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Razgriz

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Year 12

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About Razgriz

  • Birthday 08/25/1996

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    dragging casuals to fridgetanamo
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    freeing joe son

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    s0upkn1f3

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Tahnok-Kal Attacks!

Tahnok-Kal Attacks! (149/293)

  1. IC: A̴͕̺͐͝ġ̸̡̖̝͔ë̷̠͎̫̠̈́ṙ̴̖̚u̴̻̅̾̀ ̴͇̻̹̏͊̍̿͜Ś̸̭͛́h̷̘͎̝͆̕i̵͇͓̦̱̓͆̑̀ǩ̸͇́̾̃̓ͅi̷͓̺̖̖̝̕ (F̴̧͇̩͚̦̓̄̿́̂ơ̶͉̎͊̊̕ŗ̴̯͛t̴̘̗̦̜͊̅̈ ̴̤̞̾̄̾͝K̸̨̲̔̿͂i̶͔̞̫͜͝ż̵̡̢͎͙̰̾̎̈́u̴̥͕͇̝̟͗̾͂̓͋n̵̥̗͌o̶̫͈̳̽̿̎『S̵̲̣͒̐̎̍̀̌̈́͝͝h̸̨̥̖͖͈̼̻̰̯̹͎́̒͋̈́̒͂̌̀̒̐͌͝͝į̷̨̻̹͔̠̤͖͍̈̈̆̈́̈́̈́͂́͘ͅk̸̼̮̋͆̊͛͘̕i̵̧̖͍͓͕͇̝̱͖̼̳̤̣̾̌̈͐,̸͓͉̭̗̾̔͒̍̔̍̇̕ ̷̫͈͖̦̹͉̞̲̔͗̌̾̑̋͆́͆ͅḐ̷̤͔̪̞͖̭̜̮͖̩̦̫̪́a̵̡̧̭͕̙̺͖̖̻̖͕͛̂̃͛̑̔͘͝u̵͈͓̖͕͇̱̦̣͚̹̓g̸̳̻͚̙̗͇͑͛̆̌͒̈́̓͋̍̿̓̚h̷̜̞̩̬̣̥̅̋̿͛̈́̉̍̓͝͝t̴̖͉͖͋͂̋̊̈́̇͘e̶̛͇̝͗͛͐͆̎̔̈́̋̈́̂̐̂͠r̸̙͙̗̻̉̅̔̉͒̏̽̿̑̐̿̎̚ ̴̡̣̝̝̦͔̆̊̈́͂̕͝ͅͅͅo̷̧̱̬̩̤̬̞̦̹̟͔͈̱̭͙͇͑͂̿̈́̆̿̕̚f̸͕̥̠̱̺̀͛̾̀̆̽̚ͅ ̷̛̪̮̥̥̳͍̼̤͉̺͚̿̐̆̋͂͆̀̐̐̋̕̕͝S̷͙͓͚̫̘̗̣̯͔͋ä̷̡̝̰̮̤̪̩̺̀̋̽̊̈́͌s̵̤̩̳̗̹̪͓̝͍͑̈́͂̊͘̚͠a̴̧̨̼̱̲͚͍̭̝͖̬͈̲̟͈̞͆̅̃͛̊̇̏͛̚k̷͔͇͉̫̣̝̈́̋́̍̌͝ï̵̼̤̦̤͎̱̤͔̦̌̏̔͒͘̕͜』) ———————————————————————————— ———————————————————————————————————— ————————————————————————————————————KKKKHHHH! My breath... I can't— It's the thunder. Each rumble is like a hammer on the brain in my skull, each flash of lightning within a spike through my nerves. The pressure is enormous. I can't think straight, and each time I try and right the ship, the inky darkness that's choking the sun, choking me, topples me over. It pours from the earth, from the lake, from the sky, from the shade of our willow, enveloping all that has become of who I am— "Kahkh—!" Somewhere to my right, in a ring around me around our willow and lake, I feel an unseasonable heat. The corner of my vision is tinged with red. The pain? Blood from the pressure? It's hard to tell. But... A crackle, audible. It's familiar, too familiar. I know what that sound is. But I know no rain is to come and save us. Fire... That was the source. However. :Kila...n...ya...: No matter where I look, the inky shadows are snuffing the light. All light. As it comes from the blaze, as it comes from our eyes, as it comes from the heart... it's all being choked, same as me. A thick, coiling darkness— like smoke, it's blanketing our surroundings until only a dim glow can pierce the haze. A dull crimson line in the distance, errant and sporadic enough to make the smoke dance. Shadows beneath a cracking flame... I can't see her. I can, through my swimming, disoriented mind, make out the patch of blue within the dark, and try to crawl towards it. But I can't see her form, her face, her reaction. The blanket of black continues to expand, and with it, the pressure. I'd already doubled over from seiza in that instant it hit us, but... :...