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Thread: Round 2: Scavenger (Pharod) VS. Necromancer (Sabriel) - Judge dakkagor

  1. #11
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    "If I go down, I'm taking you with me."

    The exhaustion hit first.

    The Scavenger’s lids began to sink comfortably. Too comfortably. The thought of giving in, of letting sleep take them, was more than appealing. After all, what could a little nap hurt while a vortex of sand was threatening to take you down into its depths?

    Their grip on the pickaxe slipped.

    No!

    They would not give in. They had come too far, had endured too much. There was always a way to escape. There was always a way out.

    The Scavenger reached inside themself, thinking only of the Murloc. They thought of its slimy green skin, its overbearing back spines, its rancid breath, its needle-sharp teeth.

    ”Ribbet.”

    Yes. There it was. The Scavenger looked over to see their companion summoned right by their side. Somehow, even after death, the stupid creature had a way of coming back again. The Scavenger’s grip slipped even more, and without a second thought they let go—

    --But the Murloc held on tight to the back of the Scavenger’s coat. Its frog fingers were just sticky enough to hold onto the glass, now exposed as the sand fell through the vortex. Its bulbous red eyes blinked at the Scavenger, blank with devotion. The Scavenger knew its fingers were slipping ever slightly, but this would hopefully delay the inevitable. Perhaps if the Necromancer fell before they did, the spiteful gods would show some mercy.

    Still, the Scavenger felt very… very… tired.



    Free Editing

    Spoiler: The show must go on. 

  2. #12
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    There are certain things that cannot be undone. Actions are not as knots in a rope; you cannot un-kiss or un-punch. Our actions are as stones skipped out to sea, rippling about the water's rim, only to be swallowed by an ocean of time. Despite all regret and repair, the efforts of undoing never take back what was done.

    Once crossed, a threshold cannot be uncrossed.

    Sabriel knew this. She knew it as sure as she knew the calls of the bells before they sounded. It was as evident to her as her name had been, as sure as the ease with which she could fight. Ingrained in her was a person lost, and in spite of all that she had been put through, she had fought to gain it back.

    As she slid further down and her waist was mired in the swirling dune of the hourglass' inner sands, she kept Ranna singing. The sudden disappearance of the frog's corpse at her side had momentarily unnerved her, but it had not broken her concentration. It only warranted a shifting of her gaze, a quick and sharp glance to where it had been to where it now was.

    There, strewn against the glass, was the stick-figure and its spiny pet. While the pair of them had seemed strange at first, she had grown accustomed to their ill-fitting partnership. She thought again of the old man, the Chronomancer, as the rush of things slowly pulled her back. Where he had seemed full confidant of himself and his past nature, this creature - this clinging thing before her now - was as a scavenger.

    Its rope, its robes, its ribbiting beast were all secondhand. It was a beggar's life to live, and she felt a true pity for the poor devil as it clung to its wakefulness and its pickaxe. But it was a taker, with nothing to claim of its own. All of its garb and manner spoke to an individual who lived between the means of others. It was a desperate crow, and she was a brightening hawk.

    This would not save her from the maw of the hourglass' neck, however. Time was her foe, and it could not be beaten. She had committed to her course, passed through that liminal moment, with the scavenger having gone though its own as well. They had no other options.

    The bones and skulls could be seen through the curved glass, their jumping dance now easing with the peals of Ranna. The bell in her hand tolled with each swing of her delicate wrist, the sword hanging limply in her other as she used it like a walking stick against the tide of falling dunes. The scavenger hung on the pickaxe as would a coat on a hook, the beast latched on just beside it.

    And for a moment, this was all that was.

    She did not fear what would happen to her. As she was drawn ever towards the center of the vortex and as the tug against her legs became harder to resist, her heart beat calm and steady. Whoever Sabriel had been, she was barely that girl now, barely a shadow of a memory. To lose a piece of a piece was not to lose much at all.

    She smiled. If she died here, if her body came crashing down and her eyes no longer opened, she at least knew she would have that face of the man to greet her after. If this was to be how her life's ink spilled, then the story would at least have been told partway.

    That was enough for her. She did not know if she was the only one, if this great thing was being staged for only her, or if she and the scavenger were but players in a larger play. There was only one thing left to be done, one final attempt to make her presence unforgettable.

    Her feet slipped the moment after she threw it. As her back hit the lowest dip in the vortex and the sands cupped her, she watched her blade cut a clean line through the air. It added a sweet whistle to Ranna's slumbering song, and as the sand began to engulf her again, she prayed to whatever gods might be that sword found its mark.

