I’ll get something up soon, figure out what i can do from here
HereComesTheSnow Member
dehydration expert
STATUS: frantically flipping through my notebook as i realize i'm late for my monthly bit. bomb. bomb. caesium capsule meets stomach lining. bomb. murder confession. bomb. need new material before they bomb m 30 days ago
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30 days ago
Current
frantically flipping through my notebook as i realize i'm late for my monthly bit. bomb. bomb. caesium capsule meets stomach lining. bomb. murder confession. bomb. need new material before they bomb m
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2 mos ago
Never stop creating. Never stop improving. Live life fully, honestly, and the mystical adventure never ends. Thank you, Sensei. I think I'll train tomorrow.
9
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4 mos ago
My dreams are getting weird. They usually involve sterile lighting and a bunch of guys in labcoats discussing sedative dosages around me and getting really scared when i try to go to the bathroom lol
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5 mos ago
i consume enough energy drink i changed my zodiac sign, i'm more taurine than any motherfucker born in April and i killed eleven people in that applebees two miles down the road
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7 mos ago
i be putting myself into situations
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Most Recent Posts
<Snipped quote by HereComesTheSnow>
No, but she might sneak up on him, put a wacky hat on his head and say, "See! You look good in it! You should join!"
considering the culture he comes from, that may earn a bit of a complaint
Unless Hana is going to fight him if he says no, we will keep the killing to a minimum
guys please just join the baseball club
ichiro will shatter your ribcage
ichiro will shatter your ribcage
local cocky bastard nearly fucking dies
good fight
good fight
@King Cosmos
Pain blossomed through his right side as he hit the earth, standing shakily over his fallen foe. As the boy came to a moment later, bat lying at his side, he would see Kasemchai's breaths as now remarkably shallow compared to how deep and controlled they were at the beginning.
Unbelievable.
To think he didn't consider a switch-hitter.
In this game of inches they called fighting.
Just because he'd not laced up gloves?
It was all he could do to tighten his core at the last moment once he'd realized in midair, holding every bit of the tension in his abdominals and serratus that he had naturally produced in his elbow strike. He had no way to evade this blow, no way to dodge it, and was too truly committed to the strike to block. If one could even meaningfully do so.
He had indeed reached far enough to to cleanly strike the batter with real blows, not projections of his own force— and that distance saved him. His adrenaline still pumping wildly through his veins, he knew that even on only one and a half legs, this man's swings were hard as any kick he had ever taken in the ring. So perhaps the baseball bat metaphor had some merit to it after all— though by getting in that close, Kasemchai had done himself another favor. The principles of force generation were universal between all sports— if you're swinging something, be it a kicked leg or a baseball bat, the end is what moves fastest. More acceleration, more force.
If he had kneed from one step further out, he would be the one on the floor, he was sure of it. It would have placed him perfectly into that solid end of the bat's range. Here, thanks to the baseball player stepping into him and further shortening the distance, Kasemchai's velocity had carried him even further inward, and the swing had slammed home with roughly the center of the bat. The instant later, his elbow struck true, and ripped consciousness free from his opponent, his grip upon the bat with it. Denying the proper follow-through that very well could have penetrated his tight core anyway, and done potentially catastrophic damage to his ribs.
Even now, the Thai wasn't fully sure of how hard he had been hit, truly. He knew that he was keeping, almost instinctively, his breaths sharp and short. He would definitely have a welt to match the one he had given that leg... And there was a good chance that bruising reached down to the bone, too. Perhaps he had lost a crack in the confusion? He hoped not.
But he was on his feet, and the opponent was on his back. His smile, crossing the line between self-assured and feral, returned to his face in full.
He had won. As he was always going to. That he had come so close to losing was unexpected, but he had claimed the victory that was his from the start all the same. Today was his, and his point had been proven. The fighter's game was one of inches indeed, and he exceeded in utilizing each one.
Even as he left arm gingerly held at his right side, the Thai rose the arm that had given him the win into the air, bronzed fist stark against the azure sky. His within the shadows of the silver locks framing his face, those green eyes looked upon this man with... acknowledgement. That of one who recognized a good effort in the face of an overwhelming victory, even if the true events of the fight were not nearly so one-sided. To Kasemchai, he had merely been caught up in the storm of a destined great. For this man to prove his worth to this degree in the face of it was... commendable.
This man..?
Ah.
"Your name, Farang."
He extended a hand to the fallen. The assured victor would only be right to show the sportsmanship as such. The warm ache that had begun to set into his ribcage would see to it that this would be remembered.
"I'd like to know who fought so hard against me."
