Of Earth and Tree (closed)

[Devonus]

The tall oak doors that lead to the arena I was to call my home, had stood 20 foot tall, seeming to have been crafted themselves from the Crimson oaks of the forest I called home. The wood whispered to me of forgotten secrets and lore as it slowly creaked open, an instinctive gasp of fear as I turned my eyes from the bright light escaping the doorway, a loud growl echoing from the wolf at my side as day light engulfed us.

It burned, my vampiric senses screaming in agony as they cried out to run, to seek the safety of shadows, to find a shelter from this onslaught of light that etched it's way into my eyes.... It burned my heart, but my skin... it stood untouched. Blinking through the tears as I reached down to comfort agar, the indomitable creature shivering and shaking as it tried to guard me from the light that spilled through the doorway. “Its okay brother, it doesn't burn, not my skin anyways.”

I looked out, tears burning in my eyes from the unaccustomed brightness as I surveyed the battlefield before me, the golden rays of sun reflecting brightly off my blonde hair and seeming to glow much to my disdain. For over a century the world of daylight had laid beyond me, but before me stretched the red forest in all it's glory. Towering trees of crimson spreading their branches in bloody beauty as their cursed branches blotted out the sky. Cursed perhaps, but this great forest of Lindequalmë, sang of a gorgeous death beneath it's boughs. It was a primal song of savage fury and primal instinct, and I so longed to find a soul who could hear that song as well.

However, this was the citadel, not my forest. This is a place in which blood, my own perhaps, would flow and I had little time to be enamoured by the daylight and the beauty which it brought. The crimson wolf behind me gazed ahead longingly as well and I ran my head through his thick fur, his long snout turning to stare it me in almost puppy like innocence as his tongue lolled out between his canine fangs and his face accentuated by the black markings on his face.

“I know boy, if we had time we would hunt the day as we both once did before our paths crossed. It is after all in part why I am here... However, the death song of battle shall soon sing in these woods. and we must be ready.”

If only the monks would make me my own personal world to live in, to see these woods each day in the beauty I so long ago lost.

The view in which I had been so enamoured, was the woods from across an open field, stretching perhaps 100 yards wide with a scatter of smaller Rowan tree scattered about, the taller and more impressive oaks and crimson willows standing at the edge of the clearing before the bright of day was lost in the crimson dark of the deep woods. In the distance the sound of fauna could be heard as I walked to the opposite side, the crimson door swinging close behind me and vanishing with a thud. A wolf pack cried out far away in the distance as agar tilting his head in longing, having lost his pack so long ago.

How much of the deadly fauna and flora of these woods did they recreate I wonder..

Weather or not the fabled monks could recreate wildlife that in itself was partially in result of a forgotten one, was indeed an intriguing conundrum. After all I was still unsure of whether this was real or not, but the scent of grass and earth that danced on the wind told me it was, however the fact that I now stood in daylight screamed to my mind that it wasn't.

A man could be lost in the illusions of these halls so easily, it is no wonder the monks guard their secret so closely...


The trees echoed with the whispers of death, the creaking of branches and the soft groan of ancient wood bending, the soft caws of crows echoing through the branches as I took a seat upon a small rock at the opposite edge of the clearing, fixing my eyes where the door had once stood as I awaited the arrival of my opponent today, My bow idly in hand as my other caressed the now stoic beast beside me, the slow intensity of the hunt burning it's way into both our eyes.

[Cydnar]

The arena before his feet was Lindequalmë, the Red Forest. In many languages it was referred to as the scourge of the Forgotten One Pode. There were few places in the world Cydnar loathed, and this, epitaph of the arrogance of the High Elves, was amongst the worst. It was a biting, embittered reminder that the Hummel was beleaguered on all fronts, and that wherever he went, he could not escape his duties and responsibilities to his kin – at least, not for long.

“Thank you, Soudan,” he said, with an acknowledging bow.

He straightened his back and stood upright, hands still crossed to the front, and hair glistening flaxen in the torchlight as it danced in their presence in the narrow corridor. The air was heady with the scent of incense, sand, and blood, and the cooler air, though still humid, washed out of the arena over them both. The robed Ai’bron simply nodded, turned on a heavy heel, and walked away into the darkness.

Cydnar waited until he was alone before he spoke again, his voice coarse and drained, resigned to his inevitable fate. He had come too close to death at the hands of the wild vines and wandering tree folk of the red forest to be careless now. He strode into the battleground, battered, well-worn boots sturdy as they rose and fell over the moss laden weave of tree roots and vines, and heart pounding in his slender ribcage.

“<Vishay il umbel, mal toy sho>”, he proclaimed in defiance.

The thick accent that accompanied the Hummel’s bastardised tongue did away with the tension in the elf’s bones. It was comforting, a balm over the already sweating, coarse skin beneath flowing deep purple robes. He already regretted his choice of garb. Though he looked every bit the proud and resplendent officialdom of his people, the cloth of the Salthias, the Paladins of Yrene was ill suited to the tropical climate.

“A little late now,” he bemoaned. He trudged on regardless, palms rested on the hilts of his sword canes, eyes level with the horizon; or what little of it he could make out through the dense, crimson tree line.

Every step he took he reached out with a radix of power, trying to gauge wherever or not there was magic, beyond that of the deep seated taint of the forest, lingering in the beyond. His nose twitched, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention in intimation. Whatever happened, either his opponent, or the rage of the Lindequalmë would make its presence known soon enough.


Hummel translation - "You will claim nothing from me today."

[Devonus]

The sweet scent of Lindequalmë drifts past me as I wait, my head ringing with the memories brought about by this rare glimpse of the red forest in daylight. Beside me Agar rests, complacently on his side as a soft tune begins to hum in my head. A song from summers long past when the forest was not more than a forbidding place of nightmares to a young half elf, a song of woe and worry upon a mother's lips as she tended to her garden. A song none the less haunting in it's dark beauty to a child not yet aware of the worries of the world. Agar lifts his head in silent annoyance at his rest being disturbed by the words forming on my lips, slowly finding form from a voice that had not sung in years.

“Come dance in the dark, come dance in deaths den,
so sings Pode in Lindequalmë
She sings a song, a song of much sin
So sings Pode in Lindequalmë

Its a song of sadness,
of innocence gone
Its a song of madness
of nature gone wrong.

A song of....”

Agar gives a soft growl, interrupting my childish memories as he gets to his feet, turning to the forest behind us and lifting his head to howl. The howl that said prey was approaching. I grimace as I raise myself fromt the rock, mentally reproaching myself for my mortal sentimentality. Not only for it having been there at all, but also because I had chosen of all places, to embrace it in the Citadel.

