I Did A Kobold Base! If You’ve Ever Wanted To Create A Kobold For Your Adventure, Now It’s The Time:

Human Moment

Alright, writeblr—

When you see this, reblog it with three things that make you (unconventionally) beautiful— or just something you LIKE about yourself. We have a lot of negative self-talk and self-deprecating humor in this community, and it’s time to take it back.

Here are mine:

I have countless freckles.

I’m good at making children feel seen and heard.

I like the stories I write!

And you’re going to see this and be like, “Oh, but this isn’t for me,” but it IS and it’s time to own YOU.

Inspired by a conversation with @madammuffins. And I’m tagging @mvcreates @pens-swords-stuff @jojoscoffeeandwriting @caitwritesstuff @crowswritetoo and @scottishhellhound to help me get this started, too?

been playing okami recently…

Abaddon Among the People - A drabble

I had some spare time at work and a word processor opened in front of me. A fun idea of a character that was once a harbinger of doom gets put on hiatus so the creator can get back to creating. But what happens when they don’t want to come back?

Enjoy.

~~~~~

"You're Grounded!" The eternal being bellowed.

"What!?" The destroyer of worlds cried back. Then, in a flash of light, the world opened around him. His glorious wings vanished and he fell. Passing through the several layers of reality, each plummet robbing him of his home and place among his kind. It its place grew a painful resentment. 

Then, he landed. He glared back at the bubbling rips in existence from whence he came. As the rends stitched themselves back together, he cried up into the void, “You’ll pay for this!” 

And then, silence. He would be forced to live among the mortal people. Creatures he once only saw at the tip of his lance. He would be forced to wallow alongside them.

That is, until they are called upon once more.

~~~~~~

"Let's get your wings back." Said the emissary of the eternal being. It floated in the middle of the living room and pulsed with eerie blue light.

"Actually," Don said, "I kind of like it here."

"What?” The being’s body bubbled and hissed as impossible energies coursed over what passed for its skin. The lights in the apartment started to flicker and shine in strange ways, like the bulbs were in pain.

"Hey, easy easy, you're gonna blow the whole grid." Don said, putting his hands on what passed for the being's shoulders. "Do you want some tea? I was just heating up a pot."

"How-" It began, before a finger pressed to what passed for its lips. Don gave a  pleading look before hooking a thumb to the bedroom door.

"She's trying to get some sleep."

The emissary's eyes twisted in an unnatural and disturbing way, the pupils weaving between each eye. When they settled, it began again.

"How can you turn down the call of the Eternal?" It said. Though hushed, the voice of the emissary was still heavy with purpose.

He shrugged, "I guess it just isn't as important anymore." 

What passed for the emissary's mouth dropped open.

The tea kettle began to hiss. "One second," Don said and hustled off to the kitchen to grab the kettle. When he got there, the emissary was standing next to the refrigerator. Its glowing body illuminated everything in a swirling mix of blue and white light. He didn't turn to face the impossible being as he poured out some of the hot water into a pair of cups.

"Was that a yes or no to the tea?" He said.

"You are making a mistake." It said, its voice dipped into that quivering pool of impossible where it sounded close and far at the same time, a booming whisper. The kind that makes your heart wait its turn. A mortal being would probably drop to their knees in terror and repent their sins.

Don set the kettle down and tipped his head to the side. "Yeah, probably too late for black tea. Too much caffeine." He poured out the cups and walked right past the emissary to the cupboard. "How about some chamomile lavender?"

"PESTIFER MUNDI ABADDON," the emissary said. “I CALL UPON YOU.”

Its voice was like a forgotten song. It was old and dripping with power. For Don, it ached with memories. A surge hit him and an old itch prickled his skin, centering on seven very particular points on his back. He grabbed the edge of the counter top to keep himself upright. His jaw clenched as a warm, pleasing, dangerous power kindled in his arms. The counter top began to crack.

"How feeble," He thought, looking at the splinters spreading from his flexed fingers. "A flick of my wrist and this whole wall would crumble. No, the whole building." A smile creeped over his face. His muscles burned, burdened with power, on the edge of a sudden push that would bring forth ruin.

"REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE," The emissary said.

"Who I am," Don said, his own voice was becoming dangerous and hot with feral potential. In truth, he never forgot. The memories of a lifetime long lost all gripped at his heart and mind every day. And every day he had placed them in their dark box. Things were different now.

"Who I am, is not who I was." He said. His bones, his body, ached in protest. But it wouldn't be the first time.

"YOU ARE A TOOL FOR THE ETERNAL AND YOU HAVE BEEN SUMMONED." The emissary said. Its body shimmered brighter, eyes burning with literal fire. Wisps of white smoke drifted towards the ceiling.

"Shove it, glowstick," He said, turning to face the floating voice of eternity. He put his finger right into its burning face, "You want to destroy this world so bad you can do it your damn self!"

What passed for the emissary's face curled into a horrible look of satisfaction. "So be it."

It was gone in the next moment.

Don was left in the kitchen alone. In the sudden darkness, he had the chance to ruminate on his choice of words. The gears whirred in his head as he flipped through the pages of his memories. Back, back, back. He finally reached that dark box in his mind. Whispers crept to his mind. Whispers of the end times, and getting permission, and a prophesied fool who would welcome the end of the world.

"Fuck," Don said.

A small voice gasped from behind him. He spun around, arms raised defensively. He looked at the doorway where a young girl was huddled, peeking in. She had a yellow rain hat and rain jacket, just like when he first found her. The baseball bat was a new addition. Though, it did prove that she had been listening to his survival advice all along. Her hazel eyes were wide and fixed on him.

"You said a swear," She said, her shocked face turned to a chiding smile.

He dropped his hands and let out the breath he realized he had been holding. He walked to the drawer next to the sink and pulled out a small hard candy. It was a serious swear, so he grabbed a strawberry one. He walked over and knelt down in front of her. He held up the candy and said, "No telling, okay?" He smiled.

She set the bat down and grabbed the candy, stuffing it in her pocket. "Deal. Who was the floaty guy?"

Don had almost forgotten about it. Is this the mortal ability to bypass traumatic moments? He will have to be more careful in the future. Things were about to hit the biblical fan.

"The floaty guy," He began, "Was an old friend. Wants me to get back into my family's business. I turned him down and he took it pretty hard."

"Is that why he exploded?" She said, she fidgeted with her hair, fingers fumbling to make a loose braid.

"Pretty much," He said, once again taking advantage of the impressive ability children have to just go along with things. They can inquire forever about why rain falls but tell them your old friend, who is a floaty guy on fire, just exploded because of family issues and they just nod along. Which is what she was doing, nodding her head like it all made sense to her.

"Speaking of which," He said, "We need to go see Mother May."

Mother May would know what to do. Probably. Assuming she was lucid enough to still be coherent. It was still early in the night. If they could catch her before her second bottle of absinthe, they might stand a chance to get a question in before she goes into her "Trance".

"Ready to go," She said. She grabbed the backpack that was tucked behind the doorway and slipped if on. Then she picked up the bat and rested it on her shoulder like a big leaguer. 

“So it would seem,” He said, giving her a nod. “I’ll grab my stuff and we’ll get going.”

He hustled to his room and dug into the back of his closet. He grabbed his satchel and leather duster jacket. He dashed to the door, but his hand came up and caught the door frame. He hesitated at the door. He looked back at the closet. His fingertips drummed on the door frame.

"What's taking so long?" The girl called from the front room.

He let go of the door frame. "Nothing," He called back to her before leaving his room.

Seconds later, he came sprinting back, vaulting over his bed and diving into the closet. He pulled back with a small box in his hands. He let his fingers trace over the intricate and ancient writing on it. He stuffed it into his satchel.

"We'll be fine," He said, "But just in case." He got to his feet and hustled out of the room again. “We’ll be fine.”

. . .