-ren...shi...: It's no use. The weight of the void pounds me flat, threatening to crush my skull to a pulp if I try and force more motion out of my body. I can almost feel it sinking into the firmament, the Earth that Is Me, as my mental self is pressed into the soil. Thoughts erupt, unbidden, with each smidge of dirt uncovered... y̴̫̝͚̟̦̤̫̎̈́̉̈́̈́ǫ̷̡̺̘̠̗̹̝͈̦̟̤͒́̊͜͜u̶̧̧̢͕̱̤͉̖͇̖͚͚̣̜̪̻͑̑̋̄̈́͝a̵̳̩͔̙̜͇͙͔̘̲̎̉̀͋͑̆͆̂̅̂͌̔̀͑̒̚͘ŕ̸̢̛̬͎̙̮͇̺̝͚͍̰̔̾̍̑̾̾͝e̸̤͒͑̒͌b̸͖̺̣͕̭̗̣̾̐̅͌͝ú̷̧̧̡̝̻̬̳͍̥̣̥̮̥̖̻̑̋̐͐̈́̑̅̾̏͛̌͠ͅţ̵̢͎͓͙̼̣̼̯͍̠̭̥̬̞̰͖́̇̂͛̄́̑̐̉̍̈́̚͝a̸̘̿͊͂̈̀͊̓̓͒̒͘̚͝͝ś̵͈̆͗̄̽ḭ̵̹͎̺̞̟̋̌̔̀͂m̵̨̧̠̼̗̬̺̼̰̹̙͙͎͈̬̟̾̾̌̽̾̍̓ͅp̶̢̱̭̰̮͈̦̳̮̖͍̟̳͚͚͗̾̍̋̉l̸̯͌͒̂͌̊̂̆̎̕e̶̡͕̞͓̟̜̍̅̍̈̉̊t̸͇̝͖̱̻͗̐͗̊͑̓̓̔͒͘͠o̴̧͕͓̫̝̭̥̫̮̤̎̅̚o̶̝̙͈̫̿̈̏͐́̈̎͂͑͂̈́͌͝͠ľ̷̜̗̗͖̪̰̯̼̯̤̪̰̋̇̽̅̈̆͝y̸͚̙̌͂̈́̽́͝͠͝o̶̡̧̖̖͚̤̥̮͂̀͐̂̎͗̋͐̈́̍̄̄̑͋̈͝͝ų̴͕̞̻̮̝̭̀̀͛̀̅͆̎̌n̴̙̹̬͖̞̭̹̓̉̍̈́͗͐͒̀̓̄͒͘͠g̶̣̞̯̈͜ṁ̵̡̛̘̪̬̜̠̠͌̓̍̃͊̅͆̊̂͠ì̵̘͇́̔̑̏̏̔͜͝͝s̷͙͋̒̏̎̈́͛͊̀̽̾̍͂̈́̽̏͛t̶͕̔̀̓̂̃̒͋̈̃̑̍̕ͅą̶̨͖̘͇̥̠̳̯̲̬̳̘͎̥̂̅̒͝k̶̡̫̜̹͚̺̠̣̲̦̙̭̉͛̚ȩ̶̡̜̖͓̟̬̯̣̠̪̖̘͇̈̒̆͗̉̓̒̑́̆̈́͛̍̄́ͅn̸̠͔̘̰͉̣̩͇̝̊ͅa̴̡̠̥̱͇̭͙̠͔̪̗̼̠̜̍͒̓̽̽͗̏̆͑̊̿̈͘̚͝u̸͙̜̓̔͐t̵̡̡͍̺̤̥̆̾͑͌͆̃̾̏̑̇͂͂́͐̚ô̸̪̙̘̞͚͔͝m̶̛̛̤̟̯̩̖̩̯̩̰͖͉̗̳͒̎͂́̑̿̍͒̉̑̂̇̚ͅa̸̛̼̝̯̺̮̪̾̔̑́̚͘̚̚͘͠t̴̢͖̳͓̫̼̜͙͉͓̳̺̻̬̹̻̅̈́̈́̽͛̄̐͌̒̿͒͜͠͝o̴̼͇͐͑̽̀͆̍̋̾̎͐͗̊͝n̴̙͍̗͚̰̪̘͇̙̻̥̄̀͜t̸̙̻̳̬͕̣̲̗̯̪̯̫̥̻̬̗͖̃͒͆̄͗́̇̓̾̓h̸̖̫̮͓̜͚̝̼̤͑͝e̵̡̗̽͛̆̅̈́͒̎̄̈̂̋͋͘ṟ̶̇̓̇́̌̓̈̕e̴̡̪͙̺̗͖͙̘̙̙̖̜̩͗̐͋̓̽̽͜͜i̴̳̬̰͇̤̝̱͕̍̾̀̂͊̈͜ͅs̴̢̱̞̪̰͉͇͙̮̀͝ͅṋ̷̢̛̦͎̩̟̪̫̼̬́̊̍̆͒͘͝͠ǫ̴̙̘̟͕̝̝͋̈́͊̇͜ͅs̸̜̫̼̲̰̄e̷̡̢̧̲̖̗̤̯͍͖̞̜̳͎̿̈͆l̵̡͚̲̫̜͓͑ͅf̸̡̨̢̛̛̪̱̠͙̳̼̼̩̭̄̈́̍̌͒̀͑̈̇̑̆̀̕͝b̷͕̣̜̖̘̽̓̄̈͒̔͒͌̿̔͝ͅę̴̱̪̩̮̅̏͑n̶̢̬̹̝̯͖͇͔̘̱̫̺͕͕̱̰̞̈͒̈́̂́̓̐͑̀̿͘͠ȅ̶̘͜͠͝ą̴̠̟̫̼̟̠̲͍̲̙̱̰͚̠̅̉͊͜ṯ̶̢̢̛̪̳͎̮͕͇̰̰̭̒̽́͌͗̎̎̋͒͆̎̾͗̽͘̕ḩ̶̨͉̱̘̳͖̳͖̲̆̊̉̄ÿ̷̨̞̺̗̣̮̬̲̙̞́͒͑ǫ̴̝̟͕͕̤͈̦̼̬͒̓̇ư̷͈̜̫̻̈͂́͂͊̔͒̈́̈́̓̕̕͠͠ṟ̸̡̯̼͔̇̋͋͆̆̐̌̆̆͛̀̌͐̓̚͠m̴̛͕͙̟̠͓̞̟͓͍̦͎̒̓͒̐̉̒̐̿͑̕̕͝͝͝ͅị̶̢̛̗̣͌̐̈̇̒̿͂͜͝ͅn̸̢̼̠͕̥̠͓̮̬̳̳̺̝̱̦̦͉͑͛̓d̷̘̠̳̰͕̞̗̞̹́̀́̈́̆̓͌͌̽̚͝ But I can't decipher them. I don't think I really want to. That's beside the point anyway— I don't really think. I can't manage that. I'm never going to reach my Toroshu. Not like this. It's only through my link with her that I know. I know what this is. I know... ẃ̷̧̩͖͈̺̞̙͍̟͎̭̥͊̌̓̃̐̈́̿̿́̏̿͘̕͠h̸̡̢̟̭͍̮̹̫̦͎̻̠̞̒̀̊͑͗̈́͠͝͠͝ȍ̶̹̠̣̮̲̫̼̥̻̭͎͉̻͉̐̂̂̊́͋̎̐̓̀̅̕͘͝ this is. It wasn't Her problem whether or not I did, but this is my Mind. All that happens here is something I feel. I felt this arrival. I feel its pressure. I feel its weight— and I feel its power. I feel Kilanya through this link, so carefully forged between her. I can feel her fear, her anger, her worry, but most of all... I can feel her knowledge, terrifying in its surety, flowing through me in a way she would never allow if it hadn't become this. The wind is not hers any longer. It buffets like a storm, carrying the smoke into my face into my nose, into the tight throat and lungs I'm clutching at, trying to get the vicegrip off. It doesn't take. Even this effort is clouding my vision further with red. I can feel my heart hammering, a thousand taiko in procession. The curtain of blood slides over my sight, growing thicker and then receding back into formless black with each pulse. It's like a dye spilled into the ocean, melting within the murky depths. My body knows this feeling. Something terrible is watching me. Something I can't escape, no matter how purely my body comprehends the danger. It's meaningless. The threat is within me. What can I do, against a foe that has breached into my Soul? A languid Kanohi Dragon? No. I am a field mouse, caught in the gaze of a lurking viper. I am prey. I don't want to admit it, but I can't do anything. I'm spellbound. Paralyzed. The pain has eclipsed pain, and melted into numbness. Dye in the ocean. Over and over. I am not a sapling. Kilanya is not a willow. We are leaves in the tempest. :::Ageru.::: At once, my blood turns to ice. The Quenching Dark... She speaks with a voice like a landslide above my head. The