Roleplayer Guild - Forum Roleplaying Games

Tasuke · #1 (**permalink**) 03-27-2008

~This character's storyline is set in Edo Era Japan (1847 to be exact), so those wishing to join please consider this when choosing your character. I prefer characters that are from such a setting, so as to keep it logical, but welcome anything within reason. Thank you, and please pm me with any questions and the like. ~

~~

The ways of the world never truly change, for savagery and murder run more abound with each passing century. Death and oppression, sin and taint were as common as oceans, ever rising like a broken ship. The floods enter without a force to stop them, torrents of pulverizing might which can only consume the vessel whole and drag it down to the abyss. Those in power suggested that men required a leash, and while this swordsman once barked like a dog without second thought, the ways of the Shogunate were those of strictness and bloodletting—and as similar as his former life had been to their spilling ways, now his swords were to be swung for the freedom of the world.

The one named Inomono Tasuke stepped lightly through the deserted streets of Edo, her ornate designs accented by hung lanterns of lemon yellow and orange as a warm summer midnight stretched its hands upon the city. Few traveled the streets at such an hour, but this one of short obsidian hair and silk the very shade of night itself, found no better a time to wander in thought. His sandals scoffed mutely upon the dirt underfoot whilst he traveled with the right arm at ease, his left cradled atop the smooth lacquer scabbards of the twin katana slung through his sash and affixed against the hip. One burned scarlet, the other an intricate mesh of jade lace, but each color splashed across black sheaths accented by silver guards and satiny hilts. The kimono of the man offered little for one to ponder, for nothing was seen underneath on such a sultry summer night. Feathers of hair curled about the youthful curves of his face, a dark onyx gaze brought to sky with a sudden halt of frame.

The heavens had been bespangled by diamonds, aglitter like flakes of snow upon deep sapphire robes. The celestial shroud was a gift to all, the just and wicked alike, and it was for only one side of the coin that he traveled on. Entrance into the mist of thoughts brought Tasuke’s eyes to a close and a light smile to his lips, for he well remembered when he crossed from shadows to sunlight. Some who retired from the assassin’s fold learned to stop killing, others went on with their methods of madness without remorse. He killed to rid the world of a pestilence, a plague of ticks—imposters which dared to call themselves human. Those that spread abomination, hatred and innocent blood had felt his sword, and like the words of an entrancing siren, heard the voice of death whisper in their ears as a price for their deeds. This was the path he had chosen, of repentance for the crimeless children—for the mothers and fathers which he cleaved without thought. The powerless would be defended and given strength from his words and sword, and the evil would be licked by gelid, silvery steel.

His eyes opened and fell to the road once more, Tasuke to step forth toward the southwest district. His target was the tavern known as Aoi, and it was there that he sought to see quite the friendly face. It had taken quite some time for him to forgive his own atrocities against her, but the days had finally allowed a peace to their conversations. That was the final chain. The final crutch of guilt for a murderer turned savior.

Dystoxia · #2 (**permalink**) 03-27-2008

Azalea

((Point of notice, it's pronounced 'Az-ah-lee' ))

Western influence was at a minimal in this small tavern, she’d heard stories of men giving themselves to ale till come the next morning their knuckles were skinned and their hands stank with the blood of their closest friends. Here, the drink was refined, talk was soft and low and it was only now and then that a rosy cheeked man let his hand slip out of place onto the firm behind of a young waitress. Should that be the case, he had one person to answer to, a woman Azalea herself would never have wished to be at the brunt of.

Akemi was once a thin woman, in her youth she had been lovely and sweet, now her face was wrinkled, her hands were calloused from day upon day of tireless work, her figure grown curvaceous from child birth, her once lean stature, shortened and her silken black hair, salted with strands of grey, vainly attempted to be hidden in a tight bun and distracted from with colourful clothes and jewelled clips. There was still beauty about her, a different stage of beauty that it seemed only Azalea was able to see. She sat on her knees at a low table, a small ceramic bowl of sake held between her thumb and index finger, resting between the pressed digits, she lifted it to her lips and sipped, a wry smile curling about the edges of her lips as Akemi was forced to throw out a man.

He giggled inanely, even after he was shoved from the bar and into the warm night outside. The samurai, old and young men alike laughed heartily and went back to their discussions, paying the woman no mind as they ordered more food and drink.

Azalea was content to eat very little, some rice and a small plate of sashimi. She had the look of a common woman, dressed up for a festival perhaps, but common none the less, her hair hung perfectly straight to her waist, silken and as black as twilight itself, a traditional color, a natural color to compliment her pale skin. She had the eyes of the river people, bright blue, as a child she’d wished they’d been brown but as an adult she had come to accept them, even compliment them with a bright blue kimono, painted elegantly with white koi and stars. Her hair was loose, the strands fell into her face as she bowed her head to eat her rice, holding a piece of sashimi between cheap, polished chopsticks, she waited to catch Akemi’s eye and once that was done, the woman dismissed her other duties onto a waitress and moved over to her table.