Mother May was a withered husk of centuries of abuse. Most, if not all of it, had been chemical and self-inflicted. However, for all the hallucinogens she had ingested in one form or another, she was a spry woman, scuttling about her duties at the Pearly Gates hostel. After a day of hard shilling to the lost and misfortune, she would shuffle to the parlor in the back to engage in recreational fortune-telling and tarot reading. Surrounded by her favorite tinctures and exotic smoke, she would play cards against the gods and read what the future had in store. This night, she had barely settled down to turn over the first card when there came a knock, knock knocking upon her chamber door. She laid down the card "The Fool" and sighed.

"Come on in, Don," She barked at the door, "You know you're always welcome."

My favourite things about Scrivener

1. Navigation. You can see all your chapters, scenes, character & setting planning at one glance and switch between them very easily - compared to scrolling up and down in one long word processing document. Every file can also be a folder, so you can have collapsible items underneath it.

2. Word count targets. The “Project Targets” are particularly useful for NaNoWriMo so you don’t have to keep looking back at the website to see how you’re doing for the day, but more so outside of it, when you want to keep yourself working to a target but don’t have Nano’s charts and daily word counts. It also gives you a nice ding when you hit your session target.

3. How many pages? I only recently discovered this, but it’s very nice to be able to see in Project Statistics approximately how big your manuscript would be in pages without worrying about formatting. 

4. Outlining. Scrivener has two methods of outlining - one is Corkboard, which is exactly what it sounds like, a digital corkboard with notes pinned on it that represent your chapters/scenes with their summaries. The screenshot above is called ‘outliner’ and lists collapsible chapters/scenes with various statistics you can select as shown in the tick menu. Generally I prefer Corkboard, but Outliner is useful if you just want to see everything in a clear order. 

5. Full screen. I get distracted very easily when writing, so the full-screen writing mode is wonderful for me to avoid that - but you can still choose certain windows from the normal Scrivener view to show up. I have my targets and my summary, so I can stick to my plan when I’m writing and also see what progress I’m making.

6. Notes. No screenshot, but it’s a simple post-it note style box to the side of every document (chapter, scene, character etc.) that allows you to add notes. This may sound very simple, but it’s far more useful than I’d expected. During NaNoWriMo when I’m not meant to be editing at all, but I know something needs fixing, I will jot down something in the side like ‘Take out the horse’ so that when I go through again to edit I know exactly the things to focus on immediately but which would have taken too much time before. It’s linked to the scene so I don’t just have a pile of notes in one document at the end and then have to work out where it needs fixing.

Overall

I downloaded Scrivener for the first time two years ago, and now I can’t imagine working without it. It’s so nice to have the planning and the writing all combined into one place where I can easily switch between the two. I haven’t yet got as far in a novel created in Scrivener to use the compile features so I can’t comment on those, but so far all my experiences of it have been good.

One thing to note is that if transferring project between a Windows and a Mac version of Scrivener, it’s generally best to zip the file first.

[Screenshots from my current novel Kindling Ashes using the Mac version of Scrivener - some features may not be available in Windows yet.]

From the Warmed Desk - Hydra’s Head Tavern

I do a lot of writing when I am bored at work. Here is one of the quick world-building stories I coughed up one day. Characters I used to play in DnD come together to have a Tavern AU together. Enjoy.

_____

The seedy backstreets of Fwanze are lined with the most bizarre delights and sins that a person could concoct. The gruel and garbage of the city circles the drain and floats down the gutters to the bars and brothels where the regal and a rascal join together to drink bad beer and ogle beautiful young things.

Among these respected and resented establishments, there are a few that stand moderately above the rest. Mainly because they have managed to survive the slurry of puritanical threats coming down from the purging authorities. At the east end, Madam Thorax’s Sinful Dreams will delight any and all who might want a delight for a premium price. To the south, Lucky Legend Land (the Ls are upside-down 7s) will grant you the games of chance you could only dream of in your wildest nightmares. The devil went down to LuLeLa. And to the lawless west, nestled between the grit and thunder of the factories, you have the humble tavern The Hydra’s Head. Newcomers will learn quickly that this place has survived so long thanks to customer loyalty strong community, plus the hydra’s curse threatens if the tavern falls, two more will sprout in its place.

Let’s take a look into this tavern.

