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Fantasy Seiunita OOC

Heisenberg said:
Grgggggghhhhhh, Eleph, go on without me! I'M TOO SLOW.



Can I call you... Wanda?

Anyway, I've found this video about longsword sparring. Its pretty good.

Click to expand...

Nice video! Really fun to watch.

Also If you really don't feel up to it, maybe we should just call this collab and move things along, I know we have a lot of people waiting on this bar scene.
 
Nogoodname said:
Nice video! Really fun to watch.

Also If you really don't feel up to it, maybe we should just call this collab and move things along, I know we have a lot of people waiting on this bar scene.
Click to expand...

Very well, but first we must ask Eleph how he feels about this.

Through this collab I realized that I work much much much much better if I do things privately.
 
Heisenberg said:
Very well, but first we must ask Eleph how he feels about this.

Through this collab I realized that I work much much much much better if I do things privately.
Click to expand...
Right, I don't wanna make elph get rid of all his hard work, I'm just saying maybe find a good end point where we're at.
 
Historical Storyteller Historical Storyteller
Nogoodname Nogoodname

Y'all go around without me. Those were just basic drafts I could probably do again and again, without too great an effort. Also, I formulated another draft for the Markas scenario. Can you give it a look and tell me how it's going so far?:

“Trounced by Saint-whoever-governs-luck.” Markas Malivan, ill-reputed soldier of fortune, muttered through gritted teeth, his hirsute hand flitting close to the oxhide sheath of his dagger.

There was a good reason for it too.

Before the ragged mercenary, withholding all forms of proper formation, advanced a troika of squalid, hardened men — their eyes burning with the vigour that clouds sentience itself, the bearish intent of a killer that shrouds basic instincts. Three men, one on the front flanked by two other hoodlums. The leader, as he was leading, was a man of dwarfish height and a crooked back that made him look more old than he was. His lips were bulbous, and halved, revealing his murky-yellow teeth, which suited his hideous, rotund nose and jutting chin.

The one on the left was a heavyset, olive-skinned man with aquiline features and an elongated nose that might've seemed handsome if not for the many scars that ran through them. He was broad-shouldered, and naked except for a simple felt trouser and a pair of rugged sandals; his body was noticeably hairy. The one on the right was lacking in armour except for a taut, midnight blue greatcoat that scantly fit him — both in terms of vanity and size — the belts limping and swaying about. The portly man had a nigh enormous pot belly which, Markas presumed, would neither fit armour nor any sort of clothing, and which, the mercenary also assumed, was why he had to rely on an inadequate clothing article.

All were armed with twisted grins and gore-clubs — and which seemed oddly festive to the likes of Markas — the blood on the tips signifying that they were a bit too eager to use their arsenal, and had already used them.

As it was, Markas' fear far surpassed his drollery by a good distance. The mercenary grimaced, his lips splitting apart to show his bared teeth. A single dagger against three clubs.

A fuckin' stupid death.

The gore-club is a weapon that exudes a menacing — though at the same time, bland — aura. It's a terribly common weapon, and can often be seen in the hands of a bush league goon. The wood-and-iron cudgel is easy to wield and deadly even in the hands of an amateur, with a handle that slants as it reaches the top, giving much needed weight to the enlarged head. The height of the cudgel differs from place to place and man to man, but is usually less than two feet or so — though the goon on the center carried one that was roughly three feet in height and almost longer than himself. The peak of a gore-club perpetually comes with a metal ring riveted and bound around the usually flat beak — or in this case, brass — with lethal, reasonably sized spikes protruding from around the axis of the metal band, hence the name.

“Ay, ye' ignorante,” the hunchbacked geezer sputtered out, his drawl making it hard to discern his voice, a steady trail of spittle oozing down from a corner of his mouth. Markas noticed that, for his size, the crooked man was undeniably fast. Yet, decidedly, the man was stupid too, for he hadn't noticed either Markas' half-concealed dagger or his plate-and-maille hauberk. The other two lagged behind the leader, loitering off the pace. At first glance, one could speculate that they were too dumb to take a more active initiative, though Markas noticed that they blocking the entrance to the alleyway — in waiting or because they were truly dull, that Markas couldn't discern.

Two bruisers, and a geezer. All clubs. Narrow space. Shit.

Markas clenched his fists, squinting his eyes. “You ain't got no busi-” he was suddenly interrupted by the geezer.

“It'd be best if ye'd-” The geezer strode forward, stuttering as he tried to control the outflow of his drool. A pathetic sight, distracting but more so to the owner of it. It was a good window for a quick strike or three.

