"Stop laughing!" - the villain demanded, glaring at their nemesis. "This is a battle!"
Hero could barely breathe, body wracking with uncontrollable laughter. "W-We're- HA HA- We're playing a board game!"
Villain huffed, crossing their arms. "Game night is serious!"
Source: @some-messed-up-writing-for-you
"You made a promise."
Hero glared up at villain through raw, reddened eyes. She was still manacled to the floor, her wrists and ankles bound with shackles and chains. She spoke through gritted teeth, as if to display her anger but in truth, she was just tired and her clenched teeth were keeping her from fainting at that very moment.
She managed a strained whisper: "You said you'd let me go tonight."
"My work with you is done, true," simpered Villain. He glanced around the foul-smelling dungeons he had locked his nemesis in.
It was empty but for a rusted, metal spiral staircase that dropped down from a trapdoor leading to Villain's lair. He had used it to pay her some very rare visits over the past few weeks, for interrogation.
He would never come down to send her food or drink; that work was for his henchmen. Well - it wasn't as if Hero had expected VIP treatment when she'd gotten kidnapped by her old enemy.
"And yet," said Villain, interrupting her silent musing, "I cannot let a guest leave without being entertained, can I?"
Hero caught a glimpse of his smile - and the apprehension in his eyes - before it vanished into his cocky grin. "Entertained?"
***
There were still slight scars on Hero's wrists. But she couldn't stop looking at them in pleasant disbelief.
The shackles were off.
She was free.
Free.
Hero found herself exploring Villain's room, scanning every single aspect. It was too clean, too sophisticated for someone so Satanic. There was a monitor and an AI-based setup with blueprints and buttons shimmering in front of them. In the centre of the room was a round, metallic table, sieged by two chairs, one of which the Villain had already occupied.
He leant against the padded back of his seat, shuffling and stacking a bunch of cards with utmost nonchalance.
"[Hero's name,] darling," he said, "we aren't done yet." He gestured at the empty chair. Hero slumped down at his order, her mind so blank, one might think she'd been electrocuted.
The moment she sat down, something metallic snapped her feet and bound them to the floor. She'd been trapped again.
"Would you prefer UNO," asked Villain, very seriously, "or chess?"
She blinked. "What?"
Villain feigned annoyance, but his eyes glinted with humour. "C'mon, choose. Chess or UNO?" He placed his stack of cards aside.
Hero sniggered. "You have chained me up here... because you want to play a board game with me?" She giggled again - she couldn't help it! "You must be so lonely with only those henchmen for company."
"Thank you for your concern, but I am perfectly well-off on my own," he fumed. "The board game is for your sake; you look like you may need it."
Perhaps the annoyance on his face wasn't fake after all. And yet, Hero wasn't affected by his remark; if he had meant it to sound taunting, it was a very weak attempt.
"Chess," she murmured, hand on her mouth to block any sign of incoming laughter.
In barely a minute, Villain had set up the board on the tabletop. She didn't know if his eagerness was just sporty spirit, or was he really excited - if that was the right word - to spend time with her.
"White goes first," she offered.
"Ah, but darling, in a Villain's world, black always comes first."
So she moved her black pawn a couple of steps forward.
***
"AHA!" Villain boomed. "Check!"
It was the first time either of them had spoken since the tediously long game begun, and it startled the shit out the Hero.
She observed the board to see what had caused the triumph from the opposing side, and saw her king had been cornered.
She tilted her head. Smiled. Spoke: "Can't have it that easy, [Villain's name.]" She moved her bishop to be her king's saviour. "See?"
Villain stared at her beaming face for a long, long moment. His goldish eyes scanning her made her heart beat so fast, she could swear he heard it.
And then she could stand the wait no longer. "[Villain's name?]"
"Ah." He seemed to snap back to his senses. It was almost as if he had been captivated for a while, as if he could really see her. And only her. But that was so unlike him. "Yes. Alas, you have spoiled my clever moves."
He kidnapped me, Hero reminded herself. He is a villain. An hour with a board game can't change that.
"No worries," he went on, cockily. "I will still win this battle."
