[IC] Between Life & Death

[Tasuke]

An autumnal overcast of clouded silver starves the land of afternoon sunlight; below, the skeletal limbs of a nameless and naked forest reach up to the heavens in yearning for winter's arrival, heralded by a ghostly howl of gelid wind. A lonely golden leaf clutches for life in swaying protest, only to find itself surrendering, fluttering to gusting will as it pirouettes en route to cold earth. It peers upon a solitaire stranger wandering the leafy trails: a longhaired woman dressed in shimmery scarlet kimono; toward the fetching and youthful raven-locked damsel it flits, seeking to crack her mask of indifference with a coy kiss of her right cheek.

Their face flinches and she elevates her slender dextral hand to swat away the meddlesome leaf, to be shunned and forgotten awhile she carries onward with the clap of sandaled steps. A scraping follows the stride, though not from her feet; her other hand drags a sheath-less katana by the unwound wrapping of its hilt: a silver-guarded blade seemingly caked with rust, whose lavender lacing wraps its handle messily. It's towed like a burden as her dark, listless stare mindlessly gazes into the forward. Fall's trademark scents go unregistered, but the frore breeze which blows through her stops the woman cold. She half turns left to shield herself from the cruel wind, clutching her bicep with shivers and pursed lips.

She wobbles forward before leaning rightward, against the covering confidence of a nearby trunk; they close their eyes and taste the crisp air with a full breath of chill, exhaled in white fume. Perhaps in need of rest, the lass is unmoving; for over a minute she's attached to the tree, musing over thoughts until the wind abates. Then she pushes herself off and continues at last, aching for the sweet melodies of birds to prove other life inhabited the hauntingly lonesome woods; as always, she's alone.

Cold and alone.

[Drifting Pollen]

Oh, but she is not alone.

No-one is ever alone. There are the creeping bugs, skittering back and forth between the cracks in wood and earth, in numbers beyond measure. There are the trees, ancient and powerful and alive. And there are the darker things, the spirits and ghouls that stalk the corners of this reality, hunting whatever unfortunate prey catches their eye.

This damsel is in good company among the first two. Bugs and trees are passive creatures, going about their lives without interfering to a large degree in the affairs of others. But spirits have no such manners. Unlike the rest of nature, they exist purely to prey on living things, to leech away the souls and belief of their victims to further fuel their own power. Hardly pleasant company at all- and the one that now stalked these woods was perhaps the worst among them.

The first sign of trouble comes with a quiet hum, carried on the twisting breeze. The voice of a woman, sounding out a slow, wordless tune, a little lullaby she sings to herself in her moments of boredom.

Then footsteps, and the rustling of fallen leaves as someone steps through them, slowly and deliberately. The wind should be dying down by now, but instead it seems to pick up, rushing faster and faster as it sends small leaves fluttering about every which way. A herald, for that which is coming.

She appears suddenly, stepping out of a shadow into full view of Hisame, as if she'd been standing there the entire time. A woman, dark-haired and elegant, in a dark dress that shifts and twists like smoke. Her eyes are closed, but only for a moment.

When they open, they're looking straight at the other young woman, leaned against a tree. These are dark eyes, predatory ones. The newcomer's expression, coldly indifferent but a moment ago, shifts into a slight smile, that's somehow even colder.

"Well oh well, what have we stumbled upon?" Procella's voice is smooth, melodic, almost musical in its tone. "A poor lost lady, far away from home?" The leaves crunch under her bare feet as she steps forwards, only a few meters away from Hisame.

[Tasuke]

The perpetual rhythmic crunch of leaves and clap of sandals underfoot in tandem with a scraping of drug steel is the only music to be known, artificial and nonsymphonic; presumptions of loneliness fade when a feminine, melodious timbre floats to the woman's numbing ears. She halts with wide eyes and parted lips, darting her glance astride and abaft, through the many trees in search of the source of song; they yank on the fabric of the tsuka and take underhand hold of the unsightly weapon, smoothly flitting the blade to forward elevation at waist level. Then she's left to wait for the moment her newfound acquaintance manifests.

