Riot Calibre (Open)

[Leopold]

A waif of a man entered the Citadel arena. He held his partisan cocked over his right shoulder and a cigar between his lips. A dark, world-weary demeanour veiled his face. Everything about him told a story about a shady past. His battered military overcoat was threadbare on the shoulders, the elbows, and the hem. Stubble covered his angular features, and a singular scar across the forehead completed his tale.

“This isn’t going to end well, Wilfred,” he said through clenched teeth.

Stepping out of the glimmering portal on cue, the dog-eared manservant tried to look compassionate. His false enthusiasm was often the one thing that kept them alive.

“You’ve got to prepare yourself for the eventuality of war, sir,” was his well-rehearsed reply.

“What can a spear do a pistol can’t?” Leopold moaned.

Wilfred folded his hands across his front and cleared his throat. Even with a distinct stoop and a cigarette hanging from his lips, he mustered up a regal persona often seen only in kings.

“Not miss,” he replied, “if you try hard.”

Leopold glared at him, but lost his train of thought when the portal behind them fizzled, crackled, and imploded. It left them quiet suddenly alone, in a seemingly endless, flat, and barren landscape. He had heard stories of the Citadel’s landscaping properties, but it was inconceivable that worlds sprang from nothingness. The bleakness staggered him.

“Blow me…,” came Leopold’s less than noble response.

“Not before lunch, sir,” Wilfred said with a smirk. He pointed east, to another portal. “It might be pertinent to tend to business, before you think about pleasure.”

Leopold set the partisan’s tip into the sand, and scuffed his hobnail over the golden grains. It was perhaps once an ocean, a mountaintop, or a crystalline palace. Whatever vestige of the world this strange place moulded on, it long ago fell to ruination. He sighed.

“I don’t know why I let you talk me into these situations.”

“I’m sorry, let me talk you?” Wilfred scoffed. He produced a hipflask, sipped the bourbon from it, and pocketed it before Leopold could catch wind of his supplication.

“That’s right.”

“Forgive me…but you talked me into ‘escorting’ you here.” He shook his head.

A cold wind rolled in from the west, and the golden grains swirled as though they were ocean waves. Something in the depths of the Citadel was stirring, and it threatened to give life to the landscape.

“I was quite happy shooting that damned tiefling, but apparently that’s not gentlemanly.” Leopold spat, stubbed out his cigar, and put it into his pocket for his victory, or indeed, his comminatory celebrations.

“The lady doth protest too much,” Wilfred said in agreement.

Leopold was not entirely sure if Wilfred was referring to Ruby, his wife, or to Luned Bleddyn. He only hoped that whoever scolded him for failing in his stupid attempt was kinder to him in body and soul than whosoever sprang from the portal.

“Come on. Let’s fucking get this over with.”

Wilfred nodded. He undid his jacket, so that it swung with his lanky arms, and began to polish a single barrelled, white cased pistol called Isabella. Though Leopold was here to try to reacquaint himself with the spear-sabre he had used in a long ago war, needs must, and the old adage came to mind. He whistled it, just to reinforce the notion.

“Behind every good man,” he trailed off.

Leopold smiled. His eyes reflected the blue maelstrom some three hundred feet ahead. “There’s a better woman,” he concluded. He stopped, set the tip of the sabre ahead, and waited. Whoever emerged would learn a thing or two about Berevar fighting; cold, bitter, and full of screaming.

[Leona Stevvains]

“There’s an irony to those words,” the soft voice escaped from a young woman about twenty feet from Leopold’s portal, and by proxy, Leopold himself. “I am not sure how true those words are, however. I’m just a woman, one who came ready to battle in the citadel. Whatever I have coming, I deserve for subjecting myself to the rules of this place.”

She held in her hand, a leather sphere, hexagonal patterns intertwining between each other, filled with colors of black and white. She tossed the orb up and down three times before dropping it to the dry land before. The collision caused the cracked earth to break down even further, small clouds of dust rising up from the impact point. This woman placed her foot upon the ball, her eyes not yet meeting with either Leopold or Wilfred.

She closed her green orbs and took in the smell of the air; dry and humid. As arid as the heart of the man she now faced, the cruel entrepreneur who sought to free those that did not ask for it. The liberator with nothing to liberate, the husband with something to prove, the fetching boy of Ruby Winchester; Leopold. She opened her eyes and looked towards this man, knowing that her younger self would be quick to get into this man’s head, to talk down to him until his morale was left broken. Such things were not in her character now. Those years in Berevar had changed her.

Jomil had changed her.

“There are exactly one thousand, five hundred and ninety two ways, from this starting point, that will grant you the victory here. Seven hundred and five of those ways involve your manservant interfering and fighting your battles for you. But that is to be expected by somebody like you. You are a man who would rather not sully his hands, despite having done so in the past. You take from people and slaughter others in the name of your justice. Remember, Sir Leopold Winchester, that though you may fancy yourself a hero, even the greatest of revered legends are rebuked by others.”

She rolled the futbol around on the ground back and forth, back and forth. The corners of her lips widened into a Cheshire grin, her foot moving quickly to slam into the ball, sending it flying directly towards the face of her citadel nemesis. “I am Leona Stevvains, the Witch of Berevar, and today, you shall pay for transgressions not yet made!”

[Leopold]

Leopold ducked, his head narrowly avoiding being imploded, and rose slowly.

“Only seven hundred and five?” he asked, half gasping, as he turned to Wilfred. “I’m clearly paying you too much,” he joked.

