. "I'm a blacksmith. If you ever need your gear serviced, come to my shop. I'll be certain that the monks give you direction in Radasanth." Then, Al took a quick stretch. After all, sitting in that uncomfortable position for as long as he sat made him somewhat stiff. Once he was done with the quick stretch, he moved into a brawler's combat stance. It was tight, and well practiced, but not too fancy. It reflected the style of someone who preferred dealing damage, and performing quick reactions. The choice of combat stance reflected a lot about the blacksmith, but one thing remained. He was clearly not a weak man.

"You may open this event." Al said, inviting his dancing partner to start the ballad.

[Mordelain]

Mordelain’s body almost folded in two like a piece of paper. She righted herself from her bow and set her glowing eyes dead pan onto the blacksmith’s brow. She had expected him to treat her with such frugal care; it was customary, after all, for a man to offer the world to a woman.

She already had nine.

“Thank you for your kind offer,” she lifted the partisan from the sand. The once heavy weight would have put strain on her lithe arms. Those hardships were no more after the arid desert had tempered her muscles into something worthy of carrying the il’Jhain weapon over the sands. It was an extension of her now, even though her skill with it was still lacking; it tempered the needs of bandits to attack her as openly as she rode over the dunes on her snow white mare, and for that she was grateful.

“This is the finest steel in Fallien, engraved by Bedouin smiths and strapped to a length of the glass heart tree, found only in the harshest regions of the northern oasis.” Mordelain was certain the geographical references would be lost on the gentlemen standing opposite, but to her, it invoked wondrous imagery of her homeland and with it she crafted a mental defence with which to shield herself from the forthcoming hostilities.

Everyone needed a cause, and Fallien was now hers.

"It will not need anything but blood to keep it sharp."

She burst into a run, her motion interspersed with occasional extensions of her stride that bordered on leaps, and skittered into bounds. Her youthful features wrinkled under the strain of sudden exertion. Ribbons fluttered and tassels trailed behind her, a whirligig of white lines set against the dark tones of industry. A silver flash was all that heralded the thrust of the troubadour, who stomped her wrapped foot on the sand before the blacksmith. With the blunt end stop to her advance, she took the partisan firmly into her grip and drove it fiercely forwards.

[Alberdyne_Cormyr]

Liking his women fast and aggressive, he was impressed with the Elf before him.

Wielding a spear, Al almost regretted not taking his sword into battle with him. However, he had a strange feeling that the bronze equipment would not do for this ordeal. Sand moved at his feet as he prepared for what was coming. Al attempted to shift his body weight a bit, but her combat style was much more elegant and controlled than his own. Plus, he noticed that her movements were almost as a dancer's. Al admired that form of movement as he reacted to her attack. She wasn't any faster than he was, but judging by her well toned physique, she was equally as strong. Managing to shift his body weight as her thrust took a sudden upward turn, Al felt a burning sensation at the upper portion of his body. She had connected with one side of his chest, and thankfully, not anywhere near his heart.

The steel easily pierced his bare flesh. Neither cry, nor scream escaped his lips. Al remained controlled and relaxed despite the event that had just occurred. He looked down and saw the hideous gash that was visible on his chest. In a way, she had sacrificed a sure strike to place herself in a very dangerous position. Al was a brawler, and brawlers exceeded in close combat range. The arm that was at the side of his body she hit was now useless and completely tingled over from the injury. Blood flowed freely. Al simply smiled kindly. Suddenly, Al reacted. He took his working arm, clenched his fist, and swung the gloved strike towards the side of her head. He was hoping at such close range, it would be quite difficult for her to react. His gloves were combat gloves, and they were interlaced with a thick inner sheet of iron.

Al's movement was not as controlled as that of a seasoned veteran. However, it was not the strike of an amateur either. It was clear that Al knew how to fight, but lacked the discipline of the finer warrior arts. Normally, Al would have made an attempt to parry the spear-strike. He was unarmed, mostly, and had a purpose in the battle. This was a training session, and he wanted to endure, not to destroy. Al was counting seconds as his gloved hand moved to strike the temple region of her head. As he swung, he calculated various turns of events, and he was preparing himself to react to those events. His mind was sharp, and he was also a quick learner. Despite the trauma he had just endured, Al was ready to face the rest of the challenge on his own two feet. He would defend his honour, and the honour of his people.

[Mordelain]

With a thud Alberdyne’s fist connected with the rim of Mordelain’s tightly wrapped headband. The attire of a Troubadour was decorative and well bound in place to move and flow with the movements of the dances of the Kalithrism, and whilst this afforded Mordelain with functional garb, it was not designed to protect from physical trauma.

Her neck twisted to the right as she reacted to the strike and with the same reaction, she pulled away. Her feet shuffled in a double snap, acting as an anchor against a stumble as well as a propellant to force a divide between man and woman, spear tip and fist.

