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The Woodland Spirit

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nope, Ninja are japanese. The Emie piercers are on of those esoteric but oddly functional weapons that you have to sort of dig to find. I find them sort of fascinating but don't know anyone locally who teaches them, othersie I'd learn for the fun of it.


I've always pictured elves as much like the chinese when it comes to martial arts, high spiritual content, a balance with the elements and nature. I see their weapons as elegant, hard to learn and even harder to master but if you take the time you can become very dangerous.

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hmm, I'll keep that in mind. I think I've seen something simular to that as a Japanese weapon.


actually I tried to be real generic with the discriptions of each race; hopefully to let the readers imagination do the work for me. build the picture themselves, I'm just guiding it along. just another one of my experiments.


the system itself maybe a bit complicated so I'll let you be the judge of it when you get a copy of it, but this has been some fun writing, shooting straight from the hips with this, so I'll probably read it about 50 times more to see what else I can flesh out.


this is helping me develop a few writing techniques.

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theres no law saying you couldn't add to this story yourself.


hey its a freestyle, I'm just going off of the previous segment.


NOTE:as a challenge, instead of calling the weapon by Emei peircers, describe the weapon without actually saying what it is. (I couldn't find a good way to describe anything in the first post.)

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The breeze blew swiftly through the white marble columns of the temple. The leaves and dried berries that hung from the green creepers that wrapped around those marble columns whispered as the elf slid his robe off. He stood quietly, eyes closed, in the center of the temple, collecting his thoughts, his energy, preparing to focus it like a blade.


He bowed to the four winds, whispered a brief prayer to the spirits of nature that resided in this area then let the stillness of the tiger fill him. His shoulders relaxed and he pushed them out, curving his spine. At the ends of his hands the piercers lay glinting in the sunlight and ready. The air tingled and goose bumps rose on his skin. He sensed the being to his left an instant before it materialized and struck at him. His arms snapped and the piercers whirled, the weapon in his right hand catching the blade on its downswing, a cut that would have split his spine in two was stopped instantly and lightly, as if it had no substance in it.


The energy he received from his attackers swing coiled into his gut then sprang like a mongoose through his arms and both arms snapped out, the needle points of both piercers making small holes in vital areas of the creatures human like body. With a whisper the image faded.


He spread his legs, slowly drifting to a low stance as the warm air blew his hair freely about his head. He brought one hand up high over his head, palm open to receive the sun, while the other curved out in front of him, palm out.


Another breeze shifted and he spun, sinking down and coiling like a snake. The long spear with its slashing blade swung over him, sliced through the space his head occupied a moment before. His body tightened making the coils of his legs, the muscles in his back and arms taught, he sprang thrusting his hands up and striking to the arm pits of an Orc like being that grimaced, smiled sweetly and disipitated with the next breeze.


A rogue thought travel briefly through his mind, his body and spirit were as one, but only a few centuries ago he would have been elated at his timing, his perfect form and his deadly aim. Now, it was only what needed to be done, nothing would be wasted for waste was foolish, strike to end the fight, and do not allow pride, or thoughts of glory to come between the thought and the action.


Is body seemed to melt like water, his hands twisted as he stepped lightly in a circle, always turning at the waist to face an invisible opponent. The piercers spun over his palms and only the tell-tale twitch of ligament and muscle revealed that anything but the wind moved them.


Another form, this one behind him. It swung its hammer low and horizontal, looking to catch him at the ribs. His spine bowed and the hammer whistled past him, he could feel the cold that emanated form its steel. The squat figure followed the momentum of the hammer with a round kick, its short form drawing low to the ground, almost as horizontally as the hammer and its heel swung around, sought his ankles and shins.


His feet were up and over his own head before he had time to think of the proper reaction. He landed just on the backside of the dwarves swing, bringing down one hand in a slapping motion, piercing its thigh. His other hand swung around and slipped past his chest, a light back hand split the dwarves face and it turned to vapor.


His hands shot out, his elbows sunk and his spine bowed again. His hands made claws, with the shiny metal of the piercers sticking between strong fingers. He waved side to side like the mantis.


The last form made its appearance in front of him. It was an elf, older but looking much like he did. The breeze stopped blowing and they began moving. The elf had no weapons of its own, only what he was born with. They intertwined, limbs locking and sliding past one another and he found himself on the other side of the being facing away. He sprung back, bending over until his hands touched the ground and he heard the soft clink of metal against marble. He saw the elf bowing to him, a slight smile on his face. He flipped his legs over and his opponent slipped sideways stuck his hands out mimicking the mantis like he had just been doing. Fingers like stone struck his leg and there was shooting pain, his leg went limp. He fell forward recovering into a backwards sweep, using the limp leg and it’s weight to propel him around, he came up on his one good leg and swung his arms out, turning and twisting like a powerful wind elemental the piercers spun and caught flesh that felt like a babies breath. The elven opponent bowed to him and stepped back into nothingness.


He stepped back, bowed and kneeled, his leg finally getting feeling back into it. A lone thought found its way across the ocean of his calm mind. “More practice.”

