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Rules via the MIGHTY MIGHFUL MIGHTNESS of ctrl+c and ctrl+v

1. This will be judged by three people and have sixteen combatants. All round battles are in ONE TOPIC, such as “First Round” will be for the first set, and “Second Round” for the second, etc. This matches the most recent and also the most classic form for the NLBFT, as it was the first form used and also the most recent, as reinstated by SML.

2. This is for serious battlers only. I won’t restrict who joins and who doesn’t, but if you cannot write, do not join this very important event, for either judge or battler. By saying “Cannot Type”, I mean no spaces, punctuation, capitalization, etc. I would prefer that only seniors and vets join, but newbies of high skill level and regular members are just as welcome. It is a free forum, after all. Remember, this is a tournament of high pedigree, and you will likely be facing tough opponents, so do not expect to be baby treated. High quality posts will probably be a must from the judges, and you would do best to remember that.

3. There is a strict time limit. 60 hours is the usual before a half point is taken from the final score of thirty, and 24 more is another deduction, another 24 is another, and 24 more is possible elimination. Remember this, as it is standard, and complaints will only be considered if not simply whining. Also, reasons to have been absent are to be discussed by the judges as acceptable or not. If your computer explodes and you had no access to another, fine, but if you simply were too bored to try, it is elimination. It sounds retarded, but it isn’t. Trust me.

4. The judges word is final. I want to see good sportsmanship from the loser, and likewise from winner. I will be honest and tell you that if I lose my battle, I will not complain. Simply put, it is un-sportsmanlike and very dishonorable.

5. The first to post has battlefield choice. Make it something past generic, and give it some specialty and pizzazz. Not to say having an interesting battlefield is a rule, it’s just kind of useful.

Battle Only Rules:

1: No transforming or character switching, this is permitted only between rounds and is not to be done mid-battle for risk of deduction from the ever-present final score out of thirty. In other words, judges will judge on a scale of 1-10 and will at the end combine the scores of each judge for a single person into a final mass of thirty, as most of you know, but I know that some of you battlers are new to this and may need a heads up.

2: No healing, and this means any healing. As is known, many of your characters regenerate, but you will have to make an exception for this tournament as not to infringe this rule.

3. No god-moding, as this isn’t a damage based tourney, it’s performance based. God-moding is wrong, and as Wyborn said in his rule set, “You can be brutal without being cheap.” Remember that. Oh, and unleash hell. It’s fun to watch.

Round ends, say... Thursday, 4th october 10:28 pm, (GMT -04:00) Atlantic Time (Canada) . That is, unless my pc clock is a dirty dirty liar.


Lineup:

Erdawn v.s Selene

Judges:
Seat 1: VideoSpirit
Seat 2: NintendoGod
Seat 3: Heroine of the Dragon

Commenzat.

Just a moment ago, for all eternity, there wasn't.

But now, there had always. And it was much longer.

Which is how Everything began.

Fortunately, for the sake of grammar and comprehensibility, this wasn't about Everything.

At least, not at the start.

*****************

She stood. This was.... well, to be honest, this was quite different. But then, wasn't it always?

Each time, again and again. And always a shape taken.

The slender, gold-scaled woman glanced about, tugging on part of her purple bodysuit where it emerged from a red-padded warglove. This.... plateau, if it could be called that, she estimated to be a solid forty-two feet across. Seven times her own body height minus a few inches. Though, she thought, as she scuffed a bootsole across the laid stones, it wasn't really a plateau, was it?

It was... constructed, it seemed like. She couldn't identify the stone- not being a geological expert, she didn't know many types of stone. She knew her schist pretty well, but that was only a bad pun indicating that she'd forgotten most of what she knew about rocks. It didn't seem all that important most times, anyway.

**********

Then there hadn't again. Clearly, some decision or other was causing difficulty.

A vague sense of irritation, and then there Was once more.

**********

The massive gray-skinned woman adjusted the equally massive stony hammer-blade on her back as she trod her way over to one edge of the platform. Vibrant green ringlet-curls bounced to either side of the frames emphasizing deep indigo eyes. This was a very strange place indeed- the rock didn't say much to her at all. Somehow, someone had made the stone forget.