Vomit churned in her stomach, held only in place by tight knots of muscle and anxiety, mimicking the twists of purple silk of her headdress.

“Ugh,” she moaned, feeling the pull of the Void between the worlds lash about her wrists. It threatened to pull her into the darkness to safety, to sanctuary, to freedom. She had to focus so hard she could feel the forge and the farrowing heat fall away from her, as if the only thing that mattered was to stay – to be stable, to be solid.

She stumbled back with blind abandon.

“Well met traveller. I underestimated you.” This was a truthful admission. Mordelain had made many similar misconceptions about opponents in her time, often with painful consequences for her.

She spun the spear so that it came about, tip pointing away from Alberdyne’s body. Its butt was aimed at the site of her opponent’s injury. The Tama were a cold race prone to becoming so focussed on their duties they sometimes forgot how to feel. Mordelain was not yet so consumed, but her drive gritted her teeth and vented her rage into honing in on the weak point of her opponent.

Suresh had taught her well.

“Come at me,” she continued to slink away, knees bent, tigress scowl plastered over her sweating visage and spear held at arm’s length to her right. It was still congruent with its target and held in reverse. She let the mantle of the dancer fall away and took on the mantle of the sand dancer instead – of the daughter of the desert she had become, murderous intent and sun stricken brow aflame with anger.

[Alberdyne_Cormyr]

Smiling casually despite the retched state he was in, Al looked at the Valkyrie before him. Al felt agony coursing from the injury he had sustained, but through that pain, he found focus and drive. She was too skilled a blade-dancer to engage her in melee range. Come at me! He repeated those words in his mind over and over, and instead of being afraid, he found courage to face adversity. Long ago, in another life, he would have cowered at the superiority of his opponent. In this current life though, that fear became his focus. Al looked into her eyes with a calm, almost saddened expression. A few moments lingered as blood flowed from the injury he had sustained. It was a horrid situation, but Al was ready. His defeat at the hand of MetalDrago Scorpio had tempered his will and released the monster lurking in his heart. He could destroy the world, and he knew it, but that was not the path he had chosen for himself.

"Come at you, huh?" Al began. He started to focus, to channel the vast psionic reservoirs at his command. "You will learn that not all of us are brutes." Al said and continued to talk. A bright-green nimbus soon surrounded the youth. The air crackled with raw power as the youth focused. "You want me to come at you? I hope you are ready for what I can do." Then, he focused his will on the most potent of Negative Feedback Loops he could summon. Concentrating not on his opponent, but rather, an old enemy, the image of MetalDrago Scorpio burned in his mind. That taunting visage tormented and filled the boy with a terrible fury that could tear apart the house of The Thayne. A potential so vast, that even the dragon-folk themselves would tremble at the boy. Soon, the basic nimbus cloud transformed into a stormed nimbus. Al yelled with all the fury in his heart. All the pain, the torment, the guilt at not being able to protect the most precious resources of all.

When he had charged about half of his power, he released it on the field. Most importantly, he had a focus on the target in front of him. "You are going to remember me for the rest of your days." When the Negative Feedback Loop reached the potency that Al was looking for, he flung open the gates of Hades itself.
Unleashing his newly acquired ability, the psychokinetic force was launched from his very will. No longer a matter of simply attempting to harm his opponent, or even, get revenge, the youthful psionic was attempting to utterly alter the very fabric of her mind. "My blade dancer." Al was saying as he concentrated. "This is the gift I give to you." And he released the attack when the zenith was reached. "I will show you the meaning of suffering, pain and torture. You will know what it is like to be tossed aside and left to the fucking crows." Al said. "I will gift you, Apocalypse." Al said as the Negative Feedback Loop raced towards the girl.

The entire time, channeling his fury was the image of his enemy and rival, MetalDrago Scorpio. That sole obsession had released a negativity so powerful, that when it burnt the air at it's touch, it appeared as a vortex of swirling energies. A perpetual cauldron mixed with vile emotions, Al had realized that the negative side of his soul could be harnessed as a weapon. As terrifying as that revelation was, there was also a strange sort of comfort. Blood flowed freely from the single injury she had given him, and he could only wait to see what she would do next. If his attack connected, the future itself would be altered forever. Al was vulnerable to physical counter if she was able to evade the potent attack. The psychokenisis's side effects would temporarily numb his movement capacity, but she would likely never know that. Al smiled the entire time, but his eyes told all.

Hell was hidden in his soul...

[Mordelain]

The psychic blast pealed a toll against the tip of Mordelain’s spear and ricocheted like thunder down its wooden shaft. When it connected with her chest, which was protected by nothing more than silk cloth she felt the same shaking and cracking fear her weapon must have felt. Though her skin did not splinter like the haft of her partisan, she felt it burn, itch, ripple, and wain.

