Character #1: @ipomoea Bonded: Odet, Steller’s Jay Magic: Nature Spirit Armor: N/A Weapons: N/A Current Health: 35 Current Attack: 25 Current Experience: 65
Character #2: @asterion Bonded: Cirrus, Pallas’ Gull Magic: Water Manipulation Armor: N/A Weapons: N/A Current Health: 52 Current Attack: 48 Current Experience: 90
with our secret pact
It is a warm spring day, with a sweet, southerly breeze to refresh the mind and white, pillowy clouds scattered about to decorate the sky. A perfect day, to the naked eye.
But to Ipomoea, the air on the mainland felt noticeably cooler than the air on the island from whence he came. It was like stepping into a different world entirely, one that was considerably dull and lifeless in comparison. Ipomoea had harbored a fascination of the island since the day he first set hoof upon it, marveling at its wonders and allowing himself to be drawn in deeper by its charm each day. The island felt more a home to him now than Novus. Any longer and he might have lost himself within its fantasy, and then he would never have found his way back; so perhaps it is good that he has returned.
The plants of the earth greet him as their old friend as he does, wildflowers blossoming within his hoofprints in streaks of blue and orange and white. Here in his presence, the grasses of the steppe stand up straight and tall, their once dry and broken stalks turning from yellow to green and snapping with youth. All around him the world takes on a little more color, a little more vibrancy - as if Ipomoea has brought a small part of the island back with him.
And over them all the shadow of Veneror looks on like a silent, brooding giant, as if a reminder that the gods, while distant, remain present all the same. But whether they looked on in judgement, or approval, he could not be sure.
He supposes it doesn’t matter in the end.
Once, he may have been nervous walking to the Bellum Steppe with the knowledge that in a matter of hours, he would undoubtedly be walking away with bruised and even bloodied skin. But he has changed since his last visit to the rugged plains.
The Ipomoea who came here today was not the same boy who had come here last winter.
Now he walks with a purpose, flower-crowned head held high despite the trembling that has found a home inside of his ribs. He hides it well now, his fickle heart. He is learning how to be strong, how to be brave
His wings stretch out slowly, gingerly sweeping the ground and stirring the air about his feet. The breeze whistles softly through the steppe, bending the grasses on their long, thin stalks. They shudder and stoop low to the earth - and they begin to whisper. He’s here, they say without words, shivering with barely contained delight. And when Ipomoea looks towards where they point, his rose-colored eyes fall upon the king.
“Asterion,” his voice is as soft as the delicate petals of the flowers that spring to life beneath his hooves. His words are followed by a smile, and he steps forward to meet his opponent. Odet is circling above them, blue wings spread wide, calling out a warbly greeting of his own.
Ipomoea inclines his head subtly, sweeping into a small bow. “Your move.” It is more of a command than a question.
And his wings slowly fold, tucking themselves about his slender, spotted ankles, in preparation of what was to come.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
i say, stay in there
don’t be sad
@asterion ! i'd like to apologize in advance
this thread will be full of me figuring out how to write po in battle mode
”here am i!“
Maybe it shouldn’t surprise him, the way the island clings to his thoughts like barnacles, like salt to skin. It holds a rare fascination for him, each marvelous beast and whiff of magic its own kind of captor. There is, too, the feeling it gives him of reality suspended, all his worries and woes and hopes for Terrastella left on the mainland. And there is Raum, elusive, leaving him a frustrated hunter with his work undone.
It is the silver stallion he thinks of now, neglectful of the beauty of the day, of the wildflowers that bloom and shiver in the breeze. How has the murderer-king slipped the nooses of so many? Asterion has never been a violent man - but what good were the peaceful dead?
The trek to Bellum Steppe passes quickly, and though there is no war-cry on his tongue the magic within him is fitful, a choppy sea, a building wave. At last the Dusk king regards Ipomoea from across the field and wonders what revelations the stallion will have for him.
Once he might have thought this battle easy, facing off against a man with a similar kind of softness to himself, but Asterion has learned better by now. Each step further into the hallowed ground brings to mind the others he’s faced here, and the surprises they had paid him. He thinks of Katniss with her steady strength and the eagle that gave him his tattered ear; of Marisol with her proud wings and the spear that left a thin skein of scar along his side. All these battles he has fought for no cause but scars and wisdom. One day, he knows, the stakes will be higher. That is why he returns, again and again, despite the memory of the sting of scrapes and the ache of battered bones and the bright copper scent of blood.
It is not so difficult to imagine Po is here for the same reason.
