View Full Version : Finding My Own Way (Open)
Finding My Own Way (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xWnBgbd1Oi8)
Open battle. One opponent of any level. For the purpose of this engagement, Ozoric is a below average fighter with a borrowed steel short sword.
Sunshine. Dancing in the colonnades of the grand coliseum was a beautiful, halcyon afternoon. Rainclouds were nowhere and portents were good. Old wives spewed chicken guts and fish entrails to clarify – today, for somebody, was a good day. That somebody was Ozoric Newalla.
“I am not sure about this Aelfric,” the youth brooded. He was fortuitous enough to outrank the gruff captain. He would have clipped his ear for such talk otherwise.
“You’re never sure Ozoric. That is why you are still a lancer, and the Knight-Commander has sent you here.”
There was a truth to the man’s words. Despite his intellect, Ozoric found himself the student for once. The truth did not quite hurt on this occasion, but it came close. He was wrong. Aelfric was right. He would never hear the end of it.
“That is not what I had in mind when I asked for ‘encouraging advice’ either…”
Aelfric let out a boisterous laugh that could have split rock, had there been any. Instead, the six columns on the edge of the sandy arena were pinnacles of metal. Gold and silver in an alternating, and sycophantic dedication to unknown gods. At the point of each, there was a bust, unfamiliar and alien to the two mountain dwellers, but garnering the crowd’s respect.
“Pacifism will not save the Drakengard.”
Like a bolt to the chest, Ozoric fell silent. There was no arguing his way out of that. For years, since he had arrived in the dragoon’s fortress, he had refused to pick up a sword. He had feigned interest in practicing war, but had excelled in the theory. Stratagems were his second nature. He dreamt of feint attacks, flanking maneavours, and territorial guerrilla warfare.
“Neither will outright conflict with the Empire,” he retorted.
“War will find you, wherever or not you will it,” Aelfric masterfully rebuked. The solitary gust of wind in the arena chose that moment to wash over them both, and die a permanent death.
Silence. The crowd fell silent with it. Ozoric folded his arms across his chest, covered in thick red leather, and stared ahead. His own portal to the arena had long since faded, leaving the entrance of his opponent two hundred feet ahead and sealed. Whatever awaited him beyond, he sorely hoped, had only two arms and two legs.
“Alright,” he said after a long awkward silence. “Let’s suppose for just one moment that I fight to defend my home.” By home, he meant life. By life, he meant honour. Confusion reigned in the prince’s mind. This was Aelfric’s domain. This was not Ozoric’s study. This was not academia.
“You will fight by gods, and fight with fervour.” Aelfric pointed ahead, a gauntleted hand regal and riposte to the youth’s utterances. “Or your opponent will make dragon feast of your flesh!”
Sure enough, the doors began to open. Ozoric flicked the lanky hair from his eyes and stared upwards at the beating sun. His pallid skin offered little protection, and already sweat ran down his spine and pooled in the small of his back. His armour, draconic and bloodthirsty, was already his coffin whatever the outcome. He frowned. He wiped the congealing spit from his lips. He unsheathed the simple steel short sword from the scabbard on his left hip.
“Alright…,” he trailed off. He pictured dragons falling from the darkened sky should he fail. His home, and his honour, and the dragoons at large relied on him taming Chalazae, the Queen of Dragons. He was hardly going to that with words and a well-aimed book. “Teach me, Aelfric. Teach me how to defend myself.”
The bearded man smiled broadly, slapped his sides, and guffawed.
“Your opponent will do that for you Newalla!” The laughter bounced around the arena as the doors fell fully open, the crowd roared, and madness descended onto the scholar with wings.
Walking in, he noticed assortment of warriors and armored-clad
folk. He strangely felt at home in such a crowd and his curiosity
peaked. Making his way through the masses he heard distant sounds
of fighting. Ignoring the sounds, he opened his eyes wide when
he saw a assortment of weapons on a wooden table.
Moving his face close he inspected the craftsmanship. It was made
with care, but lacked skill that only experience could garnish.
"There you be you tiny ogre." A strange overweight fellow grabbed
him by the shoulder and pushed him through a doorway beside the
weapons display.
"Lad, I have no ide..." Verif was cut-off when he pushed him again
into a dark hallway and closed the iron gate behind him.
"Remember dwarf, we get a huge payout as long as we make a display
of the prince."
