G
Guest
Guest
‘They come each evening. When the shadows stretch out, and we return to our homes, the men in steel and lacquered balsa wood come’
The peasant’s voice was heavy with a hopeless, despairing fatalism. Masai looked into his deadened eyes and was sickened. His teachers had taught him that the final death was the death of hope, the gift of the Goddess to humanity. He had never understood that before.
‘They took my daughters, and they burned the rice crops they don’t need. Now they just come to torment us. Every day their leader, some red-haired devil-bitch, selects one of us at random to kill. Carry on, stranger. This village is not for the living’
Masai shook his head. ‘These are bandits? Surely they’re not soldiers of the God King?’. Reflexively, the young wanderer made the sign of Hallowed Veracity at the mention of the emperor’s name.
Weary cynicism crawled across the peasant’s face. ‘Who cares, stranger? This far from the Imperial Court, it makes little difference’
The light of the dwindling sun glimmered over the paddy-fields, spreading chaotic patterns of light and shade over the still waters. Masai, dressed in his cotton traveller’s robe, balanced precariously on a plank crossing the surface of one watery field, his short staff aiding him. The peasant stood with the grace of one well used to it across from him.
Masai had led a sheltered existence. Abandoned at the doors of the high mountain monastery by some poor crofter, he had been brought up in the ways of kindness and harmony. The monks who practised Shin-tu, the Art of Acceptance, were eternally serene.
It had angered Masai so much. He had heard stories of the evil in the world from travellers who stayed at the monastery; of bloody Clan warfare and foreign intrigue, of bandits and ronin in the hills slaying innocents and thieves and ninja in the cities robbing and killing with stealth. He asked the monks again and again why they didn’t leave their monastery and combat evil face to face. They just smiled, and told him to devote himself to his studies. In time, you will learn our Way, Masai. In time, you will understand.
Masai didn’t want to understand. He didn’t want to find out the reasons behind their damnable serenity. He dedicated himself with furious drive to learning the way of Shin-tu, practising even beyond the exhausting classes the monks taught.
Shin-tu was the most mystic of the Five Fatal Arts. Its entire philosophy hinged on the belief that the only true path to victory lay in acceptance and becoming one with an opponent. In that state, when prediction of an opponent became second nature, battle became more of a formal, stately dance.
Masai was the best in his class, although tutors were worried to note that his grasp of the principles behind Shin-tu, to their eyes the most important part of learning, was shaky to say the least, and those ideals that he did understand he rejected. That a student could be simultaneously an exemplar in the martial arts and be so hot-headed and rash was unknown to the monks. A firm understanding of the principles of Acceptance was essential. Or always had been.
On his twenty-first Finding Day, Masai left the monastery. He took no leave of the Grandmaster, said no farewells to tutors or fellow students. He simply vanished into the night, evading watchers with the grace and skill taught him by those who watched themselves.
Now, not ten days out from his home of twenty years, he already had the chance to test his skills. Masai grinned ferally.
The soldiers came into the little village as the twilight faded. Masai was waiting for them. They watched him without worry, one slight, slender figure standing in the middle of the dusty road.
‘Get out of the way’, said one
Masai looked up. ‘No. Go some other way. This village is barred to you’
The soldier laughed. ‘Nothing is barred to men such as us’
He reached across his shoulders for his katana, to decapitate this insolent wanderer. As quick as a live thing, Masai’s staff whipped into his hands and he struck the soldier in the wrist.
There was a crack. The soldier swore unbelievingly. ‘My wrist! You’ve broken it, you bastard!’
Masai made no reply, watching instead as the soldier’s two comrades, blades drawn, advanced towards him. His staff whirled in front of him, weaving shadows of dusk in a series of complex figures of eight. The first soldier thrust.
With agility born of Acceptance, Masai rolled backwards and on to his hands, lifting himself up in a backflip as the other soldier’s blade cut the air where he had been.
The wanderer brought his leg up in a high kick, feeling the ball of his foot catch the injured soldier under the chin, jerking his head up. He dropped to his knee, and feigned a thrust with his staff at the second soldier’s abdomen. Parrying the percieved blow left the soldier open to a cut from Masai’s rigid open palm. He fell like a burst sack. The third ran.
Masai stood for a moment, feeling the rush of adrenaline pumping through his body. Untrained soldiers of course, but his first real combat, outside the training room! And victory was his.
A response was not long in coming. Masai saw her by the cloud of dust. A woman, in armour, came at an unhurried jog down the road. Her flame-red hair, unusual in Jaed, streamed out behind her.
He had time to settle into the warrior’s stance, feet apart, head bowed and staff in front of him before she arrived. He watched her carefully.
