Round 1: Less Careful Vs Philomel

[Silence Sei]

Round starts May 3rd, 12:01 AM CST. Multiple Personality Vs Multiple Transmitted Something-Or-Others. Good luck!

[Less Careful]

"Fuck it's cold."

Cris' black cotton jacket, though heavy on his shoulders, guarded little against the frozen air. He pulled up the collar of the armored uniform, as if it would protect against the piercing cold wind blowing down the snow-capped mountain. The witch hunter peered through the thin fog at its flat top, recognizing the telltale sign of a volcano from his youth. The memory opened a door in his mind, and the soft whispers he managed to ignore until now hissed through his head, as if to scream out of his ears. Wordless screeching made his ears ring, and a sharp pain penetrated his forehead. Clutching his skull, he stumbled to the earth, thin soil and ash yielding against his writhing form. Nearly blind from the pain, he lashed out at a pine jutting knifelike and thin from the landscape, like its thousandfold brethren. Earthen strength surged through him as he fought back with a wave of rage. Uncontained, it burst forth through his shaking arms, wrapped around the flared hilt of the great wooden blade. He pulled, and roared with the strain and frustration. The tree's shallow roots creaked and groaned before snapping under the stress. The disrespectful voice quieted as he dumped the frozen corpse of the seven-foot pine to the earth.

Breathing heavily, he slammed the door on his younger "brother." Valerius Richards hadn't learned his place yet, the way Penn had long ago. Cris hated soft-spoken Penn and his predelictions, but at least he was patient. Val clawed at his cell day and night, and the nightmare only grew when he won his freedom, if only briefly. For now, however, Cris had cowed the impudent beast.

Crispen Richards' split mind had splintered in the crucible of the Lornius Corporate Challenge. Alongside the nude demon Avery Nito, they cut a bloody swathe through the island. The rules, however, stipulated that only combatants could be killed. When the monstrous Valerius birthed himself, he killed and ate an entire family before he was sated enough to succumb to his elder brothers wills. Crispen fled the xenophobic nation, rather than face a shallow grave, or worse -- Terrinore. For a year he lay low, the twin brothers struggling to contain their wretched kin, and his resources had almost run dry when he got the invitation.

The Serenti Invitational, his last chance to prove his skills as he had intended in Lornius, loomed as a beacon of justice in his mind's eye. Success here would lead to contracts, and contracts to money. Even this frozen mountain stood only as a testament to his endurance, and he would rule it even as the monks who built it spit the irony of his bastard brother upon him.

[Philomel]

"Under the peaceful dawnlight,
Treads a maiden fair,
Frozen tears adorn her cheeks
And snow falls in her hair ..."

This time she was not dressed in her normal assemblage.

With one look at the frigid interior of the battleground she was to enter, Philomel had turned around and gestured to her guard. With a grimacing expression, eyes disliking the snowfall and the steep mountain slope, Maverik the elf warrior had handed over her cloak. Or rather, she had herself draped the heavy deep emerald green vestment over the top of the faun's drakescale breastplate, leather shoulder guard and steel gauntlets, and then stepped back. Philomel had thanked her with a small nod, pulled the cloak around her, and stepped through the doorway, over to the threshold to the land of ever winter.

Veridian, her ever-present eager companion, however, was dressed as he always was. His natural fur was tough and durable, able to withstand the temperatures of a frozen forest land. Inside him, also, the partial spirit of the fire-whisp, the Behemoth, fluttered, giving him a warmth with which to dance and scurry by her feet. Eagerly he bounded over a snow-covered tree root, and then buried himself into a drift, snuggling deep and yowling in a flurry of excitement.

Rolling her eyes, Philomel smiled, though her hand did not leave the hilt of her weapon. Her wandering eyes floated over the landscape, taking in the hillside, the alpine trees, the waking day and the snowfall. There was a break some way up the mountain, where the snow stopped and a poke of rocky outcrop began, but that was up some steep slopes, and quite some distrance away. This world was large enough, certainly, for her enemy, whomever (or whatever) she (or he) might be, to be lurking many miles away or nearby.

