• Lucid Dreaming - Dream Views




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    1. #1
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      A Drunken Monk Battles a Katana Wielding Cowboy

      Here we see a large circular arena, perhaps two hundred feet in diameter. The center of the arena consists of a packed-dirt surface surrounded on all sides by a young bamboo forest. Outside the ring of bamboo there are thick walls standing fifty feet high that close off the arena from the outside world. Spread throughout the center area are bamboo platforms of varying height and size, ranging from a mere head-height scaffolding-like platform only a foot wide, to a great twenty-foot wide platform at the very center, standing thirty feet tall.

      At opposing sides of the arena there are two small paths cut through the bamboo, leading to two small doors in the thick wooden walls. It is through these doors that the fighters will enter. At the base of select platforms are racks containing various bladed and blunt weapons, mostly Oriental in origin. If at any time a competitor loses their weapon, they may use one of these provided substitutes. Assorted objects are also scattered about the arena, though not in a cluttered fashion. Who knows what use that stray helm may have?

      There are few rules in this fight. These rules have been decided upon beforehand. This is not a fight to the death, but to the defeat. It will be left up to the fighter to determine if he is defeated.

      Let the fighting begin!

      [Note: This is a closed duel between myself and AspirationRealized. Feel free to read, though.]
      Last edited by Man of Steel; 05-05-2008 at 04:08 AM.

    2. #2
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      -A Katana Wielding Cowboy opens the western-most door, the first lick of sun hitting his figure; a shadow cast from the rim of his hat casting shade over his eyes, and beneath the shadow a confident smile gleamed.

      His black cowboy hat had apparent age, with a midnight blue band above its tattered rim, which was barely missed by an apparent bullethole. Messy strands of dark hair fell from beneath the rim, aiding it in enshrouding his face. His soft brown eyes were calm, and gained an ironic emphasis by the shade when someone was close enough. Two feathers hung on a chain necklace about his neck; one of Glass, the other of Silver; and with each a chapter of his life could be told.

      Heavily weighted pauldrons adorned his shoulders, and a longcoat, the color of desert sands from which he hailed, kept most of his innards concealed. The handle of his katana protruded from one edge however, ornated at the end of its violet handle with gold. The sleeves of his coat were open, and ended just above the elbows; his right arm crossed his chest, as he carried a large bag over his shoulder. Despite the weight, he had a very loose comfortable walk; the stride of a wanderer. Simple black pants, baggy and comfortable, along with light shoes matching in color finished his attire.

      His eyes scanned the platform, and as he approached, he put his left hand on top of one that was only head-high, pressing down as if to test its stability. Now that his arm was extended, the glass gauntlet he wore was illuminated. Named glass for its sharp translucent appearance, it was a very light but very strong armor, a brilliant green in color.

      He took several steps back from it, across from the eastern set of doors, checking on his opponent's arrival. Seeing that he still had some time, he dropped the simple leather sack on the ground behind him, and as it opened up the head of a fox, or more precisely a fox skin, very noticably popped up from the confines of the bag. He then unstrapped his pauldrons, letting them drop to the ground and sinking into the earth with their weight. Now that his logncoat was removed, his odd undershirt coul be clearly seen.

      Its style was that of a muscle shirt (wifebeater), but it was a stunning white, its ethereal material intricately woven. With his lean musculature, he seemed naked without all the heavy clothing... he was defined, but lithe. His arms now bare save the gauntlet, scars could be seen littered across every inch of his skin... it'd be easier to find a spot without a scar then to to count them all. Slashes, gashes, stabs, burns, and bullet wounds collected in his unusually long life as a bounty hunter marred his skin. A most noticable burn covered the outside of his left arm, spreading from the bottom of the upperarm and over his elbow in rough pinkish flesh. On his right upperarm, a tattoo of a fist could be seen in faded black ink.

      The outlaw tilted his hat forward slightly, standing in a patient wait for his opponent's entrance-
      I am posting on topic elsewhere for the most part.

