Fantasy Seiunita OOC

[Historical Storyteller]

OK, now I see why you're chewing out Barbas. His post really is fucking piss poor and lazily constructed. Yours on the other hand has the mark of a true writer who just... enchants us and transforms our entire world with words alone.

Fuck, next week after my exams I've really got to get my act together. At this rate, I'll be left biting the dust if I don't ever improve myself and if I tripping myself up because of some cold feet. Eleph, my man, you've really grown as a writer!

For the critique, I'll just jump straight into finding flaws because in my opinion you've already scored all the good points in this post.

 

[Historical Storyteller]

Thank goodness. I thought I was cramming too much shit at once during the opening paragraphs. Good to know that they were easy to the eyes.

I have yet to read the end-section of the writing. Right now, I'm just stunned by how beautifully made this is.

 

[Historical Storyteller]

Thank goodness. I thought I was cramming too much shit at once during the opening paragraphs. Good to know that they were easy to the eyes.

Also, don't limit your critiques just to me. Ask the others how they find it. One way to get a general unbiased assessment of your writing is to consider all the points the critics make. And remember don't be disappointed when not everyone agrees with everything you have to say, just pointing this out because sometimes people get all butt hurt over something we really like.

For me, its really easy to read, but hell I wouldn't know how the others might think of it. Ask other writers you know are good/

 

[Elephantom]

Hey hey, Eleph, its better than nothing! And we have to start somewhere, Barbas can build up his later posts and he still has the opportunity to showcase his skills later on. Everybody has a different starting point, Eleph, we have to respect the limit of their abilities and inspire them to do better next time. Whether they sucked at first or they started off good, we must strive for improvement and we cannot allow ourselves to grow complacent (though it is hard not to at times).

Hey, someone needs to give him some tough love. Otherwise, how's he going to grow? I've seen a couple of people who've maintained the same level of crude writing for years and years, simply because nobody criticized them out of kindness.

OK, now I see why you're chewing out Barbas. His post really is fucking piss poor and lazily constructed. Yours on the other hand has the mark of a true writer who just... enchants us and transforms our entire world with words alone.

Fuck, next week after my exams I've really got to get my act together. At this rate, I'll be left biting the dust if I don't ever improve myself and if I tripping myself up because of some cold feet. Eleph, my man, you've really grown as a writer!

For the critique, I'll just jump straight into finding flaws because in my opinion you've already scored all the good points in this post.

Well, I really just got my muse back after reading a bit of Gaiman's works. For son reason, reading his stuff always cracks me up.

And, while Barb is a crap writer, he's absolutely not a crap pal. You need to understand that, Barbas , and you need to communicate more often.

I have yet to read the end-section of the writing. Right now, I'm just stunned by how beautifully made this is.

Wowie. I guess writing mindlessly really does work.

 

[Historical Storyteller]

Oh, and also an off-topic question, Eleph, do you watch porn?

Because I think I found this well-written porn game!

 

[Elephantom]

Also, don't limit your critiques just to me. Ask the others how they find it. One way to get a general unbiased assessment of your writing is to consider all the points the critics make. And remember don't be disappointed when not everyone agrees with everything you have to say, just pointing this out because sometimes people get all butt hurt over something we really like.

For me, its really easy to read, but hell I wouldn't know how the others might think of it. Ask other writers you know are good/

Well, I ask you cause you're reliable and pro'lly the only one here who can give good critiques. So far, most are pree-tay lazy here and I myself am absurdly rude and picky, while you are the GREATEST!

 

[Historical Storyteller]

Hasty reply, got to go out to buy food.

Hey, someone needs to give him some tough love. Otherwise, how's he going to grow? I've seen a couple of people who've maintained the same level of crude writing for years and years, simply because nobody criticized them out of kindness.

Yeah... that reminds me... I shouldn't show you my old fanficts. They are so full of shit that it makes Bubblebutt's work look like it was written by a professional.

Well, I really just got my muse back after reading a bit of Gaiman's works. For son reason, reading his stuff always cracks me up.

And, while Barb is a crap writer, he's absolutely not a crap pal. You need to understand that, Barbas , and you need to communicate more often.

And... I've really got to read some well-written fiction works myself.

Wowie. I guess writing mindlessly really does work.

Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa?

Shit, I gotta do the same thing too. That way I can silence all of my doubts and not worry so fucking much.

Well, I ask you cause you're reliable and pro'lly the only one here who can give good critiques. So far, most are pree-tay lazy here and I myself am absurdly rude and picky, while you are the GREATEST!

What? Really? Eleph, I see myself as a lazy fuck to be honest. I just try to do the best I can because you put so much effort into your work, you know?

 

[Elephantom]

Heyee, dollo, how does my post look? Critiques? Powerful suggestions? Impacting virtualization?

Spoiler

# Markas Malivan

“Fucked 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. He was frowning rather deliberately, as his shoulders stiffened. It wasn't a bright day, the mercenary surmised.

There was a good reason for it too.

Before the ragged mercenary, withholding all forms of proper formation, advanced a troika of men, up the darkened alley and towards him; three men, the frontman backed by two other hoodlums. Muggers were quite common in the lower-half squalor of the fire kingdom's southern ports. Morose and craggy lands that are flush with cliffs with narrow openings which lead to a long shoreline — sand, beige-white, and more sand. It's filled with docks and mostly harbours enterprising troopers looking for amnesty and a fair share of coins. Needless to say, the fire kingdom is rife with bounty hunters and hunted.

Markas was a strong man all right, born in Elysium, in the more richer districts of the southern district, and tossed from womb to a noble-enough family. The nifty soldier held the mark of a true northerner; harsh facial bristle, and which he has managed to fashion into a glossy curly moustache; misty grey eyes, both magnetic and fearsome, and fixed to perennial sharpness, an unwavering sting; an angular face, near architectural in its incisiveness, that bears both class and savagery. Yet he additionally possessed the traits that so make the southerners eligible bachelors. A romantically-sculpted nose, complimented by a deuce of arching eyebrows, and a pale dark complexion reminiscent of most searrine dwellers; a mane of hair, which runs down wildly but always above his receding hairline, showing off his high forehead; and ultimately, a cultured, smart smile that he has yet to know of how to use.

Markas' father was a treasurer, while his mother was a lowly noble. Both met at a southern district — by the naval titan, the duchy of Raserre — where his father was assigned to, after a series of shady transfers and dealings, and where his mother lived since birth.

His father was a meek man, dreamy and quizzical, who did only what he thought was best for him and his family — often the latter than the former, for he loved his family and his sons — and which made him seem like a coward of sorts. The odd fellow could be seen as a weakling, but Markas liked to think of him as a passive man or a pragmatist to a certain, and low, extent. When it came to luminosity, Markas' father was scarcely the zealous believer he showed others to be; he was bearably faithful, but never more than that. Markas' relationship with his father was good. It wasn't spoken of, and they both preferred limiting their conversation to the necessities, but Markas knew that his father knew and he knew it himself too.

Markas' mother was, more or less, rather similar in nature to his father, but she held a streak of pomposity. It was a byproduct of her life in a vaguely noble family trying to keep their watered-down bloodline still relevant. Nevertheless, her pride was hers to keep, and she showed it freely for everyone to see. Markas admired his mother, and respected her too, but affections came the last in his mind.

Markas snapped back to his ongoing plight. He suffered a mere moments-worth of distraction, but it never was enough to faze him. He may have been an alarmist, jaded and distorted, but few things really surprised him.

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, although Markas could swear he wrinkle-linings stretching across his face. His lips were bulbous and halved, revealing his murky-yellow teeth, surpassed in rank by a rotund nose and a pair of swollen eyes. He had bushy eyebrows, slicked hair swept back in layered waves, and ears that stuck out too far from his head. 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, showing off his sinewy musculature and wiry upper limbs, except for a simple felt trouser that were clipped to the shins and a pair of rugged sandals. His bare chest was hairy, but the dim-black meshed well with the olive skin.

The man on the right lacked armour, relying on a taut, midnight blue greatcoat that scantly fit him — both in terms of vanity and size. The coat clung dearly to his flabby skin. The belts, and which held the buttons, swayed and limped. 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. He had an absurdly thick neck, nearly melding with his chin, and jowls that vibrated at the merest of movements. His eyes were set deep into his sockets, and he had a distinct lack of both eyebrows and hair. Queer tattoos decorated his unclad cranium.

