The sound of technology shattering against the ancient and mystical engraved marble floors of the Axis Mundi brought Kei’taro out of a seemingly deep stupor. He drug his eyes to the floor to see the broken remains of an old music device resting at his feet. Yet even this look could not save him from the horror of seeing Limand’s body, decomposing and bone exposed, before him. He considered that the body may have belonged to a trespasser, but the sense of smell Kei’taro possessed would not allow him to believe such a falsehood
He felt the presence of his father next to him, in all his ever powerful glory, yet still possessing none of the familial warmth and empathy one would expect of the father to a saddened son.
“Sigmund…,” the older man whispered, his voice catching in his throat. Kei’taro stirred at this notion, silently wondering whom Sigmund was. Before he could ask, his father, the Spirit Beast King, had already stolen away to the spirit world.
That was several months ago, Kei’taro had no idea how long anymore. He walked with a sort of aloofness, none of the kind hearted swagger that once accompanied him on his jaunts. Windswept hair, long unkempt swung backwards behind his head and began forming the tell-tale signs of frost. Another scent had brought him back to the hated cold lands that were inhabited by Drom, and his bitch of a wife, Pikatok. He had carried nothing with him, except his impossibly durable staff, Wukong. Tears stung at his face, as the increasingly chilly weather began dipping into unbearable extremes.
He didn’t know what to say when he arrived, expecting the same ill fated back and forth the two had reluctantly shared. Then it hit him, the air and cold hit different, it felt and tasted different. He could have sworn that even the sight of it was different. Yet what was more important was the way the smell hit him. The same smell from the Axis Mundi, the smell of a terrible assailant.
RyuKyu, an incredibly large Lion-Dog bounded forward first, and Ket’taro was no further than a few steps behind him.
Horror.
The beaten body of Pikatok, limp in the hands of a man he had never seen before, caused his stomach to turn over. The instincts of every animal he held within him, be it as tattoo or part of his own flesh, kicked into high gear. None expressed a need to flee, his body tingled with the urge to attack. Even his solid metal staff flew from his hand and transformed into a powerfully built and ornately dressed monkey, as regal and commanding as Kei’taro was wild and rugged.
“Do you recognize as we do who stands before us? The being who has set us all alight with the urge to use teeth and claw to mangle its vile existence?” Wukong asked with more of a snarl than a powerful voice befitting of his station.
And to him, Kei’taro did not answer. His feet moved of its own accord, though every fiber of his soul ached to push forward with primal mindlessness. He knew, in his mind, that there was nothing he could do to save the woman whom had caused him more torment than any other being he had ever encountered, including the wicked skin thief that had been an unknowing catalyst for the awakening of his newest set of abilities, Creature Skin.
He marched towards her assailant, uncaring about the art of stealth. Intent on an act of heroism, tainted by the overwhelming urge to kill.
He felt the presence of his father next to him, in all his ever powerful glory, yet still possessing none of the familial warmth and empathy one would expect of the father to a saddened son.
“Sigmund…,” the older man whispered, his voice catching in his throat. Kei’taro stirred at this notion, silently wondering whom Sigmund was. Before he could ask, his father, the Spirit Beast King, had already stolen away to the spirit world.
That was several months ago, Kei’taro had no idea how long anymore. He walked with a sort of aloofness, none of the kind hearted swagger that once accompanied him on his jaunts. Windswept hair, long unkempt swung backwards behind his head and began forming the tell-tale signs of frost. Another scent had brought him back to the hated cold lands that were inhabited by Drom, and his bitch of a wife, Pikatok. He had carried nothing with him, except his impossibly durable staff, Wukong. Tears stung at his face, as the increasingly chilly weather began dipping into unbearable extremes.
He didn’t know what to say when he arrived, expecting the same ill fated back and forth the two had reluctantly shared. Then it hit him, the air and cold hit different, it felt and tasted different. He could have sworn that even the sight of it was different. Yet what was more important was the way the smell hit him. The same smell from the Axis Mundi, the smell of a terrible assailant.
RyuKyu, an incredibly large Lion-Dog bounded forward first, and Ket’taro was no further than a few steps behind him.
Horror.
The beaten body of Pikatok, limp in the hands of a man he had never seen before, caused his stomach to turn over. The instincts of every animal he held within him, be it as tattoo or part of his own flesh, kicked into high gear. None expressed a need to flee, his body tingled with the urge to attack. Even his solid metal staff flew from his hand and transformed into a powerfully built and ornately dressed monkey, as regal and commanding as Kei’taro was wild and rugged.
“Do you recognize as we do who stands before us? The being who has set us all alight with the urge to use teeth and claw to mangle its vile existence?” Wukong asked with more of a snarl than a powerful voice befitting of his station.
And to him, Kei’taro did not answer. His feet moved of its own accord, though every fiber of his soul ached to push forward with primal mindlessness. He knew, in his mind, that there was nothing he could do to save the woman whom had caused him more torment than any other being he had ever encountered, including the wicked skin thief that had been an unknowing catalyst for the awakening of his newest set of abilities, Creature Skin.
He marched towards her assailant, uncaring about the art of stealth. Intent on an act of heroism, tainted by the overwhelming urge to kill.