      My DJ here at DVs, Realized Aspiration only contains old dreams. I'll be around for the occasional chat, and some unfinished/unstarted RPs.

      And you, yeah you, with the ice cream hands. You, yeah you, are my friend. ~ Still my mentor, and an awesome guy.

    3. #3
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      The Drunken Monk

      The door at the eastern entrance to the arena swung lightly open, and a short man of Chinese descent, dressed in a monk's robes, staggered through, followed by a gentle breeze. Grinning happily and somewhat drunkenly, the monk paused to admire the greenery of the bamboo stand before him. Staggering backwards for a moment in an attempt to go forward, the monk's heel seemingly inadvertently nudged the door, causing it to swing sharply shut. A small whorl of leaves rose on the worn path from the sudden movement. Righting himself, the monk started forward, still grinning widely.

      As he wandered slightly unsteadily along the short path to the arena, the monk brushed belatedly at his light-colored linen robes. They were a light tan in color, and were held closed by a loosely tied red sash at his waist. No weapon was visible on his person, nor was armor of any sort. The monk's feet were encased in soft-soled cloth shoes that made nary a sound on the packed ground. Stepping out into the sunlight, the inebriated monk turned his gaze upwards, eying the arena and its contents.

      Platforms of varying sizes, made of bamboo and held together by rope and pegs, were placed all over the arena at various heights. There was plenty of space between these platforms to fight hand-to-hand or with weapons, but they were close enough together to easily leap the gaps if fighting atop the platforms. Strewn across the arena was what appeared to be uncleared debri from past battles, though there was not so much as for the objects to hinder footwork. Keen eyes picked out a rack at the base of the platform nearest, which held a variety of edged weapons. On looking closer, the monk noticed several other rack at the base of other platforms, seemingly at random points.

      "Ah, a nice place to take a drink!"

      With that the monk pulled himself unceremoniously to a seated position atop a support beam of the nearest platform, raised the small flask in his hand to his lips, and took a large swig. Smacking his lips, the monk swung the flask by its sling over his shoulder, nodded his close-shorn head exaggeratedly, and promptly fell from his seat.

      "Whoopsy!"

      Clumsily, the monk gathered himself up, popping to his feet, a silly grin across his boyish face. His brilliant blue eyes squinted, peering across the arena to finally espy the cowboy-hatted man watching with a patient look across his own weathered face. Realizing he was not alone, the monk's eyebrows raised joyfully. Staggering closer, he bowed to the stranger, waved a hand, then giggled to himself with barely suppressed glee.

      "Beautiful day, stranger! How do you fare this fine morning?" The Drunken Monk called across the arena.
      Last edited by Man of Steel; 05-04-2008 at 10:31 AM. Reason: Added title.

    4. #4
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      I'm alright, friend.

      -He holds the front of his hat in greeting, returning the monk's goofy smile-

      And I agree. It is a wonderful day for fighting...

      -Not yet alarmed at all, he casually takes a small flask from his hip, opposite the katana, bringing to his lips for a long drink. It was customary to carry whiskey in such a flask, but few ever learned the contents of his. On the same hip was a much bigger container and looked like it was made from pottery clay... it was carefully corked and fastened behind the flask as he returned it-

      The name's Eriks. What's yours?
      I am posting on topic elsewhere for the most part.

      My DJ here at DVs, Realized Aspiration only contains old dreams. I'll be around for the occasional chat, and some unfinished/unstarted RPs.

      And you, yeah you, with the ice cream hands. You, yeah you, are my friend. ~ Still my mentor, and an awesome guy.

    5. #5
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      Still grinning gleefully, the monk tilted his head to one side, as if pondering the question.

      "You may call me... Monk."

      Cocking his head to the other side jerkily, Monk eyed the clay container at Eriks' belt with an innocent curiosity. Shaking his head, the odd man shrugged and spoke again.

      "Conversation over. Now we play!"

