NoBaka
FESSer
Olympic Fencer in Training
Posts: 2,155
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Post by NoBaka on May 16, 2003 14:13:04 GMT -5
There's always one of them . . .
Anyway, I'm rather certain that Lakche could cut through two inches of wood without any problem. If my goddess could be that fast while wielding a Silver Claymore (by the way: 'claymore' is Gaelic for 'bloody big sword'), then she would easily be strong enough to cut through at least four inches of sturdy wood. Iron though . . . that's too much KillerShiva.
By the way, I still love your fic SummerWolf.
^_^
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Ryuu
FESSer
RPG Race: Warrior
Posts: 230
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Post by Ryuu on Jun 18, 2003 3:24:50 GMT -5
This is Jingle Bells, but sung in FESS style! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!(note: FESS guys are in there)
Dashing throught the snow,
With NoBaka and Deu,
Blume was finally canned,
And Shiva ran around,
Lakche goes slicing men,
Making them go "ouch!!"
Oh what fun it is to sing this song,
And throw a christmas bash,
Oh, jingle bells,
Alvein yells,
Iris sang all day,
Bardiche tells that Sigurd smells,
And Yurius got away-HEY!
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Post by SummerWolf on Aug 17, 2003 10:50:44 GMT -5
If anybody still remembers chapter twelve, here's the continuation to it. And if anybody thinks the song present here absolutely sucks (there is a melody, and it's better when sung) you can come beat my brains out with a silver axe. =P I take full responsibility.
Chapter Thirteen
“...O Lord Celice, O Glorious Prince,
The Light on Jugdral’s helm,
To steer our souls to salvation
His pure light overwhelms...”
Iria winced as she made her way after Alven through the crowd and clutter inside the tavern, which wasn’t easy, considering the baggage they had with them. That song---if one could call it a song, with its woefully pathetic notes and subpar wording coupled by a voice that couldn’t save itself from a bat cave---had begun to get into her system, and she was starting to feel like vomiting. So many cheesy troubadours nowadays, but she hadn’t met many that combined this many aspects of what make a bad song into one.
“The Thracian government should hire this bard,” Alven muttered darkly as he waded through a group of drunken cow herders.
She almost couldn’t believe her ears. “Beg pardon?”
”So they could save the budget used for interrogation gear. Just let the prisoners listen to this...music, and there ya go.”
“Well,” Iria giggled. “If they do that, the unemployed interrogators would stage a riot in front of the capital. One man is good enough for the entire kingdom.”
Alven turned, grinned. “Easy. Just let the guy sing to them again. I swear that all the riot-goers would fall down on their knees and beg for mercy.”
“And so would everybody else in hearing distance,” Iria said, sticking a tongue at him.
“Except the crowd in this tavern.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re right about that.”
Having just pushed aside a smelly oil merchant who’s busy with a tavern wench, the two of them finally came upon their reserved table, tucked away in a dark corner. From the light provided by a single lantern sitting on a nearby barrel, she could see their resident bard and composer waving cheerfully at them. “Iria! Alven! Over here!”
Both of them smiled. “How are things?” Alven said, putting down the javelins and dragging over a stool.
Zynthe made a face. “Splendid, unless you count the noise pollution,” she answered, lifting a mug to her lips, then put it down as she realized it was already empty. “I thought he would’ve gone away before the two of you come back, but evil never dies, apparently.”
“You two could’ve done something about it,” Iria reprimanded, having already settled down in a chair. “I’m sure that our stuff is better than what’s being provided at the moment. You can consider it charity work for the mental health of the aurally enabled.”
Zynthe wagged a finger. “I suggested the same thing. Now you try to convince Bardi about it.”
“Bardi?” Alven raised an eyebrow.
From her position in the furthest spot on the table, the shy bard meekly smiled. “I wouldn’t want to do that. It’s not a good business etiquette.”
”But a good business practice,” Alven countered, trying to be as persuasive as he could.
