-
Canen cursed silently as his last gasp attack on his elusive opponent failed, and the point of her knife withdrew from his flesh, soaked in toxic black liquid. He could feel the remaining energy in his body ebbing away slowly, the sickly, severed strands of skin hanging of the dull edge of the dagger as if to taunt him, to remind him of his defeat.
His bloodied head sank one last time with a disenchanted breath. He felt he had collapsed entirely inside, not exactly at the performance he had given or even the bitter taste of loss, but more at the implications of this moment. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people were watching him die in a much less civilized way than he had hoped for. How he begged now to be in darkness, away from the prying eyes of those who would judge him. How he begged to be away from public view, the sight of the theatre owner and the occupants of the cage below. He pleaded in his mind for the heavy strike that would render him unconscious for the rest of the night, until medical staff could attend to him; anything but this. The hateful spew of truth that began to surge into his consciousness felt like a black hole, sucking his soul out of real time and replacing it with nothingness. The truth did not make Canen truly see that salvation was, in fact, nowhere in sight, but that it was truly, truly lost. He summoned some strength to whisper, if only in order not to be silenced by the wave of cheers that had overswept his downfall.
"Gravious et morte vehemenii - To the skies we take, gracious messengers of our cause, martyrs for the peace of free will."
The prayer was to go unanswered today. The heavy steel of the roof of the cage struck the back of Canen’s head, the force knocking blood from his face into the thin corten mesh. With no hope of recovering his stamina, the terribly wounded Nocturn lolled back, his weight forcing the steel to creak loudly once more as his black, sullen eyes returned to a glowless emerald green, his blackened wings retracted into his body until the next time they were to be summoned.
He would awaken, two days later, to a furious headache. For now, the motionless body of Canen Darkflight decorated the roof of cell number two as an emblem for the fallen.
-
Thanks to Zerith’s soliloquy, Rheawien had ample time to observe the effects of her throw. So while her ears listened to the ramblings of the warrior, her eyes noted the stumble of the black-haired woman and the apparent loss of wings. And while she wasn’t entirely certain that it was her attack that caused the sudden daze, Rhea knew that the woman - the contestant for the spot of alpha female that was rightfully hers - was nearly kayoed. Holding to the steel mesh in a clear display of weakness, the bitchy female just made a prime target out of herself and Rheawien wasn’t about to let that chance slide. When it came to battling, the mask you put on was oftentimes just as important as the battle prowess. If you made your opponent think you’re superior, then they begun to think of themselves as inferior and thus tipping the scales in your favor. And if you dropped the mask of dominance, you were weak and vulnerable.
But the kill wasn’t going to come easy. Zerith was done with his speech - reminding her a little bit about Mister Kinnity – and finally decided to put his blade where his mouth was. However, this time his advance was executed with significant incline in both fierceness and speed, making it clear that he was ready to back up his words with all he got. Regretfully for him, it wasn’t enough. Rheawien’s movement might’ve been slowed due to the gash on her leg, but her reflexes were practically bestial. So when he made his move and sent the blade in a horizontal arc aimed at her breasts, the half-elf simply ducked, doing her best to keep most weight on her healthy right leg. The longsword swooshed above her head harmlessly, and even as its motion was done, Rhea was on the counter offensive.
But her prime interest wasn’t Zerith. Her legs pushed from her squatted position, sending her down his left flank with her katana slicing at his ribs. She could’ve gone for the kill, shorten the strikes and take care of him right then and there, but she had another bird to take care of first and it had clipped wings. So she merely extended her sword to hopefully catch his side before continuing her dash.
“You talk too damn much.” was the only thing Rheawien told the brown-haired fighter as she made a move towards the stumbled woman. However, even though her target seemed seriously injured, the half-elf didn’t want to jump into another exchange with her headfirst. The greatest defeats came because of cockiness and overextension. After all, the stitch-lipped female could be goading her, luring her with her weakened look. To make sure that the witch remained stationary and prepared for the kill, Rhea’s hand went to the back of her belt in mid sprint, producing two pair of handcuffs that were instantly thrown towards the crumbling female. The pair of restrains spun uncontrollably at first, then straightened as telekinesis corrected their trajectory. They were guided to the wrists of the black-haired woman, hopefully shackling her against the steel mesh.