      With that, he took a light-footed leap and pushed off the side of the platform to his right, gliding for a brief instant, almost indiscernably, before landing deceivingly heavily atop the next bamboo platform. With a short cry of glee, he ran along this platform, leaping the gap to the next, and so on and so on until he landed on the eastern edge of the centermost platform.

      Now breathing a bit heavily, the Monk stopped. Unslinging his flask from its place on his shoulder, he unstopped the small wooden container and took another swig, then, fumbling a bit, replaced the stopper and slung the flask back into place. Adopting a more serious expression on his almost monkey-like face, the Monk waved at Eriks with a loose hand. Then his sober expression broke, and the Monk burst into laughter gaily.

      "Come now, let us play!"
      Last edited by Man of Steel; 05-05-2008 at 01:00 AM.

    6. #6
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      -After the Monk was done calling to him, he made his way up the platforms... he did it with ease, but there was nothing superfluous at all about it. He could pull himself upward with his arms and replace his feet with them.

      When he was one level below the Monk, he very quietly walked towards the eastern side. He wasn't exactly under the Monk, but not far away by any means, when he stopped. Taking the violet handle of his katana in his right hand, arm crossing his body, he sharply drew it from its black sheath. The bamboo supporting the structure in front of him split in an instant as his blade whirred by, with the resistance a little less than that of a human spine, he noted. After that first slice, he began running in the opposite direction of the Monk, systematically destroying each supporting column of bamboo as he made his way back to the westernmost side of the platform.

      The platform above him (and below the Monk's feet) would start to become unstable, and if he was left to finish even half it would fall completely-
      Last edited by AspirationRealized; 05-05-2008 at 07:50 AM.
      I am posting on topic elsewhere for the most part.

      My DJ here at DVs, Realized Aspiration only contains old dreams. I'll be around for the occasional chat, and some unfinished/unstarted RPs.

      And you, yeah you, with the ice cream hands. You, yeah you, are my friend. ~ Still my mentor, and an awesome guy.

    7. #7
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      Ah, now the fight had begun. The Monk chuckled to himself at the cleverness of the Cowboy, or rather at how clever the Cowboy thought he was. With surprising ease for one so obviously imbibed, the Monk backflipped from his pose at the edge of the platform, caught the edge with one hand, and swung deftly underneath, clinging to the bamboo with sure fingers. Swinging hand over hand, the Monk quickly navigated the underside of the now unstable platform, and dropped lightly in front of Eriks at the far side just before he could cut the final suport.

      With an impish smirk, the Monk cocked his head to one side and made a small derisive noise halfway between a snort and a laugh.

      He then dropped into a crouching run, almost more of a scamper, and charged head on at Eriks. At the last possible moment, the Monk dropped to into a sideways roll, peforming a sweep with both legs that would have appeared impossible to the untrained eye. If the sweep contacted, Eriks would find his legs gone from underneath him, and fall flat on his face as the monkey-like Monk rolled back to his feet and looked on in amused enjoyment.
      Last edited by Man of Steel; 05-06-2008 at 07:29 AM.

    8. #8
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      -Eriks watched calmly, his last cut delayed now as he watched the Monk slip through the structure with much ease for a drunkard with thin eyes. His snorting laugh gave the outlaw ample time to prepare himself, though just a slight tilt of his katana marked any necessary preparation-

      Slippery little fellow, aren't ya? The yellow blur...

      -Eriks smiled at his little nickname for his opponent. As soon as the Monk scampered headstrong for his position, the cowboy simply stabbed his katana into the platform below him, directly in front of him and within the Monk's path. This would mean the Monk would have to change direction and, now that Eriks had left his sword where it was, he had all of his natural weapons unattended and ready for his "drunken" friend's reaction to the obstacle.

      While Buke-zukuri's blade stood erect and sharp enough to split a strand of hair, Eriks whipped around in a swift roundhouse, his right foot slashing through the last column as the Monk made the necessary changes in his fighting plan to avoid being halved. Eriks' full rotation left him facing the Monk, and in the few seconds between the Monk changing direction, and the platform crushing the both of them, he would decide his next move-
      I am posting on topic elsewhere for the most part.