"Listen, you got me confused with another dwarf. There are many
of us that armored head-to-toe here in the Citadel."
"Stop playing your games Kalak. The contract says specifically they
want his head seperated from his shoulders." Hobbling away, Verif
shrugged his shoulders. No problem I'll just talk to the nearest person
and tell them they made a mistake. Walking into the darkness he used
his hands to guide him to the exit. When he felt something magical
touch him, and he was sucked inside a portal. The feeling of
weightlessness stopped as he hit cobbled ground.
A wall suddenly gave way and Verif realized there was a huge wooden
gate in front of him. The iron chain-links groaned as light bathed into
the room. Using his arm he tried to block the sunlight as he was
momentarily blinded. A huge arena revealed itself as he slowly got up.
He noticed there was a similar opening across the arena and there was
a figure standing there at its entrance.
Commencement. In a single moment, Ozoric’s nerves fell away. Instead of uncertainty, promises of pain, and failure there was excitement. Whatever Aelfric saw in him that he did not, it was there. He clenched his teeth, tightened his fists into balls of lacklustre steel, and stepped forwards.
“Don’t interfere Aelfric,” he commanded. His cocksure grin, unbecoming of his usual nature, put the captain in his place.
Aelfric could only rest his hands on his hips. Heavy shoulders, burdened by steel and time, slumped reluctantly. Whatever he had said, or perhaps not said, it had pushed the boy well and truly into the field of war. He curled his lips into a soft, uncertain smile. The sun beat down. The gentle wind washed over idyllic jade blades. Sky churned riotous, then settled on a cumulus heavens cape.
“I didn’t intend to…,” he whispered.
Alone, untested, and about to be served a commoner’s comeuppance, Ozoric advanced. His sword hung loosely at his side, caressing his right thigh like a child hiding in his mother’s wings. It was clean, untarnished, and freshly forged. Like its wielder, it had never cut flesh. Not once had it been swung, in anger or play, and it had never even heard conflict.
“Good day to you ser!” the boy shouted. As he grew closer to his diminutive opponent, he teetered between civility and aggression. The sheer bulwark of steel about the man…child’s body unnerved him. “My name is Ozoric Newalla. Might I know my opponent’s name?” He stopped a hundred feet away, a figure in innocence and crimson, and waited.
"The name's Verif, lad!" He smiled in his helm, and waved his hand.
"It would seem there is some mistake as to your opponent. I was
mistaken for a dwarf... Your opponent being one... Which I am, but
not the dwarf your suppose to fight..." Stopping, he pointed fingers
in different directions trying to get his story straight.
"Long story short, I am not to be fighting you and will be leaving
immediately. Turning around he made for the exit. Pain suddenly
shot through his spine and he stopped moving.
"You are wrong dwarf. There is no mistake, this is deliberately
planned." A disembodied voice spoke to both Verif and Ozoric.
"I needed a idiot to play the puppet. Now I can collect on Ozoric's
bounty and escape without even being in the Citadel.
"I've been called many things but a puppet I am not!" Verif angrily
spat at the voice.
"We shall see..." Verif's feet slowly came off the ground. His
body twirled around in mid-air and faced the prince. His toes dragging
across the ground it closed the distance between them. Feeling the
movement, Verif tried to resist but his hand reached behind him and
took out his Iron axe.
With a keen intellect, Ozoric arrived at the only conclusion available to him. A trick. Illusion and happenstance were trying to sway him. Ignore it, he told himself, and be done with it.
“I…,” he erred, failing to connect thought with action. “Are you alright?”
The answer came by way of axe, and the reaching for. Aelfric clapped loudly behind his pupil. Ozoric jolted upright, alert and pensive, and tried to swing his sword menacingly.
“Aelfric this isn’t right!” he roared over his shoulder. Warmth ascended. Heat spiralled. The air around the dragoon became tepid and then arid. Emotions flew like arrows, aimed true. “Look at him, look!”
By way of reinforcing his disbelief, and further abandoning his determination to ignore the strange turn of events the boy pointed. His finger, a shaking digit, traced the levitating outline of the diminutive opponent as he approached.
“It matters not why he fights here today boy, only that he does!”