She was incongruously pretty, a delicate, porcelain style but hot green eyes blazed above high cheekbones. She was tall, and slim, yet muscular, and dressed all in red-lacquered armour. Two swords protruded above her shoulders. She drew them in one fluid motion as she drew level with him.
Masai bowed gravely. To his surprise, his opponent returned the gesture. Then he sent his staff whirling towards her throat, thrusting the end of it like a spear.
The woman knocked the end of the staff aside with one bracered wrist and slashed upwards with the other arm. Masai leapt backwards to avoid her katana, feeling the rush of its wind on his face, and tried a sweeping blow with his staff. This time the woman aimed her cut at the staff itself.
To his disbelief, Masai saw his staff, the extension of his being in combat, sliced in two with the deadly edge of a katana. He tossed the useless piece of wood remaining in his hand aside and retreated before a deadly series of slashing blows from the woman’s katanas.
He thought he saw an opening. Striving to remain cool amidst the hurricane of steel, he slid sideways into the swords’ embrace and grasped the woman’s wrists, then heaved forwards, using her own strength against her.
She crashed into the dust of the road. For a moment, Masai thought he’d defeated her. Then she rose again.
And he knew that she’d been playing with him before. Now he’d gained her respect and a ruthless storm of blades was her response. Masai now screamed for the principles of Acceptance that he’d rejected, wishing there was some way to predict this hellion’s attacks. He ducked, leapt, rolled to no avail.
Eventually, a sweeping kick with her foot to his legs knocked him to the dust of the road. Masai prepared himself for death, seeking the Oneness. And then the woman smiled and laughed.
‘No. You have too much raw talent. I cannot kill such potential in cold blood. But if you wish to learn any more from life, and the Way of the Fatal Arts, you must learn who not to challenge. Take this as a reminder’
Her sweeping katanas swept down, marking his cheeks with a thin, spiderwebbing red line on each side. Then her foot caught him in the head and he fell forward into oblivion.
OOC: Anyone can jump in who feels like it. A little bit about the world: it’s a martial arts/fantasy setting. I’ve made no descriptions of the other four martial arts, so feel free to make up an appropriate style for your character. You can’t be the main character’s nemesis, the two-sworded female warrior though
. My char’s description:
Dark brown hair, cut raggedly around his head. Dark blue eyes. Slight, though muscular. Masai is bisexual.
The peasant’s voice was heavy with a hopeless, despairing fatalism. Masai looked into his deadened eyes and was sickened. His teachers had taught him that the final death was the death of hope, the gift of the Goddess to humanity. He had never understood that before.
‘They took my daughters, and they burned the rice crops they don’t need. Now they just come to torment us. Every day their leader, some red-haired devil-bitch, selects one of us at random to kill. Carry on, stranger. This village is not for the living’
Masai shook his head. ‘These are bandits? Surely they’re not soldiers of the God King?’. Reflexively, the young wanderer made the sign of Hallowed Veracity at the mention of the emperor’s name.
Weary cynicism crawled across the peasant’s face. ‘Who cares, stranger? This far from the Imperial Court, it makes little difference’
The light of the dwindling sun glimmered over the paddy-fields, spreading chaotic patterns of light and shade over the still waters. Masai, dressed in his cotton traveller’s robe, balanced precariously on a plank crossing the surface of one watery field, his short staff aiding him. The peasant stood with the grace of one well used to it across from him.
Masai had led a sheltered existence. Abandoned at the doors of the high mountain monastery by some poor crofter, he had been brought up in the ways of kindness and harmony. The monks who practised Shin-tu, the Art of Acceptance, were eternally serene.
It had angered Masai so much. He had heard stories of the evil in the world from travellers who stayed at the monastery; of bloody Clan warfare and foreign intrigue, of bandits and ronin in the hills slaying innocents and thieves and ninja in the cities robbing and killing with stealth. He asked the monks again and again why they didn’t leave their monastery and combat evil face to face. They just smiled, and told him to devote himself to his studies. In time, you will learn our Way, Masai. In time, you will understand.
Masai didn’t want to understand. He didn’t want to find out the reasons behind their damnable serenity. He dedicated himself with furious drive to learning the way of Shin-tu, practising even beyond the exhausting classes the monks taught.
Shin-tu was the most mystic of the Five Fatal Arts. Its entire philosophy hinged on the belief that the only true path to victory lay in acceptance and becoming one with an opponent. In that state, when prediction of an opponent became second nature, battle became more of a formal, stately dance.