It felt like a desert sun blanching away all feeling from her limbs.

“Gregh!” was all her cracked lips could muster in response. She stumbled back, feet taken away from her, partisan tumbling with a flat thud to the sand of the grand forge’s amphitheatre. In all her long years she had suffered, been stricken, been sundered and riven, but never had she experienced these things to an invisible assailant before.

She fell to her knees with her hands clutched about the impact site. Her eyes blurred, her nose ran and the smell of rusted iron in her nostrils was overpowering, sickening, and corrupting. A twinning loop formed between Mordelain and Alberdyne’s wound, rushing like a verdant force between one scar and another. Everything he felt from the result of her opening gambit she now felt. Her eyes blurred under the duress and the forge faded from view.

She saw another world, as if she had walked between the planes of the Kalithrism and left the forge behind.

Her shoulder ached, then seemed to bleed, then healed again as the vespers of the man’s parrying blow faded into nothingness. She breathed heavily until her vision returned and there she found comfort – the dark landscape and the taint of industry had scared her at first, bewildered her. Now it only brought her down to earth, back to the fold, back to the mewing and spewing turmoil of living.

“I should have known,” she rasped.

Magic was not common place on the desert island of Fallien. Though Petra, the World Library was full of wizards they were all long dead and thus Mordelain had not encountered them. Though Bulganin was full of shamans, they were so xenophobic they seldom showed themselves to strangers. Althanas on the other hand was teeming with the practitioners of the unexplained, and Mordelain hated them for it.

“No fool would enter an arena like this without a weapon,” she had expected a blade, a shield, a bow…the fact that Alberdyne had not carried any of those things in his hands should have screamed danger to Mordelain. She cursed herself at being so foolish and naive. Suresh might have taught her the basic rudiments of thrusting and wielding her partisan, but she would be having words with him about the rudiments of understanding your foe when she returned. They would be stern and violent words.

She reached for her discarded pole-arm and righted it. With its length supporting her she steadied herself as she rose. Her knees knocked and her elbows rattled, but soon, adrenaline smoothed out the ripples and echoes of the pain she had felt in the wake of the impact from Alberdyne’s attack.

“I commend you for gaining the upper hand but you have shown me nothing of pain, horror, suffering,” her words might have seemed honeyed to her opponent, but her stoic nature took over. She was overwhelmed by the need to perform, to command, to inspire was in her blood – the troubadours were the guardians and guiding force of the Kalithrism, and though she was the last of her kind she could not forsake her nature. “You must look into yourself to find that and I have already seen more suffering than any mortal being should have to endure.”

A rolling vision of the Cataclysm formed in her mind. It washed over the forge temporarily with skeins of Junkyo in the incandescent waves of fire and light of its last days.

To see your people eradicated…that was true suffering.

To be left alone in the universe to tell their tale, to be weighed down with their collective burdens, that was horror.

She took the partisan firmly into both hands and settled the point of its functional end level with her opponent in a series of slight adjustments, as if she were testing its weight. With a cough she cleared her throat then clicked her neck in a bell chime roll of her head.

“Enough, these are beginner’s steps we have woven into the sand. Surely you can do better?” she ran forwards with her spear tip wavering in a subtle spiral. It traced sigils and sandstorms in the fabric of the arena, until she grew close enough to unleash another thrust. It pierced the air in a natural strike aimed at the injured shoulder.

Mordelain’s eyes shone radiantly. Her violet armbands glowed in the heat of the grand forge which loomed behind them and her skin, pallid and delicate, sweated and itched. All beauty fell from her, all kindness deserted her. All the rage of her unfettered heart enshrouded her and with it, she strove to find the strength in herself to be the person she had been too scared to be after The Fall.

[Alberdyne_Cormyr]

There were few things that could impress the blacksmith those days.

Standing before him, was one of those few things. Somehow, the woman before him had an endurance that would allow her to withstand the weight of a heavy psionic's attack. Al remembered that he would have to train his power a lot more for it to become more effective. Yelling challenges at him, the woman exhibited a great amount of bravery. Within the heart of Skyforge, the blacksmith was ready for battle. However, the injury to his body was taking it's toll on his mind. He felt extremely cold, and the weight of his arm hanging discomforted him. It was a numbed sensation, tingling crawling up and down his body like a million tiny spiders. Al had learned a great deal during the events of the battle. He had gotten a bit closer to his goal of defeating his enemy; MetalDrago Scorpio. As he looked at the woman, he smiled softly and in an understanding way.