flickering of the blaze ends. :::Kilanya.::: The flames have not ceased. Their dull, blood-colored glow is constant now. The mind's eye of my Mind's Eye... I imagine them to be as carvings etched into wood. A capsule of a single moment. The heat they brought has frozen too. All they serve to do now is... lengthen the shadows. A hope I know she can rip away, the moment it stops amusing her. Why here? Why like this? :::It's time we spoke, O Rakumetsu Toroshu.::: My muscles are numb. My mind itself is numb. I can feel a dullness that my inner light, however esoteric and faint, has never had to fight through. And still. "——————" My numb lips name her, and I feel every character. She is the Shadow that brings Final Night when we Die. :::Time you became useful.::: Zataka. And I go alight, realizing against my wishes, against my most desperate prayers, what I'm up against. The pressure, the terror, the immense sense of imminent dread that cakes my every thought and action hasn't receded at all. If anything, it's even stronger now. I had previously believed the worst case scenario was in utterly failing my Toroshu as a student— but now, it very well could be that I get her killed instead of disappointed in me. That I can't allow. That I can't abide. That I can't even acknowledge as possible. Her voice may speak the nom de guerre Kilanya has earned for herself as a taunt, yes, like a schoolyard bully sneering a nickname back in your face— but I know all too well what it really means. Every night, those walls I repair have stood firm against this primordial Dark's sons, and every morning, I see to it that they stand firm the next. I know that my fight can't compare to theirs. To the walls. To Kilanya, a hero in the catacylsm our noble empire has suffered, who takes the fight to those enemy demons. She may mock what they do, what they have done— But it's because of them that the threats are held at bay, long enough for people like me, like Yumiri, like the forewoman, like the diaspora of Chand, Long, and countless other people of Odaiba... Long enough for us to see a tomorrow. Even through the dark and cold nights. Those who stayed and fought to protect, guide, and save those of us who could do nothing but stay and fight... :Ngh.: Pushing out of the numbness and back into pain, I grit my teeth as my fingers close around this concept, written on the grass beneath me. I'm still being choked by the thick smoke, still carrying the weight of an entire dominating presence upon my own. But I know the feeling now. It's not a surprise anymore, so I can fight it. —She didn't earn such an unannounced visit out of unimportance. I know that much. My other arm, without nearly the strength to do so, reaches out and grabs the next patch anyway, dragging me along. Like an inchworm I continue, forcing down an urge to vomit from the terror I'm... Am I even ignoring it? No. I can't. That's why I'm moving. I'm terrified of what will happen if I do, but also terrified of what will happen if I don't. She said she would make use of her. If she waited until now... something here was making Kilanya vulnerable. Malleable. A card had fallen from her hand, to be used against her in this moment as opposed to all others. Something that'd have her dance to the darkness's tune. I'm