That was... worrisome. Then she bothered to actually pay attention to the background her senses were picking up-

**********

Once more, things unResolved. And hadn't ever, again.

Irritation increased slightly. Would this bout of indecision never cease? Possibilities, always too focused on the possibilities, and not the surety. Then again, perhaps that was the nature of the beast?

**********

The short psyker's ponytail bounced as she whipped her head about, arms lifted away from the grips of her plasma mechguns. There was no sky. Her gray eyes widened slightly as she realized this.

There was no sky.

Not even a poor chance at a sky. One might well have expected this infinite nothing to be represented by a pitch-black background, but there wasn't even that.

**********

Not again. What was this, a consensus poll? For a brief time, there was a sort of weary blankness. This was getting rather ridiculous- the always was changing each and every single time.

Irritation asserted itself again, and once more there always was.

**********

Huge though she was, the massive horned woman with her ten limbs- two tails, four wings, two arms, two legs- felt lost. She was only vaguely sure of gravity as it was, for the force seemed to be present enough to hold her boots down to the laid stones.

Boots, that's a constant.

Oh, ****. Bad enough that she was standing here on this random platform, her orange-red hair still drying from the rain she'd been soaring through. Bad enough that instead of a sky, this place had some sort of nothing so severe that the air seemed made of endlessly clear crystal.

Now she was hearing *voices*. Teal-scaled hands in black padded gloves went to her ears.

**********

It had been lost track of again.

Briefly, several nothings were being broken. There was a fit of pique, and then there wasn't any pique to have anymore, and it was okay.

The annoyance remained. Beyond context, the annoyance remained, even in light of that amusing badger.

Presently, presently to some degree something would manage to hold fast beyond just that.

**********

Then the blue-haired woman looked down. Her purple eyes gleamed like the two outer stones set into her forehead as she stumbled back from the edge, martial arts slippers scuffing quietly on the stone.

Dammit, we lost the boots.

Hands to her ears, she shuddered. There was no bottom. She couldn't even see to anything else at all. Just the one pillar.

Was she abandoned here? Moving her arms, she knotted her fists in her crimson tang, falling to a seat. She hadn't asked for this, you know.

Wait, there's always the purple. Maybe that'll get the boots back?

**********

Something was being seized on. Some sort of reference point. Finally.

But it was flimsy. And it couldn't be reinforced. Reinforcing it might cause it to snap. Well... might.

Maybe that should be tried anyways.

There was a sense of tensing, and then-

**********

The huge- and even more hugely heavy- woman shook her head, brown quills rattling together in a sussurating sibilance summoning seaside concepts. Her crimson eyes firmed and she stood up, though the pillar itself shook a bit, wobbling at the motions of a solid three and a half tons of halfdragon.

Hammer gripped in hand, she walked to the edge again to look over.

Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamn.

Still, it wasn't like she could live on just rock, could she?

Bootsoles scuffed on stone as she churned this over, her spiked tail twitching a few times.

Well, what options were there? She could always pull out her trump cards- but somehow, she got the impression that even if she called on the True Servants, the Master, AND the Royal, she'd not be able to leave. Perhaps there was something to wait for?

Still, the edge, and that infinite distance seemed somehow... eager?

**********

It dissolved again.

Finally, patience was lost. Clearly, for the first time in even the Ever that existed outside of Always and Everything, it would have to be completely direct.

....or would it?

Yes, that had merit....

**********

Laughter extended into the infinite, trying to echo, but it failed in the face of the negative. The nothing that was here.

She fell headfirst, and it was exhilarating because there was no way it could be real and still it was.

The wind whipped past her face, pressing itself between grinning teeth that split the wide smile. Her eyes were open despite the wind, shielded behind small but highly vital lenses set into a flimsily durable frame. Clear lenses, there to sharpen the world. To force a focus.

Almost too much of a focus, were some to be believed. She cared not.

Besides, this was fun.

Ankle-length hair streamed alongside her arrowing body, a mass of dark mahogany brown to draw the eye from the heavily-creamed-coffee tone of Pilipina skin. Indeed, she could have clothed herself in only her hair, and it boggled the mind a bit to think of the care and time that would go into such a lavish pelt, all shiny and clean.