"Why rush this dance?" Al suddenly said. "I feel more alive in here with you than almost any other time. Except when I work a forge." Al started to walk forward towards her. It was a deliberately slow affair, his eyes locked upon her eyes. "So, let us enjoy this dance just a little longer. " Al said casually and stopped to he was just within striking distance of that wicked spear. "I must applaud you, Mordelain. Your endurance is first-rate." With that, Al began the process of what he was planning. Keeping a smile on his face, Al reached from deep within his soul. Normally, the philosopher would be attempting to bed the woman before him. However, she was not an object to him by that point. She was a fellow warrior in a world largely dominated by men. Al knew, she had earned her place amongst the warriors of The Citadel League. Al would be watching her career with close personal interests.

As Al prepared his strategy, he suddenly kicked out with his forward leg. Favoring the front movement of his kick, he was attempting to actually kick down on the spear itself. It wasn't a dirty tactic by any means even though he was a brawler. Al meant to disarm the girl and engage her in close-quarters combat, where the brawler excelled. As Al kicked downward with all his weight, he continued to reach from deep within his soul. Releasing his second ability, the psychokinetic branch of power, Al launched a telekinetic bolt at the central most point of the spear. The spear was an inanimate object, he could work his power on the spear, but not the girl. Once again, Al exerted his will with a direct purpose. As he released his will, he focused on what he was attempting to do. The psychokinetic bolt was launched from his hand towards the spear. If it connected, Al would will his mind to rip the spear from out of her hands, and send the spear flying off to the side and away from it's master. If it succeeded, Al hoped to turn the tides on Mordelain, and use the spear against her.

Continuing to concentrate as he kicked and launched his bolt, the youth was ready. It was a conscious gamble. Al had trained his psychokinetic powers enough by that point that he knew the risks involved in using them. Al was exposed and vulnerable to counter attack or riposte. If either the kick or the bolt missed, Al was screwed and he knew it. Despite all that, he kept that same smile on his face. There was no arrogance, or malice in that smile. Rather, there was a kindness and an almost sublime acceptance. As if he somehow expected to fail. Al put all his weight down on the physical attack, and the weight of his mental powers in the psychic one. Should either of his maneuver succeed, the next part of Al's plan would be revealed. The entire maneuver was meant to disarm the woman, but that was just phase one. Blood flowed steadily from the injury he'd received even as he continued to act. Al needed to have a win desperately, for his honour's sake.

[Mordelain]

The blast and kick combined together to disarm Mordelain. Her now well-worn partisan suffered hairline fractures. The dancer felt a weight in her arms unlike anything she had ever tried to carry before. As the spear flew far to her right in a calamitous spin she felt the breath squeezed from her lungs, though more through a sudden and uncontrollable fear than because of physical exertion.

“Well played Alberdyne,” she gritted her teeth, instinctively stooping and splaying her arms wide as if she were about to burst into a reckless charge to reclaim her weapon.

It crashed onto the sand and bounced before it settled.

She did not fancy her chances at reclaiming her armament on foot. The heat of the forge was sapping her endurance much quicker than even the searing landscape of the Nirakkal did. It was a sticky, clammy heat that rose from the ground itself, as opposed to one that beat down from the heavens.

Her gut churned under the sway of warmth and nerves.

The Kalithrism and the Void called to her as a convenient path to recovery. Before she could consider the implications she vanished. There was only a faint and sudden chime in the air before she and her sweaty back fled Althanas proper.

In the heat of the fire and the flames, beneath a towering bronze eagle depicting gods of old forging, there was only one route open to the planes walker. A brighter fire roared all around here over the edge of the bronzed walkway she found herself on. On the horizon there was a spiralling maelstrom of citrus colours and firestorms. Below, she could make out the indistinguishable roar of the Eye of Solace, a whirlpool so big that you could not see all of it in one single view, no matter how high you flew through the heavens.

“Come on Mordelain, do not mess this up now…”

If she did, she would not re-appear ten feet or so to her right as she intended. She could re-appear anywhere in the nine worlds of the Kalithrism. She hoped her experience in bounding over the deserts of Fallien had afforded her a greater degree of control with her abilities.

“By Junkyo’s chime and Hudde’s repentance, I fall in favour to the forge I fled.”

She ran to the edge of the narrow bridge over the Eye and teetered on the rail. Her white ribbons trailed behind her as her momentum suspended them mid-air. Like an angel she spread her arms wide and closed her eyes. She pictured the spot her partisan had come to rest, the very exact pattern of impact in the sand, the grains sparkling in the light of the sun. She drew on Fallien and on the glass planes of the Blight to tether her to Althanas.

Then she connected those images to Corone’s sandstone Citadel, a tether that seemed to work as she fell forwards into the sheer and terrifying nothingness of the air above the Eye.

She looked directly into the event horizon which a small black orb at the heart of the whirlpool. The air rushed up around her, threatening to break her limbs and send her into an uncontrollable spin. Legend said only the troubadours could leap from the bridge and remain focussed enough to slip through the eye unscathed. Many others fell into the flames only to be incinerated long before their spirits were eradicated from the multiverse. It was almost an hour before she finally fell into the vortex and slipped back through the cracks in the world.