All were armed with warped eyes and gore-clubs — and which was oddly festive to the likes of Markas, though the one on the left remained passive. The blood that stained on their weapons suggested that they were a bit too eager to use their arsenal, and had already used them. Viscerally.

Markas' sarcastic drollery was 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 certainly made a bad impression. And it was seldom good for his reputable looks. His lips split apart, revealing his bared teeth, in a terribly-posed grimace. It could also be interpreted as a frown of sorts.

The fact, however portrayed and with or without expression, was simple: it was 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. Indeed, he was a skilled fighter, but more than that, he was a gambler; people survive more through luck than through empty prowess. Of course, there are the gods too, blessed with saintly powers and with an amaranthine ambry of otherworldly kismet, but they don't stoop to help their accidental creations.

Such was the way of life.

The gore-club is a weapon that exudes a menacing — 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, due to its simple appearance that caters to the taste of the common man, favouring utility over hauteur. The wood-and-iron mace can be 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, especially against armour, where the spike-laden head can penetrate through brittle plates. 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. A certain oddity, but principles were being followed — the principle of a head honcho. 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. It was a strange choice of words, calling a random stranger stupid, but some idiots don't change. Idiocy is rampant in the fire kingdom, Markas discerned.

The other two lagged behind the leader, loitering off the pace, weapons slack in their hands. At first glance, one could speculate about their apparent passivity, or their lazy lack of initiative. Though, Markas noticed that they blocked the entrance to the alleyway, in their attempts to shirk out of their work — in waiting or because they were truly dull, that Markas couldn't apprehend.

The mercenary — Markas Malivan, age thirty and eight, in case you forgot — inched forward, leaning first to the left and then to the right, getting a good grasp of the scenario. The environment held only copious amounts of garbage, moldy food, rusty junk. The walls of the buildings, which hunched eerily over the dead-end pathway and gave it a spangled shade, were made of adobe bricks. The road was simply sand, dirt and gravel beaten together and treated over to resemble a firm path.

The curved knave was closer now, his canter quick and jittery. The man was undeniably fast, Markas had to admit. The two tankers at the back was still in their position, with Olive leaning against the mossy wall, and Fat acting as the primary, if not stolid, rampart.

‘Two bruisers, and a geezer. All clubs. Narrow space. Shit.’ There was a good reason for Markas to be concerned. One versus three usually doesn't bode well for the former, especially with crude weapons such as dagggers.

Markas clenched his fists, squinting his eyes. He advanced forward, jabbing his finger at the air and pointing towards the geezer. “Pal, ye' ain't got no business here”

The ol' man, or it was what he appeared to be, chose to ignore his words. Too silently spoken, Markas now regretted.

“Le've yer we'p'ns 'hind 'nd w-” The geezer ambled forward, stuttering as he tried to control the stream of his drool. His gait, Markas then noticed, was clipped and blocky. He had problems with his mouth too, and which also served to be speech impediment. A severe one. A pathetic sight it was, 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 dusty pavement as he bought down the edge of his elbow unto the geezer's drooping face. The audible crack of teeth filled the formerly silent livery, followed by the short yelp of a man too surprised to exclaim properly. A gasp from the fat one followed the initial two sounds. The mercenary doubted he could get a good view of the action, but it didn't hurt to imagine.

Markas looked at the reeling geezer, who was now clutching his face in pain, yelling and cursing.

‘Probably should've just left my shit behind.’ Most men did just that.

“Okay,” the mercenary murmured. The geezer wrenched back again, not from pain but from the fear of it, blood spouting down from his nose. His spittle had turned pink-and-red from the influence of blood.

‘Forty. Fifty if the Saint-whoever-governs-luck decides to side with me.’ Markas did his best to cloak his pessimistic 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. Southerners were good actors, his mother was a good actor, but he never was a good actor.

‘A fucking stupid death, indeed.’
The mercenary, rather than making a 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. The collar was oily to the touch, with a hint of jagged leather. It still stank.

From the far corners of his peripherals, Markas could see 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. Yet.

‘Two seconds, five maybe.’ Markas estimated their arrival with a run-off-the-mill calculation. His father was a treasurer, and one of the first things he learned, aside from basic language, was mathematics and probability. The latter he perfected during his trooper days.

