A World of a Festival - August Event
Sept 14, 2016 20:54:22 GMT
Faolan Skye, Maeve Blodeuwedd, and 1 more like this
Post by Thadeus "Thrakazog" Stevenson on Sept 14, 2016 20:54:22 GMT
Thrakazog wasn't born yesterday, and he also wasn't stupid. Ignorant, maybe... socially slow, most likely... but he knew how machines worked, inside and out, and he didn't need a medical degree or a Masters in Tesla Science to see that his opponent wasn't exactly on his guard, or even putting up any real offense. In truth, it was about as good an offense as Thrakazog thought he could muster himself. He'd seen other people do amazing things with weapons, but... he wasn't one of them.
His pouting scowl turned to a frown as the crowd continued to egg them both on, but instead of launching himself at his target with a bellow, he stood up straight and proclaimed, "Youz holdin it wrong. Youz gotta hold it like dis... with dis foot in front, and dis hand on da shaft here, like dis."
It was a rare day indeed that Thrakazog taught anybody anything. But he'd just learned it himself, and Faolan's words were still bright and fresh in his mind. All he had to do was relay them without mixing them up. He was pretty sure he had it right, and he was glad to be helping someone.
But the crowd, and the officiate, were not amused by the lack of action. "Are you two gonna kiss, or cross arms there?!" Someone asked them, and Thrakazog turned his head to see who said it, only to catch a well-thrown tomato in the face. It splattered magnificently, sending a spray of juice and seeds in all directions, and drew a huge uproar of laughter from the crowd, along with several jeers of people calling him fat, stupid, oafish, and a few less-pleasant words.
Thrakazog saw red... literally. All the times he'd ever been picked on... all the times he'd been accosted physically because he was too timid to defend himself... and all the times he'd been bullied because his mother insisted he not strike anyone in anger came rushing to his stinging eyes as bits of fruit dropped from his cheeks. And then, he started to lose his temper.
But he didn't lash out at his opponent, and he didn't dive into the crowd in an angry rampage. Instead, he roared an unintelligible sound into the mob, and grabbed the polearm overhead with both hands shoulder-width apart. He raised it above his head, and brought it down across his own shoulders, along the back of his thick neck. And then his bulk bunched, his muscles flexed, his shoulders rolled, and the rod of metal bent before their very eyes. A hush fell over the immediate area at the display, leaving Thrak's roar of anguish as the only sound in the vicinity for a second or three. And then someone began to clap, and another hooted. It wasn't the show they'd thought they were going to see, but it was a show nonetheless.
As quickly as the rage came on, it faded at the change in response, and Thrak found himself huffing as he caught his breath from his exertion. Then he looked at his 'weapon' and uttered a much, much quieter, "Oops... sorry."
His pouting scowl turned to a frown as the crowd continued to egg them both on, but instead of launching himself at his target with a bellow, he stood up straight and proclaimed, "Youz holdin it wrong. Youz gotta hold it like dis... with dis foot in front, and dis hand on da shaft here, like dis."
It was a rare day indeed that Thrakazog taught anybody anything. But he'd just learned it himself, and Faolan's words were still bright and fresh in his mind. All he had to do was relay them without mixing them up. He was pretty sure he had it right, and he was glad to be helping someone.
But the crowd, and the officiate, were not amused by the lack of action. "Are you two gonna kiss, or cross arms there?!" Someone asked them, and Thrakazog turned his head to see who said it, only to catch a well-thrown tomato in the face. It splattered magnificently, sending a spray of juice and seeds in all directions, and drew a huge uproar of laughter from the crowd, along with several jeers of people calling him fat, stupid, oafish, and a few less-pleasant words.
Thrakazog saw red... literally. All the times he'd ever been picked on... all the times he'd been accosted physically because he was too timid to defend himself... and all the times he'd been bullied because his mother insisted he not strike anyone in anger came rushing to his stinging eyes as bits of fruit dropped from his cheeks. And then, he started to lose his temper.
But he didn't lash out at his opponent, and he didn't dive into the crowd in an angry rampage. Instead, he roared an unintelligible sound into the mob, and grabbed the polearm overhead with both hands shoulder-width apart. He raised it above his head, and brought it down across his own shoulders, along the back of his thick neck. And then his bulk bunched, his muscles flexed, his shoulders rolled, and the rod of metal bent before their very eyes. A hush fell over the immediate area at the display, leaving Thrak's roar of anguish as the only sound in the vicinity for a second or three. And then someone began to clap, and another hooted. It wasn't the show they'd thought they were going to see, but it was a show nonetheless.
As quickly as the rage came on, it faded at the change in response, and Thrak found himself huffing as he caught his breath from his exertion. Then he looked at his 'weapon' and uttered a much, much quieter, "Oops... sorry."