<div class="floatleft">(http://i5.minus.com/jm9uDpzOezHNQ.jpg)</div><strong>Name: Erik grimsby</strong><br/><strong>Team:</strong>Ghast<br/><strong>Location: Cafeteria</strong><br/><strong>Tags: Members of Team Ghast</strong><br/><br/>For Erik, most of the tasks were not that hard. Shamefully, world history was where he really struggled, as he generally didn't give too much of a damn about what was going on in the rest of the world.  Still, he did well enough over-all to get a pass, so it couldn't have been too important, as far as he was concerned.<br/><br/>The fight with the Beowolves was a breeze. He maintained his distance, and brutalized them from afar. He fell into the habit of temporarily stunning and turning aside the other Wolves with blows to the head, wounding and disorienting them, while he would single out a lone 'wolf, and cave its head in with a sickening crunch. One by one, he picked them off; at one point, slamming his spiked shield straight into the chest of one, then ripping it free, and letting the poor thing bleed to death.<br/><br/>The fight with Armina was exceedingly more difficult. She wasn't a fisher-woman or a lumberjack, or a forager. Those were the types of people he was used to training, used to sparring against. She was a professional warrior; and as such, she knew how to deny him his strategy. Iniatially, he had started off fighting defensively; and the first few moments were pretty much them slowly circling around, maintaining distance, watching, waiting.<br/><br/>But as time dragged on, she didn't push for the first attack. He was hoping she would, as he would have been able to turn her force against her; that was part of his style. But after some time of denying him that, he finally decided to go on the offensive, which was probably the biggest mistake he made during the fight with the combat instructor.<br/><br/>Try as he might, even with multiple deflections with his shield, he couldn't get her where he wanted her. In the end, she ended up fouling up the chain of Chernobog when he extended it for a long range attack, and actually managed to disarm him. Then it was all downhill from there; his shield could hurt like hell, and was in its own way a weapon; but it was trumped by the experienced swordswoman.<br/><br/>Just like all the others, he had to yield. And for the beating he took, he got rewarded with lunch. Admittedly, a very good lunch, but it in no way seemed to compare to the fish stew his mother used to make for the family. Eventually, sleep was to be had in a shared room, and he found himself studying the other potentials. Sizing them up. You could tell a lot about a person, and how they fought, by where the muscles on their body were, how they carried themselves... a few other ways  could reveal a lot.<br/><br/>For his own part, Grimsby was on the stocky side of things. Not fat, there's barely any fat on him, he's just big. Broad shoulders, barrel chested, sizable muscles. He was physically a robust individual, as one might expect from someone whose traditional role in a fight was 'tanking hits'.<br/><br/>He also proudly wore a cloak that marked him as a (former) member of The Laughing Skulls. They might no longer technically exist, but he took great pride in it, and also chose to wear it because of the underlying oath it represented.  Anybody wearing militia colors and symbols, like he was, were typically afforded a degree of respect; because of the responsibility that was entailed when one made the conscious choice of wearing the livery.<br/><br/>Members of militias were expected to, when given the tough choice, sacrifice themselves for the protection of those who could not defend themselves. Throwing ones life away was, of course, discouraged; a fool's death brings no honor, just shame.  He wore it, too, to remind him of that oath... and how, never again, would he dare to allow anyone to die under his watch.<br/><br/>***<br/><br/>Morning eventually came, and he was up with the sun. He woke in a state of almost complete awareness; no grogginess, no soreness, even if he had slept on the floor in a sleeping bag. He stretched out, got his armor and cloak on. He brushed his hair back, not that it was long enough to really need a brushing, and he waited. When everyone else was up and about, he'd quietly walk with the others down to the cafeteria.<br/><br/>Breakfast was amazing. He ends up eating his fill of eggs and bacon, and has some toast, too, with local red berry preserves. He has tea, but does not sweeten it, finding the slightly bitter, slightly sappy taste comforting, if only due to its familiarity.<br/><br/>He found himself looking around at the others, and doing what he had done the night before. It was like an automatic response for him. He was so used to assessing others, when it came to his part in the militia, that it was hard for him to stop doing it.<br/><br/>Particularly, he seemed to be eyeing up Ruby's weapon. He thought that the more gun-like weapons some of the students had were pretty nice; but on the other hand, Chernobog was his family's ancestral weapon. The idea of using anything else as a primary weapon was practically anathema to him.