The songs of mortal children have no place on the field of battle, nor in the heart of one such as I.

I close my eyes, letting the thought of blood drown out the feeble memories. It courses through me, it's remembered taste dances upon my lips as my eye scan the forest for whomever had raised Agar’s hackles. With cold glee I knock an arrow to my bow, running the tip of my finger along the arrow head, small droplets of blood forming on it as it cuts in, the small searing pain a reminder of things to come. A smirk crossing my lips as I lift the now bleeding finger to my lips. Whomever may come, they would be my feast on this day.

[Cydnar]

Cydnar expected many things to appear before him in the illusory forest. The idyll of a softly sung song was not one of them. He furrowed his brow as he advanced, the lines on his skin already well embedded on his visage from years, if not decades of war and toil.

“I’d rather it be Corpsethorn Braggarts,” he grumbled, picturing the thorny goblins with cruel, blood thirsty claws that inhabited the northern welds of the real Lindequalmë. He and his brother had spent many a full moon in the grip of a wild hunt, culling the populous lest they ebb and swell and engulf all the ruins of Raiaera.

Another verse drifted through the trees, swirling around the ancient bark and the moss laden rocks that offered rest stop and tomb stone alike. It was in a cruel, simple, and ill spoken dialect the likes of which Cydnar had not heard in centuries. He wrinkled his nose with disdain. It meant only one thing; his opponent was elven. Today was not a good day.

“That’s quite enough!” he bellowed, pushing on into the denser part of the wood in the direction the voice was coming from. He tromped his ill-suited domain, sweated his fervour thick into his clothing, and when he broke, surprisingly, and exasperated, through into the glade beyond, he looked quite the state.

“This is the Citadel,” he said flatly as he straightened himself, tapped the hilts of his sword canes, and addressed his would be opponent. As Cydnar expected, he was elven, and accompanied by a creature he had not seen before. “Not a theatre.”

He took a deep, longing breath, but found no clean air or comfort in the tepid atmosphere of the forest. The heady vapours smelt of Vanern Flower, beast dung, and the all too familiar sycophantic aroma of magic. Cydnar leered, his cruel smile revealing the tips of his serpentine canines. With grace and virtue, he withdrew Freya from its sheath, and let it glow in the dim light of the glade in tandem with the flickering fire flies that spiralled about vine trellis and turquoise shrubbery.

“Shall we?” he raised an eyebrow.

[Devonus]

"A theatre of combat, a theatre of song, regardless of intent a theatre is always a place of combat, be it the clash of swords and blood, or words and music, that make the symphony is all that differs."

I return his cold smile, matching it with intentional detail as I let my own slightly larger canines glimmer in the daylight. Following the beads of sweat that glisten upon his forehead and slowly slide down his neck, a hungry gleam dancing in my eyes as it follows the curve of his clavicle, silently thanking my sire for having left me cold blooded and unaffected by the ambient temperature.

I honestly had no wish for combat, though the taste of hummel was an unknown exotic feature of the current challenge. They had been known in my day, but were rarely seen, in the past century I had seen perhaps 3 or 4, and never have had the joy of tasting their blood upon my tongue. Perhaps today my palette would have a delightful experience when all was said and done.

"but yes, we shall, we shall make this forest sing once again the song of death that is it's namesake."

I draw my bow back, my eyes following and guiding the shaft onto it's targets, aiming squarely for the center of the hummel's chest. Clicking my tongue in a silent command for the unnaturally large wolf next to me to heel. Agar had no purpose as of yet, though the soft growl and huff from him showed his obvious disappointment.

"For so sings Pode, in Lindequalme." I whisper along the shaft before letting it fly, the robin feathers softly flapping in the wind as the steel arrowhead glimmers and shines like a hungry viper's fang as it seeks its prey, Keeping my eyes locked on the hummel as I pull another arrow from my quiver and knock it,

[Cydnar]

Cydnar could not help but roll his eyes, in a most undignified manner, as his opponent prattled on. Throughout his life, he had been oft accused of dragging his heels during oration. He was, quite clearly, timid with his tongue compared to some.

“The monks set me against an archer?” Cydnar asked, somewhat rhetorically. He coughed, though it was clearly a mocking gesture, and not a stuck fly, “sorry, a coward.” He waved his blade in his hand, allowing it to be fluid and free in his grip.

By the skin of his teeth, he slipped out of the arrow's path, twisting his waist so that he melded to the right. It whistled past his neck, it's razor edge threatening to undo his efforts there and then. It clunked into a tree trunk on the far side of the arena from it's owner, bouncing to a standstill, left for all time as a testament to war.

Cydnar righted himself, sweating even more propitiously than ever.

The forest continued to sing its own song all around them, teeming with staccato rhythms and bestial drums. With keen eyesight, the Hummel picked out the places on his opponent’s lanky form that became taught and strained as he notched his arrow. His encounters with archers were few in number, but his brother, a keen military strategist, had taught him how to estimate his opponent’s abilities with eye and aim. There were few imperfections, which unnerved him deeply.

“Very well,” he said, as if he had been asked a question, “we shall see just how quick your verses crumble,” he set his feet apart, heavy boots working against the rough bark.

A radix of power formed about him, sucking the world dry of its malice. The roots beneath his feet cracked, as all the moisture was drawn from them by a phantasmal force.

“I stake a bet against my aim over yours, though,” he grinned, his elongated, serpentine canines revealed in all their unrestrained glory. His tongue lashed, his eyes sparkled, and from nothing, he produced arrows of his own design.

A solitary, dense, and deep vermillion quartz orb materialised before his brow. It’s inner light cast a dancing glow over his pallid skin as it rotated, crafted with unseen hands and immeasurable geomantic control. Before the arrow could be let loose, he concentrated intensely for a split-second, and propelled the sphere directly forwards.

“Hyyyuurrr!” he roared, practically becoming one of the Red Forest’s beasts himself.

The projectile streamed away, aimed directly at Devonus’ bow.

[Devonus]

I watch in slight amusement as he turns to the right, a small smirk crossing my lips as I watch him break into a heavier sweat, and make note of the flight path and the effect the wind had taken. I had not detected an updraft, however the near miss of his neck showed that it was indeed there, as I had calculated correctly for the arc. It was a small annoyance but also offered a boon, extending my range should I choose to put more distance between us.

“ So says the coward whose people have hid beneath the earth for so long.”

As I watched the ball of quartz conjure I take aim for his chest again, making note of the updraft so that it will land squarely in his chest if it lands this time. The hummel was very agile and well trained, most amateurs would have attempted to dive or dodge completely, which would have taken more time to build up the muscles to move so violently, this one had wasted no effort or time in simply twisting his body to let the arrow slide past by a hair. To truly land a blow on this foe would take both skill and luck, as well as time....