She had to be ready, come what may, and through it she needed to be ready to fight with what little she could find, at any moment. The trees themselves provided a perfect cover for any illusive creature, and she was in no way hidden, but it did not mean her opponent might be. As she considered her surroundings, of where she and Veridian might look, or indeed, lie in wait, Philomel realised the greatest flaw in this place, when one thought of her and her powers. Snow was heavy and thick in many areas of this world, covering branch, ground and rock, and the rocky outcrop of the crest was far too far away to gain any advantage right now. It certainly kept her away from her precious, precious earth. The source of all her power.

Fun, fun, fun, fun!

As Veridian's russet tail, in his excitement, whipped up a small avalanche, she bent down to start digging. Hands, hooves, dagger, whatever she could find, she knew she had to find earth, and fast. Otherwise there was little point in even being here.

[Less Careful]

The ashen soil shifted softly beneath his boots as Cris hiked down the gentle slope of the low mountainside. The air smelled of rotten eggs, though that faded with each step, and soon became lost in the crisp scent of falling snow. A crackling thunder rolled down the slope from behind him, confirming his suspicion: the volcano was active, and pressure was building. If this didn't end fast, the monks had ensured it would end another way entirely. In a matter of minutes, the entire mountainside would be awash in flame and molten rock.

Light flakes of snow began to drift by around the witch hunter as he took to a sprint, edging further and further from the coming eruption. Soft pats on loose dirt turned to crunching stomps as he crossed into the ongoing snowstorm downhill, and still he ran, rage for those orange-robed cowards building in his chest and driving away the chill in his bones. The trees became more dense here, and he strafed around the gangly things, ducking under their snow-laden limbs. Huge flakes of ice slapped against his bare face and hands as he hit a small clearing, a man-sized lump of green rustling at the far side.

Cris dug in his boots and slid to a stop, heaving breaths misting in the cold, dry air. He stared at the figure, and noted the long violet hair and curling horns with a soft chuckle. The monks had driven him right into the arms of his enemy, though the goat-legged beast busied itself digging through the snow. The lessons of the Orville Norton Institute came back to him now. "To be distracted is to die. Keep your focus, and take every advantage as they come." Cris Richards reached into his jacket pocket, and drew a length of flanged steel. His mace had drank in the cold of the mountain air, even through the cotton, and it burned in his warm hand, but the feeling was welcome and comforting to the warrior. Crouching and digging into the snow with the toes of his boots, he launched himself into a charge against the horned creature. His rage surged through his muscles, and he kicked off against the crunching snow leaping the last few feet to his target. Mace held high, he swung down at the beast's exposed skull.

[Philomel]

"She has a bold companion
Who treads beside her heel,
A dog as loyal as a lover,
Loyalty as his lone zeal."

The mace never made it far without anyone noticing.

Philomel had heard the rumbling of the angry mountain, and she knew exactly what it was. As she dug into the snow in search of the most desired commodity, her sense of being attached her to the ground. When her fingers first scraped the hidden soil, her mind lit up with a myriad of different messages; that the area surrounding was not stable, that the rocks that formed this mountain were not satisfied, that the trees and weeds and saplings would have some terribly tough time remaining in survival when the volcano's crest finally decided to vomit. A simple tickle of nearby dirt was enough to tell her the high fertility of it, the pressure building just thirty metres below and the aching pain that this landscape felt. It groaned and roared, ready to let rip to the world the terrors of mistfortune.

She sensed this just as the enemy came in closer to attack. Therefore, she was quite, quite distracted as he ran in, mace in air, ready to come crashing down on her skull. Footsteps, perhaps, had been heard, but in her mind they were mixed with the moans from from the earth. It was all she had, all she concentrated on.

However, the man did not account for or see the fox drowned in snow. Veridian had been playing, yes, burying himself in excitement into the drift. When he got down to the soil, however, he came back up. His golden eyes peeked out, watching Philomel with interested as she ran her fingers through the frozen fallen precipitation. Partly, he was covered in white, a perfect imitation of his north Berevaran cousin. In this way he saw as the Akasiman ran forwards, feet fleet and spirit strong. The human tried to attack, he tried to hack Philomel's head in, but Veridian was swift as a shadow.