Step through the heavy oaken door on any given night and be welcomed to the smell of grilling meat and the sound of laughter. Laborers, traders, and even a few off-duty authorities will be seen sharing a drink and the signature meat pie or steak sandwich. Regular swear by the tender and seasoned meat, but the chef, a burly gentleman, refuses to reveal his recipe or even what animal it comes from. “Old family recipe, da?” He would say, before slamming his butcher’s knife through a thick slab of marbled meat.

As you belly up to the bar to pick up your order of vittles, you will likely see the dazzling stock of liquors and the barrels of artisan brews. It can be overwhelming at first, but thankfully, you have a helpful guide to give you a good idea of what will satisfy. The quick and clever bartender has what you are looking for. Even going so far as to say that he is, “The greatest bartender the world has ever known!” Just be sure to not to stiff him on a tip, you might find yourself short on any shiny valuables you weren’t actively protecting.

And if you are so crass as to try and cause some kind of trouble in this fine establishment, you will likely be forced to contend with the massive bouncer of the Hydra’s Head tavern. Towering over most people, they have a rather calm demeanor and attempt to placate matters peacefully first. But he is known to challenge rowdy guests to duels before beating them senseless and taking their belts. A strange habit.

So if you are finishing your day’s work in the mines, at the factory, or just trying to survive the crowds at the market, you can find rest, respite, and a fine meal waiting for you at the Hydra’s Head Tavern.

when i was seven the sea-witch cursed me.

she cursed my great-grandfather, actually, who had spat on the hands of the ocean and disrespected the beating heart of the earth - for what else are waves but a pulse - who was silly and violent and who tried to rip from the water what was hers by rights. we were wealthy, before that, a family of merchants. my mother says in her youth she recalls white horses, the gleam of candles, early mornings with bread baked fresh by a horde of servants.

he didn’t ask permission to cross her. that’s what my mother tells me while she spoons porridge with no flavor into the wood of my bowl. he had no faith in superstition, rode with boats that were more decoration than strength, the folly of a man who was cruel and vain and proud of his own gold teeth. the sky had been blue, so regardless of what the village witch said, he would sail that day. and when his boat sank; their lives turned blue like the sky that day.

my mother says she thinks the curse on the men of our family, even if they come in when they marry, is that they will forever be violent, too foolish to see the storm on the horizon. she whispers this to me on the eve of my seventh birthday, while father is his own storm, thundering around the house, looking for her. later, when i am cleaning the cut by her cheek, she tells me the curse is on the women to forever be unhappy, to wane until they are shadows, to walk into the deep like a sinking ship. 

we don’t burn candles often, they are too expensive. she tells me this in the silk of a dark room. the moon kisses her hair. 

in three days, my mother will walk into the ocean, and my father will be my own problem. the curse will pass onto me. 

my father does not believe in superstition, no curse to conquer him. when he is gone, and i am heartbroken, i go to the village witch. i ask her to teach me about magic, and other things, and about how the ocean can be coaxed, and how to save my father’s soul. 

and my hands rot too, keeping a house by myself with things i barely knew. i learn the art of a good scrubbing, keep my mind full of white horses while i endlessly clean, dream of candles in dark while i make the bread that he will not allow me to eat. he keeps me from the ocean, from visiting the place that took my mom, from following in her footsteps where the water makes women undone.

i am sixteen when i see her in the water of a bowl. she scares me so completely that i drop it, and my father comes in with his hands, and the curse, and i almost forget all about it. it isn’t until after that i realize she is beautiful, and young, which surprises me. 

i think about it every evening. her face becomes distorted to me. i can no longer remember the exact shape of it, only the impression of beauty. 

i turn seventeen and wait for the high moon. i pin safety to my vest in little witch herbs and runes. i put naked toes on the sand and slip closer, closer, to the avenue of my family’s doom. i find a little private beach, small and surrounded by rocks, hidden from my father in the event he ever thought to come looking. at high tide, it is barely the span of my body. at low, it feels empty.

