Battle over the skies of Scara Barae [Closed]

[Penance]

Brathios stood on the deck of a massive steam-powered derelict Alerarian airship. The ship was as large as a castle courtyard which gave him plenty of room to maneuver over its dirty wooden floors, and he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. The ship's steering wheel spun every now and then of its own accord like the disembodied hand of whoever captained it last was still firmly at its helm; charting its course to oblivion, doomed to sail the skies forever.

He pushed such silly superstitions to the back of his mind and prepared himself mentally for the coming battle.

He had been unsure where his enemy was, but when he spotted another airship closing in fast he knew that battle would soon be upon him.

This was the strangest scenario The Citadel had concieved yet, the hyper-realism of it astounded him. He could touch the clouds and feel each one's icy cool texture on his face as the ship plowed through them.

Brathios wore his usual armor; standing six-foot-nine and was decked out from head to toe in a strange mixture of leather, iron chainmail steel and fur. A hooded wolfskin cloak hung down his back and swayed to and fro in the ever-present gale of the ships high-altidude flight. On his right arm was a wooden round-shield reinforced with metal and leather, painted on its surface were brown, red and orange leaves interposed over a sword: the Autumn house sigil. And in his left hand was his Andvall steel longsword, its blade freshly sharpened and polished, gleaming menacingly beneath the faint glow of the moon. Three iron throwing spears lay at his feet, tipped with curving leaf-shaped blades.

He sheathed his sword and picked up one of the spears, the one he chose had a rope attached to a steel ring in the butt of its wooden shaft.

It had been a while since he had thrown a spear. It was time to see how true his aim still was. He hurled the spear across, sending it high into the other ship's wooden mast, scooped up both of the remaining spears, ran to the side of the ship, leaped over its edge, and swung across.

He dropped the spears before landing in a roll, unsheathed his sword, and looked around.

Where was his opponent?

[Duffy]

Duffy Bracken hated many things in life. He hated imitation jewellery, not-so-fine wine, and magic. He utterly loathed necromancers, pigeons, and occasional visitors, who never brought a gift to your door. He especially hated three things above all others; liars, plagiarists, and king of all the targets of his rage and wrath…

“Heights…”

Once upon a time, the bard had been a lithe, monkey-like acrobat. He would have relished the opportunity to swing, dance, and leap through the air about the remnants of a long forgotten sky armada. As he hobbled forwards on his lacquered black cane, those days were firmly put behind him. The wind whipped his curly, black, and damp hair into a whir of activity, and the lapels of his long and dusted military jacket flapped at the hem. He swayed in between steps, in time with the ship’s rickety path through the atmosphere.

“Oh how I hate heights…” he grumbled a second time.

His appearance in the Citadel was not unusual. Of late, he had taken to practising fighting with his new physical impairment, finding his soul in the clash of steel and the stirring wild song of the arena’s blood thirsty crowds. Each time he had approached the reception desk in the catacomb like environment of the Ai’bron temple, he had requested something different to any previous encounter. He had seen Crystal Worlds shatter about him, fiery pits engulf his friends, and phantasmal and wicked Fae assault both combatants without pause for thought. He already wished he had been more reserved, erred on the side of caution, and started his day off with something a little less taxing.

When a giant of a man fell into view, heroic, dashing, and armed to the teeth, the doubt in the bard’s mind reached fever pitch. Instinctively, he picked up his cane with a firm grip, taking the silver knob into his confidence, and levelled it forwards like a well-honed swordsman’s trusted rapier. It was heavy in his hands, clunky, worn, and worthless. For a few brief moments, it at least gave him the impression of being a worthwhile opponent.

“Well hello, good sir,” he began, his Scara Braen accent hidden behind a thick, prehensile, and utterly foolish attempt to sound less common than he was. “The name’s Bracken, Duffy Bracken, adversary and cad and,” he tried to smile, but managed only a windswept pout, “your target practice for the afternoon.” Looking the man over, if he was indeed a man, the bard could not help but notice the disparaging difference between his own, unfavoured, and defenceless body, and his opponent's armour plates, fur-lined chain-mail, and haughty musculature. The bitter reminded of his injuries that throbbed and ached in his right shin shone a little brighter and more agonising, as if to highlight his doubts. "Who might you be?"

[Penance]

"Your opponent, Brathios Autumn." Brathios didn't know what to make of the man as he hobbled forward meekly on a cane. Still, gold and fame rode on this fight so he wouldn't go easy on him, nor would he take him for granted. Weakness and doubt had been beaten out of the Andvall as a child. The result was the massive, unforgivng, and genetically perfect beast of a man that towered over Duffy Bracken.

