Forums → Art, Music, and Writing → The Way of Moderation has ended (page 566)

Dude, you do that and you'll get so much money.

Pay me and Strop a lump sum of 100 million (50 million each) and we'll do it live.

Kinda disturbing. He also mentions you, did someone say spitroast*?

Well Soulhack, I'm... not gonna take you up on your offer to allow me to criticize (blatantly insult) your writing. Glass houses you know.

Strop: Musta missed your email. Oh well.

Everyone: Here's my round three. I'm not proud. More on that later.

Part 3: If You Can Dodge a Leon, You Can Dodge a Ball!

"...so there we were, cornered." continued Leon to the few who were listening. "Not like, really cornered. We could have left through the door, but metaphorically cornered, 'ya know what I mean. So anyway, Ed tried the old 'fileter mind trick, but it's awful hard to convince someone you didn't kill a guy when you've got his head roasting over their firepit. So we did the only thing- what on earth was that?" Leon had just felt something hit the back of his head. He was about to ignore it when a multi-colored ball sailed past his head. Leon wheeled around:

"You missed, mor-" but another ball hit him square in the nose, sending him stumbling backwards.

"That one was just to get you to turn around!" said Strop gleefully.

"Do you want to die?" asked Leon, grabbing a bottle from the table. He made to throw it at Strop but that one was too quick: Another ball knocked the bottle from the gnoll's hands. Leon went for another bottle but the horse hit him twice more. Realizing that he was starting to look more like a generic goon than a plucky protagonist, Leon decided to switch the roles. This would be accomplished by a bit of obvious subterfuge. Strop threw another ball; Leon batted the ball away from him, causing it to hit a hapless tavern-goer.

"Who did that?" shouted the now irate victim.

"That jerk!" said Leon point at no one in particular. Leon hoped it worked as he ran for the bar; Strop was now throwing balls more vigorously. Leon felt a few more balls as well as something harder hit him as he jumped towards the bar. As he vaulted over it, he grabbed the head of a tavern patron and slammed it into the bar on pure instinct. He realized that this was not necessarily a good idea only after he had taken cover behind a very confused bartender. Strop continued to hurl objects at Leon with increasing force. First some balls, then a mug, a bottle, a stool, darts (board and all), a few coins and a hyena. Leon was hit as often as he dodged, but he didn't care: He had a plan. Not a non-violent plan, a good plan.

"Cause a distraction!" Leon shouted to his loyal hyena. That one obeyed by jumping up on the bar and causing the most damage he could. Leon, meanwhile found the nearest person still drinking. It was a man sitting at a low round table drinking what appeared to be a bottle of marmalade. Leon tapped him on the shoulder and quietly said:

"Excuse me sir, but could I trouble you to smash that bottle 'geinst the side of your table and threaten me with its jagged edges?"

The man immediately smashed his bottle and whirled around to face Leon shouting: "You feel lucky, punk!?"

