Yes, You Can Kick to Devin Hester

[Call me J]

There were not that many reasons for Jame to want to fight in the Dajas Pagoda, but there was one reason that stood out more than any other. He needed the practice. It was strange to think that one of the Pagoda’s own warriors considered his battles as exercises in training, but that was how Jame viewed them. He had reached his position based mostly on an undeserved reputation. Now, he was paying the price of having been so highly regarded.

However, Jame was no fraud. His reputation, though grandiose, was not full of lies. He had survived the last battle at Carnelost, though it had been more of a test of his ability to run than his ability to wage war. The blood that pumped through his veins truly was of a higher class than the average Althanian as well.

However, the fact was, none of that might have really mattered in the long run. In a world caught up in conflict, things could change quickly, but it also meant that only the present mattered. Battles within the hallowed walls of the Pagoda were nothing more than training, but the things Jame learned here might mean the difference between life and death when he actually faced Xem’zund again. The entire mood in the Pagoda had changed as a result. A place that was at one time filled with doting masters and eager young pupils now carried the signs of the crises in Raiaera and Salvar. Jame could feel it all around him. Everyone was trying to get better, desperately searching for that little edge so they would have it when their time of reckoning was upon them.

Jame knew he had a long way to go before he could reach that edge. Perhaps he had more expected on him than anyone else in the Pagoda, and he had such limited talent with which to accomplish it. Kross had taught him that.

“Now,” Jame thought bitterly. “It’s my turn to be the teacher!” He had stipulated what his arena would look like for the first time, and he had made it to match his rather turbulent mood. The battle field wasn't just unorthodox, but Jame had made sure that this battle would be grotesque. There were corpses hanging just above the half dragon’s head, and the carcasses were still fresh enough that blood dripped off their bodies. There was nothing but these carcasses hanging over head, and the floor was blank save for the pools of blood that had begun to collect underneath the freshly severed meat.

Jame looked on approvingly. “If these bastards want to play at war, we’ll play at war for real…” he said with an angry smirk. It was the perfect metaphor. War wasn’t about keeping one’s cool in a simple battle between two warriors. It didn’t involve sharp quips or trite witticisms, war was smashmouth, it was brutal, and it destroyed anything that resembled culture. The closest thing to sanity in war was the acute feeling of death all around.

People had brought the war to the Dajas Pagoda and in his bitterness, Jame wasn’t going to let anyone escape it.
Now, the half dragon waited for his opponent impatiently. The battlefield may have been a torture chamber of his making, but it was a torture chamber none the less. He didn’t like waiting for his opponent to arrive. To wait, the half dragon began to hum a song blandly, only to stop a few bars later when he realized he couldn’t remember the tune.

[Leaf on the Wind]

As a boy, Rowan heard stories about the Dajas Pagoda from his old master -- a man who had actually been to the Pagoda and, a long time ago, held Grand Mastery over it. Monzo no Ashitetsu, or Ironfoot Monzo, they called him. He would sit some nights and shape their minds as expertly as he shaped their hearts and bodies. When I fought in Dajas, he'd tell them, It was a place of true honor and nobility.

...and the stories would go until they all fell asleep. They'd wake up the next day, and they'd beat the crap out of themselves and each other, all with that secret little dream of going to Dajas, winning Grand Mastery, and seeing their names engraved next to old Ironfoot's.

Today, Rowan came to the Pagoda in search of that dream, but the waking world was a cruel one. Gone were the golden glories that his master had described. The walls were cracked with age, but they still had a worn dignity. The monks were quiet and peaceful on the surface, but Rowan could see it in the way they moved -- the way they talked to each other in hushed whispers instead of respectfully softened voices. The old place had changed, and he'd never even seen it to know what was lost.

Challenge was laid down, and someone was waiting, and an old monk with lines all but scarred into his face guided Rowan to his fate. He'd imagined going down these walls before; how the sunlight would glint through the rafters, and how it would smell of dust and age...but the only light came from torches, and the only smell was one that grew progressively rancid. They were going down. Underground or underworld, Rowan couldn't tell after a while. With every step he took, Rowan's posture became more and more rigid.