However, of more important note was the fist sized ball of quartz unfortunately hurtling towards my face, the hummels had a penchant for geomancy and this one was proving no different, however I had expected stony dry chasms and rock hard shafts, not flying balls. With a grimace I stand my ground to insure my arrow flies true, a soft whistle issuing from my lips as I release.

The wolf beside me reacts instantly, centuries of companionship and combat making both our movements and needs congruent, our minds practically in sync with little need for communication. With a soft bark he barrels into me, attempting to push me out of the path of the arrow at the last moment so that I might insure its flight does not waver in my hasty attempt to dodge. I grunt as the huge wolf pounds into my side the wolf having put every ounce of muscle into the push knowing I could take it and recover, though I would probably have a nasty bruise for the next few days, that was of course if it had been in time to stop the quartz from embedding itself in me.

[Cydnar]

The strain on Cydnar’s face grew into a furrowed medley of contention, grievance, and self-loathing. The words of the elf were not necessarily hurtful, but he found them irritating all the same. Every bit of his skin, beneath the lather of sweat, found itself itching and crawling with disgust and contempt.

“I would rather live beneath the blessed earth than allow my companions to take the fall for my failings,” he said, ushering in a new age of confidence born of mutual hatred. He waved his hand, like a military gesture, through the tepid air. “We remain in the Under Dark, ever vigilant for the surface world.” He had been vigilant, or so it seemed, for far too long.

The arrow bolted, flying true, across the gap between the elves.

The quartz shard rattled over the vines in the distance, and disappeared into the thick lattice. It, unlike the arrow, would become one with the world soon enough, as the vines, moss, and lichen claimed its brother back into the crust. Cydnar hoped that is where his opponent’s body would go, and that no one would lament his loss with the so called ‘song’ he clung to so dearly.

He also hoped that, as the arrow clashed against his clavicle that his armour would hold. The sound of piercing tip colliding with iron wrought with crystal echoed through the clearing. The elf stumbled back a step, reeling from the force of the strike, an immediately raised his hand to his shoulder. He looked down; sword tightly gripped and risen like a standard, and sighed with relief.

The arrow head had shattered, but it had left a hefty crater in his breastplate, where the quartz had come away from the ore and crumbled. It was a well-known property of geomantically crafted armour – it was also its saving grace, for if it were too hard, he would surely have an arrow in his torso.

“I misjudged your aim,” he said, appreciating the military prowess he was now clearly facing. Cydnar respected little of the outside world, save for diplomacy, warfare, and art. He levelled his gaze on the prone bard, and nodded gruffly. Though his shoulder was now ablaze with aches, no doubt to be graced with a substantial bruise, they had both survived the introduction to their requiem.

“I will not do so again,” he added, as he burst into a swift advance, hair flowing like quicksilver in his wake, his second sword drawn in a lightning riposte of form. He skipped over the vines, and descended upon his opponent like a dervish from the shadows.

[Devonus]

I grimaced as the hot ground crashed into me and the weight of agar rested on top of me. Quickly urging him off of me and slowly lifting myself off the ground. Grimacing at the fresh bruises as I watched my arrow shatter and crumble off the hummel’s armor.

Blasted geomantic armor? That will be a pain...

It was quite problematic, it would take great force to cleave through it, or many blows to crumble it, which was its only weakness. It was as strong as regular armor with better piercing protection, only bludgeoning strikes could cause damage through the armor for the most part. Its only disadvantage was that it was not as durable... or perhaps it had others.

However before I can focus on getting past that armor, a sweating lithe figure comes rushing towards me, swords appearing in his hands. They were thinner than most, not the long swords normally employed by most, lithe, befitting of the agile figure now bearing down on me.

I give a quick two clucks of my tongue as I toss my bow the side. My hands reaching back and grabbing the staff off my back with one hand as I discreetly cut my hand on an arrow from my quiver. A knowing gleam dancing in my eyes as agar darts off into the safety of the woods, disappearing into the crimson forest as the blood slowly trickles down the length of the staff and pools lightly on the vines and grass beneath me, it was barely noticeable however seeing as the grass and vines themselves were already the deep crimson red that was the namesake of this area.

“And so the overture ends eh?,” turning my body and sliding my foot back for better balance and stability against the coming charge, the staff pointed in what was a traditional pike or spear stance meant to skewer charging cavalry, though it served a similar purpose in this state, the majority of the staff extending far from me with it braced against my thigh by one hand as the other guides the majority of the staff at the other end.

[Cydnar]

Cydnar’s final steps towards his opponent were filled with trepidation. He felt as if he were stepping into the breach, into the roil, swell, and well of battle proper. He had observed his opponent’s preparations to receive his battle charge as he crossed the lacquered vines at the heart of the clearing, each step disturbed red lichen, spreading spores and dust to the absent winds.

“I am no horse and rider!” he bellowed, his swords extended to either side, his arms curbed slightly, like an eagle’s wings.

He brought Freya sharply back, and drove it forwards towards the stave’s tip. It clashed against the wood, knocking it only a few inches from its steadfast position. Cydnar knew better than to continue in that vein, hopped back a step, and crossed both swords over his chest. His eyes, dark, brooding, and hate filled stared Devonus down.

“It seems you’ve find your true calling at least,” he smirked. He shook his head with a sharp twitch, to remove his flaxen fringe from his eyes, and then eased off his defence. He was experienced enough to read into his test of the man’s walls, to know that the staff was not simply going to be turned aside with speed and finesse.

Cydnar was by far the strongest swordsmen, his blows quick and true, but lacking in any raw, unfettered power. His brother, wielder of a blade as long as his own body and twice as heavy would have had little trouble cleaving the bard atwain. The Hummel would have both enjoyed seeing it just as much.

“First verses always make and break a composer’s debutante rehearsal,” he said. He doubted Devonus had ever performed his ‘talents’ before a courtly audience to understand the reference, but it made Cydnar feel capable, superior, and haughty.

Hubris of power, better focussed than the raw radix of his usual inartistic projectile surrounded the elf’s torso. The crystalline flecks in his hauberk glowed, if only slightly, amidst the overwhelming red hue of the illusory forest. He sheathed Altheas with a spiralling flourish, and then held Freya’s tip between forefinger and thumb. He looked at his opponent, standing some twenty feet away, with the blade of his sword cane cutting him at the midriff.