Another macabre howl of freezing wind makes her flesh feel frosty, rudely lifting her locks and blowing them where it wished. She groans in discomfort and clenches her chattering teeth, lifting her right hand to pull bangs neatly behind her ear; a long blink is taken and what's in view thereafter is something estranged from the welcome.

A woman, dressed in cascading fabric and crowned with long, lustrous hair; she seems elated, albeit pretentious in atmosphere awhile they fearlessly address the damsel whom should be deemed dangerous.

The Japanese dame listens with narrowed eyes, her hand still upon her lobe, sifting and chewing on the words for something useful; given chance to reply, she takes a deep, wintry breath, straightens her frame and says, “I am a drifter on their way; who are you?”

[Drifting Pollen]

Oh, what a pretty little thing Hisame is! The clothes, so bright and elegant! The hair, so long and smooth! The body, so slender and fragile, yet so powerful! She's like a beautiful glass sculpture, just waiting to be smashed.

Or so she seems in the eyes of Procella, who cocks her head far to one side as the other woman says her piece. "Why, I'm surprised you ask!" Then she bows, quite fast, her hair being tossed back and forth by the suddenness of the motion. "I'm the rain that's come across your way, O drifter. Can you feel it in the air?" She raises her arms, swinging them up on either side of her, gesturing to the churning sky. Theatrical, excited. "Your drifting has carried you here, where the clouds cast their shadow- my domain!" The last part is shouted, wild and furious.

Then she suddenly stops, her arms slowly falling to her sides once again, as she looks upon her prey with a widening smile. "You're all mine now, see? And I'm going to take away that pretty face. A storm has to ruin things, after all, and you are just too perfect." She advances again now, stepping quickly. A pale hand slips inside the bosom of her dress, and emerges clutching a silvery knife, razor sharp. "Behave yourself, and perhaps I shall let you go on your way with a few scars."

The air is almost tingling now, with that strange tension one sometimes feels before a heavy rain. The clouds overhead are growing thicker, darker, more menacing with each passing second, gathering over the advancing spirit.

[Tasuke]

The formality of the woman's bow is in steel-eyed scrutiny, creating a reasonable inference pertaining their state of mind; they babble like a fool drunk on metaphor, gesturing their hands awhile their words needled the swordswoman's hearing with pricks of annoyance. Then the threats, presumptuous, arrogant and tactless. Mayhap they are truly so stupid; eager for death; ignorant of the viper they taunted and teased awhile their atmospheric machinations go unregistered.

What follows the pretentious display is encroachment; a threatening advance behest a glinting knife. Hisame scowls and dips her head to glare at the woman with murderous ire. Her right hand descends and curls into a crackling fist, the other's grip taut around their cutter as she cants her head to the dexter while bangs drape over pallid flesh. No verbal response is given, for words have lost worth; let the woman come and prove their words full or false; let them evade becoming another victim of the accursed Fateful Death...

Let them kill that which the reaper has betrothed...

[Drifting Pollen]

Something makes Procella stop, something about the way Hisame carries herself. That tension, the grip of her hand, the look on her face, all so full of delicious killing intent. The storm spirit giggles, skipping lightly to one side, circling the other woman. This one's decided to be naughty!

Her body swings from side to side like a pendulum, as Procella cranes her head to look at Hisame from every angle. Where should she start cutting? Oh, how about... there!

Though utterly mad, Procella is not entirely stupid, and knows better than to step within reach of that nasty, ugly blade. Instead, one of her arms suddenly whips around, in what looks like a wild, uncontrolled swing, but is in fact carefully aimed. Her flying fingers loosen, and the knife takes to the air, its deadly point aimed for Hisame's neck. Even as she made this movement, Procella's other hand was reaching for another blade, for they had joined in the dance of battle now, and she could not stop until that woman lay bleeding before her.

The spirit's dark eyes turned their gaze to the woman's left arm, watching the charges within it, and twisted them. The negative charges were pushed out, away into the air and other parts of Hisame's body, leaving a net positive charge gradually accumulating within the limb. There would be no immediate effect on the arm- Procella was merely finding her target.