Fortunate enough that she was not nude, though, or she'd have like as not been feeling the whip of the air that wasn't here. Still, she could breathe it. And it ruffled the flaps of the pockets of her tan cargo vest. Indeed, between that and the loose but heavy material of her highly-pocketed skirt, it looked like she was some sort of crazed fisherwoman who set out without proper wading boots. Still- no rods, no lures. Notepads prominently in one vest pocket, and another trailed the cord of a pair of earphones hung from a keychain-holder, along with a small keychain flashlight.

A napkin escaped a pocket, and hands sheathed in black wool fingerless gloves moved to zip the vest, covering over the curious logo on the too-lose tee-shirt. Not all who wander are lost. It would inform, when seen, the underwriting to a scribbled-looking pair of hiking boots depicted on the front of the pea-soup-green garment.

Arms hung loose again as she continued to fall, presenting the soles of a pair of heavy leather workboots to the sky-that-wasn't, like as not flashing it with her panties.

More's the pity she wasn't especially anything, other than perhaps small. Four foot ten she'd have stood without the boots, and a bit over on the chubby side.

"Plush!" She objected, correcting herself.

Four foot ten she'd have stood without the boots, and a bit over on the [strike]chubby[/strike] plush side. It showed some in her face, and a lot in her legs (when they could be seen), and a bit in her arms and body.

She grinned down into infinity, clearly not the least bothered by the possibility that she might encounter, in some unpleasant manner, the stone. Which stone? The stone whipping past her in blocks laid together to form some unbelievably tall platform. The stone she had willingly plunged off of, quite possibly to her doom. "It was getting dull." She'd have explained, "I mean, there literally wasn't anything to do up there, and honestly, I'd rather be dead than bored an' useless." Of course, there was nobody to explain to but the rushing stone and the air she was breathing that wasn't there, but that was fine by her. In fact, she might as well speak her mind on things anyways- it wasn't like it would harm anyone, and as there was no air here that she was currently breathing successfully, she'd hardly even be able to claim it a waste of oxygen.

"Really, it's pretty simple to figure out." She explained to nobody, still smiling and plummeting down into nothing at all. "I mean, there's me, standing there, on this bigass laid-stone platform. So... what can I do? Well, I can stand there or sit there or lie there and wait. Boring and not very useful. I can try to start taking apart the thing. That'd be tiring and boring, though maybe useful after about thirty years- going by how long I've been falling. But both of those mean starving to death. If I don't go from dehydration first." Her head briefly cocked to one side in thought.

"I'd say dehydration was less likely, but I don't think I can drink my own urine like I hear some soldiers have done. Ew. Sorry, my sense of tastesmell's a little too sensitive for that. Bleh.

"So what's left? Why, jumping!"

She turned her head now, looking out into the crystalline isn't. Towards the Eye.

"Isn't that right?"

And out there, uncountable light-years close away, the insanely huge indigo-irised eye that wasn't there simply stared at her. For that was all it was- an eye. Like the endless expanse of absence had simply opened two lids and- gosh, lookit that! There it was. And watching.

She could feel it watching, even as she turned to face down into the wind again, her own hair obscuring the right side of her face from about mid-cheek up. The young woman stared down into the Ever with her visible, left eye, and grinned again.

"Don't you get it? I'm Nicole. I'm the one who does."

And a girlish laugh failed to echo.

OOC: For User CP.

His hair boiled from his skull, burning bright in three shades of bronze so that it flashed ochre-gold, molten-brass, and fiery auburne all at once as it caught the light. He was an Irelander - possibly one of the most imposing she'd ever seen although physically not the largest. He was there as if he'd ever been, holding tight the leash of an Scottish Danish hound and let me illustrate - this hound was larger even than a small calf, its fur such a dark tint of green it was black or chestnut and its tail fabulously braided. The beast was large enough to devour whole a man, its eyes cool and impassive.