It would be a few seconds before she appeared in the arena from her opponent’s perspective.

For the troubadour it felt like a lifetime, like a decade of torment riddled with flashbacks of all the horrors she had witnessed. The echoes of the man’s psionic attack haunted her through the dark and silent cold expanse between the planets.

[Alberdyne_Cormyr]

Of all the possible outcomes, the one that Al had not been expecting occurred.

"Holy...shit." Al cursed when she completely vanished.

At a loss, Al figured that she had somehow left the Citadel all together. Considering that the fight was over, at least from his point of view, he finally began to attend to his injuries. Having not given an inch, the blacksmith only then realized that he'd been severely cut. Ichor flowed from the injury. His entire arm was completely useless by that point, numbed over from the pain. Looking around, Al was stunned when the monks didn't arrive to assist him. I thought this battle was over?! Al thought to himself as he saw minutes passing by. No answer, or response, or any other change to the arena occurred. Is she going to come back I guess? Thinking that it was probably some sort of a last-ditch effort on her part, Al took a precious few moments to recover his pacing. His eyes were already bloodshot from the pain he was feeling.

It was a fair battle through and through. Al decided that he liked Mordelain's resilience and would attempt to talk to her when their ordeal was over. Reach her if he could. Al needed some help in the workshop back home, and he could offer her needed work. An honest gold piece was an honest gold piece and everybody was looking for that these days. So Al sat down on a bench and attempted to gather his thoughts. His mind replayed the images of the battle, it had seemed obvious to him that she was strong. However, he did not think that she possessed the ability to simply vanish. If it was a trick, he was not going to expose his back to her. Time was passing in his world, and he started to feel some concern for his opponent when she was not returning back to the physical world. Al kept his back side several paces from one of the machines in Skyforge. This machine, was a grinding machine used to sharpen dull blades.

Al had no way of knowing what it was that his opponent had done. There were no monks rushing into the arena to attend to his injuries, so Al guessed that the battle was on going. He sighed. Damn this hurts. He clutched at the injury on his chest, it was serious. He could feel the opening with his fingertips but knew from experience not to play with it too much. It needed treatment from the monks lest it get an infection. Al carefully looked around the arena, his weaponry was nearby, but he had started the battle with his gloves. He would end it with them. If she did reappear, he only could guess that she was attempting to recover her spear. Had he been healthier, or the dishonorable type, he would have tossed the spear into one of the furnaces and out of play. The thought made the blacksmith chuckle at the potential of seeing the girl's shock at lack of a spear upon her reappearance. Al kept his mind focused at the task at hand as he waited.

He growled with each passing moment at the pain he felt. Deciding he needed to shut the wound, he went over to one of the great furnaces of Skyforge. Grabbing a blade, he stuck the tip into it, and felt it grow hot within moments. Once he saw steam rising from within the furnace, he removed the blade. Staring at the white-hot tip for a long moment, Al sighed. He needed to shut the opening. Another moment passed, and Al screamed with an unearthly howl as he placed the super-heated bladed against his injury. It was a job well-done. He'd closed the cut a few shaky moments later, and had formed a terrible burn-scar where the spear had cut open flesh. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air, and all slowly felt the blood in his body circulating normally. She was taking too long. Al quickly turned his back back to the machine behind him just in case this was all some elegant trick on her behalf. He moved into a fighting stance, and prepared for imminent battle. No monks meant the fight was on going.

[Mordelain]

Mordelain re-appeared on Althanas with a soft exhalation of air from her lungs. In those final fleeting seconds before she had hit the wall of the eye she had taken a customary deep breath. She had learnt to balance the pressure within against the intense forces plied against her body during the transition from the unstable world to the stable, but it still left her drained.

The sweltering heat of the forge was nothing compared to the searing heat of Ixias, to the point that it felt suddenly quite cold.

She emerged to a scream and her instincts brought her about on a sharp heel to set eyes on its source. With a lump in her throat she saw Alberdyne seal his wound with a heated blade, white and searing like a sun flare. The only reaction she could muster was a shudder that jarred her nerves, adding to the fatigue of walking against the constraint of the Ai’bron illusion.

“You are a brave man, Alberdyne,” she said, without menacing tone or intrusive pitch. By luck, and perhaps grace, she had re-appeared a few feet beyond where her partisan had landed. This gave her enough wide birth from her opponent to step up to the pole-arm and reclaim it.

The dancing shadows and painful memories which still lingered in her mind fell into nothingness the very second the Fallien palm wood connected with her fingers. It was dry as a bone still, and the moment she took the soft white muslin grip into confidence she felt whole again.

