This battle will end in two weeks. Best of luck to all four competitors.
Printable View
This battle will end in two weeks. Best of luck to all four competitors.
Over the years, Chromanon Rockskin had entered many tournaments. She didn't really view the Conquest Trials as anything different. Representing ones friends seemed as natural as representing oneself to her. In fact, every tournament she'd ever been in had been more about helping her friends than herself. When she'd wandered through Salvar with Snow and the Flakes, it had started as a quest for Ter-Thok and turned into a quest to keep her new family safe. Her victory at Lornius had nothing to do with her own ends, but Ter-Thoks ambitions.
She hadn't been with the Golden Dawn for long; she could still remember how thick the Dheathain morning air had been when Caduceus and his ilk had stumbled upon her, just rousing from her nightly transformation. Despite how little she knew about them, the kindness of the Magician did nothing but cement the ties that bonded her to them. If there was anything that Chromanon Rockskin was, despite a nuisance, it was loyal to the end. That was how she found herself in this arena.
It was quite like the gladitorial colliseums that she'd heard tell men and beasts were pitted against each other in. The bloody custom had surfaced in nearly every continent around the globe, but the whispers were that the savage bonding of entertainment and execution and formed within the high walls of Terrenore, where torture was a form of art, and sin a debt that was to be repaid dearly.
Stands, still most empty, were separated from the arena by a low wall, a mere four feet tall. Scattered around the small oval rink - a mere twenty by fourty feet - were what appeared as the sepulcheral memories of a great temple. Fallen columns of now cracked and crumbling marble lay in rubble. Here and there, bright tiles were strewn from where a wall decorated with beautiful mosaics had toppled down. Along the north end of the arena, several statuettes stood proudly. Though large chunks had been torn through the marble, so long ago that the edges had been worn to rounded curves, she could still tell the features of the statues. Rather, most of them. Of the six silhouettes, she recognized two of the Forgotten Ones. Aesphestos and Denebriel. Further down the line was the form of Natamrael, greatest of the Moontae queens. She looked past a statue that she didn't know of, to the very last one. It was much smaller in comparison and awkwardly shaped. Still, beyond that, it filled her with much more emotion than any of the others could have dreamed of.
The last statue that stood sentinel over the arena was that of Ter-Thok, squat and malignant. Chromanon walked to it, her footsteps silent over the stone floors, until she was so close she could reach out and run one slight hand along the smooth white horn. In one of the many pouches wrapped around her slender figure was a small jade. She used to gaze into the verdant surface for hours, watching him. It had been a long time since last she had even wondered what had become of her husband.
With a shaking sigh, she turned back to the rest of the arena. The crowds were beginning to really fill the stands, their voices raising up into a great clamour of noise. She could see their attention turning to focus on the entrance she herself had used to enter this place, and gripping her hoopak tightly, she let the steel point strike down on the stone floor. The crack went unnoticed but for a few of the spectators - something had definately come now. Turning back to the statue of Ter-Thok, she laid a gentle kiss on its forehead.
"Bless me..." she whispered, beseeching him. Her eyes were dark, but glittering happily as she moved from him to scrabble over a fallen column. The shrill screech of her war-cry was lifted into the air as she searched for the latest entrant to the arena. The sound echoed through the marble, into the morning air.
"Olly olly oxen-free!"
Jared sprinted through the crowds, sometimes bumping people, always muttering apologies next. As he raced from the docks to the first bout he was more than certain he was only seconds from being thrown in the bog surrounding the Bandit Brotherhood Headquarters. Not that he didn't deserve it, he had barely made his ship on time, and the storm, dear gods the storm. Still as he ran for the place he was told to be expected he only hoped the mutant had slept in or something.
Fumbling with his pack he pulled out a newly purchased pair of gloves. Pulling them on, he flexed his hands into fists, not bothering to fasten them yet as he continued to run, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He apologized, excused and darted through the crowd with a speed only a trained thief could appreciate as he finally made it to the arena. His boots slid to a halt in front of the main entrance as people filed in to see the spectacle. The building was of moderate build, more of am amphitheater than a coliseum, but it still did the job admirably. As he entered he only had one thought going through his head;
How in the hell had he been talked into this?
