EXERCISE Koori Challenge: America's Next Top Knight

Discussion in 'DEVELOPING CHARACTERS & CULTURES' started by Kooriryu, Dec 11, 2013.

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    Who is she? What's that sword for? Is it yours or hers? Why is her dress so goddamn fabulous? Why she lookin' at you like that?

    Create the context for the image, what's going to happen from this picture? Did something already happen?

    HARDMODE: You're not being knighted and she's not royalty.
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  2. Giggles, sighs, and moans floated out through the locked door. This night, like those before it, was filled with the same drunken, high, stupid revelry that the banished prince always filled his nights with. Cut off from his kingdom, yes. Cut off from his mother, less so. And cut off from mommy's money, well, even less still. The blonde, Petruchia, was one of seven girls that often kept him company. Ostintibly, the prince suffered from cold-bloodedness and could not sleep alone for the shivering.
    That his sources of warmth were whores did not bode polite mentioning, especially where Petruchia was concerned. The dame wasn't a gentlewoman, and she'd knock you upside the head as quick as tumble you if she perceived some slight. A bold one, tart and saucy, ever too brave for her own good. It was really no wonder that, when a commotion from downstairs grew loud enough to interrupt even the banished prince's festivities, she was the one who volunteered to go downstairs and find out what on Earth was more important than the prince getting his dues from his loyal, loyal subjects. Loyal because of the gold, loyal because of the gowns, but loyal nonetheless.

    "Oh no. It's bad enough the dame puts on her clothes, but now she takes my sword!" I lament, throwing my hand over my forehead dramatically. "Must you go, fair Petruchia?"
    "Shaddup, idiot," She offered, helpful as ever. "Someone's gotta see what's going on, and none a you craven bitches is doin' it."
    "But my sword, Petruchia! It were my grandsire's!" I continue, just to watch her riled.
    "If yer grandsire knew where this sword 'ad been, he'd be grateful it were leavin' this room," She shot back. That's why I loved her. Quick as a whip and twice as mean.
    "And if you don't hurry back into bed, it'll explore a few new places before the night is done."
    "An' if they's that's downstairs is looking for your head, it'll explore yer neck," She promised in return, hand on her hip with a scornful look on her face. "Don't flatter yerself, hon. I'm only in this for the coin."
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  3. Power is a terrible thing, the weight birthed from responsibility and the extent of one's reach ofttimes were intertwined. This would be no exception; as a young woman she grew up in the slums. Eyes of envy and greed barreling upon the divine visage of nobility. In a world where women seldom had rights, an environment where those conceived in poverty are forever destined to remain ensnared by it. Hope seemed bleak, an intangible notion fantasied by young maidens seeking ascension by wedding a knight. However this was not her way, she was a stone defiant in nature when surmised and compared to her kin.

    She would not be rocked about by the current of the times, rather the current would have to bend around her. Against the wishes of her father she trained day in and day out. Grooves of defined muscles like a horse bending eloquently with the fluid motion of her foot work and thrust of the blade. Something about the frigid feel of steel against the soft palm of her hand seemed fulfilling. Despite the persecution she endured for such a choice, the young lady survived. Feeding from the disapproval of others and blooming into quite the swordsman.

    One day, a knight entered the slums sexually harassing the local "prey." A term his tongue so lightly flaunted as he mocked their pleas. At that moment she snapped, her body like a dance was set in motion. As steel pierced the gap between the armor, the chink in his chain. Flesh tearing ever so easily, as a stream of crimson blood sprayed against her face. The warmth of his bodily fluids soothed her, as if for the first time in her life she had found respite in this dog eat dog world.

    It didn't take long for the man to bleed out, a severed artery will do that to even the largest of men. Quickly she was swarmed by his fellow knights, and despite her valiant efforts she found herself overcome by their sheer numbers. Ten days she remained in the damp and cool dungeons of the castle. In the darkness she waited, her heartbeat in sync with the ever present sense of death. It would seem the bells of fate tolled for her; a fragile young soul trapped in a prison made not of iron bars or shackles. But composed by the times and her unfortunate luck of being born in such a world.

    However something transpired beyond anything she could have fathom. For as the door creaked open, and a beam of light blinding her expressive emerald eyes. The porcelain toned woman found herself being dragged from her cell, through the spiraling and narrow passage way of the stairs. But it was not the headsman she found at the end of the ordeal, but the commander of the knights. He had seen her passion, her footwork and thrust. And despite the prejudice of others, he couldn't bring himself to deny the soul of a warrior it's rightful place within their ranks.

    Now she stood over a balcony of stone, body adorned in raven and gold colored royal attire. Tip of her trusted ornate saber resting between the cracks of the flooring. And on her face, for the first time in a long time stood a smile. Not of joy nor of mockery, but the smile of one who found that ever elusive treasure; a peace of mind...

    Power is indeed a terrible thing, it's weight crushing most men. But perhaps in the hands of a woman, it could finally be wielded properly.
    #3 The Underdark Rises, Dec 13, 2013
    Last edited by a moderator: Dec 13, 2013
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