Pain blossomed through his right side as he hit the earth, standing shakily over his fallen foe. As the boy came to a moment later, bat lying at his side, he would see Kasemchai's breaths as now remarkably shallow compared to how deep and controlled they were at the beginning.
Unbelievable.
To think he didn't consider a switch-hitter.
In this game of inches they called fighting.
Just because he'd not laced up gloves?
It was all he could do to tighten his core at the last moment once he'd realized in midair, holding every bit of the tension in his abdominals and serratus that he had naturally produced in his elbow strike. He had no way to evade this blow, no way to dodge it, and was too truly committed to the strike to block. If one could even meaningfully do so.
He had indeed reached far enough to to cleanly strike the batter with real blows, not projections of his own force— and that distance saved him. His adrenaline still pumping wildly through his veins, he knew that even on only one and a half legs, this man's swings were hard as any kick he had ever taken in the ring. So perhaps the baseball bat metaphor had some merit to it after all— though by getting in that close, Kasemchai had done himself another favor. The principles of force generation were universal between all sports— if you're swinging something, be it a kicked leg or a baseball bat, the end is what moves fastest. More acceleration, more force.
If he had kneed from one step further out, he would be the one on the floor, he was sure of it. It would have placed him perfectly into that solid end of the bat's range. Here, thanks to the baseball player stepping into him and further shortening the distance, Kasemchai's velocity had carried him even further inward, and the swing had slammed home with roughly the center of the bat. The instant later, his elbow struck true, and ripped consciousness free from his opponent, his grip upon the bat with it. Denying the proper follow-through that very well could have penetrated his tight core anyway, and done potentially catastrophic damage to his ribs.
Even now, the Thai wasn't fully sure of how hard he had been hit, truly. He knew that he was keeping, almost instinctively, his breaths sharp and short. He would definitely have a welt to match the one he had given that leg... And there was a good chance that bruising reached down to the bone, too. Perhaps he had lost a crack in the confusion? He hoped not.
But he was on his feet, and the opponent was on his back. His smile, crossing the line between self-assured and feral, returned to his face in full.
He had won. As he was always going to. That he had come so close to losing was unexpected, but he had claimed the victory that was his from the start all the same. Today was his, and his point had been proven. The fighter's game was one of inches indeed, and he exceeded in utilizing each one.
Even as he left arm gingerly held at his right side, the Thai rose the arm that had given him the win into the air, bronzed fist stark against the azure sky. His within the shadows of the silver locks framing his face, those green eyes looked upon this man with... acknowledgement. That of one who recognized a good effort in the face of an overwhelming victory, even if the true events of the fight were not nearly so one-sided. To Kasemchai, he had merely been caught up in the storm of a destined great. For this man to prove his worth to this degree in the face of it was... commendable.
This man..?
Ah.
"Your name, Farang."
He extended a hand to the fallen. The assured victor would only be right to show the sportsmanship as such. The warm ache that had begun to set into his ribcage would see to it that this would be remembered.
"I'd like to know who fought so hard against me."
i dont get paid enough to transliterate choreography to text like this
@King Cosmos
How was he blocking with such consistency? He definitely didn't have the fight training to make a proper read at this distance...
Could it be his Inherent Engine? Can he see the incoming burst?
What was more, the baseball player was steadily giving ground as he subtly shifted the bat beneath the storm, widening the gap between them as opposed to it wilting beneath Kasemchai's constant advance. He supposed the boy would run out of room eventually, but this arrangement was not ideal. Classes would begin again before they finished if he meant to back him all the way against a wall from the center of the courtyard.
... Then he stopped, bat braced before him in time with the slight change in angle of Kasemchai's jab but receiving no impact. There was none of that minute compression as the impact traveled through the metal and into the baseball player's arms— and then there was.
Then, his opponent retreated once more, and the Thai fighter understood.
He has a read on the edge of my range. He knows the maximum distance I can strike from now. For that matter, so do I. I'd never gotten the opportunity before in previous fights— remember this distance between bodies. That is as far as I can strike.
It's obvious now that he's got something to make for his lack training in keeping up with my strikes. Every time I've switched levels ort broken a pattern, he's made the correct move to block with that bat. Some I've managed to slip through, it clearly isn't perfect, but that also rules out prediction— he's reacting to something.
He needed an opportunity. Something big to burst in on, this measured advance is too easy for him to back out of— there!
His opponent, even in the face of his aching leg, made a great leap backward, readying another swing and taking a singular moment to aim.
The Thai saw the stance, saw the motion, and threw himself to the side as the crack of the bat heralded another incoming projectile— and winced as the edge of the orb, moving at an impossible double speed, grazed his side with the force of a heavyweight's punch. If it were moving at the velocity it had before, he would have been well clear— did that slugger have this much power left up his sleeve even after his leg had been attacked?