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, scarcely visible to the eye, smashed against the geezer's cheeks. It was enough to send him tumbling towards the stony floor, with a feeble howl and enough tremolo to knock the wind out of someone.

The geezer fell, on faltering feet, into an open garbage bin, his two hose-covered legs, fitted with unseemly clogs, jutting out from the putrid mess.

The unshorn clod, Olive, was now edging nearby. His shoulders and back arched, in a stance that implied reckless care. 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, that could be useful in this fight, was the element of surprise, and a bit of speed. The two savages had neither speed or wits, and Markas aimed to exploit these weaknesses.

[REST NEEDS EDITS]

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]

Heyee, dollo, how does my post look? Critiques? Powerful suggestions? Impacting virtualization?

Spoiler

# Markas Malivan

“Fucked 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. He was frowning rather deliberately, as his shoulders stiffened. It wasn't a bright day, the mercenary surmised.

There was a good reason for it too.

Before the ragged mercenary, withholding all forms of proper formation, advanced a troika of men, up the darkened alley and towards him; three men, the frontman backed by two other hoodlums. Muggers were quite common in the lower-half squalor of the fire kingdom's southern ports. Morose and craggy lands that are flush with cliffs with narrow openings which lead to a long shoreline — sand, beige-white, and more sand. It's filled with docks and mostly harbours enterprising troopers looking for amnesty and a fair share of coins. Needless to say, the fire kingdom is rife with bounty hunters and hunted.

Markas was a strong man all right, born in Elysium, in the more richer districts of the southern district, and tossed from womb to a noble-enough family. The nifty soldier held the mark of a true northerner; harsh facial bristle, and which he has managed to fashion into a glossy curly moustache; misty grey eyes, both magnetic and fearsome, and fixed to perennial sharpness, an unwavering sting; an angular face, near architectural in its incisiveness, that bears both class and savagery. Yet he additionally possessed the traits that so make the southerners eligible bachelors. A romantically-sculpted nose, complimented by a deuce of arching eyebrows, and a pale dark complexion reminiscent of most searrine dwellers; a mane of hair, which runs down wildly but always above his receding hairline, showing off his high forehead; and ultimately, a cultured, smart smile that he has yet to know of how to use.

Markas' father was a treasurer, while his mother was a lowly noble. Both met at a southern district — by the naval titan, the duchy of Raserre — where his father was assigned to, after a series of shady transfers and dealings, and where his mother lived since birth.

His father was a meek man, dreamy and quizzical, who did only what he thought was best for him and his family — often the latter than the former, for he loved his family and his sons — and which made him seem like a coward of sorts. The odd fellow could be seen as a weakling, but Markas liked to think of him as a passive man or a pragmatist to a certain, and low, extent. When it came to luminosity, Markas' father was scarcely the zealous believer he showed others to be; he was bearably faithful, but never more than that. Markas' relationship with his father was good. It wasn't spoken of, and they both preferred limiting their conversation to the necessities, but Markas knew that his father knew and he knew it himself too.

Markas' mother was, more or less, rather similar in nature to his father, but she held a streak of pomposity. It was a byproduct of her life in a vaguely noble family trying to keep their watered-down bloodline still relevant. Nevertheless, her pride was hers to keep, and she showed it freely for everyone to see. Markas admired his mother, and respected her too, but affections came the last in his mind.

Markas snapped back to his ongoing plight. He suffered a mere moments-worth of distraction, but it never was enough to faze him. He may have been an alarmist, jaded and distorted, but few things really surprised him.

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, although Markas could swear he wrinkle-linings stretching across his face. His lips were bulbous and halved, revealing his murky-yellow teeth, surpassed in rank by a rotund nose and a pair of swollen eyes. He had bushy eyebrows, slicked hair swept back in layered waves, and ears that stuck out too far from his head. 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, showing off his sinewy musculature and wiry upper limbs, except for a simple felt trouser that were clipped to the shins and a pair of rugged sandals. His bare chest was hairy, but the dim-black meshed well with the olive skin.