      My DJ here at DVs, Realized Aspiration only contains old dreams. I'll be around for the occasional chat, and some unfinished/unstarted RPs.

      And you, yeah you, with the ice cream hands. You, yeah you, are my friend. ~ Still my mentor, and an awesome guy.

    9. #9
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      Having expected something of the sort, the Monk changed direction in mid-sweep, swiveling on his back so his legs faced Eriks just as he passed within a hair's breadth of the deadly keen katana, then flipping up from his prone slide backwards. Landing on all fours facing Eriks, the Monk quickly and calculatingly assessed his surroundings, though the expression on his face was still as playfully inebriated as ever.

      For now, he ignored the Cowboy's comment, concentrating instead on the huge platform that was now in mid-collapse to his right. Now devoid of support, the heavy bamboo structure was crashing down, spinning slightly clockwise from the force of the Cowboy's kick. The eastern end of it was headed straight for the space he now occupied. With barely a pause, the Monk leapt lightly from his crouch, pushing off of the hilt of the sword firmly stuck into the bamboo with the ball of one foot and flying through the air toward Eriks.

      The Monk spun about, bringing both feet up and out ahead of his body and rolling lengthwise in the air, aiming for the Cowboy's head with the intent of wrapping his legs about the taller man's neck and shoulder, using his momentum to throw them both off the side of the smaller structure they now occupied. Off the side and down toward the hard, unforgiving ground twenty-five feet below.
      Last edited by Man of Steel; 05-06-2008 at 10:09 AM.

    10. #10
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      -With the topmost platform about to crush him, he gave as little concern for the Monk as possible. That meant that as soon as he was no longer a threat, getting out of the way was his main motive. As soon as the Monk kicked off the hilt of his katana, Eriks ducked only glancing above him to be sure that the Monk was fully committed in his wild spin, and couldn't possibly change directions in time to be a problem.

      It was as if the duck wasn't even for his opponent, as his hand instantly seized his katana while he crouched; the fact that he was now under the Monk's flamboyant attack seemed to be a fluke.

      Rolling to his right (away from the collapsing structure), Eriks pulled the sword with the force of his roll, his left hand wildly snatching the edge of the platform he was occupying, and he flipped under the paltform he was just occupying, his reckless motion translating to a face first slide down the floor of the next set of platforms. He slid past several columns of bamboo, before his drawn sword connected with one, Buke-zukuri's blade stopping midway through the column to stop his momentum.

      His destruction had caused a lot of noise, as the platform smacked into what was now Eriks' ceiling, causing the westernmost edge to shatter slightly as it bounced into the air and spun, destined for the Arena floor. Eriks stood up when it seemed the entire structure would hold without its head, trying to see how the Monk faired. No doubt he was already on his feet, if not propelling himself towards the cowboy that second-
      I am posting on topic elsewhere for the most part.

      My DJ here at DVs, Realized Aspiration only contains old dreams. I'll be around for the occasional chat, and some unfinished/unstarted RPs.

      And you, yeah you, with the ice cream hands. You, yeah you, are my friend. ~ Still my mentor, and an awesome guy.

    11. #11
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      The Monk had expected Eriks' duck, and was little bothered by it. Stabilizing his roll, his sure feet found the splintered stump of the support beam that Eriks had shattered with his kick, then gracefully pushed back off of it, flipping through the air back the way he had come. He touched the floor of the platform he had formerly occupied only briefly, now gliding effortlessly across its surface, all pretense of drunkenness gone for the moment.

      Reaching the far edge, the Monk let himself fall through the dust raised by the collapse of the large structure behind, slowing his descent only as he neared the Cowboy's flank, then touched down briefly mere feet behind Eriks, using this grounding to launch into a perfectly executed spinning kick targeted not at the Cowboy's hat-covered head, but at his right elbow. Coming from behind, and with the Cowboy not expecting an attack from this angle, it would be a simple matter for the Monk to disarm Eriks. His foot cut through the air, almost audibly parting the dust-ridden atmosphere, so fast did it move.

