Miyu
Junior Member
iPod = <3
Posts: 51
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Post by Miyu on Aug 26, 2009 17:05:28 GMT -5
MIYU.must be the sign on my head
She had no breath; she had run straight from the dens to the hidden camp. She lacked energy; she had been hunting all day. She had but one skill remaining: her wits.
No, Miyu wasn't like other females. She was prissy, and sarcastic, and had absolutely no skill in making friends. But what did that matter now? She was going to become Alpha. Maybe one day she would choose someone to have cubs with. But she had to win this fight first.
Reasons? Several. Ripshank was a complete and total bastard. He cared for nothing, and Miyu wasn't about to condemn the pack to that. Someone had to save them.
Bruised ego, too. The fact that someone could think that Miyu-- Miyu!-- was nothing more than a cub-feeder had hurt her considerably. In doing this, she was taking back what was hers, pretty much.
Besides that, she wasn't about to let the idiot wing-ripper destroy all other wings in existence. The bastard was insane. in Miyu's opinion. Crazy cats shouldn't be Alpha.
that says oh! love me dead, love me dead
The couple leaving, exiting the cave with flanks pressed against each other. No, they didn't look back. Of course they didn't look back. They were only her parents, after all, what did she mean to them? They should mean nothing to her.
But the cub felt the pain anyway, the distinct shattering of a tiny heart. She felt every single crack weave its way through the veins of the hear, felt the tears welling up in the eyes, felt paws thudding against the cool rock.
The cub heard the pattering of rain, she heard the laughter of the grown-ups, she heard a tiny, whimpering voice calling, "Please! Come back, come back...."
Miyu realized it was her pain, her heart, he tears, her voice... the pain was hers, and hers alone to bear, to carry with her for her entire life.
Then she felt the healing.
you're a faith-healer on t.v.; you're an office park without any trees; corporate and cold, gushing and gold; leave me alone
It felt odd to her, as if the seams of her heart were being sewn up by amateurs. She could tell it was crooked now: healed, but still broken, and when she reached for it, for her heart, for the pain locked up inside, all she felt was cool stone, the same texture as the stone under her paws.
She rambled through life with a forced smile and a sarcastic nature, bottling up her emotions. Day after day cats and wolves shook the bottle, aggravating her with every word, but she locked it, ignored it, left it to bubble.
must be the sign on my head
The emotions were bubbling now, heating up her heart until it cracked anew. Miyu felt the pain, the only constant in her life; the soothing raindrops that quenched the ache; the hardness of her heart afterwards, every time someone reached in to grab it, she hardened it even more.
Until now.
Now her pain was fresh, and her energy fresher. The anger was overwhelming: it cast a red haze over her eyes so that she couldn't see. Miyu felt as if she had the strength of a thousand bears; the pain only made it stronger. She embraced the pain, licked it, bit it, loved it--
that says oh! love me dead, love me dead
-- but nothing.
Her false optimism evaporated, replaced by nigh unbearable hurt. Desperately, Miyu groped for the retreating strength, but to no avail. It left her shivering and alone-- except for the trembling fury, and Ripshank.
Ripshank.
"You," she snarled, pacing forward, tail lashing, teeth bared, ears flat, wings folded in. "You. This is your. damn. fault.
"You motherfucking son of a bitch!" she howled, and stuck her face up next to his.
"Your fault," Miyu mumbled. "Your fault, not mine, your fault your fault YOUR FAULT!"
She was backing up as she was mumbling, and on the last word she charged forward, barreling all two-hundred and fifty pounds of her into Ripshank's side. If successful in knocking him to the ground, she would then claw and bite the hell out of his stomach, trying to force a mercy out of him. If not, then she would go for the throat. word count: 733.
status: fini. ^^
lyrics: love me dead by ludo.
attack: barreled into Ripshank's side, hopefully knocking him over, and then, if successful, clawing ad biting the hell out of his stomach. If not, lunging for the throat, biting down between the jugular and the hollow of the throat, but not hard enough to kill.
damage: exhausted, loss of breath, amazingly hungry, and pissed even more.