The monk stopped. Rowan made it two steps after him, then he stopped too. He looked at the man, and the man looked up at him with grim, angry eyes.

"I will go no further," he said.

"Why?" Rowan asked.

"The man in that room is not a man anymore," was the only answer he was going to get. The Monk folded his arms into his robes, and bowed his head.

Rowan spent a while staring at him. Then he shrugged, and kept moving. He'd come for this as he came for any sort of formal battle; wearing his white hakama in tandem with his favorite boots and the ornate half-robe of a Banedo adept, with his right chest, shoulder and arm left bare. He brought his sword, the Grasscutter, and he brought his cocky smile.

He wore the latter a bit less enthusiastically than usual.

The doors to Whitizard's arena were heavy and wood, ten feet high and just as wide. Rowan pushed one open, stepped through and shut it.

Rowan had no words to describe what he saw, smelled, and felt after that. He spoke two languages fluently, he was the son of imported nobility, and he was a journeyman who'd seen a lot of strange things in his time, but he had no words with which to put an easy handle on the things that hit him in that room. The sights were horrible ones. The feel of blood schlicking about beneath his feet, or dripping down onto his bare shoulder, was something he'd remember for years.

But the smell is something you will truly never forget. It's the kind of thing people like to gloss over to focus on the convenient aspects of horror or battle. The air in the arena stank of blood and inhumanity; of loosed bowels and spent veins and ruptured stomachs and Gods know what.

It took everything Rowan had to not be nauseated, and as such he had no manners -- no restraint -- with which to look upon Jame Whitizard as anything but scum personified. Before him did not stand a boy or a man or even a bat-winged freak of nature. Before him was a monster, every bit as awful and insane as the ones rumored to be running rampant in foreign lands.

In popular Akashiman folklore, there is no such thing as an irredeemable villain. As soon as the hero knows someone, they will inevitably be redeemed through honorable combat. Rowan's foe threw out honor the moment he dregged up the corpses.

So it was that Rowan put aside his own humanity, and stepped into the belly of the beast. He started forward at a slow, brisk pace. Left hand to the Grasscutter, eyes scanning for weaknesses.

"Let's get down to business," he said, and there was a telltale click as he pushed his sword up into a drawing position.

[Call me J]

Jame smiled as the battle began without even an introduction. It was exactly what he wanted. “Now, let’s see if this kid really has what it takes for war…” he thought. Despite the setting, Jame thought it better not to rush straight into the battle. There would be time enough for brutality, but the half dragon wanted to take advantage of strategy where he could. He could sense anger in the way that his opponent had spoken to him, but Jame wasn’t sure if it was hostility about their surroundings, or just that the man was naturally aggressive.

Either way, Jame felt it best to give his opponent the first strike. If he was dealing with an overly aggressive fighter, Jame figured that the man would be likely to make a mistake. If instead, he was dealing with a kid who had suddenly been overwhelmed by the reality of conflict, then he was likely to make a mistake. Jame fancied his chances either way.

“If you want a battle, why don’t you start it?” the half dragon replied coldly. He was surprised at his own voice as he’d spoke. He was not nervous, unafraid, and had it not been for the particularly vile setting, he may had been feeling both of those emotions. However, now that his opponent had arrived, adrenaline had begun to surge through his veins and his thoughts lingered almost exclusively on his survival.

Before the green haired man had arrived, Jame had found the room unsettling. War had not been war without the threat of death, even a death as transitory as the one that the Pagoda provided. He had time to think, to look at the corpses hanging above him and watch the way that blood collected in the small pools all around him. It had been unsettling to say the least then. Now, they were a reminder of his fate, an extra motivation to fight.

Every time the half dragon looked up, he knew what his fate would be if he couldn’t beat his green haired foe. He unsheathed his sword. The Namesake didn’t glow, but that was only because there was no true threat of death in the battle. Still, Jame looked at the weapon as if it was already warning him of an impending death.

