odiumtoo lazy to fite
but wow melon's still alive
but wow melon's still alive
Vordak Member
STATUS: In Soviet Russia we kick American Capitalist until they turn Red 3 yrs agoStatus
Recent Statuses
3 yrs ago
Current
In Soviet Russia we kick American Capitalist until they turn Red
5 yrs ago
In Soviet Russia we kick American capitalist until they bleed
7 yrs ago
Triborg or Johnny main?
Bio
mein CS storage: roleplayerguild.com/topics/80043-vorda..
Most Recent Posts
My characters like punching stuff. I like punching stuff too.
The closest character to myself was probably this swordcaster mage, descendant of a gypsy clan. Always brooding, stoic to the death; due to his pessimistic view of the world and a severely lacking inner drive, he overall remained a complete amateur in his area of specialty, his spell arsenal consisting of a single complex and incredibly nasty conjuration on the backdrop of a slew of weak and low-effort tricks. Obsessive care and maintenance for his tools of trade and a complete disregard for everything else material in his life - clothing, appearances, household and personal health.
So basically he was a hikkimori barely keeping his head above the water thanks to being lukewarm successful in his only field of self-realization. Pretty apt description of what i was like at the time of writing the character - what makes it funny to me is that none of the similarities were intentional and it's only in retrospect that i saw them, way, way later.
The closest character to myself was probably this swordcaster mage, descendant of a gypsy clan. Always brooding, stoic to the death; due to his pessimistic view of the world and a severely lacking inner drive, he overall remained a complete amateur in his area of specialty, his spell arsenal consisting of a single complex and incredibly nasty conjuration on the backdrop of a slew of weak and low-effort tricks. Obsessive care and maintenance for his tools of trade and a complete disregard for everything else material in his life - clothing, appearances, household and personal health.
So basically he was a hikkimori barely keeping his head above the water thanks to being lukewarm successful in his only field of self-realization. Pretty apt description of what i was like at the time of writing the character - what makes it funny to me is that none of the similarities were intentional and it's only in retrospect that i saw them, way, way later.
But what if Jocko looked back at you
and said
"eat me"
and said
"eat me"
@BloodyRed Sorry for the slow pace - both in posting and in the amounts of action in my posts. Do expect me to deliver on both fronts though once the fight gets going; i like to let it rip.
Red steadied himself for the fight, keenly observing, spreading control through his body and cutting away all that failed to matter.
Meanwhile, his opponent still seemed out of it, steering his body around in the ring's corner and swiveling his head side to side from one person in the crowd to another. The referee came in, and Pris responded with an exhilarated fist pump, jogging his way over to the center. Announcements were made, stoppage conditions were once again repeated, and with an angry air chop from the pudgy mexican referee (a good half foot taller than them both, retired greco-roman and BJJ amateur and now part-time taxi driver), the fight was on - yet still there seemed to be zero adjustment on his part. Was he really, really that confident?
An outwards demeanor often betrays the truth: however much it seemed that Pris was more invested in feeling himself than bracing for combat, when once asked in a post-fight interview - what he remembered of the moments right before the match, what he reply was: "Hey, no idea. It was all a haze, my head was already busy. I don't like standing still when there's action up ahead - my body gets all jittery, it gets tense if i don't move. When there's a man standing across ready to do your shit in, your body knows it, your mind knows it. It fires off into hyperdrive, everything does, all the past matches you've had come up, all that muscle memory, and it begs you to start moving, do something, turn the anticipation into excitement, you know - reverse it with confidence. So i dance around, do some funny moves, all on autopilot, while my brain is churning - absolutely - through everything i know. Yeah. That's how it is for me."
Southpaw stance, traditional Thai guard. Steel toe boots. A photo-flash mental image of Red somewhere in the back of his mind and full focus on sensing motion, the buzz of his peripheral vision bloating far beyond its usual presence.
In the span of time between moving out his corner and the referee siccing them at eachother, Pris already found himself in a stance: left foot forwards, his right a foot and a half behind - a wide base with a shallow crouch in both legs. Presenting his side to the opponent with his lead foot's toes pointing diagonally, rather than straight ahead, he took something of a long-range boxing stance, with a guard to match: left arm halfway extended, constantly bouncing between cheekbone and chest level with the threat of high and low jabs, and right hand held right in front of the chin, palm outwards. When Red seemed to offer him a sportsmanlike fistbump, his own lead hand eagerly swimmed in to respond, habit bordering on instinct - but then Red suddenly pulled out of it.