“Goza sends his regards,” she kept her voice low and ate casually as ever, making no eye contact as she slipped a note from within her sleeves, onto the table. Akemi swept it up and tucked it away.

“Tonight, when we are closed, I’ll have it for you then.”

That was all she said as she stood and turned back to her work. Azalea just smiled, a wry curl at the corner of her soft lips, she raised her thin hand with her empty rice bowl, it was swept away and seconds later replaced with another. She’d be needing another bottle of sake too, if she were to wait so long.

Tasuke · #3 (**permalink**) 03-27-2008

The wooden phrase of the tavern’s ingress whispered a sound of entrance, and within its awning stood Tasuke with left hand relaxed upon the hilts of his swords as the other straightly pressed the sliding door ajar. Glancing about the interior of dim, friendly light he noticed familiar locals and new faces, but one star shone forth like a blossoming flower. Adorned in a kimono of azure silk and black obi, the youthful girl of hair tied in a stylish tail stepped betwixt the tables with great grace while she tended to the needs of her customers and displayed a femininity to be marveled. The content smile of her lips bled through a formerly fractured complexion, once so wrought in grief of a murdering path that red masked her face as if she were a drinker of effluents. If none other were a symbol that an iris could grin even amidst a shower of death, Chiaki certainly was; it was no surprise why she had received the nickname of Winter Iris, for even through a blinding blizzard she could show the way to purity and peace.

Tasuke stepped in and shut the door behind him with a simple movement of hand, taking his favorite seat at the first table to the left. He took his swords from his sash and into the right hand one after the other, the scarlet katana to be taken first and the green weapon second. Both were lain to his immediate right while he knelt facing the back of the bar, the wall to his back and hands upon his lap. Absently he eyed the many occupants of the establishment, before he once more settled on the persona of Chiaki while she set a bottle of sake upon the slick oak before a most enchanting maiden. Even from where he sat he caught glimpse of her eyes, the very color of rain. It was then that Aki took notice of him, and after leaning to place the bottle atop the table, rose with a leisurely posture with both hands behind her back. She tilted her head to the right in a friendly sort of mannerism, feathers of her black and white hair licked over her flesh and down with the motion. Her smile was familiarly warm, her step possessive of a bounce which he had become accustomed to notice during her life of pacifism. She came and knelt across from him, masking his view of the blue-eyed beauty as she said, “Well, hello there. You sure do like coming here, huh?”

He smiled gingerly with a joy he’d rarely felt. “Where else would I go, Aki? You offer the best sake around.”

She looked to her right, as if moving her dark hues from one worker to the other without a reduction of simper. “Well, Lady Aoi would want me to keep her tavern strong.” She lifted her right hand and nestled her cheek into the palm as she turned to look upon him again, elbow planted on the table for support. “She taught me well enough to keep this place going. I’m just glad people can enjoy coming here.”

Tasuke nodded firmly. “Yes, you do very well. I think this place has many years ahead of it.”

She chuckled warmly. “Yeah, maybe. At least I don’t get bored too often.” She raised her frame and leaned back, hands once more upon her lap. “Well, can I get you something?”

He nodded once more. “Sake. Yukibime.”

Aki gave a firm nod and slid her right foot forth before rising effortlessly to attend to her task, quick to vanish from sight.

With a deep breath Tasuke closed his eyes and exhaled, keeping them shut for a few seconds while he drifted to thought. He pondered whether he wished to simply retire for the night or wander on after his drink, or simply keep Chiaki company. He supposed any of the three were acceptable given the motivation, but it was not long before he awoke to once more look upon the girl far across the room. He wondered then if she were alone, and what she planned to if she were not. The streets of nighttime Edo were wary of he whom carried the sword, but quick to prey upon the weaponless woman whilst the song of lust hummed on.

Dystoxia · #4 (**permalink**) 03-27-2008

It was the inherent gift of a woman to bewitch men, even when unintended, in fact – especially, for it was the gift of men to become entranced by beings they could not possess. Azalea was common to most, her eyes easily identified her as a local woman, raised by the coast, a child of the sea, the spawn of a kind old fishermen. There was a contrast to her, a darkness, an enigmatic sense of beauty in the way she held her sake cup, sipped at it casually while being careful not to drink too much. She was graceful, soft with a traditional beauty complimented by the charm of her bright azure eyes. Her dress was modest, she wore no jewellery and exposed the flesh of her wrist each time she reached for another piece of sashimi, she was quiet, she tried not to attract attention.

It did not work.

He was a younger man, late twenties, older than her. Certainly not a samurai, a rogue perhaps. His hair was unkempt and tied back so that the rough, uneven, uncut lengths spiked out the back of his head, his shirt was open slightly too wide and he held the hilt of a kanto sword, stuck in a thin obi. His breath smelt rancid and underlying it was the scent of too much rice wine, his cheeks were flushed, his pupils dilated and though a fit, muscular man, he wobbled like some drunken oaf over to her. He sat hard next to her, on his behind and not his knees in an untraditional manner. Azalea held her sake cup firm, did not let the wine touch her lips before she lowered her hand and set the cup down onto the table.