Darting forwards, he screamed in his mind as he struck for the man's ankle, warning Philomel at the same time as stopping the attack. His jaws widened, they aimed for the leg. Dart in, dart out, that was the plan - it was easy because of his small, lithe body.

Watch out, behind you! he yelled.

Without even turning to look, Philomel moved. Her hand was already in the earth, and Veridian had already dug a hole not far off. And she was instaneous enough. The ground opened beneath her fingertips, dragging her in, and closed up once more. At the same time a fresh portal opened over where the fox had been, and here she appeared, now six metres away from the mace-man, on her knees and able to see him.

She licked her lips, grabbed her sword in the time it would take their attacker to react. So fleeting, so swift. So sudden.

The fight had just begun.

[Less Careful]

Even as his strike fell upon empty air, Cris felt a sharp tug against his ankle. He glanced down to find a snow-dusted fox snarling and chewing at the cuff of his pants. He tumbled into the snow bank, the vulpine annoyance rolling with him, and ice ran down his shirt and across his spine. Shivering, from growing ire as much as the frigid landing, he kicked off the vermin and whirled, searching for the tricky bitch.

Near the treeline, he spotted her again, glinting sword drawn from within that shapeless mossy cloak. His mouth pulled into a snarling grin as he realized what he had on his hands. A pest of a pet, digging around in the woods, and obvious magical tricks all added to the one thing he knew he could handle: witchcraft. The O.N.I. grad waded through the embankment, adjusting the one-handed grip on his flanged scepter. His blood boiled as he broke through to the very spot he'd found her, and he raised his weapon to point at the goat-bitch. "You're mine, cunt," he roared, driving his heel into the frozen earth toward her. The span of snow and ice erupted into a thick rimy spray between them, thrown up by the broken and shaken earth. In the distance, another rumble thundered down the mountain, as if agitated by the tremor. Not long, now, he thought as he braced for another sprint.

Into the haze, he charged in an arc at the witch where she'd stood moments before. Keeping low to present a smaller profile, he trailed the steel rod behind, prepared to swing it up into the whore's jaw. He'd ruin that pretty little face of hers, whatever it took. And then he'd cave it in.

[Philomel]

"Together they stride
Over the hillside and snow,
The wind rushing wild,
Biting cold ... never letting go."

"You're mine, cunt!"

Pah, in your wildest dreams, Philomel sneered, in her head.

Something told her that right now it was not wise to speak out. This man, clearly, was mad with rage. There was no clear reason why so; indeed, aside from the potential exploding volcano there was only her and Veridian to greet. He had not even been cordial and said a simple "hello." Instead he had run in, mace drawn, ready to crack open her skull. It gave her little amusement or little pleasure. Indeed, she did not care for opponents whom she had not met properly or at least got a good look at. She barely had a chance to look at him from her crouched position on the ground where Veridian had dug his hole, before the man proceeded to call out to her, and give the second round of attack.

Veridian, the beloved, landed in a heap of snow after being kicked away. Philomel was surprised his jaws had not gotten further than causing the man to stumble, after all his teeth were long and ridiculously sharp, but such were circumstances and cloth trousers. Without her needing to ask her fox companion connected to her and told her of his status as their opponent roared his declaration of possession.

I am well, no bones broken. Watch out for him though.

I am prepared, she relayed back, getting to her feet.

Elegantly, like a noble lady awaiting a sentence of death, so proud and majestic, yet ready for the worst of news, Philomel held her sword. She tried to be prepared for any threat, magical or otherwise, so unsure was she of this new foe. He had strength, that was clear, but else, she had speed and flamboyance. The folds of Maverik's beautiful emerald cloak fell around her, bathing her in a deep foliage excellence.

The earth ripped, harshly and brutally suddenly. An almost perfect mirror image of her own shattering ability. Except his was ... well it was angrier, and seemingly did not kick the same harsh punch. It seemed to be more about toppling an opponent instead of particularly harming them, and it was fast, almost instaneous in its growth. Philomel gasped, the only real reaction she had time for was to grip tighter onto her sword and to tense her muscles. Plans formed into her mind, swift and real, and as she bent down ready for the impact she fed her awareness into the ground.