With that done, Rheawien focused on the kill. She came down the woman’s left side again, counting on the previous injury to prevent any kind of serious counter. Rhea’s speed was once again staggering, her muscles propelling her at top speed and towards the harlot. Her leg protested, expelling even more blood, but it was a sacrifice that had to be made. The titanium katana came in a piercing stab aimed at right between the pair of perfect breasts and the heart below.
-
People should really know when they’re beaten, but stubbornness always seemed to interfere. It all could have ended and that moment, with Trithduril slicing through the half-elf’s chest and creating a crimson fountain. Rheawien would fall lifelessly to the floor and then both the victor and the corpse would receive a standing ovation. Instead the battle would continue to drag on. All because a bitch of a half-elf refused to shut up and die.
Before the dehlar blade could taste blood, Rheawien ducked. His ears heard her climb to her feet and take off behind him. Then he felt it, the sharp titanium slicing into his side and more of his warm blood leaving his body. The halberdier felt to his knees and cursed. He cursed his luck and his cursed Rheawien as well. He sincerely hoped she’d get what she deserved. It would have been even better if he would be the one to give it to her.
“I’ve always talked too much,” he thought. “Just as you’ve probably always been a bitch to everyone that you don’t like”. He turned his head around to see what was going on behind him, witnessing what would probably be the end of the reign if his ally. Placing his sword on the ground, Zerith turned around to face the back of Rheawien. His right hand, his only good hand at the moment, reached behind him once more and retrieved his serrated dagger. The swordman then raised the sharp, vicious blade and threw it at his old companion, aiming for the shoulder of the arm she used to hold her sword.
“I’ll make you regret ignoring me!” his mind yelled as he picked up his sword again and advanced. His feet lifted his body up and carried it towards the back of Rhea. The increased strength of tapping into his inner abilities propelled him towards his opponent like a arrow flying towards it’s mark. Trithdusil led, the sharp point of the longsword heading on a crash course with the middle of the half-elf’s back.
She’d learn alright. When she witnessed Zerith’s sword protruding out from her torso, she’d never forget him ever again.
-
It wasn’t looking good for her. The poison was working it’s way through her body and she could feel herself trying to fight back against it but she didn’t know if her healing properties could deal with poison. Her eyes sight wasn’t getting any better; then again it wasn’t getting any worse either. She could see, sort of, blurred figures battling each other not too far from her. Clashes of metal, footsteps, talking. Her other senses were working fine; it was just her sight and the pain in her head. Her reactions were probably slowed as well, poison usually slowly shut down a person’s body until they just stopped breathing, but that was not the way she wanted to end this tournament. There were far better ways to die then to lean back against some mesh wall and wait for her heart to seize.
Catching movement out of the corner of her eyes, Witch turned to see the blurred figure of the elf throwing something at her. Her first thought was a weapon, but it didn’t look like any weapon she’d ever seen and moved across her line of vision like the sword had. She knew the elf was controlling it with her telekinesis, so Witch used her own in a last-ditch effort and bumped whatever it was flying at her. She moved it just enough to avoid chaining herself to the mesh, the shackles hitting the metal hard.
Her reactions were slowed though, turning back towards the elf Witch had just enough time to watch her approach at speeds she’d never hope to hit herself and thrust her sword straight through her chest. Cold steel met an equally cold heart, and even though she could feel it pierced through both ends of her, oddly enough there wasn’t a lot of pain. There was the sensation of something foreign within her body, the feeling of blood passing through, the slowness of her own heart beating, trying desperately to keep her alive.
She wasn’t stupid though, this was it. All because she’d gotten poisoned. If she’d managed to stop that blade from hitting even the smallest amount of her skin she’d have at least been able to stand up against this elf, at least inflict some kind of damage on her. Instead she’d done nothing, one tiny little leg wound. A small amount of blood spilt for an ally who was lying on the ground, starring lifelessly forward.
Witch had nothing cocky to say, she had no last words to leave an impression in the mind of the woman before her. Instead she could only look her in the eye, hers neither filled with pain nor hate, perhaps just an emptiness. The knowledge that this fight was over for her as much as she wanted to continue. There was no strength left in her to fight back against her and even if she wanted to strike the elf now while she was standing in front of her she didn’t know if she could muster the strength to. Let the human deal with her, she’d done what she could. She’d come here neither looking for glory nor money, just for a fight and she’d gotten that. No disappointments, she’d found someone stronger to fight against and she’d love every second of it, perhaps not these last seconds though.