“You looked so lonely, over here all by yourself, does the fisher girl need cheering up?” He spoke to her as if they’d met before and were in fact familiar with each other and while he laughed as though he’d made a joke, she stared at him blankly, blinked and looked back to her meal.

“Don’t ignore me river girl,” his words were stern, an easily angered drunk. Out the corner of her eye she could see Akemi, the elder woman began to roll up the sleeves of her kimono but with a glance from Azalea, she relaxed and instead, crossed her arms to watch contently. The rogue reached for her, grabbed her by her thin wrist very tightly, she narrowed her eyes but still she said nothing as with her left hand she lifted both her chopsticks. It was not a particularly violent scene, but it had the potential to spiral out of control, she’d nip it in the bud before it had the chance.

Her hand was fast, quick, she pressed two fingers against his wrist, his hand fell limp much to the rogues surprise and a moment later she’d twisted his wrist around, using his own strength against him in simple resistance.

“I do not require company, least of all from the likes of you,” she stared straight ahead and lifted both her chopsticks high, tilting her head to stare at him now as she clicked her chopsticks together at eye-level. “Bother me again, and I’ll take your eye for a trophy- is that clear?” She was monotone and blunt, threatening in her own right, he nodded quickly and after a brief pause, she released him. Standing, the man held his wrist close, cracking and popping the joints sorely as he turned, muttering profanity to himself, he made his way across the tavern and back to his own table.

A small smile curled about the edge of her lips and Azalea sighed as she straightened her back and brushed her long, silken bangs from her eyes, she could still see the rogue. He was sore, angry, if he was smart he’d leave her alone – he didn’t look like the type though.

Tasuke · #5 (**permalink**) 03-28-2008

Like a wary eagle Tasuke affixed a calculating gaze to the drunkard whom staggered toward the wining maiden with impure intentions and breath likely saturated by the stench of alcohol. True to the appearance he displayed, the boozehound sat indecently at her side and from his mouth spewed distasteful thoughts given form. It was to such a provocation that Tasuke secretly slid his right hand to the crimson-flecked scabbard of the Tekkure, gently gliding his fingers along the sheath’s cool, glossy surface before bringing them to the center of the sword in a taut grip.

He observed with interest as her deserved disrespect roused the drinker’s anger, eager to learn if the man would have the sense—in little chance—to deter from his desire of bringing that lustful hand upon her flesh. Tasuke’s leer pierced into him at the thought of punishment, fed by the plan of judgment which would find the man’s hand given as a monument to his sin and a fine coat of red upon the Tekkure’s sadistic steel. However, it was to his amusement that the woman retaliated accordingly. Like an enraged viper she bit with swift ferocity, a precision that brought a considerable smile to Tasuke’s features in witness of her theatrical pointing of chopstick. He could very clearly hear the crack of the man’s wrist, and enough of the following phrase that seeped from her lips to understand that she had warned him. Her gaze of gentle water had frozen into a gelid glare, the likes of which could hush an arrogant gloater in mid-word and cause even the most malicious of animal to cower much like the retreating man. It was strength she exuded, and if there was ever a thing Tasuke noticed, such was it.

Tasuke’s hand eased from his sword and he once more laid it to rest with an increasing interest in the girl…only to be forced into distraction when Aki made her return. Carefully setting a chilled bottle of indigo glass and snow-white liquid before him, she then gave him a dark pewter cup with which to drink; with the sake she gave a gift of glowing complexion and scorching smile, insomuch adoration that one might confuse them for lovers or siblings. Indeed they were neither, though in his heart she was nothing less than a sister; a pure flower which led the tainted to be pristine, a light to bring the slayer to salvation.

She departed quickly to fulfill the needs of others about the establishment, leaving him to take the cold bottle in the right hand and the cup between the thumb and index finger of the right. Into it he poured the milky substance, filling it over halfway with sweet sake before he lifted the cup to his lips and partook of liquid treasure. The crisp, strong taste tantalized his tongue with its silky caress, as if the humbling of a women of fine alabaster linen as she touched lips of silk to flesh. A slow swallow brought the drink down his throat in a final charge of sensory serenity that caused Tasuke to exhale with great satisfaction.

He set the cup down before his chest and once more looked upon the distant woman, seeking an alignment of gaze that would be met with a polite nod of recognition in the occurrence of such an event. It appeared neither of them had a thing better to do than drink to the night, a poured bliss that could find the hours wasting away without notice.

Dystoxia · #6 (**permalink**) 03-28-2008

The night went smoothly from there, hours passed like days to her but to others they must have seemed like minutes, until finally, late into the night there were few remaining in the tavern. The rogue had gone, she’d been sure to watch him when he did finally stand and make a hasty retreat, now there were but a couple of samurai, herself and one other. A man she’d noticed had cast her sparing glances since he’d first walked into the tavern, she ignored him, she was not here to fraternize, there were others matters for her to tend to first.