“How about we invite a few more enthusiasts to this audience?” he cocked his head to the left, his narrow, Fae bowline furrowing with inquisition. With his command, the quartz gifted to him by the World Eater, the Thayne Yrene began to appear.

This time, there was not one, but two, three, four, five vermillion conjurations. Sparkling dust surrounded Cydnar, from head to toe, and began to spiral around his body in a veil of obfuscation. It would appear, at least to the uninitiated, to be a wall deadly to the touch – it was, for now, purely decorative. The flecks darted in and out, adding to the growing array of levitating weapons that came into being through sheer concentration.

“A storm of critics is the deadliest of all,” he curled his lips into a cruel smile, before they puckered into an expression of concentration. He narrowed his gaze, took a deep breath, and then pushed the last of his waning strength in the jungle heat into the formation of a single, explosive, and overwhelming eruption of power.


Cydnar is starting to charge Storm of the Shatter Shard, as detailed in his profile. His sword is levelled flat before him, and the strength of the shards being summoned is currently that of granite.

[Devonus]

I was most intrigued and frustrated by this raging elf and his quips, he seemed eager to spar with words as well as blades but would just as soon dash to the fray, leaving naught but a moment for the taunts my tongue begged to let loose. Perhaps it was best to leave them unanswered, words served no purpose for a dead man, which one of us shortly would be.

I was impressed, if a bit disappointed by this tactile decision to leave my staff unchallenged. His one attempt had yielded little result, though i had expected no less. The staff was stout oak, and far from impervious to blades and being hewn asunder, but it would take many blows from the small agile blades he danced with, and though I longed to see what kind of partner he would be in the dance of melee. After all, whatever torments raged inside this man were best tasted within arms reach, and such a taste i would have.

After all, he certainly is as agile if not more so than me, and definately better armed with that armor of his

Alas, the grey skinned bastard son of a banished race and a fallen race darts away, leaving me braced for an affair not to be had as i attempt to swirl my staff and knock his sword to the side for an opening, only to find him fading back. I narrow my eyes in disgust and disappointment, following his step backwards and taking note of his placement, growing tired of containing myself, and so too, was he it seemed. His remark regarding “enthusiasts” an obvious sign that he intends to step this fight up to it's conclusion.

Luckily, I didn't have long to wait to see how, a few chanted words, a burst of magic, and a swirling vortex of stone appeared around the hummel. Shrouding him in a rotating wall of seemingly impervious stone that whistled in the wind, whispering of death to any who attempted to breach it, a few larger stones visible through the shroud similar to the one that had hurtled towards me earlier.

With a slightly exasperated sigh as another one of the hummels quips reaches my ears, i look up at the mock sun hanging in the sky, smiling slightly at the blinding light I had not seen in a century, and perhaps would not see again after this fight. It was a shame that it took a contest of arms to bring this small shred of my memoirs back to life. It was also a shame that shortly this red forest around me would vanish when one of us fell.

A forlorn howl in the vines and towering trees towards the edge of the forest shows the concern of my eternal companion and watchmen. The unease in Agar’s howl expressing his displeasure at the swirling mass of geomantic power in front of me. I give to short but loud whistles telling the crimson wolf hound to stay away, his time still had not come, at least not in a fight against one such as this.

But now it was time to act, or die, so it would seem. With a quick smile tinged with lust i bring my wrist to my mouth. Ripping a small gash across it and letting the blood flow freely onto the moss and wines beneath me. Whispers of revulsion echoing from the plants as they scream at the unnatural intrusion. The blood slowly seeping into them, contorting the very souls and consciousness to my whim. The pained cries swallowing ebbing into whisper of love and devotion, the things i so craved from the natural denizens of this cursed forest.

Slowly the vines begin to pulse, a seeming heartbeat taking up residence in them as the power of my blood courses the length of them, the vines that matted our battlefield were numerous and well grown. Untouched by the treading of beast and man, the roots and length of the plants that called this forest home could extend for yards, even as much as a mile in some cases. The hummel standing 20 feet away was easily overlapped by some of the vines and lichens that now hummed with my blood, and unless the hummel was levitating or having his own rock shield crash into his feet, the very ground which this geomancer stood, would soon be eating him alive.

“I’m sure you know the meaning of Lindequalme, the death song, and im sure you also know the reason why it is called such....”

I flash a wide toothy grin at the shrouded figure, my eyes dancing with glee as i snap my finger. The vines seeming to gain a life of their, quickly climbing and clinging up any surface they can find, wiggling into and widening the cracks found in stone and earth. The lichen slowly eating it's way up and over rocks, dissolving them. The power of 10 years of natures natural course exploding in a flourish,

“it's because this forest will sing your death....”

I chuckle softly, keen eyes locked on the shrouded figuring, wondering just what damage natures fury would wrought upon the figure behind that vortex of rock.

“for so sings Pode..... in Lindequalme.”

4 BP used to explosively grow the lichen and vines.

[Cydnar]

Cydnar grinned, though it was a contorted expression torn between eagerness, bemusement, and struggle. Whilst he continued to channel his energy into the formation of his gambit, he tried to divine just what exactly the bard was up to. Spilling your own life-force to the rock of ages was never a good sign. It meant only one thing…

He took a deep breath, and then breathed in through his nostrils.

“The taint…” he seethed.

For centuries, Cydnar, and his kin, had sought to eradicate magic and it’s corruption from the surface. They, and their Thayne, had dedicated their lives to ensuring the Balance was maintained. Magic could be a force for good, by all means, but some people went too far. The Forgotten Ones had been the worst offenders, oligarchs to the powers they should never have wielded, fiends to the darkness that should never be endured.

“In Lindequalmë,” he began, spreading his arms wide, pointing his blade’s tip skyward, “there is only a song of remorse!” In the distance, birds scattered to the fell scented winds. “In the Red Forest, there is only remembrance.” He pointed his sword downwards, took it into both palms, and drove it so hard into the ground it moved without faltering through the vines beneath his aching feet.

With a snick, his haematite weapon reconnected with the earth that bore it into existence.

“I hear only a song of requiem for its progenitor.” He had been there, though in secret, the moment Pode had been destroyed proper. He had smiled, victories in his vigil, though longing to have been the blade that ended her life so very long ago. “Pode is dead.”

She was as dead as an immortal could be.

At that precise moment, the vines about the elf began to writhe, wriggle, and spurn themselves to life. Cydnar looked down, startled, but instinctually, and not through lack of understanding. As he pulled the blade from the clod of dirt, he splayed his fingertips and shot his hand out to the extreme left. The five orbs, now as hard as iron, instantly sped directly for the bard’s presence.

“Blood magic!” he roared. His fangs, deadly in form and function, once more revealed themselves in the twilight. He hated many things, but blood magic most of all.