He was Cu Chulainn, the king of heroes, robed only in his own tartan of scarlet and bronze, holding at bay the baying Cu Sith with a Herculean forearm that seemed wont to burst out of its flesh with inlaid ropes of muscle, which rolled spectacularily beneath his tanned skin like the tightened fists of a giant. He bore no helm - it lay discarded, magnificenty gleaming by his glaived and sandaled ankles - only laurels of fig and ivy, and in his other arm yet he loosely clutched three polearms of varying size and significance - one being an infantryman's eight-footer of ash and with a narrowed bronze point, the other a javelin that seemed more a darning needle than a proper throwing spear, and the third a metallic weapon of make alien to the craft of Men, hewn from the bones of mythic Coinchenn, the Gae Bolga.

He stared at this girl - this portly midget of a thing - with a face of marble, his eyes almost tragically lacking in that empathic reflex so signature of mankind, haemmorhaging with mute ferocity and bored, robotic hubris. He said nothing, did not acknowledge her because he had come here to kill the greatest of champions, not the meekest of girls, and had no bussiness with such a person.

Grin and bear it, I guess.

Disappointingly, it seemed not much would happen. That radiant-haired king upon heroes stood stolidly atop the pillar, clutching the leash to his titanic canine. For all that he stood and watched and waited, the girl plummeted into the infinite depths, quickly passing from normal sight, and then even from that of the supernormal. Cu Chulainn did not heed, he did not mind. She was of no consequence.

The eye, that great, indigo-irised orb not so much floating as installed in that eternal nothingness that extended beyond the space holding the platform rolled in the socket it didn't have. Eyelids that weren't there narrowed, thinning the almond-shape to a brief slit.

No words came forth from that eternal airless crystal of naught, no sounds nor statements by any reckoning. And yet, what there came upon the area was a sense of exasperation.

A thin-squinted eye of no particular dimension but immense bore down its gaze upon the King of Heroes. It knew him not. But then, so far as it saw, it mattered not what it knew of him, nor he of it. And silence reigned there, in this now made the hall of the King. The airless naught bowed not unto him, but he remained regal in bearing and nature, and his hound was as graven unto the space it occupied as he was. There they waited a time, the eye watching, impassive to its presence, uncaring of the supposed impossibility. Eternity came and went, bored by the lack of action, and one might have commented on the dullness of it all. Pity it was that none did- or perhaps fortune, for the silence had grown so brittile, so worn and tense a thing under the weight of sourceless impatience that it might well have shattered from force of the merest of sounds into shards well beyond sharp enough to rend what little there was here, in this place beyond.

A mouth drifted by the king, solitary and attached to no face.

"That's rather discourteous of you."

He moved not to behold the wonder of the floating hole in emptiness, the lipless orifice that chastized him. It did not matter any more than the chit of a girl who had vanished down below.

"Are you too haughty to accept the invitation? Perhaps you assume little consequence of might be dire. Dost thou require I provide proof, y sooth, of intention and welcome, milord? Maybe you're just a dull twit?"

Who or whatever it was nattered on further, spouting questions and suggestions of no value to the man who waited there atop the baseless tower. As the girl before, he paid no heed, registered no meaning from it. Perhaps the mouth grew annoyed with his impassiveness- he knew not, not tracking the words spoken, nor could he have cared less regarding the possiblity. He was here to fight. That was all. No interest in aught else for this man.

Abruptly, the eye snapped open, the mouth pursing.

"Hmf."

"That's it, then? You're here to fight? Not even for the fun of it, eh? How disappointing. Fine, a fight it is. Now, how to go about this... ah. Here we go. Tweak the overlay, grant an independence, and...."

Suddenly, there one was. The form was small, and shaped much like that which had long slipped into the inconcievable drop below. Worse yet, it was fairly translucent, like it were formed of some sort of jelly. The majority of the shape was a bright teal, with purple jags, zigs, and zags all down both sides. Across the breasts spanned a crimson sigil of a hawk, looking stolen from some native American's ancient painting, and the boots and gloves cuffed with simple but overlarge folds back. A swirl of fiery orange-red hair topped the figure, and a thin purple tail with an arrowhead spade in similar shades to the curly locks flicked behind. Yet... the rich purple skin of the face, the only skin besides that tail uncovered by the thick teal bodysuit (could not be spandex- it was at least an inch of depth all across the form) was completely shapeless. There was a mouth there, and eyes, but they had no form, no real existence. It was as if someone had removed the face from the body, while leaving what had made that face into the face of... whoever this was supposed to be.