The denizens of Armor Games where very helpful. So helpful, in fact, that they saw fit to attack the man they saw as attacking Leon. A good sumritan ran up and tackled the bottle-wielder, not an abnormal response. What was abnormal was that this another person jumped on the back of the first helper and began beating him around the head and ears. The newcomer was finally thrown of, but another newcomer attacked the second-most-recent addition to the fight. So it continued, those new to the battle attacking those who entered directly before them for a few moments before joining the brawl in full. All in all, it looked something like a cross between a conga line and a writhing ball of blood-thirsty snakes. Leon stood, transfixed. He felt an object hit him in the side. He ignored it. Another and another. Finally, a large, heavy object struck him on the side of the head. He steadied himself and tore his eyes from the contorted grappling to look for his attacker. He saw a man. Or a horse-man. Or maybe he was just a horse. He was Strop! Leon realized. Leon didn't much like that one; he was throwing stuff at him. Only then did Leon remember his mission: Cause chaos and panic. He turned and saw another regular running towards the mosh pit of violence. Leon punched him in the face, bringing him down with one clean blow. With that, Leon moved towards another group with murder in his heart. Meanwhile, the bar brawl escalated. People were mostly fighting one another but occasionally groups would run and hide under or behind tables, declaring them "spam-bunkers" and throwing flames at anyone nearby. Leon decided that breaking a chair over such a table was a logical course of action and immediately did so. One of those hiding jumped out and attempted to punch Leon. ille deflected the blow and struck his attack with a back fist. Another came out, presumably to fend him of, but Leon pre-empted him throwing him to the ground. Leon turned to make good his escape but saw someone else running at him. Leon ducked at the last moment and tossed his opponent over his back. Leon laughed like a hyena as he saw more attackers coming his way (or maybe they were just innocent people; it didn't matter to Leon); he was in his element. He strode through the bar, casually deflecting (or, more likely, being hit by) blows and missiles. He decided that random bystander No. 27 was as good as any other so he picked him up and threw him down on a nearby table, smashing it. He paused to admire his handiwork for a moment before moving on. Leon punched a guy in the gut without provocation. That one responded by trying to do the say to Leon (except he was provoked, obviously) but Leon blocked him and sweeped his legs out from under him. Leon loved fighting against incompetents. He could mix and match wacky and otherwise ineffective moves (as demonstrated by the flying uppercut he performed on a waiter) into hilariously inefficient methods of killing, or, in this case, subduing. He was entertaining himself by trying to get each of his opponents to do a backflip (not of their own volition, of course) before bringing them down when he was struck on the back of the head by a plate of food. The plate smashed from the force, sending Leon stumbling into a stool, which he tripped over. Oh, yeah. Strop. Why did Leon keep forgetting about that guy? A few people took this as an opportunity to kick him, which he more or less expected. After about ten seconds, he was about to actually do something about his situation when his hyena jumped to his rescue. It landed on one of his attackers and growled menacingly at the rest, who sort of shrugged and wandered off. Leon was wishing it would have bit someone when he saw why it hadn't: A turkey drumstick was in his mouth. [PSA]: Knowing that cooked turkey or chicken bones could kill a dog or hyena, Leon took the leg. As he ran from nothing in particular, Leon it someone in the crotch with the turkey leg. Hilariously inefficient. Leon-style. Thinking about doing things Leon-style, Leon himself looked around the bar. All in all, it was a disappointing affair. Only a dozen stools and chairs were smashed; only three tables. Most everyone was fighting someone but nothing was burning. Oh well. The night was still young. Leon walked towards the center of all the commotion, idilly knock bottles and mugs from tables or the bar to the floor, smashing them. He pulled a stool out from under what must have been the only man who was, until then, sitting. Leon set the stool down on the man and broke a leg off. Stool leg, that is. He used this new weapon to fend of incoming balls or unfortunate passersby. He hopped up onto a table, kicking a mug at someone for kicks, and tried to get Strop to throw balls at him. Their impromptu game of baseball was all fun and games until Strop threw a fork into Leon's leg. Leon let out an unflatteringly girlish scream and ran. Strop followed him and threw more balls at him. Leon ducked under a table, darted around a chair, dashed along the bar and dived through the crowd, but Strop was persistent. Leon knew he couldn't take Strop in a head on fight, so he devised a clever plan to defeat him: He would get his hyena to distract Strop and then jump out a window and run off into the night with his tail between his legs. The hyena, however, seemed to be on to this sort of plan (having narrowly escaped a group of beaked Nazi koalas a few months before) and was already jumping through a window. Leon sighed and followed suit. Strop hurled one last lit oil lamp at Leon as he went.

Sorry as always if I missed symbols. Oh well, no one reads these.

If my reckoning is correct, If I make 1 more post I will be a knight. So I better make this my last action as a squire. *is going to miss the red feathered hat, but mainly the red feather*

Now... how does Cenere / Vise sound?

Sorry as always if I missed symbols. Oh well, no one reads these.

I do not want to think of it. I do not want to think of it with the posing that comes into mind.
It wouldn't be fair.

Pay me and Strop a lump sum of 100 million (50 million each) and we'll do it live.

Pay me 50 dollar and I will draw it. Only this week.

Don't make me log into PayPal just to make an example of you!

Yes, naked banana. Wearing a crown. Yes. No, I'm not high

[quote]Pay me 50 dollar and I will draw it. Only this week.

