Afro Samurai

Caravan: Resurrection

^{The Rise of Kul}

Smor’Gen’Blok

Za’Kul rose to a crouch, always remaining eye level with his father when they spoke one-on-one. His three hearts had slowed to normal pace and he was getting his bearings. Wits about him, he scrounged a reply,

“Hi’Wor die in collapse. Wor’Boa… Wor’Boa not there at all.” What was more worrying to Za’Kul was what may happen when word spread of the tunnel’s collapse. Who would get the blame? If Za’Kul knew Smor’Gen’Blok right, it would be the Low tribes, it didn’t matter if they were responsible or not.

“You sure sending Kul down there smart? What we do when other tribe hear? What if other tribe want want war? What we do, Pa?”

Caravan: Resurrection

^{The Rise of Kul}

Smor’Gen’Blok

Za’Kul stood with an unnerved look racked in his eyes. Three of his four hearts beat in rapid succession, it was the closest thing he could reckon a Lok’Sha felt to fear and bewilderment. Not knowing whether one was going to survive a perilous situation made all ensouled things panic, no matter the conventions surrounding the nature of their people. Za’Kul knelt on shaking legs to his father and to Ju’Kul, head bowed. His supplication followed,

“Pa. Ju’Kul. I bring Wor in peace, they come in peace. Need home.” he stayed on one knee with his head bowed. Ultimately, the decision was not his but his father’s.

If he was truthful with himself, Za’Kul had no idea what he was doing. As one of the younger members of the expanding Kul tribe, he acted on impulse which--as it is traditionally-absent of the cold reason which blesses one while he ages. As of late, words poured from his mouth without direction; so far, it had been working. The would-be leader wondered how much longer he had before his luck ran out.

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

^{Baton Rouge, Louisiana
An old plantation
July 11th, 6:00 p.m.}

_{”In the business of cavalier men, I am something of a savant.”}

- Hunter, the White Wolf

---

Upstairs in the drawing room of the old plantation sat a man in a white suit, purple cravat, white pants, and white alligator shoes. Peppered grey strands of hair sprinkled the top of his head. He was reading a copy of The National Voyeur; there was a story in there about a hero whose moniker was Wonder Woman. A lifted eyebrow, smoke from a pipe shimmering above and into the ceiling. Before Hunter sat Ulysses Klaw, twiddling his thumbs and fidgeting; the two had not spoken a word to one another since Klaw got here twenty minutes ago. Klaue enjoyed silence in small doses, but this was grating his nerves. He spat some words which hoped to cut the silence,

“So, heh… about this uh, this assassination thing. You expecting me to uh, infiltrate this Wakanda place just... “ he put two fingers to his temple and pulled his thumb-trigger, “pew! Their king? You don’t think maybe, uh, there might be some… insatiable desire for, y’know, revenge?”

Outside was the butler, an African man named Kwame, who was preparing tea and pancakes. He and the wait staff, who were also all of varying nationalities, were at work with several tasks: cleaning the interior, assuring tomorrow’s breakfast was prepared and in the freezer, checking the international communication line back to Wakanda to assure its securities were up to date. Kwame entered the room, two tea cups and saucers in hand. From his reading, Hunter looked up; demure eyes were judgemental of the ragged and rugged Klaw.

Hunter gate-folded his newspaper and let it rest on his lap. He sat straight up, back pressed comfortable into the cushion of the couch.

“You are not dumb as your employers made you out to be, Ulysses.”

“Klaue.” the mercenary objected,

“Right, Ulysses,” Kwame broke the rhythm of Hunter’s speech with the clang of both tea saucers on the table. Hunter nodded and Kwame left, “I am sure General Moore has told you briefly who I am and what it is that I do?”

“Uh-huh,” Klaue scratched his mangly beard and indulged his tea without tact, “all you types talk a bit too much for my taste, can we get on with it?” Hunter smiled before he continued,

“Yes, yes. On with it.” with a waft of his hand, he pulled up a holographic map of the African Union’s meeting quarters for the 2018 summit in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.

“You will set up here facing the east side of the building.” an index finger corresponded his words, “ 1.25 miles adjacent is where your nest will be. All of your equipment will be there and waiting for you. The windows are re-enforced, which is why you will be using the bullet we have provided for you. There is but one of these, Ulysses. You cannot and will not miss, understood? Expect your death to be swift should you fail. My men will be blocking any escape exits. You will not fire until one of my men give the signal.”