pretty dumb, I know that— But I don't need to be brilliant to figure out why now is different from any other time since Odaiba erupted. I reach my hand forward— and feel it. Gnarled bark, long swept smooth by wind, rain, and water, extending high into the gloom. My undignified dragging on the stomach has finally taken me to the source. I know, deep down, that it's me. I'm the reason this move was made now, after so many weeks of detachment. I'm a bargaining chip... and a bridge into a mind so carefully guarded. It has to be that, right? If that weren't the case, then this kind of attack would have happened far before I entered the picture. But with such a link between us established, that creeping umbra could step through the partition. And while she was stuck projecting here... Kilanya would be unable to properly defend herself. She had too good a heart. I can feel it. The devil would use me... so she could make use of her. Something hot rises up within me again. The red returns to the corners of my vision. An explosion, pushing out on all sides against the heavy blanket of instinctive terror. I can't help myself, even though I know it's foolhardy. :Do not... make me... a hostage... in my own... head!: If it makes me mad, I have to fight it somehow. Stretching myself to the absolute limit, I press my hands against the bark of the willow and push. I know I'm not the important one in this scenario. That's the whole point. It's my Toroshu the twisted darkness wants, I don't matter. So if she can't get her, I've done more for the fight than any training could ever allow me.
  2. IC: Rudra, 小さい竜 (Chiisai Ryuu) M.F. Doomed —KLHGFYREXDCT'.;l'.;[]=;— He was a sitting duck, caught between trying to rub the flames from his eye sockets and blink color back into his vision. Even on Rudra's best day, he didn't have much to deal with a top-flight telekinetic in straightforward engagements beyond a simple sense of pressure and utilizing the awe-inspiring threat of the storm to keep them on the back foot— and here, with his energies spent and his eyes disabled... "rngrhsonofacoMEON GET OFF—" It was all he could do to struggle in vain against his binds, the rope already securing arms behind his back and away from any real force generation. The rest of him might not have been bound, but the grip of the invisible hands had yet to slacken. Nonetheless he struggled, thrashing wildly even as he heard the Dasaka's footsteps slowly creep towards him. A hand stretched out at the very corners of his vision, having tried to turn and look back over his shoulder— His Kanohi. He was going for the mask. He'd seen firsthand what that played out like, with that girl on the floor! He couldn't let that happen, he had to get away! Writhe, wriggle, crawl with your chin if you must, no matter what kind of humiliation it is! "G'ta ge' away," he muttered under his breath a repeated mantra in time with each convulsion. It felt, if only just, like there was some headway to be made here... but the Dasaka was still creeping closer. If there was a feeling, it didn't lie, right? Mata Nui had given him a gut he could trust this far! He threw himself into it, redoubling his fervor... THOK. And for all his trouble, found the edge of the bulkhead's frame with his temple. The writhing stopped.