The man on the right lacked armour, relying on a taut, midnight blue greatcoat that scantly fit him — both in terms of vanity and size. The coat clung dearly to his flabby skin. The belts, and which held the buttons, swayed and limped. 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. He had an absurdly thick neck, nearly melding with his chin, and jowls that vibrated at the merest of movements. His eyes were set deep into his sockets, and he had a distinct lack of both eyebrows and hair. Queer tattoos decorated his unclad cranium.

All were armed with warped eyes and gore-clubs — and which was oddly festive to the likes of Markas, though the one on the left remained passive. The blood that stained on their weapons suggested that they were a bit too eager to use their arsenal, and had already used them. Viscerally.

Markas' sarcastic drollery was 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 certainly made a bad impression. And it was seldom good for his reputable looks. His lips split apart, revealing his bared teeth, in a terribly-posed grimace. It could also be interpreted as a frown of sorts.

The fact, however portrayed and with or without expression, was simple: it was 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. Indeed, he was a skilled fighter, but more than that, he was a gambler; people survive more through luck than through empty prowess. Of course, there are the gods too, blessed with saintly powers and with an amaranthine ambry of otherworldly kismet, but they don't stoop to help their accidental creations.

Such was the way of life.

The gore-club is a weapon that exudes a menacing — 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, due to its simple appearance that caters to the taste of the common man, favouring utility over hauteur. The wood-and-iron mace can be 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, especially against armour, where the spike-laden head can penetrate through brittle plates. 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. A certain oddity, but principles were being followed — the principle of a head honcho. 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. It was a strange choice of words, calling a random stranger stupid, but some idiots don't change. Idiocy is rampant in the fire kingdom, Markas discerned.

The other two lagged behind the leader, loitering off the pace, weapons slack in their hands. At first glance, one could speculate about their apparent passivity, or their lazy lack of initiative. Though, Markas noticed that they blocked the entrance to the alleyway, in their attempts to shirk out of their work — in waiting or because they were truly dull, that Markas couldn't apprehend.

The mercenary — Markas Malivan, age thirty and eight, in case you forgot — inched forward, leaning first to the left and then to the right, getting a good grasp of the scenario. The environment held only copious amounts of garbage, moldy food, rusty junk. The walls of the buildings, which hunched eerily over the dead-end pathway and gave it a spangled shade, were made of adobe bricks. The road was simply sand, dirt and gravel beaten together and treated over to resemble a firm path.

The curved knave was closer now, his canter quick and jittery. The man was undeniably fast, Markas had to admit. The two tankers at the back was still in their position, with Olive leaning against the mossy wall, and Fat acting as the primary, if not stolid, rampart.

‘Two bruisers, and a geezer. All clubs. Narrow space. Shit.’ There was a good reason for Markas to be concerned. One versus three usually doesn't bode well for the former, especially with crude weapons such as dagggers.

Markas clenched his fists, squinting his eyes. He advanced forward, jabbing his finger at the air and pointing towards the geezer. “Pal, ye' ain't got no business here”

The ol' man, or it was what he appeared to be, chose to ignore his words. Too silently spoken, Markas now regretted.

“Le've yer we'p'ns 'hind 'nd w-” The geezer ambled forward, stuttering as he tried to control the stream of his drool. His gait, Markas then noticed, was clipped and blocky. He had problems with his mouth too, and which also served to be speech impediment. A severe one. A pathetic sight it was, 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 dusty pavement as he bought down the edge of his elbow unto the geezer's drooping face. The audible crack of teeth filled the formerly silent livery, followed by the short yelp of a man too surprised to exclaim properly. A gasp from the fat one followed the initial two sounds. The mercenary doubted he could get a good view of the action, but it didn't hurt to imagine.

Markas looked at the reeling geezer, who was now clutching his face in pain, yelling and cursing.

‘Probably should've just left my shit behind.’ Most men did just that.

“Okay,” the mercenary murmured. The geezer wrenched back again, not from pain but from the fear of it, blood spouting down from his nose. His spittle had turned pink-and-red from the influence of blood.

‘Forty. Fifty if the Saint-whoever-governs-luck decides to side with me.’ Markas did his best to cloak his pessimistic 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. Southerners were good actors, his mother was a good actor, but he never was a good actor.

‘A fucking stupid death, indeed.’
The mercenary, rather than making a 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. The collar was oily to the touch, with a hint of jagged leather. It still stank.