Perhaps it was the feminine whiles that Kyo had, but he was more than certain alcohol had to do with the answer to his question. Trying to steady his breath he moved through the hallways till he found himself at the combatant’s entrance. Dusting himself off, he moved through the archway and beyond, till he found himself entering the ruined coliseum. His eyes went about the area as he spied many statues, unfamiliar most, but each graceful and deadly in their own way.
The marble pillars and statues were a sight to behold. At least they would be if it weren’t for the fact they had been ruined. His eyes scanned them for potential threats, break downs, and traps. Nothing immediately came to mind, but he was more than certain that only time would tell in this case. Moving through the arena he saw the people milling about, taking their place upon the ancient stone seats as he heard a battle cry he thought was long since gone from his vocabulary.
"Olly olly oxen-free!"
He frowned before he turned towards the sound, and from one of the squatter statues came a small girl. Well that’s what it seemed like. The raven haired gal had just jumped up and over a marble pillar as he frowned and rose an eyebrow. So much like a child, the ears however were pointed, much like a few elves he had seen, was she an elf child? He wasn’t so sure anymore, not with the way she seemed to be acting. Either this kid was playing hero, or Jared was just too dumb to figure things out. Still he had a bit of experience with dealing with his kid sister, who only recently turned fourteen years of age.
He pondered calling out to the girl, but she seemed armed with a rather oddly shaped spear. The top much like a sling shot, but obviously more sinister. Perhaps Jared should have been on guard, but he wasn’t the type to pull weapons, well, ever if he could avoid it. Standing there calmly he gave the child a curious expression as he waited, muttering under his breath, “Where’s Molotov already? Gods be damned I wish I had been late…”
One of the least welcome sounds he’d ever heard echoed in Molotov’s ears as he entered the arena. It was the voice of Chromanon Rockskin. “She’s in the bloody stands,” Molotov thought, cursing as he entered the battlefield. “Bloody hell, half way through this fight she’s going to reach out and hug me…” He linkgered for a second before entering, wondering whether Chroma would get bored and leave if he waited until the last minute to enter. Seconds later, Molotov heard Jared, and then he knew he had to enter. “Can’t have the bloody Lavinian in there cocking it up all alone…” he thought irritably.
As he entered, Molotov braced himself for the worst. He half expected to see Chromanon barreling from the stands to come and hug him. However, the stands were all but empty. The mutant looked around the battlefield. He saw Jared, he saw statues, and most of all, he saw Chroma. His eyes began to roll, and he winced visibly.
“Of all the bloody people…” he thought. “Of all the bloody people in the universe.” Her partner wasn’t here, but even so, Molotov felt as though he had been placed in the worst matchup imaginable. It wasn’t that he was afraid Chroma would hurt him, it was that he was afraid what he might do to her.
The mutant sighed. It was fortunate that he believed deeply in the cause of the Bandit Brotherhood, or else he would have turned around and left the battle until the tournament organizers could have come up with an acceptable opponent. He might have found Chromanon Rockskin to be among the most tiresome people on the face of Althanas, but even so, there was something about the unbridled love that the kender showered upon her friends that made it all but impossible not to care for her.
Chromanon’s caring for Molotov had always struck a deep chord with him, even though she was indiscriminate enough to also care for people such as Ashiakin and Edgar, because she was still one of the few people who had accepted at a time when few others did. He had entered the Adventurer’s Tournament all out of luck and without a friend in the world, forced to ally himself with a relative unknown named Snow, and it was at that point in his life where he had met Chroma. She had been just as irritating then, her voice had the same pitch as metal being sharpened at a blacksmith’s shop, but even then, the way that she cared for people unconditionally had shone through.
Now, there was only one honorable thing for Molotov to do. He would occupy the kender and let Jared take on her partner. He didn’t have all that much faith in the Lavinian, but he couldn’t think of any other alternative. Thus, he managed a somewhat watery smile to his face as he waved at Chroma. “Hey love,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here…”
Her eyes had been on Jared, much like a snake that had caught a mouse. As a grin spread across her face and she bowed to introduce herself, she let her free hand scoop down to close around a couple of small stones found laying atop the fallen pillar. When she straightened up, the open smirk was still set into place, her voice raising again.
