Post by Asahina Yuuto on Aug 15, 2011 0:29:53 GMT -5
The symmetry of horse hooves stampede across the back roads and groves that compose the outskirts of Toshi Ranbo, made an unwilling host of struggle between family divided. The day is hot, the winds stronger and growing ever fiercer, storm clouds drift closer on the horizon to wet the fires of men’s ambition that left unchecked will consume the land’s very soul. The birds do not chirp; crickets will not sing. War drums sound instead.
The horsemen continue to weave between road and trees; five jingasa covered heads dance across the terrain, Crane banners flying behind them proudly, five loyal subjects bring war to those who defy their Emperor’s rule. As three travels deeper into an angry lion’s maw, two shadow their safety; in their wake baggage trains are detached from their horse drawn muscle. Wagons are left for sacrificial amusement to the fire kami, and what can be found of the Toturi’s roar fails to guarantee a comfortable rest on his quick and sudden prowl. Smoke floats across the midday sky and fires dot the tree lines; it is quite clear, no Lion is welcome here.
The Lion’s tail is nowhere to be found, or perhaps it is simply busy elsewhere? The bluster of Toturi’s beat bawls, as trespassers become too much to tolerate.
The trees shower terror
Arrogant struts made to pay
The Tsuruchi hunts prey
Arrows sing in anger; air unable to resist. The drums die down, five riders are no longer found; moans and groans of wounded soldiers replace the once harmonious sound of hoof on ground.
Treble beats will not acknowledge this defeat, Imperial drums growl as moans die down. The forces of Hantei will not fail to herald his reign.
“Nikutai! Nikutai-sama!” The melodious chant pierces the void, “Nikutai! Now is no time to dream!” Eyes open to storm clouds gathering, the ground aching for relief as the first rain drops cool their seasonal rage. Muscle awakens to bruised flesh and humbled pride. The Nikutai scrambles for his pouch, entangled with pain, frantically uttering, “Who still stands?”
“The treeline to the east, a figure approaches,” whispered Miga-san. The Nikutai’s ears turn to the sounds of blood gurgling, his cohort’s strained look giving away reality, “In my bag,” coughs adding to the drum filled pause as he caresses deeper into the dusty satchel, “use the elixirs; stabilize the fallen. I will handle any aggression.”
The rain began to lightly shower, the cacophony of dueling drums still in the distance, as the hohei set herself to the task. The Nikutai rises, refitting his leather jerkin beneath light blue kimono, and stepping over his horse now littered with arrows to face his approaching opponent. The earth humbles itself for the rain, succumbing to mud in the compromise of two elements; Yuuto follows suite as he humbles himself to the approaching samurai’s gaze.
The two close the distance; the samurai dressed in green effortlessly treading the mud in his straw weaved waraji. His black hair, pulled back in a ponytail, matted down into his armor from the rain. His aura remains quiet; the occasional flash of light on his rectangular lenses hiding any emotion to be read in his eyes. His right hand hovers above the hilt of his wakazashi, a well-worn bow and quiver accenting his back.
Yuuto, quickly casts drenched hair covering his eyes to the side, as his other hand grips the hilt of his sheathed blade. Feet slip from geta, no longer a sound footing in the strange mixture of rain, grass, and mud, his toes settling into the new footing.
The only response to his movement is the clack of his un-named opponent’s blade from sheath, thunder echoing its announcement.
“Tsuruchi Bentoni”
“Asahina Yuuto”
Silence. The Tsuruchi strikes, effortless avoided by a pivot on the left foot; blade meeting blade as thrust follows slash. A lightning strike echoes between the two as the wind and rain grow fiercer. The struggle continues.
The Crane prances, the Mantis prays. The noble bird flashes it plumage, but will not inspire awe today. Even the mighty stalks of the dancing Crane can be pinned by the pincers of a Mantis that won’t be moved.
Yuuto continues to give ground, normally a delightful sight in the arts of aesthetics, but not worth much in fights one finds in such a foul field of war. Glancing blows are received, hands on handle weaken; even the ground veils its eyes in fog as the funeral knell becomes clear.
“Your movement is delicate, and footing masterful. No geisha could perform as powerfully as you do today,” Bentoni paused, his lenses continuing to hide any emotion in his eyes – swipes of his sword pressing words forward, “but you are not pouring tea; you would have done better to study under a common sake whore.”