Wilfred, one of the few manservants alive able to give as much as he got, churlishly cracked a smile.

“You wish, it’s why I keep myself in your whiskey casks,” was his well-rehearsed reply.

Leopold turned back to his opponent, her strange mannerisms, and her stranger weapon. It looked vaguely like a pig stomach, though it was well-crafted, bound in leather, and likely far too expensive to appear on the cobbled streets of Scara Brae in anything less than criminal circumstances.

“You intrigue me,” the merchant said flatly. He levelled his spear at her chest, a defensive position intended only to delay her premature offensive. “The witches of Berevar seldom leave the frosty tundra.” He had, some three thousand years ago, almost married one of their kind.

“Lest it’s to ‘steal babies and eat hearts’,” Wilfred added, quoting the many rumours and nightmares that haunted the sleep of Salvar’s more superstitious citizens. Sadly, that was the Church of Sway’s doing, and a fact Leopold aimed to correct…someday.

“That too,” Leopold mused. He took a deep breath. “If you have seen the outcome of our engagement, you should know that regardless of your certainty in prediction, there are an infinite number of variables that can alter the course of history.” He cracked his knuckles.

“I am certain in this,” she replied, her stubborn, stoic, dry tone grated down Leopold’s spine.

“Well then, Miss Stevvains, allow me to disprove your theory.”

“Be careful, sir. I do so hate getting blood out of well starched shirts,” his manservant forewarned. He began to roll another cigarrete absent-minded, as though he knew something Leopold did not. This was often the case, and precisely why Leopold Winchester in fact paid Wilfred DuBoe ridiculously well.

With a reluctant step forwards, Leopold maintained what he believed to be a defensive stance, cracked the knuckle of his free hand, and prepared to see how severe his sentence was, and why Jomil’s bitch thought herself worthy of lecturing an Old God.

[Leona Stevvains]

“You are so naïve to think that this is a joke,” Leona said, her form walking a good distance around Leopold in order to go retrieve her ball. She could feel both sets of eyes still upon her, watching her every move. Now that she announced herself a servant of the Thayne Jomil, she knew that Winchester would not let down his guard again. It was just what she had wanted him to do. The fates seemed to be favoring her this day.

When she finally managed to retrieve her ball a good thirty yards from where she had kicked it, she could see the indentions it had made as it had skidded across the barren wasteland. If she had not already foreseen it, she would have been worried that the very earth below them was unstable, able to give way at any moment. She casually kicked her weapon back towards Leopold, several small kicks as she made her advance this time rather than the harsh one she had delivered earlier.

The wind blew through her hair, allowing her bangs to fall and sway with their dance. She sighed, shaking her head as she looked to the still on-guard Leopold Winchester. “You still do not understand, do you? The result of this battle; my victory, your victory, or Wilfred’s victory. None of that matters in the grand scheme. This whole endeavor was a way for you to get practice in, a way to train your body for the harsh punishment Jomil will inflict upon you for such blasphemy.”

In truth, Leona would have spoken this way about any Thayne. Jomil just happened to be her patron Thayne since arriving on this island. “You may be one of the Old Gods, Sir Leopold, but no God can live forever. You will all die someday, whether your people abandon you or your spirit loses the energy required for reincarnations. Nobody is truly immortal. Why can you just let nature take its course and destroy Jomil in its eventuality?”

Leona’s eyes shifted just behind her opponent, a single digit rising as the wind began to grow more intense. “If I were you, I would start moving more towards me. I am outside of the range of the sandstorm about to whip up. Otherwise, it’s going to blind you and your manservant.”

As Leona finished speaking, gusts of dust began to form into a small twister and began to make its way towards Winchester and his employee.

[Leopold]

Leopold tried to think of something witty to say. As ever, religion, and the zeal of nations, undid his resolve. Instead, he turned to Wilfred, gave the manservant a curious nod, and indicated for him to stand well back.

“I’m not here to justify my actions to you,” was his reply. It said everything, but told the witch nothing.

He put his legs apart, bent at the knee, and span the partisan in concentric circles, each testing the spear’s weight in his unpractised grip. True to her word, the wind did become stronger. Nature, regardless of wherever or not gods let it take its course, was doing as it damned well pleased in the Citadel.

“Let us just get down to it,” he smirked. His hair, the little there was of it, swirled like wheat thrashing in an autumnal breeze. His eyes sparkled with mischief, the sort you saw in a grubby nosed boy who had just pulled a thread in his Sunday best.

Wilfred, taking that as his cue, produced a small hipflask, and enjoyed the ten year from the sidelines. His employers nod signified that A), liquor was the right course of action, and B), things were going to get messy.

“If you don’t mind?” Leopold cocked his head to one side.

The merchant did not wait for her prattling on how he was going to die, what he was going to eat tomorrow, or what he would say in three years’ time. From what little he knew of ‘Berevar’s Bounty’, the maddening and Mammering ability of their ilk was as tiresome as it was intoxicating. He had no desire to know when he be laid to rest. No doubt, it would be millennia from now, when even she had faded from memory.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you…,” Wilfred grumbled under his breath as Leopold charged.

By now, the windstorm had gathered strength, and sand, from somewhere, flickered in a dust devil or twelve everywhere Leopold looked. Not wanting to lay low to parlour tricks, he reached with his right hand into nothingness. His arm vanished up to the elbow, and he yanked a pair of goggles from the ether, the sort he had used to trek through the tundra of the witches’ very own homeland. He snapped them on, took the spear into a standard, pike grip, and when he drew close, he aimed with a thrust straight for her most ‘endearing’ feature.