  3. IC: Rudra, 小さい竜 (Chiisai Ryuu) The Hero of Naho Bay Oh no. While the abrupt upswing of his arm had somehow made the shot go wide, he'd nonetheless felt the invisible, titanic hand that had him in a stern grip slack and give way entirely. The moment was here— he had to seize it! Kicking off the textured crystal flooring, illusory smoke billowing forth from his kanohi in a thick, impenetrable blanket, the Toa made use of his lanky build and long strides for all they were worth. Weaving just past where he'd remembered the telekinetic to be (if he had more strength he'd have shoulder-checked him), his dead sprint carried him all the way across the room at breakneck pace, aimed roughly for where the bulkhead lay in his memory. KER-THUD. And yet, rushing out of the gloom... the face of death surged forth to meet him, all single-planed save for a singular heavy and mercilessly shut corkscrew lock. For a moment, just after his elbows collided with the face of the door, he scrabbled along its width, as though it, somehow, was just coincidence. As if, through some miracle, there would be another, identical bulkhead. "No, no no no n—" As he shook the knurling, an ape trying to force open its cage, he heard the footsteps begin again. "You won't be getting away that easily. If you wish to leave...you must go through me." "No, you can't do this to me..." He whirled, arms raising in a defensive posture. And then, out from the fog, a pinprick of white light emerged, as though the captured sun— "GAAAAAAAAH!" he roared, hands flying to his face in reflex. And it burned like it, too.
  4. IC: Rudra, 小さい竜 (Chiisai Ryuu) The Hero of Naho Bay What th—KARZ?! "waitwaitnonononoo-GAAAAH, son of a—!" At the onset of the sudden stimuli, a wrenching motion that irresitibly yanked his arms apart into a crucified stance, Rudra's ongoing train of thought, mental machinery that ran to its utmost ability throughout the proceedings... jammed. Out of entirely left field, he'd not had any of his vaunted opportunities to predict the incoming— Nor did he have any way to reliably counter the tactile feel of the unseen forces at work. It was like he was an action figure at the mercy of two giant hands, his joints unable to work against the grips he couldn't see as they pulled his finger gun one way— and the girl the other. Pain flashed across his face, the surprise of the sudden and inexplicable interference, shattering his carefully ingrained image of confidence— instead supplanted by confusion, turmoil, outrage... and beneath it all, Tazera would likely be privy to a certain measure of panic. He didn't seem to be thinking about the ramifications of letting it show. Surely not. Surely Mata-Nui hadn't decided to intervene, a divine force separating them! Where could he have gone wrong, where?! Had he not been faithfully serving this whole time? Was it truly a sin to profit off of the spoils invaders brought in their insidious conquest?! Already they'd proven how callously they thought of His chosen, both brave warriors like himself and the humble, hardworking Matoran they'd all so readily deceived! If a warship showed upon ones own shores, was it not his duty as a protector of the island, however wayward he admitted he was, to ensure his homeland could field a defense? This was unlike anything they'd seen before... My Lord, As though suspended on a cross, he looked up to the sky, through the hull of the ship and into the distance that lied beyond, beyond the ship, beyond the sky, beyond them all. He was searching. Pleading. This was, once again, the type of trial only the Spirit could dole out. To test his strongest soldiers, right? After it had gone so well, had his faith when he was victor proven yet unworthy? Lord, give me a sign. Has your chosen son left your grace? And out of the corner of his eye... a shadowy figure emerged in the frame of the door, as if to answer his call. Purple eyes went wide. "Stand down, Toa," came the voice of another Menti, one of the males now, holding his palms aloft and brow furrowed in one part concentration, one part authoritative rebuke. "The game is up." He smiles upon me yet. I now see the face of my foe. I won't squander this Gift, O Spirit! The glow on his Matatu receded back into the gloom as he continued to march forward into the bridge, force upon the Toa not dying in turn— so the force was all him? That sucked, in a way... and yet, looking at his face... Rudra could work with it. He could work with anything. "Feh." he mustered the strength to spit, a crooked, shaken smirk returning as much as it could to his features. "You ain't the ref, big man. I ain't tapped out yet, neither." His eyes were alive. However tumultuously, thanks to the sudden upheaval of his command on the situation, the sparks of his defiance had yet to die. That much would be clear to this interloper, the leff-tennant having run off to care for the girl he'd offered recruitment to mid-maskless-delirium. Were he sitting so pretty as before he'd have remarked on being happy they had some measure of heart after all— but that time had come and gone. He needed to focus on this other man, the worst obstacle he could face. He tested his now lapel-less hand, feeling it flex even as their gazes met. The sparks at his fingertips on the one hand had died. He'd pulled those last drops of electricity within himself, letting it all arc down the length of his wingspan, from forcibly extended had to arm to shoulders. Now, within him, the charge crept along the free arm. Carefully now... He had one last bit in the tank. Scuttling things was always the final resort of any naval officer— deny the asset, live to fight again. He couldn't scuttle this tub in one go, unfortunately. "Hull 'f yer stupid boat looks like a whale," he breathed, chuckle escaping between words. "Y'know what happens when whales beach. Gets a whoooole lot of attention. I'm feeling grateful, so I'll tell you flat-out." But he could scuttle this plan. "It's a lot more 'n' just me in this game. It ain't ever gonna be up... until the hulled whale does what the beached whales do..." If he could just get out of here, he could at least regroup and make the most of what he'd done already. Could he sell knowledge? Maybe. He'd really have rather sold a ship, though. Shame. But the Spirit hadn't abandoned him yet. A chance would come, down the line. For now, he just needed to pull this man in, and... "They pop." The hand that had been extricated from the crewmember's coat snapped up, aimed squarely at this telekinetic's face, and loosed the final bolt of Rudra's stock. Had the sweat on his brow given up the fact that he was on fumes already? It was tough to say, only for his opponent to know, and not for Rudra to worry about. Bolt him— A half-beat later, the very moment the Toa recovered from his last finger gun of the day, his Mahiki shone, as if suspended in the turquoise waters that surrounded the Ga-Wahi coastline. —And then bolt out! And then he was gone from view, the bridge filling with smoke. It was a thick, white haze of obscurance, as though a grand fire had broken out from the sparking control boards or heavy fog rolled through midmorning— all that mattered was that the man in front of him wouldn't be able to see. Please, Great Spirit! He would hit the ground running. Please let the Dasaka's concentration be snapped!