Despite his heavy shroud of thoughts, the bay matches his opponent’s smile, then lifts his gaze to include the jay in his welcome. His own companion is a splash of white far overhead, little for now but an observing eye. “Ipomoea,” he answers, and the smile fades again like foam back into the sea. Asterion does not echo the stallion’s bow; he only watches, attentive to each curve of muscle, to the graceful fold of wings on Po’s feet.
Your move, the appaloosa says, but Asterion is already moving, lunging low toward those feathered feet before the syllables fade from the springtime air. They are already close, separated by a matter of feet easily swallowed up by his strike. The bay aims his hooves for Ipomoea’s slender white-speckled forelegs, expecting the cherry bay to be swift enough to evade him. But there is little chance that Po can move out of the way entirely, so close were they standing. Whether or not his blow lands, he anticipates a collision of skin to skin, with his chest or shoulder a ram to shove Po off his center of gravity.
Asterion knows how difficult it is to fight back when you’ve lost your balance, and every moment spent regaining it might mean a missed opportunity.
@Ipomoea I have full faith in him <3
Summary: Asterion's thoughts are still on the island, and of the necessity of battle. He arrives, walks forward to meet Po, and lunges for his forelegs as soon as Po says "your move."
He isn’t waiting long - and yet, it’s long enough for the flowers to start creeping their way up his legs, their trembling petals reaching for his heart. Overhead more birds appear, songbirds and finches and crows, flitting back and forth across the sky. He thinks he can hear something prowling through the trees that line the edge of the field, something watching from within the shadows. And yet every time he turns his head to look, he sees only the trees, waving at him from afar.
The feeling of being watched grows stronger with every passing second - it was magic at the root of it all, he knows. His magic, the island’s magic, Novus’ magic, running through his veins and the veins of the entire world. Once, when he was a foal, he had thought magic to be the gift of the god’s - as rare as a Juliet rose.
Now he knows better. If the world were a body, its blood would be composed of magic, shaping it from within.
He wonders idly, as the bay man comes to a stop, how that magic would shape them today. There was no doubt in his mind that it would have a place in their battle; how could it not, when they were carved from the same vein?
Ipomoea had expected to feel nervous today, when facing down his opponent - his first opponent. But he surprises surprises himself with his repose. There was tension still, lingering in his muscles and stretching in the space left between each heartbeat. But his mind is a river, clear and flowing. All thoughts of the gods and the island dissipated the moment Asterion came into view.
He watches him now, as he draws close and stops. Ipomoea recognizes the look in the bay king’s eyes, for it’s the same look that colors his own vision. There’s a dangerous edge to it, to the way Asterion’s gaze seems to see through his flesh and bones. Ipomoea has only time to find his expression unreadable, to realize he can’t anticipate what he’ll do next - before the fight begins.
The king lunges for his legs, as quick as a bolt of lightning splitting a tree, and instinct takes over. Ipomoea rears into the air, drawing his front legs up and away - but not before a blade of pain tracks its way down his foreleg. He is not fast enough, not skilled enough, to avoid the other man’s strike completely; his hooves scrape the outside of one fetlock, tearing away skin and feathers alike in a thin line. But he has only a second to comprehend the attack, just enough time for his nerves to scream in surprise, before Asterion’s body slams into his.
He’s already rising up, his weight shifted to his back legs as he pivots, when the bay man’s shoulder catches his heart girth. Asterion is pushing into him, lifting him higher into the air, shoving him off balance, and it leaves him scrambling. His small wings flare, although one cries out in protest, drooping sadly against his fetlock. His front legs reach out for purchase, and all they meet is empty air.
The magic begins to burn his veins with hunger.
And the earth responds.
The grasses beneath their hooves begin to grow even as their bodies make contact, climbing their way into the air. In the blink of an eye they’re as tall as the horses’ knees - and Ipomoea distantly feels the way it saps his energy, the way the magic seems to draw directly from his lifeblood. But he cannot take it back, he cannot stop the way it draws from him like a leech, and then runs wild as if it’s a separate entity, as if it has a mind of its own.
The stalks weave themselves together into braids with a dry rustling sound. They scratch at the bay man’s legs, striving to wrap their arms around him, to drag him down into the soft bed they’ve made. And he can’t tell if they mean to trip or strangle his opponent, for they do not seem to know the difference.
