Nytefall@MelonHead Babe, you ARE the good arguments. *Wink.*
True that, I am a little disappointed with the pettiness here though, surprised to see people literally name calling.
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True that, I am a little disappointed with the pettiness here though, surprised to see people literally name calling.
There was one who did not tarry like the others. He who passed through the shrine without a word, the knapsack on his back filled with supplies, his expression sombre yet determined. His visage was one of a warrior from the frigid Northlands. Fur and iron, steel and stone, these things adorned his tall, powerful frame. He was a man like any other on a glance. Yet an arm made of stone was no ordinary thing, it marked him as Sigurd Stoneheart, bearer of the Stone Curse and survivor of the Way of the Warrior. In that stony grip he clutched a round shield draped in the hide of a Dragon, his slaying of such a fearsome beast the cause for his renown. At his side the tools of his trade, sword and axes, weapons of war and death. Sigurd had survived three years of conflict since leaving the Liason’s tournament with naught but his life as a reward. Now perhaps he would earn his comeuppance. Or now perhaps he would meet his end.
Steeling himself for war, the helmed warrior stepped over familiar terrain. Snow trod underfoot and the wind whistled shrilly, no doubt freezing the less well equipped for the cold to the bone. To Sigurd, this place was not so different from home. He moved assuredly, and so reached the first point of crossing a while before his fated opponent. Familiar now with the destined nature of combat in such a place, perhaps grown more cynical in his days since the Tournament, Sigurd secured an advantage with little doubt he would fight. He may talk, he may not, and such would depend on that which rose to meet him.
Having reached the windswept cliffs, his feet carried him swiftly half-way across the area, standing between two rocks that blocked a clear view of the entire arena. He did not draw then, but waited to see who would face him. His rugged face frowned, muddy-blonde hair trapped beneath iron and faint whiskers bristling in the cold. With a slight shrug his armour shifted, never quite comfortable, but a re-assuring weight none-the-less. Piercing blue eyes shone from beneath his dreadful horned helm, eyes which spoke of death.
Steeling himself for war, the helmed warrior stepped over familiar terrain. Snow trod underfoot and the wind whistled shrilly, no doubt freezing the less well equipped for the cold to the bone. To Sigurd, this place was not so different from home. He moved assuredly, and so reached the first point of crossing a while before his fated opponent. Familiar now with the destined nature of combat in such a place, perhaps grown more cynical in his days since the Tournament, Sigurd secured an advantage with little doubt he would fight. He may talk, he may not, and such would depend on that which rose to meet him.
Having reached the windswept cliffs, his feet carried him swiftly half-way across the area, standing between two rocks that blocked a clear view of the entire arena. He did not draw then, but waited to see who would face him. His rugged face frowned, muddy-blonde hair trapped beneath iron and faint whiskers bristling in the cold. With a slight shrug his armour shifted, never quite comfortable, but a re-assuring weight none-the-less. Piercing blue eyes shone from beneath his dreadful horned helm, eyes which spoke of death.
Arena 1: Windswept cliffs
Falling off the cliff kills you, obviously. The small rocks near the center of the area are about five feet high at their highest point, and are wide enough to reasonably be used as cover. Fighters start on the marked red circles. The ground is rocky and uneven, but level overall. Weather conditions will be normal for the first 10 posts of the fight, after which strong winds will begin blowing harshly across the arena, starting from left to right and switching direction every other turn.
Falling off the cliff kills you, obviously. The small rocks near the center of the area are about five feet high at their highest point, and are wide enough to reasonably be used as cover. Fighters start on the marked red circles. The ground is rocky and uneven, but level overall. Weather conditions will be normal for the first 10 posts of the fight, after which strong winds will begin blowing harshly across the arena, starting from left to right and switching direction every other turn.
@Chimera Just got back and it's half 2 here so I won't be able to start the thread, Pollen has selected the Arena for us (Windswept Cliffs) so if you're available in the next twelve hours and feel like starting it go ahead. Otherwise I'll sort something when I'm awake and not busy.
Aww man, I always miss the good arguments.
Cool, I'll post tomorrow got some shit to do
How dared he.
If only Joel had been capable of human speech, he could have begged off the inevitable combat at hand. His silent advance was to Anna’s eyes unacceptable, a clear sign of the creature challenging her authority. With her power, she refused to stand for it, especially there in her natural element. No dumb monster would oust her. Not while she still drew breath, metaphorically speaking.
The Wraith had not delved underwater of a whim, nor because she was particularly shy. Her presence there had been to further the spread of the spiritual energy contained within her form into the water around her. Like oil spilling into the Ocean, her invisible presence leaked out into the surrounding sea and grasped it tight, establishing her dominion over her natural element. As a Water Wraith Anna was gifted with an affinity for the basic element, and with time and effort she could bend it to her will.
However, Anna was not what one would consider a fighter. She did not think particularly pragmatically about situations, certainly not tactically. Her violence was in most respects born from petulance and emotional anguish, and her response tended to be reflective of such.
Revealing her power in a woefully ineffective fashion she hoped would see off the Golem, a great tendril of water burst from before her in the likeness of a riot hose to splash upon the Golem’s rocky form. If an ordinary human had been hit, they would likely have been knocked off their feet.
If only Joel had been capable of human speech, he could have begged off the inevitable combat at hand. His silent advance was to Anna’s eyes unacceptable, a clear sign of the creature challenging her authority. With her power, she refused to stand for it, especially there in her natural element. No dumb monster would oust her. Not while she still drew breath, metaphorically speaking.
The Wraith had not delved underwater of a whim, nor because she was particularly shy. Her presence there had been to further the spread of the spiritual energy contained within her form into the water around her. Like oil spilling into the Ocean, her invisible presence leaked out into the surrounding sea and grasped it tight, establishing her dominion over her natural element. As a Water Wraith Anna was gifted with an affinity for the basic element, and with time and effort she could bend it to her will.
However, Anna was not what one would consider a fighter. She did not think particularly pragmatically about situations, certainly not tactically. Her violence was in most respects born from petulance and emotional anguish, and her response tended to be reflective of such.
Revealing her power in a woefully ineffective fashion she hoped would see off the Golem, a great tendril of water burst from before her in the likeness of a riot hose to splash upon the Golem’s rocky form. If an ordinary human had been hit, they would likely have been knocked off their feet.
@Drifting Pollen Would you mind randomizing an arena for me for the sake of fairplay?
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