Hero laughed, relieving herself of her plaguing thoughts. "Battle?"
"Stop laughing!" - the villain demanded, glaring at their nemesis. "This is a battle!"
Hero could barely breathe, body wracking with uncontrollable laughter. "W-We're- HA HA- We're playing a board game!"
Villain huffed, crossing their arms. "Game night is serious!"
"Sure it is," she said, winking.
And it happened again. The second time that night. He gazed into her eyes, lost, unmoving, not speaking until she frowned and murmured his name again.
"I like it when you do that." He closed his eyes, serenely. "Say my name."
What?
What?
This is Villain, Hero told herself. She was going mad. Of course this wasn't happening. It was a lie, a dream, her wishful thinking. This is Villain.
Villain.
Hero's voice dropped to a husky whisper. "Do you?"
His eyelids flutteed apart. He had long, dark lashes; and they only added to his ethereal face. "Yeah."
A pause followed. Neither of them knew what to say to that.
Prompt: “I’m so sorry I hurt you.” “Don’t sweat it, I could’ve just as easily have hurt you.” “Well it’s cute that you think that.”
Source: @skriveting
Okay, so just recently had an obsession with fight scenes so I came up with this.
Warning: extreme, boring detail of how the fight is actually going
The trainees were assembled in two straight rows, facing each other. It had been only a few years and yet, learning to fight under the strict, disciplinary measures of the Academy had changed them all: their gazes betrayed no emotion, they were a void, full of only determination and a passion for fighting.
A trainer stood in front of them. He scrutinized every pupil of his: each had a black mask pulled up, revealing their faces. Each had a hard glare, each at least one weapon in their belts.
He nodded approval.
In response, there was a hiss of blades being drawn from sheathes.
Protagonist brandished her own: a long, sharp dagger with a gleaming, metal hilt like that of a sword's. She had strapped her extra scythe onto her belt.
Trainer whistled. Protagonist pulled down her black mask and lunged. The neat rows transformed into a mob of killers: they mingled, pouncing at each other and trying to get a any possible victim to the ground. They could never tell who.
That was the point of the mask: it made them all seem similar - uniformed. Everything happened too fast, in a flash of silver blades and there was never any time to look for specific notable features of a person, or identify who you were attacking, or teaming up with: a friend, or a foe.
Protagonist was smart enough to have none of either. Not at the Academy.
She was ruthless in her training. In a whirlwind of moving weapons, she pulled someone near her to their knees. She did not wait to see who it was. Trainer let a red flag flare and struck out the name of the girl she had just defeated.
Defeated Fighter moved aside, head hanging low with disappointment. Perhaps she had hoped to become Trainer's most favoured one. A privileged student.
Protagonist did not care. She attacked another several people. Three red flags flared. A minute ticked by quickly. There were about eleven people left.
She had beaten many already, but no one had outrun, outsmarted, outdone her in any way.
Around her, the fighting went on. The crowd had dispersed, now fighting in twos and threes.
She paused and shifted away from the scene to catch her breathe. Trainer flared a red flag. And another red flag. And another one.
Surprised, she searched the room for the new victims. Three more of the defeated now stood by the door. Two of them ad received nicks on their faces, which, she guessed, were earned from the same fighter.
And she was right. She realized this when she turned and saw the fighter. He was in all black: his hair, his mask, his clothes, his shoes and weapons. He was wearing a watch. A black watch. She did not recognize it, could not tell who he was or if she had seen him before.
More red flags flared. Protagonist joined the fight again, but she was distracted. Somehow, she managed to pounce on a couple more people with her scythe, but when she pivoted to find herself another victim, she discovered the room to be empty but for Trainer and the boy with the black watch.
The defeated had left the room. There was no one else. So many had been easily beat, and it had all happened in barely two minutes.
Protagonist would have waited. She would have waited for him to catch his breathe, for both of them to regain their composure.
But he attacked first.
His blade moved fast, slicing through the air. For a second, she thought he really meant to kill her and began to duck, but the weapon flew right past her, missing her neck by an inch and stabbing into the wall. It stayed there, its point drilling a hole into a wall before it finally fell down and Protagonist detached her gaze from it.