    That the scavenger might be stricken dead along with her. Or that it might be knocked from its hold to join her. Just that it itself would be wounded.

    The blade spun with the pointed ease of a dancer, with the swift and precise arcing that she herself had shown in her own motions this day. She smiled, as grains again tumbled over her face and eyes. Another threshold crossed.

  3. #13
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    Shadow passed over the hourglass, and time slowed to a treacle. The master of this realm had returned. The sand halted its march, and the sword paused middair.

    "Hmm. Interesting. You both fought hard. You both deserve to advance But only one of you fought well enough to continue. There can only be one."

    +++++

    Marking - Wattz

    Writing Style: 8
    -Ideas 2
    -Flow 3
    -Conventions 3

    Effectiveness of Combat: 7
    -Character Consistency 3
    -Ingenuity 2
    -Interaction 2

    Control of the Field: 6
    -Environmental Awareness 3
    -Strategic Awareness 2
    -Control of the Fight 1

    Total: 21

    Marking - Juicesir

    Writing Style: 7
    -Ideas 3
    -Flow 2
    -Conventions 2

    Effectiveness of Combat: 7
    -Character Consistency 2
    -Ingenuity 3
    -Interaction 2

    Control of the Field: 9
    -Environmental Awareness 3
    -Strategic Awareness 3
    -Control of the Fight 3

    Total: 23

    Dakkagors comments: As a battle this was very enjoyable to read as it developed, and you both really got into your style. Each character had a strong, individual voice. I would have liked to see a bit more banter/interaction from each of you, but that was a minor niggle. As you can see in most categories you where evenly matched, apart from who was actually winning the fight. In that category, Juicesir was leading the dance, and Wattz could only respond, despite having the first post. The strength of Juicesirs tactical choices, combined with his excellent use of a difficult arena to build good posts, means the Necromancer shall continue to the next round, while the Scavenger will not continue. I hope you enjoyed this years rumble Wattz, and maybe I'll see you in the arena next year.

    JUICESIR WINS.

  4. #14
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    Time slowed just as Sabriel fell, causing the sudden vertigo she experienced to be drawn out in an almost unbearable way. As the shadow's voice boomed, she felt as if the whole world were falling away from her and she would never get it back. The waiting was unbearable, aching to be finished.

    Then time restored, and she slipped through the neck of the hourglass along with the torrent of the sands.

    Down did she fall, the grains like rain beside her. She thought of a great many things in those last few moments. Her little bells, the imminent ground, her now lost sword. Most of all she thought of the fatherly face, so comforting in its station and mien. This thought - this last thought - was all she clung to as the hourglass' bottom rushed fiercely to meet her.

    I'll see you soon, I hope...

    And then... she hit.

    There was no blackness, not as there had been last time after the fight with the Chonomancer. There was no unconscious void swallowing her presence. The soft pile of sand was as a cushion and had acted as a net of sorts to her landing. It still nearly knocked all breath out of her, but the fact she had air to breath at all seemed a good sign.

    She was not dead.

    Sabriel laid there, blank in her expression. In and out the air flowed through her lungs, gently hushing past her lips as if the secret of her living could not be told to anyone else. It was a pleasant respite, and her mind eased at its anxious helplessness so recently experienced.

    Despite how comfortable she was with death, despite how thoroughly she embraced its absolution, she had not been truly ready to have it for herself. This encounter with the thin figure was not final, she could feel it. Yet, laying half sunk into the pile of sand, she allowed herself to be peaceable and a small smile of contentment to crawl onto her face.

    The first sign that something was off was the sudden wetness of the sand that fell on her. The second was the slight whoosh that interrupted the normal flow of the grains through the hourglass. She had just enough time left to open her eyes and roll away before a body fell right where she had been laying. Sand erupted as a geyser, and she could not help but let a small shriek escape her.

    The sword was clean through, sticking out of the back. Her heart raced as she stepped to her feet, fearful of how close she had just come to eliminating herself. With a calming breath, she approached the figure now itself sunk partway into the dune.

    Again, a wash of pity overcame her. The same she had felt as she watched the figure clinging. It didn't deserve this fate.

    None of us do.

    The next short while was spent retrieving her sword. It slunk out of the lifeless scavenger with ease. She did not need to do the job of burying herself; the sands of the hourglass obliged. And so, sitting a short ways away from the new formed tomb, she thought to herself of what had been, and what could possibly be left to come.

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