Her mouth.

[Leona Stevvains]

Leopold charge her much like an angry bull charges a flapping cloth, and Leona dodged in the same fashion as a Dheathain matador. She took several steps to her side as the sword found itself piercing nothing but air. As Leopold made his attack, Leona’s eyes focused on Wilfred, her orbs widening at the sight of the butler enjoying a drink. She pulled her lips into her mouth, resisting the urge to ask for a sip.

Be strong, Leona.

She repeated this phrase in her head over and over again, a solitary hand reaching into the pocket of her jeans and gripping a self-fashioned sobriety chip for support. She had gone several months without feelings the intoxicating liquid as it flowed down her gullet. Though she found herself in the heat of a battle she knew that this was just another test set before her by the Godly Thaynes. Jomil was wise in her lessons, and Leona could not let her down.

“What of Ruby?” Leona retorted, the question giving Leopold a pause, “You love her, you have always loved her, and yet you seek to do this.”

“…What do you mean?” Leopold asked.

Got him. Leona brushed the dust off of her form, a hopeless endeavor thanks to the nearby sandstorm starting to rush over them. The winds howled, impairing the girl’s ability to talk, see, and listen to her opponent. She closed her eyes to prevent sand particles from soiling the emerald green within her orbs. Leona Stevvains did not need to see to know where Leopold, statistically, would be. She threw the ball she had been carrying into the air, the force of the wind carrying the sport accessory with it.

The gusts nearly knocked her form over, her hair whipping around in all sorts of directions. If her calculations were correct, there was a high probability of her futbol gaining momentum in the sandstorm, the winds causing it to encircle faster and faster within the span of a few seconds. When the natural disaster would release the weapon, it would be firing straight towards Leopold like a missile honed in on the target. Leona knew that there was a margin of error, possible timelines where Wilfred saved his master or Leopold just was not where she expected him to be. She had hoped that these margins of error were just that.

Meanwhile, her mind started to wander back to Wilfred’s hip flask.

[Leopold]

Leopold smirked, his charismatic grin piercing the obfuscation of the sandstorm like a beacon of sarcastic light. He strode forth, spear held defiant of nature’s wrath and manservant defiant of master’s command as he too moved in the gloom. Unlike Leopold, however, Wilfred was being sensible. The diminutive man moved away from his employer’s opponent. He did not have sand goggles. He did not have a need to fight. He certainly did not have a need to die here today.

“You underestimate me, Miss Stevvains!” Leopold roared. He was not sure if he was roaring in the right direction, but he felt riotous enough for his voice to reach her somewhere. “Ruby Winchester, in fact, quite encourages me to be here.”

If the noble households of Scara Brae knew just how violent Ruby could be at times, they would shirk her. The redheaded matriarch had grown all too fond of the Citadel of late, her passion extending to shoving her husband headfirst through the brand stock gates to certain, all too entertaining end. If anything, Leopold was fighting for respect to have to keep going through this.

“She thinks me weak to the true terrors of the world!” There was accusatory tone to his voice that implied that she was a terror. This was an exercise in combating the evils the Winchester family, and their new venture, Chronicle, would come to face.

Ironically, the terror in the arena was not the witch. The terror was a small, leather bound pig bladder, currently encircling the merchant at an all too deadly velocity. Veiled in a shroud of sand and scintillation, it rotated around its final axis, and, with ceremonious applause, cracked against Leopold’s left temple with the force of a hurricane.

“Fuc…” was all he could muster half-hearted before his head spun, his right temple cracked against the floor, and his spear rolled away as though it were ashamed to be seen with him.

Dutiful as ever, Wilfred appeared. He looked down at his employer with the sort of expression that could get you fired. Since Leopold was half-blinded, he made sure to relish the moment as much as he could get away with. He tapped the merchant’s ribs with a buckled boot.

“You want to start fighting dirty as well, milord,” Wilfred mocked. “She ain’t no lady, and in ‘ere, you ain’t no lord.” With that, he was gone, giggling and rolling a cigarette at the same time. For a few awkward moments, the only sign of him in the maelstrom was a flickering red ember, and then nothing.

Leopold grunted. He pushed himself upright. He cast the spear into the umbrae abyss of the Tap. He produced, from the very same shadow realm, a singular thick glove, and a small glass. He emptied the flask into the glass, and began to drink from its ludicrously expensive cut crystal edge. He slapped the glove onto the ground, and, atop his voice, he spat bourbon fuelled jibes to the gales.

“No more tricks, Miss Stevvains. You, me, in our truest forms.” He flickered, and feathers began to sprout from inappropriate places. “Allow me to prove your fate and destiny quite incorrect.” His hands began to glow with an anti-light and vermillion after glow. Then red laced into the awakening power, mirroring the bruise and bloody forehead of her all too successful feint attack.

[Leona Stevvains]

Her body trembled in response. Though she could neither see nor hear her opponent, her gift allowed her to see exactly was his follow up maneuver would be. Her hands grew shaky and her mouth grew parched. The grains of sand that raked against the revealed parts of her skin did nothing but mentally dehydrate her more. She knew taking a drink of alcohol would not revitalize her. She knew it would just dry her body out more. She could even see the possible futures were Leopold left her writhing in true thirst on the cracked ground.

But she was an addict, and every day was a struggle for her.