He raised his shield before him, sheathed his sword, and squatted down to pick up one of his two remaining spears. "May you die well," he saluted by slapping the spear against the shield and giving a loud 'ahroo!'

Bringing back his arm he let loose the spear in a throw that had little arc since it shot towards the man clad in a military jacket in an almost perfectly straight line.

Once the spear was released Brathios was fast on its heels, charging Duffy in the wake of the weapon's toss, shield held high and blade sliding nakedly into the air out of its scabbard. He would bullrush the man head on, slowing only slightly within ten feet in case he needed to maneuver out of the way of a counterattack, and bring the shield slamming into the Scarae Braen to stun him with its iron-wrought surface. "Ahroo!"

[Duffy]

“Oh fucking hell,” Duffy spat, wistfully abandoning his cane as a weapon the very second the spear slipped deftly from the man’s fingers. The only thing worse than a fireball, the bard thought, was a fireball made of deadly metal and a veteran’s accuracy.

There was no time to step to the left or to the right. If he tried, he would be skewered in a flash and waking up in lingering agony in the Apocathery ward before he had time to scream. In the split second he did have to decide, Duffy reached out through the aeons and annuls of history to the one source of hope he could rely on. He grits his teeth, felt the whistle down of the wine in his hair, soul, and underwear, and did something extraordinary.

He vanished.

Light formed ribbons, blue, ochre, and with a touch of vermillion erupted from the phantasmal image of the bard. They spiralled around the advance of the spear as it passed through the illusory cloud, and vanished with a flourish of drum beats, trumpet parps, and staccato rattles. The second the pole-arm struck the door to the captain’s quarters, the entrance Duffy had used to step from the sandy corridor out into the airborne arena, he re-appeared. In the space of two seconds, the bard had stepped out of one world, into another, caught his breath, and trundled straight back into the fold.

“Oh fucking hell!” he roared, somewhat more audibly than the first time around.

Once more Duffy relied on the plucky wit that had, surprisingly, kept him alive for this long. Five centuries of mishaps, dangers, and escapades had all been shaved one side of certain death by his ability to pull his head out of his arse at the precise moment it mattered.

“Ahroo!” his adversary cried, practically at the same time as his follow up attack veered into the bard’s personal space.

“Same to you,” he replied, though he doubted his tone pierced the howl of the wind quite as well as the man’s battle cry, “though there’s really no need.”

The Katarhna flickered into view with a chime, a whistle, and a riddling melody. It was a sword as old as Duffy, and just as bitter. Though the bard had been injured, his speed stolen, his heart rendered, what he had lost in dexterity, he had not lost in experience. If he could not dance many a wondrous steps around this giant of a man, he would have to bolster his defences, parry blows, and stumbled closely around the precipice until an opportunity presented itself.

Its blade rose upwards, as quickly as the gale, and struck the incoming blade with the sound of thunder.

“This man’s a rather large example of brute force,” it said, without tongue, lip, or life. Duffy could only roll his eyes as they came to a halt, his arm taught and muscly in the face of the sheer force that struck him. He doubted he could take many more forced reprisals than that.

“Forgive the sword, it has a mind of its own,” he chuckled. Pushing back with a grunt, the bard brought himself enough leverage to hobble in a low spin to the right, his boots scuffing the salt stained deck as he made his getaway. With a hop, a movement that shot pain down his right leg and up into his collarbone, he brought the single-edged Akashiman blade, a ‘Katana’, down into a simple, unthreatening trajectory into the man’s halted sword.

[Penance]

Brathios’ opponent, Duffy Bracken, was a more curious man than he originally seemed. The wizened bard threw down his cane as if to surrender – little good that would have done against an oncoming spear – vanishing from existence at the last possible second, his departure heralded by a coiling tempest of blue, gold and red that whorled around him in an arcane display that greatly impressed the Andvallian warrior who had witnessed enough magic in his lifetime to be able to tell that Duffy was no slouch in its arts.

His foe’s banter would have enraged any lesser man, but Brathios was lesser to no one. As the man before him conjured a blade out of thin-air and brought it streaking upward to intercept his sword, instead ringing against the metal-wrought surface of his shield – seeing as he attacked with it, not his blade – the defensive equipment turned offensive which was swung with astounding force, would threaten to unsettle Duffy’s footing even as Brathios followed up with his sword this time.