"Hello." she said. The crowd around them had gone silent, the different speculations, cheers and jeers dying down as the kender began to speak. "My name is Mrs. Chromanon Rockskin Thok and I'm representing The Order of the Golden Dawn. I assume that you're one of those guysos that the Bandit Brotherhood sent? Listen, friend, didn't your momma ever tell you that stealing is wrong? Unless it's all just a misunderstanding. That happens to me a lot; the misunderstandings. Find a penny, pick it up and all day long you'll have good luck, right? Until the centaur over there says, 'that's my penny, thief!' And you know, that's a bit mean hearted. After all..." she was cut short when another voice came cracking into the theatre. It was like soft thunder, taking her attention away from the thief and bringing with it a tension that strummed tightly through the air.
"You're one of the thieves too?" she asked, her voice softening as she raised one small hand to wave back, one of the rocks slipping from her palm unnoticed to clack and crack down the side of the pillar. Her eyes were set on him, trouble brewing in them to take over the usually cheerful expression she carried. Finally she pulled her gaze from him, looking down. As her feet fidgeted, as if trying to find better footing on the round surface they stood upon, she focused on the tattered edge of her tights, the tufts of blue fabric frayed through here and there where adventuring had been hard on the garment. A hole near her knee from where the zombie gnome familiar David had tried to claw his way away from a bath she'd subjected him to had taken an interesting shape. It was not unlike a bunny rabbit, and while normally a find like this would stir up her fascination and bring thoughts of both preserving and patching the hole, today was a very different day. When she looked up at Molotov again, her face was set in grim determination. Her eyes were shining, filled with tears that wouldn't fall, and she took a deep breath, ragged and shaking with emotion.
"I don't want to hurt you, Molotov, but I know this is a fight. I'ma gonna let you turn around and walk out, if you want, because you're my friend." She paused here, looking away from him again as she set the spear end of her hoopak down on the ground before the pillar. It lowered the sling end to her shoulder height, and as she grabbed the pouched zenith of the sling, palming the stones into it as she began to pull back the near-orange leather. "You're my best friend, Tovvie, but this is just the same as Lornius."
She leaned down, sighing Jared with the sling, and grimaced as she released the projectiles before leaping down and starting the search for her next stone missile. From where she disappeared between two marble boulders, her voice was carried out. While still as high and loud as ever, it carried with it a small animalistic growl.
"It's nothing personal; it's just glory."
This morning, Dagon had strapped on his boots thinking that today would just be another jaunt in the park. Heck, every morning for him was like waking on the dock of the bay or the top of the world, a crown of bushy dreadlocks on his head and a big, fat, smoking spliff in his hand to brandish about like some regal scepter. King for one day, everyday: that made him feel pretty damn good. It didn’t even matter that his sleeping accommodations consisted of musty straw that’d been sitting under the rain for days before being forked into a mangy grange. Hunger wasn’t an issue either; for breakfast, he’d simply picked off a few handfuls of oat from his next-stall neighbor’s bucket. Fibers and a terrible pun, what more could he ask for? This was the life, the bohemian life.
He’d only have to fight for a while, and he’d get right back on its lovely track.
That was his firm belief when he left that rundown granary and set out on the ten miles that’d lead him from the very heart of nowhere to the arena. Whether this request by the Order was a rut in the road or a milestone in his life, he really didn’t care enough to give it much thought. If there was one thing he knew, it was that the most surefire way to waste his time was to sit around and do squat. As if that hadn’t been enough to persuade him, he’d remembered that unwavering goal that underlay that messy tangle of broken roads and beaten paths that knit his world, the very reason he’d joined this cabal of mages to start with: power. What he’d planned to do with it, however, was something between him and his top hat.