[Tasuke]

Hisame's veins burn with hot adrenaline as her heart sprints in anticipation for the woman to strike; however, then the laughing lady circles bemusedly like a lioness does a deer. She keeps her front facing them with timely turns of frame, her tilted head apparently locked into its macabre position. When they strike, she is ready to curtail an intrusive projectile.

The knife sails, coveting a flirtatious taste of her tender throat. Hisame simply shuffles two steps to her right, rolling her head back and letting it fall left like a broken doll with a bony crack as her eyes stick to them. There she waits, although not without a curious tingle tickling her sword arm. It pesters, begging she pay it mind, but she refuses; her fascination is the would-be butcheress and their scheme's fruition, whether it's capable of keeping promises or yet one more disappointment in delivering death.

[Drifting Pollen]

The knife flies past Hisame's head, tasting only empty air where it had sought soft flesh and sails onward, slamming into the thick bark of a tree a few meters away. There it sticks, vibrating gently.

Procella, meanwhile, is still circling, and it is clear from her expression that she is enjoying this immensely. "Good, good, you dance well." She whispers the words, speaking more to herself than to her opponent. For a few moments, she moves slowly, with tension, as if seeking out a perfect spot from which to strike. But suddenly, mid-step, she abandons this plan, and throws out her left hand towards Hisame. Her knife remains clutched in her right, and she is nowhere near enough to strike- she simply points her palm at her opponent, fingers splayed.

For an instant, this seems to be just another strange gesture, an unexplained symptom of the spirit's insanity. But in fact, she is moving with deadly purpose. As her arm is thrust, Procella pulls negative charges from the air around it, focusing them into her hand, building them up to an unnatural density, until there are simply too many to reasonably exist in the same space together.

And then, less than a second after she had made her movement, a cracking blue bolt of electricity erupts from her hand, blindingly bright and furiously hot, ionizing the air as it streaks towards Hisame with incredible speed. Opposite charges attract- and now the negative charges gathered by Procella are traversing the air with terrible energy, seeking out the positive charge that had been built up in Hisame's left arm.

[Tasuke]

Like a shepherding dog they ring around the statuesque swordswoman, carefree; jovial and moving to whatever madness drove them. Hisame feels the tingle intensify, and when the woman erects their palmed arm, the hair on her flesh stands on end. It's the precursor to an electrifying assault that flourishes with a flash and booming crack of lightning as her vision goes white. Then she's airborne, sailing over the twelve feet preceding collision with thick wood; her spine slams into bark and slumps against it, her face fallen and covered by black tresses; her sword arm bare of cloth and terribly burned. Buzzing fills the ears and ozone as well as the stench of charred meat enter her nostrils; she trembles with groans of pain from the infliction.

The strike appears successful, for Hisame in no way moves from their spot, apparently in a state of shock via electrification. Until she lifts her and rolls her head left afresh, revealing the hateful right eye while she continues to frown. Is she truly effectively affected, or does the moving skin of her sword arm, smearing itself over the wounds in full restoration, foretell only of futility?

[Drifting Pollen]

Procella cackles with delight as she blasts Hisame straight off her feet, sending her flying into a tree several meters away. What a marvelous toy this is! She strides forward again, eager to play with it some more- but stops short, as the seemingly crippled body suddenly jerks with renewed movement, suddenly alive and hateful. The storm spirit scowls. Just when it was having so much fun... why won't she play along? Suddenly, Procella is no longer gleefully prancing about, but instead stands still, silent, glaring.

Then suddenly she stretches out one hand again, fingers splayed. "Burn, bitch" And lightning sparks once again from her bare forearm, only this time it's not aimed at Hisame. Instead, it forks, bright tendrils flying out on all sides of her, striking the ground around her. Procella did not spend much time gathering charge for this strike, and the divided bolts do not have nearly as much raw power as the one that had struck Hisame- but they are still very fast, and very very hot. And the ground around the fallen woman, covered with fallen leaves and creeping roots and other such debris of the forest, is extremely flammable.

Wherever the electricity strikes, the ground bursts into flame, which spreads rapidly to become a blazing bonfire centered more or less where Hisame fell.