There’d come another time, another fight against this woman and maybe then she’d have the strength to beat her back.
Memento mori…
The half-ling’s heart stopped beating and her body slumped forward against the blade of the sword.
-
Obviously groggy and weakened, the woman failed to avoid the half-elf’s terminating attack. The handcuffs were diverted from their initial goal in a last ditch defensive effort, the damn things wrapping themselves around the mesh bars instead of the wrists of her opponent. But in the end it didn’t matter and the elevation in her speed was still enough to beat the reflexes of the dazed female. The titanium katana slid through the flesh and bone alike, piercing the heart that was nestled beyond the naked pair of breasts. The exhilarated screams of the crowd reached a new peak at the sight of this, celebrating another life lost, another life taken. And yet the black-haired woman seemed tranquil, looking at Rhea with what seemed like a sense of finality. Rheawien thought that she would feel a twinge of regret, the same kind that she felt when Izvilvin perished, but there were none. It felt good... No, it felt great to end the life of the stubborn vixen.
“Mess with the best, bitch...” Rhea spoke with a bitter, almost mocking grin as her hand got ready to retrieve her blade. “Die like the...”
She never got to finish her gloating. Her back erupted in pain, a dagger piercing through her shoulder blade and killing the very origin of strength in her right arm. It rendered the retrieval of her blade impossible and as if that alone wasn’t enough, Rheawien could hear Zerith homing in with another attempt at backstabbing her. So instead of a clean kill and a moment of dominating triumph, Rhea was now at the verge of losing her life.
“I won’t be beaten by that whelp! Not today!” her mind defied, and in order not to get beaten, the half-elf had to do something that she never did in her life. She let go of the sword that she and her father forged together, leaving it imbedded in the busty – albeit utterly lifeless now – bosom. This got her away just in time to dodge Zerith’s treacherous attempt once again as she strafed away from her kill. Her shoulder pulsated with pain, numbing her right arm, making her drag it behind her like a lifeless appendage. Her leg joined in the protest, begging her to stop this nonsense and cease the exertion.
“Strike two, oh honorable warrior!” Rheawien mocked Zerith as she backpedaled guardedly. She backtracked alongside the wall precariously, knowing that with the loss of her right arm, she was as good as dead. Luckily, the spot where her three glaives were discarded after the last throw wasn’t too far away and soon enough the three projectiles were laying dormant in front of her. But not for long.
She drew in the last remnants of her inner energy, animating the three objects and lifting them from where they rested. At first they levitated sluggishly, but Rhea steeled her focus, sending a bead of sweat down her creased forehead. In turn, the three glaives started to revolve around their axis as well as spinning around the half-elf at the distance of some five paces. Rheawien footslogged forwards now, keeping her eyes on the brown haired man as the glaives picked up speed. By the time she approached, the projectiles that orbited around her were almost a circular blur, making the white-haired woman look like a center of a buzz saw.
She didn’t want to lose today, it was as simple as that. She didn’t want to lose because of the shylocks in the stands that wanted her to lose. She didn’t want to lose to a man that was obviously not her peer. And she definitely didn’t want to lose now that she eliminated the greatest threat in the cage. So despite her blood loss and her weariness and the fact that her Ki agility was waning rapidly, she moved forwards. One last hurrah, a do-or-die effort that brought the edge of the saw closer to Zerith with each step she made. She would rip him apart. Or she would die trying.
-
He tried, and failed miserably. Rheawien was just too fast for him to stop her. By the time the dagger struck, his ally was already dead. To make matters worse for the halberdier, the half-elf avoided his next blow that should’ve killed her. Meaning Zerith was left with the task of going one-on-one with the new alpha female. He tried to look at the good things and noted he made one accomplishment. Although his comrade was out from the match, Rheawien seemed to lose use of the sword-arm.
“Who gives a shit about how many ‘strikes’ I have? Just remember I’m the one that saved your ass back at that fortress,” he said as he sheathed his longsword. “Don’t make me regret it,” he added as he reached for Rhea’s titanium katana. The halberdier planted a foot on one of Witchblade’s breasts and with a sudden pull, the katana dislodged itself from the lifeless body.
The weight of the katana felt much better than his longsword. There would be much less strain on his arm now, but that didn’t change the fact that his body was still in pain. His arms hurt, his side hurt, his head hurt and he could even taste the blood that was coming down his cheek. His strength was disappearing and with it, his only advantage against the half-elf was dying too. It had to come to and end, if not now then it would be a race to see who would die of blood loss first.