But that train of thought had run off tracks the moment he’d stepped onto that field of stone and memories. There was something solemn in the ruined landscape of toppled pillars and weathered walls, something that pulled at his heartstrings as if he’d just seen the last vestiges of a forgotten god, whisked away onto the winds of time. Seeing the crowd pullulate in the grandstands convinced him that this was but a mere coliseum, but the sight of the statues overlooking the arena behooved the stone guardians of a mausoleum, unmoving and ever watchful. There was a history here that’d never brushed his ears, but he could almost feel the relentless beat of its wings everywhere on his skin. ‘If you don’t learn to fly soon, you’ll die in the nest, and that’ll be that.’
It was common knowledge that no daze could survive the presence of Chromanon Rockskin. He’d only just stepped inside the battlefield and already was his partner scurrying left and right, scrabbling for pellets on the floor to arm that bizarre slingshot mounted on her spear. Caught in the pace of the action, he’d only spared a quick glance at their opponents, half-heartedly assessing their abilities before jumping into the fray.
His muscles tensed when his eyes wandered over the two familiar silhouettes, their clear green faltering at the slight complication. “Molotov… and the prude boyo? Well this is awkward.” Just as quick as it had washed over him, the wave of conflict had receded to deeper waters. There was just no time for this, he thought to himself as his brows relaxed from their frown, at once fishing inside the bladder-skin pouch at his belt. “Chroma!” he called out, loud and curt, tossing a rather heavy bean bag her way. There’d be no time to explain its use, and he’d have to trust in her inextinguishable desire to hurl hard and heavy things at people.
‘Now, If only there could be such a safety net for when I’ll tell her I’m also part of the Brotherhood.’ He made a pained face, turning his attention to Molotov and Jared; Dagon didn’t even try to imagine how his fellow bandits were taking this surprise, though personally he wasn’t taking it too well. “Don’t quite feel like such a king right now, either.”
Jared heard Chroma begin her verbal assault, asking about the nature of his banditry. She seemed on a mission to save his soul, even as she spoke of the coming battle. She admonished his thieving ways as he muttered under his breath, "Well if she isn't spitting the same argument my sister did when I turned sixteen..."
That had been a long time ago.
As his eyes focused on the small girl, he frowned when she spoke to Molotov as an equal. Now, that worried him, as the pieces were falling into place, and he wasn't sure he liked exactly what the big picture was. That meant she was stronger than she looked, at the very least a good deal more than Jared, at worst, equal to Molotov, and after seeing Molotov handle a few of the monsters that had formerly occupied the Brotherhood headquarters, he only hoped the former. Still as she continued her speech towards Molotov he began to spy more movement in the back. It was almost instinctual for his hand to rest on the pommel of his dagger as he pondered just what was going on.
It didn't take long before he saw Dagon, the voodoo shaman of the Bandit Brotherhood step out into the arena proper. As soon as he did, another picture began to paint itself. Perhaps they had only asked him to come, because he was the only one they had left. Dagon seemed keener on helping the other organization he was with, rather than show some true thief loyalty. Jared was beginning to wonder just what his accepting had entailed. Was he the only one who was loyal to the cause other than Molotov and Saxon? He certainly hoped not, or this group would tear itself apart before it began.
As he kept gaze on Dagon he felt the need to do something useful. If anything he could probably talk Dagon down from a fight, if he just gave himself a bit of time with the fellow thief. Still, time was the golden commodity as he was assaulted by the impish girl, only barely registering that she had stabbed her weird spear into the ground, and was beginning to launch pebbles at him. As he instinctively covered his hands, the buckshot hit him causing him a lot of pain, in a short span of time. As he hissed in pain, trying to hold in the cry he looked at the girl, who was already darting behind the pillars.
"Gods above Mol, you keep some weird friends. Mind taking care of that kid while I deal with Dagon?" He managed as he checked his arm, the pebbles hadn't broken the cloth of his shirt, but it still hurt. The attack was a mere irritation at best, but since Dagon hadn’t attacked immediately, taking advantage of the opportunity, he was more than certain the Shaman was on shaky ground as well. As he looked back over at the Shaman he spoke, "So then, we dancing or you going to sit this song out?"
He figured he at least owed it to Dagon to let him back off.