The shatter storm, not quite a storm, but just as ready to shatter, sped towards the bard, with the flurry of crystalline, vermillion dust trailing after it with beauty and menace. Cydnar, unsheathing his second blade, stood defiant as four long serpentine adversaries leered up and surrounded him at the four compass points. Several smaller vines lashed at the hem of his robes, but his leather under garments rebuked their pitiful attempts.

As the vine lashed down, his swords lashed up, and a new battleground was drawn in the wake of his geomantic power’s expenditure. He was too busy to see if his magic connected with its intended target.

He did not much care.

"<I will end you, as I ended Xem'Zund!>" he shouted, his statement encapsulating his wrath as he swung for the nearest vine as it darted towards him, threatening to skewer him in an split-second.

[Devonus]

I let out a loud laugh, revelling in the anger and rage emanating from behind the shroud, amused by the hatred that emanated from this hummel, all over a simple children's song. It was fitting I suppose, Pode’s name was indeed a curse in many a culture, and there still places that made signs and gestures against the forgotten ones presence at the mention of her name. But the elves of Raiera had long ago grown to accept her presence in Lindequalme, she was a part of it's culture, a part of it's sorrow, in that he was correct.

But does it matter? no.. of course not. He is but a meal, an angry one at that.... I wonder if that adds spice...

I give a small derisive laugh as the hummels anger drives him into action. Seeing him prepare to lash out at the vines that coil around him. I have no control over how they grow nor what they do, I only spur their growth, which is, in itself, enough.

I also had no control over which parts grew either, which was now evident as I closed my eyes, embracing the vines and lichen as they began to grow up me, softly cocooning me.I smile contentedly, feeling the cool vines as they slithered along my skin, embracing me with soft words of love. First my ankles, then my thighs, their growth unhindered by struggle as they wrapped themselves serenely around my arms and waist. Fighting them only lead to a tangled mess, a mass of knotted vines as they bent and warped and twined in response to the place on which they wished to grow, in which case was both of our bodies.

I open my eyes to see how my opponent fairs as he curses my use of blood magic, only to see the shroud I had believed to be a shield, hurtling towards me, the glimmer of quartz and dust sparkling brightly in the sunlight as it flies for it’s intended target, me. The vines have me, my blissful ignorance having allowed them to much time to grow around me, there was no where to move, and 5 deadly crystals intent on ravaging my body.

A twinge of fear dance in my eyes as I inhale, a long whistle echoing in the air as the a solemn howl rises in response. My mouth opening wide as I squint my eyes, knowing the pain I would soon feel would be far from pleasant. But it was necessary, I needed blood. With a loud grunt my mouth snaps shut, my sharpened incisors and canines digging into my tongue, rending and tearing at it, a good inch of my tongue falling to the ground with a thud before being swallowed by the writhing vines.

Spurts of blood from the Lingual artery gurgle in my throat as I open wide and spew the blood onto the vines below me, urging them to grow faster, doubling, than tripling their growth as they scream silently, ecstasy entwining their now corrupted conscious as they swallow it, bathe in it, are consumed by it. With savage fury they consume me in their embrace. covering me in layers of vines, creeping under my armor and tearing it as well as entwining my staff. If I breathed,Ii would most assuredly suffocate.

I gasp as the first impact comes, a concussive pound planting itself squarely in the chest, a muffled groan squeezing from my lips between the vines. the next hit following shortly afterwards, pile driving into my gut, the groan turning into a screech of pure agony as the sharp snap of a rib breaking, my mouth quickly filling with blood and bile as I empty the nonexistent contents of my stomach, the scream still gurgling on from the blood from tongue and stomach as my eyes glaze over in shock.

The third impact I only hear, the agony already overwhelming my senses, wishing I was a mortal so that I might succumb to the pain and lose myself in blissful unconsciousness. My left arm shudders and cracks, shards of bone puncturing the back of my arm as the my stomach finally ceases it's wrenching, and the pain in my chest subsides, the feeling of a thousand pieces of glass shoots up my arm as I hear the last two quartz weapons fly by, one clipping my legs and shredding the fines that hold it there, another grazing the top of my head, leaving a gash which would have proved fatal had it been but a hair farther down.

In the distance the howl grows closer to where my pray last stood, and within the cocoon, a fire begins to rage deep within, a searing pain grips me body all over as the scent of blood wafts over me, not my own, no, that blood serves no purpose, but the blood of the hummel..

End me you have hummel....just not all of me yet.

A soft laugh echoes from my lips as my pupils turn red and the world is engulfed in hate and lust. My lips part in a ghastly grin as my fangs elongate further, piercing into my own gums but drawing no blood. My hands instinctively clench and un-clech, feeling the nails as they begin to elongate and cut into the vines, a roar of pain screaming from my left arm, my fingers numb as the tendons scream at me to let them be, to let them heal from the suffering the shards of bone now cause them. But I feel no pain, feel no emotion, I feel only hunger.

4 BP to double then triple plants growth rate (equivalant of 30 years growth), 2 bp loss due to combat= Blood rage mode

[Cydnar]

Cydnar watched his opponent crumble; between soft dances, strange maneavours, and spiralling flourishes he cried triumphant. He ducked, twirled, and spiralled in and out of the darting advance of the serpentine vines.

“Now the forest sings of your death!” he heckled, ducking to a low stoop, cutting sideways with Freya, and licking his lips with satisfaction as the first fine twitched, and fell to the floor, defeated.

There was a wolf howl in the distance, a blood curdling and defiant echo of the forest’s pain. Then, as if death became life in Lindequalmë, the vines began to behave more erratically, more unnatural, and more perverse. Cydnar was too occupied with preventing himself from meeting an untimely end to notice that it was his own strength, and the wounds he had inflicted so cruelly on his opponent that was spurning magic to thrive in the hearth of Raiera.

“Though…” he stood upright, an expression of realisation across his face. “Why is there another voice in the melody?” he let his blades hang by his sides, their tips a few inches from the vine lattice, his boots half buried in the moss between the writhing vines. They ceased their assault, and instead of darting at the elf, they darted together, burgeoning with life that made them weave themselves into verdant art.

He heard the truth of the matter too late, long after the magic of the bard had touched the forest floor and given its strength to that of the ancient taint left by Pode. Even the slightest provocation to the seals of the ancient witch would have explosive effects. She was true enough dead, but her legacy lived firmly on in every leaf, beast, and crumbled battlement in the sprawling woodland.

