Combined with the force of Sigurd's own momentum, the rapid thrusts were enough to repeatedly crack the breastplate of his armour. He managed to get in range, and punched out towards the other boy just as one of the stabs was able to penetrate his armour, cutting through his still-weakened aura and carving a line across his bare chest. Sigurd ignored the pain and continued the blow, knowing he'd come out on top if it came down to an exchange of blows.

(OOC: I wrote my response on a 3500ft summit, in 100mph winds, looking down at the beautiful Snowdonian landscape. It was a lovely response with elegant prose, wonderful characterisation, and a fleshed out and detailed narrative. I felt very proud of it. Then I hit the preview button and my shitey laptop went and crashed on me.

It's a pile of crap, but I've written this out in order to let the thread continue. I'll go back and rewrite it properly when I have the energy/motivation)

Sigurd pulled the blow and retracted his leg, realising too late that the lunatic had actually intended to block it head on, and that if he'd just thought to activate the second phase he'd have ended his opponent in a single blow. Whatever. Too much thinking. He let himself drop to the ground, turning over and bringing his other leg around into a sweep.



[OOC: Okay, this is going to be pretty long for an OOC comment, but there are a lot of problems that need addressing.

Firstly, while I understand what you're trying to achieve with the whole 'pretending to be in a different year' thing, you're doing it completely wrong. When your character speaks he can say whatever he wants, which is why when he introduced himself as a 'third year Beacon student' it wasn't a problem. However, you can not. When your character lies, it's part of the roleplay; but when you lie, it's misleading and confusing. Outside the perspective of the character, you're supposed to write about what's truthfully happening.


Secondly, you're completely misunderstanding both your own character and mine, and thus the power balance of this fight. Galileo is a short, weedy guy who is often mistaken for a girl. He is many things, such as astrologer, astronomer, magician and fortune teller- warrior is only one of them. He has been training as one for between a decade and half a decade, closer to half if anything, and has not been training with outstanding dedication because he has a number of other things which he does in parallel.

Sigurd is a big, tough guy. He has about 30 kilos and 7 inches over Galileo, which in a fight is huge. He is a highly skilled martial artist, who has been training for about fifteen years. With no other hobbies or interests to spend his time on, literally all he ever does is train. I'd be willing to bet that he does more of it in a single year than your character has done in all his time at Beacon. Even accounting for his physical disability he has more experience, more training, and a better physique than Galileo. Likewise, you seem to be under the impression that Sigurd is a dumb brute; which is not the case. He is not slow, but of average speed, and although he may be headstrong there's nothing in his profile to suggest he is in any way unintelligent.

Realistically, Galileo is hopelessly outmatched. Being extremely generous, he might be able to fight as an equal. But there's  no way in hell he can toy with Sigurd the way you have him doing. Which brings me to another point.


I've read Galileo's profile, and I understand that you're just trying to work with his fighting style. However, that style of playing with his opponent will only work when he's against a fighter less skilled than himself. If he tries it against someone more skilled, he's going to get himself torn to pieces within a few seconds. This is not just a problem with Sigurd. Your character is pretty weak by the standards of a Beacon student, especially for a fourth year, and you'll probably have a hard time finding someone it will work against.

Now, another thing you don't seem to understand is just how strong Sigurd is. I'd have thought it would be obvious by now with all the clues we've been dropping- the ground shaking when he strikes Yngvarr, Yngvarr referring to him as inhuman, and Sigurd himself thinking that if Galileo doesn't take things seriously he's genuinely going to die- but perhaps all of that was not enough. Galileo can not block his kick like that. If he did, Sigurd would break his arm and send that cane flying off into the distance. I've had to write around that, because I didn't want it to happen, but I could just as easily have let it go.

To simplify, you're completely misunderstanding the way this fight plays out. You're overestimating Galileo, and underestimating Sigurd.]

Sigurd frowned as his bait went unanswered. "Thanks. Like to think I have a way with words. However," he narrowed his eyes, "you should have stuck with the cake."

He closed his eyes, focusing his mind upon the aura within. He opened his mouth, breathed in until his lungs felt fit to burst, then exhaled until there was nothing left. There it was.

The air around his body shimmered and warped as a series of orange fragments coalesced into existence. They spun around him, faster and faster, a hurricane of flashing lights, then all of a sudden grew still. One by one, They drew closer and settled upon his form until, after half a minute, the boy was encased in a shimmering suit of translucent armour.

"Dragon Hunter," he intoned mechanically, opening his eyes and sweeping his leg back behind him, "first phase: Hunter."