The mutant wanted to scream when Papa Dagon entered. Molotov had taken an early shining to the shaman, especially to the way that Dagon’s cigarettes gave him a feeling that wasn’t easily matched by others. “Bloody hell,” he cursed again, using what was quickly becoming his favorite expression to describe the battle. “Bloody, bloody hell. I’m not sure if this is a real battle or some sodding reunion. Of the four people in here, the only one I’d really want to bloody give a beating to is supposed to be my partner…”
Jared was pushing for them to go into battle, but Molotov was too heartbroken to respond quickly. Chromanon’s insistence that the battle was for glory, and not personal disturbed him. He had visibly winced the moment she had said it, and still hadn’t recovered from the sinking feeling the thought had created in his chest. He knew that the little kender didn’t have enough sense in her head to know what she was saying, but that line of thinking had struck too deep of a chord with his past. The mutant had used that kind of logic when he had ignored Jennie Stormer when he had competed in the Gisela Open, choosing to go for glory over attending to his girlfriend’s declining health. Molotov had even missed being at Jennie’s side when she had finally passed, for he had been too busy complaining about the result of the tournament. He would have hated to see someone as innocent as Chromanon fall into that trap as well.
Thus, Molotov ignored Jared and responded to Chromanon. “I can’t leave either love,” he said in a surprisingly watery voice. “Chroma, stay careful, alright?”
Though he wanted to, Molotov couldn’t say anything more. He had probably said too much. Molotov feared that Jared was doubting his competency by now. Until now, no member of the Brotherhood other than Kyo had seen past the cynical condescending veneer that the mutant had been comfortable with people knowing him for. He didn’t want Jared to know him that well. The former scholarship student didn’t feel Jared deserved that privilege.
However, Jared did deserve an answer. Molotov couldn’t keep Jared waiting for too long. “Your plan is fine,” Molotov said, not going out of the way to make it clear that he was now speaking to the Lavinian. His eyes were still fixed regretfully on Chromanon, even as he balled up his fists for a fight.
She caught the pouch of whatever it was in mid-air. Her face a mask of curiousity, Chromanon brought it to her nose, and grimaced. "The magical fruit?" she wondered quietly to herself. Still, she kept it at the ready. Despite being loaded with beans, it was still useful. She'd been glad when Dagon had shown up. She'd loved the man the instant she saw him. Fat, long hair like snakes, smelling of smoke and sweeter things, he was one of the most interesting people she knew. There was still a problem here, and that was that she loved Molotov too. This was her family, and it was like looking at a civil war that was starting up while the ignorant masses hooted and hollered from the stands.
Jared made it clear where he thought the lines should be drawn, and Chromanon finally found a person who walked this world that she hated. How dare he take it upon himself to make her fight Molotov? How dare he act as if he knew anything about anything? She palmed the rock she'd grabbed after her first assault into the sling. It was a large chip from a mosaic that had once graced one of the glorious walls of this place. Part of an eye had been painted on it, and she whispered a wish as she pulled back the sling.
"For clarity of sight..." she said and then let the ceramic stone fly towards Jared.
"His plan is not fine." she said, her voice strong, a look of indignant anger gracing her features. The steel tip of the hoopak scraped across the stone floor, leaving a faint white line where it scratched into the rock. She hefted it above her head and lithe fingers began to spin it. From it, a low groan began to sing, as if a beast were growling. Faster and faster it moved, as she began to walk towards Jared, the pitch and tone rising until her weapon was screaming. It was a banshee's sound, and while popular opinion was that the hoopak's song was just mimicking the annoying fashion its usual owners sang as well, there were those who remembered that a scream like this came before death.
As Chromanon advanced towards Jared, the hoopak sang, and no trace of smile or kindness sat upon her face.
(Bunny Approved)
Jared seemed to be cosmically fated to suffer. Perhaps it was just the path he took; perhaps it was just the life he led. The fact of the matter was, he had somehow pissed off the girl, and now he was going to pay. As he waited patiently for Dagon's reply to the question, he felt a chunk of stone hit him upside the head. Immediately tears came to his eyes as he stumbled a few steps gripping the side of his head, almost sure he was feeling blood on his fingers.