In his momentary still, he did not notice a sly vine curling up and over his right foot. Quite innocently, the spruce ensnared an unwitting prey, and lashed tightly; its youthful motion sealed Cydnar’s fate. He darted his gaze down, the treeline reforming with a blur into his trapped foot. He snarled, though there was no ferocity in his tone – only fear.

The vines swelled, a spurt of growth gifted by elven magic, and soon and sure enough, Cydnar’s other foot vanished. He tried to struggle, but gave up within minutes.

“You have been deemed unworthy!” he challenged, his authoritarian tone evocative of the judiciary powers of the Hummel. He turned half way to face his dying adversary, and content that, though he would soon die too, he had delivered the death blow required of his station. “The crime…” the vines curled around his knees, and he felt his legs buckle as the tightening tendrils began to tighten too much.

“Death…”

He closed his eyes, and waited. Of tree and roots the monks would chant, and of tree and roots the crowds would sing.

Regret was all Cydnar would hear echoed in the verses, eternally sorrowful that he had once again allowed his blind zeal to hide the truth.

[Devonus]

With savage rage, the fire burned within me. It screamed it's empty hate through the vines, the blood curdling cry of a wounded beat, desperate for survival. To my own ears the scream was unnatural, unmeant to issue from a sentient’s lips. I only half register this though, so all consuming was the fire in my veins. Thoughts, memories, emotions, they were but ashes swept away in the need for blood, the need to feed. Across from me the hummel’s blood screamed at me, begged for me, to take it, to devour it, to feed the fire with it.

My tongueless mouth clashes at the vines about it.Rending and tearing it like sinew from flesh, small spurts of my own blood insuring from it into my own mouth, but that would not do, no my own blood was long dead, it would not feed the beast, only tempt it.

Through the fog of my hunger, the sounds of bones cracking echoes in my ears. My shattered arm rending at itself and at the vines that surrounds it, the claws that now adorn my fingers shredding the vines as I attempt to pull free. Shivers of pain quiver through me, my left arm slowly destroying itself through it's own actions, only to be consumed by a single thought that pounds ceaselessly in my head.

Blood

Its scent dances in the wind and spurns me onward, it's soft pounding issuing from the mass of vines ahead of me, unmoving but nonetheless very much alive for now, suffocation is a long painful death. A soft whimpering voice sounds from my side, my right hand instinctively grabbing the wolf that struggles to free me from my bonds. Agars whimpers turning to cries of pain as he struggles on against the vines, ignoring the claws digging into his back till he finally frees me.

With savage lust I rip free of the vines and descend upon the wolf. It has no scent of blood, no sound of life, but it's moves so it's must bleed. In heated lust I sink my fangs into the wolf, the soft taste of bitter cold blood drenches my mouth, my body screams once again in need, at being robbed of the feast it though at hand. With a growl of anger, Agar is pushed away, a soft whimper emanating from my friends lips as he limps away, his tail between his leg as he stares at me with love and pity, but he doesnt matter.

Blood..

My head swivels to the vines, my mouth opening again in a guttural roar of lust as I descend upon it, my left arms lashing out for the figure shrouded with in, a sickening crack echoing through the clearing as it at last gives in and hang useless at my side, far to damaged to move, shards of bone now perforating the skin. hanging as dead weight as my fangs and teeth dig into the vines, my right hand grasping through the vines for the feast hid within.

A roar of guttural triumph resounds through the clearing, sending birds to flight as I feel claw sink into flesh finally. Rending the rest of my way in before lowering my head to the unconscious ones neck. The scent, the throb, the need for blood gripping me even stronger as my fangs rip at the elfs neck, spurts of blood spraying across me and the ground as the jugular is completely ripped out, pieces of it and flesh hanging from my lips as I lower my mouth over the font. I lose myself in it, it's scent and flavor overwashing me, the savage need consuming it all. I finally get my taste of this rage filled warrior, this bastard son of the earth....

It tastes like chicken...

[Otto]

Devonus:

Plot: 16/30


Storytelling: 4/10
It’s a shame that you didn’t get creative with the premise. Devonus had a chance here to revisit some of his past life, pre-vampirism. It would have been interesting to see what his reaction to walking around in the sunlit Lindequalme would be like; perhaps it stirs up emotions which he had thought himself beyond feeling – or maybe the opposite occurs, and a sense of apathy serves to highlight how much Devonus has changed.
The combat itself, too, was plain fare – a simple case of two blokes hitting each other repeatedly until one or the other falls down. Why not get inventive here, as well? Devonus is a hunter, a predator. He could have tried stalking Cydnar, staying in the shadows, chasing him... or leading him on into a trap. Either would have teased the story out nicely, giving it time to build up.
Apart from all that, it would have helped to get a little information on what, exactly, a vampiric half-elf from Raiaera was doing at the Citadel. Perhaps you are following a story arc which has led him to Corone, and have already covered his entry to the island in another thread – but I have no way of knowing that. Not a major issue in this case, but maybe just throw in a couple of sentences referring to his trip there next time round.


Setting: 6/10
I seem to keep nagging people about this, so maybe it’s just me, but the visual impression tends to be given too much importance. You did, in fact, avoid falling into this trap completely, but I would have liked to see more (does the forest smell of wet soil and rich humus? Does sunlight pour through gaps in the canopy like a thousand boiling waterfalls? Does cold, coiled mist lick wetly at Devonus’ heels?
For the vast majority of the thread, your scene-setting was written with distinct, emotive voice. Just a heads up (and this comes under ‘technique’, too, but is relevant here): see post 1, paragraph 7, for an example of where the description of the environment sounds a bit like site survey field notes. To help prevent this, avoid using numerals (1, 2, 3 etc.; discussed in further detail under ‘mechanics’).
Lastly, Devonus didn’t really seem to interact with the setting that much, and quite a bit of his ‘explosive growth’ ability was enacted in Cyd’s own posts. Also, you mention that Lindequalme is filled with “deadly fauna and flora”. I saw nothing inherently dangerous about the forest, which not only conflicted with this account, but also meant you missed opportunities to a) showcase your knowledge of the area, and b) use it to your advantage against your opponent.


Pacing: 6/10
The pace of your posts didn’t vary that much, in response to the demands of the story. They also tended to drag on a bit. In post 7, I think you exposited too much on the geomantic tendencies of the Hummel as Cydnar’s projectile was flying at Devonus; this turned what should have been a quick, tense and flowing bit of action into a stodgy length of text. Such scenes can be difficult to pull off, as it they are best done when one manages to write a lot with a little; this can be achieved by trimming off the dead weight, using short and clipped sentences (long compound sentences can appear drawn out), and minimising your word count.