Masai was the best in his class, although tutors were worried to note that his grasp of the principles behind Shin-tu, to their eyes the most important part of learning, was shaky to say the least, and those ideals that he did understand he rejected. That a student could be simultaneously an exemplar in the martial arts and be so hot-headed and rash was unknown to the monks. A firm understanding of the principles of Acceptance was essential. Or always had been.
On his twenty-first Finding Day, Masai left the monastery. He took no leave of the Grandmaster, said no farewells to tutors or fellow students. He simply vanished into the night, evading watchers with the grace and skill taught him by those who watched themselves.
Now, not ten days out from his home of twenty years, he already had the chance to test his skills. Masai grinned ferally.
The soldiers came into the little village as the twilight faded. Masai was waiting for them. They watched him without worry, one slight, slender figure standing in the middle of the dusty road.
‘Get out of the way’, said one
Masai looked up. ‘No. Go some other way. This village is barred to you’
The soldier laughed. ‘Nothing is barred to men such as us’
He reached across his shoulders for his katana, to decapitate this insolent wanderer. As quick as a live thing, Masai’s staff whipped into his hands and he struck the soldier in the wrist.
There was a crack. The soldier swore unbelievingly. ‘My wrist! You’ve broken it, you bastard!’
Masai made no reply, watching instead as the soldier’s two comrades, blades drawn, advanced towards him. His staff whirled in front of him, weaving shadows of dusk in a series of complex figures of eight. The first soldier thrust.
With agility born of Acceptance, Masai rolled backwards and on to his hands, lifting himself up in a backflip as the other soldier’s blade cut the air where he had been.
The wanderer brought his leg up in a high kick, feeling the ball of his foot catch the injured soldier under the chin, jerking his head up. He dropped to his knee, and feigned a thrust with his staff at the second soldier’s abdomen. Parrying the percieved blow left the soldier open to a cut from Masai’s rigid open palm. He fell like a burst sack. The third ran.
Masai stood for a moment, feeling the rush of adrenaline pumping through his body. Untrained soldiers of course, but his first real combat, outside the training room! And victory was his.
A response was not long in coming. Masai saw her by the cloud of dust. A woman, in armour, came at an unhurried jog down the road. Her flame-red hair, unusual in Jaed, streamed out behind her.
He had time to settle into the warrior’s stance, feet apart, head bowed and staff in front of him before she arrived. He watched her carefully.
She was incongruously pretty, a delicate, porcelain style but hot green eyes blazed above high cheekbones. She was tall, and slim, yet muscular, and dressed all in red-lacquered armour. Two swords protruded above her shoulders. She drew them in one fluid motion as she drew level with him.
Masai bowed gravely. To his surprise, his opponent returned the gesture. Then he sent his staff whirling towards her throat, thrusting the end of it like a spear.
The woman knocked the end of the staff aside with one bracered wrist and slashed upwards with the other arm. Masai leapt backwards to avoid her katana, feeling the rush of its wind on his face, and tried a sweeping blow with his staff. This time the woman aimed her cut at the staff itself.
To his disbelief, Masai saw his staff, the extension of his being in combat, sliced in two with the deadly edge of a katana. He tossed the useless piece of wood remaining in his hand aside and retreated before a deadly series of slashing blows from the woman’s katanas.
He thought he saw an opening. Striving to remain cool amidst the hurricane of steel, he slid sideways into the swords’ embrace and grasped the woman’s wrists, then heaved forwards, using her own strength against her.
She crashed into the dust of the road. For a moment, Masai thought he’d defeated her. Then she rose again.
And he knew that she’d been playing with him before. Now he’d gained her respect and a ruthless storm of blades was her response. Masai now screamed for the principles of Acceptance that he’d rejected, wishing there was some way to predict this hellion’s attacks. He ducked, leapt, rolled to no avail.
Eventually, a sweeping kick with her foot to his legs knocked him to the dust of the road. Masai prepared himself for death, seeking the Oneness. And then the woman smiled and laughed.
‘No. You have too much raw talent. I cannot kill such potential in cold blood. But if you wish to learn any more from life, and the Way of the Fatal Arts, you must learn who not to challenge. Take this as a reminder’
Her sweeping katanas swept down, marking his cheeks with a thin, spiderwebbing red line on each side. Then her foot caught him in the head and he fell forward into oblivion.
OOC: Anyone can jump in who feels like it. A little bit about the world: it’s a martial arts/fantasy setting. I’ve made no descriptions of the other four martial arts, so feel free to make up an appropriate style for your character. You can’t be the main character’s nemesis, the two-sworded female warrior though
. My char’s description:Dark brown hair, cut raggedly around his head. Dark blue eyes. Slight, though muscular. Masai is bisexual.
