Fight Type: Battle
Prize: 50 signos per character from Official Day Court Account upon completion of the thread
Contact Made: Yes
Character #1: @Jask
Bonded: None
Magic: None
Armor: None
Weapons: None
Current Health: 8
Current Attack: 12
Current Experience: 11
Character #2: @Helios
Bonded: None
Magic: Wing summoning (passive)
Armor: None
Weapons: 10ft ironwood and gold-plated steel spear
Current Health: 8
Current Attack: 12
Current Experience: 11
Prize: 50 signos per character from Official Day Court Account upon completion of the thread
Contact Made: Yes
Character #1: @Jask
Bonded: None
Magic: None
Armor: None
Weapons: None
Current Health: 8
Current Attack: 12
Current Experience: 11
Character #2: @
Bonded: None
Magic: Wing summoning (passive)
Armor: None
Weapons: 10ft ironwood and gold-plated steel spear
Current Health: 8
Current Attack: 12
Current Experience: 11
the harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved
The Circle does not preach temperance; it does not preach honor, or strength, or pride.
The Circle sings hymns only to fear, to blood, to the end of all things. The Circle preaches only their deep-set hatred, their unquestioning obedience to the church, their blind and bitter pain.
It is with this thought in his head that Jask stares at the gray-brown stone of the floor as he waits. The room is dark, its walls lit only by torches and the small, square windows that peek into the arena. Through them Jask can hear battle, the clang of sword on shield and the telltale clatter of hoof and horn and tooth. Further still is the swelling crowd, trickling in for the festival from Denocte, from Delumine, from Terrastella, though the majority of it is Solterran, a people returned to their roots after years wandering in the proverbial desert of tyranny.
When the notice went up, when Jask heard that the doors would be open, that the sand would be cleared and the fights would be held-- it was one of the few times that his curiosity was louder than his sanctimony.
--but, as he had been thinking, the Church does not care about Colosseums. It does not care about blood sport the roar of the crowd and the bleak heat of the desert. Jask does. It is possibly one of the only things Jask loves on his own. It is perhaps the only thing that makes him yearn.
The call goes out. The crank turns. The doors open. With a cloud of dust and a rush of hot air, the arena unfolds before him and Jask steps into its center like it is such a natural thing to do. The crowd does not scream like it had for the tournament matches, but it does cheer-- loud, joyous, a glorious return to form for a warrior kingdom. It is loud enough that they don't hear Jask, as he walks:
"Let the blade pass through the flesh,
Let my blood touch the ground,
Let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice."
--which is just as well, because it is not to their gods that he prays. It is not to Solis that Jask turns when he lifts his eyes to the sun. If he had it in him to be proud, he might. Instead Jask turns to his opponent, first the red eyes, then the milky white one. It stares at Helios, unblinking and cold and dull.
Jask smiles like it is practiced. Jack bows low both out of respect and to drag the blood-red spear of his horn through the sand, drawing a jagged line through the carefully raked sand. Helios is a soldier, he hears, at least two hands taller than Jask, with skin like clay and eyes like a predator's eyes.
Jask tilts his head again, points his horn at the man's chest. It is a threat, more than a promise. The crowd makes a scandalized sound at his back--and Jask, as always, is unmoved.
jask
The Circle sings hymns only to fear, to blood, to the end of all things. The Circle preaches only their deep-set hatred, their unquestioning obedience to the church, their blind and bitter pain.
It is with this thought in his head that Jask stares at the gray-brown stone of the floor as he waits. The room is dark, its walls lit only by torches and the small, square windows that peek into the arena. Through them Jask can hear battle, the clang of sword on shield and the telltale clatter of hoof and horn and tooth. Further still is the swelling crowd, trickling in for the festival from Denocte, from Delumine, from Terrastella, though the majority of it is Solterran, a people returned to their roots after years wandering in the proverbial desert of tyranny.
When the notice went up, when Jask heard that the doors would be open, that the sand would be cleared and the fights would be held-- it was one of the few times that his curiosity was louder than his sanctimony.
--but, as he had been thinking, the Church does not care about Colosseums. It does not care about blood sport the roar of the crowd and the bleak heat of the desert. Jask does. It is possibly one of the only things Jask loves on his own. It is perhaps the only thing that makes him yearn.
The call goes out. The crank turns. The doors open. With a cloud of dust and a rush of hot air, the arena unfolds before him and Jask steps into its center like it is such a natural thing to do. The crowd does not scream like it had for the tournament matches, but it does cheer-- loud, joyous, a glorious return to form for a warrior kingdom. It is loud enough that they don't hear Jask, as he walks:
"Let the blade pass through the flesh,
Let my blood touch the ground,
Let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice."
--which is just as well, because it is not to their gods that he prays. It is not to Solis that Jask turns when he lifts his eyes to the sun. If he had it in him to be proud, he might. Instead Jask turns to his opponent, first the red eyes, then the milky white one. It stares at Helios, unblinking and cold and dull.
Jask smiles like it is practiced. Jack bows low both out of respect and to drag the blood-red spear of his horn through the sand, drawing a jagged line through the carefully raked sand. Helios is a soldier, he hears, at least two hands taller than Jask, with skin like clay and eyes like a predator's eyes.
Jask tilts his head again, points his horn at the man's chest. It is a threat, more than a promise. The crowd makes a scandalized sound at his back--and Jask, as always, is unmoved.
Summary: Jask enters the arena and walks to its center, praying as he does. Jask then draws a line in the sand in front of him, then points the tip of his horn at Helios' chest as a vague threat.
Attack Used: 0
Attack(s) Left: 2
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used:
Response Deadline: June 13, 2020
Tags: @Helios, @Sid, @inkbone, @nestle, @aimless, @layla
Attack Used: 0
Attack(s) Left: 2
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used:
Response Deadline: June 13, 2020
Tags: @