      If Eriks turned, he would only find the Monk's other foot impacting his cranium at equal speed as he made a slight shift in his attack. There would be no time to bring the sword up to parry with its edge as before. The Cowboy was fast, but not that fast. No, but he might be able to turn just enough to block with his left arm the strike to his head, in which case the Monk had a second attack ready in his arsenal.

      He knew he must disarm his opponent or arm himself, and at the moment arming himself was not preferable. Besides, he didn't like being called yellow. A blur, sure, but not a yellow one.
      Last edited by Man of Steel; 05-08-2008 at 08:14 AM.

    12. #12
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      -By the time Eriks had some sense of where the Monk was, he turned his head just enough to see where the foot was coming. He resorted to his natural reaction, which was to follow suit with the blow; as the Monk's foot connected with his arm, his arm rolled with the force, minimizing damage to a heavy bruise instead of a broken arm. Of course, the impact made it impossible for him to keep hold of his katana, but as the rest of his body flowed with this current of motion, he spun as his hand involuntarily let his weapon loose. Buke-zukuri landed in the arena sand, standing erect a few feet away from the platform; it looked as if Eriks had adapted to the situation and merely threw it there.

      The impact would have lessened significantly, and would only feel half as satisfying if the cowboy had futiley held fast. This would contribute a bit of a loss of balance to the Monk, which was something he wasn't very uncomfortable with anyway. Most important, Eriks used the momentum to spin away from the Monk as quickly as possible, and when he was out of range of the Monk's feet for a few seconds, he quickly pulled the clay gourd from his hip, gulping down the contents as quickly as he could. If the Monk took the time to look, he would notice that the substance was thick and very consistent... only barely making the transition from solid to liquid, somewhat like mollases. However, it was a grotesque yellow, and had a disgusting smell as well.

      Eriks was able to pound down quite a bit and still have time to face his opponent successfully... drinking this puke seemed to be a practiced art of his. If the Monk was to immediately attack, he would be aware of it jsut as the Monk had halved the ground between them. If, however, the Monk was patient, he would see a goofy smile on the outlaw's face, the snotty concoction dribbling down his chin-
      I am posting on topic elsewhere for the most part.

      My DJ here at DVs, Realized Aspiration only contains old dreams. I'll be around for the occasional chat, and some unfinished/unstarted RPs.

      And you, yeah you, with the ice cream hands. You, yeah you, are my friend. ~ Still my mentor, and an awesome guy.

    13. #13
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      The Monk landed on the platform slightly overbalanced and dropped into a roll to compensate. He popped back up onto his feet perhap six feet from the Cowboy, and looked on curiously as Eriks gulped down the foul-smelling gloop from his clay container.

      So that was what was it. The Monk could only assume it was a potion of some sort, and would have a positive effect on the Cowboy. After a moment, Eriks adopted a rather disconcerting goofy grin, one which momentarily befuddled the Monk.

      What now, he wondered. He decided to sit tight for a moment, and see what this outlaw had up his sleeve.

    14. #14
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      Pfffttttheheheheh...

      -The cowboy stumbled forward slightly, leant back, and took another large gulp, spitting some into the air with a boisterous laugh, as his torso rolled forward again with a stuttering step to keep him standing-

      BAH ha ha ha ha ha HA HA hic-hic-cough...

      -Now a few feet closer to the Monk in his stumbling, he rolled on one foot, his body spinning wildly and his arms following suit. The gourd still in his hand whipped around, splashing the front of the Monk's robe with a good portion of the yellowy gunk-

      I'ma... I'ma monk, drunk monk! Drinky drinkity drunk monk!

      -He takes another swig, but looses most of it in another burst of laughter, just close enough for the monk to feel a light mist on his nicely shaven hair-
      I am posting on topic elsewhere for the most part.

      My DJ here at DVs, Realized Aspiration only contains old dreams. I'll be around for the occasional chat, and some unfinished/unstarted RPs.