“I’d already said that,” Zynthe muttered, shuffling her parchments absentmindedly. “I think you need a few new arguments, Alv.”
Iria raised a questioning index finger. “Why would you consider it bad etiquette?”
The redhead blinked. She spent the next few seconds trying to find words to phrase her reason with, but the only thing that managed to come out in a coherent sort of way was “Because I feel guilty doing it.”
”And why do you feel guilty?”
The bard gulped. “Because...I don’t want the other bard to feel bad?”
The entire table sighed simultaneously. Alven looked like he was torn between the option of laughing out loud or throw a chair at the ceiling. “Baardi!” he called, his expression a grotesque mixture of mirth and exasperation. “This is the world calling you. I understand why you might feel bad, but this is a world of business. The best gets the gold, and the worst tried to improve. Or wallow in self-pity. Whatever it is that they do.”
Bardi appeared flustered. “But, it might look like we’re trying to one-up him, and...”
Iria wagged a warning finger. “Not another word. We are trying to one-up him, for the sake of that art form we call singing. You don’t want it to devolve down another level, do you?”
Seeing how her lyrical companion looked like she was stuck halfway between wanting to cry and wanting to hide in a corner, Zynthe interjected “But, Iria, you know we’re bound to run into problems if we do exactly what you two are suggesting. This is Thracia, you know. I doubt those bards have even temperament.”
The brunette lancer turned to stare at her. “So don’t do it exactly the way I put it. I know you’re creative.”
Zynthe facefaulted. “That’s not what I meant...”
Alven alternated glances between the two of them, then reached into his pocket and produced a single wooden coin. “My lucky nickel,” he explained, noticing that all three of his companions were looking at him strangely. “I suggest we pass judgement to it.”
”Coin tossing again?” Iria asked, theatrically slapping her forehead.
“It’s just the third time, heavens forbid,” he muttered, fliping the nickel between his fingers. “Heads, do it. Tails, we slip away quietly like Bardi wanted, but you will all owe me a song about Lady Patty.”
”But we already made a song about her for you!” Bardi protested.
“Make another one,” he replied, sticking his tongue at her. Iria noticed, however, a certain glint in his eyes that plainly said “You want a way out of this, you agree to my offer.” One didn’t need to be a master spotter to pick that out.
“It’s a bit unfair, you know. I don’t even get a song about Lord Cuan,” she pointed out.
Alven raised an eyebrow. “That can be arranged. Okay. A song about Lady Patty for me and a song about Lord Cuan for her in exchange for letting this blasphemer of all that is music perform. Do we have a deal?”
Bardi gulped, tugging at Zynthe’s sleeves. “What should we do?”
The composer rolled her eyes. “I thought you wanted out?”
”Yes, but...”
”Deal, Alven,” she called, then turned back to the bewildered bard. “A song or two’s not that hard to make. It’s a good thing Alven’s in a mellow mood today, else you won’t be able to escape that pedestal over there.”
The redhead’s eyes widened, but she nodded and took a step back. “I’m ready, Alven.”
“Took your sweet time,” he said, grinning. “You’ll have to make sure the songs are extra perfect to make up for this aureal crime, you know.”
“Just go ahead and do it,” Zynthe quipped.
Chuckling, the young master knight held out the wooden nickel, snapped his fingers, and watched as it flew to the ground with a soft ping. The coin turned and spun in midair for several half-seconds, then landed on the ground with its tail side up. Taking the coin, he handed it to Bardi, face still smiling.
“Luck is with you today, seems,” Alven said.
Bardi looked like she was about to faint from relief, and Iria smiled. While her meekness gave them headaches in several similar situations, it was something of an endearing quality. Even though it may look like she was acting out the role of the usual fairy tale damsels at times, Iria had been traveling with Bardi long enough to know that she was no fairy tale damsel. As long as self-confidence has nothing to do with it, of course. “Let’s move out of this place,” she suggested. “My eardrums are begging for peace and quiet already.”