Akemi ushered the last of the samurai from the tavern and then pulled one of the younger waitresses aside, a pretty girl with a kind smile and strange hair of mixed hues of both black and white. Azalea watched from the corner of her eye, finishing the last of her sake, she’d been sure to drink slow, savouring the clouded wine and not become inebriated. Akemi finished speaking with the waitress and then, casting a nod to Azalea, the women lowered her small cup and stood fluidly from the table, rising with the force of one foot to stand on both without bending her knees out too far, she smoothed down her kimono and took small but quick steps across the floor, her feet were bare though very clean and they sounded softly on the wooden floorboards. She passed the younger waitress, Chiaki, yes, she believed that was her name, a slight nod and eye contact passed between the women as Azalea moved after Akemi out of sight, past a rice paper door and into the kitchen.

They continued through, past another door into a hallway where they ascended stairs and finally, came to pause outside another set of sliding doors. The tavern had a pleasant charm to it, by no means as elegant or large as a Feudal Lord’s manor but with adequate room for both dining and bedrooms.

“Was it difficult to find?” She kept her voice low as she addressed her, staring at the door rather than meeting Akemi’s gaze.

“Naturally, but the effort has been well rewarded,” a soft smiled flittered about Akemi’s lips as she drew the door open, bowed and stepped to one side so that Azalea could enter.

The room was small and dark, completely barren save for a small rug on the floor, on top of which was a table and lighted only by moonbeams, dancing through a closed glass window, she saw the items she’d been waiting all night to acquire. They were swords, two of them, Wakizashi swords, shorter than an average katana, lighter too. They sat crossed over one another in the middle of the table, the handles decorated by a black and blue braid, the scabbard was polished black wood. She reached for them and lifted one in her hands, breathing sharply as she pulled the blade from the sheathe, just enough to see an inch of the blade. The steel was tempered to perfection, silver with a strange, very slight green tinged to it, she could only see its green shimmer when the steel caught the light, a satisfied smile came to her lips as she housed the blade back into its scabbard and laid it back on the table with the other.

“Thank you Akemi,” she whispered her words very softly, “Too long the Ashura blades have been misplaced from the house of Goza…”

Azalea dropped her hands to her obi, she began to unfasten it and let it fall from her waist, parting her kimono, usually she’d have worn many others layers underneath, but there was only one other. She shed her clothes, Akemi was at the door, looking in as the girl undressed, leaving her clothes in a heap on the floor and revealing that underneath, she was already dressed in a completely different fashion.

She wore a shorter kimono, dark blue, nearly black with no pattern on it but a simple base color, her obi was black and thin, a simple piece of material that left the dress somewhat loose. The neck was low, it revealed much of her clavicle and the general length of the kimono was all together too short for any decent woman to be seen wearing. She added a tinge of modesty to the attire with a pair of tight, black pants only as long as her knees. At the back of her obi was a fold of material, she lifted the blades and placed them securely within that fold, the handles pointing out either side, ready to be drawn at a moments notice.

Akemi said nothing, just watched as the young woman began to tie her long hair back, at first glance she could have been mistaken for a street whore, but there was a grace with which she handled the blades, it became clear then – the girl was a kunoichi. She had a pouch strapped about her left thigh, no doubt filled with all sorts of weapons, she pulled a black mask from the pouch that would have covered her face from her eyes down, but she did not affix it yet.

“So then, you shan’t be staying the night?” Akemi’s words were disheartened.

“I must return to Goza by sunset tomorrow,” she replied casually, eyes down, she turned to face the woman and cast her a very slight smile. “Times are changing Akemi, the shogunate may be coming to an end – I can’t let that happen.”

Akemi nodded slowly and sighed, said nothing else and turned from the room, leaving Azalea where she stood, mask in hand, eyes down, staring at her bare feet. She sometimes wondered if she’d chosen the right path in life, she wondered what the life of a normal woman was. She thought on death and change and everything in between and then she took a slow, deep breath and turned to the window.

Times were changing, rumours floated through the air as deadly as arrows, honor was drying up from the land and leaving it in drought. To many it may have seemed hopeless to fight the change, but to beings such as herself, it was all she could do.

Tasuke · #7 (**permalink**) 03-29-2008

With his sake finished and belly gently aflame, Tasuke stepped happily toward the front door of the lodge, equipt with his swords once more. He slid the front door open and stepped into the night, taking a few steps before he turned around and bid farewell to Aki with a deep bow. “Good night, Aki. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She wore a wide smile while she bowed and lifted herself. “Good night, Tasuke. Take care until then.”

The good burn of sake through his frame had been stoked with the love of friendship while he turned right and took to the path with his arms raised at level with his torso, hands hidden in either sleeve. The hour of two had been dipped into, and the lights of the residential homes had just begun to wax into darkness. Street lanterns painted the proper path toward other sections of the town, and Tasuke sought the inn at the west end of the district, but it was only after a few minutes of travel that he heard a whisper from the left alley. He stopped in place and peered toward the source, just as an older woman stepped into the light and revealed herself…it was Shisuka.