Blade meets blade; the sky cackles menacingly. Dirtied waraji meets chest; down tumbles Crane into fog, followed by wasp’s fatal sting. The wind and rain grow violent.
Wind flatters violence
Elements excite, enrage
Pacifism weeps; War
The Tsuruchi’s sting finds only muddy ground. The wind, however, finds favor in form of crane and grievance strong enough to nurse. Lenses flash, as atmosphere attacks, and easily part former victor from his blade and solid footing.
As Bentoni rolls to ground, fog further envelops sight with mist; instinct draws him back to worn bow and solid footing. The wind howls, and doubles back for a second attack. The rain stings in defiance, and the earth tugs at his feet relentlessly.
Yelling to be heard over the elements that now enraged, “You may command the wind wily Crane, but we Tsuruchi play in it everyday”
The grip of bow and string grows ever stronger, pernicious gales unable to pummel hand from that which guarantees life. As maelstrom beat and blasts Bentoni’s body, his focus coldly follows shadow dancing among concealing mist. The tug of leather strap, the pain of chest and muscle – all is ignored as he takes his aim. The release of bow string is not heard among the whirling madness.
The winds begin to calm. The rain starts to fade. The mist begins to clear. Tsuruchi Bentoni instinctively stretches for quiver to find nothing there. In fright, he pivots to his right, as a battered and bloodied Crane struts towards his injured comrades with plumage of leather and feathered arrow. His arrogance shown on turned back, concealing cut on cheek and depression in heart at the glimpse of Tsuruchi Bentoni’s approaching legion.
The cacophony of war drums return in the elements absence; lightly armored hohei greeting Bentoni as he returns to the tree line to tend his wounds, “Taisa-sama, are you allowing him to escape?” A quiet pause fills the air as lens refuse to shine, “Asahina Yuuto has won the battle of wits today, and if Toturi is to ever legitimately rule, he cannot do so simply by martial force of arms. No matter how many birds, mundane or mythical, we remove from high perch, we cannot battle their songs and thoughts by breaking their wings.”
A look of confusion flooded the face of the young hohei, but quickly eased as a smile imposed itself on the face of the Taisa, “besides, when we enter the Gates of Toshi Ranbo, we need someone to serve us tea and read us poetry; it would be a shame to lose such a ‘gentle’ Crane this day.”
The horsemen continue to weave between road and trees; five jingasa covered heads dance across the terrain, Crane banners flying behind them proudly, five loyal subjects bring war to those who defy their Emperor’s rule. As three travels deeper into an angry lion’s maw, two shadow their safety; in their wake baggage trains are detached from their horse drawn muscle. Wagons are left for sacrificial amusement to the fire kami, and what can be found of the Toturi’s roar fails to guarantee a comfortable rest on his quick and sudden prowl. Smoke floats across the midday sky and fires dot the tree lines; it is quite clear, no Lion is welcome here.
The Lion’s tail is nowhere to be found, or perhaps it is simply busy elsewhere? The bluster of Toturi’s beat bawls, as trespassers become too much to tolerate.
The trees shower terror
Arrogant struts made to pay
The Tsuruchi hunts prey
Arrows sing in anger; air unable to resist. The drums die down, five riders are no longer found; moans and groans of wounded soldiers replace the once harmonious sound of hoof on ground.
Treble beats will not acknowledge this defeat, Imperial drums growl as moans die down. The forces of Hantei will not fail to herald his reign.
“Nikutai! Nikutai-sama!” The melodious chant pierces the void, “Nikutai! Now is no time to dream!” Eyes open to storm clouds gathering, the ground aching for relief as the first rain drops cool their seasonal rage. Muscle awakens to bruised flesh and humbled pride. The Nikutai scrambles for his pouch, entangled with pain, frantically uttering, “Who still stands?”
“The treeline to the east, a figure approaches,” whispered Miga-san. The Nikutai’s ears turn to the sounds of blood gurgling, his cohort’s strained look giving away reality, “In my bag,” coughs adding to the drum filled pause as he caresses deeper into the dusty satchel, “use the elixirs; stabilize the fallen. I will handle any aggression.”