Markas promptly darted forward, feet almost slipping against the eerily-flat pavement, then smashing the edge of his elbow against the geezer's drooping face. The audible crack of teeth filled the quiet atmosphere, followed by the short yelp of a man too surprised to exclaim properly, and a gasp from the fat one. Markas looked at the reeling man.

The pain would come in a few seconds, that was for certain.

The geezer wrenched back again, not from pain but from the fear of it, blood spilling down from his nose, and his spittle pink-and-red from the influence of blood.

Forty percent, fifty if the Saint-whoever-governs-luck decides to side with me. A fuckin' stupid death, indeed. Markas did his best to cloak his ever-present fear with the impression of a courageous soldier. A bare performance, but Markas never was a good actor.

The mercenary, instead of making an evasive run for it — and which would've been stupid, considering the advantageous positions of the two alley-men — took hold of the geezer's grimy collar. It stank of a liberal mixture of sweat, stale alcohol, and a cocktail of bodily fluids. From the far corners of his peripherals, he could spot the two burly men making way for him. They were slow, but they were coming all right; arms tensed, weapons ready, and sporting deadly glares. The geezer clearly paid them well.

Two seconds, five maybe.

The geezer was now belting out repetitious commands, his voice drowning under copious amounts of blood, courtesy to a strong smack from Markas' knuckles. The mercenary yanked his hand back, unfurling it, before lashing out again. A furious whip, barely visible to the eye, that hit the geezer's cheeks and sent him faltering towards the stony floor. The geezer let out a pathetic scream, as the blow forced him to the ground, with enough tremolo to knock him out cold.

And that was what exactly happened, as the geezer fell and tumbled into an open garbage bin, his two, hose-covered legs, fitted with unseemly clogs, sticking out from the putrid mess.

The unshorn clod was edging nearby, shoulders and back arched, the stance of their weapon implying that he was absolutely ready. He didn't hold the weapon before him, but what he intended to do with it was a lucid fact: the boor intended to pounce upon him, and the advantages happened to be clearly on his side. He had a far-reaching club, and he seemed to know how to use it, whilst Markas had a dagger of which he held only a median amount of knowledge. The only thing the mercenary bore was the element of surprise, and a bit of speed.

Markas ably slid out his dagger, which emitted the dull sound of metal scratching against leather, as he flashed it before the man. He had yet to remove his cloak, and it would've been better to not make his choice of armoury too obvious — not that it would make any difference against the vicious blows of a gore-club. The clod winced, but soon regained his passive temperament; at this slight moment of confusion, of the brain digesting the sudden movement, Markas quickly dashed forward.

The boor brought down his club in a crescent arc, which Markas caught with the shaft of his dagger. The mercenary hooked his dagger around one of the gore-club's spikes, diverting it towards the ground. Bringing it up, as Markas knew from experience, would be much difficult than bringing it down. The savage struggled with the abrupt distraction, but he wasn't quick enough, as the mercenary inched forward, forcing the pointy end of his dagger towards the vulnerable spine of his opponent.

The boor quickly regained his wits, dodging purely on instincts, letting the dagger fall upon his forearms.

A minor sacrifice for a larger opportunity, Markas mused, smart. The mercenary took a large step around the pain-stricken hoodlum, aiming his dagger again for his open back. The clod was cautious, and evaded out of the way. The dagger hit naught but air.

Markas cringed back, holding his dagger afore him.Back to square one. Fuck me.

The mercenary watched the clod putting up his defenses again. He was puzzled, highly, at the clod's unresponsive. Markas could swear he saw the faintest glimmer of a smile.

“Shit!” Markas exclaimed, half out of sudden realization and the other out of mere fear — he was a fearful man all right.
 
Elephantom said:
Historical Storyteller Historical Storyteller
Nogoodname Nogoodname

Y'all go around without me. Those were just basic drafts I could probably do again and again, without too great an effort. Also, I formulated another draft for the Markas scenario. Can you give it a look and tell me how it's going so far?:

“Trounced by Saint-whoever-governs-luck.” Markas Malivan, ill-reputed soldier of fortune, muttered through gritted teeth, his hirsute hand flitting close to the oxhide sheath of his dagger.

There was a good reason for it too.

Before the ragged mercenary, withholding all forms of proper formation, advanced a troika of squalid, hardened men — their eyes burning with the vigour that clouds sentience itself, the bearish intent of a killer that shrouds basic instincts. Three men, one on the front flanked by two other hoodlums. The leader, as he was leading, was a man of dwarfish height and a crooked back that made him look more old than he was. His lips were bulbous, and halved, revealing his murky-yellow teeth, which suited his hideous, rotund nose and jutting chin.