Her hands wandered to her hair, pulling on the dirty blonde strands attached to her hair. Her teeth bit deep into the inside of her lip to draw blood. She had to keep her mind on something else, anything else, than the brown liquid sloshing around in that perfect transparent container. She rubbed her temples and pinched her own cheeks, even screaming into the dying dust storm that surrounded them. Her stomach growled for the booze, desired it like a love long lost. She wanted it more than anything else.

“The teachings of Jomil make me strong…” she uttered the mantra over and over. Her body rocked back and forth while her hands moved to cover her nose. The aroma of Leopold’s drink would in no way be able to reach her olfactory senses, notion of it was there. To a recovering alcoholic, that was all it took.

The sand now rested harmlessly upon the ground, its maelstrom carried on past the two combatants. Her breathing had become heavy to the point of near hyperventilating. She opened her eyes to gaze at Leopold’s form, his choice of drink still resting in his hand. Her amber orbs shifted towards the bourbon, focused on the various grains of sand that now bathed in its intoxicating pool.

“You wasted it…” she spoke as if it took her last breath to utter the phrase.

“Pardo—“

“YOU WASTED IT!” Leona roared, her cravings overcoming her as she leapt at Leopold, her nails poised like a tigress’ claws. Her rational mind had all but disappeared thanks to Leopold’s temptation. There was enough distance between them for the gentleman to easily dodge, but her sudden shift in attitude was perhaps surprising enough to catch her foe off guard.

She would claw his tongue out through his mouth for tainting her vices.

[Leopold]

Leopold Winchester was partial to defeating his enemies on his own merit. To watch Leona Stevvains come quite undone by chance irked his sensibilities. The theft of his triumph was as grievous as any mortal wound.

“Oh no you don’t,” he quipped, stepping back out of a precise claw’s eager swipe. He raised the flask out of harm’s way, recognising his antique silver, and the thirty year mash within was going to find itself bereft of his possession if he were not careful.

“Sir,” Wilfred said dryly.

“I know, Wilfred, I know.” He ducked a second swipe, and thrust the butt of his spear into her ribs. “Ruby will kill me if I so much as sneeze on it.”

He referred to the flask, a gift to him on their previous anniversary. The event marked thirty years since their engagement and subsequent betrothal. Much like the champagne flutes they had used to toast their vows, the flask was, to the redheaded mistress, priceless.

“Give it to me right now!” the witch roared. All her notions of future portent and past-reflected swift fell to the wayside. “She’ll worry about me more when I find her!”

Realising swatting at her like a fly was not going to work, Leopold to a more offensive stance. He swung the spear about, held its tip to her, to keep her at bay, and frowned. He sent the flask into the vernal vault, safe. Though he would miss the warmth the whiskey left in his throat, and the effluent sense of self it instilled in his saddened senses, the time for sobriety was upon him.

“Look,” he said, flat and forceful. “I don’t know who you are,” he stepped back, slapped her claw, and nearly lost his hand at the wrist when she jostled into his guard, raked too close for comfort, and tried for his throat. “But you’re fighting me, not your own demons!”

With strength Leopold was certain he did not have when sober, he pressed the shaft of his spear into her torso, and pushed her back just enough feet to afford himself time, space, and energy to level the playing field. Though evenly matched in team size, he was starting to think he was in another league altogether to the self-proclaimed seeress.

“So engarde!”

He roared, tensed his body, and with the spear end tucked under his arm, he spun full-circle. The blade of the pole-arm that had killed garuda, roc, and goddess alike flattened its sharp blade at Leona’s throat as it came full circle around, into her presence, and sharply into her purview.

In the background, Wilfred sighed.

“No, sir, I did not mean Ruby…” he trailed off. There was no point highlighting the presence of winged, feral, and deadly creatures flittering back and forth in the dying veil of the sand storm.

[Leona Stevvains]

The quick blow that was delivered to her torso left Leona without her breath. She stumbled back, her composure returned in that quick instant. She could feel her midsection throb with pain, and her eyes shifted up towards the gentleman fight. She straightened up and wiped any dust that had accumulated on her form off. A small cloud of sand blew off of her and danced down the arena.

Her eyes shifted back and forth inconsistently. Her head quickly began to move in all sorts of directions as if she were a girl possessed. After a minute or two of this sporadic behavior, Leona closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She saw the various timelines from here, and how they would all play out for this battle. Though her vice almost took her calm demeanor from her, Leopold had unintentionally damned himself for the rest of the battle.

She did not have to hear Wilfred to know that the butler had referred to the winged monstrosities that arose from their temporary clash. Rather than engage in Leopold any further, the witch merely shrugged her shoulders and turned away from him. Her hair fluttered in the wind as she made slow strides past the servant, a quick, almost tense exchange of sexual tension between their four combined locked eyes. There was something about Wilfred that Leona felt a camaraderie towards, though she could not quite tell what made her think such thoughts.

"He's going to need a doctor, or at least quick medical attention," she spoke in a voice that opefully Leopold would not hear, "Even if you aid him, the harpies are going to do a number on him. I suggest you tell his wife that he was doing some self-training in the citadel and have him stick to the lie. She will believe the two of you, and there will not be any anger or jealousy from her. He likes me, perhaps a little too much for his wife's tastes." Her eyes shifted towards the bird women that slowly crept their way towards a confused Leopold Winchester.

"If he still wants to fight me, he will get ripped to shreds by those harpies. I would suggest you step in to prevent that..."

[Leopold]

“Me?” the manservant scoffed. “Why would I do such a thing?”

Indeed, why would he? Time and time again the two men as much brothers as employer/employee embarked on a dangerous misadventure in one-upmanship. This, in Wilfred’s eyes, was a perfect time to even the score.

