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<blockquote data-quote="Berandor" data-source="post: 2492501" data-attributes="member: 225">&quot;Stop!&quot; The judge's voice echoes through the fighting ground. &quot;That will be enough.&quot;Berandor stops, breathing heavily, feeling the urge to spit, but his mouth is dry. A few feet away from him, mythago slows her steps. Berandor cannot see whether she is tired, exhausted, or whether she has not even had to strain herself. Still, the German Giant is happy. He has kept her at a distance, and several swings at least came close to hitting. His own breast is full of ink, but mythago's strikes are more delicate, and his scarred chest is a testament to him being used to pain.The crowd is silent, only the hushing whisper of those who cannot keep still flutters through the air like the first butterfly in spring - tiny and quiet, yet by its isolated nature very noticable.&quot;We will now discuss,&quot; BardStephenFox says, disappearing into the shadow of the balcony. The other two judges follow.In the silence, Berandor looks around the arena, waiting for thumbs to appear pointing up or down. Nothing happens, just a single Northerner steps up to the plate.&quot;What is it?&quot; Berandor asks, pulling his helmet off. &quot;Are you not entertained?&quot;He steps over to mythago, composing himself so he doesn't betray his anxiousness.&quot;Deft writing,&quot; he says, and pats her back. &quot;But this time the womenfolk will have nothing to cheer for. You may have broken my quill, lady, but I'll buy me a new one from the prize money. A golden one. Hah!&quot;Finally, I have found a nice poem on the web that might fit here quite well:Mother, oh mother, 
Your guidance I seek
To write clear and clever
Help me succeed
Against mighty wordsmiths
German or no
Otherwise I'll pray to dad to help me. He's more understanding and way more talented, anyway.
(Traditional Anglo-Saxon Poem, ca. 1987)</blockquote>

[QUOTE="Berandor, post: 2492501, member: 225"] "Stop!" The judge's voice echoes through the fighting ground. "That will be enough." Berandor stops, breathing heavily, feeling the urge to spit, but his mouth is dry. A few feet away from him, mythago slows her steps. Berandor cannot see whether she is tired, exhausted, or whether she has not even had to strain herself. Still, the German Giant is happy. He has kept her at a distance, and several swings at least came close to hitting. His own breast is full of ink, but mythago's strikes are more delicate, and his scarred chest is a testament to him being used to pain. The crowd is silent, only the hushing whisper of those who cannot keep still flutters through the air like the first butterfly in spring - tiny and quiet, yet by its isolated nature very noticable. "We will now discuss," BardStephenFox says, disappearing into the shadow of the balcony. The other two judges follow. In the silence, Berandor looks around the arena, waiting for thumbs to appear pointing up or down. Nothing happens, just a single Northerner steps up to the plate. "What is it?" Berandor asks, pulling his helmet off. "Are you not entertained?" He steps over to mythago, composing himself so he doesn't betray his anxiousness. "Deft writing," he says, and pats her back. "But this time the womenfolk will have nothing to cheer for. You may have broken my quill, lady, but I'll buy me a new one from the prize money. A golden one. Hah!" [i]Finally, I have found a nice poem on the web that might fit here quite well:[/i] [indent][b]M[/b]other, oh mother, [b]Y[/b]our guidance I seek [b]T[/b]o write clear and clever [b]H[/b]elp me succeed [b]A[/b]gainst mighty wordsmiths [b]G[/b]erman or no [b]O[/b]therwise I'll pray to dad to help me. He's more understanding and way more talented, anyway. [i](Traditional Anglo-Saxon Poem, ca. 1987)[/i][/indent] [/QUOTE]

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