[quote]Pay me 50 dollar and I will draw it. Only this week.

I'll chip in. I want to see this. :/

*offers to do it cheaper than Cen will* I'm hungry, I has no money, I can ttly draw.

Yeah, but they can't pay till next month and I'm hungry :<
And not plenty... Only two, and a request, and two that I've already been payed for and need to finish.

And not plenty... Only two, and a request, and two that I've already been payed for and need to finish.

Yeah, but they can't pay till next month and I'm hungry :<

Maybe it IS a typo.

Round 3 -- The Bullman
=====
"Hello, Stallion Man," the Bullman said when he saw the black-clad anthrohorse standing in front of the domed Imaginarium. He realized his mistake too late when he saw, through the hole in the mask, that the horse in front of him was bay and not black-and-white. This was the other horse from the Amphitheatre that did gymnastics, which was no different to the ballet that Stallion Man employed. Just because they're fast, they think they can show off with their fancy acrobatics. Perhaps he had made moderator already and "Strop" was here to inform him.

"This is the first trial. Your challenge, 'The Bullman', will be to dodge everything I throw at you."

"Easy enough," the Bullman replied confidently. Any challenge from a horse was going to be easy.

"Furthermore, the Imaginarium is chaotic, so the stuff I throw at you turns into random objects."

Without warning, a ball revamped ball shot through the Imaginarium wall and instantaneously exploded into a fine mist. This pathetic attempt amused the Bullman until the fog expanded and engulfed him so that he could see no further than a few feet in front of his nose ring. He reached for his rubber ducky. Showers of rubber duckies pummeled him and knocked out the one he was holding. He searched along the ground for his weapon but all her found were squeaks. It all seemed too organized to be random. Overhead, he could've sworn he heard a train pass, if his mother had not taught him that swearing was bad. The loud crunch that followed strengthened his belief.

A stapler struck him on the head and luckily it was pointing the other way. There was no conceivable way for the Bullman to complete the challenge. Not only was he twice as big as most of the contestants, he was also four times as slow. He was genetically predisposed to fail. His mother never let him take Pilates or whatever it was called. He recoiled in disgust as a horseshoe rounded his horn. If he hadn't, he would've been stricken with grief.

The Bullman took another hit to the head, this time a physics dissertation on d-branes, before giving up his search. He stumbled around trying to dodge the objects flying at him through the thick fog. A typewriter caught his left hoof and he slammed into a railroad car. It definitely was a train that flew overhead. The Bullman stood and twisted his body to barely scrape by a balloon.

In a blaze of confusion he managed to tackle himself or rather, a doppelganger tackled him. An explosion rocked the two and the doppelganger dissipated into a thought. A broach bounced off his chest, as did a calculator, a wooden spoon, a double-paned window, and bowling pin. He rolled to a sitting position before being knocked down again by a sewing machine. With a grunt, he heaved the sewing machine into the fog, hoping that it would hit Strop and maybe end the barrage. A lithograph of a rabid squirrel carrying a bowl of spicy chicken curry shot out from the fog, followed by a rabid squirrel carrying a spicy chorizo. The lithograph momentarily blocked his vision before he caught the squirrel by the chorizo and tossed it aside.

Determined to complete the first trial, the Bullman started off the ground with a burst of strength before being hit by failure. And then a ball revamped ball, and a ball revamped ball, and another ball revamped ball, and another ball revamped ball, and one final ball revamped ball. It was over. It had to be over. The Bullman rolled up once more to a sitting position.

When the fog cleared, the damage was more apparent. The train wreck had taken out a portion of the southwest corner of the library. Several buildings around the Imaginarium were on fire, one of which belonged to that rabbit guy who wrote of his grand exploits. The Bullman could only guess what happened to those buildings, but the blackened and burning objects (ten times more objects than he had seen) between him and the Imaginarium left little to the imagination. He was bruised, but not too badly. While equine acrobatics could've helped with the challenge, he thought that he could take on Strop in combat if he wanted to even in his current condition. A guttural groan escaped the Bullman's lips as he leaned against the side of the train.

"Donât worry," Strop said. "Iâm a healer⦠in training.."