“Wrong about one thing mind, ma’am…”

With a lethargic finger pointed, Wilfred gestured through the veil of confiscation that left man and beast alike battered, beautiful, and bruised. His nail hammered against the general direction of the harpies.

“Oh what is it now?” Leopold asked rhetorically. Had Wilfred been able to hear him above the infernal din, there would have been sharp words uttered in response. Respectful, by all means, but writhing with condescension. “Can’t you see I’m?”

Nobody got a chance to see the truth in the moment. Leopold caught sight of the object in the maelstrom at the very last second possible before losing an eye. A claw, razor sharp and bloodied, raked through the air where his head had been moments before. Instinct drove him to his knees, so to speak, and made him lance upwards with the archaic might of his cavalry-spear.

“Whatever infatuation you think Mr Leopold Winchester has for you…,” Wilfred continued as his employer fought to do the same. “It is respect, at best. Child-like curiosity perhaps, but certainly not ‘attraction’.”

The mere thought made even Wilfred’s long-dormant emotions stir. For decades, he had served the Winchester household, father and son. Without a doubt, never had a rock underpinned a man’s morals and dedication to his partner with quite this much dignity and determination. Nothing would keep Ruby and Leopold apart…well, save for a harpy claw and overburdening arrogance.

“You’ll need to do better than that Miss Stevva-”

A glassy taste to the air and the heat combined to put a bitter taste in Leopold’s mouth. His lips, cracked and withered, acquiesced his words. Nothingness filled his mind, a peaty quality to stupidity and unintelligence. Coat tails flapped. Bourbon longed for. Man’s menace mottled manageably.

“Of course,” Wilfred grit his teeth. “There is plenty of complete-fucking-idiocy in there too.” He folded his arms, good deed done dangerously, and watched the failure unfold.

Leopold managed to turn and deliver a step-forth upward strike to the descended harpy. The clawed, hooked form fell in two halves to the sandstorm struck savannah. Dust rose, against the wind, to show the disintegrating force behind his weapon. Its shaft eternally in a shadow war with the skies. He turned a great gash around his left hip and a trio of mortal holes above his right shoulder blade. Time would soon be up, true as the woman’s word.

“Well…,” he sputtered. Blood trickled down his lip in vampirism tributaries. “Let’s wrap this up, shall we?”

Abandoning cause for concern and logic, the Old God Raven scattered shadows to the sun and projected three spheres of anger at his opponent. They whumped and wavered through the air towards here; vanguard to his staggering stride in hot pursuit. If they failed, he would thrust. If that failed, he would rage. If that failed, he gave up – the beast within fighting freely, ferociously, reverently flailing.

Despite his best efforts, it was Wilfred's production of a still fill hipflask and uncorking thereof that dealt the more decisive blow to Leona's efforts.

[Leona Stevvains]

“Respect is often the seeds in which schoolboy infatuation grows,” Leona watched as Leopold scattered his aviary foes to the skies, “And I’ve seen how all of those plants bloom. It does not end well in any circumst--”

The girl was cut off when one of the energy orbs slammed into her. Her shoulder was knocked backwards, as if it had just had a warhammer slammed into it. She heard the bones crack under the weight of the ball sized orb. The blow sent her body limp and she fell to the ground from the sheer force of it all.

This would prove to be the hurt girl’s saving grace, as the other orbs flew past their intended target into the nether of open desert. Leona’s arm trembled as the girl moved her arm to see if such a thing were still possible. After she made half a dust angel underneath her body, the prophet became satisfied with the notion that nothing was actually broken.

“Means its not an easy fix…” she mumbled while her eyes shifted over to her opponent, who seemed dead set on the end of the witch’s life. Leopold charged her like an angry rhinoceros as the tip of his weapon ripped through the air. Leona sat up while ignoring the pain in her shoulder, and dived to the side.

Her left shoulder throbbed in agony as Leopold went wild with his swings and stabs. He was an enraged beast ready to be taken down. She sighed and shook her head, her eyes shifted to the caked dirt below. “How on Althanas will you be able to best Jomil if one of her understudies gives you this much trouble? No amount of training you endure will make you strong enough to face what you bolster and boast that you can do.”

She had heard the cork pop earlier, but had little time to react to it. The pain that throbbed through her body provided an ample distraction to her temptations. “This will be your---”

Leona stopped as Leopold turned and made an upwards swing with his weapon. Unbeknownst to the gentleman, he had effectively launched the soccer ball right back at its rightful owner. As the weapon flew towards her, Leona reared back, and slammed her head forward. Her forehead hit the toy, and sent it careening back to the madman. The girl’s body shivered with pain, and she rubbed her forehead with her good hand, a large red welt on the skin.

“---Undoing.”

[Leopold]

This was not the first or last time Leopold Winchester had balls in his face. This was, however, the first time it ended his charismatic debut in the sandy pits of the Citadel. The crowd roared, the monks jeered, and the wheels of fate turned. All the merchant did was crumple. Knees bent. Arms limp. Crash.

“Oh dear,” Wilfred muttered.

Sand still in his undergarments, Leopold writhed in pain on the floor. Arms flapped. Eyes widened. Cheeks rumbled by pain and time passing into tedium. He let slip the dogs of war and clutched at the feeble flapping wraps of bandages he pictured in his mind. Come morning’s arrival he would need them. So undignified, he thought.

“Oh dear indeed,” the manservant continued. He advanced towards Miss Stevvains, arm outstretched in offering of victory.

“Wilfred, don’t you d-” was all his employer could grumble before the deal became struck.