It was then the whistling became apparent as he looked at the charging girl. He felt a hot heat in his chest as he had not done a damn thing to the girl, yet she seemed obsessed with his end. For a brief second Jared's eyes went dead before they once again came to life, his anger fueling darker things. As he looked at the girl he drew his dagger, twirling it in a way that seemed almost natural as the blade came to a stop in his hand, grip reversed. There was only one thought in his mind, one thought that would replay over and over.
Kill the girl.
He tried hard to push the thought aside, killing wasn't his thing. That was Molotov's specialty, but even as he felt the blood begin to trail across his face it was tempting, oh so tempting. Still he moved quickly, hoping to disarm her at the very least as he brought a boot forward to connect in a kick sure to send the little girl flying away, as the crowd cheered, the fight beginning in earnest. The girl dodged dropping the weird spear as she continued her charge, drawing another weapon. She then stabbed it forward and Jared pulled the other dagger to try and parry the attack as he finally realized, it was the foot of a small creature. She was trying to stab him with a creature's foot!
Pride welled up in him as he spat, "Molotov, you going to stand there, or are you going to do something damnit?" He was nearing the edge of his patience as he stepped back his chest heaving with his labored breath. He wanted to hurt something to tear it apart. He wanted something to suffer it felt so alien, so wrong, but at the same time, he was getting a brief satisfaction out of the fight. As he didn't waste time to ponder it, he took a defensive position, not trusting himself on the offensive just yet.
Dagon took a careful while to consider Jared’s proposition, and that was a few more seconds than he’d liked. As a principle, he wanted his days to be leisure walks on the winding roads of life, yet today was anything but. “Ruts and grooves everywhere I stand, slopes and forks everywhere I go! Looks like today’s crossroad is under the watch of samfi mon Kalfu.” The shaman sighed, wondering what he’d done to get his name in the spirit’s bad books, though it quickly came to him that this wasn’t really the most important of things to figure out. Not in these singular circumstances of his.
“Baron take all, I give up,” Dagon finally said, letting himself fall back onto the toppled wreck of a limestone pillar. He swatted away the faint puff of dust that rose when he sat with his old top hat, his lax gestures and aloof behaviour all showing some sort of temperate surrender. Only, the green lights in his eyes were still dancing with the same mischief as a pair of will’-o- wisps. He set his topper down onto the stone, open-end facing up, and deftly produced a handful of seeds from the stitched pouch at his side. With a whisk of the hand, he sowed them on the barren soil, drawing a grainy arc a few feet away from his feet. “Best we all give up on thinking – too much of a hassle, eh?”
“I’ll dance on my cushions, boyo. It’s what I do best, and you’d do well to remember it, yeah?” This was it. No more inner conflict, no more assessing repercussions, no more second guessing: he’d come to help Chroma, and there was no question that he’d do just that. None of them had known about the match-up, none of them could legitimately hold anything against anyone after this. “But you feel free to put your hands on my hips and shimmy this out, if you can!”
“No point in worrying,” he said to Molotov, though nothing of his demeanour showed that he was addressing the man in particular. On that note, Dagon buried his hands in the depths of his coat, taking them out only when he’d curled his finger around bark and stone. In his left was a shrunken, fat tree with hollows that shaped eyes and a toothy mouth; in his right was a cross-shaped rock, filed down and polished by his own hand.
“Brothers fight each other first, and for each other second. We’ve already killed monsters, what’s unnatural about a bit of infighting? That’s what brothers do.”
Something, perhaps a soundless wind, had made the seeds at his feet sway ever so slightly, and as it blew by, it also brought upon the battlefield an unnatural air of misfortune. The sparkle of jade in his eyes was now set in a gimlet stare, harsh yet radiant with the strange magic of his land. “Here do spirits creep, gather round and ride the wind.”
General notes: This battle had a good start. I was sad to see it cut off like this. Still, it got ten posts, making it eligible for judgment. Detail will be fairly sparse, however, because of the thread’s incompleteness.
