Elephantom
Chicken Broth Paragon
You still make faux-detailed posts and lackluster combat scenes.
-
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Fantasy Seiunita OOC
- Thread starter shadowz1995
- Start date
You still make faux-detailed posts and lackluster combat scenes.
Elephantom
Chicken Broth Paragon
Bub is the new age dicknomancer.
Historical Storyteller
Four Thousand Club
Well, I hope his attitude improves later on. He's only 14, so there's a lot of time for this little guy.
BubbleButt
TFW 8 seconds have passed after Za Warudo
Two children go on adventures with each other and one is physically impaired and has to be carried by a wagon. The regular kid teaches the other to walk and his parents end up being proud of him and stuff. Then he tries to teach him to run but the littler kid ends up falling over and getting killed. The bigger kid thinks he's still following him and runs home, but then realizes he's gone and comes back to find his dead body. The End...
Historical Storyteller
Four Thousand Club
I'm still rooting for you, Bub. I know deep down inside you there's a nice guy that's waiting to grow up!
BubbleButt
TFW 8 seconds have passed after Za Warudo
I'm not an adult yet. So... I'm just gonna be an asswipe occasionally until someone gets overly offended again and shadowz kicks me out of the roleplay.
Eventually...
Roleplay Skittle
Eternally Awkward
Heis... you are adorable. xD you're like so positive.
Roleplay Skittle
Eternally Awkward
Or you could like... try not to be an asswipe so you don't get kicked out? I dunno', just food for thought. lmao
Elephantom
Chicken Broth Paragon
Too much children books, bub. I don't know where you get your wack ideas from. Try reading actual, hardboiled books like Shades Of Magic, Lies of Locke Lamora, or some of Abercrombie's earlier works.
Wandering Grim Hollow
I want to be happy but my gun says no.
Heis is like that. Even in the last roleplay we were in. :3
shadowz1995
Amoeba of Wisdom
Kid dont push. I keep you around cuz Ele and Heis like you.
Historical Storyteller
Four Thousand Club
Not really. Before posting I had at least three negative thoughts before deciding to be positive.
Wandering Grim Hollow
I want to be happy but my gun says no.
The plot. It thickens like my stew.
Roleplay Skittle
Eternally Awkward
xD see, you decided to be positive. If I have negative thoughts I just run with it.
Nogoodname
Did nothing wrong
Aaaaah I don't wanna do school work T_T
BubbleButt
TFW 8 seconds have passed after Za Warudo
That was actually a real book called Red Ibis. Way better than how I explained it.
Historical Storyteller
Four Thousand Club
Yes, I try to be on my best behavior if I can help it.
I... did not know that. Its a plot twist everyone!
Roleplay Skittle
Eternally Awkward
I don't wanna' do anything. xD
BubbleButt
TFW 8 seconds have passed after Za Warudo
Same.
Historical Storyteller
Four Thousand Club
Elephantom
Chicken Broth Paragon
BubbleButt
, this is how the process works:Painstaking edits that include lessening the conjunctions, removing chafing verbs (seemed to, thought, was, saw etc.), and warping adverbs. I also liberally used thought sections, to add a personal, familiar tincture to the character, and used sharp, laconic words when describing the action. Conjunctions should be used more flexibly in action situations.
“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, up the darkened alley and towards him. Three men, the frontman backed by two other hoodlums. The leader, for he led the men, carried the burden of a crooked back and the height of a dwarf — traits which made him look more older than he actually was. His lips were bulbous and halved, revealing his murky-yellow teeth, surpassed by a rotund nose and a pair of swollen eyes. A permanent sneer was fixed on his face.
A heavyset, olive-skinned man with aquiline features — and an elongated nose that might've appeared handsome if not for the many scars that ran through them — followed the leader diligently, staying strictly to the left. He was broad-shouldered and bare-skinned except for a simple felt trouser, that were clipped to the shins, and a pair of rugged sandals. Olive's 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 was oddly festive to the likes of Markas, although the one on the left remained passive — the blood on the tips signifying that they were a bit too eager to use their arsenal, and had already used them.
Markas' sarcastic drollery was far surpassed by the slew of dread and fright he had in store, and hardly could that ever be a good thing — in one way it was, but it made a bad impression. His lips split apart, revealing his bared teeth, in a terribly-posed grimace. The fact was simple: a single dagger against three clubs.
‘A fuckin' stupid death.’’ Markas was a cynical man, and he had no qualms about his less-than-ideal outlook of life.
The gore-club is a weapon that exudes a menacing — though at the same time, bland — aura. It's a common armament, lightweight and cheap to make, and can oft be seen in the hands of bush league goons. The wood-and-iron mace is deadly even in the hands of an amateur, rendered easy to use with a handle that slants as it reaches the top, giving a less-needed heft to the enlarged head. Nevertheless, it allows for more force to be put to blows and swings. The height of the bludgeon differs from place to place and man to man, but is usually less than two feet or so. The goon on the center carried a superlative exception, one that was roughly three feet in height and towered his scrawny build. 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 oozed down from a corner of his mouth. 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. 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 geezer was annoying as fuck.