“You picked a wrong time to come to the Pagoda…” Jame warned. His intent was not to be threatening, as much as to vent the last bit of anger he had within him. Now, the half dragon could be clear headed, singly focused on the task that lay before him. When he left this battle, he would feel better knowing the wounds he inflicted were only temporary, and that the corpses hanging above him were just illusions, but until then, there were too many sensations to allow him to believe the contrary.

Now that the fight was about to begin, Jame took his fighting stance. He his sword at his side at the level of his waist and bent his knees ever so slightly as he waited to see what his opponent would do. He stayed light on his feet, anticipating that he would need to move quickly if the green haired man came barreling towards him.

[Leaf on the Wind]

"You talk too much."

That was, quite literally, the only thing Rowan said to the boy as their battle started. He attacked. He was not given the initiative; he would've struck whether Jame gave him the opportunity or not. He didn't waste time with stances, and he tried to prevent Jame from getting a good stance going either.

Rowan's feet lit up with the power of chi control, scattering perfect circles of blood around them. Then they were a screaming blur of bad intentions and hellfired motivations; one kick lead to the next lead to the one after that, from the straight kick aimed at the man's waist (Stun him) to the follow-up meant to kick his sword right off of his hip and out of his reach (Disarm him), and then the step through meant to seperate him from it completely -- this lead to a jump, and his other foot shot backwards in a mule kick aimed not just for the face, the neck or the shoulders, but for the wings on his foe's back (Break him).

He spun with that last kick, whether it actually hit or not, and landed with a skid backwards away from his foe. Rowan was visibly lacking a stance, because he didn't need one. He lacked a true defense, because he had mobility. Look into his eyes and you will not see hatred, you'll see focus and a kind of horrifying justification to do anything to win this battle.

[Call me J]

Had it not been for the ways that the green haired man’s feet had lit up, Jame might have just prepared to dodge the kick. The moment that he saw the glowing power the man’s feet possessed, Jame thought it better to gauge his opponent's abilities through dodging. Quickly, Jame leapt up towards one of the corpses hanging above him.

He quickly grabbed onto the corpse’s ribs and pulled himself up, grunting ever so slightly as he pulled himself up by his hands. It was a bit of a struggle to get done fast, but Jame had left adequate distance between himself and the green haired warrior to move quickly enough. Despite the acrid smell of blood that was entering his nostrils, Jame held onto the corpse tightly, so that as the kicks flew through the air, they would be nowhere near him.

It was a bit of a morbid strategy, but Jame had already leapt up before he had considered what it was that he would be leaping towards. And now, as he drove his sword into the fresh meat to get a better grip, he realized that he would have followed through on the plan even after considering its implications. His attention dwelled on the corpse only long enough for him to make sure that he wouldn’t fall before he turned it back to his opponent.

Then, calculatingly, Jame turned his attention back towards his opponent. The series of kicks and the follow through had finished, so Jame pulled his sword from the corpse and let himself drop. He had repositioned himself so that he was facing his opponent, and he didn’t’ even wait for his feet to hit the ground before he let out a fiery exhale from his lungs.

It was a relatively simple, but clever maneuver. The half dragon had managed to make use of his surroundings in a way that was not only strategic, but would also reveal a good amount about his opponent. Jame wondered if the green haired man was going to be disgusted. The way that Jame had stabbed and climbed onto the corpse showed little concern for the dead. If this green haired warrior considered the room to be ghastly, Jame knew that he would say something to voice his displeasure. After all, now Jame’s entire body was coated with the blood of the corpse that was hanging above him. Some blood even had smeared on the side of his face.

Jame knew he’d learn a thing or two, if the green haired man even managed to survive Jame’s initial assault.

It was fortunate that the half dragon was so caught up in the battle. If he hadn’t been, he might have worried about what his decision said about himself. Less than a few months ago, he had lived a life of education and refinement in Knife’s Edge. Now, he was a warrior in the Dajas Pagoda, fighting a stranger in an illusory slaughter house without genuine reason.