From the far corners of his peripherals, Markas could see 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. Yet.

‘Two seconds, five maybe.’ Markas estimated their arrival with a run-off-the-mill calculation. His father was a treasurer, and one of the first things he learned, aside from basic language, was mathematics and probability. The latter he perfected during his trooper days.

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, scarcely visible to the eye, smashed against the geezer's cheeks. It was enough to send him tumbling towards the stony floor, with a feeble howl and enough tremolo to knock the wind out of someone.

The geezer fell, on faltering feet, into an open garbage bin, his two hose-covered legs, fitted with unseemly clogs, jutting out from the putrid mess.

The unshorn clod, Olive, was now edging nearby. His shoulders and back arched, in a stance that implied reckless care. 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, that could be useful in this fight, was the element of surprise, and a bit of speed. The two savages had neither speed or wits, and Markas aimed to exploit these weaknesses.

[REST NEEDS EDITS]

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.

Will look at it, though don't expect good critique from me

 

[Elephantom]

Hasty reply, got to go out to buy food.



Yeah... that reminds me... I shouldn't show you my old fanficts. They are so full of shit that it makes Bubblebutt's work look like it was written by a professional.



And... I've really got to read some well-written fiction works myself.



Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa?

Shit, I gotta do the same thing too. That way I can silence all of my doubts and not worry so fucking much.



What? Really? Eleph, I see myself as a lazy fuck to be honest. I just try to do the best I can because you put so much effort into your work, you know?



CHECK THIS OUT.

http://the-last-sovereign.blogspot.com/



If you want to fuck the disabled...

Goodbye, Heis. I've got to got to do something too. I'll check out this site, though...

 

[Historical Storyteller]

Heyee, dollo, how does my post look? Critiques? Powerful suggestions? Impacting virtualization?

Spoiler

# Markas Malivan

“Fucked 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. He was frowning rather deliberately, as his shoulders stiffened. It wasn't a bright day, the mercenary surmised.

There was a good reason for it too.

Before the ragged mercenary, withholding all forms of proper formation, advanced a troika of men, up the darkened alley and towards him; three men, the frontman backed by two other hoodlums. Muggers were quite common in the lower-half squalor of the fire kingdom's southern ports. Morose and craggy lands that are flush with cliffs with narrow openings which lead to a long shoreline — sand, beige-white, and more sand. It's filled with docks and mostly harbours enterprising troopers looking for amnesty and a fair share of coins. Needless to say, the fire kingdom is rife with bounty hunters and hunted.

Markas was a strong man all right, born in Elysium, in the more richer districts of the southern district, and tossed from womb to a noble-enough family. The nifty soldier held the mark of a true northerner; harsh facial bristle, and which he has managed to fashion into a glossy curly moustache; misty grey eyes, both magnetic and fearsome, and fixed to perennial sharpness, an unwavering sting; an angular face, near architectural in its incisiveness, that bears both class and savagery. Yet he additionally possessed the traits that so make the southerners eligible bachelors. A romantically-sculpted nose, complimented by a deuce of arching eyebrows, and a pale dark complexion reminiscent of most searrine dwellers; a mane of hair, which runs down wildly but always above his receding hairline, showing off his high forehead; and ultimately, a cultured, smart smile that he has yet to know of how to use.

Markas' father was a treasurer, while his mother was a lowly noble. Both met at a southern district — by the naval titan, the duchy of Raserre — where his father was assigned to, after a series of shady transfers and dealings, and where his mother lived since birth.

His father was a meek man, dreamy and quizzical, who did only what he thought was best for him and his family — often the latter than the former, for he loved his family and his sons — and which made him seem like a coward of sorts. The odd fellow could be seen as a weakling, but Markas liked to think of him as a passive man or a pragmatist to a certain, and low, extent. When it came to luminosity, Markas' father was scarcely the zealous believer he showed others to be; he was bearably faithful, but never more than that. Markas' relationship with his father was good. It wasn't spoken of, and they both preferred limiting their conversation to the necessities, but Markas knew that his father knew and he knew it himself too.