The one on the left was a heavyset, olive-skinned man with aquiline features and an elongated nose that might've seemed handsome if not for the many scars that ran through them. He was broad-shouldered, and naked except for a simple felt trouser and a pair of rugged sandals; his body was noticeably hairy. The one on the right was lacking in armour except for a taut, midnight blue greatcoat that scantly fit him — both in terms of vanity and size — the belts limping and swaying about. The portly man had a nigh enormous pot belly which, Markas presumed, would neither fit armour nor any sort of clothing, and which, the mercenary also assumed, was why he had to rely on an inadequate clothing article.

All were armed with twisted grins and gore-clubs — and which seemed oddly festive to the likes of Markas — the blood on the tips signifying that they were a bit too eager to use their arsenal, and had already used them.

As it was, Markas' fear far surpassed his drollery by a good distance. The mercenary grimaced, his lips splitting apart to show his bared teeth. A single dagger against three clubs.

A fuckin' stupid death.

The gore-club is a weapon that exudes a menacing — though at the same time, bland — aura. It's a terribly common weapon, and can often be seen in the hands of a bush league goon. The wood-and-iron cudgel is easy to wield and deadly even in the hands of an amateur, with a handle that slants as it reaches the top, giving much needed weight to the enlarged head. The height of the cudgel differs from place to place and man to man, but is usually less than two feet or so — though the goon on the center carried one that was roughly three feet in height and almost longer than himself. The peak of a gore-club perpetually comes with a metal ring riveted and bound around the usually flat beak — or in this case, brass — with lethal, reasonably sized spikes protruding from around the axis of the metal band, hence the name.

“Ay, ye' ignorante,” the hunchbacked geezer sputtered out, his drawl making it hard to discern his voice, a steady trail of spittle oozing down from a corner of his mouth. Markas noticed that, for his size, the crooked man was undeniably fast. Yet, decidedly, the man was stupid too, for he hadn't noticed either Markas' half-concealed dagger or his plate-and-maille hauberk. The other two lagged behind the leader, loitering off the pace. At first glance, one could speculate that they were too dumb to take a more active initiative, though Markas noticed that they blocking the entrance to the alleyway — in waiting or because they were truly dull, that Markas couldn't discern.

Two bruisers, and a geezer. All clubs. Narrow space. Shit.

Markas clenched his fists, squinting his eyes. “You ain't got no busi-” he was suddenly interrupted by the geezer.

“It'd be best if ye'd-” The geezer strode forward, stuttering as he tried to control the outflow of his drool. A pathetic sight, distracting but more so to the owner of it. It was a good window for a quick strike or three.

Markas promptly darted forward, feet almost slipping against the eerily-flat pavement, then smashing the edge of his elbow against the geezer's drooping face. The audible crack of teeth filled the quiet atmosphere, followed by the short yelp of a man too surprised to exclaim properly, and a gasp from the fat one. Markas looked at the reeling man.

The pain would come in a few seconds, that was for certain.

The geezer wrenched back again, not from pain but from the fear of it, blood spilling down from his nose, and his spittle pink-and-red from the influence of blood.

Forty percent, fifty if the Saint-whoever-governs-luck decides to side with me. A fuckin' stupid death, indeed. Markas did his best to cloak his ever-present fear with the impression of braver, a bare performance, but Markas never was a good actor.

The mercenary, instead of making an evasive run for it — and which would've been stupid, considering the advantageous positions of the two alley-men — took hold of the geezer's grimy collar. It stank of a liberal mixture of sweat, stale alcohol, and a cocktail of bodily fluids. From the far corners of his peripherals, he could spot the two burly men making way for him. They were slow, but they were coming all right; arms tensed, weapons ready, and sporting deadly glares. The geezer clearly paid them well.

Two seconds, five maybe.

The geezer was now belting out repetitious commands, his voice drowning under copious amounts of blood, courtesy to a strong smack from Markas' knuckles. The mercenary yanked his hand back, unfurling it, before lashing out again. A furious whip, barely visible to the eye, that hit the geezer's cheeks and sent him faltering towards the stony floor. The geezer let out a pathetic scream, as the blow forced him to the ground, with enough tremolo to knock him out cold.

And that was what exactly happened, as the geezer fell and tumbled into an open garbage bin, his two, hose-covered legs, fitted with unseemly clogs, sticking out from the putrid mess.

The unshorn clod was edging nearby, shoulders and back arched, the stance of their weapon implying that he was absolutely ready. He didn't hold the weapon before him, but what he intended to do with it was a lucid fact: the boor intended to pounce upon him, and the advantages happened to be clearly on his side. He had a far-reaching club, and he seemed to know how to use it, whilst Markas had a dagger of which he held only a median amount of knowledge. The only thing the mercenary bore was the element of surprise, and a bit of speed.