Bardi finally laughed for the first time since the subject has been broached. “And not a moment too soon, Iria!”
All the four of them laughed together, as they usually do when the environment at hand couldn’t be any worse, as they picked up their belongings and prepared to move out quietly. As they made their way through the crowd, however, Alven stopped dead in his tracks, resulting in Iria crashing into him and the other two saving themselves by holding on to a nearby pole.
“Give us some warning before you do that kind of thing, Alv!” Zynthe protested as she helped Iria up, her stare full of irritation. Until she noticed that the master knight’s usually carefree expression had suddenly melted off his face, and his right hand had slipped to the rondel dagger on his belt.
“We’ve got company,” Alven said, his voice sharp with the edges of battle, almost like a hiss.
Iria smiled. “Just like in a cheesy tavern tale, isn’t it?”
”I suggest you take cover, Iria,” he warned. “We might be able to negotiate, but you’re from a country with not-so-good relations with the folks here. I don’t know if your charismatic ways would work on them, but I don’t want to risk it.”
“I don’t think this’d be the last time our mouths got us into trouble,” she replied, drawing her traveler’s cloak over her face and motioning to Zynthe and Bardi to make their own necessary preparations. Zynthe’s sheet music and lyrics notes was immediately swapped with an Elwind spellbook and Bardi’s own notes a Thunder, just in case they needed a good escape. Which would be around the sixth such occasion.
Alven gave her a small grin. “Here they come.”
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Post by SummerWolf on Aug 17, 2003 10:51:19 GMT -5
‘They’ consisted of one burly-looking man who looked like he could float with his puff-up ego, one fairly decent-looking guy with glasses, and a long-haired man holding a curved sword. They were moving at the traveling band from the flanks, and they didn’t look too friendly.
“Ya a bard, mister?” the burly man asked. His voice was gruff and yet again, not too friendly. Iria tensed. Would that she could use a spear in this crowded place!
Alven shook his head. “No, sir, I’m not.”
”Which ‘un of ya a bard, then?” His gaze was downright hostile. Iria felt herself trying to control her fight-or-flight impulses simple to stand in one place and look innocent. Would their troubles never stop? She could see Alven’s face, his indecision in whether to tell them or not. Telling might give him a chance to overpower the men, but if there were others lurking in the shadows, Bardi and Zynthe’s safety would be at risk. The two could take care of themselves well enough in normal situations, and Iria herself could help. But when death can come from the dark, it was dangerous business indeed.
Finally, he seemed to have reached a decision. “You must be mistaken, sir. We don’t have a bard with us. We’re just a band of simple mercenaries, and we’re about leaving already.”
“Dun ya be lying, mister,” the man growled. “Ol’ Traf here heard ya ‘all jabberin’ about songs and makin’ them ‘n’ such. Which ‘un of ya a bard?”
Alven made his best poker face impression. “No one, sir. I told you, we’re just simple mercenaries. The songs we were talking about were our campfire songs. Life on a battlefield’s got to have something to ease the mind, you know.”
“But ya know ‘bout them songs, aye? And said dat the bard yonder there’s nuthin’ but trash, aye?”
”We didn’t do that. You must’ve mistakened us for someone else,” Alven said innocently, looking totally bewildered. Iria admired that. His acting might’ve been catapulted by the blood rush of being in a dangerous situation, but it was perfect. He could’ve gotten into the Lenster Theater without much trouble and perhaps even make a name for himself there at this rate.
“’Dun lie to me,” the man growled even stronger than before. “Traf here heard ya all, oh yes he did. Ya have bards with ya, and ya know what yur talking about.”
A certain slipped into the knight’s eyes, and she knew he was readying for battle. That look was in the eye of every warrior born, and she regretted not being able to use a lance in cramp quarters even more. “If you’ll have it that way, sir. So...what if we did?”
The man sneered.
And then got on his knees, followed by his two lackeys.