Klaue rolled his eyes, “I’m quaking in my li’l old boots! Haha! Sure, sure; I don’t want the boogeyman under my bed at night.” he put his palms together and bowed, “I will not fail you, Lord Hunter,” another mucus laden laugh. Hunter had a flashing thought of ending Klaue on the spot, but he continued,

“Think this a laughing matter, Ulysses, but it is not I who will kill you if you fail--it will be the Wakandans themselves.”

Klaue still found these ominous threats plump with hilarity, but he stopped laughing and let Hunter continue. He wanted this to be over with. Still, he knew he had to be cautious,

“So, uh… I guess this is the point where I ak a few questions. One of them is, ‘anything I need to be worried about? Bodyguards? Tracking systems? Other snipers?”

Hunter smiled, “Not at all, Ulysses. If you do as you are told, no problems will come to you. If you find yourself compromised, however, you will be on your own.”

“Sucks to be me then, huh?” Klaue was nervous; this was a big job with an even bigger payout. All he had to do was follow orders.

“Okay, right… but are you sure there aren’t any bodyguards I have to worry about? How the hell am I getting out of there after?”

Hunter had another sip of his tea, ice grey eyes not having left Klaue the entire time. Ulysses was unsure if the ‘White Wolf’ had blinked even once,

“It has all been arranged. As for… wild cards, there is the problem of the Dora Milaje.”

“The who?”

“Do not worry about it. Never mind that I said anything, my men will deal with them, too.” the Wolf knew he needed to plant that seed of doubt in Klaue’s mind.

“The King’s guard; I need not explain them to you, for if you were to see them face to face it would not matter. They would be the last thing you saw. I believe that is all I need of you, Ulysses.” Hunter set his teacup down, “please, see yourself out.”

“But I haven’t even finish my tea!” Hunter did not find Klaue amusing in the slightest; Klaue found Hunter uptight. He hoped the Wakandans weren’t that way, dead King or not. Klaue’s smile died. Hunter spoke up,

“Kwame,” the head butler arrived, “please send Ulysses some breakfast to go.” Kwame nodded and went to the kitchen to wrap some pancakes and a plastic container of syrup in some aluminum foil. When he returned, he handed it to Ulysses who accepted with glee.

“It has been a pleasure, Ulysses.”

“Hey, strange as you people are, you got some damn good hospitality.” Klaue gave a playful bow, waved non commital to Kwame, and made his way out.

Hunter and Kwame stood in the room alone. Hunter spoke in Xhosa to Kwame,

“Xelela abahloba bethu ehkaya.”

Kwame nodded and exited. The White Wolf finished his tea. T’Challa and his father would know how much they needed the Hatut Zeraze even if Hunter had to bring war to Wakanda’s doorstep for the King and his son to see it.

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)

_{Your Day Begins, Hassan, Part II}

Outside the Hounds Base

---

Pantheon landed softly, shirtless and pants tatters. Alchemyst leveled precaution his way, he gave it no regard. Doing it her way would mean it would take longer than necessary. Injured bodies still had willpower and an inkling of revelry for their cause regardless of if their bodies would return them the privilege of fighting for that cause again. Mold these Hounds into little less than lifeless husks and there would be no more attacks. Do it.

Never. But this fighting was too much. Hassan was exhausted. How easy to blind a mind from itself once it had spent all its waking hours in tug and war. Aggression burned; weak thud of disjointed things braced one another: Hassan knew he was weak--these were not battles he could fight on his own; Pantheon knew Hassan needed him for that very reason. And he would force a suitable host out of the boy before she came. Time was not on either of their sides, and Pantheon had to do his work quick if he, and subsequently, the boy, were to survive.

Sculpt a child’s immaturity into at least the beginnings of responsibility, and perhaps he would see clear what was in front of him--what was haunting him. Had the child not yet felt that snare that was greater than Pantheon’s? Of course he hadn’t. He was too busy thinking about all the ‘cool’ things Pantheon would allow him to do. Somehow, Pantheon had to focus the boy’s mind; thus, they were here. Pantheon first had to make the boy find his limits. Here would be the testing grounds.

The pure energy of which he was composite swirled within him; it was something like… nerves. Pantheon felt tense, a sensation which the boy--when he was disembodied from Pantheon--knew as fear. It curled up inside him and made Pantheon’s face tremble. Customary confidence packed into a hurried flair of words,

”We will take the helicopter, then, man of tinfoil.” he hurried off, without the Iron Knight’s direction. He landed atop a random building.