ooc; Not too shabby, if I do say so myself. ^^
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Post by Trench on Aug 26, 2009 17:37:15 GMT -5
♠ Peace, just what the hell was that? Some damn lie created by philosophers engorging themselves on the labors of others, incapable of lifting a weapon, of fighting, of defending themselves. Peace was an illusion, woven by the blind, by the naïve, by the flat out stupid. An illusion which grew and wound tighter about them, strangling them and choking them until they couldn’t move, until all they could do was watch as the truth came crashing down about them, came swinging blade and mace and crushed the life from their burning chest, their frail bodies, and sent their soul to hell. Peace was but a guise, the golden gilding which shielded the truth, the rotting, decaying mess, the vile death and bloodshed which the world truly was. Peace, just what the hell was it, what damn use did it have, when all the rest of the world was ripping itself apart? When everyone else only wanted to kill themselves and everyone else, what could one do but join in the fray? Oh yes, peace was a worthless ideal, an illusion he had long since escaped from, and one he’d free these pathetic souls from, for her, for her. Yes, yes, it was all for her, the blood and death and broken bones, the ripped up flesh and torn out fur; all for her, all for her, the one beacon left in a world long devoid of black-winged guides and secluded peace, however false, however deadly. Gone, gone, gone was she, but still it was, all for her. Yet no strength comes from the thought, no calming hand to caress his feral thoughts, the wild, seething mess which wound and wound within his head. Gone is she, and now the thought, banished from his mind, thrown to the raging sea; man overboard, the call arises, yet no action is taken, the soul left to fend for itself, consumed by the sea and there it dies, but the spirit would rise, he knew it would, to plague his thoughts again. But not yet, not yet, now peace might can come, the curse thrown from the ship, and his thoughts fall into place, into order, following the lead of one singular instinct: kill. Claws fall short of death today, a body only broken, not lifeless, to fall before him, to add to his path, to build his broken throne, yet still the instinct takes the lead, shifts his muscles beneath his pelt, drives him onward, onward, onward. All for him, now, all for him, for pleasure, for fun, for the pain it would bring. On and on it drives him, his legs shifting in fluid motion, dragging heavy paws across the ground, through ferns and vines which clung to his hide, begging of him to stay, to let his body rot within their hands, for life, for the future, but instinct ignores what he might one day have considered, might one day still carry out; willpower forces him beyond their grasps, beyond those plans; suicide, suicide, suicide, and it’s tossed out on its ass. Not yet, not yet, for him, for her, he won’t fall yet. Away go his thoughts, away from that, away, away, away, and upon her they not, not his her, no, not she, her red-and-white pelt, her loving smile which taunts his dream, no, not she, but the black-winged beast who dared challenge the throne upon which he rests himself. Just who was she, this bitch? What damn right had she to challenge him? But he doesn’t care, no, not at all; whoever the hell she is, whatever damn right she has, let her come, yes, let her come. His throne, yes, all his, and he’d damn well keep it, oh yes, for him, for her, he’d keep clawed to it, latched to it, to his power, his hope, all that was left. For him, for her, he won’t fall yet, not by his own hand, not his own slaying claws, and certainly not by hers. Let her come, oh yes, let her come. And he, too, shall come, claws digging tight within the earth, bared to the world already, though blood has yet to meet his gaze, carving into the soil beneath him as he walks, drags his frame forward, onward, onward, onward, to her, to the fight, to blood and death and gore and all the things which drove him mad, which drove him on. On towards those damned black wings he goes—does she mock him? Does she even realize? Abandoned so long ago, not even a black feather seen since, and now she comes, wings outstretched before him as she mocks and slanders and curses and raves; does she know, does she even know? Tail lashes, whip-like, crashes against undergrowth, falls still behind him; she must not, but she will, oh yes, she’d soon find out just how much hatred he held for those damned black wings. Crow, traitor, betrayer, and he’d crush her, beat her down, and tear them from her back, just to remove that mockery, to appease his hatred; what else had he to appease now? Lust! She’d mocked him of being slave to such base needs, yet not even lusts drove his form, never since her death, since her, always since her; everything had changed with her. Never since she’d lain broken, never had lust been able to grip his heart, his body; no, he had no wish to fuck her, or any other; hatred was all he had to appease, whatever she may think, but she’d learn, oh yes, she’d learn, indeed. Hatred, hatred and pain, for her, for him, for every damn person here, anger, too, death and gore and bloodshed; these were the things which drove heat into his frame, not base needs of lust, and soon she’d fall victim to his true needs, his only needs. Mock him as she will, curse and rave, puff herself up, but she’d fall before him as they always did; claw and fang and bloodshed and gore would bring her down, down, ever down, until even that damned tongue of hers fell still. Challenge him she had, and now she’d find how true a challenge she faced.