“Please, mister. Ya have a bard. Ya have songs. Ya know enough to know how painful dis ‘un is. Ya do something about it.”
Alven, Iria, Zynthe and Bardi all blinked in unison. It was the very last they’d expected to hear, but it was there anyway. “Why, sir?” Bardi asked, as befuddled as the rest of them in the situation.
The burly man looked up. “I’m a merchant, lass, from Miletos yonder there makin’ muh way to Lenster to sell ‘em goods. I had arranged ta meet muh supplier here, and he ‘dun showing up. Sensitive, dat man. He wouldn’t be ‘round places with this bad a ruckus going’ on. I barely stand it, muhself.”
Iria and Zynthe began to giggle uncontrollably, although they tried to suppress it as hard as they could. So much for company! Alven still seemed to be in shock, so Bardi just went on. “Why don’t you just arrange to meet him somewhere else? Send a courier, or something. I noticed a stand for errand boys around the Four Trees Square when we made our way in here.”
“I canna read nor write, lassie,” the man answered grimly. “And I dunno where he lives. Da guild o’ merchants did all da contacting for me, so all I know’s his name and face.”
Bardi looked at Alven, who looked at Zynthe, who looked at Iria. Narga knows how uncreative Thracian names were. It’s said that if you were to walk into a busy street in a Thracian city, you’d run into at least twenty people with the same names. “Highly responsible, this supplier,” Iria commented dryly. “I’d have left a note or something to his contacts, no matter how bad the music is. It’s not that bad yet.”
“Maybe his ears are ultra sensitive,” Zynthe whispered back. “Or maybe he’s one of those stuffy fallen aristocrats used to sopranos and violins. You know how those are.”
Iria nodded, then stepped out. “So what would you have us do, sir?”
“Do sumthin’. Get them out.”
Knowing what that implied, she turned to look at their resident bard, who had adamantly refuse to have anything to do with it before. She didn’t seem so adamant now. If anyone would know what it’s like to wait for an important appointment that never came due to an annoying someone that couldn’t be stopped, it’s her.
Alven chuckled. “Bardi, it seems that you have to challenge that so-called bard to a duel after all. Show them what it’s like.”
”I’d like to, but we don’t have a song that fits,” she sighed. “There’s your favourite, there’s Iria favourite, there’s one about Lady Yuria. And There’s...um...the parchment one and the one making fun of General Hannibal’s eating habits. Of all those, the only ones that won’t get us hanged are yours and the one about Yuria. And they don’t work in context.”
Grinning, the master knight turned to Zynthe. “Ask her. Betcha that she’s got something up her sleeves.”
”Zynthe?”
In place of an answer, the sage smiled and produced a few parchments from her belt pouch. “Here. I wrote it while waiting for these two laggarts to show up. It’s wrote to the tune of that song...but I guarantee you that it would make that subpar melody instantly pretty.”
Bardi looked at her dubiously. “You sure?”
”Of course I’m sure. This is me, you know. Now go to the stage.”
The redhead fidgeted a bit, and so Alven chuckled. “If you don’t want to, I’ll go to that bard instead of you and make the challenge. Deal?”
”Thanks,” was her answer.
Alven grinned. “Just ready your lute,” he said, going off to the pedestal. Iria could see him and the bard talking, and at one moment the singer literally frothed from the mouth. The knight made a nonchalant shrugging motion, and the singer fumed even more.
Then at last, judging by the way he smiled, she prodded Bardi forward. “It’s time, you know,” she said, giving her friend a wink. “Go show them who’s boss.”
Bardi looked at the burly merchant for a moment, then sighed. “The hoops I jump through for sake of humanity.”
”It’s not hoops. It’s your career.”
”Whatever.”
The redhead took a tentative step through the crowd, who seemed to realize what was going on and moved out of her way. Good. The more people noticed, the better. Iria saw the so-called bard sitting on a stool near the stage, sneering. Probably couldn’t see how this meek, shy girl could compete with his mighty music. Hah. He would see.