The change would have been too staggering to comprehend in the middle of a battle.

[Leaf on the Wind]

Rowan did not stop to make idle conversation. He didn't play by the rules of fair-goes and friendly competition, not when there were corpses hanging everywhere. Whitizard had wanted a war, and now he had one.

It was just that simple.

Rowan bolted forward at full speed. There was a clear route to his target (Get under him, ricochet up from body to body), but Jame made it easy. Down the half-dragon came, and it didn't take a genius to figure out that he had something up his sleeve. Rowan didn't care.

There was a blast of fire, and Rowan leapt right over it with blood trailing and burning in his wake. His boots and the bottom of each pant leg were going to stink of soot for weeks. A good ten feet up, he flipped, and then he came back down behind Jame and between or on top of those big, wonderfully vulnerable wings. He came back down with a speed that simple gravity couldn't have afforded, sweeping one foot down to try and plant a kick into the top of Jame's head as he went. Whether it hit or not, Rowan went rolling along in the blood and guts on the floor, ending in a perfect crouch to face his opponent.

[Call me J]

Jame realized the flaw in his attack the moment the kick landed on his head. He hadn’t anticipated the athleticism of the green haired man to be this great of an athlete. As Jame sprawled from the kick, he fell down to the ground vulnerably so that he would be primed for another counter. He had no idea how the man had managed to land a kick through the fire or had managed to leap through a corpse, but the kick was coming for his head just the same. There was no time to react, and Jame took the blow and staggered forwards, turning around as his head began to well with pain.

Immediately, Jame cursed himself. He had underestimated his opponent. When he should have let the man come to him, he had instead let himself become a target by falling. Not only that, but he had obscured his own vision by blowing fire instead of using his sword.

Fortunately, Jame was hardy enough to survive the first blow and continue fighting. It was a fortunate new development for him. Years of soft living had been erased by recent events, be it his training in the Citadel with Anila or his struggles in Carnelost. Earlier injuries debilitated him, wounds had brought tears and panic to his eyes.

Now, Jame was just ready to focus on survival. He turned around so that he could measure his opponent again, and then began to back away quickly. Now, he had a good enough idea of his relative strengths when compared to this stranger. The green haired man was faster and quite big, but Jame doubted that he was stronger. The half dragon hoped not, because given the small arena and the quick pace at which the battle was progressing, Jame knew he wouldn’t have enough time to take advantage of his intellect if that was his weapon.

The only thing Jame could gather with his head still ringing a bit from the pain, was that his opponent seemed to revel in the arena. The green haired man seemed to be treating this arena as no different than any other. The half dragon had expected his opponent to have been rattled by the corpses, perhaps even so much so that they quit the battle even before it started. However, now Jame could tell he was meeting one of the few sick and depraved people who loved everything about conflict.

From what he’d remembered about fighting Xem’zund’s forces, those were the kind of people who would never back down. Thus, Jame now braced himself for a greater impact, glad that he had gotten out of the way of any follow up attack. He kept moving farther from his opponent, though he backpedaled so he would be sure to keep an eye on his foe. He didn’t worry about walking back towards a wall. Given the high level of athleticism, the wall would work in his favor. It’d be one less direction for the green haired man to attack from.

[Leaf on the Wind]

Just to clarify, I was, and still mostly am, working under the assumption that the corpses were higher than that >_>

Show no fear, he thought, straightening up out of the crouch. He took a deep breath -- and it hurt. It tasted and it smelled so horrible that it physically hurt, but Rowan took it anyway...

...and then he thrust his left hand forward; straight-palm, bent fingers, a flash of light and then Blazing Leaf manifested with a sound like leaves burning at an autumn ceremony. It crackled through the air at ninety miles per hour, aimed dead center for Jame's chest. That was not the main goal though.