  5. IC: Ageru Shiki (Fort Kizuno『Shiki, Daughter of Sasaki』) Quietly, I listen along, scrutinizing the lines that pass between our palms even as the thoughts and impressions beneath her retelling trickle in, scents upon the gentle breeze. There's a great warmth to it all. Unspoken fondness that carries through even deeper than tone, for we are linked more directly than speech, washes over our little congregation, tree and lake and field and master and student. I can't help but mimic the smile that flickers across her face. It's a comforting feeling, a joy to be privy to. Reassuring, too, to share. I've got fond memories too. They're the precious few things I have left. I had a home, the strip of cloth, a few lessons, and just like my esteemed superior, fond memories. Really, I cherish them the most. At her question, long having passed over the wireframe of her family blade back over, I close my eyes. Such is impossible to do in the realm of a mental landscape, if I get technical, but that sensation fills me, and in turn the world around me seems to fade away as though I had. Within that dark void, not quite black but not quite blue... a scene appears. It's one I've always seen— for what time "always" entails for me. A torrid mess of orange, red, and black surrounding the field of my view, seeming as tall as three we had sat against moments prior and carrying untold heat, pain, fear. A wild curtain drawn around me, a wheat field up like tinder... No, that is what it was. I didn't forget. I couldn't. Even with the darkness encircling the blaze that encircled us, no detail had gone neglected. That voice, once carried in faraway echoes like a distant storm, rings clearly in my ear. It was always so strained in most of our days together, but here it can't be mistaken as anything but clear and strong. This was her real voice. It was there to cut through the roar of wildfire. My own throat, rough, ragged, and full of unspoken questions my lungs simply couldn't fuel. A splotch of green, tinged with gray. I know it was soft. It still is. It's around my arm now, instead of her neck. I even recall how the sky above was a blanket of orange and grey, only realizing long after that the puffs where oncoming rain, and not the pluming smoke. I remember the acrid scent of burning mixed with the inimitable odor of rain. I remember it all well, having seen it daily. It was a moment, frozen in time's constant unyielding stream forward. A rock in the river, polished until I could stare at myself upon its sheen. And shine it does. In the center of such a terrible scene, I could never forget that perfect, grand blue. In my heart, I'm convinced that those are the contours I've been replicating this whole time. The razor edge, the robust tsuba, the delicate filaments of ultramarine that flowed through its length, through her hands, through her soul— Like painting a blade out of the summer sky. :Something like that,: I breathe, nostalgic smile ending up a touch wistful as we return to the scene of my self. That image might have shimmered along the waters of the lake behind as small waves lap up the shore. In this space, there's every chance I could have pulled Kilanya in by mistake. I realize it now— and ponder, ever briefly, if she'd have put the face to the name. You could certainly have caught the edge of her jaw, or at least her Rode. :Mom... Left me more than I could ask for.: I wonder if I could pull it from the water behind us. Something stirs deep beneath. It sends a heat through the water. A glimmer upon the shore. :It feels like I see it whenever my eyes shut. If what you've shown me is true, what you told me about what I've done is true... Maybe that's the only reason I got as far as I did?: It feels like hedging, given the sorry result and my clearly wayward method, but it makes sense to me. Even with that opinion, I know that it's just as likely to be taken as or something reasonably considered glossing over the mistake. But I'm playing host in my own mind here. I don't like lying already— I doubt I could hide the feeling if I wanted to. If I'm wrong, let me be wrong honestly, so I can learn honestly why. So there I sit, patiently awaiting the lecture I'm probably going to have sparked.