Tree ... far left, two metres.

Energy from the quake ripped through her, sending her off balance, but she used it to fly. Leaping with the force, she went backwards, way backwards, twisting the movement back and to the left, to a trunk two metres away.

Slam. She fell against the tree, and a rigour of agony went up her spine. As she slid down to the snow beneath she winced, trying to find restbite before attacking or defending once more. The snow was soft, still, here and somewhat thick, so she landed not too worse for the wear, similar to Veridian. He hissed, though, at her pain, and thus she suggested his next action, as she watched the earth mage mace-wielder attack where she had once been. Where he thought she would be.

Go for it. Keep him distracted for me.

Veridian nodded, then the world blurred as he, now steady of paw, moved to race and charge at the man. Muscles rippled, fur stood on end, and he merged earth with fire with rage, becoming heavy-sized in a technical jiffy. Flames curled from his muzzle, his neck, his feet, all over, crimson sparked in his eyes. Soon something nearing a wolf he ran to catch the man as his beloved rested, jaws open, this time, this time, enough to swallow his leg whole.

[Less Careful]

Again, his steel bit empty air where the horny bitch should have been, and Cris' furor reached new and dangerous depths. The coward refused to face him, relying on her witchcraft to fly away. He shrieked his wrath, and the soil and stone below resonated with his ire, shaking subtly in time with his tensed muscles. Turning to stalk back through the dissipating haze, he decided that if she could not fight her own battle, he would take his rage to the beastling she commanded. He flashed his teeth, a grinning challenge, as he lay eyes on the warping flesh of the fox.

Flame curled from its open maw as it barreled toward him, and the barest whisper came to his ear, the savage voice of his baby brother. "Hungry..." He braced himself against the gradually shaping stone around his feet, crouching as if to meet the demon's charge. "Fine," he snarled, as much to himself as to the impertinent presence in his own skull. "Eat your fill, brother. Eat its heart out."

As the beast closed on him, he could feel the heat radiating from it, not nearly so hot as its flame implied, and it seemed a shame to ruin his first moment of genuine comfort on this mountainous battlefield. He drove forward, rushing to meet the vulpine demon, and slammed his left palm into the shallow soil even as his right heaved steel to meet fire, fur, and flesh. He poured his hatred into that strike, a flood of power and unyielding will, and an obsidian spire erupted from below the creature as it wrapped its fever hot fangs around his lightly plated shoulder. Black cloth peeled back in the fire, revealing steel over flesh, and he grit his teeth against the biting pressure and searing heat. Still, he drove himself forward, pushing against the fury-forged outcropping, and swung again and again at the beast through his cries.

[Philomel]

"The cold however seized,
Angrily it held them tight,
No matter how they fought,
They would not get free tonight."

The pain.

Gods, the lacerating, agonising pain.

When it lanced through Veridian, it lanced through her. When either of them wanted they could open themselves to the other to let them experience the emotions and torment the other felt. Obviously the receiver of such could disconnect the mental link, but for most times of these occasions the feelings were for a reason. To relay what the other's true opinions were, or to express a dislike when the other was indifferent. It could be vague, but also intense, and in this time it was formed and born to be intense. It was born to incite fear and gasping and horror. It was born to give out pain and empathy and understanding.

It was born to give anger, and in a rage it gave hate.

Her back at least over the initial shock of the jarring impact, Philomel rose rapidly, heart beating wildly, to her feet. With white blade in hand, as white as the snows around them, though snows that would soon be grey wish ash, she became distraught in expression as the salgamite pierced through the flesh of her beloved. It struck up from the ground as a savage strike, jutting suddenly and without warning and hit his lower torso. Ripping through skin she felt as it bit into the bottom of his ribcage, shattering through the lower two bones and tearing asunder his diphragm.

Incessantly and irreversibly, riled she let out a savage hiss before yelling to the skies.

"BASTARD!!!"