      And you, yeah you, with the ice cream hands. You, yeah you, are my friend. ~ Still my mentor, and an awesome guy.

    15. #15
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      Deciding not to wait any longer, the Monk advanced on Eriks, taking three steps to close the distance, then aiming an almost superhumanly quick loose-fisted strike at the Cowboy's jaw, while at the same time readying the followup strike, an open-palmed slap to the face which would hit with deceiving speed and force.

      Depending on how the Cowboy attempted to block the first blow, the Monk would throw in a quick knee to his left ribs. Though short, the Monk had a remarkable range of motion.

    16. #16
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      -Eriks' body language showed a drunken stupor, but it was merely deceit. While he mocked the Monk's own style, his mind's eye was wide open, taking in every action of his opponent. When the Monk advanced, Eriks reacted like a sprinter awaiting the starting gunshot.

      As the Monk closed the distance, Eriks let out an insane laughter, his eyes gleaming like firelight. He sputtered, the yellow concoction letting loose like droplets of rain in the air, which his adversary would feel as he closed in-

      YEAH up close and personal!

      -Just as Eriks uttered the final syllable alongside more maniacal laughter, the Monk's fist slammed into his face. Just as the Monk's fist connected, Eriks' left hand closed tightly around the robe at his opponent's chest, the glass gauntlet holding him nearly nose to nose with the cowboy. Just as quickly as the Monk connected, he was stuck facing Eriks.

      Eriks face was now completely turned by the punch, and his laughter stopped instantly. As quick as his face whipped around, a stream of fire took hold of the air, the yellow concoction spweing from Eriks' throat and fueling the blast, like a dragon's breath from his lips. In the split second it took for him to face the monk, he lifted up on his robe, bringing the short man up close to meet the blaze head on.

      Eriks would weather any attacks the Monk could come up with, though it was nearly impossible that the Monk could react in time not to get a face full of fire. After an intial blast to the Monk's face, Eriks would blech up another blast aimed at the Monk's clothing, at which point he would push him away so as not to get affected by the inevitable inferno.

      If you recall that careless stuttering slip before, you'll remember that a nice splash had already permeated the Monk's clothing. Now, in a matter of seconds, Eriks had turned his adversary into a immolated protest Monk. As the snotty substance burned, it would bring on the smell of cooking in the air... it was most obviously fat, and now engulfed the Monk in flames.

      When the cowboy pushed him away, he backed up himself... but not loosing too much distance before whipping the gourd across the Monk's body again, adding to the fire. If the Monk were to try to remove his robe, the next splash would alight his bare torso even further-
      Last edited by AspirationRealized; 05-16-2008 at 06:30 AM.
      I am posting on topic elsewhere for the most part.

      My DJ here at DVs, Realized Aspiration only contains old dreams. I'll be around for the occasional chat, and some unfinished/unstarted RPs.

      And you, yeah you, with the ice cream hands. You, yeah you, are my friend. ~ Still my mentor, and an awesome guy.

    17. #17
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      The Monk's eyes widened in surprise as Eriks turned his head, fire spewing forth from his lips like some mad dragon of lore. His left hand already in motion, he shortened its arc just enough to come between the Cowboy's mouth and his own face, slapping away the majority of the fat-fueled flame.

      Now, however, his hand was on fire, as well as the lower sleeve of his robe. Doing the first thing that came to mind, the Monk slapped his hand down on the Cowboy's shoulder, the one belonging to the arm that even now held him up on tiptoe. He quickly wiped off most of the burning fat on his opponent's bare shoulder, then almost faster than the eye could see his hand inscribed a small circle in the air, moving too fast for the flame to follow.

      His sleeve still smoldering, the Monk's second problem came in the form of Eriks coughing up another spout of fire that splashed across the front of his robes. Fortunately, the front of his robes were already dampened thoroughly from the dribblings from his own flask, which contained not alcohol as commonly assumed, but water. Thus, only the fat could burn, the robes below damp enough to not catch alight.