  6. IC: Rudra, 小さい竜 (Chiisai Ryuu) The Hero of Naho Bay Hmmmmm. He blinked, processing the words as they came. It did stand to reason that this kind of ship, full of gizmos and doodads and clear technological intricacies would need more than one person to utilize in its totality. Any vessel that big had its breeds of delegation of labor to make sure they sailed with optimal efficiency, men rigging sails, navigators carefully eyeing course, the helmsmen at the wheel and the captaincy looking down from on high to monitor each shift in turn. Would this one be different in that respect? Suppose not. For her to be so thoroughly crewed could only mean she did need many to run at optimal efficiency. "Well, to begin with, you ran off my first mate." he fired back, snorting and smirking as he registered the naked furor in the way she spoke the title of Mata Nui's honored warrior caste— showing her true colors now that she was backed into a corner, eh? It'd be pitiable if he were a neutral passerby, some onlooker with no stake in the game— but that kind of luck wasn't the Dasaka's gift today from the spirit. He blithely continued, feeling on a roll as always. He was a Confidence Man (tm) "I appreciate the concern, but I'll figger it out." he drawled plainly, seemingly disaffected by any worries or seeds of doubt the leff-tennant had hoped to plant. "Sinshi gets a pretty good tour of the place, I find— I know this rock tub runs on electricity. Powers that weird little screw you've got. I'm sure you understand why I'm not worried there, about yer little lightstone in a box." Sparks cracked near his bargaining chip's temple. An illustration. "And we can both see your wheel's doin' fine. That's thrust and steering, babe. All a real man of the sea needs." He wouldn't necessarily need to submerge it or anything, so long as he got it there. Nuparu'd figure out how to do that by tearing the thing to bits anyway. But if she was really so concerned... "If it's really that impossible, maybe I oughta keep the little lady here along for the ride once she comes to— have her take some of the work on for me. Keeps you foreigners from pulling any funny business on me, too. Whaddya say, cuffs girl, you want a cut now?"
  7. IC: Jolek {Returning to Familiarity} And without a word more, the winds carried dust out to sea. The gray man watched silently as his erstwhile accomplice vanished into the grid of the city's footpaths, towards self-enlightenment. No waves or extended farewells this time— if he had to guess, the Lesterin felt much the same as he regarding the gestures. Ornamentative, unnecessary. Somehow out of place within the understanding they shared, men of similar trade, similar ambition. He let his gaze fall back to his knuckles as the dabbling brawler rounded the bend and left his vision altogether. Still tingling from the alien sensation of striking solid rock, however lightly, he could sense his own body yearning to go somewhere, just as that guy's was. The second he'd sent off towards the shimmering waters to the north of here today— he didn't claim to have ever kept track, but that had to be a new record. The scenery of a city always had some small changes in that way— faces arriving and leaving. He'd not even caught the other fighter's name, or even really placed whether or not his was a face standing out as familiar in the formless mobs of the village's citizens. But he understood that feeling, the one that drove him to test his knuckles against something firm. That strengthening oneself made the difference, in lieu of those miracles like this "Seprilli". The need to lose oneself in the rhythm, and stop worrying about the worldly troubles that plagued your head, filled your thoughts. He'd done it millions of times. He'd do it a million times more. After all, he'd taken to the evening streets with that very purpose— meeting his fellow man and sending him on the journey (that everyone seemed to join these days) was... incidental. I'd better head out before night. He concluded with a snort, expelling acrid air from the musty atmosphere brough on by high inner-city walls. Ash's thick today. I'll barely get any moonlight to work under. And so, the more things around him changed... He started off again, back out east towards the gate at a steady run. Built-in road work of getting to the proper scenery was certainly an extra boon here— all the slacking had made his endurance feel like it'd dipped. Hard work beat the stuffing out of hardly working, when it was a match between this and trudging around the residences. Elly had more than once looked at him crosswise for looking forward to this at the end of the day... But this stuff just kept his head on straight. Small plumes of ash kicked up in the wake of his staccato footfalls, he surged out the gates, off for the trees. ————— The forest, like always, was still. A field of gray glowing softly crimson as the lava floes gained more prominence as the light above dimmed, and streaked with jagged black lines of burnished trees. to think such an explosive scuffle'd occurred here, just a few hours ago... You wouldn't have imagined it, really. In Ta-Koro, the scene would have lasted well into the night— investigative procedure would see to that. Guards filing papers of after-action report, conducting interviews with bystanders to get a read on the situational play-by-play, cleanup of whatever damage it had wrought in the aftermath, all that and the kitchen sink. It would have dragged on ages, whereas here... He breathed in deep, staring down the medium-sized trunk some arm and a half's length ahead, and settled into a familiar stance. His right foot sliding back and away from the left, around a shoulder's width. His arms rising in turn, hands closing into loose fists in front of him. Rear projected slightly in front of the brow line, guarding, catching, parrying. Lead extended forward by half, rising and falling subtly with his breath. There to probe, to flicker, to frame, to punish. ...Here, things melted away once they finished. There was no aftermath, there wasn't real follow-up, no sense of lingering question. It just was, and then was not, as things settled again into the quiet equilibrium around him. He needed that these days. In truth, he might have liked it every day and just not known it, back when it was the simple