In his agony, in that shock of being struck mid stride, mid bite with such a weapon of earth, that thing he was of - the great firey beast fell to the side. He screeched, gulped and whined, as Philomel cried out in dire, absolute horror.

"Zi gem za'gengen!" Shrieked she, in faunish.

You are earthless. The worst insult for any man. Or woman. Or being of any flesh.

Sucking in her breath she told Veridian fiercely to hang on. As she prepared herself to run straight at this man with all the speed she could summon, she pulled the rocks around the area to her. Like a bee to succulent pollen or a lover to an atrocious whore, rocks flew out of the ground, mirroring the very mountain that was rumbling beneath them, some of them bursting right out of the snow. Large fist sized stones zoomed to her, and they fastened themselves with nothing other than magic to her belly, covering from beneath her breastplate to her loins.

All the while the mountain continued to groan in pain.

Bleating angrily in faunish she ducked her head and then excelled with energy. As Veridian limped half-dead away, flopping and falling as he went, she charged at the man, her speed and sincerity excelled to thrice that of any being. Horns ducked, sword drawn she aimed to headbutt, slash and crush him in one, send a savage magical earthquake down his bones if she could do, straight from her skull.

Smashing his bones into dust.

For she was the earth mage here, she was the warrior, she was the hero.

By Drys she would make this man pay for what he did to Veridian.

[Less Careful]

Smoke filled his lungs, and the acrid stench of his own burning flesh wafted into his nose as the foxfire consumed his jacket, and the shoulder beneath. Steel plates fused into his skin under the flame's influence. Cris felt the beast slump, however, cut down by the glistening black spear, before limping away to lick its wounds. A bleating scream rang out across the mountain, echoed by the tremors of the mountain itself. The she-beast screamed something behind him, and he could hear her voice growing closer, closer. Too quickly, he knew, to rise to the occasion, and neither would the earth grant him the time.

With a rapidly wasting arm, he gripped the obsidian spire tight, flexing his ruined muscles. Earthstrength filled the gaps, and he felt the glassy weapon break loose. Rolling to his back in the ashen dirt and snow, he braced his ebon lance against the declining slope, couching it in the pit of his good arm. He raised the pike against her charge, and his eyes to his charge.

The faun raced toward him now, and through his own smoke it seemed as if the earth itself were exploding from behind her, driving her toward him. Ash billowed into the rapidly clearing sky, and barely discernable debris launched itself behind her, whether from hoof or hell. Her once-pretty face now twisted itself in rage and vengeance, curling horns lowered at him as she bleated her displeasure. For an instant, just one moment, he smiled. Not the knowing smirk of the magnificent bastard, or the grimace of bubbling and boiling hate. His lips spread, and he felt nothing but awe for this woman, just for a moment. For the first time, pure hatred, wrath, and ire poured through her, and it was beautiful.

TOOMMMMMMMMM

The explosive sound of the eruption rocked him back an inch, and the moment was gone, all doubt with it. He would die on this mountain, as the orange bastards had meant from the start, but he'd be damned if he didn't take this cunt with him.

[Philomel]

"For after all the winter god,
He was present there,
And he had their hearts
Caught forever in his frozen snare."

Not a far distance away Veridian fell. The spear had almost ripped through the opposite side of his weighty body, after stabbing past muscle, his stomach and shattering the back ribs. Blood seeped out, congealed, and then vapourised as it met the natural fire. Flame-proof fur crept back to allow the meatiness to meet the air. It singed, broiled in the heat of the beast that habited inside of Veridian, a creature who had walked the earth in the beginnings of time.

As he fell, the spear was raised. As he collapsed, Philomel's hooves that thundered like the mountain itself, ceased in their rythym. Time seemed to slow as he lifted his eyes up to the heavens, his heart unsteadily beating as it tried to heal him, then fail as more internal injuries occurred in his body. The skies began to blacken as the heart of the ugly mountain, the thing that had been rumbling and roaring this entire time began to shake. Its summit burst open like a flower in bloom as Philomel couldn't predict the spike.