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Now thats what I'm talking about!

nice really nice and it captures the spirit.


I think for online purposes, we should get in the practice of putting a space between each paragraph. makes it an easier read.


Your letting your skill shine, and your martial arts experience allows you to get into more physical details than I can. thats the strength of this piece is the detail of all the actions.

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yeah, I just physically change them on the post.


you've inspired me to finally come up with a name for the elven style.


the "Whispering Wind". where the grand masters would intermix magical abilities with their forms.

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yeah, go ahead and make those spaces. I want to print this out to take home to my wife; she's been fiending for us to do something with that genre so this might inspire her to start writing again.


I'm not sure what I see the Orcs as, but certainly wanted to go against the grain with them.

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He bowed before the wooden practice dummy that also served to hold his armor when he was not wearing it. The armor was a lacquered green and shone brightly in the sunlight. It held gold filigree and inlays that spoke of the deeds of his forefathers. There was still plenty of space on that armor for a longer story, and he hoped soon to be adding to it.


He stood and his two assistants stepped forward and pulled the armor off the dummy. They first slid a long silk robe over his thick shoulder muscles that rippled under his grey-green skin. The silk settled smoothly and lightly on him. They then lifted the light wooden armor and slid the chest plate over his head and down across his back, chest and shoulders. After tying and buckling the back of the armor so it fit him snugly, and creaked when he flexed. His ancestors spoke to him through that armor, not in voices but those creaks told of battles long past, the slight clicking as he walked, of the plates as they slapped together spoke of heroic deeds


His servants slid the plates on his legs and tied them tightly. He stepped to the dummy, pulled the helmet reverently from its place, the grimace of a demon of war staring empty eyed at him. He smiled and he could feel the scars and wounds that crossed his body. War was a necessary evil, and one that required sacrifice. Instead of every Orc in his Tribe having to go to war, he and his brothers dedicated their lives to learning the arts of warfare and death. They trained several hours a day everyday. Each one of them was said to be worth twenty of any other race in warfare.


He drew his sword, in its scabbard, from the waist of the dummy and belted it himself around his own waist. His servants bowed low as he did this. The sword was a weapon of death and destruction and so had to be paid great respect lest its spirit be released onto the world. In its current form, that of a long, slightly curved blade, it was easily controlled by its master. He drew it forth and touched his forehead with the back of its blade. He could see the fine shapes carved into the blade lovingly by a famous sword smith, several generations ago. It too told a story, but its own story, one that was indecipherable by him or any of his predecessors. It is said that only once death has come to visit its wielder permanently does it reveal its secrets.


He flicked the blade forward, point towards the dummy, sunlight glinted off clean steel. He knelt swiftly and drew the blade down and to the right until it’s tipped touched the floor, adding another scratch, one amongst thousands laid down by him and those before him. He flicked the blade up again, a move designed to disembowel one who foolishly charged him. He began a long drawn out form with his sword, he became one with it and it flicked like lightning around the room, missing the faces of his unblinking servants as they stood respectfully still. It would be nothing to them if the blade struck them down, on purpose or an accident, like him they volunteered to perform their service.


Before too long his breathing was heavy and quick, his blood pumped and he could not tell where his arm ended and his sword began.. Now that he was warmed up, it was time to go and practice with his brothers….

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The Mithril Destiny

Charles Cruz Dueno


Elric examined the mithril blade; it was an intriguing design, created by a method of forgotten metallurgy. The Woodland Spirit was unlike any blade he had ever seen; a slender double edged weapon which was supremely balanced just above the hilt. Its lack of ornate design seemed odd for an elven weapon, yet its function surpassed anything he had ever used before.


He had returned to his coven in hopes his teacher would be able to tell him anything of the weapon. He was one of the oldest of elves he knew, and a sage of sorts. He was the grandmaster of the Whispering Winds style, a style which complimented the natural strengths of an elf and compensated for their physical shortcomings.


The teacher had trained many in his day, for almost a thousand years; he had produced students from many covens. The Whispering Winds was primarily a defensive form, focusing on evasion, stealth and subtle movements that would off center an opponent. It was he who had told Elric to travel to the monastery several decades ago, which set him on course with his destiny.


Upon first glance the wise old master immediately recognized the Woodland Spirit. His eyes lit with an exuberant joy of having lived long enough to see this blade once again. The teacher’s latest pupil had just completed his training at the temple, cleaned himself off and went to find some tea for the two older elves. Elric was impressed with the skill of the younger elf; his choice of weapon was intriguing. A short metal pin roughly twice the size of his hand with a ring in its center.


The teacher was happy with the progress of his latest pupil, and insisted Elric take him as an apprentice into the world. Who was Elric to refuse his teacher? The teacher remembered an old master who still remembered a few of the Woodland Spirit’s advanced techniques. It was more than a simple elven long sword; this weapon required the skill of a master elven swordsman.


Elric was obviously capable of wielding the weapon, but he needed further instruction if had any hope of using this against the humans. What was far more intriguing, was this master swordsman was a dwarf….

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