burn it to the ground tonight
♠ And there, there before him, there she is, winged beast, mockery, bitch, all things and more, and soon, broken failure, by his paw, by his claw and fang, she’d fall, she’d fall, because he couldn’t just yet. Back, back, back they go, his lips, across slick fangs, slick and sharp, revealing them, no smirk, no snarl, merely showing them, his natural expression, his mouth agape, breath rushing through gaping maw, a steady pant, yet not of exhaustion, merely of being, as is his way. He watches her, muscles falling still, waiting, waiting, waiting; let her come, let her come, let every damn one of them come! He’ll face them all, he will not balk, and so he does not, merely listening, taking in, watching, studying, quiet for once, silent for a moment, in the face of battle, waiting, waiting, waiting. Lips twitch, a smirk, the birth of one, a heartbeat’s lapse of a smirk, and then it dies, stillborn, and his lips fall still, straight and still, relaxed, fangs agape, but still no sound, no threat, merely there. Tongue presses once against the ivory daggers which rim his mouth, pulling against the relief of pain, before it pulls away, pulls back, and is put to work, slave to him as it is. Hatred and anger and all things him are turned to his reply as he merely stand beneath her furious gaze, calm for all appearances, seething within, but in his element. ”My fault, indeed, yet it is you, bitch who challenge me. Have you not learned yet to hold that damn tongue of yours? Then pay some damn attention, you’ll learn soon enough.” Back against his fang, one small pain to abate his appetite for more, but more is to come, and he’s ready, he’s ready, waiting, waiting, standing still as she charges. Let her come, let her fucking come already! And now! Destructive force, oh great weight! Yet still too little, too damn little; why, why, why, could she not weigh more? He wants the pain, bring him the pain! Could she do no better than this? But he’s moving, moving to her force, to her weight, his body lax, and down he goes, the air forced from his lungs, and still he tries to laugh, but it comes out choked, strangled, and he gasps, dragging in air to fuel his laugh, his pleasure, his pain. And laugh he does! Yet a cough kills it all too soon, a cough, an oof, a grunt, and she’s upon him, and the searing pleasure of claw and fang meets his unprotected underbelly, slides roughly and smoothly and all ways through fur and through flesh, called blood to its bidding. And still he lies, laughing, laughing, ever laughing; for her, for her, for her, he takes his punishment for her, gladly and eagerly, the relief of pain, indeed! But at last, at last, hatred takes command, enough of this, oh yes, he said enough, and with the takeover his tongue again goes to work. ”My turn!” A bellow, a growl, a laugh, a snarl; he does not himself know which it has been, but the words have been said, the war cry, the rebel yell, the signal for which his muscles have waited. Upon that singular command they surge as one, rolling beneath pelt, across wounds, drawing ever more blood from gashes and slices and ragged gaps of flesh, but all is taken in stride, all pain welcomed as he moves. Upwards he surges, first with claws and then with fangs, upwards, upwards, upwards and onwards as only is right. Upwards, for he is king, upwards, for she shall fall, upwards, upwards, upwards! His claws lash out, tossed about by storm of muscles, seeking her, ever seeking her, slashing about above him, for she is everywhere, everywhere, and he cannot miss. Out, out, out, come out, blood, come out! His has showed its face, he wants to see hers; let that cursed red spill upon the ground, upon him, upon her! Let her watch, over in the corner, smiling that intoxicating smile, let her watch as he takes his revenge upon this bitch. Upwards he lashes, his claws fueled by insanity and hatred, as though this very tigress had been the one to slay his sister. As always, as always, for they were all to blame, yes, every damn last one of them! And now he aches to taste her, to spill her blood within his mouth, and from beneath her he lashes, surges upwards, using the claw holds he has managed to drag himself upwards, and his mouth gapes, gapes and gapes and gapes, before, all in a single movement, all at once, the gaping chasm closes itself, implodes and falls together, and with it his fangs come crashing together, seeking purchase, seeking blood, seeking her throat, her chest, wherever, whatever. Blood and gore and guts and all; yes, yes, yes, he wants to see them all! For him, for her, he won’t fall, won’t fall, can’t fall, and for her his fangs gnash and pull and rip and tear. How long could that bitchy courage stand against him, how long before she fell, how long before those damned black wings died by his claw? How long, how damn long?