The shield was pulled to the side just enough so that he could torque his hips, shoulders and chest into an incredibly quick thrust with the tip of his three foot-blade that would present itself to the man’s thigh with the aim of parting his flesh with a shallow stab.

Brathios wasn't about to make the mistake of overreaching too soon in a fight versus someone with such an unusual powerset that would prove a unique challenge for the Andvallian to overcome. He would test the waters, wait until the man had exhausted his supply of parlour tricks and then, and only then, would he commit wholeheartedly to the fight's conclusion. Not that he'd complain if Duffy tripped and fell onto his sword before that time came, though he would be a tad disappointed if that occured.

It was obvious his opponent’s skills were rusty and he’d either shake off that rust quick or be brought low by the younger and subsequently less experienced warrior. “Its mind doesn’t seem to be your problem. Its weight is the issue. Why don’t you put that thing down and go get your cane, old man?”

“Don't die on me so soon, Duffy Bracken! I haven't given you permission yet.” The Knight roared fierce and terribly, his face a perfect amalgamation of excitement and rage. It was an expression of sheer pyschotic bloodlust.

He was having so much fun!

[Duffy]

With reflexes a little too slow for the occasion, Duffy tried to buckle out of harm’s way. Instead of giving way to victory, however, he gave way only to failure, pain, and agony. Whilst the blade of his opponent was weighty, keen, and well-used, it was also not as light and accurate as his own. All the same, the cold metal sliced into his thigh muscle without resistance from his pleated black trousers. No arteries were severed, and no tendons spliced, but the trauma to his already shattered limbs gave him enough pauses for thought.

He screamed.

“Dying would be a mercy,” he grunted, as his unharmed knee struck the salty beams of the deck. There would be a bruise there, before too long, shining and red and umbrae, at least until the monks of the Ai’bron rejuvenated his foolish body until it was free of its woes. “Where’s the fun in that?” he added, through grit teeth and hollow breaths.

The bard stumbled, arms wavering, sword glinting in the blinding heavens of the illusory world, and brought himself some precious time. Brathios, a strange, foreign, war-born name seemed more hell bent on proving his worth than overcoming his opponent. Duffy had lived through too many wars, seen too many friends fall from grace, and too many enemies reclaim lost ground to allow himself to be corrupted by the man’s honour. He was no saint, and he would not pretend to be.

“Permission?” he stumbled upright, as if to show he was unpaved by the throbbing pain in his leg. Though the piercing blow had cut neatly through skin and sinew, it had left a lasting impression alongside the still lingering curse of his nemesis’ dark magic. He was swift becoming a lame duck and he had no intention of being the main course for the man’s blood brawl feast. “I don’t need a man’s permission to die, nor any being’s, words drive me, so your feeble lies only grace me with unfettered faith!” a flash of light surrounded him, warmed him, and injected adrenaline and zeal into his every being.

“I am, after all, Lysander Brandybuck.” Though perhaps lost on the warrior, Duffy’s voice changed, his accent welded power, and his heart beat through every syllable. The foolish, injured, and plucky bard stepped back into the limelight, and in his stead, a true hero, worthy of this fervent foe was unleashed. “Try that again, whelp, and lest it be said I am not sporting, I will not harm you whilst you while away the hours throwing yourself on my sword.” He cut the Katarhna left, right, and then up and down. Each movement threw verse and rhyme into the air, which somehow pierced even the roar of the wind over the prow and the mast.

Duffy, watching from the mystical realm of The Aria, from which he drew his power, began to chuckle raucously. He was away from harm, for now, but whenever he let Lysander loose from the catacombs of his neurotic mind, there was always a spectacle. In the silver realm, he began to whistle through the silence.

Lysander opened his stubborn lip, grinned, and began to, quite unusually, sing a song.

“A helo to the heart my friend can only end in tears, a halo round a demon’s fringe can only inflict arrears,” the verse quickly conjured power around the Katarhna, which began to vibrate wildly.

Standing away from the warrior, Lysander gestured for him to approach. The Recanting Orison formed fully, and the blade that had toppled an Empire gathered the storm that washed over the lingering armada of some long forgotten sky battle drained into its dehlar edge. The blood continued to trail and trickle down his leg, into his trousers, and out from his soul.

Whatever happened, the show must go on…even if the performance would be the lead’s last.


Duffy has, to date, used Union of Ages once, and now Recanting Orison, from Lysander's sub-set of abilities.