To fight without magic, he would learn, was the same as attempting to fly with his misplaced wings.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
i say, stay in there
don’t be sad
@asterion !
i needed an extra day too, aha
”here am i!“
Summary: Ipomoea is not expecting Asterion’s quick attack. He rears by instinct, but is not fast enough: Asterion’s hooves rake down one fetlock at the wing joint, and his shoulder slams into his girth. Ipomoea is thrown off balance and as he begins to fall, his magic attacks. The grasses around them grow taller and longer, braiding themselves into ropes that seek to wrap around Asterion’s legs. Whether they simply trip him or tear him down, or whether they can even grip about Asterion’s body, has yet to be seen.
It is, perhaps, his favorite thing about battles - the way everything happens at once, the way there is hardly any time for thinking and everything unfolds as instinct and action.
One moment he’s lunging into action, the next there is barely time to pray the meeting of hooves and skin does not hurt Po too badly. One moment Po is rising up and up and their breathing is a hazy rush in his ears and there is the pressure of body-to-body - and the next he is being caught, snared like a fox or a hare.
Switchgrass and cord grass, bluestem and rye: all reach for him, braiding themselves together around his legs, and if he paused to look he would find them blooming like the flowers in Florentine’s hair, unveiling color like popping fireworks. But Asterion is not looking. Though he is still pulling and thrashing against the vines, though his eyes are on the other stallion, what he sees is water. A great and churning sea, bubbling and thrashing and building, far away in his mind’s eye (and in his heart, or his veins, or wherever it is the magic grows and changes and makes).
Dimly he is aware of blades of grass with the strength of hands wrapping around his knees, climbing toward his barrel. Asterion inhales deeply (soil and springtime air, a sharp grassiness and the tang of magic) and the pool he pictures falls still. He breathes out (a trio of vines anchors his left hind leg) and thinks rise.
The water obeys. Up and up it comes rushing from the deep earth, where springtime rains have swelled the water table. The ground beneath him grows spongy, and Ipomoea’s roots lose purchase as the soil is flooded. At the same time (now leaves are tickling his belly, now a thick stem touches his shoulder like a hand) there is water being drawn from the grasses and the leaves and the air itself, wrung out of everything living and inanimate to collect at Asterion’s feet. Liquid collects on his own body like sweat, rolls slowly down his back and shoulders and the bridge of his nose. Without water in their cells the grasses become brittle and dry, autumn chaff; when he heaves himself again, sending up a great spray of water and mud, they do not so much fall away as shatter and dissolve like they have been a thousand years without rain.
Only then does he look up, chest heaving, to see what the results of such a dehydration are on Ipomoea. The king had flung out the attack in a wide range, acting on impulse alone, but he has never pulled water from the cells of another creature - would his friend be dizzy, fatigued, muscles cramping, organs failing? The bay doesn’t know how long it’s been since those vines first wound around his hooves, seconds or minutes or longer.
Now he stands in a pool of water rapidly soaking back into the ground, watching the appaloosa, his body trembling from exertion but the magic in him rejoicing.
@Ipomoea
Summary: When the plants begin to seize him, Asterion uses his magic to draw all the water around them out and to him. It soaks the roots of the plants and squeezes out of the cells of the grasses themselves (and Ipomoea, if he is close enough), leaving them brittle and weak enough to escape from. Once he does, Asterion looks up to see what the effect of his magic has been on Po.
***EDIT: wrote down the wrong deadline at first, now fixed!
with our secret pact
The grass is still growing, reaching for the bay man’s fragile legs even as Ipomoea struggles - and fails - to regain his balance. For a brief moment both horses are tumbling down and down and down, the ground rising up quickly to meet them.
While Asterion would find only roots and coarse blades reaching for his throat, Ipomoea lands upon a soft bed of flowers that swaddle themselves around him like an embrace. For a moment he thinks only about staying there, of allowing those petals to cover him completely and shelter him from the battle, from the world, from his worries.
But the thought is fleeting, passing quickly from his mind. And when it does, the adrenaline overtakes him once more.
The world turns itself upside-down for a second as he rolls away from Asterion, his small wings pressing themselves tightly against his fetlocks, his legs striking at the earth and sky. Suddenly they’re underneath him again, finding purchase in the dirt. With a bit of a struggle he pulls himself up, digging his hooves into the ground. He hardly notices the way the soil floods and water pools to its surface, for he’s already gathering himself up and moving. His mouth feels dry as he canters away, but he easily mistakes it for the effect of his own magic - not of Asterion’s.
A few strides later he slows and turns, just in time to see the way the grasses wilt and crumble to dust around the dusk king’s feet.