Zerith’s eyes were fixed upon Rheawien for the entire time. He saw everything, her retreat along with her right arm hanging lifelessly at her side. He even watched her bring up what he didn’t realize were her last bits of strength. Her three glaives which were resting between the two of them lifted off the ground. At first they looked like they would fall at any moment, but then they were fixed in place. Suddenly they began to spin, spinning where they floated and spinning around the half-elf. It looked like a giant, rotating, circular saw blade on it’s side that would cut through anything, even the young swordsman. They crowd cheered at the display of power, thinking that this was the end for the young man.
This was it, the point of no return. The threshold the two fighters crossed now would be the last for the match and there were no second chances. Rheawien advanced, sending the saw forward to cut through the only piece of stock she had her eyes set on, Zerith. The halberdier advanced as well, gripping onto the titanium blade tightly as he took the first step. He only had one chance to get this right, otherwise he’d die and give Rheawien the satisfaction of winning.
The crowd roared, everyone was on the edge of their seats now. They new this was the final offensive and either way someone would die. Yet for one in the cell, for Zerith, he’d wasn’t going to allow it to be him. Just as Rheawien’s blades were about to tear through him. The halberdlier tumbled forward, tucked his legs and head in, and rolled. The glaives spun above him, their speed tossed his hair about his head as he somersaulted beneath them. Then as he completed the roll, he rose to his feet. With the glaives behind him all that was before him was Rheawien, wide open for the killing blow. “The tougher the fight…” Zerith said to himself as he thrusted the bloodied, titanium blade forward into Rheawien’s gut.
“…The sweeter the prize.”
-
It was late in the game and there was only two of them now, deciding the final outcome of the battle. For Rheawien it was hard enough to focus on staying on her feet, let alone maintaining her revolving shield but the audacious stubbornness – that by now became an essential fragment of her demeanor – was whipping her back like an angry slavemaster. She had to keep her footing, fight the fatigue, fight the pain, go the distance. To a casual observer Rhea was just another hunter for glory and fame, but that was not what kept her moving forwards like an animated corpse. Her endurance and persistence was a slap to the face of everybody, a spiteful stand against the world and everything it could throw at her. It was her wordless statement that stated she wouldn’t roll over and die.
However, because most of her focus went to maintenance of status quo instead of some sort of defensive plan, Rheawien was unable to react to Zerith’s attack. The man retrieved her katana – something the half-elf would be furious about if her life wasn’t hanging by a thread – and came straight at her. He wasn’t fresh, nobody could be after this ordeal, but there was enough spryness in him to oppose Rhea’s sluggish cognition and fatigue-deadened reflexes. There was nothing she could do against his roll, her telekinesis failing to react accordingly and adjust the height of the blades timely. And for only a fraction of a second she found herself on the opposite end of the titanium katana, on the end that usually her foes looked at, and then the slim blade perforated her stomach.
Rheawien’s muscles cramped, her face a cringed grimace, her body shocked with the abrupt pain as arms desperately clinging to the man who just inflicted her with a deadly wound. Rhea’s vision begun to fade, life seeping out of her proportionally with the crimson liquid that now gushed from three separate wounds. Was this how her crusade was going to end? Killed moments away from claiming the title of the winner? Killed with her own sword by an inferior lad who seemed like a greenhorn, ready to piss his pants, back in Scara Brae?
No.
Though her life was losing its functions, her hands held Zerith’s shoulders in a steely grasp. She even managed a smirk, a bloodied, horrid looking thing that made her fair face look malicious. Her brown eyes regained just enough focus to lock themselves on the ones of her executor. “You think you won, boy?” she squeezed through her clenched teeth and past her mischievous smirk. “Let me show you what a real backstab feels like.”
The three glaives that were running mostly on inertia from the moment Zerith stabbed her, sprung back to like in a flash, homed it on the man’s back and scudded at it, propelled by Rheawien’s last ditch effort. The three weapons were bound to strike almost simultaneously, cutting the warrior’s backbone in four pieces. Perhaps she wouldn’t be the victor today, but she would make sure that nobody walked out of the cage alive.