Bardi’d made her way onto the stage then, and she just looked up with a totally different gleam in her eyes as she looked at the crowd. Iria smiled. If there was one thing the girl wasn’t when she’s on a stage facing an audience, it was meek or shy. On the stage, the world was hers. The audience was hers. The song was hers to breath life into. It was the only time she’d seen Bardi ever being confident about her music, the time when she was making it dance. It was hard to get her into doing it without a good environment, but the result was always the same.
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Post by SummerWolf on Aug 17, 2003 10:52:14 GMT -5
The redhead crossed her arms behind her back and began to sing.
“From the hidden hills of Isaac, a wayward prince set forth
On a journey that started so long ago which end he then would wrought,
With kindness welling in his heart and justice in his hands
Young Celice raised the rebel flag, making freedom’s stand.
Through great miseries and sorrows, friends then met and parted,
He made his war with bloodied blades and great weight in his heart
What makes a right, what makes a wrong, these things he could not say
Yet with no choice Young Celice moved bravely on his way.
And in the hours he faltered on the road that he must thread,
When dawn has dimmed and Young Celice dreamed for nothing but rest,
His friends were there, helping him on, never letting him fall
And thus they made it through all past despair’s beckon call.
Mistortin the Blood Drinker, Agustria’s demon blade
Isaac’s proud Balmunk at last stirred from its forgotten rest,
Lenster’s Gae Bolg, pride of the earth,
Thracia’s Gungnir in the sky,
Ichieval the unerring, bringing truth to lies.
Holsety of Silesia, the fierce winds of the north
With flames and thunder blades it came, bearing their havoc forth,
Edda’s holy Valkyrie, carrier of the dead,
And the cleaving heart of Dozul’s might, their journey took them west.
West through forgotten orchards, through fields long left to die,
With trees withering along with hopes under a blackened sky,
Young Celice led his army there, holding the Tyrfing high,
He made his way to fight Yurius, to end Grandbell’s long night.
And there he then again met the lost Lady Yuria
Who in the flames of war was thought forever disappeared,
But she was changed beyond measure, love turned into hatred
And she desired nothing more than see Young Celice dead.
All his friends bore her magics while Young Celice raced north
To end the cause of her darkness, Manfroy’s might he must cross
And for her sake he killed the priest, ending long years of pain
And in a ray of shining hope, those years were not in vain.
Lady Yuria found her soul, and with Holy Narga
She summoned the Great Dragon Lord to the fields of Barhara.
A roaring light, his brilliant fangs, tearing Loptous’s black heart
And in a flash of glorious light Grandbell’s nightmare departed.
The people laughed and then cried, their despair dashed away
Waving to Celice the hero for whom they had long prayed.
Taking with heavy heart the weight of Grandbell’s golden crown,
Young Celice bid farewell to friends and for peace he did vowed.
Taking his hand was Lakche, Isaac’s fair young princess
Through life their blades have ever crossed, through love they promised to wed,
To share all laughter and all tears, and days as they may come
For Jugdral’s peace they share the burden together in their time.
As bloodied blades turn to songs, and songs into legends
The memories fade into myths, as songs will someday end,
Celice’s brave tale, his laughing face, will surely fade away
Yet his deeds will be sung by the earth forever and a day.”
By the time she was done, the so-called bard was gone and the whole tavern was silent.
Bardi smiled confidently as she stepped down from the stage amidst quiet stares, obviously bathing in the attention. She looked totally different from that meek girl, but Iria knew that as soon as the effects of the show’d worn off, she would return into being that meek girl again. It was always that way during their long travels.
Zynthe grinned as the redhead rejoined them. “That’s not bad, Bardi.”
”Thank you,” she grinned back. “Shall we head out? I think that merchant guy’s finished his business, too, and that’s already one good deed for the day.”
”We shall, as soon as Alven shows his face,” Iria answered, cracking her knuckles. “He’s suddenly gone off somewhere while you were singing. I had no idea he’d be so irresponsible.”