“I believe Miss you won.” Standing a few feet away from the leather clad livery of the seer Wilfred, for once, took centre stage.

[Leona Stevvains]

She fell back to the ground with a cloud of dust that surrounded her form. She nodded her acceptance of Leopold's resignation from the fight. "It was the only way the battle was destined to end. Statistically, without your help, he was no match against me. I am sorry it had to be dragged out for so long, Lord Winchester. It was entirely my fault on that."

"But," She rose as grains of sand left her long blonde strands of hair, "what I said before still stands true. You can not defeat Jomil if you can not defeat me. Your servant can not win every battle for you. Unleashing the Gods of Olde may seem wise, as their brother, but do you not recall the dark times that fell upon Althanas during their reign? Giving them dominion damns the rest of us."


She could hear the door to the citadel open with a loud creak, and she eased her body down upon the cracked earth. Despite appearances, Leopold's attacks were quite effective, yet her resolve had to be known to the nobleman. She could feel the magic of the Ai'Borne as it left the arena, as well as hear Wilfried shuffle off with his master. She did not get up to see if he passed the Lord of the House Winchester to a monk or took the aristocrat to the medical ward himself. She did not care.

They would meet again. Jomil would summon her for aide against her enemies and Leopold would once again strive to make his point known. Most people would consider this the start of a rivalry, when in Leona's mind, it was nothing but logic. People hated change; the Fallien-esque setting for the battle punctuated that fact. She took a hard swallow as well as a deep breath. The adrenaline was now leaving her body and her shoulder throbbed with a sprain like pain.

"I'll be seeing you around, Leopold Winchester."

[Leopold]

“Well, she was a fucking royal pain in the”-

“Addendum,” Wilfred interrupted. The manservant leant over the prone merchant, dabbed the man’s forehead with a damp cloth, and set down a cut crystal glass filled with expensive bourbon on the sideboard. “She remains a thorn in your side.”

“I hate how you’re always right.”

The thick Coronian accent taken to heart whenever Leopold was, well, in Corone faded. It became a coy, but gritty Scara Braen twang and instantly both men connected. The straw bed was on a simple oak frame in a simple stone chamber. Leopold was lying in his briefs and white tunic. Wilfred neatly folded his seat, no doubt, on the small table on the easterly wall. One, solitary window let in sunlight on the south facing wall and the door was on the west and lead to freedom or rematch.

“She said something after you were…” The butler trailed off. His pensive reflection told Leopold all the man needed to know.

“Let me have it.” Taking the bourbon prone, and then pushing himself upright onto a feather pillow throne of self-pit, Leopold waited for the bad news.

“She said you’d have the pleasure of her company on another occasion.”

It took a while for the words to sink in to Leopold’s still ringing skull. When they dead, they stung.

“I am starting to regret that brief excursion to the Ice Henge…” he grumbled. “Telling a Thayne you’re ‘coming to get them’ is never a good idea.”

The two men laughed in unison. It was an awkward recollection of a time soon to be forgotten. They had both nearly died (or in Leopold’s case, died twice) trying to get the upper hand on the Thayne. Of course, Wilfred would follow his master to the ends of the earth and the next earth to boot, but there was a fine line.

“What shall we do about her?”

Leopold curled his lips, frowned, and sighed. He plumped his own pillow, feeling sorry enough for causing Wilfred such a kerfuffle on his supposedly day off. He took a deep breath. The bourbon after taste ignited vapours in his nostrils. Oak, smoke, and sedition. All his days spent drinking, each one a weakening of the strength he would need in the days to come. He looked to the glass, still amber with the dregs.

“Believe it or not, Wilfred. What we are going to do to Leona Stevvains is the same thing we are going to do to Jomil, ‘the sage’.”

Wilfred shook his head. He rose. He walked to the door.

“I’ll fetch Jacqueline and Rose from the warehouse, sir.” He turned a withered knuckle about the doorknob. The prospect of getting 'the ladies', the Winchester prized guns, was excitement enough. Slapping a Thayne, or in turn getting slapped, was another dizzy height altogether.

Leopold smiled like a cat who got the cream.

“We’re going to wipe the smile off that bitch’s face.” With a grunt, the merchant clambered out of bed a new man.

[Ranger]

Riot Calibre
Sorry for the delay, this took me a while to read because I spent more time trying to figure out what was going on than reading. Even if this is a Citadel thread, things need to make sense and be clear. Both of you suffered on that front. I would like to see more of the character in the thread, who they were and their relation to each other as well as why they were there. The general character that I did get was interesting and there is a lot of potential to make both great.

As always, feel free to PM me if you have any concerns or questions.


Leopold
Plot 14
Story: 4
(Post 1; Paragraph 1) “Everything about him told a story about a shady past” :: I don’t know how it tells this story, as a cigar and a weathered coat, some stubble and a scar don’t scream “shady”. To more fully realize the feel of ‘shady’ it is best to give some details as to how the appearance related to that adjective. As it stands, there are many people with a couple scars, an old coat, who haven’t shaved and smoke. Most of those people aren’t what a reader would visualize as shady, but maybe a little life-worn and haggard,

I really didn’t get almost any back story with regards to who Leopold was, and other than wielding a spear instead of a pistol wasn’t sure why you were in the Citadel. It felt like this was rushed, to a degree that made it difficult to get into. Backstory is a key element, if not the most important, to bring to a thread. It allows the reader to get a look at not only the characters background, but their personality and reasoning for doing something, as well as plays into every other aspect of storytelling as a whole.