The move was intentional.
But now she was at better odds. The boy had no weapons left. She had two.
She swung both of them in the air, the mismatched blades: a scythe, and a dagger.
He made a mistake, attacking first. Perhaps he was too tired to do better. That did not mean Protagonist was going to soften. She knew how to put a good situation to use.
Perfecting her defensive stance, she let him launch himself at her first. All it took was one swing of her right arm and a threatening nudge with her dagger's end, and she had him down.
A red flag flared.
The boy pulled off his mask and thrust it to the ground in frustration. His skin was aflush, and he was breathing hard. She had nicked his flawless cheekbone with her blade - of course, she hadn't intended to, but privately, she wouldn't deny the small scar only enhanced to his face.
He was so close now, she could see his eyes more clearly: a vivid blue, like lightning.
She straightened her posture, awkwardly and spoke in the gentlest way possible: "I'm so sorry I hurt you."
He made a sound in his throat that sounded like something between a scoff and a snort. "Don't sweat it, I could've just as easily hurt you."
Her sympathy faded into a mixture of slight annoyance and amusement. "Well, it's cute you think that."
She held out her hand for him. He accepted her help reluctantly. His grip was strong, his wrist both fast and rigid. No wonder he'd been doing so well.
Their fingers remained linked for a while. She let go first, turning away to distract herself. Trainer was unsmiling, but he congratulated her: it was the first time he'd ever praised anyone.
Her heart soared. She had done it, she would be one of his favoured pupils. One of his best. One of the stars of the Academy.
"Well done," said the boy with the watch, but there was no enthusiasm in his voice. He was as competitive as she was, and he cared as little for her, as she had cared for anyone she had defeated without feeling a twinge of any emotion at all.
"Thank you," she whispered, and her cheeks flushed with pleasure despite herself. It was rare to recieve a compliment from someone who looked like him, even if he didn't really mean it. "Who are you?"
"You first."
"Ah, but I won and I get to choose who goes first."
"You wouldn't have won if I had been at my best," he said, defensively. "I fought more than you did. I was tired."
She rolled her eyes. Held out her hand. Said: "Katie."
He glanced at her patient hand, still in front of him like an offer. An offer of friendship, which neither of them had ever recieved, or provided before now.
"Cole." He did not take her hand. "Nice moves, Katie. You almost did better than me." He snatched up his blade from the wall and swaggered towards the open door, from where the deafeated had left.
He bade adieu with a wink and left. The door slammed shut behind him.
K, so not my best, but this is my first try. Is it too long, too short? Any opinions? You can comment here, or visit my primary blog: @thecenturybookworm
Anyways, I know a bunch of fellow writers or similar from Tumblr, so I'm just gonna tag 'em. If you want to be removed, or added, you can DM me or smthng.
I’ll admit, at first I was worried about what kind of training this was going to be and if there would actually be death involved. I like the idea of the flag and calling out those who have ‘died’.
Prompt: “I’m so sorry I hurt you.” “Don’t sweat it, I could’ve just as easily have hurt you.” “Well it’s cute that you think that.”
Source: @skriveting
Okay, so just recently had an obsession with fight scenes so I came up with this.
Warning: extreme, boring detail of how the fight is actually going
The trainees were assembled in two straight rows, facing each other. It had been only a few years and yet, learning to fight under the strict, disciplinary measures of the Academy had changed them all: their gazes betrayed no emotion, they were a void, full of only determination and a passion for fighting.
A trainer stood in front of them. He scrutinized every pupil of his: each had a black mask pulled up, revealing their faces. Each had a hard glare, each at least one weapon in their belts.
He nodded approval.
In response, there was a hiss of blades being drawn from sheathes.
Protagonist brandished her own: a long, sharp dagger with a gleaming, metal hilt like that of a sword's. She had strapped her extra scythe onto her belt.
Trainer whistled. Protagonist pulled down her black mask and lunged. The neat rows transformed into a mob of killers: they mingled, pouncing at each other and trying to get a any possible victim to the ground. They could never tell who.
