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Join Date: Feb 2006
Posts: 654
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Fight Scene, Fantasy. - 600 words
Just another one of those fight scenes I pop out my bum every full moon for my novel. The two characters, already introduced earlier, are dueling for control of a country (Jotunheim, the ice land). Emissary/dryad covered in bandages is the former ruler, and Wintermule/general of Niflheim is a semi-immortal with arms and legs carved from glaciers. Teehee. Jacques is just a referee.
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Jacques frowned. "It seems we have a conflict of interest. I believe the most common way to settle such a dispute is through hand-to-hand combat, no weapons. Besides the necessary arms. Brute force only."
"Agreed," said Emissary, smiling.
"Agreed," said Wintermule. No hesitation or betrayal of emotion.
Emissary eyed the glacier arms. There were most likely a hundred little gadgets encased within, but they would be useless within the boundaries of the rules.
"Then," said Jacques, "you may begin."
Wintermule was already moving before the sephira had finished speaking. He crossed the few feet separating him and Emissary and held his arms out as if to grapple. The dryad moved forward to oblige, but when the it clasped its left hand with Wintermule's, the general's other hand shot forward and slammed into Emissary's chest. The dryad stumbled, regained its balance. Instead of charging, Wintermule lifted his hands in a boxing stance and stepped forward.
The next few seconds was a trading of fists, blue and red, leading to a few minor contacts. Wintermule backed away and circled. A fusillade of snaps as he cracked his neck. He darted forward and Emissary grappled with him, neither gaining an inch. They remained like that for a few moments, straining, before Wintermule slipped out of the grip, interposed his arms between Emissary's forearms, and thrust them aside.
A cold, cold hand smashed into the dryad's chin. Emissary threw out a half-hearted kick as it stumbled, which was blocked with a savage downward thrust of the palm. Still, no bones broke, and the dryad managed to stumble away.
"Surrender?" said Wintermule. His foot drew a crescent infront of him, as if he was marking his territory. "I have the unfair advantage of a full stomach and a full night's sleep."
Emissary launched itself forward and threw everything it had at the bastard; spinning, unpredictability, strength and flexibility, feints and spins, various kicks rightside-up and upside-down. One of Wintermule's arms or legs was always there, an impenetrable shield of cold in the middle of a whirlwind of arms and legs. Then a punch made it through, an open palm hitting the frames of the general's sapphire glasses.
Wintermule stumbled back and Emissary moved forward. But by some trick, some illusion of the light, he had not stumbled as far as it seemed, and his fist snapped through Emissary's defense. The fist connected, snapping Emissary's head back; the dryad kicked out reflexively. Wintermule caught the leg by the foot and thigh, spun, and threw the dryad. Emissary went with the motion and landed in a crouch, propped up by an arm.
The general laughed, the glazed docility of a hundred years of servitude vanished, replaced with a species of feral nirvana. This was the Wintermule that led a regiment of Knights in the Jotunheim Imbroglio; the creature who faced the battalion of the enemy, his father, Vizoaro Ulranno, and escaped with his life but none of his dignity.
This reborn creature, a coldfire phoenix, shadowboxed for a moment as Emissary regained its footing. Then he charged forward, head lowered, feathery hair whipping behind him, arms pumping. Exhilarated. Before the dryad could react, he was there, performing the same series of kicks Emissary had attempted on him earlier. The dryad stumbled around, trying to ignore the jolts of pain as it intercepted the kicks with its own legs or with its forearms.
The barrage ended and the general stepped back, circled the dryad. He ran his pinky fingers along his temples, smoothing back the hair. Pompous. Confident. He started forward. Emissary flinched.
Wintermule grinned. "Jacques?"
"It appears the match is over," said Jacques. "Wintermule is the winner by knockout. Or the possibility of one, pulled for either the sake of being a gentleman, or as mockery."
Emissary stood in shock. That quickly.
"Avaunt, pseudo-Capoeira! I have no batizado in my cold grip of death." Smiling, Wintermule stepped away and attempted to remove his glasses. When they did not come off, he strained, but Emissary's palm had embedded them deep into the bridge of his nose. That, at least, was something worth losing a kingdom for.
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"A terrible energy and strength began to grow in him. It grabbed his emotions and forged them into a solid bar of anger with one word stamped on it: revenge." - Eragon by Christopher Paolini, an international bestseller
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