Down to one knee he went as though forced. Sparks of that mystic electricity rippled around his body wild; the palleted iris’ joining at once to a singular deep brown and yellow tint. He was shaking. He looked up from his supplanted position and saw nothing but a world black. A quiet. In this new black, much like the one he had first seen, Hassan found himself as he was before Pantheon--a boy. Alone. Before him stretched a vibrant, shimmering crystalline-ruby quartz thoroughfare. His face glowed a crimson, discoloring the pupils of his eyes to that of the road below. No sound; he could not breathe, and he had found himself weak. It had been a considerable amount of time since he had last practiced his abilities as a mage, Pantheon had become his crutch.

For the first time in a while, he felt his own thoughts swirl into his head: those of video games and slurpees and girls. There was nothing to be had of fighting tyrants or destroying mechs or shrugging bullets off like fragile male egos. His moment of requiem was short, for from the blank crystalline road spun a woman. Her person formed from a swirl of rainbow-light. Chaotically curious as he was, Hassan moved toward her and she toward him. He saw nothing well in the astral plane, not like he used to. He could feel his own mind slipping from this plane of existence already.

Before he knew, she stood right in front of him, towering over the petite young man at a height only feasible in this plane and in one’s dreams. It was when he reached out to touch her that she shrunk down to his height with immediacy. There had been a black object in her hand that he had not noticed before; she held it in front of his face. It was Pantheon’s cape. She spoke,

“Ask yourself,” Pantheon’s cape levitated in the air and was spun around; where there had been no body attatched to the cape there now was one. It was Pantheon himself: clothes in tatters, holes puncturing his chest, gashes lengthening across his body from the shoulders to the hips, eyes swollen shut, head hanging lifeless to the side, mystical energy replaced with crimson blood dripping from his head to his feet and burning into flame when it touched the crystalline ruby road below. She held Pantheon in one hand, strewn up by the cape without slack.

“What will I do when I find out what he will cost me?” she held the lifeless Pantheon in front of her, and with a single word, Pantheon turned to dust--dust which she blew in Hassan’s face. The world around Hassan cracked, splinters in the sable black sky; the apparition disappeared in that same whir of rainbow light and dispersed into the breaking astral heavens. The road beneath Hassan sheared once and then shattered completely, and he fell. Down, down, and into nothing.

A lightning flash, a concussive force, Hassan’s soul was violently shoved back into the immobile and tranced Pantheon who was still fixed on one knee.

”No. No! NO!!” a single boom of thunder rolled across the sky, followed by a whip of lightning which sounded like it had several screaming voices trapped inside it. The sky itself flashed dark for but that single moment before returning to daylight.

Pantheon was afraid.

Sengoku Space Opera

Kuroguro

Kuroguro

_{”A journey must end, otherwise its beginning is without purpose. I will find my end no matter how it comes to me.”}

_{A P P E A R A N C E}

---

A lean built and well toned man, Kuroguro--as was his appointed name, originally Edgerin Bembe--has not once in his life used an artificial weight to gain the muscle his body presently wears. He is also not a man of exceptional height, the length of his body ceasing at 5’9. Otherwise, Kuroguro’s most notable physical feature are his worn knuckles and the callouses that have formed from his years of field combat.

Dress is nothing with flash, sometimes typical monk robes, and sometimes a yat-sen. When he is not teaching, Kuro wears the yat-sen. His hair is almost always worn with its long locs wrapped up and are only down when he is meditating. His locs run down his back and stop at his buttocks.

_{G E N E R A L L Y}

---

_ORIGIN Kaga
_{FORMER FACTION} Koga Inc.
_[A.K.A. “The Lotus of the East”, “The Shadow of Koga”, “Faceless”.

_{F I G H T I N G S T Y L E}

---

_{THE COBRA MAW} Centered not around striking as little as possible, the Cobra style in the Maw fighting family focuses on evasion and relaxation of the entire kinetic chain. Expend little to no energy and keep one’s base moving with careful steps, typically circling around the opponent but this is, of course, not the only manner of movement present. Slips, head movement, use of the elbows, wrists, and palms for strike deflecting and counter-shifting of an opponent’s weight and stance against them are the core tenets of the Cobra Maw style. Let one’s opponent strike for him. When chained together, the movements are reminiscent of several other families of dance-styled martial arts.