The average reaction time to visual stimulus is 0.25 seconds (according to the internet). 0.4 seconds had passed from the moment Red initiated his backstep. Pris squinted at him, a fiery gleam in his narrowed eyes probing in with the question: "You chicken or something!?"
0.5 - half a second had passed, and by that time, Pris responded with his body, mirroring the cheeky retreat.
His right foot shot back on its own; the lead left twisted against the ground, flinging the rest of his body backward, moving him a foot-and-a-half backwards - the width of his stance. Tip - Pap!, and his right foot landed, now its turn to bear his full weight and leave the lead leg light. His stance widened even further as he performed the backstep, and to restore its neutral state, Pris pulled his lead leg in - however, just before it should land, he jolted and transitioned into a sidestep: half a foot to his left with the lead, shift his weight onto it and pull in the rear leg in while doing a sharp, 30 degree pivot counterclockwise.
He knew the southpaw versus orthodox matchup well, and his first move in the fight was to begin circling to the outside, already establishing the threat from a distance.
Red moving away; Pris doing the same - their actions in sync put both outside of striking distance, be it kick or punch, and Pris wouldn't be gingerly to re-establish it. His narrow, sideways stance forced tricky footwork for sideways movement - quid pro quo, he gained in bouncy, fast and sudden frontal movement, allowing to govern range with impunity. One step or two, so long as Red remained passive, he'd keep circling and steadily advance into the outer fringe of his own front kick reach; his left hand still positioned in front, still bobbing up and down to unnerve and capture attention, Pris used an eyeball estimate of the inches between his hand and the opponent's body as a measuring gauge, achieving a remarkable degree of accuracy this way. Judging that if they were of the same height, they'd have almost identical reach, Pris concluded that this was where Redbeard's killzone started as well.
There's many questions one ponders when trying to break down a formidable opponent; find their weakspots, exploit their habits, elude their strengths. One among them that stuck in Pris' mind from the beginning of the fight was whether Red was as reserved and patient as he seemed - or if the promise of violence unleashed in him a trigger-happy maniac instead. One way to check was the good old in-out: having nothing to do with mechanized fruits, sex, or violence, all the technique entailed was stepping into range with your lead foot and then slipping back out immediately, keeping the rear leg right where it was. Foot feints, and with Pris' stance, they were a natural choice.
Meanwhile, his opponent still seemed out of it, steering his body around in the ring's corner and swiveling his head side to side from one person in the crowd to another. The referee came in, and Pris responded with an exhilarated fist pump, jogging his way over to the center. Announcements were made, stoppage conditions were once again repeated, and with an angry air chop from the pudgy mexican referee (a good half foot taller than them both, retired greco-roman and BJJ amateur and now part-time taxi driver), the fight was on - yet still there seemed to be zero adjustment on his part. Was he really, really that confident?
An outwards demeanor often betrays the truth: however much it seemed that Pris was more invested in feeling himself than bracing for combat, when once asked in a post-fight interview - what he remembered of the moments right before the match, what he reply was: "Hey, no idea. It was all a haze, my head was already busy. I don't like standing still when there's action up ahead - my body gets all jittery, it gets tense if i don't move. When there's a man standing across ready to do your shit in, your body knows it, your mind knows it. It fires off into hyperdrive, everything does, all the past matches you've had come up, all that muscle memory, and it begs you to start moving, do something, turn the anticipation into excitement, you know - reverse it with confidence. So i dance around, do some funny moves, all on autopilot, while my brain is churning - absolutely - through everything i know. Yeah. That's how it is for me."
Southpaw stance, traditional Thai guard. Steel toe boots. A photo-flash mental image of Red somewhere in the back of his mind and full focus on sensing motion, the buzz of his peripheral vision bloating far beyond its usual presence.