[Penance]

Brathios hadn't expected his half-hearted stab to actually hit. His foe was resiliant and skillful, despite his age, and the boons of strength and speed that his absence of youth denied him was made up for with a lifetime of combat experience stored within his muscles, connective tissue and tendons. The body never forgot, it simply had a harder time doing what it was told.

The man seemed to hold Brathios in higher regard than he deserved the privilege of being held in. None that knew the Andvallian would describe him as a man of honor. No, he was simply a sportsman, and he enjoyed the thrill of the hunt unlike anything else.

There was no fun to be had in killing your prey without toying with them first. Some would ascribe this tendency to his arrogance, youth, or a foolish sense of bravado. Perhaps it was all three – but when the rush of adrenaline hit him like a wall, pure and unadulterated, he felt more alive than any man on this godless, forsaken earth. And he felt that rush right now, in that very instant; reaching a mental locus, a zenith of focus that combined his mind and body in perfect synergy.

Not a man to believe in the fanciful superstitions of the sick, dying and old, yet he couldn’t describe the sensation as anything other than harmonizing with a higher existence.

He felt transcended.

"If you want to die so badly then rise, Duffy Bracken, rise and rise again until you can rise no more. There is no glory to be had in killing a man that doesn't want to live, and no immortality to be won by defeating you if you have no fight left."

As if acquiescing to his words Duffy was suffused in a bright flash of white-hot light. The tenor in the man’s voice changed. His resolve fashioned itself into steel, unyielding and unbreakable like adamantium, his voice a vorpal blade that cut through Brathios’ challenge and returned it with his own.

For the first time in his life Brathios felt the tiniest sliver of fear. Some chord inside him was plucked, evoking a primal instinct to flee. He was outmached, outgunned, staring down across the decks of the ship at a being of overwhelming power intent on his destruction.


"...I see. How interesting.

So, this is your true power then, is it?"

Hunching over and cringing, skeletal wings ripped loose from his shoulder-blades, punching holes through his chainmail hauberk in the process, and unfurled menacingly in the air. Tissue, skin and then feathers stitched themselves together and grew outwards until the vestigial limbs canvassed around him to eclipse his foe in the umbral shadow he cast.

The hands that clenched his sword and shield oxidized into steel, galvanized by a sudden surge of power that erupted through him and unleashed every ounce he could muster, however inefficient it may be, to meet Duffy; no – Lysander – head on.

The storm that raged across his foe’s blade was a blazing sun in comparison to the flickering candle of his own strength. Half-mad, he charged straight into the eye of the man’s power, a bolt of lightning streaking into the heart of a tornado to finally settle the debate of which was deadlier once and for all.

His shield was held high in a futile attempt to absorb the brunt of whatever counterstrike the man would offer, doubting it would survive the fiery clash of their spirits in one piece, or any, for that matter.

His sword clamored down in an overhead arc that descended blindingly fast atop the crown of his foe's head. His body pressed on even if his weapon and shield were disintegrated or blasted away, and would push forward with all his remaining strength to drive his metal fists into Lysander Brandybuck until the talons that tipped his fingers swam through his chest and dripped with the man's vitae down their cool metal surface.

“Die!” Unable to think of anything else to scream, he gave an earth-rending howl that made his lungs ache. It never hurt to ask. And who knew? Maybe he’d politely drop dead.

[Duffy]

True to form, and expectation, the single-edged blade ablaze with spell song cut into the downward thrust with ease and fluidic motion. There was, for just a brief moment, an eruption of dramatic choral flourish. The ancient song pierced the audible din of the howling wind, which grew in intensity as the airship turned in the air to encircle its distant enemy in a tactical maneavours.

With a thud that shook the deck and tingled up Lysander’s shattered shin, the cannons along the ship’s starboard side trundled out of their portholes and primed themselves for a broadside.

“Ask me politely,” the blade singer dared, his voice somehow carrying over the din of war. “I might grant your last request!” which, if the man before him had any sense, hinted that they would both be beyond saving come the end of their encounter.

The first shell firing thundered through the air in tandem with Brathios and his bulwark charge. Though Lysander had deflected the sword strike with the relative ease of a century of duelling, his fragile form was stoic only against metal, blade, bone and glass. A man’s body was a weapon altogether unfamiliar to the warrior, and he found himself taken aback, knocked back, winded, and then scattered to the deck.

Brathios’ roared, a roar like a lion deranged, a dragon enraged, and a man gripped by bloodthirsty rage close to a kill.

The second cannon fired a deep, penetrating blast that burnt the molecules in the air and bolted a second warning shot through the skies to the distant, but now not so distant ship. Whatever idle flight of fancy the airships they had appeared in the arena on had been engaged in was all but over. There would be a battle over the city of Scara Brae long after Lysander and Brathios finished their bravado pandering.