This display, however, is not nearly enough to quell Procella's sudden rage. Even as the flame rises, she gathers charge around her hand, the right one this time, which still clutches a knife.

[Tasuke]

How quickly glee turns to gloom when a plaything refuses to entertain; it may be cause to smirk were Hisame not so indifferent.

"Burn, bitch..."

The spiteful command comes while she shoves herself off the trunk to a wobbling, slouching standing; then fingertips fire fresh fervor in hungry, crackling arcs. They do not seek contact with Atsukawa, but instead ignite the dry leaves paving the forest floor with an airy rasp. Their overwhelming odor flares her nostrils and she coughs, recoiling in disgust as she buries her face in the lavender-scented silk of her right sleeve. There she breathes in comfort, lowering the limb enough to gaze intently at the warming waist-high wall before her; it inches toward her hungrily, spreading from leaf to leaf like a lonely infection and basking her in gentle orange glow.

Eyeing the woman through the waving air above the fire, Hisame wonders if wonderful immolation is soon to arrive and reduce her to ashes forever...

...how one could hope.

[Drifting Pollen]

Just as the clouds in a tempest constantly churn and deform, so does Procella's mind easily alter its state. A fickle spirit is she, and, watching Hisame simply stand in the fire, her rage now shifts to fascination. Why does this woman simply stay there, watching? Has she given up hope? What a poor, poor soul this is- Procella wipes her eyes with her free hand, fearing she might burst into tears over such a tragic tableau.

But what can she do, to this pitiful creature. Causing her pain will do little good- no doubt the woman was already experiencing far worse than anything Procella could inflict. What had happened, to render her thus? The death of a loved one, a husband, a child? Or perhaps she had been subjected to some terrible torture, horrible enough to break her in mind and body, that made her wish for death? Oh, pain, that sweetest and saddest of feelings.

Perhaps, had Procella been a different kind of being, she might have sought to console the poor Hisame, to revive her will to live. But a storm only knew how to ravage, terrify, and destroy. Thus, it is with sadness in her heart that Procella unleashes her lightning again, to take a life, end its suffering. This time, as with the first, it crackles through the air as a single bolt, focused and powerful.

But it is not aimed at Hisame. Procella is more creative than that, why should she burn that sweet body, when the fire will do her job for her. Instead, the bolt arcs around Hisame, instead striking the trunk of the tree behind her, burning and shattering the wood.

For a moment, the trunk smoulders and smokes. It's still intact- but the foundation has been weakened, and the wood has already been strained by the wind. And so, with a loud and slow creaking, it teeters, then topples, falling towards Hisame- who, trapped between the flames, now lacks the space to avoid being crushed by the heavy trunk.

[Tasuke]

For many moments the two women stand still, staring at one another but otherwise motionless; all to fill the suspense is the crispy crackles of pops of burning leaves and branches. It seems only the creeping flames threaten, 'til a third air-splitting arc of lightning crackles with another flash of white. Where Hisame expects pain she is met with noise, loud and near, and when the flicker fades, she feels the weight of the leaning trunk pressing down with cracks of splintering wood. She involuntarily spans her arms astride in some laughable effort to keep the ancient resident from falling, and if she didn't move now, its advance would be dangerous; its weight: crushing...

...killing...

...slamming into the ground with a terrific THUD.

The earth rumbles and a blast of air strikes the fire sideways momentarily, kicking up clouds of dust and ash in its heavy rest. When it settles, all to be seen of Hisame are her limbs and hair beneath the trunk which had smashed her like an ant under a shoe. Yet she holds the katana in a deathgrip as the tongues of fire lick flesh and fabric alike to burn her to nothing where she lay, but only if left unfettered.

[Drifting Pollen]

With a final, massive slam, the scene is complete. A fallen tree, a blazing fire, and a lost soul, put to rest in a brutal, theatrical manner. Procella ducks away with short, swift steps, evading the wayward branches that came swinging down with the trunk. She supposed the tree would be dead too now- a fitting end, sacrificing its life to end another's torture.