“It'd be best if ye'd-” The geezer ambled forward, stuttering as he tried to control the stream 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. A good window it was.
Markas darted forward, feet slipping against the eerily-flat pavement, bringing the edge of his elbow against the geezer's drooping face as he shoved into him. 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 geezer, who was now clutching his face in pain, yelling and cursing.
‘The pain would come in a few seconds, that was for certain.’
Markas let out a thin growl. The geezer wrenched back again, not from pain but from the fear of it, blood spouting 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 bravery. It was a bare, rough performance legible only for its amusement factor, but then again, 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 more-than-deadly glares. The geezer clearly paid them well for them to be so dedicated. Or maybe, they didn't spot his dagger yet.
‘Two seconds, five maybe.’
The geezer was now belting out repetitious commands, his voice slugging and 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. The furious whip-like blow, barely visible to the eye, smashed against the geezer's cheeks, sending him faltering towards the stony floor. The geezer let out a pathetic scream, as the blow nearly forced him to the ground, with enough tremolo to knock him out cold.
And that was what 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.
[REST NEEDS EDITS]
The unshorn clod was edging nearby, shoulders and back arched. His stance, and the way he carried his weapon, implied his readiness. He didn't hold the weapon before him, but what he intended do with it was a lucid fact: the boor was planning to pounce upon him, and the advantages happened to be clearly on his side. He had a far-reaching club, and he looked as if he knew how to use it, whilst Markas had a dagger of which he held only a median amount of knowledge. The only thing the mercenary had with him 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 held it, for all to see, in front of him. A steady hold, but Markas made sure to oscillate his stance every now and then — the necessary panic factor. 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 action, Markas promptly reacted by dashing forward.
The mercenary was a gambler, a properly sordid one at that.
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 significantly more difficult than bringing it down. The savage struggled with the abrupt distraction, but he lacked the ability of the fleeting mercenary, who inched forward before attempting to plunge the pointy end of his dagger towards the vulnerable spine of his opponent.
Olive quickly regained his wits, dodging purely on instincts, letting the dagger fall upon his forearms. It was only a skimming slash, good for pain but not much else. Markas stepped, realizing the danger his failed gambit could prove to be.
A minor sacrifice for a larger opportunity, Markas mused, both essential and smart. The mercenary took a large, expansive 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, and in the small duration, Olive caught hold of his weapon.
Markas started back, holding his dagger afore him, dumbfounded.‘Back to square one. Fuck me.’
The mercenary watched the clod putting up his defenses again, staggering to his feet, weapon in one hand now. Markas lunged again for a burst strike, on the tip of his toe and on his edge, throwing a feint towards the lower-left side of his opponent. Olive forced his club towards direction of the dagger, forcing Markas to parry. A hard nail; parry, feint, sidestep.
The club flew past his side, allowing Markas to grab the clod's fighting hand. Careful not to give Olive the opportunity of a retreat, the mercenary plummeted his dagger deep into the clod's fighting hand. Blade against flesh, tearing through muscle fibres and puncturing the bones. The
“Shit!” Markas exclaimed, half out of sudden realization and the other out of mere fear — he was a fearful all right. The mercenary tried to hasten forward, and as soon as he did, the sudden force of a blow nearly toppled him over. He uttered a string of inaudible curses, wanton, because his life was saved by his sly move and his chain-maille armour. The swing of the gore-club had only brushed past his back, although it was forceful enough for Markas to stumble on his feet for a while.
The mercenary continued forward, once got a good footing, promptly turning around to face his opponents.
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, up the darkened alley and towards him. Three men, the frontman backed by two other hoodlums. The leader, for he led the men, carried the burden of a crooked back and the height of a dwarf — traits which made him look more older than he actually was. His lips were bulbous and halved, revealing his murky-yellow teeth, surpassed by a rotund nose and a pair of swollen eyes. A permanent sneer was fixed on his face.
A heavyset, olive-skinned man with aquiline features — and an elongated nose that might've appeared handsome if not for the many scars that ran through them — followed the leader diligently, staying strictly to the left. He was broad-shouldered and bare-skinned except for a simple felt trouser, that were clipped to the shins, and a pair of rugged sandals. Olive's 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 was oddly festive to the likes of Markas, although the one on the left remained passive — the blood on the tips signifying that they were a bit too eager to use their arsenal, and had already used them.
Markas' sarcastic drollery was far surpassed by the slew of dread and fright he had in store, and hardly could that ever be a good thing — in one way it was, but it made a bad impression. His lips split apart, revealing his bared teeth, in a terribly-posed grimace. The fact was simple: a single dagger against three clubs.