His first thought is one of sadness - in an instant the life of the plants has been ended, and a circle of death cries out to him as a stain upon the battlefield. He shouldn’t be surprised; what else is the Bellum Steppe known for, if not for death? Countless horses have lost their lives here, many more just barely escaped. Surely the death of a few grasses should be the least of his worries.
But his second thought arises from confusion, for he had not known water magic to work in such a way. It was a mistake on his end, one that he will remember.
He stands there for a moment too long, watching his friend struggle to breathe, noticing how sweat and water become one and roll off of his body in sheets. His own breath catches, and he takes a single, uncertain step forward. Ipomoea’s mind is in turmoil now, knowing the battle should be continuing, but at a loss to understand how. His thoughts crash and grind to a halt, and he is frozen in place.
It takes several heartbeats, he isn’t sure how many, for him to start moving again. He lopes slowly forward, hesitantly at first, but swiftly gaining both speed and determination. The wind tears at his eyes and whips his mane behind him while the ground grows soggy and spongy under hoof.
Asterion’s magic reaches out for him the closer he gets. His eyes begin to burn and his mouth tastes like cotton, like a riverbed drying up in the desert sun. He falters a step as his muscles seize up, his heart skipping a beat alongside his legs. As the dehydration sets in and his mind grows foggy, all he can think is to continue on. He opens his stride into a gallop, and aims his shoulder for Asterion’s as the distance finally closes between them.
He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he misses; perhaps he’ll simply continue on past the bay until he crumbles from exhaustion into the dirt. But there’s a savage inside of him that he doesn’t recognize, and it hopes for a collision of skin on skin, and it wants to see Asterion be the one who falls to the ground.
And that part of him prays he doesn’t get back up so easily.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
Summary: As the grasses continue to grow from his magic, Ipomoea falls to the ground (still off balance from Asterion’s first attack.) He twists himself upright and canters away to watch Asterion break free. For a second he’s confused and undecided, before he pulls himself together and charges in the same fashion as Asterion had only moments before (because he’s inexperienced and doesn’t really know what else to do). I assumed Asterion’s magic was at least partially in effect during this, so as Ipomoea closes in he begins to become dehydrated and lethargic, but he does not stop. He attempts to shoulder-check his opponent and knock an already-fatigued Asterion to the ground, this time (he hopes) for good.
The Dusk King, too, loses track of time; there are plants that bloom and grow and wither and die, storms that rise from the soil like a soaking rain in reverse, and somewhere over the island the sun is standing still.
Now he is clear of what remains of the grasses and weeds (though he remembers the feeling of them, wound around his legs, crawling up toward his throat), his body slick with water, and he looks up to find Ipomoea racing toward him. Even as he falters, even as his steps stutter and lengthen again, Asterion thinks no time. The use of so much of his magic over the last days is taking its toll; his cells seem to be sighing, begging for rest. Not yet.
Each of the appaloosa’s steps is throwing up a spray of water and mud, but the bay can still feel the reverberations of them through the soil. The instinctive part of his mind urges him to run, but the ground is slick, a tangle of weeds and water, and the king only squares his shoulders and lowers his head. There are seconds between them now, and his heartbeat tolls like a bell as he waits for impact.
But above him, Cirrus is falling like a star.
The big gull does not wait; her wailing cries had gone unheard as her bonded struggled out from vines and flowers and the man in cherry-red began to run. Now she plummets like a hawk, eyes vivid-bright against the black of her head, pale wings tucked with their edges tipped in black like a Halcyon cadet. Closer and closer grows Ipomoea to her king, and closer and closer she dives for Ipomoea; as Asterion turns to face him (noble fool) she hears nothing but the wind whistling in her ears as the ground rushes up to meet her. And then!
With the precision of an osprey diving for fish she pulls out of the dive, flapping her five-foot wingspan and screaming in the painted man’s face.
Asterion’s heart is caught in his throat to see his bonded plunge down and down and down. Or maybe it is there, with her, for it seems to him he can hear the roar of wind in his ears (or maybe it is only the sound of blood, rushing through). He wants to cry Don’t!, wants to look away from what carnage will occur, but he cannot look away from their impact.
The collision never comes. As the ground shakes below his feet with Ipomoea’s hoofbeats, as he stands like a fool in his path, Cirrus spreads her wings and cries out in a voice that is terrible, rough-throated - but she stays out of the path of the other man. Only a distraction, not a sacrifice. Surely the appaloosa will shy away from the eagle-sized gull now making herself a nuisance around his head (or at least startle and readjust), but whether or not he does Asterion, at least, comes to his senses, lunging out the path of the oncoming stallion. He is spattered with mud and water and torn-up vegetation, but unscathed, escaped.