With hands at either side she came adorned in a light red kimono splashed dark in the eve, the silk laced with white lilies that coiled themselves about the fabric. Glimmering black hair spilled intricately above her bright brown eyes and down across her cheeks and jaw like playful fingers. She wore it in her familiar style, pulled into a long ponytail that hung past her back as if falling water. A fine twenty-four years old, two years his senior, that glowing complexion reflected confidence and haste. There was a seriousness to her eyes, and it became evident she did not seek him out for fun.

She hadn’t stepped into view from the street, a safe distance out of a walker’s straight sight, so he went the four feet to join her near one the building’s other exits. “Good evening, Shisuka. I trust you have news?”

She nodded strongly and spoke in a velvety voice, deep and alluring. “Good evening, Tasuke. Yes, we have agreed to carry out the infiltration of Edo castle. We will assassinate Tokugawa Ieyoshi in two days. I will seek you out within the tavern at midnight on that day. You’d best make ready and ask if Chiaki wants to join us.”

Tasuke nodded. It would appear Shisuka had decided to follow through with the plan. Not that he was surprised, for during their epic clash of will and weapon he had learned that the woman was wise and extremely steeled in her resolve. She was not one to joke about the topic, as he’d learned, nor one to procrastinate. She was also someone that made absolutely sure a plan could succeed, and knew the most proper way to get the job done. He could trust the date of the attack to be accurate. “Very well. I’ll wait for you to come around. Take care, Shisuka.”

She bowed deeply with humility and said, “Farewell. Thank you for believing in my cause.”

He answered just in time to see her shimmering eyes. “You’re welcome.”

She moved back into the darkness and Tasuke turned with a smile, taking the left en route to the desired inn. Already his feelings of drunkenness had dissipated in the news, and that inner darkness thirsted for the many deaths to come on that fateful night. It would be nice not to have to kill anyone, but he knew that it was impossible. Two forces that fight for an ideal with equal heart whom possessed no patience to hear the other can only settle things with war. But the wish for freedom was one worth fighting for.

Dystoxia · #8 (**permalink**) 03-29-2008

A leaf trailing along a still pools surface could not compare to the grace and speed with which Azalea had left the room, via the window and braved the warm, but cooling summer night. She wore shoes now, flat black leather with straps that snaked up her legs to the knee and her steps were completely silent across the tiled roof of the tavern. The wind was misted, it was the hour of twilight, a quiet hour where all decent, normal people had long since found their beds, the lanterns that once lit the narrow streets had all but burned out, leaving only the enchanting, azure gaze of the moon to light her way. It was a feat easier said than done, though a ninja did not rely simply upon the sense of sight, but also that of sound, smell and touch, with all these combined a practised kunoichi could easily scale the rooftops even in pitch darkness, but Azalea was not a master of her art, certainly not a novice either, but as the moon sank behind a thick, patchwork of cotton clouds it became obvious, as she reeled to a stop that she was not yet capable enough to accomplish such a thing.

It was so dark now, she could not even see her hand in front of her face, she stood still and chanced a slow step forwards, silence, the tiles were hard and stayed fast under her foot, she chanced another, she had to keep moving, but that seemed to be another feat she could not easily fulfil. She heard his breath first, the low, grumbling, guttural sound of a man who saw something that he liked, even in the darkness which as it happened, began to fade at that moment. She turned, her body moved only slightly where as her head tilted to look over her shoulder, she wore her mask so that only her cerulean eyes were visible, floating upon her porcelain face, shrouded in the light bangs that had fallen from their tie in her haste.

He was a prominent man, barrel-chested and very tall, dark haired with near white flesh, he looked sickly yet his eyes were devilish and power hungry. His black hair fell long in the front but the rest was tied at the back of his neck, leaving a trail between his shoulder blades. He too dressed in the style of a ninja, pants to the knee, open toed, flat shoes, a top with a high collar that covered his face to his nose and metal plated gloves to the elbow. His weapon was elegant though grand, a spear that he wore on his back, the head of which was covered by a fleece bag, the string pulled tight about the spears neck.

“I see you found the blades at long last, Aya,” he referred to her by her alias, Aya, short for Amaya meaning ‘Night Rain.’

She turned to face him completely now, arms bent back at the elbow, she rested the back of her hands on her hips, fingers open, ready to grasp the handle of the Ashura blades at a moments notice.

“Nothing shall stand between Lord Goza and the Shogunate now,” her words were as a sharp as a vipers, cold and fierce, her eyes turned to liquid steel, shimmering under the gaze of the moon. “I shall not let you take them from me again Azuma.”

The rivalry between them was more than obvious, their clans had opposed each other for centuries, his, the Ichigoya clan had always fought for change and welcomed the westerners with their strange new technologies and complete disrespect for the ancient ways of battle. And though Azalea had been born to the river people, she had been made a child of the Izanami clan long ago and their policies lay true, loyal and linear with the shogunate.

There was a self confidence about him that turned rancid and into a pompousness, she could tell he was smiling beneath his high collar as fluidly, he raised one arm and grasped hold of his spear.

“We shall see about that Aya.”