      The fat burnt hot, but it burnt fast, and in the instant that Eriks pushed the Monk away, he performed an agile backflip, his feet running up the Cowboy's barely-covered chest before aiming a solid but brief kick at his jaw. The main purpose of this backflip, though, was that that he fell flat to the ground on his chest, knocking the breath from his lungs but putting an end to the flames there. Without pause, the nimble Monk swung his body around to the side, spinning on his chest to bring his legs around in a quick sweep, meant to swipe the Cowboy's legs from under him in one smooth motion.

      Already Eriks was slinging his open-mouthed container of fuel in a deceptively clumsy arc, meant to cover the Monk in the thick gooey substance and burn him alive. But Eriks hadn't counted on the Monk not remaining standing. If the leg sweep by some odd twist of fate failed to bring Eriks down; if the Cowboy somehow avoided the strike, the Monk would have to utilize one of his more unique skills.
      Last edited by Man of Steel; 05-16-2008 at 10:09 AM.

    18. #18
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      -Naturally, Eriks' actions would accomodate any unforseen movements of the Monk. When the Monk advanced so quickly, Eriks held from splashing just yet, but allowed the Monk to start running up his body. In the back of his mind the cowboy wondered why the Monk insisted on launching himself into the blaze, like a moth to a flame.

      Eriks leant back as the Monk ran up his chest, the movement allowing him to deliver a sharp uppercut to the Monk's foot just before it could connect with his jaw. Obviously if you stomp the fountain shut, no more flames will come out... the uppercut moved the Monk's foot to connect to Eriks' forehead instead, which was fine by him... to Eriks, this wasn't a matter of who would lose the least blood but who would be defeated ultimately.

      During his uppercut, he wouldn't let his other hand stay still. No, not with the Monk's back horizontal there in the air, ready for another thorough dousing. Eriks aimed his splash now at the back of the Monk's robes and along the back of his pants as well, where the dribblings wouldn't protect him when the rest of his clothes lit up.

      Sacrificing his head for some attacking oppurtunity, the Monk's foot landed true, knocking him backward as he was already leaning that way. Eriks backflipped in the air madly, again following the force instead of resisting. Before the cowboy landed, he had switched the gourd to his gauntleted hand, inserting the unclothed index finger of his right hand into its open mouth... an action that would be extremely difficult for the Monk to perceive, what with a bodysuit of fire that he would have to deal with at the time.

      Eriks landed on his back, the impact adding to the pounding now in his head, but the fire that had ignited on his shoulder dissipating. He backwards sommersaulted before all motion was lost, but not before letting the gourd loose in a slow roll toward his unwitting opponent. Blinded momentarily by pain, Eriks only knew two things: ahead of him was his opponent and behind him was the edge of the platform. He opted to continue rolling away from his opponent, finally leaving the edge...

      An explosion would be heard at the Monk's feet (or face, if he was still stopping, dropping and rolling), the gourd exploding in a blast of fire and iron nails which projected in all directions like shrapel. Nestled in the bottom of the gourd the entire time was a small satchel filled with an amalgamation of saltpeter, charcoal and sulfur (commonly known as gunpowder), all of which Eriks had easily gathered from mountains and stables across the lands he wanderered... not to mention bits of iron pieces and nails to make it even nastier. The blast radius would be small, but as close as the gourd was to the Monk, it didn't need to be wide to be devastating to whichever body part it was closest to.

      The sound of the boom filled the air as Eriks landed straight on his ass. Looking down at his index finger and straining to see, he found it was still on fire, just enough to be the flame of a match or lighter. He whipped his hand quickly, putting the fire out and suckling it-

      ((Steel, talk to me before replying. Anyone currently reading (I seriously doubt there is an audience), please note that this reply is very suceptible to being edited in the future))
      I am posting on topic elsewhere for the most part.

      My DJ here at DVs, Realized Aspiration only contains old dreams. I'll be around for the occasional chat, and some unfinished/unstarted RPs.

      And you, yeah you, with the ice cream hands. You, yeah you, are my friend. ~ Still my mentor, and an awesome guy.

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