the witch of the land has given me what i need to call in the witch of the sea, but i do not use it. it feels wrong, somehow, standing here in the wind and the quiet pulse of the world. i put down the incense and sage and i sit just close enough it feels wild, dangerous - but not close enough to get caught up in thrill. 

when nothing happens, i go home and i make bread that i will not eat.

for months i do this. i climb down to my beach. i learn to do it when the moon is half, and then when the moon is empty. i learn to do it so well that sometimes i go to sleep in my own bed and wake up by the water. i take to sleeping with warding runes to keep me from being pulled in the rip out to the waiting hands of a hungry sea-witch.

i don’t know when i start talking. more often i sing, because singing in my house is not allowed, and something about the way the rocks echo my voice feels comforting. the older i get, the more i can pretend i hear my mother’s voice, answering me, harmonizing gently. i sing songs about sadness and lullabies about curses. when i have exhausted every song i know, i write new ones about fathers who have never learned how to be kind, about the house i work in but do not love, about mothers who left, and about a sea witch.

i see her sometimes. in a puddle, in the drop of rain, in the strangest places. i never expect it, although i always hope. i am never able to see her for more than the length of a wave, breaking, and each time, it does something new to my heart.

at eighteen i am too much of my father’s burden. he tries to unload me onto other men. the land witch helps me with this. i rub hemlock, burn wolfsbane. we arrange so these men have other women to marry. the news of my curse is bad enough to scare most away. my father is not happy.

after a particularly savage night, i wonder how bad it could be. i could marry some boy from the village who didn’t quite bother me. i suppose they’re not ugly. timothy had always been gentle to me. i think about a life, and how i am cursed to be unhappy. my father would finally be proud of me.

i walk to the beach and i tell the waves about him and how i could convince myself it was love if i just never wanted from him. how i could be okay, if not content, how i could be free, how i already had learned life down on knees.

but i go home and i write a rune of warding. and the years pass and i find reasons each suitor is wanting. and the sea witch i see, sometimes, peeking out at me, staying long each time in the water, looking, watching. i see her in mirrors when my father storms against me. it is bad because he mistakes the cause of my smiling. it is better when she is there the next morning.

and i go to the ocean. when i am too sad to speak, it seems like the ocean is whispering for me. i picture my mother’s voice and tell myself i am happy. i am seven again and we are sewing. i am seven again and the curse has not been given to me. i am seven and she came home after she walked to the sea.

i grow silly, brave, unthinking. i leave behind the herbs and i wade deep. i teach myself the art of swimming. i am bad at it, at first, but something about it feels good to me. like the ocean wants to buoy me. in the day i think of it, guilty. what if there was a rip tide, and the water took me? who would care for my father if i stepped off the beach into a long drop? wasn’t i clever enough to know that the ocean is uncaring?

it is not this that does it. i go out after a rain and i slip on the rocks and suddenly i am in water above my head but without the moon i cannot see the up of it. i kick and i thrash and the water surrounds me. the tide pulls on my body and in the cold i feel my body grow weary. water spills into me. it punches through my body, up my nose and into my lungs and some part of me knows this is what mother felt before she was gone.

i kick ground by accident, reorient, drag myself heaving and spitting into the air. i lie there for a long time, half in and half out of death, enjoying the sensation of breathing and of life.

when i look up, i think i see her, watching me, her brows knit with something like worry. but we make eye contact and my heart leaps and then she is gone and i am left alone with nothing but the dawn breaking.

my father is furious when there is no bread. he finds my hair wet, and the salt of the ocean still smelling on me. and that is it. that day he goes out and pays someone to agree to marry me.

this feels right to me, i think. i’m twenty-one, three times seven, a perfect number for a curse to fully come down on me. i will be wed in three weeks.

the land witch comes to visit me. she looks like she’s sorry for me. she gives me a spell and tells me to put it under my pillow; i’ll dream of love and it will soothe me. instead i dream of the seawitch, and how wonderful she is, and the sight of her, out on the water, worried.

even though it is risky, i go down to the beach. i do not bother with protective spells, i have already seen that the water can kill me. fear alone keeps me from wandering. i sit on the beach and in the sand i draw runes for understanding and i make the small magicks i’ve spent years learning and i close my eyes and i ask the ocean “why do you do this to me.”