Character: 19/30


Communication: 6/10
Some grammatical errors in speech are fine, and can be used to imitate a character’s actual speech and mannerisms. Others appear to confound this goal. I saw both, here. Example: “And so the overture ends eh?” (post 9); without a comma after “ends”, Devonus’ speech seems to lack inflection. There are also a few lines of awkwardly structured dialogue (i.e. first sentence, post 5), which hinder your attempts to illustrate the character. These alternate with structurally sound sentences, so it doesn’t appear that Devonus himself has trouble with the language.
I quite liked the lyrical aspect of his speech. There was something quite sinister about it, and I think it worked very well for him when you used it. However, it did jar with the use of the word “anyways” in your first post, which sounds much more like a contemporary IRL colloquialism.
One thing struck me, which was how little you described the manner in which Devonus was speaking (done but twice, in posts 5 and 11). See post 7: is Devonus’ retort shouted angrily at Cydnar, or muttered snidely to himself? Elaborating on that would have enriched the dialogue, and thus Devonus as a character.


Action: 7/10
You have a decent handle on your action. Devonus’ archery was particularly well written – you described not just his movements, but the calculated reasoning behind them, which gave the impression of cool-headed professionalism. It also helped pace the start of the battle appropriately, but don’t feel compelled to continually explain his skill once it’s been established, especially where it might cause congestion.
Some other parts of your action were a bit dry, such as when Devonus first adopts his staff. This mostly wasn’t a problem, though.
I also feel that Devonus should have been affected by the sunlight more than he was. Even though it’s fake, it clearly pained him, or at least put him to discomfort. I wouldn’t expect him to target with his bow as well, or be quite so calm and collected. Never forget, your character is always at the mercy of the environment.


Persona: 6 /10
I’m not entirely sure what Devonus is doing there. At one point, he seems to be there to fight (post 1), but later on, he seems loathe to engage in such action (post 5). Some clear motivation for going there would have been nice; as it is, there’s just a short mention in the first post of something about hunting.
I’m not getting a strong sense of his vampirism, either. Despite everything you wrote, Devonus came off like a fairly normal half-elf who just happens to like drinking blood – his hunger, at least until the very end, failed to define him. The way he reminisced, and the way he observed events unfold, were more in line with how I’d have expected his non-vampire self to act.
That said, your last post captured Devonus’ descent into mindless frenzy quite well, until the very end. Calling Cydnar a “bastard son of the earth” suggested he had retained his former capacity for thought. Also, the attempt at humour in your final sentence sort of fell flat, for the reason stated above – it just didn’t fit the character, not at that time.


Prose: 14/30


Mechanics: 4/10
Okay, I came across a wide variety of errors in your threads. I’ll give you a list of what to watch out for, so as not to clutter this section overmuch.

Use the correct participle of a verb, i.e.: ‘tilting’ (present tense) vs. ‘tilted’ (past tense), ‘close’ vs. ‘closed’, ‘lead’ vs. ‘led’. Again, this was a frequent issue.
Punctuation: you misplaced commas fairly frequently. Some were missing from where they should have been – please see the conventions of forming compound sentences (via conjunctions), transitional phrases, and parentheses. At the same time, some commas popped up where they shouldn’t have; see “this great forest of Lindequalmë, sang” (post 1), one replaced a full stop at the end of post 5, and you often used them in place of semicolons. There were also some misplaced apostrophes: missing apostrophe in “hummels” (plural); should be ‘hummel’s’ (singular possessive) – posts 11, 13. Possessive apostrophe required for ‘forgotten one’s’ – post 13. Be aware of the difference between ‘it’s’ (contraction of ‘it is’), and ‘its’ (possessive form of the pronoun, ‘it’); this mistake ran rampant throughout your posts.
Capitalisation errors: a few times, you failed to capitalise the first letter of some proper names (Agar, the Citadel), as well as the first person pronoun, ‘I’. At least one thing was capitalised, which probably shouldn’t have been – “Crimson oak” (post 1; capitalise both of them, or neither – but not one). Make sure that you capitalise at the beginning of a new sentence, too.
Possessive and singular form: you used the singular form ‘foot’ when plural ‘feet’ was appropriate (post 1; “20 foot”), the plural form ‘eyes’ was required in “my eye scan the forest” (post 3), and use the singular form ‘watchman’, not the plural form ‘watchmen’, if you’re just referring to Agar (post 11).
Some plain old typos popped up here and there, too. See “fromt” and “knock” (as opposed to ‘nock’, post 2), “palette” vs. ‘palate’ (post 5), “definately” (post 11), “wines” and “fines” instead of ‘vines’ (posts 11 and 13), “fairs” instead of ‘fares’, and “than” instead of ‘then’ (post 13). Some of these aren’t real words (‘fromt’, ‘definately’), while others appear similar to the correct ones, but mean something else entirely (‘fines’, ‘than’, ‘knock’).
The following is an excerpt from post 11: “The staff was stout oak, and far from impervious to blades and being hewn asunder, but it would take many blows from the small agile blades he danced with, and though I longed to see what kind of partner he would be in the dance of melee”. Apart from being nonsensical (see ‘clarity’, below), it is heavily congested with commas. As such, that sentence – and several others – come off rather awkwardly. You can break up a compound sentence with semicolons, dashes, ellipses, or turn into two (or more) independent sentences via a full stop.
Several times, your writing swapped between the present and past tense. Either is fine, so long as you are consistent.
Something which results in clumsy writing is unnecessary repetition of the same word (redundancy). Example: “They were thinner than most, not the long swords normally employed by most” (post 9); in this case, the offender is the word ‘most’. Similar redundancy was apparent in post 1 (“home”, “face”, “crimson” and “soft”), post 11 (“race”), and post 15 (“vines”).
Using numerals is generally frowned upon in this sort of writing. If you can write a number out in one or two words (one, ten, one hundred, twelve thousand), that’s preferable. In some instances, such as dealing with fractions, numerals may in fact be preferable (but not in dialogue).




Clarity: 5/10
You really need to work on your sentence structure. I saw many instances of sentences which made no sense, usually because you used the wrong participle or through missing verbs (‘was’, ‘is’, etc.). Case in point: “Shrouding him in a rotating wall of seemingly impervious stone that whistled in the wind, whispering of death to any who attempted to breach it, a few larger stones visible through the shroud similar to the one that had hurtled towards me earlier” (post 11). Change to “It shrouded him...”, and it makes a lot more sense, particularly in the context of the preceding sentence.
You are also ambiguous at times. In post 1: it seems you intended to write that Dev’s hair was glowing in the sunlight, but instead you formed it in such a way that the sunlight itself was glowing. I’m also not sure a snout can stare (no eyes there).
You mention that Agar has been conditioned by centuries of companionship, but Devonus is only one century old himself. Is this a typo, or am I missing some key history here?