The goal was to force Whitizard's hand; either stun him or make him move to block or avoid. That was when Rowan pounced, this time charging forward at his full speed. At close range, Rowan leapt in with a spinning drill kick -- his feet were still glowing. He aimed it for Jame's chest, shoulders or wings, though he'd also settle for a leg if that's what it came down to. With any luck, the chi built up in his feet would help to protect him from another fire blast, and aid in the parrying of any sword attacks.

[Call me J]

From the first post of the thread: There were corpses hanging just above the half dragon’s head, and the carcasses were still fresh enough that blood dripped off their bodies.

Jame took the full force of the projectile attack straight to the chest. There was no way to avoid it, given the speed at which it had arrived. He was practically flung off his feet and back towards the wall. Jame winced, but he knew that he couldn’t hesistate. Hot blood was beginning to form in his mouth, and as he coughed, up came blood from internal wounds. The half dragon had never been hit with an attack of such force before, and even though it left him still standing, there was only so much he could do. Without the support of the wall behind him, Jame didn’t know if he would have been able to stand.

As the battle continued, the half dragon couldn’t help but to feel his frustration mounting. He had wanted to teach a new battler a lesson, but now it seemed that he was being taught one himself. The reason he had arranged for such a gruesome arena because he had wanted to teach a young adventurer exactly what war was like. Only now, the fates had conspired against him to bring him a person so hardened and grizzled in the arts of war that Jame was not only overwhelmed in terms of skill, but poise in the battlefield as well. As his opponent leapt forward with a spinning kick, Jame envied him.

The moment Jame realized his envy, he hated himself. Now that he had been so badly beaten, he no longer had the mental discipline to focus singly on the battle. He could still see his opponent’s leap and he knew how he would counter it, but his mind was beginning to harp on feelings of regret. The man that he envied was also a man that he despised. Jame couldn’t help but wonder if in creating this battlefield he was becoming no different than all the soldiers he loathed.

For one brief fleeting second as he prepared his counter attack, Jame looked up at the corpses hanging above him. They were only illusions, but more than ever, they felt like his victims.

However, Jame still had his impulses to guide him, and they were telling him that he needed to get down to the ground as quickly as possible if he wanted to avoid the oncoming assault. Quickly, Jame knelt down but kept his sword forward. He hoped that if his opponent’s trajectory went the way he expected it to, then the man’s leg would end up kicking nothing but the wall to his back, and that his sword would end up delving straight into the man’s gut.
It was somewhat of a hollow hope, but between injuries and self doubt, Jame had little else but that hope to guide him.

[Leaf on the Wind]

Huh. Must've missed that. My apologies.

Rowan knew something was wrong the instant his feet smashed into the wall. Chi discharged in a spiral through ancient stone and wood, crumbling a pillar all the way on the other side of the wall and leaving a spiderweb pattern in this one, centered around his feet. He spun to a crouch, as if able to balance perfectly against gravity.

And then came the sword.

There are moments when the universe grinds to a halt all around you, and your whole life attempts to flash before your eyes only to be smashed back by the iron tides of instinct and self preservation. There are moments when your body recognizes the danger and goes into autopilot just that fraction of a nanosecond too late to do any good.

And there are moments when all you've got is luck.

Rowan had no choice but to fall back on the latter, and this is the only reason he wasn't skewered from side to side with his intestines and surrounding organds kabobbed on Jame's sword.

He tried to dodge -- really he did. Instincts warned him that he'd fallen for a trip, but his body was just too slow. Up came the sword, and Rowan was crouched in just such a way that it should've gored him to death on the spot. The only reason it didn't was because Rowan was still twisting with his previous momentum.

It came up, slipping through a gap in his robes and turned at just such an angle that the cutting edge slit into his stomach. It pushed out of the other side of his shirt, tearing the fabric in the process, and Rowan lost his balance. He fell. It was as simple as that.

He fell right down on Jame and, in what some people might confuse for a genuine panic, sprang up and away with the strength that only jarred nerves will give you. He landed with an uneasy stagger, one hand clutching at his stomach pre-emptively.