That was the point of the mask: it made them all seem similar - uniformed. Everything happened too fast, in a flash of silver blades and there was never any time to look for specific notable features of a person, or identify who you were attacking, or teaming up with: a friend, or a foe.
Protagonist was smart enough to have none of either. Not at the Academy.
She was ruthless in her training. In a whirlwind of moving weapons, she pulled someone near her to their knees. She did not wait to see who it was. Trainer let a red flag flare and struck out the name of the girl she had just defeated.
Defeated Fighter moved aside, head hanging low with disappointment. Perhaps she had hoped to become Trainer's most favoured one. A privileged student.
Protagonist did not care. She attacked another several people. Three red flags flared. A minute ticked by quickly. There were about eleven people left.
She had beaten many already, but no one had outrun, outsmarted, outdone her in any way.
Around her, the fighting went on. The crowd had dispersed, now fighting in twos and threes.
She paused and shifted away from the scene to catch her breathe. Trainer flared a red flag. And another red flag. And another one.
Surprised, she searched the room for the new victims. Three more of the defeated now stood by the door. Two of them ad received nicks on their faces, which, she guessed, were earned from the same fighter.
And she was right. She realized this when she turned and saw the fighter. He was in all black: his hair, his mask, his clothes, his shoes and weapons. He was wearing a watch. A black watch. She did not recognize it, could not tell who he was or if she had seen him before.
More red flags flared. Protagonist joined the fight again, but she was distracted. Somehow, she managed to pounce on a couple more people with her scythe, but when she pivoted to find herself another victim, she discovered the room to be empty but for Trainer and the boy with the black watch.
The defeated had left the room. There was no one else. So many had been easily beat, and it had all happened in barely two minutes.
Protagonist would have waited. She would have waited for him to catch his breathe, for both of them to regain their composure.
But he attacked first.
His blade moved fast, slicing through the air. For a second, she thought he really meant to kill her and began to duck, but the weapon flew right past her, missing her neck by an inch and stabbing into the wall. It stayed there, its point drilling a hole into a wall before it finally fell down and Protagonist detached her gaze from it.
The move was intentional.
But now she was at better odds. The boy had no weapons left. She had two.
She swung both of them in the air, the mismatched blades: a scythe, and a dagger.
He made a mistake, attacking first. Perhaps he was too tired to do better. That did not mean Protagonist was going to soften. She knew how to put a good situation to use.
Perfecting her defensive stance, she let him launch himself at her first. All it took was one swing of her right arm and a threatening nudge with her dagger's end, and she had him down.
A red flag flared.
The boy pulled off his mask and thrust it to the ground in frustration. His skin was aflush, and he was breathing hard. She had nicked his flawless cheekbone with her blade - of course, she hadn't intended to, but privately, she wouldn't deny the small scar only enhanced to his face.
He was so close now, she could see his eyes more clearly: a vivid blue, like lightning.
She straightened her posture, awkwardly and spoke in the gentlest way possible: "I'm so sorry I hurt you."
He made a sound in his throat that sounded like something between a scoff and a snort. "Don't sweat it, I could've just as easily hurt you."
Her sympathy faded into a mixture of slight annoyance and amusement. "Well, it's cute you think that."
She held out her hand for him. He accepted her help reluctantly. His grip was strong, his wrist both fast and rigid. No wonder he'd been doing so well.
Their fingers remained linked for a while. She let go first, turning away to distract herself. Trainer was unsmiling, but he congratulated her: it was the first time he'd ever praised anyone.
Her heart soared. She had done it, she would be one of his favoured pupils. One of his best. One of the stars of the Academy.
"Well done," said the boy with the watch, but there was no enthusiasm in his voice. He was as competitive as she was, and he cared as little for her, as she had cared for anyone she had defeated without feeling a twinge of any emotion at all.
"Thank you," she whispered, and her cheeks flushed with pleasure despite herself. It was rare to recieve a compliment from someone who looked like him, even if he didn't really mean it. "Who are you?"
"You first."