When Cirrus soars up again and away, the king can feel the dirty look she shoots him. Taut with adrenaline and fatigue, all the bay can do is laugh.
As he crosses to Po, that first hardness is gone from his dark eyes. There is concern, and wariness, and a kind of warmth - but a part of him wonders if it had been enough, that taste of battle. Little skin, little blood, few bruises; would it be enough, when the time came?
It will, thinks Cirrus, once again nothing more than white shape in a blue sky. Because it’s not only bodies. It’s magic, and love.
He does not quite smile, when he approaches the other man and slows to a stop. But his eyes are regaining their gleam when he says “That’s quite a gift you have.”
@Ipomoea
Summary: Asterion is standing there like a dummy when Cirrus decides to intervene; she plummets and then opens her wings and makes a racket right next to Po's head as he's charging (theoretically) throwing him off course. Regardless, her actions are a wake-up call to Asterion, who lunges out of the way, using a block to avoid impact.
Ipomoea doesn’t see the gull, dropping towards him like a stone ready to strike; he may never have seen it, if it were not for Odet’s voice in his mind, screaming at him to look up.
At first all he sees is a blue sky, bluer than the Terminus sea surrounding the island; then a darker blue, a black streak, slender wings flying across his vision. The steller’s jay dives at Cirrus, his small talons reaching for any feathers he can hold onto. Trying to slow her down would be a futile attempt; so instead he makes himself an annoyance to her, and his harsh warbles echoing through the air are for his bonded’s ears alone.
So at the last minute he swerves, mud and water splashing alongside his legs as he carves a semi circle around Asterion and away from the seagull’s spread wings. He realizes only too late that she stopped early, as well; and by the time he circles back around the bay is already out of his range.
But it’s the laughter that has him slowing his canter, turning to face his friend, and it’s contagious. It doesn’t take long before he’s laughing too, and the sound is delirious and relieved and Ipomoea is utterly pleased with himself. Even if he didn’t win, even if the taste of battle wasn’t what he had been expecting, and he walked away with far less bruises and blood than he had thought, even if a small part of him suspected Asterion had taken it easy on him. Still as he trotted over to the Dusk King.
”Thank you,” he tells him, and lets it be for both his comment and the battle. ”That was… a good fight.” And then he laughs some more, because of how absurd the words feel when he says them.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
i say, stay in there
don’t be sad
@asterion !
didn’t include the code because this is just a closer c:
As Cirrus harries Po, and Odet harries Cirrus, and Asterion watches, and all of them at last come to a halt - all his tension runs away like water, leaving him laughing like a boy.
He is grateful when the other man joins him (it makes him feel a little less like a madman, or a fool) and he shakes his head, spraying droplets of water and bits of plants, and butts his star-marked forehead gently against Ipomoea’s shoulder. The touch is brief but heartfelt, a brotherly clap of a hand on a back, before the king is leaning away again, surveying the empty field before them. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little relieved not to have another scar in the making,” he says, and his grin sobers into a smile. When his dark eyes meet his friend’s they are considering, returning to thoughts of woes and wonders, all the things in their strange world that is growing stranger yet.
“If you want to spar again,” he says, “maybe something more physical, I’d be honored to meet you here again.” Then he thinks of the others he’s met on the Steppe, and the scars and lessons they’d left him with, and his mouth curls once more into a rueful grin. “Though I can also recommend some partners far more skilled than I.”
The king glances up at Cirrus, and tilts his muzzle toward home. And then, alongside the painted man, he walks from the battlefield, leaving nothing but footprints, and torn soil, and bright spots of fallen wildflowers.
@Ipomoea
08-07-2019, 12:24 PM
Played by
aimless [PM] Posts: 6 — Threads: 0 Signos: 1,580
26/30 -- Based on creativity of your offense (originality, imagination, and attention to detail).