The spectral-seeming shape drifted midair briefly, above the flat lay of stones, then set down on both feet. Arms relaxed to her flanks, the faceless nonentity stood in a rather relaxed slouch. It seemed to be regarding Cu Chulainn there, examining him briefly.

"You'll have to excuse me." Blathered the mouth, "I haven't used this overlay in some time, so she's a bit... rusty. But, that will work out, don't you think?"

The King of Heroes did not respond.

"Pagh. So sullen. Heart?"

The teal-and-orange facing the man and his dog cocked its head, turning as if to orient the impression of eyes towards the mouth. As she turned left, the ocular phenomenon behind her narrowed slightly.

"Destroy."

The specter stomped one foot lightly, as if in a brief fit of contrariness. And, in an event that one almost would insist had to be disconnected, the entire top of the pillar split in two under the heel of that foot, driving across in a chord to sever nearly a full third of the stone structure's size.

The great eye frowned at the girl, as her damage continued the path she had set for it, stone crying out in groans and splintering sounds. Within seconds, for as far as anyone could have cared to look, an entire side had been shorn from the stone, plummeting in shards and rough blocks into eternity.

"...fine. Yes, yes. Heart? Incapacitate."

With a gesture, a stone mallet formed in the specter's hand, brown and gritty looking with dull spikes projecting from the curved sides by either striking surface. She seemed to levitate gently up from what little stone remained under her, merely half of one foot supported, and darted forwards through the air as if thrown.

"She's a bit limited in some ways, but I think you'll find her adequate."

The hammer swung- and hit not the King, but slammed itself into the specter's face. There, it shattered entirely, spraying the both of them with jagged bits of rock. The specter, for her part, showed no sign of having even felt the blow or the hail of shrapnel proceeding it, instead continuing her arc with every clear intent of tackling the fiery-haired man completely off of all footing before he had dealt with his own share of rocks.

OoC: Righto, well my post will come soon as I can find some time between mid-terms to get it out. Have essays to write tommorrow but can probably squeeze it in then. Will take a different approach.

''You'll find no harder warrior against you-no point more sharp, more swift,
more slashing; no raven more ravenous, no hand more deft, no fighter more fierce, no one of his own age one third as good, no lion more ferocious; no barrier in battle, no hard hammer, no gate of battle, no soldier's doom, no hinderer of hosts, more fine. You will find no one there to measure against him-for youth or vigour; for apparel, horror or eloquence; for splendour, fame or form; for voice or strength or sternness; for cleverness, courage, or blows in battle; for fire or fury, victory, doom or turmoil; for , scheming or slaughter in the hunt; for swiftness, alertness, or wildness; and no one with the battle-feat 'nine men on each point'-none like Cuchulainn.''
- Fergus, The Táin

The great hound, the Cu Sith of the Irish underworlds, threw its shaggy head forward and snapped its jaws in a motion to erase the spectre's face from the cartography of its skull. The motion was a blur - and still did Cuchulainn reach "her" before it did. He was long come from his days as a youth where he had died on his feet at the point of his own spear. And even in death he had smote the hand of his killer, Lugaid mac Con Roi. No longer did his face blossom with the childish vigour and elegance of youth but the dignified handsomeness of a man, trimmed and bearded and fiery in the same fashion as his hair, and he was all the more horrifying for it. He was not simply the monster of a warrior he had been in his youth. Now he was an experienced, disciplined demi-god.

The shrapnel broke off his face, flaying the skin backwards across bone like the stroke of a pronged whip and blood matted the air - but fury seized him, and his forehead divided into thick lines and his lips twisted with wrath and he lunged forward into the storm without recoiling and his arms moved. His arms moved but the nature of their movement was unknown - they practically vanished from his torso - and the third weapon, the javelin, quivering and in a spray of blood seemed to grow from the spectre's upper-body above the collar bone, reflexively bending her over in agony and then Cuchulainn was upon her and he was terrible, murderous.

