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Harlent's Tales of Short: Where the Hell Is My Blade?

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Yamaha Square-Enix
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« on: March 23, 2009, 03:37:13 pm »

This is a short story revolving around the world of Harlent.
Enjoy, and leave criticisms! I love and need them...


Harlent's Tales of Short: Where the Hell Is My Blade? Pt. I Preparations Fail



The cheers and waves of the observing crowds were loud and energetic in the Combat Coliseum of Oplicus City in Simmian Metropolis, yet it was a few minutes far before the Simmian Tournament began. The pair of wide screens, attached to the center of the arena’s hemispherical glass shield with the large rusty megaphones, pictured a holographic countdown to the crowd. From 00:02:25, the value decreased second by second…

Within the dimly lit Preparation Quarter where the lights flickered, the competing Lancers rushed to dress themselves on their motor-battle gowns – with a wide array of different garments and protection. They could all hear the screams and repeated cheers of the audience. Some cried out the names of well-known competitors.

Each one of the competitors had different colours, patterns and insignias of their outfit, but they all fit as they should: fittingly. Their armour was merely a weaker form of the actual design; it was strong enough only to stop a hard-rubber bullet, but weak enough to fall of impact from said bullet.

Adolos Mortines had his motor-battle leggings and boots put on, and had yet to put on his torso piece. He was half a decade until his prime years; young and lean, but manly in appearance no doubt. Dark falling hair and near-tanned skin, flawed only by the healed shallow cut from his right chest to his abs. He was a true veteran of the Coliseum, living, breathing and eating the ways of the arena, with an exception of his job as a waiter in a fancy restaurant. He had gained runner-ups in the smaller competitions, but never champion, for his one true challenge, Adze “Warlord” Bazdiner, stood in the way. But today, he was confident…

“Never taking Farseek Road again,” Adolos murmured to himself as he pulled out his glided red and black trimmed torso piece from his locker. Maybe just a bit confident…
The exact time he slammed his locker close, his coach appeared behind him. He was a cachatte, a feline humanoid. He had the appearance of a grey cat, but he stood like a man, as if he had the body structure of a man, yet slender, furry and with paws like a cat. He was even taller than Adolos who was a mere siphon, and wore a dark blue robe with a golden insignia in the center signifying his rank as coach.

“Better get dress fast, kiddo,” the cachatte inclined. “Countdown says one and fifty seconds.”

“Nearly done, Fis,” Adolos replied, already wearing his torso piece. All that was left was his armlets and gloves which didn’t take him too long. “Wish me luck on swiping Warlord’s feet off the ground, so I can get to visit your homeland as you promised. Frel… Frelase or something?”

“Felase, close enough. And don’t be too cocky; Bazdiner’s no simple sly with a tra the only luck you’d ever get from me is the tough work-outs I make you do.”
Adolos was already suited up, keeping his motoring helmet wrapped around his right arm. “Thanks for a lot of luck, coach.” They both laughed. “Hey, have you seen my blade?”
Fis’s grin shrank a bit. “Nope, haven’t. Better find it now, you’ve got a minute to go before they teleport you straight to the battlefield.”

Adolos’s own prized possession. The blade, and the only weapon, which guided him through the Melee Lancer’s Challenges was missing. He would never replace his blade, and even if he intended to for the moment, it was in the rules of the Tournament to bring your own weapon for the Melee Lancer’s Challenges. Extras were allowed, as long as it belongs to you and no one else. Apparently, in the day Adolos had been long training for, he had lost the essence of his victory.

But in less than a minute, where could Adolos possibly find his blade? It would be no joke to say that the Preparation Quarter is extremely huge, two-thirds as wide as a king’s throne room, which is undeniably huge…
Worried and desperate, sweating down a waterfall, Adolos had already begun searching the Quarter, bumping and shoving aside the preparing competitors, who all seem to have their melee weapons in hand, and it struck fear on him. A competitor could fight armless if he could, but what were the chances of winning?

“Where the hell is my blade!?” He cried out repetitively in distress.

 It was certainly doom for Adolos, then pandemonium the moment he bumped Adze himself. Chuckle emerged from the surrounding room by those who saw Adolos seated on the floor.
Adze was a taller man, or at least, from the viewpoint of Adolos. He was only in fact a few inches taller than Adolos, but had a much wider and tougher build. Neatly cut dark hair with cut sideburns and prominent peach skin.

This part isn't completed yet.
Part II: The Tournament has yet to be worked on

« Last Edit: March 24, 2009, 04:26:04 am by Bandanana » Report Spam   Logged

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T-Hoja-Mexicano
SUPER MEXICANO POST WHORE WHO IS IRONICALLY BRITISH AND SOMETHING OR OTHER?!
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« Reply #1 on: March 25, 2009, 11:10:17 am »

I'm right here.
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Stealthy Killington I
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« Reply #2 on: March 25, 2009, 05:00:11 pm »

I'm right here.
Damn, that's one epic blade.
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