‘A fuckin' stupid death.’’ Markas was a cynical man, and he had no qualms about his less-than-ideal outlook of life.
The gore-club is a weapon that exudes a menacing — though at the same time, bland — aura. It's a common armament, lightweight and cheap to make, and can oft be seen in the hands of bush league goons. The wood-and-iron mace is deadly even in the hands of an amateur, rendered easy to use with a handle that slants as it reaches the top, giving a less-needed heft to the enlarged head. Nevertheless, it allows for more force to be put to blows and swings. The height of the bludgeon differs from place to place and man to man, but is usually less than two feet or so. The goon on the center carried a superlative exception, one that was roughly three feet in height and towered his scrawny build. 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 oozed down from a corner of his mouth. 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. 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 geezer was annoying as fuck.
“It'd be best if ye'd-” The geezer ambled forward, stuttering as he tried to control the stream 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. A good window it was.
Markas darted forward, feet slipping against the eerily-flat pavement, bringing the edge of his elbow against the geezer's drooping face as he shoved into him. 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 geezer, who was now clutching his face in pain, yelling and cursing.
‘The pain would come in a few seconds, that was for certain.’
Markas let out a thin growl. The geezer wrenched back again, not from pain but from the fear of it, blood spouting 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 bravery. It was a bare, rough performance legible only for its amusement factor, but then again, 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 more-than-deadly glares. The geezer clearly paid them well for them to be so dedicated. Or maybe, they didn't spot his dagger yet.
‘Two seconds, five maybe.’
The geezer was now belting out repetitious commands, his voice slugging and 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. The furious whip-like blow, barely visible to the eye, smashed against the geezer's cheeks, sending him faltering towards the stony floor. The geezer let out a pathetic scream, as the blow nearly forced him to the ground, with enough tremolo to knock him out cold.
And that was what 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.
[REST NEEDS EDITS]
The unshorn clod was edging nearby, shoulders and back arched. His stance, and the way he carried his weapon, implied his readiness. He didn't hold the weapon before him, but what he intended do with it was a lucid fact: the boor was planning to pounce upon him, and the advantages happened to be clearly on his side. He had a far-reaching club, and he looked as if he knew how to use it, whilst Markas had a dagger of which he held only a median amount of knowledge. The only thing the mercenary had with him 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 held it, for all to see, in front of him. A steady hold, but Markas made sure to oscillate his stance every now and then — the necessary panic factor. 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 action, Markas promptly reacted by dashing forward.
The mercenary was a gambler, a properly sordid one at that.
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 significantly more difficult than bringing it down. The savage struggled with the abrupt distraction, but he lacked the ability of the fleeting mercenary, who inched forward before attempting to plunge the pointy end of his dagger towards the vulnerable spine of his opponent.
Olive quickly regained his wits, dodging purely on instincts, letting the dagger fall upon his forearms. It was only a skimming slash, good for pain but not much else. Markas stepped, realizing the danger his failed gambit could prove to be.
A minor sacrifice for a larger opportunity, Markas mused, both essential and smart. The mercenary took a large, expansive 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, and in the small duration, Olive caught hold of his weapon.
Markas started back, holding his dagger afore him, dumbfounded.‘Back to square one. Fuck me.’
The mercenary watched the clod putting up his defenses again, staggering to his feet, weapon in one hand now. Markas lunged again for a burst strike, on the tip of his toe and on his edge, throwing a feint towards the lower-left side of his opponent. Olive forced his club towards direction of the dagger, forcing Markas to parry. A hard nail; parry, feint, sidestep.
The club flew past his side, allowing Markas to grab the clod's fighting hand. Careful not to give Olive the opportunity of a retreat, the mercenary plummeted his dagger deep into the clod's fighting hand. Blade against flesh, tearing through muscle fibres and puncturing the bones. The
“Shit!” Markas exclaimed, half out of sudden realization and the other out of mere fear — he was a fearful all right. The mercenary tried to hasten forward, and as soon as he did, the sudden force of a blow nearly toppled him over. He uttered a string of inaudible curses, wanton, because his life was saved by his sly move and his chain-maille armour. The swing of the gore-club had only brushed past his back, although it was forceful enough for Markas to stumble on his feet for a while.
The mercenary continued forward, once got a good footing, promptly turning around to face his opponents.
Nogoodname
Did nothing wrong
Nuu, I gatta do it tho.
BubbleButt
TFW 8 seconds have passed after Za Warudo
An international air five.
Wandering Grim Hollow
I want to be happy but my gun says no.
Well my posts are my own style. Kinda copying Japanese Light Novel styles. Simple to read. Easy to follow. No need for flowery language unless someone is talking.
Historical Storyteller
Four Thousand Club
Then do it, girl! Do it for yourself.