These were the hands which had slaughtered by the scores the united forces of Ancient Ireland, had torn limb from body and flesh from bone, had wielded every weapon to pass through the land like an extension of their arms, hands trained by Scathach, hands that had slain armies of heroes and champions in the fords of the Irish highlands and killed Fer Diad in single combat regardless of the warrior's unbreakable horn armour.

They met the spectre, even before the Cu Sith. His movements were without flaw and unhesitant. They rolled from him, and were homicidally beautiful - he was to carnage as a painter was to a virgin canvas. Her face came away fractured by the pounding of his forearms and his elbows cycled outwards from the same movements and pulled away her arms, stamping her ribs around the cage of her thorax. His palm came forward only once, a sinuous cable of muscle like the contracting of a striking python, and seized the shaft of the javelin (which still quivered, by God), pulling back with Herculean power. "Heart" was lifted clear over the king of heroes' head and shoulder and swung backwards from him. At some point the javelin snapped like kindling. She hit the stone and Cuchulainn didn't even look back.

He took a knee, and lifted onto the crown of his skull his vicious helm, turning about and slamming it over his face. The effect was monstrous - in the same likeness as the hoplite helms of Ancient Greece his face was distorted, made carnivorous and inhuman beneath the visor and mouth-piece, bathed in perpetual shadow. Despite its splendour and gleam it was the most frightening thing conceivable wielded properly. He lifted his chin and parted his lips, revealing his teeth in such a way that he was made even more demonic, and then he howled from the bowels of his lungs. His chest shuddered and his muscles quivered out from his bones -

"H-WUUUOOOOOOOOOO-"

His helm was designed for an ampitheatric acoustic construct on top of armouring his skull. Cuchulainn's roar exploded all around him, lifted from the pillar into the oblivion of the universe around them like a fell spirit - the stone vibrated, shuddered, and shook before becoming fractured and splintering around him, and answering to his yell came the voices of long-dead heroes and champions from antiquity beyond measure - he ran his cry with the guffawing of Beowulf and Siegfried and all the AEsir in the hallways of Val Halla, cried with Achilles and the corpse-champion Orion from the astres of olympian Greece, yelled alongside Gideon and Samson, all of them, and their ghosts seemed to dance around his crown-helm called to earth by his fury.

When he stopped screaming, the air shook for a long time still, and when everything fell silent it was alien sentiment, something forgotten.

"Bring your puppet to heel and fight me yourself, or when I have torn her asunder my spears and swords I will come for you." He boomed, not raising his voice, the simple weight of it alone its own thunder. The Cu Sith fell back on its haunches, gazing at the fallen spectre. He had howled, too. How could he not?

"Answer me."

//OoC: University is a difficult life and my schedule is busy without the homework, even. But let us continue.

Of course, you know... this means....

"Answer you, hm? Did you hear that?"

The mouth had gone now, but that titan eye in the immeasurate distance, that field of indigo around a circle of black, had been joined by a dark-brown eyebrow. The two things stood out against the eternal crystalline nothingness in stark contrast- not of color, but of presence- staring down upon Cu Chulainn with a gaze like the steady beat of a desert sun.

"The man is indignant. He feels himself cheated. Well, by all means, allow me to make sway to you, and give you all that you deserve."

Nobody spat. There was nobody there to spit. And most certainly, nobody would even begin to dare at spitting upon the warrior perfection that the hero-king embodied. The very concept was unfathomable.

There was saliva in his eye, and splattered across his helm.

To his credit the man did not flinch at this surprise. Nor did he at the sudden glare of the immense ocular phenomenon, its brow pressing down fit to obliterate fully one corner of it. His hound sniffed the air, turning to glance at where that phasm rent asunder dissipated into ether, but likewise was resolute, the sheer perfection of the thing as a killing machine leaving it no other course than the inherent- to be prepared for the beck of its master.

"You, you little child, had more than plenty of opportunity to come along. You watched me fall from that very platform you stand upon, and you decided I was not worth your time.

"Well, little mister Gerald Stewart. I think you need to realize what you managed to do.

"You've missed the ****ing train.

"Know this. I always forgive, you dwindling-point of perfection. Always. But I never, ever forget.

"HATE!" The girl's voice called out, in a brief shriek of calling. In the midst of the word, the eye shot wide, titanic tiny crimson veins standing out in the white of it as its eyebrow shot up.