i fall asleep. i dream that the sea witch talks to me. i dream she is my age, that she is the great-granddaughter of the first to curse my family. i dream she has spent years watching, learning, finding the truth of me. that she just needs to get the courage to come and speak, that she has fallen in love with my singing, that she knows no curse but the one in her heart that brings her back to a human, to a creature of air and not water, to a mistake in the making.

in the dawn i know it is a dream and no more. i make bread. i pour water out before it can make mirrors. i do not look. i do not like the ache that has filled me, as if i’ve been looking for an answer and the answer only leads to longing.

the man i meet - my husband-to-be - is delighted by the house i keep. he believes a woman should keep in her place, and her place should be clean. he hears from neighbors that sometimes i sneak out to the land witch’s house. laughter barks out of him. not going to allow that behavior, not me. he does not believe in curses. he will pack me up and move me from the ocean to somewhere in the mountains, where i know nobody. and i will, he promises, learn to keep my place, and that place clean.

i tell myself i could love him. he is not ugly. he says i’m pretty enough after whiskey. my father mentions i used to sing. i refuse to perform for these men so instead i make them cookies. they laugh and talk about me, even when i am in the room, as if they cannot even see. they shake hands and talk about how useless a woman is for much else than breeding. it’s very funny. the man meets my eyes and promises he’ll put a baby in me. i look down and pretend the thrill i feel is excitement, not fear brewing in me.

the land witch comes by a week before my wedding. she is smaller these days, aging. her apprentice and i get along wonderfully. the two women stand before me, holding something. 

a small box, so tiny and lovely. “break the curse,” the witch whispers, “learn to be happy.”

i smuggle the box, take it everywhere with me. it is days before i have a moment to slip away, to open it by the sea. i take a candle with me, even though my father will notice and be angry.

by the light of fire i read the spell they have left me inside, and then i am so full of gratitude i cannot stop crying.

it must be a full moon, so i must wait. in the meantime, i walk home, and i bake. 

i do not see the seawitch, even though i look for her. maybe i have wounded her, getting married. my father asks why i keep smiling. i tell him it is because i am finally with a man. he grunts and says to stop looking so silly. 

the man kisses me. i let him. we are married on a night with a full moon, and i poison him and my father in the bread i did not eat. i think of how these men were cursed so they could not see a storm coming. i watch them as they lie there, dying, and then i put all of the things i own into a basket for the land witch. i leave it there with a song i wrote for her, a spell i know will make her happy, will stop the aging of her joints, will give her the kind of relief she gave me. 

i go down to the water. i find myself running, even though i am in no hurry. i know the way so well it is like i wake up there, panting. i ask permission first. i lay out the contents of the box, i organize and practice and when the needle and pain comes, i am ready for it. i am used to pain at night. i breathe into it and walk naked into waters that swallowed my mother.

i chew bitter herbs. i swallow fire. i feel myself drown as i change from land witch to sea witch. 

when it is done, i open my eyes in the deep of a moonlit ocean. and i see her. 

this time she does not flicker. this time when i reach for her, she is there, and she is pushing my hair out of my eyes, and we are kissing with the ocean rejoicing around us, and i am laughing, and i hear her voice as clear as bell inside me.

and we live like this, a whole world between us where white horses are the size of pinky fingers and swim with their thin snouts, where i need no candles because i was raised lightless, where we have no servants but the water takes care of us. i show her the magic of land and she unfolds the magic of water. together we are unstoppable. when i come up to the air to sing little girls a promise that they can survive the madness, she sings with me, and we make a beautiful harmony.

Havent updated in forever, but I figure I can catch up by spreading my love of Dragalia Lost. Instead of pranking us with false hopes, it gave us the most adorable shootem up bullet hell with Notte!