Whether or not that actually happened, Rhea couldn’t say because seconds after she whispered her bitter words, she collapsed onto the ground. The crowd was slowly becoming a vague booming sound, distorted and as if filtered through water. Her vision was gone, her eyelids closing shut in anticipation of the final demise. But there was a smile on her face, an uncanny satisfied thing that depicted her thoughts perfectly. She took no dive, threw no towel, took no knee. Not for the loansharks, not for the dominant witch and definitely not for any of the men in her Cell. And that was enough for her to feel like a winner.
***
Amongst the sea of elated folk that clapped and hooted and lifted their hands in a salute to the fighters, two figures showed their way out of the row number thirteen and into the isle. The larger of the two walked first, plowing the way with his voluminous gut for the hunched figure that followed lethargically. Once they reached the isle – after some good half a dozen of curses of people that got their feet stepped on – they continued down the long stairs that cut through the middle of the bleachers. Before long the roar of the crowd behind them, nothing but a distant hum filtered through the distance, becoming vague as they left the auditorium.
“That bitch. That lying bitch. Do you know how much money she cost me today? Do you know how many people bet on her demise, following my tip?” the gray-haired loanshark spoke, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat angrily. Of course, his companion neither had the wits nor the knowledge to answer to the questions posed. He could, however, offer another in return.
“What are you going to do about her, boss?” he asked in a simplistic, deep voice that made him sound almost childish.
“Oh, I’ll make certain that she takes a dive in the finals, even if she doesn’t want to. I already have somebody on the inside that will undoubtedly make that happen.” the man replied with a minute sly grin appearing on the corner of his lips. It was time to put his contingency plan in motion.
-
“Finally.”
Zerith finally landed a blow on Rheawien and killing one at that. The crowd roared louder, standing and applauding at not only at the man who held onto the titanium katana. But also at the half-elf, who’s blood was trailing down the fine blade. They had never seen a fight like the one that had just transpired before their eyes. One with so many surprises along with vast amounts of bloodshed, chaos and overall violence. Yet their eyes failed when it came to see what was happening beyond the fight. None saw the bonds broken, friendship and alliances damned to hell or even the lack of honor. Not a single spectator managed to watch the change that occurred in the halberdier when his eyes opened.
At the very beginning, before numerous fighters lost their lives and before the destructive nature that was hidden in every contestant came to surface. Mendan Kinnity began the match with a speech. In it, he spoke of honor and mercy, claiming that not every victory was earned in by killing the opposition. Yet not a single combatant took his words into practice, not even Zerith. He was right to believe that there was no honor here. But that was only because not a single person in the Cell practiced it.
Feminine, yet strong hands held onto his shoulders tightly as if Rheawien was dragging Zerith to the Antifirmament with her. As her brown eyes stared in his as she managed to threaten him once more. “Well before you do, let me remind you about where you’re standing,” he said coldly. His right wrist twisted in a half circle, with the katana along with it.
Everything happened to quickly after that. Rheawien slumped to the floor while the crowd continued to cheer. Then for those few brief seconds afterwards, Zerith actually felt like the alpha male of the cage. Although he hid and waited during the first part of the match, he made up for it by coming in during the middle and managing to stay alive to see the curtain fall. Staying back and watch was possible the smartest thing he did and now it was paying off. He was the winner and proved to Rheawien for a second time that he should not be underestimated. He assured himself that he held that title by raising his right arm. When the crowd roared again he smiled, now he was certain.
Yet that changed in an instant when suddenly he felt something strike his spine in three places. The pain that filled his side disappeared, along with the pain in his legs. The three glaives that Rheawien used struck his back all at once, severing his spine into four chunks. His vision blurred, his strength vanished and he fell forward. The numbness that filled his body prevented him from bracing himself before he hit the ground, paralyzed and dying.
The curtain was falling quickly, the title of winner seeming to disappear behind the other side. As his eyes closed, he realized that he must have underestimated Rheawien as well. She was too stubborn to be beaten, not unless she dragged the other with her. Yet now, as the cold hand of death grasped hold of Zerith. He saw no problem with what the half-elf did, because with it he heard the sound of thunderous applause before all was silent and he died.
Too bad the audience wouldn’t be there for the rematch the two of them would have. In the black and white world that was the Antifirmament.
-
Jon's last moments in the Cell were incredibly full. He'd knifed that black-elf bastard in the foot, and the feeling of the blade sinking into the ground through an inch and a half of flesh was terribly gratifying. Though Jon was laying in the dirt with blood pooling beneath him, he felt like a winner in his own right. And without warning, that pride was ripped apart by the halberd sinking into Jon's spine. With a simple chop, everything below the weapon edge grew cold and numb. The pain that should have been there jolted through Jon's arms and mind instead, and he screamed. He screamed for the final agonizing moment that he retained consciousness, and then died.