He moved so quickly, flinging the bag from the blade of his weapon she did not have more than a second to retaliate, grasping the blades she pulled them forth, crossed them and caught the length of his spear between them before the bag even had a chance to fall to the tiles. The strength of their steel was matched and at such a long range it meant Azuma had to use more strength to equal her own. She was able to push him and she stepped back, gracefully flipping a few feet away and crouching low, poised and ready to strike with both blades lifted before her.

“You’ve grown quick, I see,” he stepped casually forwards, spear hanging in his hand at his side, a mere extension of his arm in the way he handled it. “Why not test those reflexes of yours, ey?” he jeered and darting forwards, he stabbed his spear at her in rapid succession. It was a challenge for her to dodge each one, she blocked with her blades, the sound of metal clashing as sparks flew, her body shifted one way and then the next, she leapt into the air and swung back, flipped out of his range and crouched again. It was not exactly a formidable fighting technique but until she could get closer it was the best she could do.

“I thought kunoichi were trained to use their bodies, not their swords,” he was mocking her now, leering at her exposed legs and the low neckline of her kimono. Scoffing, Azalea brushed off the comment, but obviously, it had angered her. She ran forwards, taken aback by her sudden fierceness, Azuma paused then struck at her, she deflected his spear and though tempted to let out a brief war cry, she remained absolutely silent as she leapt and landed down before him, one of her blades sliced across his chest, tearing open his shirt and revealing a fine layer of chain mail beneath it, the blade had even managed to slice through that, leaving only a faint cut on his flesh - it was nothing compared to the dagger he had revealed in his free hand, the length of which was now stuck two inches deep into her side. She gargled and pushed back, the dagger stained red with her blood, stumbling, she fell to one knee and grasped her side, one eye closed in pain, she bit her lip and cringed.

Course, she wasn’t the only one doubled over in pain. All it took was a scratch and Azuma was panting hard, he too stumbled, gasping and choking for breath, he reached into a pouch at his thigh and pulled from it a small ceramic bottle, uncorked it and drank the entire liquid contents within.

“It won’t be enough,” she gasped, “It’ll stop the paralysis, for now, but not the poison.” They both knew she was right. It was the reason the Ashura blades were so well known, so dangerous, they were poisoned, poisoned to such great magnitudes that only a person immunized to their sting could handle them bare handed let alone wield them. Azalea, was such a person. “Run along,” she panted, grinning beneath her mask in silent triumph, “Run back to your mistress and tell her of your failure, I’m sure she will not hesitate to use her sword on you…”

Growling, Azuma stumbled back, his hand reached back into his pouch and pulled from it a flash bomb which exploded as it hit the roof in a blinding golden light, which once faded revealed nothing but an empty rooftop. Azalea too had seen fit to use his bomb as a chance to make her own escape, though not much of one really. She leapt back, jarring her side and stumbled on the edge of the roof, then fell to the street below, landing hard on her side. Gasping for breath like a fish out of water, she winced and clutched her wound, her blades were back in their scabbards, freeing her hands and she used the one that was not trying to pressurize her bleeding to push herself from the cobblestones. She only made it as far as a nearby wooden fence. Leant against it, the color drained from her already pale cheeks, blood stained her kimono and ran down her leg, thick and crimson. Her vision grew foggy, the edges fading to darkness, but she clung on, did not yet let herself submit to unconsciousness as instead she sank to the ground, back still to the wall, she reached into her pouch. Her hand was shaking, like a leaf caught in the breeze but she managed to pull out a small rolled strip of old, brown leather. She laid it on the ground and opened it, rolling it out flat to reveal the many small silver instruments at her disposal, usually only used by doctors, it was basic but if she could stay awake long enough, it would be enough to save her from bleeding dry.

Tasuke · #9 (**permalink**) 04-03-2008

The still of night remained with the last few yards toward the inn, not a soul to be seen drifting along the vacant streets. Such a thing was common in the very early morning; many now sunk into the refuges of their beds, their homes going dark with nothing, save the fire of lanterns to light the road. The inn remained against that idea, a sanctuary pleasantly aglow and beacon for the weary and restless. A single flame beneath a celestial array of nighttime jewelry and pearlescent lunar glow, one now sought for sake of the coming dawn.

There was a clear gentleness to the passing evening, serenity that inspired great awe and ease of thought. A calm before the storm, as it were. Still, like some inevitable wall that must be broken down, fear remained parasitic in its hold upon a tempered resolve. That hesitance had long been cut from his character since his rebirth from the previous life, but Tasuke saw that anxiety clearly within Shisuka. She feared that despite all of her careful planning, the flow of time, the cruelty of fate, would reject her vision and allow the Shogunate to continue its tyrannical reign. He, however, would make sure Tokugawa tasted his sword—lest some unforeseen occurrence took place.

And how hysterical the irony of fate was.

It was then that a voice from the past rose up from his rear, a woman he’d wished never to hear again. Softly, lovingly, her words floated in the summer air in tranquil phrase. “Good evening, Tajira. It’s been some time.”