Grit your teeth, this is your opening.
Edges of his jaw tightening, the Thai's conditioning and adrenaline bolstered his fortitude twofold, and he surged forward once his feet caught traction after the sidestep. Assume maybe a second to rechamber after that swing. Assume maybe another to readjust position for the new angle Kasemchai had taken— moving towards his opponent's right. Two, maybe three seconds to get into true striking range was a tall ask when running at someone with a bat during the best of times, and Kasemchai was not unmarked himself.
But he could not let himself be killed at range by this man's endless bag of tricks with a baseball bat.
He would cover this damned distance.
Kasemchai ran. Gone was his shuffling, steady, compact footwork, that which was too slow to use without a ring to pen his opponent into. He ran for all he was worth, long strides chewing up the ground before him as he all but sprinted towards the baseball player, bold plan taking shape in mind.
If that unusually high-percentage blocking rate was based off of reactions rather than predictions, then he knew how to tear those apart— feinting. Show one strike to land another. As the opponent reacts to that which does not come, they leave themselves open, confused, and second-guessing their reads. Much more vulnerable to follow-ups from either a different angle, or different timing.
One stride. Two. Three.
He had built up the momentum well now, and had definitely entered maximum range... but the end goal was to cover the entirety of this space. He had an option for that. Low percentage in the extreme normally, but perhaps with his power, some of the unsafe factors became safe.
Four. Five. Closing in.
Do it now, and let the force carry you the rest of the distance. Don't let him have the chance to hit you out of the air with that bat!
He launched himself up from the ground, springing off his front leg as the rear swung upward, adding height and an extra boost in vertical momentum.
How will his eyes see through a lie?
That motion had placed his left leg in front, leaving his right chambered and ready to deliver a flying knee of crushing force with all of the energy from his weight, his charge, concentrated onto a single point. It was perhaps the most powerful blow in all of Muay Thai, an art famous for devastating knee strikes from the clinch alone— let alone one with room to build momentum over so much distance into.
All he needed to do was wrench that right leg upwards, and all of that bone-rattling power would be brought to bear right on the level of the baseball player's forehead. A shot that could knock out anyone if it landed clean. A huge attack, that traded a huge windup for huge force.
He reared his back midair, as though committed with all of his being to the knee strike and ready to throw his hip into it for a little extra juice—
You should feel proud for making me use such a gambit.
And wrenched his right elbow downward towards the top of his opponent's hatted skull, as though to split a log with an axe. All of his forward motion could compensate for any power disparity between the two strikes— even if the first would have been overwhelmingly strong, the second simply needed to be strong enough.
And if fate was willing, this would carry him close enough to get his hands on him.
How was he blocking with such consistency? He definitely didn't have the fight training to make a proper read at this distance...
Could it be his Inherent Engine? Can he see the incoming burst?
What was more, the baseball player was steadily giving ground as he subtly shifted the bat beneath the storm, widening the gap between them as opposed to it wilting beneath Kasemchai's constant advance. He supposed the boy would run out of room eventually, but this arrangement was not ideal. Classes would begin again before they finished if he meant to back him all the way against a wall from the center of the courtyard.
... Then he stopped, bat braced before him in time with the slight change in angle of Kasemchai's jab but receiving no impact. There was none of that minute compression as the impact traveled through the metal and into the baseball player's arms— and then there was.
Then, his opponent retreated once more, and the Thai fighter understood.
He has a read on the edge of my range. He knows the maximum distance I can strike from now. For that matter, so do I. I'd never gotten the opportunity before in previous fights— remember this distance between bodies. That is as far as I can strike.
It's obvious now that he's got something to make for his lack training in keeping up with my strikes. Every time I've switched levels ort broken a pattern, he's made the correct move to block with that bat. Some I've managed to slip through, it clearly isn't perfect, but that also rules out prediction— he's reacting to something.
He needed an opportunity. Something big to burst in on, this measured advance is too easy for him to back out of— there!
His opponent, even in the face of his aching leg, made a great leap backward, readying another swing and taking a singular moment to aim.
The Thai saw the stance, saw the motion, and threw himself to the side as the crack of the bat heralded another incoming projectile— and winced as the edge of the orb, moving at an impossible double speed, grazed his side with the force of a heavyweight's punch. If it were moving at the velocity it had before, he would have been well clear— did that slugger have this much power left up his sleeve even after his leg had been attacked?
Grit your teeth, this is your opening.
