Username: tehexile Any background information: okay this story is now pretty blatantly a Gynoug fanfiction... WHY? why must I write about games I'm terrified of at 1 in the morning? Excerpt:
“Good. Prophetic dreams are an excellent battle tactic, if you can get the hang of it,” he nodded, “I'm going to take you on a practice run, so you can get the hang of flying and throwing some basic elemental attacks on the wing. I'll send a message out now to warn the guards to keep the airfields clear and not to mistake us for terrorists and shoot us down or anything.”
Scribe's practice run went fairly smoothly. No matter how stupidly he crashed it, he never managed to break the Flying Machine. He was only sick twice, and was rapidly getting used to being suspended above great heights and occasionally spun around without warning. It seemed to be featuring a great deal in his immediate future. He also managed to only crash into one pillar and three civilians, and only hit one person with an elemental attack (fortunately for him, Saint Lysander had spotted the mistake, and the bystander was protected by a shield of air seconds before a ball of lightning slammed into said shield of air). He only broke one bone, which was quickly healed by an ever-attentive Saint Lysander. The worst thing that really happened was that he made a complete fool of himself in front of a growing audience, something he had been expressedly trying to avoid back in Brokenshire and had only managed to postpone until he reached a different city. It wouldn't have been so bad, as he at least didn't know anyone in Masaya, and therefore nobody had the inside knowledge of how to most efficiently mock him, except that he now had a wife. That fact hadn't really sunken in yet. Even compared to entering a battle he had technically already lost, and having the responsibility to save the world where the person whose job it was appeared to have given up, it was still more difficult to grasp, and to realise the true import of, the fact that he was married.
He was only sixteen, and he was married. To a girl with wings. Who may or may not still exist.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2011-11-18 01:06 am (UTC)Any background information: okay this story is now pretty blatantly a Gynoug fanfiction... WHY? why must I write about games I'm terrified of at 1 in the morning?
Excerpt:
“Good. Prophetic dreams are an excellent battle tactic, if you can get the hang of it,” he nodded, “I'm going to take you on a practice run, so you can get the hang of flying and throwing some basic elemental attacks on the wing. I'll send a message out now to warn the guards to keep the airfields clear and not to mistake us for terrorists and shoot us down or anything.”
Scribe's practice run went fairly smoothly. No matter how stupidly he crashed it, he never managed to break the Flying Machine. He was only sick twice, and was rapidly getting used to being suspended above great heights and occasionally spun around without warning. It seemed to be featuring a great deal in his immediate future. He also managed to only crash into one pillar and three civilians, and only hit one person with an elemental attack (fortunately for him, Saint Lysander had spotted the mistake, and the bystander was protected by a shield of air seconds before a ball of lightning slammed into said shield of air). He only broke one bone, which was quickly healed by an ever-attentive Saint Lysander. The worst thing that really happened was that he made a complete fool of himself in front of a growing audience, something he had been expressedly trying to avoid back in Brokenshire and had only managed to postpone until he reached a different city. It wouldn't have been so bad, as he at least didn't know anyone in Masaya, and therefore nobody had the inside knowledge of how to most efficiently mock him, except that he now had a wife. That fact hadn't really sunken in yet. Even compared to entering a battle he had technically already lost, and having the responsibility to save the world where the person whose job it was appeared to have given up, it was still more difficult to grasp, and to realise the true import of, the fact that he was married.
He was only sixteen, and he was married. To a girl with wings. Who may or may not still exist.