♠ ripshank
♠ 1916
♠ lyrics © nickleback
♠ holy shrimp on a stick, rippy’s muse just exploded o.o
♠ Damage Miyu successfully knocked him flat, and proceeded to chesse-grate his underside; he’s bleeding from many gashes and slices across his underside, and though nothing fatal, he’ll still feel this battle for the rest of his life. The cuts will scar, and the fur won’t ever grow quite right around them, and the whole area will remain tender to the touch for years.
♠ Attack He rolled onto his back and lashed out with all four legs, attempting to claw whatever part of Miyu he could reach, and upon tiring of that, boosted himself upwards and attempted to sink his fangs into her, again, wherever he happens to hit.
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Post by ' ' K.O.T.O.R.I. on Aug 26, 2009 18:23:00 GMT -5
Alright I'm going to go all out with this one so bear with me, please.
Miyu
Character motivation;;
I had initially thought Miyu would have done better, but she seemed to have psyched herself out, thinking about her parents, and the scar it had left her. It seems as if she lost some of her spirit before recklessly charging ahead. Mentally, I think she was unprepared for what she was going to do, and hadn't really thought beyond 'i'll show him' -- so though she had the determination to show Ripshank up, her desire to become the Alpha femme was a little muddled.
Character ability;;
Again, it shows that it's simply part of her character to be reckless because she only weighs 250 pounds and is much, much smaller than Ripshanks, and decided, last minute to charge him. She might have had a chance if she had attacked his stumps for wings, perhaps, but in barrelling him, I think it's obvious that though he fell the damage to that would have jarred her a lot more. She was also tired from hunting, and other such things as you've mentioned. I'm not sure Miyu took into account the 525 pounds Ripshank had on her, and not all of it, would be fat. It's like pushing against a rock, really. Still, she held her own, pretty well, even though she's very nearly a cub still, being only a year old.
Roleplaying ability;;
Don't get me wrong. I loved reading your post. You portrayed her very well! The use of the bigger font, and all that, really brought home how annoyed, degraded and even slightly vulnerable she felt before, and during her attack. I applaud you ^^ it was well done. There were a few typos and gramatical errors but that's neither here nor there, as the character itself was clear. She was no cliche thing. I like her, personally.
Rules;;
Yay! You followed the rules!
Ripshank
Character motivation;;
At first I thought Ripshank wouldn't have had enough motivation to really get into the battle, but he's definitely warrior enough that he's in his element when blood is about to be spilled. Also, his desire to do this for his sister was amazingly strong, and it was something that carried through to the end. Scary... yes, scary.
Character ability;;
Physically, Ripshanks won. Not only does he had seven years on Miyu's one, and in that difference are years of survival, and use of his body but his weight and size severely out-measures her. He's had a lot longer to know how to fight, how to take damage, and has the comfort zone of being 500+ pounds more than her to not find anything too fatal. He was knocked down, which surprised me, actually, but the point you made in your post about it not being enough weight was duly noted.
Roleplaying ability;;
Well, you know I love your posting style. Always have, but this post in particular really shone through. I'm not too familiar with Ripshanks, but in this post you revealed a lot about his past (at least the important bits) and how it had changed him, made him who he was, while still following the line of his own thoughts. You didn't just explain it, you let the way his thoughts flow, give hints to his past and his way of existing in the world. I felt at once dread and pity for the poor thing, to be honest -- though don't tell him that.
Rules;;
Yay you followed the rules, too!
WINNER: [/i] Ripshank[/center] I was very nervous about judging this, so if you do have any questions, pm me ^^'[/blockquote] |
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