It boiled down to a millimeter of luck. Any deeper and his guts would've been spilling out all over the place. Blood still poured obscenely from the wound, swiftly and surely soaking the front of Rowan's pants. His shirt somehow got off with only the hole in it; the confusion of the moment worked in his favor, probably.

Rowan breathed, deep and shaken, but he was quick to regain his calm. Just a flesh wound, he thought, and finally looked back to his opponent. He never once stopped putting distance between them while his back was turned; he was alert like a wild animal in those seconds, but now the Leaf was falling again...

...into shadows.

Rowan smiled. By any definition, it was a look of brutally honest arrogance. The look of a man who fought for pride and justice, not the ideals or spoils of war. Jame had misjudged him severely. Gave him too much credit in some ways and not enough in others.

"I'm going to cut your wings off for the shame you've brought to this place," Rowan stated at last, and finally put a hand to his sword. His voice was the perfectly calm tone of absolute justification for anything. This time, he was the one assuming a stance; so low as to appear awkward, so open as to invite disaster from all sides.

[Call me J]

As Jame crumbled into a mass under the weight of his opponent, he couldn’t help but to smile. The force of the impact hurt him, but even then, he knew he had hurt his opponent worse. Jame knew his sword had connected, he could practically feel the hot blood seeping out from his opponent’s wound.

That was when Jame realized he shouldn’t have been smiling.

“For goodness sake!” he thought regretfully. “This is the fucking Pagoda…” It was one thing for him to have been so caught up in battle when his survival truly was at stake, but he was brought back to the fact that this was all an illusion and that he was celebrating a bloodsport. It was right then that Jame noticed he had never learned the name of his opponent, and he realized that he had never really cared.

The half dragon was so caught up in his confusion that he didn’t even think to mount a counter attack, even though his opponent had left him his back. Instead, Jame merely picked himself up, unsure whether he hated himself or his opponent more. He had thought he had entered this battle with only the purest of intentions, but now he was beginning to doubt himself. Had he been too arrogant in supposing he knew what war truly was after only just a few battles, battles in which he was lucky enough to escape all but unscathed. He had seen fellow soldiers die, but they had been nameless comrades who he would have never been linked to had it not been for their common uniform. For whatever use they were, these experiences now seemed cheapened that he had brought them into the Pagoda.

Still, the half dragon was torn between two emotions. He held his blade tightly in his hand, and as he looked at his opponent’s blood on it, he couldn’t help but to think he wanted to end the whole thing with one last stab, especially now that the green haired man had turned around and given him such a smug, arrogant grin. It was as if his opponent had wanted to say that there was nothing about the room that was frightening.

Jame was genuinely conflicted. He wanted to be victorious. By now, Jame had learned that his opponent was so sick and depraved that he was not only amused by carnage and gore, but also took a twisted pleasure at spilling his own blood. However, the half dragon feared just how much he wanted to win. This was a battlefield of his own creations, and so Jame knew he would bear the responsibility for what had transpired. There were corpses hanging from the ceiling, and by now, almost the entire floor was coated with blood. Jame had no idea how many people had bled on him that day, between the corpses, his opponent and himself. His opponent may have deserved to be taught a lesson, but Jame regretted that he couldn’t be the one to teach it.

At that moment, Jame knew the truth. The battle needed to end immediately. Jame realized that if he was to continue, he would be no different from Xem’zund or his opponent, just another man who had created misery and used it for his own entertainment. The regrets and conflict within his soul would make very little difference if the outcome was the same. As much as he hated his opponent, Jame didn’t want to hate himself that much more.

Before he offered his surrender, Jame cursed the monks. He hated the way that they could weave illusion and reality so neatly together that in the moments of a battle it was difficult to remember what was and wasn’t real. Now, it didn’t matter anyways. There were too many things that Jame had done that had felt real. Reminding himself later that they were only illusions wouldn’t have been satisfactory. He was going to need penance, even if it came from the sword of a man who had no concept of justice.