Argentum Astrum
Chromanon Rockskin:
Continuity: 6
On the whole, you did a decent job of setting up your character’s background and giving her a good reason for being in the tournament. The lack of a conclusion hurt your score along with everyone else’s, though.
Setting: 7
You described the setting with nice detail, even though the arena wasn’t overly impressive. More importantly, though, you actually interacted with it more than the others, using stones and statue chunks as slingshot ammo.
Pacing: 4
The thread was incomplete. There wasn’t enough present to really establish any pacing at all.
*
Persona: 6.5
Chromanon has an endearing personality that came out nicely.
Dialogue: 7
Fun, cute, and different. It didn’t fit the typical model for character dialogue, and I liked it.
Action: 7
You probably had more action in your posts than anyone else. While quantity isn’t everything, you had quality as well.
*
Technique: 6
Your style was decent. The writing seemed a bit jumbled at places, but it didn’t hurt your writing too badly.
Mechanics: 6
While not terrible, there were quite a few typos and run-on sentences. It was just a bunch of little things that extra proof-reading could have fixed.
Clarity: 7
Things typically made sense, aside from the above problems.
*
Wild Card: 7
You wrote fairly well and stayed active.
Total: 63.5
Papa Dagon:
Continuity: 7
Your introduction was quite nice. It portrayed Dagon’s background admirably. Again, the lack of a finish hurt.
Setting: 6
See Chromanon’s setting entry. You would have done well to interact with the arena more, but the battle stopped before you got the chance.
Pacing: 4
See Chromanon’s.
*
Persona: 7
As I started reading this battle, your character was really the first one that appealed to be strongly. Dagon is fun and original and definitely a concept to develop in the future.
Dialogue: 7
Dagon’s dialogue was offbeat and amusing. It made me look forward to seeing your posts. I just wish that there was more writing.
Action: 6
There really wasn’t enough of it in the thread to afford a high score. You made an effort, though.
*
Technique: 7
Your writing style was clean and refreshing. It had a nice flow to it and made your posts even more enjoyable.
Mechanics: 9
There were very few mechanical or spelling errors that I noticed.
Clarity: 8
Like your style and mechanics, your clarity was clean and made for easy reading.
*
Wild Card: 5
I liked your posts. I wish there had been more of them!
Total: 66
Bandit Brotherhood
Molotov:
Continuity: 7
See the Chromanon. I liked how you established the past relationships between Molotov and Chromanon, though.
Setting: 5
I got basic descriptions, but not much else.
Pacing: 4
See the others.
*
Persona: 7
Molotov came off well. He’s an interesting character and you did a good job at describing his depth.
Dialogue: 7
I really liked Molotov’s dialogue. It was entertaining and it fit his character.
Action: 5
There really wasn’t much from you.
*
Technique: 7.5
Your style was solid. There’s not much else to say.
Mechanics: 9
See Dagon’s.
Clarity: 8.5
See Dagon’s.
*
Wildcard: 2
You vanished halfway through the battle, which is why you’re scoring so low here.
Total: 62
Lavinian Ambition:
Continuity: 6
See others.
Setting: 5
See Molotov’s.
Pacing: 4
See others.
*
Persona: 6
I really didn’t get as much of a feel for your character as I did for the others. Of course, the fact that the thread died abruptly meant that you didn’t get much of a chance to display Jared’s inner self.
Dialogue: 6
Same as your persona.
Action: 6
While you didn’t actually attack, you certainly took enough hits and did a good job of portraying the damage.
*
Technique: 5
I didn’t see much of anything special. Your style wasn’t bad, but it was fairly bland and your writing seemed jumbled at times.
Mechanics: 6
See Chromanon’s.
Clarity: 7
Again, pretty much the same level as Chromanon here.
*
Wild Card: 4
While you didn’t personally drop the ball on posting, your teammate did and you didn’t try to salvage the thread.
Total: 55
The winner is Argentum Astrum! Congratulations!
Chromanon Rockskin receives 2250 EXP and 400 GP.
Papa Dagon receives 2250 EXP and 300 GP
Molotov receives 750 EXP and 120 GP
Lavinian Ambition receives 450 EXP and 70 GP.
EXP and GP added!