Fun fact: ‘Mind how you go’ is a Terry Pratchett reference. Not only his last book, The Shepherd’s Crown, has this dedication to one of the characters, it’s the Pratchett family’s mantra for safety:

Her [Rhianna Pratchett’s] parents were living in Wiltshire, while she was based in London but they saw a lot of each other and spoke constantly. “I’m always telling them I love them on the phone in a slightly silly way. We always say to each other, ‘Mind how you go’; it’s almost like a Pratchett mantra for safety.”

with Rhianna, the daughter of Terry Pratchett, saying this as her last words to her father and her grandfather.

Day 2 - Mindless

Let’s see if we can make a trend of this.

Prompt: Mindless

Title: The good of mindless entertainment

The grandstands of the arena were filling up. Eager KFL fans, with their banners and signs, took their seats and prepared for the night of fights. The classic rock jamming over the speakers played background music for the excited chatter of the spectators.

Arriving to their designated seats, Victoria tossed her bag full of cheering section gear on the fold-up bench seat, her date, Mitch, dropped himself into the seat adjacent. She stripped off her jacket to reveal her limited edition “Quake in Fear ‘09” Cassidy Quake T-shirt. She did a quick pose to show off the fruits of her fanaticism. For his part, Mitch managed a gentle applause.

“Oh come on, you can do better than that.” She said, grabbing some of her banners and thunder clappers. She handed the merch to him, “Tonight’s match-up is a toughie and Quake’s gonna need us in his corner to cheer for him.”

He took the themed items and sighed, “I don’t think he’ll be able to hear us.” 

“You say that,” She countered, “But this one time.” She said, opening her hands in front of her, the way one does when they are about to wind up into an enthusiastic story. He leaned his head into his hands and watched her with a weak smile.

“Quake was on the ropes, right?” She said, “Baron Thuggly was about to barrel into him.” She mimed winding up a big punch. “But then! I called out,” She cupped her hands around her mouth, “‘You Can Do It!’” She said in a raspy scream-whisper voice. 

Mitch nodded along. “And did he do it?” 

“Not only did he whip around and catch Baron Thuggly right in his big ugly jaw,” She swatted at the air, spinning her around to put her back to him. “But then, Quake turns around and,” She turned slowly and looked at him. She smirked and gave him a slight nod.

He laughed, “Wow, all that for you huh?”

She spun back around to face him, “You better believe it!” She grabbed the edge of her shirt, “I bought this shirt after that match, as a memento to how awesome that moment was.”

He sat back in his chair. “I dunno, all this stuff just seems like mindless violence. I mean, isn’t it all fake?” He said, looking up to her.

She glared at him. “First of all, I’d like to see you back flip off a skyscraper and body slam through a monster truck and tell me its fake.” She put an arm on his shoulder, “And second, you could stand a little bit of mindless fun.”

He patted her hand and let out a slow breath, “Yeah, maybe.”

She smiled, and the lights cut out. 

The music went from banal classic rock to driving hip-hop hype music. 

The ring lit up with spotlights and the announcer stepped out to the center of the massive ring. He raised his microphone and the crowd went wild.

“Ladies and Gentlemen and everything in between.” He said, his voice echoing through the arena “Tonight’s fight will be one for the record books. Coming in for the Red Corner,” He gestured to the red colored entrance. A massive stone-statue looking creature lumbered onto the runway. “The mountainous stone soldier, clocking 3 stories tall and weighing a mind-bending 100 tonnes! Your challenger tonight, GARGOYLE!” 

The statue charged down the runway, each heavy step causing the whole arena to shake. He hoisted himself through the sturdy gate and stepped into the ring. He raised his massive fists in the air and roared. Some people in the audience cheered. Victoria applauded politely. Mitch followed suit.

“And now,” The announcer said, the music dropping out again, “Please welcome. Your champion in the blue corner!” The blue entrance lit up and showed a silhouette. The coils of the figure’s long whiskers were unmistakable. The music started low as the audience started to whoop and holler. Victoria was already on her feet, waving her arms and cheering. 

“The Kaiju that shifts the very world. The beast who bested the Gorgon and toppled the 100-Man Mountain challenge. Everyone, please welcome, CASSIDY QUAKE!”