In the span of time between moving out his corner and the referee siccing them at eachother, Pris already found himself in a stance: left foot forwards, his right a foot and a half behind - a wide base with a shallow crouch in both legs. Presenting his side to the opponent with his lead foot's toes pointing diagonally, rather than straight ahead, he took something of a long-range boxing stance, with a guard to match: left arm halfway extended, constantly bouncing between cheekbone and chest level with the threat of high and low jabs, and right hand held right in front of the chin, palm outwards. When Red seemed to offer him a sportsmanlike fistbump, his own lead hand eagerly swimmed in to respond, habit bordering on instinct - but then Red suddenly pulled out of it.
The average reaction time to visual stimulus is 0.25 seconds (according to the internet). 0.4 seconds had passed from the moment Red initiated his backstep. Pris squinted at him, a fiery gleam in his narrowed eyes probing in with the question: "You chicken or something!?"
0.5 - half a second had passed, and by that time, Pris responded with his body, mirroring the cheeky retreat.
His right foot shot back on its own; the lead left twisted against the ground, flinging the rest of his body backward, moving him a foot-and-a-half backwards - the width of his stance. Tip - Pap!, and his right foot landed, now its turn to bear his full weight and leave the lead leg light. His stance widened even further as he performed the backstep, and to restore its neutral state, Pris pulled his lead leg in - however, just before it should land, he jolted and transitioned into a sidestep: half a foot to his left with the lead, shift his weight onto it and pull in the rear leg in while doing a sharp, 30 degree pivot counterclockwise.
He knew the southpaw versus orthodox matchup well, and his first move in the fight was to begin circling to the outside, already establishing the threat from a distance.
Red moving away; Pris doing the same - their actions in sync put both outside of striking distance, be it kick or punch, and Pris wouldn't be gingerly to re-establish it. His narrow, sideways stance forced tricky footwork for sideways movement - quid pro quo, he gained in bouncy, fast and sudden frontal movement, allowing to govern range with impunity. One step or two, so long as Red remained passive, he'd keep circling and steadily advance into the outer fringe of his own front kick reach; his left hand still positioned in front, still bobbing up and down to unnerve and capture attention, Pris used an eyeball estimate of the inches between his hand and the opponent's body as a measuring gauge, achieving a remarkable degree of accuracy this way. Judging that if they were of the same height, they'd have almost identical reach, Pris concluded that this was where Redbeard's killzone started as well.
There's many questions one ponders when trying to break down a formidable opponent; find their weakspots, exploit their habits, elude their strengths. One among them that stuck in Pris' mind from the beginning of the fight was whether Red was as reserved and patient as he seemed - or if the promise of violence unleashed in him a trigger-happy maniac instead. One way to check was the good old in-out: having nothing to do with mechanized fruits, sex, or violence, all the technique entailed was stepping into range with your lead foot and then slipping back out immediately, keeping the rear leg right where it was. Foot feints, and with Pris' stance, they were a natural choice.
Red would be greeted with an ambient murmur from the spectators - a crowd standing right up against the 4-sided, rugged built ring made of jute rope and thick wooden posts driven deep into the sand. Hungry eyes started at him with curiosity and interest, eager for the evening's show, excited blurbs and heated opinions were exchanged, and if he listened closely, he might've caught his name being spoken - or were those just remarks on the color of his shorts? "Fighter in red - Red!" In reality, some of the people gathered had come from across the neighboring area to see him fight live; his career, not only as a sportsman, but as a fighter, attracted many admirers of the brutal art.
As he stood though, waiting for his opponent, their cheering only grew, mixing in laughs and grins as attention now slowly gathered around a figure standing in the front rows. Dusty tuxedo draped over his shoulders, white turned sun-eaten gray by travel, the man lounged with a half-empty plastic cup of water, squinting at the dimming sky and fiddling with the waist of his baggy cargo pants. Lowering his head, he slowly swept across a decisive, confident gaze, pausing with his eyes set at the ring; as he did so, a bright, reflective gleam ran across his forehead, bringing attention to a strip of steel fixed over it with a padded headband, the letters P.R.I.S. stamped into the surface.
"Get your ass out there Pris!"