Enertia, anger and hate filled, she ran straight into it. The very sharpest tip snapped off as it met her rocky formed armour, and those rocks fell to the earth, but Veridian was still in pain. Veridian was still dying, the mountain was screaming out, endless noise was ringing in her ears as she kept going, going, going.

Further and farther. He was not dead yet. He was holding on for dear life, trying to give her the best chance as nature exploded around them, the very crust of their arena began to break up and the world - this made world ...

Energy and furious hate kept her going. Without a second to think, for she would die otherwise in the molten stone, she did as the villain might not expect, and shoved herself, her own body closer to him, letting the spike, now blunted but still thin, to slice an ugly depth through her body. Three and a half feet long it provided the size for her to keep going. With the speed and agility of a faun made in a whorehouse, raised in a whorehouse, reigning in a whorehouse, she let herself be stabbed, and then stabbed the man. She sliced, swept the blade, and then headbutted him as her skin and side were pierced. Mirroring her beloved. The stab would be aimed at his belly, the headbutt at his temples, and it would shatter his skull entirely with the last pieces of magic that Veridian could provide her as life left him.

So little time. It occurred in a matter of moments, but moments was all they needed for them both to be pierced on each other's weapons. Standing there, bleeding and dying, she stared at the dark-eyed man, watching the life ebb away from him as edged away from existence herself. Having pierced herself.

There had been no real other choice. Hatred and vile disgust had driven her insane, and something inside of him ... those last moments, had he delighted in it? What even was his name?

She would never know. As his eyes slid closed, so did hers. And in her mind a tune began to play as they all became corpses, drowning in the lava. She began to murmur. A song from her childhood that her mother used to sing to her, about a girl and her beloved dog on a snowy mountain top, who died from frostbite.

A mountain top like this one, full of ice and full of death.

"Under the peaceful dawnlight,
Treads a maiden fair,
Frozen tears adorn her cheeks
And snow falls in her hair ..."




End of battle. All bunnying in this final few scenes approved.

[Lye]

Thread is Closed to be judged shortly.

[Tobias Stalt]

Philomel

Story: 3- The reason for Philomel being in this fight is never made completely clear. We see a lengthy opening that describes where she is, the things going on around her, and the character herself. From the third post onward, the fight takes precedence, and the story itself never really comes to light. There is no impetus.

Setting: 6- In contrast to the story element, you are descriptive of your environment and character. Be careful not to overindulge in sensory writing, and to give ample attention to other aspects as well. You have a talent for evoking the senses- hone that, and use it to sharpen other parts of your writing, too.

Pacing: 5- most prominently, the ending. The biggest qualm in this thread is how abruptly it came, and with such little pretense. Yes, the build was strong, but it left a strange sense of flatness. She just died, frozen to death on top of a mountain? As a reader, I am left with many questions.

Action: 5- Some of your actions were heavy handed, but nothing damning. As with setting, be careful about being too descriptive of what you're doing. In the instance of action, sometimes, less is more.

Communication: 5- the back and forth between Philomel and Veridian gives insight into why they do certain things, but the lack of overall communication in the thread makes this score significantly lower than it could be.

Persona: 5- The reader gets a sense that Philomel is more confused than anything else. She is disrupted by Crispen and follows his lead for the rest of the battle, even so far as to become reactive. Her worry and regard for Veridian and her empathy toward him, as well as their shared pain, are noteworthy, but her own emotions are less visible from the surface.

Mechanics: 4- Toward the beginning, an excessive use of commas causes the writing to come across choppy and weakens the flow. Example: "Inside him, also, the partial spirit of the fire-whisp, the Behemoth, fluttered, giving him a warmth with which to dance and scurry by her feet."

Technique: 4- Purple Prose. "With a grimacing expression, eyes disliking the snowfall and the steep mountain slope, Maverik the elf warrior had handed over her cloak." The second clause here states that her "eyes dislike the snowfall..." but eyes don't dislike things. Also, " Like a bee to succulent pollen or a lover to an atrocious whore, rocks flew out of the ground, mirroring the very mountain that was rumbling beneath them, some of them bursting right out of the snow." You already used one simile here, doubling up and then adding a metaphor is overkill. A good use of literary device carries its own, weighty voice.