And there was a speck in its eye. And then, it wasn't a speck.

What approached the top of the damaged and seemingly infinite tower of stone then looked for all the world to be one immense joke. At a glance, one might think it a dirigible of epic proportions, cunningly crafted so as to be underestimated.

Unfortunately, the first glance proved correct. The huge airship really was five submarines with huge rocket engines on the backs, the whole assembly held together with some randomly placed girders and plastic tubes. And it was heading straight for the warrior-king.

His dog bayed in response to something that even Cu Chulainn, for all his mightiness, could not hear. A slight motion from the hero and his hound was silent, though, as he felt something... unusual.

On sheer instinct, he whipped his ashen spear through the air above him, bringing the point down onto the stone and pinning his attacker there. Though he had not seen the attack coming, indeed had not even been looking the right direction to recieve it, he had felt the intent, and reacted. So, there, standing tall, he looked at what he had struck.

On the end of the spearpoint, a koala. A small, gray animal that looked quite ursine, with a large and almost beaky nose, and short insignificant limbs. Beady little black eyes peered back at the King of Heroes, and even he, for all his testosterone-inducing manliness, would have had to admit that it would have looked inoffensive. Simply a small tree-dweller.

Excepting, of course, the fact that it was gnawing on the leaf-blade of the spear with dozens of teeth installed in a mouth that nearly split through its head.

Quickly, Cu Chulainn pressed down with his weapon, severing the back of the thing's skull. As it died a-twitching, clawed fingers spasmically clenching at nothing, he turned to look up. For, he realized, he would now have to fight in the shade. Somehow, when he hadn't been looking, the impossible monstrosity called 'the Aeromarine' had moved to float nearly a mile above his helmed skull. He could see the gray-suited soldiers in their white booties and gloves scurrying back and forth through translucent plastic tubing. Sharp eyes detected the copious overwelding about the ends of the various girders, holding the ramshackle thing together not on a prayer and a hope, but through sheer overwhelming tenacity.

He could see what looked like dozens of koalas plummeting towards him, the drop-bears opening wide to try and latch on to anything- anything!- even remotely edible.

"Your choice." The voice said, scornfully. "You can stay here with the B-movie rejects, or you can follow me. You've given over the right to demand I go to you. Arrogant prat.

"By the by, the longer you take to choose, the farther away I get- and the more things I can summon that you will not like."

Perhaps Cu Chulainn would have commented. Perhaps, in his perfection as a hero, he would have found some way to simply leave. Maybe the universe would have rewritten itself that he might meet the true challenge instead of dismissing it.

And maybe Santa Claus is the product of an affair between the Tooth Fairy and the vile god Nurgle.

But there was no time to contemplate this- the bears were there.

Dozens of koala with mouths like gulper eels and teeth surely stolen from all the bluefin sharks that ever existed arrived, and the be-helmed warrior was forced to respond.

Poetic as a whirling haft might be considered, the Hero-King was not from East Asia, so when his weapon moved it was in the powerful jerk-and-thrust of a spearfisher who has abruptly discovered that his targets are suddenly somehow wearing jetpacks. That great hound moved with its own form, darting and savaging here and there, tearing out throats and ripping free limbs from the cuddly gray forms that had landed upon the rock. The entirety was...

...Well, one can be poetic, but frankness is always best. It was a ****ing mess. Drop bear intestines everywhere, gore running down the ashwood haft of the spear in veritable rivers, and the hound's mouth was a mess of orange-red ichor. Somewhere, in the midst of it all, one of the fiendish fuzzy critters latched its teeth into the canine's back, and its jaw worked slowly as it steadily sawed those vicious choppers through skin and then muscle, surely to sever even the hound's spine. Roll and thrash though it might, even when the dog ground its whole weight down upon the creature, it could not shake the interloper.

At last, the hail of toothy, fuzzy, huggable doom ended, and Cu Chulainn turned to his dog.

Even then, though, from above came the firing of tiny turbines as dozens of machines shaped like wombats wearing jetpacks flew down, each with its own set of .05 caliber turret-mounted machine guns. Clearly, it was time for strafing runs.