Looking up into bestial eyes, the swordsman could only think about his fate. Though his blade was set across his chest, deflecting a follow up strike from a fist with its flat edge, and another with a well-timed roll to the side, when Brathios punched, his clawed hangs, weapons unto themselves, pierced the deck and clumped heavily into, and through the salty wood. As Lysander continued to roll, his breath heavy, the Katarhna flailing, he pictured his own chest in the deck’s place.

“Such strength you possess, yet so wildly flung!” he roared as he pushed himself upright. He had come to a stop some fifteen feet to Brathios’ right. His heart beat in his chest like a tom drum pounded with life and loathing. He felt dizzy, but the dizziness was adrenaline, excitement, and survival instinct. “If that were my chest,” he shook his head, which caused his hair to flap raggedly in the whipping wind. “Well, lest we settle on a swift and unfortunate end.” He pointed the tip of his sword at the cruel impact on the deck.
Third cannon shot rang through the skies, churning the wisps of mist and clouds that began to assault the turning ship. The shell hit something, wood, most likely, in the distant expanse of the enemy ship.

“Come on you idiot, get this over with!” Duffy cried from within the mercury realm of his own mind. Watching through the divining clouds, he spied the world through Lysander’s eyes. He could hear the cannons, and even his limited experience with gunpowder told him that soon, one of the ships would plummet to the sprawling meadows of the Duchy farmland below. Given their opponent’s wing growth, Duffy doubted that, despite Lysander’s talents, he would survive a fall from grace that high.

“Shall we try again, a minuet this time, for soul and swagger?” his question brought his blade to life once more, though as the vibration faded, a song burst forth from the enchanted dehlar edge. It was a minuet, a tinkling melody, and a female voice that sounded common, but dedicated.

The sword was singing Celia’s song, Lysander’s long dead wife’s requiem.

“Before I die of boredom which would irk you so.” He smirked, and cut the blade across his middle, to give him a neutral defence. Pain grew in his limbs, his chest, and his head.

[Penance]

The ship rocked violently from the exchange of cannon fire. He was no longer simply fighting this bizarre man who wielded his sword in the strangest manner he had ever seen – he was fighting gravity as well, struggling to steady himself and not leave his body open to a counterstrike.

His shield was splintered and he felt the distinct tang of blood as it blossomed from the wound, tracing jagged lines of liquid fire down his arm where the remnants of the shield lay ruined. Even his trusty sword, Andvallian steel, was pried from his grip and sent tumbling into the wooden decks behind him from their deliberate clash, unable to rival the properties of his opponents enchanted dehlar counterpart, and he unable to match its wielders swordsanship.

“Why won’t you die already?!”

Already starting to grow weary in the early stages of their battle’s climax, having committed far too much of his strength in his earlier attacks than he planned, the razor-sharp talons that ridged his fingers sunk into the bloodstained deck that he briefly stared down into as he ripped his hands free. Seeing his blood saturating the polished wood didn’t help the anger and pain that mingled together into a sweet serum of seething rage. His vision dimmed, becoming red, and any clarity he may have achieved was gone in an instant. It was replaced with only a single-minded bloodlust directed at his sharp-tongued foe whose words somehow managed to sink beneath his skin and draw the worst of him out.

Lunging towards his foe even as the mast of the airship was struck by an enemy cannon, cracking it into two halves, and sending the uppermost portion of it crashing down onto the deck, the highlander brought the serene metal of his balled left fist streaming towards his foe’s jaw.

What would it take to put him down? The man had taken everything he had to offer, but still refused to die.

[Duffy]

A bard only really truly died when he lost his ability to speak. A bard, who could not speak, could also not sing, orate, and scintillate. When the iron fist connected with the shrew like maw of Lysander, a part of him did die. His pride went along with it, leaving only the throbbing irony of being undone by bone and sinew, and not blade and blast.

“Well that just weren’t fair,” the bard said, with an accent and demeanour entirely different to what it had been moments before. Scara Brae slipped from between his bloodied lips, odd at ease with the High Corone Tradespeak of Lysander’s. Something changed in the split second contact between the hunter, and the hunted. Something fell away, and something else rose from the mercury depths.

Duffy looked up at his attacker, the pain in his jaw so intense he couldn’t bear it. He winced, which only caused more pain, and instincetly made him raise a shaking hand to inspect the damage. He gave way, his knees buckling, his injured leg collapsing, and his confidence fading. With a thud, he hit the deck, and his heart beat faded in the midst of a cannonade and an encroaching storm.