She wasted no more time running forwards whilst the pain of the man’s first aid still coursed through his body. It felt in her bones and her soul like this was the only chance she would get to utilise such an advantage. With feet padding over the sand, bandoleer, bell and ribbon flailing once more in her wake, she ended her momentum with a flat foot stamped to the dirt. Once more, she resorted to a one handed thrust of her spear towards Alberdyne’s seared shoulder.

[Alberdyne_Cormyr]

It all happened so suddenly and conclusively that Al had little time to react. He'd just moved into a normal standing position when the girl reappeared a short distance from her spear. She spoke, but Al was still in too much pain to really care. His burnt flesh hurt like hell, and he was still attempting to come out of the agony he felt. Leaving him dizzy, he was vulnerable to attack. Al put down the heated blade tip as it would not be a suitable weapon, and he laded it in a nearby cooling unit. He'd had just enough time to do that when she attacked. Al turned on the balls of his feet to face the incoming charge of the blade-dancer, but the blacksmith was caught off guard. Damn it, I wasn't expecting that... Perhaps he should have expected it. Since he had never encountered such a trick before, he had no idea what to expect.

So when she attacked, he was defenseless and could only turn his body weight ever so subtly. He knew he was going to get hit, and it would hurt...a lot. As he shifted his body weight, he turned his body at a angle on pure instinct alone. The instinct came from the simple fact that he did not want to die. I've come too far to fall in such a way. Al thought to himself as he moved. When he felt flesh being torn asunder, the blacksmith growled in agony. Thankfully, the previous injury was spared that time as the tip of her battle-spear ripped open the center of his chest and dragged across. Fresh blood spilled everywhere, and the blacksmith could no longer contain his emotion. He screamed in agony once again, but was put in a position where he could act with his healthy arm. It was a strategic play.

He knew he would have to sacrifice getting hits in order to enter his comfort zone. In the extreme combat range, Al scrounged up ever last amount of courage he could. His opponent was quite skilled and he could not afford to falter. As soon as he could practically taste her skin against his mouth. Her scent was intoxicating, but Al had to concentrate to pull off the next part of the battle. By that point, Al just wanted to survive. He was not skilled enough of his own power yet to win. So when she was right in front of him, he countered. It would have been a riposte had he his sword equipped, but alas, honour was a fool's gamble. He suddenly kicked out with the leg that was furthest away from Mordelain. This, he used to thrust his knee hopefully up into her gut. Then, he swung with his healthy arm in an uppercut attack aimed at the lower portion of her face...

He was completely open to a counter from the girl at that point. He could only hope that she would get hit by either of the two movements.

[Mordelain]

Winded, knocked to her right and suddenly bereft of momentum, Mordelain could only splutter in the wake of Alberdyne’s melee. She stumbled, clumsy feet just managing to keep her upright and heart racing.

“Ugh,” she groaned once more.

At the end of her tumble she kicked forwards so that she departed Alberdyne’s immediate reach. Her partisan levelled behind her, tip sparkling in the soft sunlight of the dimming evening sky.

“You possess a mighty fist,” she mustered the strength to commend her opponent, as was befitting of a trial of respect.

When she righted herself, sandy dust cloud raising behind her the Troubadour brought her pole arm to her front. She took it firmly into the confidence of both her sweating palms. Bells and whistles, no longer possessing any spectacle for the arena and the on looking crowd stopped their incessant chatter. Her chest still throbbed from a well delivered knee and her cheek, plastered with sand and sweat and now, from a small cut, blood, tingled with the reminder that she was mortal after all.

She turned slowly and set the partisan’s end into the sand. It crunched the glass fragments and left a hole in the floor of the sky forge. Lingering in the moment, Mordelain had to compose herself to not falter in the sweltering madness of the forge’s heat.

Once more the dancer launched into a forward run that was haphazard but unpredictable. Lancing and thrusting, she drove the partisan into Alberdyne’s still righting form. His thrust and punch had brought him to his knee; a clumsy move that even the inexperienced Mordelain could see was very much to her advantage.

It did not take much strength behind her attack to force the Fallien steel through the man’s already tarnished shoulder.

“Though you have a lot to learn about the worlds at your feet,” a ferocious snarl tarnished the otherworldly beauty of the Tama.

She threw her mind back to that last, anguish laden moment of her fall into the vortex. In those moments she had witnessed every dark moment of her life, an eternal loop of damnation caused by Alberdyne’s prominent and potent psionic attack. The thud of her weapon connecting with bone jolted her arm and shattered her short lived relish.

“I am sorry…” she whispered coarsely, almost brought to tears. She had, in her long life, never killed a man in cold blood before.

She turned the spear tip and winced as the blacksmith screamed. A cold rush of blood to the head did away with any enjoyment Mordelain might have felt after delivering the mortal blow. She half wanted to scream out in anguish herself.