(post 1) “that damned tiefling” :: More slight back story allusion, but without offering the reader insight into what it was about. Not sure if this was another character you fought and were mentioning, or if this was something from a quest, or how it related…

How do you two know each other?! The narrative comes off at first as if you are acquainted, but by the end of the thread it is apparent that you are both not. It could be that you write with a person often, or that other characters are acquainted, and that comes through in a different thread. As a reader though, a sense of familiarity between characters that don’t know each other is odd.
Setting: 5
(post 1; paragraph 11) “It was perhaps once an ocean, a mountaintop, or a crystalline palace. Whatever vestige of the world this strange place moulded on, it long ago fell to ruination” :: Barren wasteland, flat and empty, is a very simple way to describe a battleground. It doesn’t give the reader anything to go on, outside of a white blank area. You attempted to explain that it was a sandy area from an old ocean or mountain, yet it was still very static and flat. This setting is very hard to work with to make it robust for the reader to visualize and step into with you, thus it is important to play on the other senses rather than sight alone in order to bring it to life.

“blue maelstrom some three hundred feet ahead”:: “blue maelstrom” I assumed was referring to an approaching storm? Why was the storm blue, was the storm on the winds and is the blue the air instead? It’s confusing the way it’s worded. A little more depth to the description, or explanation, would assist the reader in understanding.

It sometimes helps to go back and re-read the previous post or two in order to reacquaint yourself with the setting, and then make that new post. As a writer you are not necessarily going to find yourself going from one post to the next, even when doing solo quests, in a single sitting. As such, you can actually forget what is going on or how it might affect you, which in turn makes the follow up posts shift dramatically. Remember, the reader is following the entire thing in a single sitting, so we are going to notice anything major that changes or is out of place immediately.
Pacing: 5
The pacing as a whole was rather jolting at times. It flowed as a narrative and then would suddenly be interjected by seemingly out of place lines of dialogue or actions. Be careful not to lead your reader with a certain feel and then suddenly change that. At times, interjections are fine but when they come off as out of place it tends to make things difficult to follow.

Character 13
Communication: 5
The dialogue between Leopold and Wilfred was satisfying and interesting, a good amount of witty banter back and forth that kept me as a reader intrigued. There were certain points, such as eluding to the fact that the banter between the two was commonplace (post 1; paragraph 4) that made it flow so well and much more realistic.

An awful lot of banter with Wilfred in a battle where a soccer ball is trying to destroy you. This goes back to the pacing comment, as it changes the narrative itself and make it difficult to read realistically. As a reader, I felt that at times there was far too much chatter interspersed within points that should have been filled with more action. Or, in some cases, talking that actually made the narrative of the battle stutter randomly. These points caused the thread to derail just long enough to make me stop before continuing on back into the flow of the story.
Action 4
Your character, from what I could gather, followed actions that would have made sense. However, with lack of clarity about the character himself, it’s hard to say. For the most part it was pretty well done but any other quirks that you might have, or personality through action, would help for sure. Actions speak louder than words, as they say, and through your actions you can offer the reader a look into personality and thought process without having to outright say it.

A LOT of talking in the middle of a sandstorm without a single mention of sand in your mouth, nose, or anything else that would have fit that. As a reader that was a bit uncomfortable to follow because it did not make sense – much less drinking in the middle of it, pouring yourself a glass of liquor with sand – forgotten at this point raging all around you. Remember your setting, what is happening, and continue to play off of that.
Persona: 4
(Post 1; Paragraph 3) “His false enthusiasm was often the one thing that kept them alive” :: I wasn’t sure how this related to the narrative, or what it meant without some kind of story to go along with it. How did it keep them alive and in what situation? Was it a tool by which he feigned interest, or disinterest, and therefore kept others at bay by throwing them off? Elaboration on this idea would be helpful.

Outside of that spot, and the general out of sync dialogue that I mentioned above, the persona of Leopold and Wilfred was enjoyable. They had a flow to themselves that the reader could get into, and the way that they corresponded with each other was amusing.

Prose 17
Mechanics 7
(post 1; 3rd paragraph from the bottom) You said “here” which reads like present tense. Also, the interjection of “needs must” confused me because I still wasn’t sure why you needed to. For the most part though, there were no true errors. At times certain sentences were only half-formed, it seemed, but mechanically you were strong.
Clarity 5
“partisan” :: I wasn’t sure what partisan referred to. Was it a weapon? Not very clear as to what it was about. –yet after playing some video games I actually stumbled upon a spear-like weapon called a partisan that was similar to a glaive. Perhaps a bit of an explanation about what the weapon looked like would have made this more clear.

(first post) “comminatory“ :: This word means vengeance or threatening, but I had to look it up, and I wasn’t sure how it was the opposite of victory or worked in conjunction to celebration. It’s not bad to use a verbose style, so long as it’s not used so often that the reader had to go to a dictionary to figure out what you’re saying. Hobnail, for example, made me confused till I looked it up. In such a simple flowing narrative it’s easy to lose the reader with relatively archaic words.
Technique 5
Generally alright, but for the most part it was mediocre. As with comments above, there were times when you broke the writing that you were doing with random verbosity fracturing the narrative. As a writer it is easy to lose focus, going from sentence to sentence, and then overlook certain qualities of the narrative later on. In these cases you have to step back and really take a look at things to see if it flows the way a reader would follow. It’s one of the hardest things to do in writing, attempt to gain an outside perspective on your own work, but it helps.