He smiled to himself. It was all show, of course- any ability which took that long to come into affect was useless as useless could be, so far as he cared- but the more he could mess with his opponent's head, the better.

"Do yourself a favour," he stated, with neither malice nor sympathy. "Don't get hit."

Then he kicked off against the tree behind him, using it as a starting block, and launched himself in a blur towards his opponent.

"Awesome," Sigurd grinned, shoveling cake into his mouth, "thith'll do nitheley. I kind of forgoth to geth thomethin' to eath earlier."

He reversed the stretch, shifting his weight onto his right leg, and proceeded to finish off the plate. "You know," he mused, licking the mess off his fingers, "if you wanted to show us a magic trick, the whole 'producing food' thing is probably the one you should have started with. Can never go wrong with free food."

Satisfied, he planted his feet together, straightened his legs, then bent forwards to place his palms on the ground. "By the way, who's the new guy? You here for the mission, or you just wanted a scrap?"

[This takes place outside the auditorium, following on from Sigurd's exit in 'New Students and Temporary Visitors]

There was a spring in Sigurd's step as he strode out of crowded auditorium. It was barely an hour since he'd woken up, but he'd already found himself a fight. And, by the sound of things, Yngvarr had even more of it lined up for him once this was done.

He made his way down the path, stopping at a row of trees a hundred metres from the building and setting down his statue. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and some poor sod was about to get the crap beaten out of him. His smiled contentedly. This was exactly why he'd joined the Academy in the first place.

He settled low into a splits stance, bending one leg and bringing his weight over to it to produce a sharp but bearable pain, and held the position. Then he turned his gaze towards the older student.

"Say, you're a magician, ain't you? Don't suppose you know how to magic up some food? I'm starving here."

The mention of a fight was enough to catch Sigurd's attention. Deadly serious all of a sudden, he stopped trying to find a justification for the student falling from the ceiling, pushed aside his taller teammate, and placed himself between the two.

"No need to get heated," his tone allowed no disagreement, "I'm sure it was just a joke. The lady meant you no harm. And this kid," he slapped Yngvarr across the back of the head, "isn't exactly the sharpest knife in the crayon box, so I wouldn't get too worked up about what he says.

"As for you," he turned accusatorily to Galileo, "you might want to exercise a little more caution when you go round starting scraps with others. Fighting isn't a game, you know." He held up his gnarled right arm to help the point sink in. "It's deadly serious. One little mistake, one tiny slip up, and that's it. Your life is over. Done. Gone. You aren't coming back.

"So what's all this crap I hear about 'swords only', 'no hand to hand', 'no functions'? You think they have rules like that in the real world? Try pulling a stunt like that and you could get yourself killed; maybe your friends too, worst case." He stepped closer, lowering his head to look the shorter boy in the eye. "Train for reality. When you challenge someone to a duel, you hold nothing back; 'cause doing anything else only creates bad habits. No rules, no regulations, the fight is over when the fight is over: that's how you're supposed to do it."

"Of course," he laughed, stepping back and lightening his tone once more, "that's ignoring your biggest mistake. You're looking to start something, I'm the one you come to. Not fox-ears here. How about it?" He grinned hopefully. "You wanna go?"

Sigurd yawned expansively at the pathetic excuse for a blow, and raised an eyebrow.

"Dunno," he brushed the question aside, clasping Yngvarr's hand and dragging him into a bear hug. "Thought it was yours. Can't really remember. What's that you were saying about action?"

Five-nine-one. Sigurd took a step up the path, throwing a quick four punch combination, then dropped to the ground for a push up. Five-nine-two. He repeated the process. Five-nine-three. Again. Five-nine-four. Five-nine-five. Five-nine-six. Then he stood up and walked through the doorway.

He stood there for a second, taking in the view and rubbing sleep from his eyes. He was late again; surprise, surprise. The whole 'working to a timetable' thing was taking more adjustment than he'd expected, and even if he hadn't overslept he'd still have lost a lot of time on that workout. Not that it mattered, he supposed. It was crowded enough in here that he doubted he'd been missed, and the others would no doubt fill him in on anything important which might have happened.

He stretched, and adjusted the ropes chafing against his chest. It wasn't that the statue weighed a tonne- although it did- so much as that it was such a bloody awkward shape. But training was training; and, he supposed, if it was easy then everyone would be doing it.

Letting out a loud yawn, he cast his eyes around the room, giving up on the effort when no familiar faces made themselves apparent. Nope, not a clue where the others had gone. No matter. He sucked in a deep breath and overfilled his lungs.

"OI, FOX BOY," he bellowed, deafening a number of nearby students, "WHERE THE HELL'VE YOU GONE!?"