Edges of his jaw tightening, the Thai's conditioning and adrenaline bolstered his fortitude twofold, and he surged forward once his feet caught traction after the sidestep. Assume maybe a second to rechamber after that swing. Assume maybe another to readjust position for the new angle Kasemchai had taken— moving towards his opponent's right. Two, maybe three seconds to get into true striking range was a tall ask when running at someone with a bat during the best of times, and Kasemchai was not unmarked himself.
But he could not let himself be killed at range by this man's endless bag of tricks with a baseball bat.
He would cover this damned distance.
Kasemchai ran. Gone was his shuffling, steady, compact footwork, that which was too slow to use without a ring to pen his opponent into. He ran for all he was worth, long strides chewing up the ground before him as he all but sprinted towards the baseball player, bold plan taking shape in mind.
If that unusually high-percentage blocking rate was based off of reactions rather than predictions, then he knew how to tear those apart— feinting. Show one strike to land another. As the opponent reacts to that which does not come, they leave themselves open, confused, and second-guessing their reads. Much more vulnerable to follow-ups from either a different angle, or different timing.
One stride. Two. Three.
He had built up the momentum well now, and had definitely entered maximum range... but the end goal was to cover the entirety of this space. He had an option for that. Low percentage in the extreme normally, but perhaps with his power, some of the unsafe factors became safe.
Four. Five. Closing in.
Do it now, and let the force carry you the rest of the distance. Don't let him have the chance to hit you out of the air with that bat!
He launched himself up from the ground, springing off his front leg as the rear swung upward, adding height and an extra boost in vertical momentum.
How will his eyes see through a lie?
That motion had placed his left leg in front, leaving his right chambered and ready to deliver a flying knee of crushing force with all of the energy from his weight, his charge, concentrated onto a single point. It was perhaps the most powerful blow in all of Muay Thai, an art famous for devastating knee strikes from the clinch alone— let alone one with room to build momentum over so much distance into.
All he needed to do was wrench that right leg upwards, and all of that bone-rattling power would be brought to bear right on the level of the baseball player's forehead. A shot that could knock out anyone if it landed clean. A huge attack, that traded a huge windup for huge force.
He reared his back midair, as though committed with all of his being to the knee strike and ready to throw his hip into it for a little extra juice—
You should feel proud for making me use such a gambit.
And wrenched his right elbow downward towards the top of his opponent's hatted skull, as though to split a log with an axe. All of his forward motion could compensate for any power disparity between the two strikes— even if the first would have been overwhelmingly strong, the second simply needed to be strong enough.
And if fate was willing, this would carry him close enough to get his hands on him.
Gonna assume Fanilly got the other armpit so Gerard's full-bore swing through roughly the kidney area didn't nearly decapitate her
good job team!!!
good job team!!!
@King Cosmos
Perfectly placed. Right on the load-bearing meat of the inner thigh, the impact forced the baseball player's stance to buckle, sending him stumbling off to the side as that leg tried to contend with being knocked out of position, his weight, and its newly-forming bruise. He doubted he'd killed it yet— it would take a few more for him to totally remove the boy's ability to put weight on it, but from the looks of things he'd already cut down mobility.
"Welcome to the world of Muay Thai, Farang."
I knew you weren't fit for this. I'll do you a service and end things quickly—
He burst forward, looking to use this opening as a means to close distance. With his opponent so preoccupied, he wouldn't need to worry about any more incoming attacks for the time being. Even if he swung—
Too high. That'll land in front of me. Getting desperate already? Hoping I'll trip?
Kasemchai closed in further, ignoring the crimson orb that fell from its pop-fly arc a scant two feet in front of him. It was simply avoided, all he needed to do was step over. Baseballs weren't even big enough to be an impedance. This was done. In another second, he would be in distance, and this fight was as good as over. That man had one leg, he was batting single-handed, he was off-balance, his head was just dangling there. All he needed was one knee and he would put him away. Maybe even a flying knee for style—
It struck the earth, and Kasemchai's world became dust, and grass, and impact.
It was as if a blanket of raw force had suddenly slammed into him, not only checking his advance, but sending him reeling back bodily. It was only thanks to his many fights of stadium experience, live combat, that he found it in himself to stay on his feet at all. Had he placed a wall in front of him? Just what the hell was that? It was as though he'd run into the fist of the Buddha. If he were any less tough, he'd be dazed and on his ass.
Kasemchai tensed his body, recalculating and recomposing, as the baseball player found his feet and retreated further.
That sealed it. He had to get inside range now. Whatever other tricks this bat contained, Kasemchai was not stupid enough to let this happen again. If such an explosion were accompanied by usual shrapnel and flame, he could have been in serious trouble. He had regained his stance and his wits by now— And would not allow his opponent any room to breathe.