That was infallible logic to Ozoric. Until now a pacifist, his temperature and emotions rose to force his hand. He was not going to wait for an executioner’s axe. He leapt. Through grace, civility, and draconic lineage, he rose and drifted forwards. His boots touched the farrowed earth and broke the shimmer of the arena. Away went the plain sand. A ploughed field appeared below, and a bolt blue sky unfettered by cloud manifested.
“That’s more like it!” Guffawed the captain. Aelfric rested his hands on his hips with a fatherly smile.
The arena is now a wide, seemingly endless ploughed field. The sky is clear blue, with little or no clouds, and a piercing sun sits at midday overhead.
As he came in melee distance, Verif could feel the attacks as they were
being swung. Helpless to stop his movements, he decided there was only
one thing he could do.
"Overhead swing!" His body moved in exaggerated but quick fashion, swinging
his axe above and downward at Ozoric.
Danger. Immanent and pure. Though new to the game of thrones and kings, Ozoric commanded his court keenly in his defence. Like bodies falling before him, his senses twisted his body so that the axe cut air, not hide, and smashed into the earth.
“Gyahh!” the youth roared. Earth slapped against his greaves, harmless rattles of indignant defence. “Well done,” he praised, eternally stuck in the mannerisms of royalty and respect.
Before he could rise anew, however, the dwarf was recovered and doubling the season of hatred. Another swing, rebuked only by luck, and then another. Ozoric’s leather armour bent and constrained him, forcing him to move through rotation tight and side step sour.
“Get out of his reach and retaliate!” Aelfric roared. His bark rolled down Ozoric’s spine like thunder, arduous attempts at inspiring confidence and bravery in a long abandoned sword arm.
When the youth finally escaped the zeal of the dwarf, he pulled back his right arm, pointed the sword level at the opponent’s chest, and trusted. It was a simple forward step into half-rotated piercing stab. No skill. No strength. No purpose. A wasp stinging at a dragon’s hide in steel, beard, and battle-rage.
Piercing through the simple Iron, Verif felt the sting of metal.
"Ouch!" He screamed as his body hovered forward through the
attack.
"I have you prince!" His shoulders moved disjointedly to
cut horizontally at the prince's neck.
"Block high!" Verif warned.
"Be quiet dwarf!" The magical voice warned, a feeling of
pain shot through his spine and Verif gritted his teeth.
Though presently triumphant, the victory was to be short lived. Pain was something new to Ozoric, sheltered in his library atop the Drakengard. Although he found himself brought to his knees repeatedly through labour and exercise, when blade touched leather, his mind screamed with revelation.
“You can thank the smiths of the west ward tomorrow Newalla!” Aelfric chided through the scream.
It took several dilated seconds for the ‘prince’ to recognise what had happened to him. Farrowed earth, a repetition of the season’s dire turn through life and death gave way beneath stumbling feet. Ozoric retreated several steps, several leagues in his shocked body’s estimates, and reached with a free hand for his shoulder.
“…if this is to be thankful for…,” he groaned.
Only luck had brought the dwarf’s axe to the pauldron at the right angle to deflect it. Only foolish irony turned it inwards and down through the skin and into the resistance of the shoulder blade. The dragoon in training already felt his left arm falter. Its strength, the little there was of it before he strode innocently across the threshold into the Citadel.
“Well swung ser,” said the Prince. He righted himself, finding strength in the rising spiral of heat his progeny as half-dragon emitted into the air. He drew on it, flaunting his heritage to none but himself. “Let us…,” he wavered on uneasy feet. He raised his sword. It shook. “Let us go again.”
Bounties soon found, though perhaps not in the manner those witnessing the debacle and loss of respect might have imagined. Ozoric, on that note, charged. Aimless and reckless, he brought his sword in a downward arc to repay the favour to Verac’s right shoulder. His skin pale, his heart weak, no dragon roared in his soul this day.
The ferocity of the attack caught both Verif and the unknown
controller off guard. He moved in a blur, but his attacks were losing
strength as his blood flowed freely from his shoulder. Blocking the
attacks with the flat of his axe he tried to keep his distance. His
feet moved furiously to keep Ozoric at bay, but some attacks hit
home and Verif felt pools of blood gathering inside his armor.
"Faster you fool!" The voice commanded in desperation, now
realizing this fight was not going to be easy. Both combantants were
tiring visibly and movements were sluggish at best. Seeking to end the
fight, Verif's free hand snaked out to grab Ozoric's injured shoulder.