Markas' mother was, more or less, rather similar in nature to his father, but she held a streak of pomposity. It was a byproduct of her life in a vaguely noble family trying to keep their watered-down bloodline still relevant. Nevertheless, her pride was hers to keep, and she showed it freely for everyone to see. Markas admired his mother, and respected her too, but affections came the last in his mind.

Markas snapped back to his ongoing plight. He suffered a mere moments-worth of distraction, but it never was enough to faze him. He may have been an alarmist, jaded and distorted, but few things really surprised him.

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, although Markas could swear he wrinkle-linings stretching across his face. His lips were bulbous and halved, revealing his murky-yellow teeth, surpassed in rank by a rotund nose and a pair of swollen eyes. He had bushy eyebrows, slicked hair swept back in layered waves, and ears that stuck out too far from his head. 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, showing off his sinewy musculature and wiry upper limbs, except for a simple felt trouser that were clipped to the shins and a pair of rugged sandals. His bare chest was hairy, but the dim-black meshed well with the olive skin.

The man on the right lacked armour, relying on a taut, midnight blue greatcoat that scantly fit him — both in terms of vanity and size. The coat clung dearly to his flabby skin. The belts, and which held the buttons, swayed and limped. 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. He had an absurdly thick neck, nearly melding with his chin, and jowls that vibrated at the merest of movements. His eyes were set deep into his sockets, and he had a distinct lack of both eyebrows and hair. Queer tattoos decorated his unclad cranium.

All were armed with warped eyes and gore-clubs — and which was oddly festive to the likes of Markas, though the one on the left remained passive. The blood that stained on their weapons suggested that they were a bit too eager to use their arsenal, and had already used them. Viscerally.

Markas' sarcastic drollery was 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 certainly made a bad impression. And it was seldom good for his reputable looks. His lips split apart, revealing his bared teeth, in a terribly-posed grimace. It could also be interpreted as a frown of sorts.

The fact, however portrayed and with or without expression, was simple: it was 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. Indeed, he was a skilled fighter, but more than that, he was a gambler; people survive more through luck than through empty prowess. Of course, there are the gods too, blessed with saintly powers and with an amaranthine ambry of otherworldly kismet, but they don't stoop to help their accidental creations.

Such was the way of life.

The gore-club is a weapon that exudes a menacing — 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, due to its simple appearance that caters to the taste of the common man, favouring utility over hauteur. The wood-and-iron mace can be 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, especially against armour, where the spike-laden head can penetrate through brittle plates. 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. A certain oddity, but principles were being followed — the principle of a head honcho. 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. It was a strange choice of words, calling a random stranger stupid, but some idiots don't change. Idiocy is rampant in the fire kingdom, Markas discerned.

The other two lagged behind the leader, loitering off the pace, weapons slack in their hands. At first glance, one could speculate about their apparent passivity, or their lazy lack of initiative. Though, Markas noticed that they blocked the entrance to the alleyway, in their attempts to shirk out of their work — in waiting or because they were truly dull, that Markas couldn't apprehend.

The mercenary — Markas Malivan, age thirty and eight, in case you forgot — inched forward, leaning first to the left and then to the right, getting a good grasp of the scenario. The environment held only copious amounts of garbage, moldy food, rusty junk. The walls of the buildings, which hunched eerily over the dead-end pathway and gave it a spangled shade, were made of adobe bricks. The road was simply sand, dirt and gravel beaten together and treated over to resemble a firm path.

The curved knave was closer now, his canter quick and jittery. The man was undeniably fast, Markas had to admit. The two tankers at the back was still in their position, with Olive leaning against the mossy wall, and Fat acting as the primary, if not stolid, rampart.

‘Two bruisers, and a geezer. All clubs. Narrow space. Shit.’ There was a good reason for Markas to be concerned. One versus three usually doesn't bode well for the former, especially with crude weapons such as dagggers.

Markas clenched his fists, squinting his eyes. He advanced forward, jabbing his finger at the air and pointing towards the geezer. “Pal, ye' ain't got no business here”

The ol' man, or it was what he appeared to be, chose to ignore his words. Too silently spoken, Markas now regretted.

