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Alvin Toffler wrote:The illiterates of the 21st century will not be those who cannot read and write but those who cannot learn, unlearn, and relearn.
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From a Reader’s Perspective:
The implications of the stilling aura, the falling cross, and the expanding circle beneath Holy Unknown’s feet are that he is both stationary and his defense, the aforementioned ethereal squall, has been abated in conclusion to what is believed to be a successful evasion of Spencer’s attack; putting aside time for verbiage without complementary action may also be indicative of a pause. A pause and a drop in guard that would result in Spencer’s attack inevitably succeeding, as noted by the final prose “the direction of the burning bath maintains on Spencer’s prey.” Holy Unknown’s comment, “cold shower,” is also supportive of the attack’s eventual success, suggesting that by the time the water reaches Holy Unknown it feels relatively cool and, thus, results in a cold shower on his personage.
As to water producing a spark, save when acting as a lens while contained within a condom or some other translucent vessel, such is absurd, and even if it were so, the moist environment would prevent it from growing into anything greater.
From Spencer’s Perspective:
He can feel nothing of his adversary’s aura for, as the questionably-holy soldier tightens the grip on proximity, Spencer preserves betwixt them the geyser’s onslaught and, indeed, its focus on his target. It never let up, nor lets up, and, from it, wafts of steam melting into precipitation shower the ground, diluting the snow-like dust and reclaiming the soil for nature’s reign. Now, whether his circumnavigation goes unseen through the thickening and nearing vapor, he does not know, but, less than a pace away, Spencer hears a murmur of aggravation filter through the din. Very rightly in response, for, by all sensibilities, Holy Unknown should be wet and red from a spray now angling for his eyes, Spencer shouts, “I like my bitches wet.”
His eyes were sharp and keen—their mirror-mockery recording the human’s actions beneath knitted brows. Inside each optic the assassin was seen lowering his militaristic salute. Did he think he actually was a soldier? The origin of his name was pure alias, but the respect was recognized until…his foe attempted to douse him with boiling water. So that was where all the hot water went. What a disappointing shower that was, and if he wasn’t fighting a human, it would have been blamed entirely on him. Yes—someone would have to pay. If he was molested again in another mob of hysterical fans after this, there was going to be problems. There would be no hot water to rid him free of his violation. The water was never hot enough!
As mentioned before, the soldier had been relentlessly advancing on his opponent. When the spout of water rushed in his direction, his next motion to human perception occurred in a flash or the blink of an eye. However, he wasn’t that fast and the back of his ethereal squall met the inverted geyser that sparked on contact as though it had struck a brick wall. Tiny drops of water gathered in the vortex, outlining the shape of the spiritual phenomenon. The droplets were like pearls on a necklace, revolving around Holy’s body like an electron orbit. The dew evaporated absorbed within the whipping currents.
The fighter had closed the distance between him and Spencer, the outcome of his evasion. The assassin would possibly feel the gust of Holy’s aura, whipping about, and mysteriously, it stilled. The grass beneath his feet continued to turn white, slowly expanding outwards in a circle. The cross lowered against his chest, an abnormal presence left to linger: Holy’s aura.
Unintentionally, it felt threatening and immense as though the soldier were more colossal than he appeared; the wrath of God yet not as imposing or overstating. Only metaphors could describe the indescribable; and what made Holy’s emotions so grim left his lips barbarically as he strained to hold back an outburst, “Cold…shower…” His brows twitched irritably. Those would be the first, haphazard words the human would hear from him.
The soldier scowled at his opponent as he spoke, I like my b- B word, B word, it rang like an alarm in his head. If he ever said that word, the priest would have knocked him into tomorrow—another overestimation. There were so many today.
The spiritual energy—the traces of The Creator—that he had been gathering from the oil, the grass, and even the slither of water that managed to steal into his squall, was contained inside him. The foreign organs in his body vibrated and his muscles were tight and flexed just to contain it. But the B word… if he couldn’t say it, then nobody can. So when Spencer let the bitches slip, Holy unleashed the pint up danger that he had been harvesting. His features lit up like a beacon, the path of the attack already set. It was ten feet in diameter, the cylindrical beam shifting from invisibility to visibility, from being clear as glass to a pious white that stretched to the solid wall at the end of the battlefield. Because he and Spencer were so close, he would need a miracle to avoid it, and hopefully, a miracle wasn’t on the soldier’s mind.
