Written by | Posted September 8, 2015 – 9:51 pm Descent and Ascent

It didn’t take long to get from Thunder Bluff to the Echo Isles – Ankona took advantage of a wyvern so she could think and plan before getting to her destination. She had information to confirm with the spirits – was Gromnor dead? Was he really in the northern part of the Eastern Kingdoms, somewhere […]

filed under friday five, Roleplay
Friday 500 – To Battle!
comment Comments Off on Friday 500 – To Battle! Written by on May 1, 2009 – 9:25 am

Every Friday here at Too Many Annas, you’ll find a little RP prompting – either in the form of 5 questions to answer about your character or in the form of a ficlet prompt (500 words) to write about them.  These aren’t meant to be hard, just things to think about for your character – you can answer in a comment or use them as a blog post of your own!

This week, since I’m working through some of the gorier parts of Angrathar, a ficlet challenge!

In 500 words, write up a battle between your character and a bad guy. This can be a monster, a player, an enemy, an instance boss – anything goes, so long as you’re writing an actual fight scene, and not a “mental” scene.  If your character is totally against all fighting, today’s the day to pick a more aggressive alt to write about.  Whether your character wins or loses is up to you.

Obviously this doesn’t have to be gratuitous violence – unless you want it to be!

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No Responses to “Friday 500 – To Battle!”

  1. Consider this a placeholder while I look for a good fight scene…

    bricus last blog post..Friday Fiction: Yva, The Formative Years.

  2. Aye, done.

    krizzlybears last blog post..Friday 500 – To Battle!

  3. First, we have a beatdown:
    Bricu tapped the bar, letting Lohan know he needed another refill on his bourbon. Much to the chagrin of Eric Lohan, Bricu had taken his “free” drinks at the Blue Recluse seriously.

    “That’s it mate.” Eric said as he filled the tumbler full of the brown liquor.

    “Then jus’ leave me the fuckin’ bottle ‘fore I go back there an’ take the shite yeh keep behind the bar.” Bricu slurred. “Wanker.”

    Lohan put the bottle on countertop and walked away from Bricu and his increasingly belligerent mood. Bricu filled his glass as the bar grew quieter.

    “You that fuckwit named Bittertongue?”

    “I prefer ta be called a witty fucker.”

    He spun on his bar stool, expecting one or two angry people. Instead, Bricu stared into a sea of angry faces.

    “Why fuck me sideways! Yeh lot are the very picture o’the Alliance. United in diversity!”

    The tallest among the crowd, a bald night elf whose arms were as thick as the branches of Teldrassil, spoke up.

    “You’re the Plaguefather’s uncle?”

    “So yer past time is genealogy then? Want ta see me family’s Codex. It traces our roots all they way back ta when I fucked yer mum.”

    “Did he die at Sorrow’s Pass?”

    “Read all ’bout it in the daily press or have one o’yer gits read it ta yeh.” Bricu started to turn his back to the crowd when someone put a hand on his shoulder. Bricu grabbed this person’s arm with both hands and slammed the elbow down on the table. The attacker, someone Bricu had seen in the bar before, screamed in pain. Bricu grabbed his tumbler and drank half of it in one gulp.

    “Now then. Who’s next?”

    The night elf reached for Bricu, his skin rippling as he changed. Bricu threw the rest of the liquor into his face, then smashed the empty glass into the temple of the nearest attacker. The crowd kept coming. Someone grabbed an arm. Another person grabbed a leg. He struggled and cursed while calling on the light to shield him. He didn’t feel any pain, but that didn’t stop the crowd from pulling him into the center of the room. The night elf, now a bear, held Bricu down with his paws. His jaws wrapped around Bricu’s head.

    “This could have been easy on you,” Bricu heard. “We just wanted to hear he was dead. Now? Now we’ll take the death of our families and friends out on you. One of your bones for one of our losses.”

    The bear held him while they kicked him til his bones snapped. Broken, bleeding and drunk, Bricu wished they would finish the job Uthas started.

    bricus last blog post..Friday Fiction: Yva, The Formative Years.

  4. There’s a couple chapters in my story that already qualify for this one…sweet! This one was easy!

    teh Khol Abidess last blog post..Part the Fifteenth: Skin of My Teeth

  5. (a section taken from “Homecoming”…)

    The orc leant his staff against the wall, and readjusted his robe and cowl. Righting himself, he grasped his staff again, and made it’s tip ignite with fel fire. The flicking light danced within the confines of the shattered building. This village had been hit hard by the War and associated cataclysm – a lot of it was now buried and twisted within the ground, forming a bizarre area which was the bastard offspring of a town and a catacomb. This house seems to be twisted in on itself, leading deeper into the ground. The air smelt musty, but there was the slight tickle of a breeze. Which meant this building likely connected now to others in it’s grotesque chthonic embrace. However, this meant the possibility of unrecovered treasures. The warlock gripped his staff in one hand, belt with the other, and began making his way deeper into the structure.

    Until something caught his eye.


    There, in the corridor, was something. He raised his staff higher to shed more light down the corridor, but the earthy darkness swallowed it. It looked like a figure. It was tall, and it was large. Was it a cultist felguard? It had to be. Borgrim let out a minute sigh of relief, and lowered his staff slightly. Before he could bark an order at it, it stepped forward. Felguard didn’t have silver eyes. The twin points of silver light advanced on him, as more became apparent. Twisted, spiked plate armour. A look of vicious anger and hatred. It was an elf. A ruin of a face in which the flickering light threw convoluted shadows according to the painful topography of the scarring. His jaw dropped slightly and his mouth opened into a little “oh”. This elf stomping towards him had all the inevitability of a juggernaut, and the appearance of an unholy union between the Legion and the servants of the Lich King. Borgrim finally realised he should do something. He knew, on some level, that forming a defensive bolt of hellfire was likely his best course of action. That’s not what he did, however. He started feeling scared, as he noticed the elf’s arm was raised, pulled behind her advancing form, with fist tight and cocked. He could almost smell her breath whistling from her snarl by this point when…

    “Bandu thoribas!” she growled.

    A sickening shattering sound and a bone-jarring shock echoed through Borgrim’s body and brain. That’s all he was aware of for an eternity of a second, before he realised he was on his back. He looked up at the decaying roof. He found he couldn’t breathe. He reached up with both hands to his throat, which was now half the depth of what it used to be. Realisation came flooding into his consciousness. The elf had punched his throat, destroying his neck. The implications dawned on him as thick blood covered both hands and he still couldn’t breathe. His eyes widened as the towering elf stepped into his field of view. He blinked at her a few shocked, fish-like times as his body’s desire for oxygen became more and more urgent. He saw the elf raise her great, armoured leg. Her knee flexed a bit. The last thing Borgrim thought of was the intricate tread on the heel and sole of the dark sabaton before the elf’s foot came rushing down at him.

    By Illi on May 3, 2009 | Reply
  6. Well, I don’t usually do these, but this one jumped out at me. 🙂 http://thestoppableforce.net/2009/05/04/only-a-student-rp/

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