”Cut him some slack, Iria,” Zynthe giggled.
“I’d cut him enough slack to last Narga’s lifetime already,” the lancer muttered. And it wasn’t like he ever remembered any of those incidents or thought they were as serious as they really were, either. He was such an opposite of Eaizer that she sometimes wondered how they ever got along in the first place.
While she was hanging onto that line of thought, Zynthe whistled. “And there he comes.”
And he was, tugging along with the burly merchant. All the traces of his unfriendliness had disappeared now, and Iria guessed that it was just an effect of stress.
“We’ve got good news, guys,” the knight said cheerfully as he joined them. “Master Traf has agreed to give us a reward for our troubles.”
”Reward?” Zynthe queried, her eyes suddenly glistening with glee.
“Yeah,” he answered happily. “A ride to Rivough, for free, provided that we help him with the camp entertainment and the bandits now and then, in which case we’re paid. I thought it’s nigh time we revisit our contacts in that area. And I would get to be in the same country with Lady Patty again. It’s a win-win situation.”
Traf the merchant beamed. “I’m happy ta be on da same caravan as ya all, muh lords and ladies. Especially tha lass with tha golden voice.”
Zynthe looked at Iria, who looked at Bardi, who looked at Zynthe. “Oh no,” Bardi said, gasping.
“Indeed,” Zynthe said, shaking her head.
Iria pulled Alven aside, gave him a pleading look. “Can you just decline, Alv?”
The young knight appeared perplexed. “Why would you want to decline? It’s a---“
”Just answer the bloody question.”
He shrugged. “No. I don’t see why we shouldn’t go, so I signed a contract saying we’ll guard that caravan all the way to Rivough. And even if Master Traf’s willing to break contract, it’s against Merchant Guild laws and it’s punishable.”
Iria looked like she was about to faint. “Alven...”
”How could you!?” Bardi accused, her voice broken.
“Is thinking an impossible thing to do for that head of yours?” Zynthe cried.
Alven looked all the more perplexed. “Wha...? What’s going on? Why are you…?”
Iria glared at him. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what happened the last time we were in Isaac.”
”What happened?”
”Think. No matter how empty your skull is, you’ll probably remember something.”
“I still don’t know.”
”Think Lady Patty. Javelins. Border guards.”
Alven appeared thoughtful for a moment, then he paled. “Oh dear,” he whispered.
Zynthe rolled her eyes. “I have a feeling this won’t be the last time your mouth’ll get us into trouble,” she said.
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NoBaka
FESSer
Olympic Fencer in Training
Posts: 2,155
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Post by NoBaka on Aug 19, 2003 14:52:53 GMT -5
Aaaah . . . still beautiful writing . . .
::sob:: I need a tune to set that to!!!