“I yield,” Jame replied. He coughed up a bit of blood as he spoke, but he didn’t care. The half dragon knew that his opponent would take this surrender as a sign of weakness, but what mattered more was that the battle was completed, one way or another. He threw his sword away and then began to walk towards the doors. “This is over, clean yourself up and get on with your life. I'll live with my shame, lets see what you do with yours…”

It hurt to speak, but Jame was glad he'd said his bit. The half dragon didn’t care about the response he received, for he had already turned his back to his green haired foe, content to leave the man alone to rot with corpses if that was what he truly desired.

[Leaf on the Wind]

"I yield."

The words didn't just echo, so much as they shockwaved. Rowan had been brought to the brink of dishing out divine punishment. He had the thrill, he had the justification, he had the motive to do anything necessary and more.

And then Jame gave up.

The half-dragon turned away and Rowan's jaw dropped as he straightened from his stance. The look on his face slowly but surely shifted from disbelief to disgust, and finally to a very honest, sincere anger. The brand of pure rage that grinds your bones and makes your hand tremble on a potential murder weapon. He was offended more than anything. This little bastard came to Rowan's hall of dreams, soiled it with delusions of war and horror, and then walked away the moment things got interesting.

In any other place, Rowan would not have done what he did next. Justice met Honor, and the vague balancing force of Morality was hardly able to keep them from ripping out each other's throats.

"I accept," he said, with bile in his throat and spite in his voice. "If for no other reason than to get you the hell out of this place. Come back when you know the difference between a slaughterhouse and place of honor and learning, kuzu ryuu," he spat the last words in his assumed native tongue.

Trash Dragon.

"Now go," he ordered, with the authority of a newly placed Hierarch. There'd be ceremonies, probably, and a long night spent writing home to tell his old friends and family the news -- it was one of the only reasons he had left to try and contact them.

I am a leaf on the wind...

...but it wasn't the victory Rowan wanted, and it was going to keep the white-haired man from sleeping well for a long, long time.

Into shadows I fall...

[Call me J]

Jame didn’t really care what his opponent was saying. The man’s lips were moving, but Jame was barely listening. “You talk too much,” was all the half dragon replied. He heard a few veiled threats and other useless minutiae, but none of it mattered all that much to him. After facing Xem’zund, even the threat of a man with glowing legs didn’t seem that intimidating.

Just to be safe, Jame went to the monks for healing immediately. He had sustained severe wounds, and only now had he realized the full extent of them. There was a bit of burning around his abdomen where he had been hit, and the wounds he’d sustained were not the kind that could have been taken lightly. Even now, he was spitting up a bit of blood.

As he arrived at the monk’s healing station for the wounded, he was rushed to a bed. They offered him a drink and told him that the extent of his wounds meant he would be healed quickly. However, the half dragon was surprised that he saw one of the head monks of the Dajas Pagoda by the side of his bed after a matter of a few minutes.

Immediately, Jame could tell that something was wrong. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

The monk looked quite stern. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully waited a few seconds before speaking, and then launched into a tirade. “You should never yield under any circumstances, not even when you’re hurt and wounded. We need to maintain our reputation here, people talk about our Hierarchs yielding to average competition, and what do you think people are going to think of us? Who wants to come and pay to do battle with the common opponent you can find anywhere on the streets or in the Citadel? You think about that the next time before you run out on your battle…”

“So does that mean I’m fired?” Jame asked. He hoped the answer was yes. He was tired of his entire experience in the Dajas Pagoda. He had taken the position because he had hoped that in becoming a Hierarch he would have been safe from the Patriarch within the walls of the Pagoda, but now, Jame was wondering if the costs exceeded that small benefit. More likely than not, the Patriarch still had no idea who he was.

“Do you want to be?” the monk replied snidely.