An hour passed.
The limp body had been left inside the Cell after all of the other contestants were hauled away. The attendants simply didn't understand what to do with it; the soul was gone, and yet they had not collected it as they had for the other dead warriors. Taking no chances, a group of robed monks patiently waited outside the cage and observed the corpse. For the first few minutes, nothing happened. But then they saw the wounds on the corpse close that had accumulated over the battle. The decimated body puffed up as though filling with air and life. Soon the only sign that Jon had fought in the Cell at all were the bloodstains that coated his tunic.
Then the “dead” man opened his eyes. A sharp pain tore through Jon's head, the ache of revival that he'd become accustomed to. The scoundrel remembered just what it was he planned to do in the tournament. Even though he squinted an eye in agitation, Jon couldn't help but smirk. What condition were the other fighters in now? It was time to pay back a couple favors, he reckoned. And he couldn't wait to get the drop on that back-stabbing broad...
But Jon quickly noticed that the cage was empty. Not just the cage, but the entire arena. The spectators had left their seats long ago, and the noise had completely died away. Jon had been dead for too long, and his chance of making a comeback had also died – of old age.
He sputtered in disbelief, scanning the cage slowly before realizing that there was nothing to fight. He couldn't do anymore. His death had been a complete waste.
“DAMMIT!” Jon roared, flying into a frothing fury as he lunged at one of the mesh walls, pounding against it with his fists and feet. He had barely revived and was already beginning to see red again. He'd missed his chance and felt like a complete ass for it. Jon took his humiliation out on the steel cage itself.
“Hey, hey!” the monks shouted as the noise drew their attention. The leader amongst them, adorned with a red pendant strung around his neck, held up his hands outside of the cage where Jon thrashed himself against the metal.
“Sir,” spoke the lead monk, “We are most joyous to see that you are somehow well. But you must now come with us! The Cell judgments must be made, and your presence is required.” he explained. Jon was barely aware of the people around him, and his knuckles became bloody and his bones rattled in their frame as he raged against the Cell. The monk leader signaled to his comrades, and the lot of them rushed into the cage and dragged the man, biting and gnashing and clawing back to the main hall, where he would hopefully learn to calm down.
Jon was pissed, completely unsatisfied with his fight. He was going to show them all what he was made of next time.
Hang around, bitches! I'm not finished yet!
-
Advancing: Izvilvin, Rheawien, Witchblade*, Walter*
Izvilvin-
Introduction: 7
Setting: 6
Character: 7
Dialogue: 7
Rising Action: 8
Climax: 8
Conclusion: 5
Strategy: 8
Writing Style: 7
Wild Card: 7
Total: 70/100
Rheawien-
Introduction: 8
Setting: 5
Character: 6
Dialogue: 7
Rising Action: 7
Climax: 7
Conclusion: 7
Strategy: 6
Writing Style: 7
Wild Card: 6
Total: 66/100
Falcon Darkflight-
Introduction: 8
Setting: 7
Character: 7
Dialogue: 5
Rising Action: 7
Climax: 6
Conclusion: 5
Strategy: 6
Writing Style: 6
Wild Card: 6
Total: 63/100
Witchblade-
Introduction: 6
Setting: 7
Character: 6
Dialogue: 6
Rising Action: 7
Climax: 6
Conclusion: 5
Strategy: 7
Writing Style: 7
Wild Card: 7
Total: 64/100
Walter-
Introduction: 6
Setting: 5
Character: 7
Dialogue: 6
Rising Action: 8
Climax: 5
Conclusion: 6
Strategy: 6
Writing Style: 7
Wild Card: 8
Total: 64/100
Krugor -
Introduction: 7
Setting: 6
Character: 7
Dialogue: 7
Rising Action: 5
Climax: 6
Conclusion: 4
Strategy: 5
Writing Style: 7
Wild Card: 8
Total: 62/100
Zerith -
Introduction: 6
Setting: 6
Character: 5
Dialogue: 6
Rising Action: 5
Climax: 6
Conclusion: 5
Strategy: 6
Writing Style: 6
Wild Card: 6
Total: 57/100
Serilliant gets 220 EXP.