That voice…

He solidified into place, glacial liquid his blood as his expression changed from calm compassion to terrifying bloodlust. His kindness evaporated as quickly as a flash of lightning and the seething hatred that sloshed through his veins provoked cruel desires, amplified in portrayal by a gaze that scorched with rage. Tasuke not so much as turned to face her, instead looking over his shoulder to the woman of porcelain flesh adorned in a fine scarlet yukata. Her black hair poured atop her shoulders and over her deceitfully warm gaze in slick feathers that winded along the curves of her bewitching face while she stood with her arms wrapped around her waist like someone cold. She possessed a mystifying glance that could stop any man in his tracks, appearing to the stranger as an earthly goddess. However, those who knew her feared the monstrosity that lay ready and hungry beneath her attractive appearance. She was the black widow, wrapping the meal around her finger before taking them to the web. A sadist and torturer.

They locked gazes, fire and ice meshing against one another in that intense moment of nonverbal confrontation. She wore that familiarly calm mask, one that might arouse a sort of sisterly connection that went without blemish in presence of his boiling hatred. It were as if he looked into his former self, so at peace with the life of killing, so confident. So pathetic. He detested that facet of himself so much that he could barely stop himself from letting loose the beast that howled for blood, from drawing his sword and cutting this girl—Yoshino Retsuya—down in one beautiful blow that drenched the streets in her sanguine innards, that destroyed a remnant of something he had attempted to annihilate but went without victory. He knew well that he hadn’t killed Retsuya along with the other members of the clan, and his first act of mercy appeared to have followed him. The lust for the kill resurrected old fantasies and flashbacks of inhuman atrocity, and at that moment he simply wanted nothing else, save for the opportunity to cleave his katana down through her skull and into her black heart…or perhaps a slash through the collar and to the same destination, so as to see her face contort in wondrous brutality while she coiled about the ground like a waterless fish. A sensual motion of sweet death far less painful than what she deserved.

Her voice filled with sarcastic humor. “What’s the matter, hmm? I thought you’d be so excited to see me again.”

The reply came in more of a hiss, his lips curved into a malicious snarl as he said, “I’ll be far more excited to see your head fall from your shoulders, Retsuya.”

She chuckled heartily, a loud bellow flecked with confidence—with arrogance. “I knew a part of you remained, Tajira.” She smiled with all her teeth. “You so wish to leave that life, and yet your heart and hand thirst for the kill. The only difference now is that you hide behind self-righteousness and you’re without an employer. Ever heard of hypocrisy, sweetheart?”

You know nothing of me, fool.

The powerful urge to kill her began to grow like an inflated hot air balloon, and once filled too far, the ensuing explosion would result in her express appointment with the grave. He knew Retsuya well, and she him, and he was sure she had been surveying him for some time before deciding this meeting—this fated moment with the one that would end her life far sooner than she may have hoped or realized. That meant she likely knew of Aki, and Shisuka, and if she possessed knowledge that could compromise their schedule, she had to die. Even so, his motives were his own. This woman was an unrepentant serial killer, a stalker of defenseless people and a merciless torturer. She was the blossom of a vile seed—and he would be the reaper of harvest.

Her inquiry went without answer. Tasuke instead turned fully toward her and dropped his arms, bringing the right hand to the hilt laced of green. Slowly he pulled the katana free with a smooth exhalation, moonlight kissing the silver of the guard and streaking gorgeously along the curve of the blade. As the glossy sheen splashed off of his eyes, suddenly the plan to administer a quick, decisive blow disappeared. He now wished to break her. To give her a taste of the misery she had inflicted upon so many others. Her sentence was death, but her executioner would not let her have it so easily.

The Terraga fell silently to his right side in a loose grip, a sort of leisure that might cause a witness to question the conviction of the swordsman. One should make no presumptions—Retsuya’s first mistake would not go without punishment.

She, however, appeared unwilling for combat. She finally dropped the façade as her look of happiness split into a glare of happiness, as if she had not expected him to draw his sword. Gone was her confidence. All that remained was fear, even evident by the shaking in her voice. “Are you so fast to want me dead? Do you not question my purpose here?”

He plainly shook his head. “I don’t care. I am going to do something that I should have done months ago…I should have hunted you down like the mutt you are…” The raging wildfire that swirled within whorled with collective winds of meditation, a serene and slumbering calm yet to erupt with the first swing of salacious steel. His wrath would fall upon her head like a thunderbolt, the beginning of her end; by her apprehension, he predicted cowardice in the form of a hasty sprint into the dark, but he would follow. He would kill her. Beginning the first calm and trained steps in her direction, each fall of his foot matched the cadence of his slowly beating heart. A countdown, the tick-tock that muttered demise. “Prepare, Retsuya.”

His words housed no compassion, no love. Only the volcanic animosity, the gelid lack of remorse that followed a wish to administer swift justice.

Dystoxia · #10 (**permalink**) 04-05-2008

She’d been here before.

In years long past, almost a decade of absence and here she found herself again, in the place that smelt of her child hood, the subtle scent of sand, the poignant salted smell of the sea drifting through the air, fish scales and oysters and crabs, moulded wood and fresh wind. Yes, she’d been here before, but she’d never dreamt of here before.