He began his forward march, maintaining his stance with an almost shuffling sort of footwork— always making sure to minimize the amount of time he was outside of his solid, compact base. He would not be caught unawares again. He would not cross over his feet and get knocked end over end because he was unable to brace himself.
He refused.
As he closed the distance, his lead land lanced out with a pistonlike jab. A jab was perhaps an even safer version of the teep in this instance— a range-finder, a harassing tool, something that rarely had one-shot knockout power, but quickly thrown, not compromising his stance, and perfect for forcing reactions. Just because it did not mean a knockout did not mean it could be ignored— any punch to the face was a punch to the face, and in his experience any punch in the face was hard to think through.
He did not intend on letting up. Even if he had only just stepped into the edge of his range (he didn't have the best range on this distance, he could have been entirely outside), the moment the jab reached full extension it was retracted right back into the guard, just as quickly. Punches were snappy things. You didn't leave them out there to try and push your opponent with— If anything, you stabbed with them. Quickly. Precisely.
He jabbed again as he made another step in, using his forward motion to maximize the reach of his punch and add just a bit more weight to it.
Repeatedly.
He would not let up until he could get his hands on him. The moment he began to shield his head, he would attack the body. If he felt like it, he would even teep him in the gut— But he would drown this man in blows all the same.
Perfectly placed. Right on the load-bearing meat of the inner thigh, the impact forced the baseball player's stance to buckle, sending him stumbling off to the side as that leg tried to contend with being knocked out of position, his weight, and its newly-forming bruise. He doubted he'd killed it yet— it would take a few more for him to totally remove the boy's ability to put weight on it, but from the looks of things he'd already cut down mobility.
"Welcome to the world of Muay Thai, Farang."
I knew you weren't fit for this. I'll do you a service and end things quickly—
He burst forward, looking to use this opening as a means to close distance. With his opponent so preoccupied, he wouldn't need to worry about any more incoming attacks for the time being. Even if he swung—
Too high. That'll land in front of me. Getting desperate already? Hoping I'll trip?
Kasemchai closed in further, ignoring the crimson orb that fell from its pop-fly arc a scant two feet in front of him. It was simply avoided, all he needed to do was step over. Baseballs weren't even big enough to be an impedance. This was done. In another second, he would be in distance, and this fight was as good as over. That man had one leg, he was batting single-handed, he was off-balance, his head was just dangling there. All he needed was one knee and he would put him away. Maybe even a flying knee for style—
It struck the earth, and Kasemchai's world became dust, and grass, and impact.
It was as if a blanket of raw force had suddenly slammed into him, not only checking his advance, but sending him reeling back bodily. It was only thanks to his many fights of stadium experience, live combat, that he found it in himself to stay on his feet at all. Had he placed a wall in front of him? Just what the hell was that? It was as though he'd run into the fist of the Buddha. If he were any less tough, he'd be dazed and on his ass.
Kasemchai tensed his body, recalculating and recomposing, as the baseball player found his feet and retreated further.
That sealed it. He had to get inside range now. Whatever other tricks this bat contained, Kasemchai was not stupid enough to let this happen again. If such an explosion were accompanied by usual shrapnel and flame, he could have been in serious trouble. He had regained his stance and his wits by now— And would not allow his opponent any room to breathe.
He began his forward march, maintaining his stance with an almost shuffling sort of footwork— always making sure to minimize the amount of time he was outside of his solid, compact base. He would not be caught unawares again. He would not cross over his feet and get knocked end over end because he was unable to brace himself.
He refused.
As he closed the distance, his lead land lanced out with a pistonlike jab. A jab was perhaps an even safer version of the teep in this instance— a range-finder, a harassing tool, something that rarely had one-shot knockout power, but quickly thrown, not compromising his stance, and perfect for forcing reactions. Just because it did not mean a knockout did not mean it could be ignored— any punch to the face was a punch to the face, and in his experience any punch in the face was hard to think through.
He did not intend on letting up. Even if he had only just stepped into the edge of his range (he didn't have the best range on this distance, he could have been entirely outside), the moment the jab reached full extension it was retracted right back into the guard, just as quickly. Punches were snappy things. You didn't leave them out there to try and push your opponent with— If anything, you stabbed with them. Quickly. Precisely.
He jabbed again as he made another step in, using his forward motion to maximize the reach of his punch and add just a bit more weight to it.
Repeatedly.
He would not let up until he could get his hands on him. The moment he began to shield his head, he would attack the body. If he felt like it, he would even teep him in the gut— But he would drown this man in blows all the same.
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