“Get up…” Lysander roared, though only Duffy could hear the blade singer’s voice. Standing on the dock at the heart of The Aria, he stood confidently, blistering with anger and sword in hand. Though he had been knocked quite literally from existence, his fight against the barbarian was far from over. “Get thine backside, up!” the increase in pitch ran down Duffy’s spine, and smothered his pity with guilt and desire.

With a deep breath, Duffy pushed himself upright. Feverishly, he pushed through the sweat, the pain, and the exertion until he stood before his opponent, arms clenched, cane conjured into his right palm instead of his blade, and dusted jacket flapping in the wind. The shattered mast crashed down onto the deck, a descent of madness to mirror ascension into clarity.

“To answer your question,” he said, as the ship rocked steady. The battle over the bow faded for a moment, falling out of mind and earshot as Duffy’s voice took on a property that was like treacle – it stuck thick and ichor like, to every wisp of air and moment of time. His charisma, Duffy’s greatest weapon, lashed out with blows deadlier than sword strikes. “I don’t give up quite that easy.” His words sounded sincere, but as every tiny motion of his jaw jolted the muscles in his neck and the nerves in his spine with a thousand little agonies, he was not sure he could maintain the façade for long. He set the cane at an angle.

A cannon ball whistled overhead. It missed the ship they were fighting on, but levied its force into the smaller gun vessel that was hovering behind the beleaguered flagship. The eruption of sound, wooden splinters, and screams served as the perfect opener to Act Two. Duffy, wistful and riposte, brought his cane up like a blade, and with the same breath, sent it away, and conjured Wainwright’s Dagger into his grip. Without further ado, he sprinted forwards, jaw agog, bloodied, and dripping like a feral beast’s maw, and lashed out with a flurry of thrusts, cuts, and calamitous strikes.


Lysander has retreated, and Duffy is now himself again.

[Otto]

Paragon

Plot: 17/30
Plot was pretty mediocre. Setting was decent, but took a back seat towards the middle, and you didn’t really capitalise on the excitement at the end. Pacing was alright, but a bit slow for a battle, mostly due to the amount of backtracking (repeating events from the previous post/s).

Character: 17/30
Pretty standard dialogue; nothing exceptional, and not particularly enlightening of Briathos’ character. Similar deal for action, but I was struck by the unlikelihood of a thrown javelin supporting the full weight of a 70+ kg man in mail armour. Persona was, overall, a bit on the underdeveloped side – seemed a bit one-dimensional.

Prose: 18/30
Decent mechanics. Some punctuation seemed to give you trouble, specifically, missing commas (which resulted in awkward run-on sentences) and misused colons. I also noticed a few typos. Clarity was not an issue, for the most part, with some exceptions (as in post 5). Nothing really noteworthy in technique, but I did see the odd glimmer of inspiration.

Wildcard: 5/10
Briathos didn’t really come across as much more than the driving force behind the sword and shield which Duffy fought. I would highly recommend developing character, perhaps through your writing ‘voice’ (which was a little bland).

Total: 57/100



Duffy

Plot: 19/30
Story was on par with Briathos’. Setting was a bit more detailed, and implemented to a much fuller extent by initialising the start of the firefight; too bad you guys didn’t get to capitalise on that. Pacing was okay – but a bit congested in parts, word-wise.

Character: 20/30
Dialogue was fine – particularly, regarding the noticeable difference between Duffy and Lysander. Action was pretty good, but I feel the need to point something out. Not sure if you know, but generally, katanas (and similarly made weapons) should not be used to parry, or strike much more than flesh. The metal is usually much less elastic/flexible than their European counterparts, so they bend out of shape/chip/snap more easily (although the brittleness also lends to their cutting power).

Prose: 20/30
A good, solid grasp on grammar, with the odd typo. Writing also flowed nicely. Clarity was a bit ‘eh’ (or, rather, ‘eh?’) here and there, because of aforementioned congestion. Technique also good, but dare I say, a little unadventurous (which isn’t inherently bad, but how else will you develop it?).

Wildcard: 6/10
A straightforward, hack-and-slash battle doesn’t have to be dull and lacking in character and depth, apparently (who’d have guessed?).

Total: 65/100



Duffy Bracken wins, and receives 2500 experience and 100 gold.

Penance receives 700 experience and 85 gold.

Experience deducted for incomplete thread.

[Mordelain]

Experience and gold added.