Hoping to use the pain to blind him, Verif used his axe hand in a flat
sweep to disarm the prince's sword arm.
Whatever education Aelfric expected to deliver to Ozoric began and ended with the blunt and stark realisation that pain maketh men of boys. Axe met neck and nicked noisily the notion of notoriety in Ozoric’s nuance. The gruff captain, a veteran of such poignant lessons flinched.
“The son of dragons should not fall so easily…,” he seethed. He took on the overbearing confession of the Knight Commander. “Ozoric!”
The moment Aelfric stepped forth blood crescent through the tepid air of the arena’s illusory atmosphere. The captain broke into a spring. He saw dwarf handhold heady hardship against the boy’s shoulder and harkened a new era of horror.
“Stand fast!” Aelfric barked. His armour, a bulwark against storm and steel, crashed and scraped over his bulky frame as he raised and fell over the mounds of earth. They collapsed beneath his weight and ferocious thundering. “I said stand f-”
Ozoric dropped his sword. With it, he dropped his wits and ways with words. His mouth formed a circle of surprise, pain instilled in musculature and pallid, tattooed skin. There was a brief moment of potential, and then nothing. His hand, raised in defence as dwarf hand hankered his wound, felt a cold prang, and then fell alongside the steel blade. Silver sword, bloodied stump, a tumbling, sprawling prince of nothing.
“-ast…”
Aelfric came to over his charge’s body. Newalla spluttered, writhed, and fell silent with a gasp gutting sense and sensibilities from the hardest of men.
“You have one hour boy, and then we go again.” He nodded appreciatively, but sternly at the victor, and turned his back on the agricultural heart of Radasanth to find mead and mettle and meaning in madness.
As his opponent fell, Verif noticed the spells hold weaken slightly as his
mental awareness returned. The battle had clearly ended but he could
here the faint voice of a wizard yelling in defiance. Glancing over his
shoulder, Verif saw one of the Citadel priests holding a hand in his direction
and chanting. The priest walked toward Verif as he finished his incantation.
"I've released you from the spell." He said with a flat expression, but melodic
voice. Reaching behind Verif's shoulder he pulled out a small pendant that was
the magical source of the unknown wizard.
"Thank you, lad." The priest nodded and walked away. Verif glanced back at
Ozoric and noticed an armored older soldier-type nodding to him. Verif raised
a hand in greeting but noticed the man turn and walk away. Looking at Ozoric
Verif nodded. "Lad you got some spirit. Good fight, may we meet again to fight
as allies instead of enemies."
Glad no one got seriously hurt Verif hobbled where he saw the priest go to get
his wounds healed.
Tobias Stalt
02-22-14, 03:46 PM
Alright, here we go:
Story:
Ozoric: 6 With more of a structured set up for the battle and an adherence to it that was alluded to throughout the battle- the back and forth between student and teacher as well as the theme that Oz was being trained- your story was decently done. As the reader goes through, it feels like detail drains from the posts a bit as time goes on, and you fall out of the Storytelling mode.
Verif: 4 The strange "possession" of your character in tandem with his willful defiance of that made for an interesting read. It was difficult to ascertain the reasons behind the conspirator's desire to kill Ozoric, which would have helped the score overall. Details are the crux of a story. When you leave things out, there are gaps left that need filling.
Pacing:
Ozoric: 5 The battle remained heated from the moment it was joined, though the writing was inconsistent. Starting several posts with a single word left to stand alone was disruptive, and it could have been tied into the following sentence. While it was most likely done to punctuate the concept, it felt unnecessary and choppy to read.
Verif: 4 Your posts became shorter and less detailed as the battle progressed. You don't need to make every post a novella, but it is important to keep the dynamic flowing and the reader hooked. Your pace jumped from slow to quick, then to borderline monotonous. It's possible for there to be action and that action to be boring. You want to breathe life into what you're writing, not just let it fall of your fingers and be done.
Setting:
Ozoric: 4At the beginning, you set the scene and allude to it again a few posts later. But you don't use that setting at all in your writing, it just seems to be there. It's not necessary to pick up a glass and drink every time you're in a bar, but noticing what's going on around you adds depth to what you're experiencing. Telling us more about the scenery gives us a means of further connecting with your character. Mind the elements of your story and you can take it from "good" to "great."