The sky was saturated by bleak, colourless clouds, behind them there was a mere twinkle of the golden sun, but down on the shore it was cold. Wind ravaged the sea and the land, tossing the water so that it foamed and the trim of otherwise translucent dark waves became white with the same deposit that lined the sand with every caress of the cold water. Beyond the sand and overlooking the sea was a long, seemingly endless line of battered huts, cracked tiles clattered ominously in the wind, ready to abandon the roofs they lined, many had already been blown away. She could see the rotted rafters showing through like a worn patchwork quilt of clay and wood, many of the roofs had caved in. There was not a soul in sight, only the remains of human life, fishing nets strung out the front of houses, caught with anything and everything that flew through the air, clumps of dirt, fish bones and broken crockery tinkled together like wind chimes in the storm.

The sea had risen, she could no longer see the sand through such dark knee deep water, the tide swept dangerously, like strong hands that grabbed at her ankles and threatened to pull her under. She ran through the water, her hair a mess of tangled black strands that swept behind her and caught in the wind, the sea was rising still, higher and higher until she was forced to wade as it reached her waist. Azalea’s reflective eyes were wide, the mixture of confusion and fear in her usually calm azure orbs was an alien expression she’d not felt for a long time. Her heart stammered in her chest, her hands shook from the chill of the sea, she span around and around hopelessly as the water rose as high as her shoulders now. She watched, helplessly as the tide broke through the nets and covered the huts, like stampeding horses, it tore down and trampled everything in its way.

She turned from the sight of it, head her in her hands, the water pulled from her then, she nearly toppled off her feet and was carried away with its surge, lifting her head she stared through her fingers as it gathered high above her in one great tidal wave, so large it cast a shadow over her frail form. Arms spread wide, she stood before it, knowing that she couldn’t fight it any longer – she let the wave take her and lost her breath in its cold, dark embrace.

-------------

There were tears in her eyes when she opened them, nestled in her thick, dark lashes, she didn’t blink lest they slide down her cheeks. Azalea was perfectly still as she awoke, on her back and laid on a thin mattress on the ground and covered by layers of sheets and blankets. The room was dark save for the flickering glow of a candle, without moving her eyes she could see a shadow on the wall and as her senses came back and she reclaimed her wits she heard the soft, gentle hum of a woman. She sang a song without words to a tune she remembered with disdain.

“Shut up,” her voice was soft, barely a whisper, but the woman heard it and her voice silenced instantly. Azalea lifted her arm slowly from the sheets, she wore a white linen gown with long sleeves, she used one to wipe her eyes before she turned her head to see just who was in the room with her. It was Chiaki, the young waitress with strange black and white hair, their eyes met and Azalea recalled faint memories of stumbling back through the tavern doors with a wound so deep that blood ran down her thigh, despite her hazardous first aid and a pressure bandage. She remembered Akemi, catching her as she fell and bustling her girl upstairs where it seemed after an hour or so her life was saved. Azalea lifted her head and used her arms to push her up so that she could sit, her side stung painfully, she clenched her teeth and braved the pain. Chiaki was silent and despite disapproving glances she pulled the sheets back slightly and rested them loosely over her legs. Azalea turned her head the other way and stared about the room, her bloodied kimono was gone but the Ashura blades and her pouch were placed neatly in the corner.

“Did I hear right?” Akemi pulled the rice paper door open and walked into the room, her wrinkled face was tired and slightly puffy, from tears perhaps? Azalea thought it likely. “Mind your manners Amaya,” like Azuma she used her alias despite knowing her true name, it was for Chiaki’s benefit. “…or next time I won’t be so quick to save your life.”

Akemi fell to her knees at the bedside and with the bedside manner of a mortician, pulled open Azalea’s gown and exposed her flesh. Chiaki stood and averted her eyes, the gown had sloped inwards, it covered her breasts but revealed her navel and a rather bloodied strip of gauze that had been wrapped and bound about her hips.

“The dressing needs changing,” Akemi said as she turned to Chiaki who was slinking quietly out of the room. “Bring me back another roll of gauze,” she said, Chiaki nodded and moved out the door. Alone, the two of them, Akemi sighed as she sat back on her knees and met Azalea’s gaze head on.

“It’s none of your concern,” Azalea spoke before the elder woman had the chance to. “An old friend, or at least he used to be…it’s nothing.”

“‘Nothing,’ almost bled you dry,” Akemi replied sharply.

“I’ll add the scar to my collection,” Azalea bit back, her cold cerulean gaze was surprisingly calm despite the tone of her voice.

Akemi just sighed as she pressed her hand lightly to Azalea’s side, the kunoichi gasped in pain then bit her bottom lip to silence any more cries.

“Lie back,” there was a softness to Akemi’s voice now as she rested one hand on Azalea’s shoulder. “Rest, you lost a lot of blood.”

“Just bring me some juice, I’ll rest when I return to Goza.”

“Five hours,” Akemi pushed, glancing out the window to the slowly lightening sky. It would be dawn soon, daylight was not exactly the best cover for a ninja. Azalea scowled but submitted herself to the compromise and nodded.

“Five hours,” Azalea repeated with distinctly dismal tone to her voice.

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