_{SLITHERING MOUNTAIN} The complimentary style to the Cobra Maw technique, slithering mountain brings its practitioner short, explosive movements when on offense and makes up for what it lacks in outright power in the use of controlling and manipulating an opponent’s ability to gauge the depth and distance of the practitioner and his adversary. One is not ‘ever-moving’, for that is a waste of energy. Rather, before one ever arrives at beginning of use of the slithering mountain technique, he is taught the limits of human sight and how perception corresponds to angles and space. As such, the Slithering Mountain technique’s sharp, subtle changes in stance and the positioning of the body aim not to confuse the opponent, rather to manipulate what he sees first before the practitioner glides in to strike.

_WEAPONS None. Kuroguro fights completely unarmed.

_SKILLS I. Unarmed Combat II. Acrobatics III. Stealth.

_BACKSTORY

---

Bembe grew up stealing. Sectioned in the slums of his respective sector, Bembe was a pickpocket of no great order, but was skilled enough at the craft to ensure he and his mother and siblings would eat. Hi ways manifest from his father, with whom Bembe would sometimes travel alongside in search for victims. Morality and compass were not existent.

His talent for picpocketing landed him in jail more times than he could count. As happens to all criminals, careful tact gives way to comfort and comfort finds slop. Soon, he was arrested for more unsuccesful attempts and theft than he was at succeeding at his unsavory profession. A representative--Tokugawa Misashi--of the lords--the Koga--of Bembe's respective fief saw for himself a promotional opportunity if he could conscript the young Bembe into his lords’ ranks.

Thus, Bembe spent the first half of his youth learning how to become more than just a pickpocket; he became a master of subterfuge, assassination, deception, combat (unarmed combat in particular, for weapons left too much a trace). His twenty years of service as the “shadow” of Koga Inc. gained him a reputation--one that, unlike most reputations, is not necessarily associated with him; few have seen the Lotus’ face, fewer have lived to report the sighting.

After two decades of violence, however, his heart and mind have recently begun to shift, and now the Shadow of Koga is looking for a way out and a new start. His ties are deep, and he remains one of the Koga’s most valuable assets; will he survive and find himself happily retired somewhere, or will he die? This is where his story begins.

Caravan: Resurrection

^{The Rise of Kul}

Smor’Gen’Blok

He torqued his foot free with a twist and a pull. Za’Kul made his exit; he hoped the Wor who had gone to save Wor’Da’Li would make it out. If not, he would be sure to honor them and the rest of their bretheren who had fallen there. With the Wor that remained, Za’Kul joined up with them.

“We go to Kul tunnels. All be safe there.”

Sengoku Space Opera

Kuroguro

Kuroguro

_{”A journey must end, otherwise its beginning is without purpose. I will find my end no matter how it comes to me.”}

_{A P P E A R A N C E}

---

A lean built and well toned man, Kuroguro--as was his appointed name, originally Edgerin Bembe--has not once in his life used an artificial weight to gain the muscle his body presently wears. He is also not a man of exceptional height, the length of his body ceasing at 5’9. Otherwise, Kuroguro’s most notable physical feature are his worn knuckles and the callouses that have formed from his years of field combat.

Dress is nothing with flash, sometimes typical monk robes, and sometimes a yat-sen. When he is not teaching, Kuro wears the yat-sen. His hair is almost always worn with its long locs wrapped up and are only down when he is meditating. His locs run down his back and stop at his buttocks.

_{G E N E R A L L Y}

---

_ORIGIN Kaga
_{FORMER FACTION} Koga Inc.
_[A.K.A. “The Lotus of the East”, “The Shadow of Koga”, “Faceless”.

_{F I G H T I N G S T Y L E}

---

_{THE COBRA MAW} Centered not around striking as little as possible, the Cobra style in the Maw fighting family focuses on evasion and relaxation of the entire kinetic chain. Expend little to no energy and keep one’s base moving with careful steps, typically circling around the opponent but this is, of course, not the only manner of movement present. Slips, head movement, use of the elbows, wrists, and palms for strike deflecting and counter-shifting of an opponent’s weight and stance against them are the core tenets of the Cobra Maw style. Let one’s opponent strike for him. When chained together, the movements are reminiscent of several other families of dance-styled martial arts.