“Le've yer we'p'ns 'hind 'nd w-” The geezer ambled forward, stuttering as he tried to control the stream of his drool. His gait, Markas then noticed, was clipped and blocky. He had problems with his mouth too, and which also served to be speech impediment. A severe one. A pathetic sight it was, 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 dusty pavement as he bought down the edge of his elbow unto the geezer's drooping face. The audible crack of teeth filled the formerly silent livery, followed by the short yelp of a man too surprised to exclaim properly. A gasp from the fat one followed the initial two sounds. The mercenary doubted he could get a good view of the action, but it didn't hurt to imagine.

Markas looked at the reeling geezer, who was now clutching his face in pain, yelling and cursing.

‘Probably should've just left my shit behind.’ Most men did just that.

“Okay,” the mercenary murmured. The geezer wrenched back again, not from pain but from the fear of it, blood spouting down from his nose. His spittle had turned pink-and-red from the influence of blood.

‘Forty. Fifty if the Saint-whoever-governs-luck decides to side with me.’ Markas did his best to cloak his pessimistic 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. Southerners were good actors, his mother was a good actor, but he never was a good actor.

‘A fucking stupid death, indeed.’
The mercenary, rather than making a 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. The collar was oily to the touch, with a hint of jagged leather. It still stank.

From the far corners of his peripherals, Markas could see 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. Yet.

‘Two seconds, five maybe.’ Markas estimated their arrival with a run-off-the-mill calculation. His father was a treasurer, and one of the first things he learned, aside from basic language, was mathematics and probability. The latter he perfected during his trooper days.

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, scarcely visible to the eye, smashed against the geezer's cheeks. It was enough to send him tumbling towards the stony floor, with a feeble howl and enough tremolo to knock the wind out of someone.

The geezer fell, on faltering feet, into an open garbage bin, his two hose-covered legs, fitted with unseemly clogs, jutting out from the putrid mess.

The unshorn clod, Olive, was now edging nearby. His shoulders and back arched, in a stance that implied reckless care. 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, that could be useful in this fight, was the element of surprise, and a bit of speed. The two savages had neither speed or wits, and Markas aimed to exploit these weaknesses.

[REST NEEDS EDITS]

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.

Bitch ass! It's way more than that!

Answer him, Nogood! And the critique should be at least a paragraph long to make Eleph happy. I don't want to be the only one who critiques him, I always forget something important and I'm not that great of a writer!

 

[Nogoodname]

Answer him, Nogood! And the critique should be at least a paragraph long to make Eleph happy. I don't want to be the only one who critiques him, I always forget something important and I'm not that great of a writer!

I did!

 

[Elephantom]

I did!

When!?!?

 

[Nogoodname]

Will look at it, though don't expect good critique from me

 

[Historical Storyteller]

Will be back, buying food now.

When!?!?

*Facepalm*

Now I get what you mean when you say others are lazy. Honestly, I'm lazy too... but at least I give a fuck!

 

[Nogoodname]

Will be back, buying food now.


*Facepalm*

Now I get what you mean when you say others are lazy. Honestly, I'm lazy too... but at least I give a fuck!

I'm reading it ya dick.
(Lol, RPN has word filters)

 

[Elephantom]

Will be back, buying food now.




*Facepalm*

Now I get what you mean when you say others are lazy. Honestly, I'm lazy too... but at least I give a fuck!

I told you, boyo, this is the most laziest RP in this entire section!

I'm reading it ya dick.
(Lol, RPN has word filters)

Uncultured? (⊙＿⊙)

 

[Nogoodname]

I told you, boyo, this is the most laziest RP in this entire section!



Uncultured? (⊙＿⊙)

RPN apparently has word filters, type I'm uncultured

 

[Elephantom]

RPN apparently has word filters, type I'm uncultured

I'm uncultured.

 

[Elephantom]

I'm uncultured.

Can't believe it. I'm uncultured.

 

[Nogoodname]

Can't believe it. Cuntcunt.

Ikr? An RP website should not have word filters, that's kind of shitty.

 

[Serf Ember]

I'm uncultured

 

[Elephantom]

Ikr? An RP website should not have word filters, that's kind of shitty.

And, the filter's also insulting us.

Kinda makes me think if it's some joke or something, what with bitch, fuck, and shit going about freely.

 

[Elephantom]

I'm uncultured

What? When the heck did you become undiluted?

 

[Historical Storyteller]

K, guys! I'm back.