“Leopold smirked, his charismatic grin piercing the obfuscation of the sandstorm like a beacon of sarcastic light.” :: That is a prime example of a bit of verbosity that is somewhat confusing to the reader.

“Wilfred gestured through the veil of confiscation that left man and beast alike battered, beautiful, and bruised” :: Another use of higher diction that came out of nowhere and didn’t fit in the narrative.

Wildcard 4
Overall the thread seemed like a quick in-and-out type thread, where the quality was slightly hurt by the fact that you seemed rush. It was not a bad story, but one that left the reader with a lot of questions.

Score :: 48


Leona
Plot 12
Story: 4
No clue why a witch of Berevar was in the Citadel or Corone, or anything else about your character. It is important to include the backstory for your character, especially when they seem to be in a niche of sorts. How she got to the Citadel, or why she is in Corone, should go hand-in-hand with where she came from –Berevar- and why she is so far from there. Because of the confusing participation in this battle the reader could easily start on the wrong foot and not recover as the story goes on.

How do you know Leopold? What is the backstory? As I mentioned in Leopold’s Story section, there is a familiarity between the characters in the very beginning of the thread that borders on them knowing the other well. For example:
(post 2) “…you shall pay for transgressions not yet made!” What transgressions of his do you know of?
(post 6) ““What of Ruby?” Leona retorted, the question giving Leopold a pause, “You love her, you have always loved her, and yet you seek to do this.” ;; I wasn’t sure how you knew about Ruby, or his relationship with her. At this point, as a reader, I was pretty sure you did know each other rather well from a previous thread or some other form of story.
Setting: 3
Except for the ball making a groove in the empty wasteland, you really didn’t expound upon the setting at all. Just because the opponent makes it and gives a little bit of explanation, doesn’t mean that it’s set and done. You can always add to the appearance of the places you are in. Small additions can bring a place to life, and exploring the senses outside of sight alone makes a world of difference.

You told Wilfred that he was going to be in a sandstorm, that you weren’t close enough to be in. Sandstorms are massive, and even without being behind the wall of sand itself there is a huge expanse around the body of the storm that is still affected by buffeting wind and sand. In a battle where the proximity of the characters is more or less nil, especially if they can casually talk to one another during a raging storm, there is no way you would not be within distance to be affected by it as well.
Pacing: 5
Pacing was alright, for the most part. You gave your opponent narrative to work with and kept the story moving. Though randomly you would stop to talk, in a sandstorm, about things that were rather… sudden and I wasn’t sure what the point of them were. Or in some cases how you knew them. Try and keep to the story, make sure it flows, and don’t veer from it too drastically to lead the reader away from the plot at hand.

Character 11
Communication: 4
Telling your opponent how many ways there were to kill him, in exacts, made no sense to me because I had no clue who your character was or why that was important to bring up… There was a feeling that you could see into the future, but how or why wasn’t explained.

You also talked a lot about Jomil and I wasn’t sure how that related to the story either, or to the character.
Action 4
Actually, I have no clue who your character is other than a Berevar witch with a soccer ball… backstory is important, as is explaining your character. If you are going to write something different than the “my parents died and I like fighting” character, you need to tell the reader who they are. Unique characters bring to the table their own special blend of quirks and general actions that can be paramount in establishing them with depth. Through your actions you are showing who your character is instead of telling. Because of that if you have your character act a certain way the reader will glean a personality from that, if it doesn’t fit the personality you describe in your narrative everything falls apart.

Some of the action in this thread I wasn’t quite following, while others I just shrugged and let it go.
I don’t know what this ball is…
Persona: 3
I get that you are a follower of Jomil, but the nature of the character and the personality you portray are lost through the narrative. Third paragraph, your second post. The entire dialogue in that section didn’t make any sense. If the outcome of the battle means nothing, why are you there? If you want to punish him for Jomil – no clue why – then why would you train with him?

In the middle of a battle… you want to have a major breakdown about a flask of alcohol? It was just very unrealistic. I didn’t get why you suddenly had this moment of rage about alcohol during a battle. Without sufficient backstory, even for that addition to the plot, you lost me as a reader.

Prose 15
Mechanics 5
Word choice and spelling errors here and there in each post. Be sure to proofread, especially after you’ve taken some time away from the post so that you can catch things. At times, it is easier to catch the problems if you’ve given it at least a couple days and helps a lot more when you read it out loud.
Clarity 6
“. As arid as the heart of the man she now faced” :: arid heart? Waterless, dry, or barren? Narrative-wise that was something I could point to as an example of clarity in light of the story. However, as stated above, there were plenty of pieces of the puzzle that didn’t quite fit in and in turn force the reader to question, making things unclear. Try and keep things simple and from there build on it. Clarity is the base for writing, so being clear will create a good skeleton to work off of.
Technique 4
Please, and I mean this in the most respectful way possible, don’t use “orbs” for eyes. It’s an awful way to say eyes. Also, using the word “form” in place of body is another classic bad word choice. Instead of “her form walking” you could say “her lithe body” or anything that gives the reader something more to work with in regards to what your character looks like or who she is. There are always opportunities to interject passing remarks in the narrative that allow for you to expound upon the character, be careful not to squander those opportunities.

Wildcard 4
I had more questions by the end than I did at the start with Leona. Try and get into the shoes of your character more, express them through the story, and add to the story as you go. If you can do that you will have a dynamic character that allows for interesting narrative and engages the reader.

Score :: 42


Rewards!
Leopold receives 1500 exp and 80 gold

Leona receives 450 exp and 60 gold

[Lye]

EXP & GP Added!