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DraconicFeline rolled 1 100-sided dice:
35
Total: 35 (1-100)
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 Posted: Thu Apr 09, 2015 6:32 am
Character || Votzhem
Stage || Blade
Battling || Scorra
Battle Stat || 17
Defense || 11
Roll Needed || 80-100
Rolled || [insert roll(s)]
Outcome || [win/lose]
Experience earned ||
( 10 x 2 ) / 2 = 10
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Posted: Sun Apr 12, 2015 4:48 pm
Votzhem chased after the Scorra, sighting its bright feathers occasionally between the leaves and trunks of the trees as they raced together through the thinning forest. He really did not want to return home without meat to show for it. There were, already, whispers about hybrids weakening the Alkidike race and sisters – including those who knew him well – were giving him suspicious and scornful looks. He wanted to prove that accepting him into their ranks had not been a mistake. He wanted to prove that he belonged there, among them, among his people.
And being unsuccessful in the hunt would only give them more fodder to use against him. They would say he was an incompetent male, a weak link of the tribe, and – worse – a mistake. Just because he had heard it all before didn't mean he wanted to hear it again.
Finally, he cornered the scorra in a root-laced section of land, the remains of a tree that had grown too tall and adorned with vines and bromeliads to remain upright. ”I've got you now!” he crowed triumphantly, readying himself for a killing blow.
But, of course, he boasted too soon. The scorra's defiant stare should have tipped him off that something was wrong, but it was only when he heard the increasing clamour of shrieking that he realized what was really happening.
He was no longer the predator. In fact, as gleaming, angry, birdy eyes emerged from the shadowy trees, he rather felt like prey. ”Oh sleet...” he cursed, turning and running as fast as he could. He heard the scorra flock burst from the trees with an uncanny sound, as if ripped from the fabric of the forest itself. He could feel the impact of their many, clawed feet on the earth and, with a squirrel-like leap, he sought refuge in the trees. Attaining a higher branch, he watched as they clustered around his sanctuary, shrieking belligerently and scolding him.
Eventually, they lost interest and, frustrated and battered, he noted the remaining light and headed for home. Empty handed. Again.
”Rot it all...” he muttered, preparing to weather the consequences.
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