Markas ably slid out his dagger, which emitted the dull sound of metal scratching against leather, as he flashed it before the man. He had yet to remove his cloak, and it would've been better to not make his choice of armoury too obvious — not that it would make any difference against the vicious blows of a gore-club. The clod winced, but soon regained his passive temperament; at this slight moment of confusion, of the brain digesting the sudden movement, Markas quickly dashed forward.

The boor brought down his club in a crescent arc, which Markas caught with the shaft of his dagger. The mercenary hooked his dagger around one of the gore-club's spikes, diverting it towards the ground. Bringing it up, as Markas knew from experience, would be much difficult than bringing it down. The savage struggled with the abrupt distraction, but he wasn't quick enough, as the mercenary inched forward, forcing the pointy end of his dagger towards the vulnerable spine of his opponent.

The boor quickly regained his wits, dodging purely on instincts, letting the dagger fall upon his forearms.

A minor sacrifice for a larger opportunity, Markas mused, smart. The mercenary took a large step around the pain-stricken hoodlum, aiming his dagger again for his open back. The clod was cautious, and evaded out of the way. The dagger hit naught but air.

Markas cringed back, holding his dagger afore him.Back to square one. Fuck me.

The mercenary watched the clod putting up his defenses again. He was puzzled, highly, at the clod's unresponsive. Markas could swear he saw the faintest glimmer of a smile.

“Shit!” Markas exclaimed, half out of sudden realization and the other out of mere fear — he was a fearful man all right.
Click to expand...

Health... certificate... bye... Eleph...
 
Elephantom said:
Historical Storyteller Historical Storyteller
Nogoodname Nogoodname

Y'all go around without me. Those were just basic drafts I could probably do again and again, without too great an effort. Also, I formulated another draft for the Markas scenario. Can you give it a look and tell me how it's going so far?:

“Trounced by Saint-whoever-governs-luck.” Markas Malivan, ill-reputed soldier of fortune, muttered through gritted teeth, his hirsute hand flitting close to the oxhide sheath of his dagger.

There was a good reason for it too.

Before the ragged mercenary, withholding all forms of proper formation, advanced a troika of squalid, hardened men — their eyes burning with the vigour that clouds sentience itself, the bearish intent of a killer that shrouds basic instincts. Three men, one on the front flanked by two other hoodlums. The leader, as he was leading, was a man of dwarfish height and a crooked back that made him look more old than he was. His lips were bulbous, and halved, revealing his murky-yellow teeth, which suited his hideous, rotund nose and jutting chin.

The one on the left was a heavyset, olive-skinned man with aquiline features and an elongated nose that might've seemed handsome if not for the many scars that ran through them. He was broad-shouldered, and naked except for a simple felt trouser and a pair of rugged sandals; his body was noticeably hairy. The one on the right was lacking in armour except for a taut, midnight blue greatcoat that scantly fit him — both in terms of vanity and size — the belts limping and swaying about. The portly man had a nigh enormous pot belly which, Markas presumed, would neither fit armour nor any sort of clothing, and which, the mercenary also assumed, was why he had to rely on an inadequate clothing article.

All were armed with twisted grins and gore-clubs — and which seemed oddly festive to the likes of Markas — the blood on the tips signifying that they were a bit too eager to use their arsenal, and had already used them.

As it was, Markas' fear far surpassed his drollery by a good distance. The mercenary grimaced, his lips splitting apart to show his bared teeth. A single dagger against three clubs.

A fuckin' stupid death.

The gore-club is a weapon that exudes a menacing — though at the same time, bland — aura. It's a terribly common weapon, and can often be seen in the hands of a bush league goon. The wood-and-iron cudgel is easy to wield and deadly even in the hands of an amateur, with a handle that slants as it reaches the top, giving much needed weight to the enlarged head. The height of the cudgel differs from place to place and man to man, but is usually less than two feet or so — though the goon on the center carried one that was roughly three feet in height and almost longer than himself. The peak of a gore-club perpetually comes with a metal ring riveted and bound around the usually flat beak — or in this case, brass — with lethal, reasonably sized spikes protruding from around the axis of the metal band, hence the name.

