Creative Personalities

:: Undaunted brilliance and vivaciousness. Each movement was a brush stroke, each bead of sweat a swirl of water-color that hit the ground, splashed like the fall of some once glorious angel into the pit of humanity. Yes, there was no contrary, there was no opposition, there was nothing that stood in his way, or could ever stand in the way of this being, too tactful and sagacious to be a creature, yet, to animalistic in both movement and fray to be a man. One after another, they fell, they dropped to the ground like a lifeless cushion, hitting the hardwood frames beneath the illustrious dojo’s canopy, a fairly well-known meeting place outside the famed Fighter’s Guild. From afar, any inexperienced eye could fall upon the dojo and its canopy, the guild and its recreational interior, and rashly come to the false conclusion that such a place was merely a social hub of physical activity. The truth, of course, was far from that. The fighter stood strong and prideful in the midst of more than seven fallen foes. Each victory, however brief, was a milestone in his career, as the man had come from a far away place with nothing more than his God given fierceness and iron-clad determination. He had heard stories about how the big city promoted The Fighter’s Guild, and many a seasoned pugilist had climbed their way to the top of the list and gained fortune, fame, and respect. He was here, neither for the fortune, nor for the fame, but for the prospects of respect. Now, after but a few weeks, he had climbed the back-breaking rungs of the Guild’s hierarchy and had nearly made it to the top, a feat which no fighter, up till now, had been able to pull off with such beastly grace. “If you are not the best, than you have no place in the ring.” The fighter would think back to the challenging words of his father, a prized combatant himself. The mans chest, drawn as if by ruddy charcoal, pulsed up and down, as beads of sweat ran rampant across his body, like a flood of immigrants rushing to a gold site. Underneath the dojo’s canopy, the sun failed to hit him full force, despite this, he seemed to shimmer with an ardent bronze lining. Silently, he waited. When he saw that none of his competitors could muster up the courage or strength to stand again, the fighter simply bowed respectfully, took a towel from off a nearby rack, patted the sweat away, and walked over to the interior of the Guild. As he walked, calmly, cautiously, in-tune with his surroundings, his eyes couldn’t help but notice the fast paced stride of sylph, a woman, with long, raven hair. He had seen her before, even asked for directions when he first came to the city… what could she be doing here? He thought. Without a second realization, the fighter called out, his voice low, somewhat raspy, and rushed.:: Excuse me, you there, woman, with the black hair!

:: Fighter’s eyes remained downcast the whole while. Those eyes, there was something in them now that was never present when his fingers were clenched, it was an overture of peace, an overture of human nature, a tiny glimmer of gentleness, like the soft look in an attack dog’s eyes when being praised by it’s master. During his travels, the fighter had encountered many hardships, and waged many battles, lost many friends, and bereaved far too many lives in the process. His heart, although incapable of beating for his enemy during a challenge, was still able to beat silently for the smile of another, for the warmth still left in an otherwise icy and disdainful world. It was Master Hogan who taught him never to lose his heart, never to lose the one part of his being that could summon human compassion, after a fight of course. This was a doubled edged lesson, as when engaged in the rife crusade of combat, his enemies were not men, nor were they enemies, they were walls that had to be torn down. The fighter was taught to throw his fists like a sledge hammer, his legs like a wrecking ball, and to use his body like bulwark destroyer, nothing was allowed to stand in his way, nothing was allowed to remain standing at all. The woman’s quick quip bounced off the man so fully they made a sound. His facial faÐ"§ade was impregnable, and just as the woman walked off without any second thought to his voice, so too did he swivel his body in the opposite direction with the intention of walking into the social area of the Guild. However, as any deus ex machina would have it, before the man’s fingers ever touched the door knob, a whirlwind of excitement and vitality exploded through the entrance and nearly collided with the fighter. Although this explosion of vitality in particular could never match the fighter in strength, he was more than fast enough to stand his ground for a few minutes before being knocked utterly unconscious by a powerful and well placed blow. His ability to endure in combat longer than anyone else thus far earned him a special plot in the fighter’s mind, and in no time, the two had become good friends.:: “Oh hey man!!!! I’m so sorry!!! I didn’t see ya there buddy!!!! Oh, you won’t believe what I found out!!! It’s awesome, the kewlist thing you’ll ever see!!! Heck, even a big ol barbarian like yourself could appreciate what I found Plas’myx!!!! C’mon!!!! Follow me!!! ::Cittrum, as the lively young fighter had come to be known, quickly took a tight grip on the fighter’s shoulder and urged him in his general path of motion. The fighter’s eyes narrowed, as he wished to see his fellows energy used in combat via offensive blows, instead of being wasted in evasion and overly active adventuring. Nonetheless, the man, this Plas’myx, allowed himself to be guided by Cittrum.:: Alright… alright… let’s go ::He spoke in his low, slow, and steady voice.::

“C’mon slow poke!!!! We’re almost there!!!! Just a few more steps!!!! We needa be near water for me to show you!! Water Plas’myx!” ::It was futile to try to keep up with Cittrum’s pace. No, it wasn’t a pace, it was a gallop, it was as if his legs stretched out further than what his sinew should allow, his movements were almost elastic, a powerful life force pulsed through his entire frame, if only, thought Plas’myx, he could focus it. The fighter himself, although swift and agile atop the dojo floor, was far too bulky and cumbersome to keep up with the light-framed, lighthearted Cittrum. Time after time, Cittrum’s eagerness would get the best of him, for the most part, it made him a decent competitor, especially against fighter’s whose style called for grapples and locks,

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