Author Games: Path of the Guildpact

Task Two Entries: Azorius-Simic

Newt-Ella Doe-Knott

Hi, welcome to another story. Im Newt-Ella Doe-Knott (but you know that already) and I'm slightly inebriated tonight but you're gonna have to deal with that aren't you?

Anyway I have one signet and I'm feeling pretty good about myself because hot damn I'm doing well. A certain someone *pointed glare at whoever is judging this* thinks I have no personality but I don't care because Pete Zah loves me and hot damn.

So I fight this troll and I win and the world is good again. Isn't it weird that I'm narrating this in first person present? Like either I'm literally writing things down exactly as they happen or I'm lying. Huh.

Anyway I think I'm done for tonight. I'd say see you later but I'm probably getting voted out because I'm not telling stories well and that's sad.

RIP,

Newt-Ella Doe-Knort

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Trezene Cavrian

All I had to do was to choose one signet from the their twenty and grab it before they killed me.

That was all.

But though my speed helped as I dodged and misdirected spear shafts, I found myself submitting to the extremely high possibility that I might die the next second. Already my legs were turning rubbery, my skin oozing crimson from countless cuts—the result of one-millisecond-too-slow reflexes—that I tried my best to ignore. My hair, stiff and matted with blood, refused to stay out of my eyes. I didn't have any protective, defensive or offensive tools (except my mouth), whereas my challengers donned heavy chain-mail suits and helmets, with weapons ranging from whips to spears to maces.

The fact that this Gruul unit had uncanny strategy in their formation also didn't help. Turns out I had seriously underestimated the guild I had perceived to be chaotic and disorderly. Whenever I had tried to single one out as they formed a circle to strike, another took its place, then another, and another, until I felt like a lion trying to pick out a zebra to target among all those stripes that seemed to blend all those tasty equestrians into a single black and white blob—just that I was the one being hunted.

One time, an ogre had decided to take advantage of my heavy breathing and his rotten breath, and literally sang soprano into my face before swinging his spiked flail under me. I would've been knocked to the ground with numerous bloody holes in my left shin if I hadn't staggered backwards trying desperately to rid my lungs of the stench.

"Not so fast, punk," one of the human warriors snarled as I lunged forward. He was the scrawniest of the twenty, and I figured I could snatch the signet around his neck with the least problems, but quicker than I could flinch, a gash materialised on my cheek. "Pick on someone your own size!"

The problem was, there wasn't anyone my own size. He had been the only warrior somewhat smaller than me. The rest ranged from five centimetres to five feet taller, and I definitely didn't want to stand on my tiptoes to get the signet and leave my stomach exposed—

A muted glint of rusted metal appeared in my peripheral vision. Before I could process this new information, my body took over, jerking away from the spear that barely missed my gut.

By now my lungs were burning from dodging all those coordinated attacks. It didn't help that I was nowhere close to getting a signet. Every time I tried to get one, a sword, or a spear, or any other kind of weapon would be swung in my face, forcing me to retreat back into the circle, where twenty highly-trained warriors were hoping very much to kill me. It would take a miracle for me to survive, and the warriors knew that...