She laughed wildly, pleased by the whole affair. Yes, this would do. She didn't get to have her fun, but there was little left now- and the storm was already satisfied enough. A pleasant little ruin had been left in her wake, another small mark scarred onto the world with madness and lightning. Who knew, maybe the fire would spread, catch the whole forest alight!

But there was little reason to stay here. If she stuck around much longer, it would begin to rain, and the fire would be doused before it could truly grow glorious. The storm had done its work here. It was time to move on, to find other unfortunate victims to burn, strike, and cut until they met their own, marvelous ends.

And so, Procella turned, and walked away, heading off into the wild and windy forest while Hisame burned to ashes behind her. She glances back, one last time, as she leaves. Strange, how the girl had gripped the katana so fiercely, even to the end. But Procella was not one to linger on such things, and soon went on her way.

[Tasuke]

So the electric lass turns and walks, satisfied and convinced of victory; one of many presumptuous souls soon to know the true horror of their haphazard crossing. The peaceful, calming crackle of the embering fire is quickly betrayed, and the woman's joy put to the test when a monotone, masculine-yet-feminine voice pierces their ears.

"Where are you going, O woman... do you no longer want to dance with us?"

Should they turn there would be no speaker, only a woody crack of the burning tree split in twain. Then a smoldering hand latches onto a smoldering section, pulling a should-be corpse forward as it brings the other arm up and stabs the earth with Japanese steel. Hisame, bald, nude and flesh aflame; her head down, crawling over the destroyed tree, driving the blade into dirt once more while they pull themselves over the wood toward clear ground. A silken female voice dominates the form's icy, raspy whisper.

"Play with me-e-e-e..."

The fire breathes, erupting like fountains of flame to block the body from view. Only for a moment, however, for they fall to reveal vacancy. Hisame, or so one would call them, is vanished from view.

[Drifting Pollen]

Oh, just when the curtains had closed on such a lovely scene! Procella whirls around at the first sound of the strange voice, fury in her eyes. How arrogant of this toy, to ruin her perfect ruin, to request her further attention when she is clearly finished playing with it! Well then, Procella will not dance with this strange woman. No, Hisame has angered the spirit far too much for her own good, made her far too angry for such games. Now, the storm glares at her with deep, furious wrath, darker than the blackest of clouds. Procella raises one hand, and focuses positive charge again, this time on the woman's head, preparing to blast it to shreds.

But the sudden flame gives her pause, surprising her. What is this? Another spirit, a mage of some sort? Never mind, never mind. They're all the same as corpses.

The fire clears, and the thing is gone, suddenly vanished into thin air. Procella scowls- why must the woman run? But it matters not, the storm looks down from above, and sees all. Not only can the storm spirit use charge, she can also sense it, and the net positive of Hisame's head, unbeknownst to her, marks her out to Procella like a bright red beacon.

Time to play a trick, then.

She whirls around, like some kind of mad ballerina, calling out into the woods. "Come out, come out, wherever you are! Let me burn you all up again!" The words are childish, but the voice is vicious.

[Tasuke]

Like a dancer out of the music box they twirl, beckoning revelation of their persistent prey with a joyous taunt; as it is written, Ask and you shall receive...

She reappears before the smoking branches of the felled tree with hair regrown, balled atop the ground with arms wrapped around her legs and her face pressed against her bare thighs. The snapping heat cannot console her exposure to the nipping winds, nor the melancholy lacing the air as she weeps with shivers from each sharp sob. It is a song of sadness and not laughter, aching for compassion futilely.

What's curious, though, is the absence of the katana from their person; that revelation hinders entirely upon what the bolt-blasting beauty does next...

[Drifting Pollen]

Just like that, the woman is found- barely removed from where she had fallen. She had concealed herself somehow, keeping Procella's staring eyes from glimpsing her body- though the imbalance of charge within her gave her away. The spirit's eyes narrow. What a tricky little thing this one is! She will need to be careful in how she strikes- if her enemy is left with no net charge, she might slip into the air, becoming invisible, and attack Procella when she can't see! What a wonderful way of killing... the two might have been friends, if the human weren't such a horrible plaything.