And as things did not seem to be getting any less hairy up there, the paragon of battle that was the Hero-King made his choice.

Am I seriously fighting an army of koalas.

Excuse me barging in... did I miss "TIME" being called in another dimension or did this... uhhh...? I don't know what is going on. XD *waits in confusion*

Time should have been called damn near a month ago.

COOL!! Thank you, repster... I shall finish up my Judgement then and you can expect it within a couple of days. *whistles happily*

Better late than never...

(Had it not been for Kargath, I wouldn't have remembered to check in last week even. Thanks very much for recalling that I have two brain cells and often forget things, Kargath. )





For the Final round, I was surprised...


Erdawn v.s Selene

Erdawn
Both of your posts were descriptive and I loved your character and his companion. Your besting of the spectre was well done and a nice piece of writing. I am sorry that you didn't continue.


Selene
I honestly enjoyed the beginning... it was somehow 'mystical' and held a lot of promise. However, I felt that you drew it out a fraction too long. I am also sorry, but I did not feel a connection with your chosen character, and being a reader, I feel that is an integral part of any narrative. The drop bear (refresher; koalas are marsupials) attack was innovative, to say the least.


To the both of you; I feel that I need to remind two seasoned Gunjin members that a "timed battle" is an opportunity to not only showcase your skills as talented writers, but also the time to showcase your character's personality and skills. Some times, it even goes as far as to share background, strengths and weaknesses... all of which combines sweetly to draw a reader in. I feel neither of you accomplished this successfully, in this case. This surprises me considering I am aware of what you are both capable of. :/


Erdawn: 6.1

Selene: 6.0


Final words; I also understand how things unexpectedly arise that interfere with the best laid plans. I hope whatever caused you both to discontinue this was sorted out. *gives you each a marshmallow*

Small note: I said it looked ursine, not was.

I was going to give my full evaluation with all the points awarded, but I found that you both did about equally well(or poorly) on a lot of the points, so I'll give you a quick layout of how I came to my decision.

Erdawn described his character well, and really got across his sense of being, but didn't really get a hold on the situation, partially because as Selene described it in the last post, things were a mess. I'm inclined to give Selene a higher score though, because although Erdawn had a cleaner, more structured stance, Selene was far more innovative and entertaining, and portrayed the warrior king quite well in Selene's posts. If Erdawn had gotten another post in, things very well may have been quite different though. This battle was far too short.

Erdawn: 7

Selene: 8

Final words: Selene, your nick change has been messing with my head since I started posting in the what ail's the gunjin thread, what brought that on? ;p OH, and since Heroine was shaving it by a tenth point, I thought of doing it by a tenth point myself, but I figured the third judge will avoid full points too, so it's really up to NintendoGod who takes home the prize, and if nintendo god waits over a month, you won't have a tie if you wanna force a win. Is there a prize? I didn't really read, I just figured the fact I postpone examining the fight until it's over, and have no bias against any of the competitors would make me an ideal judge and hopped on board. Maybe I should of put this in the discussion topic >_>.

*Four and a half months later...*

1) Selene vs. Erdawn (Most random exclamation: "H-WUUUOOOOOOOOOO-")

While it is a short fight, what is there is well written on both fronts, aside from some minor qualms. Selene's posts, despite being monstrous to almost a fault, remain interesting while still adding in plenty little humorous quirks. However, while the variety of characters she adds into the story as opponents are all well written and detailed, we never really get a sense of what Erdawn is supposed to be fighting. While that may be the intention, it makes the writing more convoluted in it's presentation and drops the quality a bit. Erdawn's posts, in contrast, are far more succinct in their delivery. His descriptions are remarkably well-made, his attacks are understandable, and he makes great use of metaphor. Yet, at some parts they come off a bit too straightforward, to the point of making parts, no matter how detailed, where nothing really happens. Overall, both seemed equal in terms of skill and detail, but Selene seemed a bit more interesting to read out of the two.

Selene: (8.5/10)
Erdawn: (8/10)

So, Mistalene wins, I guess? I dunno.
/me yawns and shuffles off to the polls forum

I don't come by much, but I'm glad that when I do, I can read a good thread out of all the mediocre writing that is on this board now.



To the both of you !!!