Jame didn’t hesitate before he answered, though he probably should have. However, the half dragon was so caught up in the emotions from his battle that he would have spoke his mind to anyone, regardless of what the repercussions were. “This entire place is a disgrace,” he said. “You act like it’s some kind of holy monastery, with monks practicing healing out of the goodness of your hearts. I know now it’s all for profit. You put me in a position that I didn’t deserve based solely on my fame. I never wanted that, or to be stuck fighting someone like Kross. You’re the ones who put me in that battle, and you’re the ones who have brought me to the point where I really just don’t know who or what kind of a person I am anymore, or even what war has made me. Can you tell me, I really just don’t fucking know…”

The rant had gotten so far off topic from its initial intention that it had seemed to take the monk aback. Immediately after he finished, Jame released a long string of coughs, expectorating blood with every one.

The monk didn’t seem to emote much, though it was clear that Jame’s words had caused him some consternation. “I see,” he said. “Heal now. Later we’ll let you know of our decision.”

Though Jame might have wanted to say a bit more, the tirade had taken a great deal of his energy. So, he merely wiped the blood away from his mouth and waited for his treatment. He would deal with whatever plans the monks had for him in the future.

[Christoph]

I’ll be fairly brief with this judgment. As a general note, I’ll say what I seem to say very often when judging threads: This could have been better than it was. Granted, I’m sure both of you know that. To be fair, it wasn’t atrociously awful, but it definitely wasn’t fantastic. As always, feel free to PM or IM me with any questions you might have. Sorry for the wait, and here’s your judgment.

Call me J will be scored in blue and Leaf on the Wind will be scored in red.

Continuity: 7, 6
This was pretty decent for both of you. Call me J: you did a good job of outlining a back-story, tying in past events, and referencing to them throughout the battle. Leaf on the Wind: You did decent as well, but it wasn’t referenced to as adeptly as Call me J.

Setting: 7.5, 6
Again, pretty good. Rather gruesome. Both of you got that across reasonably well. An advantage goes to Call me J because I felt his descriptions were more vivid, and because his character interacted with the setting more.

Pacing: 5, 4
It really ended abruptly, without a clear reason. Call Me J: I was rather confused at Jame’s reason for giving up. It just seemed like you wanted to get the thread over with. Leaf on the Wind: Your posts were generally short, but still seemed to drag on. Try to include more crucial details and less fluff.

Action: 7, 4
Call Me J: Your action was pretty good. It was well described and generally not boring. I would have liked to see more of it, but the battle didn’t last long enough. Leaf on the Wind: You powergamed quite a bit. You definitely overplayed Rowan’s abilities, such as when he jumped right over Jame. From my perspective, it seemed as though you were only concerned with winning the IC fight, which isn’t what Althanas is all about.

Dialogue: 6, 5
It was fairly average and bland. Call me J’s seemed more natural. Leaf on the Wind: It seemed a bit clunky at times, but it will probably improve once you get a better feel for your character.

Persona: 7.5, 5
Call Me J: Jame’s personality came through quite clearly in this battle. It was rather nice. His sudden yield confused me, but other than that he was consistently portrayed. Leaf on the Wind: I didn’t get to know Rowan very well at all. The bits I did get seemed fairly average and bland. Also, it seemed as though he couldn’t decide whether he was disgusted by the scenery or unphased by it.

Technique: 7, 5
Call Me J: Your style is pretty good, with some definite effort and sophistication. Watch for repeating words, though. Leaf on the Wind: It was definitely a minimalist style. Unfortunately, I didn’t catch much of a mood or anything above the average in your writing. There’s some potential, but you’ll just need to work at it.

Mechanics: 8, 4.5
Leaf on the Wind: There were a lot of fragments, incomplete sentences, and run-ons that really served no purpose. Also, you used parentheses where they weren’t needed.

Clarity: 8, 7
It was pretty clear. I didn’t find myself going “huh??” very often, which is good.

Wild Card: 7, 6
Alas, yet another thread with wasted potential. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, of course. It is merely something to consider and improve on for next time. The first thing is patience. If both of you were more patient with this battle and let it complete itself, it would have been generally better.

Total:
Call me J: 70
Leaf on the Wind: 52.5

Call Me J wins!

Call Me J receives 862 EXP and 150 gold.
Leaf on the Wind receives 150 EXP.

[Karuka]

EXP/GP added!