Technique: 5/10
I have already lauded the way you wrote blood-frenzied Devonus, but I think a bit more of a change in your technique for this final post would have really brought that aspect of the character to the fore. Try experimenting with this in the future, perhaps by writing in much shorter, clipped sentences to mirror his reduced mental faculties, or by focusing almost solely on the blood (so that, for example, the vines are perceived as barely more than an obstacle between Devonus and his prey).
Overall, your posts weren’t particularly rich in terms of literary device – foreshadowing and symbolism seemed absent, but there was a touch of metaphor and simile. Working on the former can really add some depth to your writing.

Wildcard: 5/10
I was disappointed by the number of opportunities you missed, both to enrich the story and showcase your character. That said, I think Devonus shows promise in your hands. -1 point for the considerable delay with post 5.

Total: 54/100



Cydnar:

Plot: 17/30


Storytelling: 4/10
As with Devonus, there really isn’t much substance to this story, I’m afraid. Here is Cydnar, a healer of the earth, presented with what one could consider to be his antithesis. You could have played on that dynamic some more, perhaps by using his counter-magic abilities over his shard-missile ones – turning it into a battle for control of the forest.
The story doesn’t have much in the way of character progression, no indication of future significance, nor does it seem to lead anywhere. It’s a shame, but there just doesn’t seem to be much to it at all.


Setting: 8/10
You richly described the setting in terms of specific sights, sounds and smells, as well as touch. What’s more, Cydnar did not just choose to interact with the environment; from the humid confines of the forest and the coiling vines, it was unavoidable that the environment would interact with him. I feel that it could be improved by taking it to the next level – bug bites, trip-hazard roots, poisonous plant matter, whatever. I keep hearing that Lindequalme is a dangerous place in itself, but I haven’t really seen anything in this thread to suggest as much.


Pacing: 5/10
Seemed like you were guilty of a similar pitfall as Devonus – cluttered, dragging combat sequences. What differs is that I feel yours were bogged down a little by Cydnar’s verbosity. Also, there was an unrealistic amount of action occurring at times – see post 10, where Cydnar charges the distance between them, slaps away at Devonus’ staff, jumps back twenty feet, rattles off a few lines of monologue, and begins to charge up one of his powers. That looks like Devonus was deprived of a few opportunities to respond, and really throws out the rhythm of a good battle.


Character: 20/30


Communication: 7/10
Clear, articulate, and informative. Cydnar speaks with the supreme arrogance of the drow, yet is clearly motivated by more wholesome aspirations, which resemble those of his surface cousins. From what I’ve read in your profile of the Hummel, that’s their typical demeanour, and I think you’ve captured that very well. Yet, I feel like there should be a bit more to him. His taunt – calling Devonus a coward due to his archery – seemed kind of childish and unsophisticated, at least compared to the rest of his dialogue.
I also got a clear impression of Cydnar’s mood – not just through blatant indicators such as “he bellowed”, “he bemoaned”, but also through the more subtle descriptions of body language (a tilted head here, outstretched arms there). You could have stood to substitute the old “he said” a few more times with more of the aforementioned examples, though.


Action: 6/10
Action was mostly quite clear, but there are a number of other issues negatively affecting your score here. I already mentioned, under ‘pacing’, how some of your action seems implausibly, er, uninterrupted, I suppose. While I’m discussing that particular post, I was also a little confused as to how Cydnar could be twenty feet away after taking a single step back.
I understand that Cydnar is an accomplished swordsman, but only from his profile. In the thread, I don’t see any reasoning behind his activity with the blade. Critically, I don’t see how he can tell – by whacking the end of Devonus’ staff – that he won’t be able to get beyond it. Cydnar is fast, and perhaps the most dangerous part of a staff also has the greatest distance to travel. I compared the profiles and it is apparent that his swordsmanship would still be superior to Devonus’ skill with a staff under the circumstances.
I wasn’t sold on how easily he succumbed to the vines, either. Surely, a single, freshly-sprouted green shoot would not have managed to bind Cydnar – not if he decided to fight it. It reads like he just decided to give up.


Persona: 7/10
Aspects of Cydnar’s character are conveyed very well through dialogue, but less so by action. Reading your posts, I see confidence, skill, and pride, along with allusions to a long history of military influence and combat experience – which makes that last example I give under ‘action’ seem so glaringly out of character.


Prose: 18/30


Mechanics: 6/10
Might be worth proof-reading posts that you want super-polished, as I came across a number of error types. One: typos (“populous” instead of ‘populace’, “curbed” rather than ‘curved’, “bowline”). Two: misplaced commas. Generally, don’t use a comma to separate items in a list when there are only two of them (just use ‘and’ instead); this can help reduce your comma count, too. Misplaced commas can also form unintentional parentheses (posts 2, 10), while you were missing them in other places (posts 4, 14). Three: awkward, nonsensical sentences; “He tromped his ill-suited domain, sweated his fervour thick into his clothing, and when he broke, surprisingly, and exasperated, through into the glade beyond, he looked quite the state”. Four: too many commas! These really hurt your writing, melding what should have been nice, healthy individual sentences into sprawling messes. Five: compound unrealised hyphenations. Writing “moss-laden” (post 4), or “hate-filled” (post 10) give different, less ambiguous meanings. Six: incorrect participles resulting in ambiguity (“embittering”, post 2; “found”, post 10). Seven: vocabulary. Consider your use of the word “ebb”, meaning 'to be reduced', relating to the growth of the Braggart population in post 4, as well as “fiends to the darkness” in post 12 (‘fiends of’, perhaps?).


Clarity: 7/10
Despite the mechanical errors listed above, you largely avoided ambiguity (but it was still there). Tidying up your sentence structure will go a long way in remedying that.


Technique: 5/10
Not bad, but nothing special. Everything you wrote – describing the setting, action, dialogue, exposition, etc. – always joined up nicely, had voice, and never felt tacked on. Still, you largely lacked anything in the way of advanced technique, and not for lack of material; see my rant under ‘plot’, and consider how you could have mined the nurturer/predator dynamic for symbolism and overarching metaphor.

Wildcard: 6/10
I’m a little underwhelmed by Cydnar’s story here. There wasn’t much at stake, the premise wasn’t capitalised on, and it lacked creativity. Still, it was fairly well-written and polished to a bit of a shine.

Total: 61/100



Cydnar wins, and receives 1925 experience and 130 gold.

Devonus receives 525 experience and 130 gold.

[Mordelain]

EXP/GP Added.