Oh, she can see that Hisame is sad, her ruined body wracked with that horrid shaking, that so often emerges in humans overcome by sadness or fear. It is pleasing to see- but Procella will not be fooled so easily. "Liar!" She spits out the word, suddenly pausing in her whirl as she faces Hisame, eyes narrowing. This is just another nasty trick, another attempt to derail Procella's beautiful work of destruction. The sword is gone- but where has it gone? Is it now invisible too?

Once of the nice things about metal, however, is its conductivity. All the storm spirit has to do is move the negative charges away from her hand, creating a net positive there. And, of course, she does. The negative charges in a metal are free to move, and negatives are attracted to positives- thus, the negative charges in any nearby metals now shift towards Procella, pulled towards the positive charge she is building up. It isn't as powerful as her artificial charges- not enough to spark a lightning bolt -but it's enough of a movement for her senses to register, enough to immediately alert her of any metals present in the area. The spirit, of course, does not see it in these terms. To her, this is simply instinct, just another way of looking around.

Meanwhile, up high above, the clouds are growing thick and heavy. Procella has been toying with this woman for a fair amount of time, now, and a storm is beginning to gather. For now, it remains an embryo, but a fragment of a true tempest. But even an embryo has stages of growth, and so too is this nascent storm becoming more powerful. The first, light drops of rain now fall through the air, diving towards the scene of the battle below.

[Tasuke]

"Liar!"

The accusation merits correction; a conversation to enlighten ignorance when female response comes immediately out of thin air.

"Oh, but she tells the truth, woman!"

A perfect similitude, nude and all, appears five feet before them with hands hid abaft; swaying side to side while canting their grinning, gleeful face to the right. Lavender perfumes swirl upon the frigid, howling breeze betwixt them as the figure adds, "A tormented dame with none to clothe or shelter them from the coldness..."

They take a trio of crunching steps forward, gesturing sympathy with their jumping brow and shaking head.

"...can she not help but weep?"

Another three steps bring them half a foot away, close enough to taste the garlic-scented words as they roll their head left and down to look up at the woman from an angle; the smile fades.

"...are you not sisters in sorrow...?"

They SHRIEK and jerk forward with reaching arms.

Meanwhile the heavens join the weeping maiden, speckling the land with tears and peppering the flames whom hiss in protest of their part in the ongoing crying chorus.

[Drifting Pollen]

There is no movement of charge in response to Procella's ploy, other than in her knives, which means the sword is either gone, or too far away to be an immediate threat. The spirit is pleased to know there won't be any immediate interference, but she keeps her positive charge where it is. She can, after all, so why not?

With the possibility of a threat gone, she is poised to advance on the wounded woman, and wreak terrible, beautiful vengeance upon her. But Procella is interrupted once again, this time by a twin, a replica of her opponent, who now taunts her, and seeks to advance upon her and launch a fearsome assault.

But this doppelganger, be it flesh or illusion, has miscalculated. Procella has had quite enough of games, and does not give it the time to say its piece.

As soon as the new obstacle appears, the spirits brow furrows with annoyance- and then she strikes, before it can even finish its third word post-appearance. Procella's right arm goes from still to a blur, whirling around with frightening speed, to fling the deadly blade she held in her hand straight towards the breast of the woman in front of her, carrying enough power to stick firmly in the flesh, and likely even knock this enemy over if it is real. If it is not, however, the knife will simply carry on through- towards the other woman, still crouched atop the ruined remains of the fallen tree.

And as quick as she let one go, Procella draws two more knives, first with her left, then with her right, and takes one step forwards, daring this strange opposition to challenge her anew. Her movements have changed: still erratic, still inelegant, but faster than before. Were she a puppet, her master would now be twitching his fingers, sending his creation into an unnatural frenzy.

The storm's tears, falling now with growing weight and frequency, are not born of sympathy. They moisten and chill all they touch, seeping into every nook and cranny they can invade, slowly beginning to flood the land with their numbers. They are not here to console, or even to pity. Rather, they are like Procella: as time goes on they shall fall faster and harder, until all is drowned by the storm's fury.