"Ah, but I won and I get to choose who goes first."
"You wouldn't have won if I had been at my best," he said, defensively. "I fought more than you did. I was tired."
She rolled her eyes. Held out her hand. Said: "Katie."
He glanced at her patient hand, still in front of him like an offer. An offer of friendship, which neither of them had ever recieved, or provided before now.
"Cole." He did not take her hand. "Nice moves, Katie. You almost did better than me." He snatched up his blade from the wall and swaggered towards the open door, from where the deafeated had left.
He bade adieu with a wink and left. The door slammed shut behind him.
K, so not my best, but this is my first try. Is it too long, too short? Any opinions? You can comment here, or visit my primary blog: @thecenturybookworm
Anyways, I know a bunch of fellow writers or similar from Tumblr, so I'm just gonna tag 'em. If you want to be removed, or added, you can DM me or smthng.
Cavalry swords, two-handed swords, and cutlasses - these swords are used commonly for hacking and slashing - so they are swung in arcs or from side to side, not thrust forward.
Rapiers and small swords are one-handed weapons that are thin and light, but often quite long. They are used for thrusting and slicing, but as you can imagine they aren't much use in actual battle, but commonly used for sparring.
The third type is a mixture of the two - but less commonly found.
#2. Terminology
Fainting/Feinting - A false attack intended to create an opening for the real attack.
Parrying - When a swordsman uses his blade to deflect his opponent’s blade when he is being attacked.
Advance - A short forward movement
Fuller - A groove down the side of the sword to release suction when stabbed into a person's body.
Hilt - The base of the sword near your hands that isn't the blade
Pivot - Turning 180 degrees while keeping a foot planted
False edge - the "back" of the sword that isn't sharp and what you don't usually fight with.
#3. Common myths
A secret move that leads to victory - There is rarely such a "secret" move. Like chess, swordfighting is won through strategy and careful thinking, as well as physical prowess, not sEcRetT mOveS.
The Dramatic PauseTM - Nope, doesn't happen in real life. No one actually glares at each other in the middle of a swordfighting match when their priority should be, yknow, surviving.
#4. The Learning Curve of swordfighting
Unlike an ordinary learning curve where you slowly get better at something, in swordfighting, an untrained novice is much better than someone practising for a few months. This is because their actions are almost always wild and unpredictable. When a student receives training, their skill will actually decline over the next few months, because they will be trying to fight by the rules and are naturally not good at it. It takes at least two years to become a good swordsperson.
#5. The actual swordfighting itself
Footwork - Forward and back, in a line, in a semi-circle, a pivot. The basic goal of footwork is to give you a balanced center from which you can lunge, advance, retreat, attack, and parry. It also helps maintain the appropriate distance from your opponent and percieve.
Timing - How fast/slow is your opponent? How fast is your reaction time?
Every fighter has a different style. Some may naturally be inclined to use a certain move over and over, and have weakpoints in say, their reaction time. It is important that your character has a proper swordfighting style.
Predictability - How good are your characters/opponents at anticipating and learn each others fighting style? That determines the outcome of the fight!
Sources I used: https://kingdompen.org/writing-realistic-sword-fights/ // https://mythicscribes.com/miscellaneous/swordplay-for-fantasy-writers/ // https://lisashea.com/lisabase/writing/medieval/swords/glossary.html
I'm not really amazing with graphics, but I tried my best.
These are the aesthetics of the fictional kingdoms I created in my fantasy WIP Wayfarer. I'll be posting an introduction of it soon, along with a link to track it on Inkitt. (It's there, but in draft.)
Basically, this is a secondary blog I made for flash fiction, snippets, prompts, aesthetics and writing stuff in general. The original primary blog is @thecenturybookworm.
I'll be posting my work really soon. Follow me if you want to see it!
Here's the link to my Inkitt account: https://www.inkitt.com/maryam178
Also, I'll be making a taglist when I'll post my first work, so notify me if you want to be tagged, or want to get off the taglist, in case I tag you.
The people on my list are mostly only fellow writers on #writeblr and such.
Anyway, thank you for actually bothering to read this!!!