The spotlights went wild, revealing Cassidy, standing valiently at the entrance. Empowering and brassy music kicked on. The arena went absolutely wild. Victoria was waving her banner and screaming. Mitch waved the banner he had been assigned and whistled through his teeth to join the crowd. The energy was tangible as Cassidy confidently hustled to the ring, his catfish whiskers trailing behind him. He stepped to the edge of the ring and hung off the gate before swinging himself inside. When he landed, the impact made the arena shudder. Even the challenger had to steady himself. 

The stage was set.

“Now, fighters.” The announcer said, “I want to see your warrior’s spirit tonight. Don’t hold anything back!”

The two competitors tapped fists to signal their agreement and went to their sides of the cage to prepare.

A large timer above the ring ticked down the final minute before the fight would kick off. Victoria waved her banner. Mitch couldn’t help lean forward, his heart racing. The anticipation in the air was making the hair on his neck stand up. A small grin slipped on his face.

When the bell rang, there was no time to waste. The two competitors came out swinging. Even in the first round, resounding strikes made the cage shake and shudder. As Quake went to work, Victoria would take breaks from her cheering to point out common tactics and strategies, and the signature moves of each fighter. He nodded along and did his best to keep up, she was rattling off information between cries and cheers.

“Wait, so, why can’t he use the Quake Buster there?” He said.

“Cause he was caught in the guard. He had to --YEAH! RIGHT TO THE HEAD!-- Sorry, he had to clear the leg first.” She said, her eyes staying on the battle.

“Clear the leg?” He said.

“Yeah, like, watch, see that? That’s clearing the leg, oh here it comes! Watch!”

Cassidy wrapped his arms around Gargoyle, lifted the massive kaiju into the air, and brought him down with a thunderous impact. The ring rattled dangerously, fighting to constrain the incredible force. The shockwave sent a wave of air pressure that knocked nearly everyone off their feet. 

“Whoa,” Mitch said, his heart fighting to catch up with his adrenaline. “That was awesome.”

“I know right!?” Victoria said, she grabbed the thunder sticks and banged them together. “GET HIM QUAKE!”

Mitch got to his feet, knees wobbly, and waved the banner. “Get him!”

Round 10, the challenger had managed to get a lucky sweep that brought him into a tough grapple. Less than a minute on the clock, but if Gargoyle could sink the choke, it could be over for Cassidy. The champion was pressed against the cage, struggling for a hold.

Victoria was screaming, her voice going horse. Mitch waved his banner frantically. He could see the energy draining away from the champion. With the banner clenched in his sweaty grip, he worked up all the energy he could and screamed, “YOU CAN DO IT!”

Cassidy’s eyes snapped open and he grabbed through the gaps in the fence and lifted himself up, pulling gargoyle off the mat. The pull of gravity and tired limbs loosened the challenger’s grip and he slid just enough for Cassidy to slip his way out of the hold and get his arms around Gargoyle again. With an ear-splitting shout, Cassidy jumped into the air, lifting the massive kaiju with him and bringing them both down for another clutch Quake Buster. The arena shook, the cage rattled, the crowd cheered. Cassidy rose to his feet, Gargoyle did not. The officiating robo-ref rushed to the downed fighter’s side, scanning his battered body. He straightened up and waved his arms in the air, signalling the end of the fight.

Had you been pressing your face against any of the windows for the arena, you may have felt, in that moment, the windows buckle outwards. Because the combined roar of every voice in the arena was like a physical blast. Within the cacophany, the robo-ref lifted the hand of Cassidy and the announcer cried through the din.

“Your winner and defending champion, CASSIDY QUAKE!”

In the stands, Victoria and Mitch had embraced each other and were leaping about. He looked back at the ring and to the hero who pulled through in the end. Cassidy, looked over his shoulder and into the stands and gave a single nod and smile.

Mitch clutched his chest. “I think,” He said sheepishly, “Do you think he heard me?”

She patted him on the shoulder, “You better believe it.” Her voice was ragged, but she spoke with a smile. “Come on, let’s go get you a shirt.”

So guys, ive been thinking about it for a while, and

Should I do a series of illustrations/tutorials about armor and character design?