“Ay, ye' ignorante,” the hunchbacked geezer sputtered out, his drawl making it hard to discern his voice, a steady trail of spittle oozing down from a corner of his mouth. Markas noticed that, for his size, the crooked man was undeniably fast. Yet, decidedly, the man was stupid too, for he hadn't noticed either Markas' half-concealed dagger or his plate-and-maille hauberk. The other two lagged behind the leader, loitering off the pace. At first glance, one could speculate that they were too dumb to take a more active initiative, though Markas noticed that they blocking the entrance to the alleyway — in waiting or because they were truly dull, that Markas couldn't discern.

Two bruisers, and a geezer. All clubs. Narrow space. Shit.

Markas clenched his fists, squinting his eyes. “You ain't got no busi-” he was suddenly interrupted by the geezer.

“It'd be best if ye'd-” The geezer strode forward, stuttering as he tried to control the outflow of his drool. A pathetic sight, distracting but more so to the owner of it. It was a good window for a quick strike or three.

Markas promptly darted forward, feet almost slipping against the eerily-flat pavement, then smashing the edge of his elbow against the geezer's drooping face. The audible crack of teeth filled the quiet atmosphere, followed by the short yelp of a man too surprised to exclaim properly, and a gasp from the fat one. Markas looked at the reeling man.

The pain would come in a few seconds, that was for certain.

The geezer wrenched back again, not from pain but from the fear of it, blood spilling down from his nose, and his spittle pink-and-red from the influence of blood.

Forty percent, fifty if the Saint-whoever-governs-luck decides to side with me. A fuckin' stupid death, indeed. Markas did his best to cloak his ever-present fear with the impression of a courageous soldier. A bare performance, but Markas never was a good actor.

The mercenary, instead of making an evasive run for it — and which would've been stupid, considering the advantageous positions of the two alley-men — took hold of the geezer's grimy collar. It stank of a liberal mixture of sweat, stale alcohol, and a cocktail of bodily fluids. From the far corners of his peripherals, he could spot the two burly men making way for him. They were slow, but they were coming all right; arms tensed, weapons ready, and sporting deadly glares. The geezer clearly paid them well.

Two seconds, five maybe.

The geezer was now belting out repetitious commands, his voice drowning under copious amounts of blood, courtesy to a strong smack from Markas' knuckles. The mercenary yanked his hand back, unfurling it, before lashing out again. A furious whip, barely visible to the eye, that hit the geezer's cheeks and sent him faltering towards the stony floor. The geezer let out a pathetic scream, as the blow forced him to the ground, with enough tremolo to knock him out cold.

And that was what exactly happened, as the geezer fell and tumbled into an open garbage bin, his two, hose-covered legs, fitted with unseemly clogs, sticking out from the putrid mess.

The unshorn clod was edging nearby, shoulders and back arched, the stance of their weapon implying that he was absolutely ready. He didn't hold the weapon before him, but what he intended to do with it was a lucid fact: the boor intended to pounce upon him, and the advantages happened to be clearly on his side. He had a far-reaching club, and he seemed to know how to use it, whilst Markas had a dagger of which he held only a median amount of knowledge. The only thing the mercenary bore was the element of surprise, and a bit of speed.

Markas ably slid out his dagger, which emitted the dull sound of metal scratching against leather, as he flashed it before the man. He had yet to remove his cloak, and it would've been better to not make his choice of armoury too obvious — not that it would make any difference against the vicious blows of a gore-club. The clod winced, but soon regained his passive temperament; at this slight moment of confusion, of the brain digesting the sudden movement, Markas quickly dashed forward.

The boor brought down his club in a crescent arc, which Markas caught with the shaft of his dagger. The mercenary hooked his dagger around one of the gore-club's spikes, diverting it towards the ground. Bringing it up, as Markas knew from experience, would be much difficult than bringing it down. The savage struggled with the abrupt distraction, but he wasn't quick enough, as the mercenary inched forward, forcing the pointy end of his dagger towards the vulnerable spine of his opponent.

The boor quickly regained his wits, dodging purely on instincts, letting the dagger fall upon his forearms.

A minor sacrifice for a larger opportunity, Markas mused, smart. The mercenary took a large step around the pain-stricken hoodlum, aiming his dagger again for his open back. The clod was cautious, and evaded out of the way. The dagger hit naught but air.

Markas cringed back, holding his dagger afore him.Back to square one. Fuck me.

The mercenary watched the clod putting up his defenses again. He was puzzled, highly, at the clod's unresponsive. Markas could swear he saw the faintest glimmer of a smile.

“Shit!” Markas exclaimed, half out of sudden realization and the other out of mere fear — he was a fearful man all right.
Click to expand...
Pfft, I was just putting out the idea since we have a lot of people waiting on us, you really think I'm gonna do anything without you?

The scenario looks great! Although you probably already know that :P
 
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