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Post by Summer on Aug 19, 2003 23:12:02 GMT -5
 ;; You LIKED it!? Oh dear... Well, it has a tune. It's from a ballad in Betrayal at Antara, though I have no idea where you might find an MP3. I just like that song so much that it stuck to my head for six years straight. =P If you're on any IMs and would care to tolerate my horrible voice, I can even sing it to you. But alas. =P |
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NoBaka
FESSer
Olympic Fencer in Training
Posts: 2,155
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Post by NoBaka on Aug 22, 2003 10:28:55 GMT -5
;; You LIKED it!? Oh dear... Well, it has a tune. It's from a ballad in Betrayal at Antara, though I have no idea where you might find an MP3. I just like that song so much that it stuck to my head for six years straight. =P If you're on any IMs and would care to tolerate my horrible voice, I can even sing it to you. But alas. =P Hmmm . . . I played Betrayal at Krondor and Return to Krondor, but not Betrayal at Antara . . . is it the same music as BaK? I like all your work. Except for that . . . Johan x Skasaha thing you told me about . . . that's just freaky. |
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Post by SummerWolf on Aug 22, 2003 14:36:29 GMT -5
Naah. BaK was 'The Kingdom Mine". BaA is....something else. =p It's really very pretty. I wish I can find you an MP3, but I can't find it myself. =P
Thank you! *glomps Nobaka*
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NoBaka
FESSer
Olympic Fencer in Training
Posts: 2,155
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Post by NoBaka on Sept 8, 2003 10:58:35 GMT -5
All right, I've been debating this for a while, but I've made a decision. This . . . is my favorite fanfic ever. It's Breath of Fire. It encompasses Breath of Fire I - III, but you don't even have to have played any of the games to read it. All right. Read it if you want, don't if you don't. darksiren.net/reborn/chapters.html |
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Post by AzureNightmare on Sept 29, 2003 2:13:59 GMT -5
2 hilarious Soul Calibur fanfics www.fanfiction.net/read.php?storyid=1480280www.fanfiction.net/read.php?storyid=1352054none are mine, but are very good. here's some parts from one of them: "A sloped incline... and sensory lasers blocking the whole area, there is no way I can skip this, so I must..." Yoshimitsu walked through, and a thud sounded. Looking behind him, he saw... "A giant boulder! Now I get it!" The boulder starts to roll. "It seems this downward ramp lets the boulder accelerate at a rate where none but the fastest can escape and... I should be running now, shouldn't I?" As the boulder neared him, he ran like heck. and... "With her help, I shall finish my collection, MY COLLECTION OF SOUL EDGE!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! Wait, my Soul Edge alarm system is going off. To the Soul Edge external visual monitor!" The man, Cervantes, rushed to the screen and looked. "Yes, she's here. After a little persuasion, I'm sure she'll join me." Cervantes walked Ivy around the house. "...and there is my Soul Edge computer! Over there is my Soul Edge calendar, and there is my Soul Edge cell phone. Plus there is my Soul Edge bed! It always refreshes my soul, if I still had one. Now I'll get you a drink. Have a seat somewhere." As Ivy was sent to one of the Soul Edge chairs, Cervantes left and came back with coffee. "Perhaps you want coffee? I made it in my Soul Edge coffee maker. A special Spanish blend, pure evil in every drop." |
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Post by The dark prince on Oct 1, 2003 15:35:05 GMT -5
There's always one of them . . . Anyway, I'm rather certain that Lakche could cut through two inches of wood without any problem. If my goddess could be that fast while wielding a Silver Claymore (by the way: 'claymore' is Gaelic for 'bloody big sword'), then she would easily be strong enough to cut through at least four inches of sturdy wood. Iron though . . . that's too much KillerShiva. By the way, I still love your fic SummerWolf. ^_^ depends on how fast and accurate then yes but the sword is scrap metal but then again physics dosn't really apply here that much such alvis has at least 5 inches of steel and she can cut thru that just fine.she just needs moonlight hit he cuts though anything def so it doesn't reallly mateer. |
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Post by SummerWolf on Oct 1, 2003 22:12:50 GMT -5
Alvis isn't a can.
Armor has gaps. Moonlight hit probably means she has a special talent to make use of those gaps. And the armor cutter is probably design to take advantage of them, too.
.............Why am I arguing with KS?
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NoBaka
FESSer
Olympic Fencer in Training
Posts: 2,155
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Post by NoBaka on Oct 2, 2003 10:19:34 GMT -5
Alvis isn't a can. Armor has gaps. Moonlight hit probably means she has a special talent to make use of those gaps. And the armor cutter is probably design to take advantage of them, too. .............Why am I arguing with KS? Momentary lapse in judgement? |
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Post by The dark prince on Oct 2, 2003 15:05:26 GMT -5
Alvis isn't a can. Armor has gaps. Moonlight hit probably means she has a special talent to make use of those gaps. And the armor cutter is probably design to take advantage of them, too. .............Why am I arguing with KS? this is not a argument. |
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;; You LIKED it!? Oh dear...
the fated meeting