Verif: 4 You had a strong opening for the setting. It was evident that Verif was immersed in the arena, from entry to preparation. Then, all pretense of setting was thrown away. It's possible to keep a consistent eye for the setting without losing strength in other areas. You both seemed to act in a void, but for the established arena.
Communication:
Ozoric: 7 This may have been your strongest point with the back and forth between Ozoric and his instructor, and further with Verif. It helped to show us how brash and inexperienced Oz was.
Verif: 6 The initial conversation between Verif and the person who hired him was vague and could have been further fleshed out. Calling his movements out to Ozoric created an interesting dynamic that could have been gripping if you had coupled it with stronger writing overall. It was fun, but it lacked the sense of experience and heartiness of a battle worn dwarf. From his communication alone, I was able to glean he had those things, which is a testament in that area.
Action:
Ozoric: 7 Between Aelfric's actions and Ozoric's, both characters commanded a specific presence. It was easy to tell who the Rookie was, and who was commanding. As well, Ozoric reacted quite properly to being struck. (I personally liked that Prince of Nothing bit.)
Verif: 6 There was more action in your writing than anything else, and it was easy to feel Verif out by his movements. Build on what you have there and fuse the setting with what Verif is doing. His personality bleeds out through his actions, but you could easily make those actions more complex or dynamic. You want him to do things to keep the story moving, but also to add to the strength of the story.
Persona:
Ozoric: 8 Ozoric displayed several sides from the get go: strategist who is actually a pacifist, boy with a headstrong and cocky attitude, frightened and finally defeated youth. The writing moved through them masterfully, and tailored them in response to different things. It fit the story well.
Verif: 5 The reader could see and feel that Verif had feelings and reacted to certain things, as well as define those feelings. They were not abundant, nor were they pronounced where they did occur. Why did he not want to fight? When he did fight, why did he start calling out his shots? There was more that could have been done to display the character of Verif.
Technique:
Ozoric: 6 Colorful descriptors offset the abrupt one word sentences in several of your posts. For the better part of the thread, you had strong and diverse, meaty paragraphs that moved the story. There was at least one fragment (not counting the one word openings) in the form of "imminent and pure." Sentence fragments like this catch the eye, but in a negative way. Be sure you are aware of your structures, and that if you use a dependent clause, you anchor it to an independent one to forge a compound sentence. Otherwise, the writing gets dicey and bogged down.
Verif: 4 The choppy structure you've been posting in (as previously mentioned) was not damning, but it could be altered in the future to add to the clarity of your writing. Lacking in description, you made up for it with direct speech. Your tenses got confused one or two times, but you shifted back quickly. Still, be aware if you're writing in the past tense (-ed). The second you switch to the present, (-ing), you're creating arguments in your writing.
Mechanics:
Ozoric: 5 Fragments and one word sentences made the read weaker than it could have been. No spelling errors or glaring grammatical problems were evident beyond that.
Verif: 4 The desire to make the style uniform and consistently poetic is admirable, but it detracts from the flow of the writing. When you're writing poetry or prose not meant to tell a story, the boxed style you're using can be perfect to command attention or split two ideas apart. In the story setting, it's not the best medium. You want to convey everything in a concise way that flows, because that is easier to digest and the reader won't be confused or put off by it.
Clarity:
Ozoric: 6 Your writing was easy to understand and conveyed the message well, but your choice of words in some places could be stronger. For instance, “War will find you, wherever or not you will it,” Aelfric masterfully rebuked." The image "masterfully rebuked" sends is one that he's chiding the boy with a well-thought response. A veteran might retort candidly, or spit back with disdain. It was small, but it stood out.
Verif: 4 Multiple things were unclear about the character, his purpose in the thread, and his thoughts. He was concise in his actions, but they existed almost independent of other factors. Work on tying things together to strengthen your writing.
Wildcard:
Ozoric: 6 Your character shined here, and your style was good. I enjoy Ozoric and get the feeling that I'd like to see more of him.
Verif: 5 I did enjoy your thought to make Verif fight against his body. The calling out of moves made him seem like a veteran creating an easier time for a novice. While it could have been stronger overall, it was fun.
Total Score:
Verif: 46, Ozoric: 60
Ozoric wins!
Ozoric earns
788 Exp and
80 Gold
Verif earns
150 Exp and
75 Gold
Congratulations!
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