_{SLITHERING MOUNTAIN} The complimentary style to the Cobra Maw technique, slithering mountain brings its practitioner short, explosive movements when on offense and makes up for what it lacks in outright power in the use of controlling and manipulating an opponent’s ability to gauge the depth and distance of the practitioner and his adversary. One is not ‘ever-moving’, for that is a waste of energy. Rather, before one ever arrives at beginning of use of the slithering mountain technique, he is taught the limits of human sight and how perception corresponds to angles and space. As such, the Slithering Mountain technique’s sharp, subtle changes in stance and the positioning of the body aim not to confuse the opponent, rather to manipulate what he sees first before the practitioner glides in to strike.

_WEAPONS None. Kuroguro fights completely unarmed.

_SKILLS I. Unarmed Combat II. Acrobatics III. Stealth.

_BACKSTORY

---

Bembe grew up stealing. Sectioned in the slums of his respective sector, Bembe was a pickpocket of no great order, but was skilled enough at the craft to ensure he and his mother and siblings would eat. Hi ways manifest from his father, with whom Bembe would sometimes travel alongside in search for victims. Morality and compass were not existent.

His talent for picpocketing landed him in jail more times than he could count. As happens to all criminals, careful tact gives way to comfort and comfort finds slop. Soon, he was arrested for more unsuccesful attempts and theft than he was at succeeding at his unsavory profession. A representative--Tokugawa Misashi--of the lords--the Koga--of Bembe's respective fief saw for himself a promotional opportunity if he could conscript the young Bembe into his lords’ ranks.

Thus, Bembe spent the first half of his youth learning how to become more than just a pickpocket; he became a master of subterfuge, assassination, deception, combat (unarmed combat in particular, for weapons left too much a trace). His twenty years of service as the “shadow” of Koga Inc. gained him a reputation--one that, unlike most reputations, is not necessarily associated with him; few have seen the Lotus’ face, fewer have lived to report the sighting.

After two decades of violence, however, his heart and mind have recently begun to shift, and now the Shadow of Koga is looking for a way out and a new start. His ties are deep, and he remains one of the Koga’s most valuable assets; will he survive and find himself happily retired somewhere, or will he die? This is where his story begins.

Caravan: Resurrection

^{The Rise of Kul}

Smor’Gen’Blok

Intuition--that was what the Kul had above the larger and myriad tribes of Smor’Gen’Blok. To read a body before acting was how he and his people had not been crushed by the tribes above them. Now, with precious time fading, Za’Kul had saw an out; he had gotten the remainder of the Wor Lok’Sha behind this aggressor to budge. The screams of Wor’Da’Li could not be abused as a point of sympathy, though; no, the Wor would see right through that. Whether she could actually be saved was beyond Za’Kul’s capacity for comprehension right now.

“Fighting? This is not time for fight. Kul cannot crush Wor even now, never could" a little appeal to the fiery warriors in these Wor tribesman always helped, "but Wor own people dying because of stupid feud. I help one of yours, you help me.” Za’Kul turned and looked over his shoulder,

“She saved if quick. More talk, and she die. I try helping her, will keep helping Wor if Wor let Kul go.”

His offer for help held no deceit.

Caravan: Resurrection

^{The Rise of Kul}

Smor’Gen’Blok

Wor’Da’Li was falling, Za’Kul could not stop to rescue her and try and save himself. A hearty and heavy sacrifice he would learn from if he got out alive. One had to take risks, whether or not these risks payed off were what differentiated warriors from cowards, and apparently the youthful and wishing like Za’Kul from the wont wisdom of Ja’Kul who fled.

In his path were a crowd of Lok’Sha. Wor survivors at that. Now, he had to think quick on his feet as the Hearth site was collapsing rapid around him.

“You not like darkskins, but darkskins only help. Gave workers, gave tools. You stop me, but then stop rest of yours from getting out.” more Wor were scattering, some who had taken Za’Kul’s idea and headed for the nearest tunnel.

“Kul low, but not enemy. Wor live on but will be small,” it was their entire home collapsing; not just some section of it. Thousands of Wor had or were going to lose their lives here today, and would be reduced to little less than a meandering clan, now devoid of their leader’s son and with no idea of where their leader was, “Wor going to need Kul help if Wor want to stay alive. Kul know low and high tunnels. Kul have protection still.”

There were no lies this time. He only hoped they bit his bait; he had plans for himself and these remaining Wor if he could convince them to put aside their differences with his kind and his tribe for but a moment.

Sengoku Space Opera

we in it