Open Chronicles The Grand Tournament of Tides

[Afanas]

Sam looked and her brows larked as she found the man looking right at them, "Damnit Ane, I told you not to stare. You're bothering him."

Xeraphine Yldore
Samantha Black

Afanas raised a finger in response to Xeraphina's words, a gesture meant to temporarily hush her. His head remained turned, his neck twisted to a degree that no human neck could have possibly achieved without going 'SNAP-POP-CRUNCH'. This, of course, because his spine had long ago come to an arrangement with the rest of his body that involved certain liberties being taken that transcended the limitations of conventional anatomy.

He quirked an eyebrow at the older girl, Samantha, his ears had informed him earlier, along with the younger one's name, Anja. It saved him the trouble of asking. Afanas appreciated efficiency, particularly when it came from organs that did their job without requiring supervision.

"Bother," he began, "is a strong word."

He tilted his chin, just a smidge, enough for the midday sun to finally reach his face. The light revealed impossibly smooth skin the color of bleached bone and the sculpted, statuesque features of his countenance, the sort of face that sculptors would have killed to capture, and sell, definitely sell.

"However," he continued, and there was something almost conversational about it now, as if they were ventilating on today's weather rather than the fact that she'd just compared him to municipal building, "I do prefer being spoken to directly. If you've something to say, I implore you to say it to my face, rather than gossiping about it behind my back."

He paused.

"I assure you, I don't bite."

This was, at best, a partial truth. Afanas did bite. He had bitten people on several occasions, some of them quite deserving of it. But he didn't bite everyone, and certainly not without what he considered reasonable provocation. A remark about his height hardly qualified, if he took offense every time someone mentioned it, he'd have depopulated half the city by now.

 

[Sir Dwendare Castlegrip]

Sir Dwendare Castlegrip swung mightily and heroically. Through air. His opponent -- gone.

What?

Boots landed behind him, crunching sand. Pain lanced in his hamstrings and he took the knee.

WHAT?

And then, his mother and heraldry were thoroughly insulted.

"WHAT?!"

The outcry within him finally found escape through his mouth. Indeed, just as Marek had hoped for, furious outrage overtook his better senses, and he rose, lifting his sword to lance through this mouthy, airborne guttersnipe. However, his greaves met resistance, and the motion that had taken him back up to his feet through twenty-odd years of life now sent him hammering back down on the ground, the back of his breastplate and gamberson pounding against the dirt.

He was now staring up at the bright, blue sky through the slit in his visor; breath roaring within the kettle of his helmet.

Impossible.

The crowd exclaimed their surprise and sucked their teeth -- not with any sympathy, but more accurately with glee at seeing someone else bite the dust than them. That snapped his attention away from the sky to earthly matters.

Where had that little bastard gone--

Marek