Beaming a smile, the other combatant of the evening squatted down, setting his drink on the ground, and finally headed into the ring, ducking through the ropes and then tossing his upper garment over one of the posts with a showboating flourish. The rest of his wear was rather practical: other than the loose cargo pants, he had sleek boxing shoes on and a tank top over the torso. His hands were bound in a similar fashion, albeit, with a roll's worth of ductape beaten into a flat pad covering the knuckles.
The organizers of the event made good effort in finding Red a match: same height, just a couple pounds up in weight, and his name would've soon become a mainstay among kickboxing legends, if not his turn for no-holds barred brawling.
Hopping from foot to foot, he danced his way to one of the corners, still facing Red. Lifting an arm to point at him, only to say nothing, and instead, give a cocky nod, smiling. At this point, all they were waiting for was for the referee to officially start the fight - and the hosts of the gladiatorial event had no business in keeping their patrons waiting.
As he stood though, waiting for his opponent, their cheering only grew, mixing in laughs and grins as attention now slowly gathered around a figure standing in the front rows. Dusty tuxedo draped over his shoulders, white turned sun-eaten gray by travel, the man lounged with a half-empty plastic cup of water, squinting at the dimming sky and fiddling with the waist of his baggy cargo pants. Lowering his head, he slowly swept across a decisive, confident gaze, pausing with his eyes set at the ring; as he did so, a bright, reflective gleam ran across his forehead, bringing attention to a strip of steel fixed over it with a padded headband, the letters P.R.I.S. stamped into the surface.
"Get your ass out there Pris!"
Beaming a smile, the other combatant of the evening squatted down, setting his drink on the ground, and finally headed into the ring, ducking through the ropes and then tossing his upper garment over one of the posts with a showboating flourish. The rest of his wear was rather practical: other than the loose cargo pants, he had sleek boxing shoes on and a tank top over the torso. His hands were bound in a similar fashion, albeit, with a roll's worth of ductape beaten into a flat pad covering the knuckles.
The organizers of the event made good effort in finding Red a match: same height, just a couple pounds up in weight, and his name would've soon become a mainstay among kickboxing legends, if not his turn for no-holds barred brawling.
Hopping from foot to foot, he danced his way to one of the corners, still facing Red. Lifting an arm to point at him, only to say nothing, and instead, give a cocky nod, smiling. At this point, all they were waiting for was for the referee to officially start the fight - and the hosts of the gladiatorial event had no business in keeping their patrons waiting.
@BloodyRed
Ah, pardon the assumption. It's actually for the best though - i was worried a language barrier might be problematic to overcome if some dispute arose down the course of the fight, but since you'll know exactly how to say what you mean, that's nothing to worry about. And i also get to be as flowery with my writing as i want. :^)
Today's been doubly for me stressful though, so i didn't have the time i planned for writing my post. I'll cook it up quick tomorrow though - HtH fights are the few in which i consistently deliver.
Ah, pardon the assumption. It's actually for the best though - i was worried a language barrier might be problematic to overcome if some dispute arose down the course of the fight, but since you'll know exactly how to say what you mean, that's nothing to worry about. And i also get to be as flowery with my writing as i want. :^)
Today's been doubly for me stressful though, so i didn't have the time i planned for writing my post. I'll cook it up quick tomorrow though - HtH fights are the few in which i consistently deliver.
Gotta be off for work right now, but calling dibs - i'll post as soon as i'm back. As a hand-to-hand geek and self-proclaimed specialist, i take this as a personal challenge and a chance to test my skills.
Also, at the risk of sounding blunt - i've noticed your english is a little off and i'm guessing your a non-native speaker, so i'll use this as my chance to ask: is there a non-english roleplay fighting scene out there? Coming from russia myself, i've seen some russian roleplay communities, but none actually dedicated to fighting.
Also, at the risk of sounding blunt - i've noticed your english is a little off and i'm guessing your a non-native speaker, so i'll use this as my chance to ask: is there a non-english roleplay fighting scene out there? Coming from russia myself, i've seen some russian roleplay communities, but none actually dedicated to fighting.
Even here.
says the dude hosting this thing in the arena section. we may be half dead, but our guard still knows it's craft :^)
one of the coolest things about rp fighting though, is that given enough freedom, the players will eventually craft their own counter to any established meta. However, if there is a concrete ruleset, then patches are certainly welcome.
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