“I am so sorry…” she took the shaft of the partisan once again into two hands and with a lacklustre tug; she wrenched it from the body of her opponent.

She skipped back, foot wraps scuffing the sand, heart pounding and hair matted with sweat and sorrow. She bowed, feeling the impending sense of victory without satisfaction. Mordelain could only shake her head at the slow, cold awakening she was experiencing to the proposition of having it wield a weapon. This she knew but would not yet accept, would not be the last time she would have to drive her spear into the heart of another.

There was no bound left in this journey. She turned back to the steps that rose to the ore pits, too afraid and sickened with her actions to pay her respects to Alberdyne.

[Alberdyne_Cormyr]

Lifeless, his body fell to the ground having been unable to react in time to mount a proper defense.

Well now, that sucked. Al couldn't think of any last clever words to say. Instead, he fell gracefully at the tip of her spear, but had learned something tremendous about himself. I am learning. Basically unarmed, he had taken on the blade-dancer, with an insurmountable will and almost foolhardy bravery. In a sense, he had won something far more important. I got my dignity back. He'd been searching for his honour ever since MetalDrago Scorpio robbed him of it. As Al's lifeless body fell, many thoughts ran through his dying head. Wearing a strange mask of peace on his face, Al did not struggle against his final moments. Instead, he submitted to her spear gracefully even as she ripped his heart out of his chest. When Al's body finally touched the ground, there was a sickening thud of his corpse against the sandy earth. That certainly was not pleasant...

Al saw a darkness as he began to fade from the Firmanent. Then, within the dark there was a shining light that signaled the coming of the monks. Al knew what that would herald. Time passed in the circling void as he felt no peace and knew no comfort. A part of him could not accept the fact that he had just been soundly beaten by the blade-dancer. That reality created a terrible sense of self-loathing. Al was growing resentful of the living world. He knew that would be dangerous for him, as such a negative feeling oft drew negative things. However, he was still far too weak to really appreciated exactly what had happened to him. He still had much to learn. As he walked towards the light caused by the monks, something made him hesitate. There was a presence in the dark, something that called from beyond the gates of sensibility. An unknown presence, he could only barely feel it breathing down his neck. Something about this made him deeply afraid, and that fear brought a cold.

The cold made him shiver physically as he stopped moving towards the light. Powerfully now, the presence lulled Al into a sort of complacency. As he looked at the dark, he turned his back to the light for a brief moment. Then, something called to him from the dark.

"Son of Cormyr." The voice said.

"..." Al did not respond, but he was drawn somehow to that ethereal presence.

By that point, he was in a deep state of physical torpor.

Something about that presence in the dark was familiar to him.

"I have followed your family for ages. The secrets of your tribe." The voice called out from the dark. "Do you want power? The power to defeat your enemy, MetalDrago Scorpio?"

Al looked back at the light of the monks for a moment, and then turned towards the presence. "What do I have to do?"

"Come with me. And the secrets of the Omniverse will be yours."

Fin

***

Spoils Request

1-(1x's) Pair of (Average Quality) Combat Gloves made by Alberdyne's own hands. The inner layer of the leather fabric is interlaced with a basic sheet of iron links. Getting hit by these gloves hurt, a lot.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

New characters, old writers, and how they fought tooth and nail! This was a very promising read, and it didn’t let down! Well done to you both, and I hope that these comments I give you help you out in your journey to be better writers. Light commentary it is. You’re both big boys, you can always come to me for questions.

Story:
Mordelain (7) You did a really good portrayal of the happy go lucky girl who is testing her mettle against the world. At the beginning she had awesome spunk, and awesome drive, but as the battle got on you did a very, steady turnaround of your character’s thoughts, and I felt more and more gripped to her because of it. Your use of her views did well to create the story of her reasons for being there, which is important for random citadel battles.

Alberdyne (5) You did a decent explanation for your reasons to battle, but the issue I had as a reader was that you practically shoved it down my throat. For a guy who is a blacksmith, you sure are obsessed with being the weapon. And you at times would rush to the idea you had forming, then other times abandon a thought. This created a very scattered read, and to help you out I suggest finding out what you want from the thread ahead of time, and focus only that goal.

Setting:

Mordelain (7) While you did well to use the setting to our advantage, you have done better before and I’m going to call you on it. While this is nothing bad, if you want to hit the JC, you need to remain consistent.

Alberdyne (6) You did another well done job of setting the setting, but once you do you leave it aside and carry forth with your plans. You have to continue to bring in those attributes, and not just dump them on the reader at once. Mastering this will really boost your score.

Strategy:
Mordelain (6) Nothing out of the ordinary, played well within your limits and the best way to improve is the colorful use of using your setting more to your advantage to hook the reader.