Clarity: 4- I'm not entirely sure why Philomel died when Veridian did, to be blunt. She could easily have left once her opponent was dead. The writing doesn't give a strong sense of "why," so you may benefit by giving the reader just a bit more information when you're writing. Show don't tell, yes, but don't throw them in with no road map.

Wildcard: 3- I have watched your writing for a while now, and it may be that you've been distracted lately, but this battle wasn't your best. Despite that, you manage to roll well with the punches and wrote a strong finish.

Less Careful

Story: 8- Almost immediately, the reader understands where your character has been, and what he intends to do. Serenti is a means for him to prove himself, but more than that, it validates for him the single last chance he has to do so. There is more than a tournament at stake. This is an pivotal moment in his story, and thus, a reader is more enticed. You make the audience follow the character, and you give them emotional investment. This is a difficult feat in competitive writing, as you have to vie against someone else for command in captivating the reader.

You further compound the story with an impetus for his rage: Magic. As a Witch Hunter, you need no greater reason to detest your foe. It became more than "I must win," it evolved into "you must fall." Your dynamic is not simply linear, it snowballs from start to finish. This is an excellent example of what an action writer ought strive for in his plots. Kudos.

Setting: 7- Notes of imagery and immersive use of his surroundings in your writing bring the setting to life, and also make clear that it is more than simply a backdrop against which players dance. When he rolls down the embankment with Veridian, for instance. It wasn't just "damn fox bit me," Cris stumbled and the enviornment itself turned against him.

Pacing: 6- There is a clearly defined beginning, rise, and fall to this thread on your part. Everything in between raged forward like a storm. Perhaps too fast? It felt a bit rushed, though battle tends to happen quickly and feel heated- you could have drawn out just a bit more and strengthened the hatred he felt for the Faun. To break from objective commentary for a half second, I wanted this to devolve further into a gritty, rip each other apart contest of pure and unabashed enmity. You came wickedly close to that, but both died in a very obscure manner. That may be what really weakened it- the end. It came so abruptly.

Action: 5- Concise, your descriptors and sentences jabbed toward the reader and evoked a strong, direct voice. What weakened it in some places were lengthier sentences that dragged.


As the beast closed on him, he could feel the heat radiating from it, not nearly so hot as its flame implied, and it seemed a shame to ruin his first moment of genuine comfort on this mountainous battlefield.

Take this example. While not mechanically weak, you could have broken it up to greater effect.* "As the beast closed on him, he could feel the heat radiating from it. While not nearly as hot as the flame implied, it seemed a shame to ruin his first moment of genuine comfort on this mountainous battlefield." That subtle break can change the flow, even the way the audience perceives your intended message.

Communication: 5- The few things Cris does say are filled with venom. He speaks more through his actions to this, a number among one of his mortal enemies. The audience gleans something inside him from that, but a real lack of dialogue makes it a weaker category for this particular piece.

Persona: 10- It was a tough call. Giving out 10s is something that rarely gets done on Althanas, and it means every inch of perfection in a category. Not only his grim determination, or his thoughts at the beginning, but the way you got into his mind: down to his words, his movements, and the way he railed against a stronger force. Crispen exhibited rage in a gorgeous way in this battle. Congratulations.

Mechanics: 5- Clear and succinct writing, for the most part, some sentences could have been broken down. See Action.

Technique: 5- None of the prose felt weak, but you could have made it stronger. Description is one of your strengths, a verbose onomatapoetic bit at the end, but be wary of wordiness. If you interject a clause to accentuate what is written, make sure whether or not it is redundant.

Clarity: 5- Your writing flowed easily and smoothly.

Wildcard: 4- Good work. Emotions are arguably my favorite thing to read, and you brought the hatred of a man to life- nonsensical, unbridled, absolute hatred.

44 to 60

Less Careful moves on to the second round! Congratulations!
Philomel is elminated. Good luck next time!

Less Careful gains 2200 Exp and 200 Gold
Philomel gains 400 Exp and 50 Gold