The rain began to lightly shower, the cacophony of dueling drums still in the distance, as the hohei set herself to the task. The Nikutai rises, refitting his leather jerkin beneath light blue kimono, and stepping over his horse now littered with arrows to face his approaching opponent. The earth humbles itself for the rain, succumbing to mud in the compromise of two elements; Yuuto follows suite as he humbles himself to the approaching samurai’s gaze.
The two close the distance; the samurai dressed in green effortlessly treading the mud in his straw weaved waraji. His black hair, pulled back in a ponytail, matted down into his armor from the rain. His aura remains quiet; the occasional flash of light on his rectangular lenses hiding any emotion to be read in his eyes. His right hand hovers above the hilt of his wakazashi, a well-worn bow and quiver accenting his back.
Yuuto, quickly casts drenched hair covering his eyes to the side, as his other hand grips the hilt of his sheathed blade. Feet slip from geta, no longer a sound footing in the strange mixture of rain, grass, and mud, his toes settling into the new footing.
The only response to his movement is the clack of his un-named opponent’s blade from sheath, thunder echoing its announcement.
“Tsuruchi Bentoni”
“Asahina Yuuto”
Silence. The Tsuruchi strikes, effortless avoided by a pivot on the left foot; blade meeting blade as thrust follows slash. A lightning strike echoes between the two as the wind and rain grow fiercer. The struggle continues.
The Crane prances, the Mantis prays. The noble bird flashes it plumage, but will not inspire awe today. Even the mighty stalks of the dancing Crane can be pinned by the pincers of a Mantis that won’t be moved.
Yuuto continues to give ground, normally a delightful sight in the arts of aesthetics, but not worth much in fights one finds in such a foul field of war. Glancing blows are received, hands on handle weaken; even the ground veils its eyes in fog as the funeral knell becomes clear.
“Your movement is delicate, and footing masterful. No geisha could perform as powerfully as you do today,” Bentoni paused, his lenses continuing to hide any emotion in his eyes – swipes of his sword pressing words forward, “but you are not pouring tea; you would have done better to study under a common sake whore.”
Blade meets blade; the sky cackles menacingly. Dirtied waraji meets chest; down tumbles Crane into fog, followed by wasp’s fatal sting. The wind and rain grow violent.
Wind flatters violence
Elements excite, enrage
Pacifism weeps; War
The Tsuruchi’s sting finds only muddy ground. The wind, however, finds favor in form of crane and grievance strong enough to nurse. Lenses flash, as atmosphere attacks, and easily part former victor from his blade and solid footing.
As Bentoni rolls to ground, fog further envelops sight with mist; instinct draws him back to worn bow and solid footing. The wind howls, and doubles back for a second attack. The rain stings in defiance, and the earth tugs at his feet relentlessly.
Yelling to be heard over the elements that now enraged, “You may command the wind wily Crane, but we Tsuruchi play in it everyday”
The grip of bow and string grows ever stronger, pernicious gales unable to pummel hand from that which guarantees life. As maelstrom beat and blasts Bentoni’s body, his focus coldly follows shadow dancing among concealing mist. The tug of leather strap, the pain of chest and muscle – all is ignored as he takes his aim. The release of bow string is not heard among the whirling madness.
The winds begin to calm. The rain starts to fade. The mist begins to clear. Tsuruchi Bentoni instinctively stretches for quiver to find nothing there. In fright, he pivots to his right, as a battered and bloodied Crane struts towards his injured comrades with plumage of leather and feathered arrow. His arrogance shown on turned back, concealing cut on cheek and depression in heart at the glimpse of Tsuruchi Bentoni’s approaching legion.
The cacophony of war drums return in the elements absence; lightly armored hohei greeting Bentoni as he returns to the tree line to tend his wounds, “Taisa-sama, are you allowing him to escape?” A quiet pause fills the air as lens refuse to shine, “Asahina Yuuto has won the battle of wits today, and if Toturi is to ever legitimately rule, he cannot do so simply by martial force of arms. No matter how many birds, mundane or mythical, we remove from high perch, we cannot battle their songs and thoughts by breaking their wings.”
A look of confusion flooded the face of the young hohei, but quickly eased as a smile imposed itself on the face of the Taisa, “besides, when we enter the Gates of Toshi Ranbo, we need someone to serve us tea and read us poetry; it would be a shame to lose such a ‘gentle’ Crane this day.”