Alberdyne (6) Same as Mord. You may have a blunt style, but it’s not a bad thing. It served you well through most of the reading, but to improve I’d suggest varying your tempo a bit.

Continuity:
Mordelain (6) You established some key elements into your story, but I am a bit confused on to some of it. Remember, introducing an element to your story must be fully explained and touched on. I haven’t read much of this account so a few blanks were left in. Nothing to be concerned about, just look at your writing when proof reading and think, if I never read that, would I know what that meant?

Alberdyne (6) The exact same thing as above.

Character:
Mordelain (6) Usually I have no beef giving you an 8 when it comes to your characters, but this is boiling back down to the same thing I’ve been beating you over the head for in all your previous judgments. FIND A UNIQUE TRAIT TO THE CHARACTER. This read much like Duffy and Ruby, and while the Fallien flair was added and did well to create her, you could easily have replaced with Duffy and Scara Brae and the same effect is found. Remember, Duff man, that everyone is a unique individual with their own neurological conditions, pyschosis, and motivations. This will help you separate them from the rest.

Alberdyne (5) You have a character who is at one point humble, and the next blood lust crazed. At one moment he’s calm and collective, at the next he’s preaching about being a weapon in his mind. Bi-Polar came to mind. Like Duffy, I’m seeing the signs of Lorenor breaking through in the less rational moments, and Al in the calmer moments. If this is intentional you need to spend a bit more time establishing that. You have a strong force of personality here, you just need to define why that force is so strong. Doing this and you’ll be hitting 8-9’s in no time.

Creativity:
Mordelain (5) Colorful use of your word choice, the sprinkling culture of Fallien, mixed with a flair for the dramatic. Ah, like a spring peach eh, Ruby Winchester….I mean Duffy Bracken! Wait…Arden? Nothing new here, and that’s why this score hit low. You have to grow and adapt to newer goals and the only way to achieve this is to pop your comfort zone and explore new waters.

Alberdyne (5) Mutant Lorenor…this stigma needs to vanish. This is a wholly new character, with all new goals and dreams. Show that. In this you had written in much the same way as you always have, and to that I say bust your comfort bubble as well.

Clarity:
Mordelain (7) Well done Duffy, nothing a few proofreads can’t fix. You did a solid job here, and to improve all you need to do is make sure you read aloud the previous post when posting a new one. You’ll find those hiccups in no time.

Alberdyne (4) Okay, this is the category I’ve been wanting to discuss with you. Your clarity is so low because you have me jumping out of the world of the story and shaking my head. Repetitive use of words as well as the blunt style don’t go hand in hand. It’s okay to be blunt and upfront in your style of writing, as MetalDrago has shown that it can be done just as easily as the flowery speech. But when you mix repetition of the same words and phrases over and over and over you got me reeling. First, if ever you are not in a dialogue quote “like this” then you need to spell out the full name. Al is a nickname, and should be sparingly used out of that context. In addition, you have two descriptors for your character. Blacksmith, and Al.

Al went to the store. Al did not like the milk, so he smashed it to the ground. Al watched the fluid drain away like blood from a corpse. The Blacksmith didn’t know why, but he liked that feeling. From that day on he knew his true calling.

Al then decided he would train his body to be the weapon.

Not easy reading, and Al was used far more than it should have. In addition, establishing something, and then doing it again three more times breaks the flow of the read as the one reading it thinks to themselves that they got it. You are the weapon, it’s what you are striving to be.

These two changes, my friend, will really boost you up to 7-8’s, and from there it will be all about the flair you add and word choice. Try getting a list of descriptors for your character, and keep it near your writing area to remind you to throw them in. (I’ve done that a few times for other accounts when I had trouble thinking of descriptors)

Mechanics:
Mordelain (8) Hiccups here and there, nothing new.

Alberdyne (6) Ouch bro. You got a few missed words that leave incomplete thoughts, and that kills clarity as well. As I tell everyone, when you put up a new post, go back and read the other and proofread. You’ll be amazed at what you missed.

Interaction:
Mordelain (7)

Alberdyne (7) You do a good job of playing well with others! Just interact with all things around you instead of them, and you’ll go up another point or two.

Wildcard:

In closing guys, I dumped a lot mostly on you Al, because you could benefit the most. For you Mord, you got little because it’s nothing new that I haven’t judged recently. I want to say that I did enjoy the read, and had a lot of fun. I want to see where you both go from here in your separate trails, and I look forward to your next sagas!

Mordelain (6)
Alberdyne (5)

Mordelain: 65
Alberdyne: 55

Mordelain is the victor.

Mordelain Earns 850 EXP and 200GP
Alberdyne Earns 250 EXP and 0 GP, but he can keep his new gloves!

Come and find me if you have questions.

[Letho]

EXP/GP added.