The power broke free from Holy like water from a dam, it came hard and would carry his opponent swiftly toward the wall with the sole purpose to knock the wind right out of him and fracture some bones [if he got caught inside it]. As the traces were being returned, the grass grew longer and greener, the flowers bloomed and lichen grew along the boundary wall. “I didn’t hear that!” Holy roared, feeling the relief of the power finally leaving his body.
“Holy has been learning his abilities on random impulse, and is known to take small fragments from each one to utilize to his advantage in combat.” –Paragraph 4, last line, in Holy’s profile under Personality.
“If you put two posts into an attack, to defend against all due effect of that attack you must utilize two posts in a defense.” – Quote from Remæus himself in the MAIN OOC page 51 first post.
Note: the attack in the above post is not described in Sonata’s profile and was not ratified for use in the tournament. The closest two analogs I could find are, firstly, Miracle, which is not concussive in nature, does not emit from Holy Unknown’s person, and requires a trigger word that was neither thought nor spoken; and, secondly, Spiritual Energy Manipulation/Absorption, which is only useful for small-scale activities. A ten-foot diameter cock-punch blasting across the arena describes neither of those abilities, nor any others listed in his profile. However, in the interest of not disrupting the flow of things, I will continue as if it is a legitimate attack.
Obscuration has its benefits, such as the cloud of steam ensorcelling Spencer’s foe and its source, the font, actively gouging eyes with blinding ferocity of pressure and temperature.* Not necessarily ineffectually, despite the lackluster reaction, as some individuals do ignore agony in the interest of machismo, an archetype unfortunately apropos. It is a penalty of duality, for Spencer, too, struggles at deciphering whether the apparitions writhing in his vaporous view are his enemy or an insentient object. Yet his cunning mind pierces the fog, noting the relentlessly-nearing circle of pale dust and the sound of striking water, both telling the same story: Holy Unknown is standing still.
For all his faults, Spencer will not be guilty of that one: a nimble ex-busker is always eager to move.
So he continues, throwing his lithe body into a somersault that descends into a tumble terminating behind the safety of a large marble beam. While not necessary to avoid the quasi-divine tantrum of a person boasting the emblematic cross in such a disgraceful manner, for his aforementioned gyre had already carried him out of the supernal beam’s grasp, such a lunge is useful in other respects: Spencer extracts the Chapel from its makeshift holster and buries its barrel against the fabric of his wet jacket. After a careful glance to ensure no flammables are near himself, he takes careful aim on a metal barb seeking light in the midst of an oily pool rippling dangerously close to Holy Unknown and without another thought depresses the trigger. The flame from the nozzle inexorably extinguishes before coming to light, as does the sound, the cloth acting like a silencer, but the bullet’s silent impact sets off a spark that pins Holy Unknown between two hot decisions, and it is directly between them that Spencer unloads the Chapel four more times.
‘I wonder what he’ll try to do now that he has no eyes to see,’ Spencer wonders wordlessly.
Note: *While Holy Unknown may be immune to water, I doubt he is immune to pressurized water slamming into his eyeballs and gouging them out with the surety of any well-placed set of fingers, an attack described in my last post and completed in this one.
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Sonata wrote:I voiced my opinions as to why you won.
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Sonata, you see and hear what you want to see and hear. That, and that alone, is the reason you lost the fight. You refused to so much as acknowledge what I wrote.
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Sonata wrote:You tried to go out with a bang, hoping The Grand Tournament would be a repeat win for you.
Sonata wrote:You've already flaunted your moderation skills in your fight with FutureKiyoshi.
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Sonata wrote:If there is a recording of the judgment placed on my fight, then I would like to see it. I bet you there wasn't even a judgment, and I wouldn't be surprised if you placed yourself in the finals. You've already flaunted your moderation skills in your fight with FutureKiyoshi. Remaeus was obviously too busy to even keep up with his own tournament, and he is still too busy to end it. There was no way that he could have judged each of those fights alone. So it is obvious you had something to do with everything.
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Remaeus wrote:Why don't you two simply have an exhibition match to settle your differences?
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