2nd post: i think his use of magic is fairly creative and makes sense given the circumstances; when you are off-balance, you scramble to grab onto the nearest thing, and in this case the nearest stable thing was his magic. i also liked the attention to detail in how you incorporated the dry grasses you described in your first intro post into his attack
3rd post: not a very original attack (as you mention, asterion just did this lol), but the description of the mental and physical effects of his dehydration was thorough and detailed
24/25 -- Based on realism of your offense (mechanics and whether you accurately reflect your Health and Attack)
2nd post: i will say at first i thought the grasses were growing to support po’s legs, but a second, more thorough read made it clear this was an attack
3rd post: despite not being a very creative attack, it was quite realistic given po’s inexperience with battles
Blocks 25/30
11/15 -- Based on creativity of your defense (originality, imagination, and attention to detail)
2nd post: n/a
3rd post: not especially creative, but was still well-described and easy to visualize
14/15 -- Based on realism of your defense (mechanics and whether you accurately reflect your Health and Attack)
2nd post: n/a
3rd post: falling into the bed of plants and rolling away from his opponent seem pretty par for the course and realistic to me
Writing Metrics 14/15
5/5 -- Based on overall writing creativity (originality, imagination, and attention to detail)
1st post: i enjoyed your description of the setting here; especially how po’s perception of it reflects how he’s changed
2nd post: this was a well-written post, and the feeling of being watched in the beginning is intriguing
3rd post: “His first thought is one of sadness - in an instant the life of the plants has been ended”, a great reminder of po’s character and “He shouldn’t be surprised; what else is the Bellum Steppe known for, if not for death?”, a great reminder of how he’s changing
5/5 -- Based on overall realism (physical mechanics and whether you accurately reflect your Health, Attack, Magic Level, and Bonded)
1st post: n/a
2nd post: i think the exertion he feels and the small scale of the nature manipulation supports his magic level
3rd post: i was worried po wouldn’t fall, but it’s here! a good detail for the realism of this thread
4/5 -- Based on writing metrics (spelling, grammar, punctuation, run-on sentences, etc)
1st post: a few minute grammatical technicalities, but nothing that distracted from the content or flow of the post
2nd post: just one thing i noticed—“but he surprises surprises himself with his repose”
3rd post: didn’t notice anything here
@asterion - Total: 86/100
Attacks 46/55
22/30 -- Based on creativity of your offense (originality, imagination, and attention to detail).
1st post: I think you could have been more creative here, if only in using a more strategic mindset—asterion is looking at po’s feet right before he attacks, which could easily aid po in dodging this
2nd post: i think this was a very creative attack and a great use of his magic
3rd post: n/a
24/25 -- Based on realism of your offense (mechanics and whether you accurately reflect your Health and Attack)
1st post: this seemed a pretty realistic attack to me, in both his intention and his expectation to still collide shoulder-to-chest if his initial strike missed
2nd post: i was a bit confused at how he was simultaneously hydrating and dehydrating, but the distinction between flooding the soil and dehydrating the plants themselves became clear
3rd post: n/a
Blocks 26/30
12/15 -- Based on creativity of your defense (originality, imagination, and attention to detail)
2nd post: n/a
3rd post: cirrus’ distraction seems to narrowly avoid an attack here, though i’m glad you chose to use all his available resources
14/15 -- Based on realism of your defense (mechanics and whether you accurately reflect your Health and Attack)
2nd post: n/a
3rd post: asterion’s exhaustion seems realistic in preventing him from being quick enough to come up with something himself i guess hahaha
Writing Metrics 14/15
5/5 -- Based on overall writing creativity (originality, imagination, and attention to detail)
1st post: the metaphors you use here are lovely, and i appreciate how they’re all tied together by a cohesive language of the sea
2nd post: a well-written post, and i enjoyed the creativity you displayed here
3rd post: “Asterion’s heart is caught in his throat to see his bonded plunge down and down and down. Or maybe it is there, with her, for it seems to him he can hear the roar of wind in his ears”—great imagery and evocation of anxiety
5/5 -- Based on overall realism (physical mechanics and whether you accurately reflect your Health, Attack, Magic Level, and Bonded)
1st post: this post seemed realistic to me in terms of his attack
2nd post: his attack was quite complex in terms of magic, but it is backed by his masterful magic level
3rd post: realistic usage of his bonded
4/5 -- Based on writing metrics (spelling, grammar, punctuation, run-on sentences, etc)
1st post: there were a few sentences that didn’t read smoothly, especially “whether or not his blow lands, he anticipates a collision of skin to skin, with his chest or shoulder a ram to shove Po off his center of gravity”
All damage taken in the thread is still applicable and cannot be retconned!
Participate in a Battle or Challenge: +1 EXP to ipomoea, +1 EXP to asterion
Win a Battle: +1 additional EXP to ipomoea
Total: +2 EXP to ipomoea +1 EXP to asterion
Ipomoea's and Asterions's official experience has been updated to reflect these changes, so there's no need to post in the Experience Updates thread!