way of things and all he knew— but he was here now because that had ended up anything but. Today was different. The past months were different. Two people chasing the memories he'd never regained in one day. Two people off to forge new self-perspectives. Two he'd sent on the exact kind of mission he'd told himself to set out on, before all this. Over and over, that sense circled through the empty hallways of his mind, in a way nothing had yet been able to shake. He was growing real tired of thinking like this, of suffering through that same feeling of watching beneath still water as the surface rushed by. He ground his lead foot in a short arc against his "flooring", pushing loose ash, soil, and debris to the side. THONK. "Ssssh. Hrmf—" And a dull, hollow thudding rung through the stillness, setting the air astir with the sounds of eight limbs striking the stern bark of the tree, chased by a Fa-Toa exhaling his turbulent thoughts into the void. Jab. Follow with a Cross. Should I be here? Rock back onto the rear leg, sling the hips over until on the ball of that foot. Lead leg follows through, arcing high. Head kick. WHAP. Well, yeah. This is good. Iron out the kinks. Never a bad time to condition. Ride the rebound once it's sunk in, rechambering the leg into stance. Hitting with the shin's of no consequence, since this isn't full speed and your dense bones are long numbed to anything less, only registering the impact instead of pain. Let it carry you forward as your guard raises again, folding it in tighter— THUD. Elbow across the jaw with the rear arm. While in this close, reach out with that hand to the side of the trunk. Your lead was already there to guide the strike, so take it just a little above that hand— Not here. More like... Here. Picture the Skakdi from this afternoon, and knee his ****** nose in. Getting a second or third in isn't bad at all— tree ain't going anywhere. But if we consider this a clinch... break it on your terms. Shove away as you fade back into open space— Eh. Could have pivoted there too, maintained a dominant angle. Let that idea slide off so long as you keep it in mind as an option. Front kick to the trunk while you're this far away, then. Control distance if you're gonna think. Two lead leg, last rear— I don't take your meaning. Jab too. It's your safest weapon, and pretty long in it's own right. Stepping into it felt good, so follow it up— Yes you do, Jolek. His cross elicited a deep, cracking report as it landed, a ramrod rear straight that made the 1-2 such a deadly staple in fighting. The tree shook wholly as his knuckles dug into bark and bark dug into knuckles, a pained shudder running through the length of its many branches and shaking leaves loose. As the fist shot back into his guard, he idly noted how it throbbed and clicked his tongue, electing to double check just how deep he was sinking his hips into the hook to the liver that instinctively followed. He did need this, then— either to remind himself how to have total control of his weapons... or to get whatever the karz had snapped in there all the way out of him. He continued on. Let the flow of technique into technique into technique dictate things. All you need to worry about is your power, your placement, and your potential. This is the best you can manage for it here. It was all there was in the world, and all that he needed. Past and future do not exist. Just optimize this present moment, find its frame, and embody it. The thudding impacts continued to ring out from the man and the tree, in this world all their own. One could scarcely fault him for failing to notice anything else. OOC: You know the drill.
  8. IC: Ageru Shiki (Fort Kizuno『Shiki, Daughter of Sasaki』) :I do see.: And yet I don't. It's not just sight. It's feeling too, but... How to describe it? How do I even register this? ... I grumble, and a settling of the earth passes through the roots, shaking branches above and sending waves through the still water behind— I need to get a handle on this before the lesson is wasted. :It's...: putting words to an abstraction. It's less tactile and kinesthetic, and more ephemeral, experiential— The arc of Will a brushstroke upon the canvas that is the world within my Mind, the unrestrained flow of energy, direction, and meaning that passes through the lines it drew—her soul flowing from the reservoir that is Her, into the Space that is Me. It's not how I've always accessed my own. It's not charging deep within ones' own body as conduit from Mind to Soul— it's not driving an augur and spigot through the weepy willow's bark. Instead. it... I can only say it flowed. There was no impetus. It was like a natural path had always existed, not carved through the trunk but instead flowing like spring water. I felt the energy move as she indicated, rather than pushed— its guidance connecting it to the frame her mind drew, and allowing it to permeate until it reached the boundaries. I couldn't see this. But I could sense it. I could feel it, even if I couldn't reach out and touch it. And yet I nonetheless do. There she is, right in front of me, plain as day with sword in hand. She's wearing an elegant kimono where once stood practical, unfrilled armor, its willow-leaf patterning gently rippling in the winds that shook the branches above, mirror images of the same woman. Her eyepatch is gone, instead a sky-blue blaze sitting in the socket. I realize it's the raw energy of her Soul, the same we forge our swords from— and as it is Her, it fills the gaps that her body can't. I'm meeting her gaze in full for the first and only time. The picture etches itself somewhere beneath the bed of the lake, where faces and names are kept. And then I look down upon the blade I've never made, but know as its maker does— And yeah, I see everything. The whole of what was visualized, the Understanding that the soul filled— I can trace it with my eyes as her palms lift, bringing the sword into full view. It's, plainly put, a masterwork (O-wazamono). Everything about it I see is definite, reasoned and intentional and not a hint out of place, as it quietly hums with power inside my mind. I know that its edge is honed through enough that the errant leaves in the wind might fall upon the blade and be cut. I can read the gentle curve of the structure, the sugata, from tsuka to tsuba to kissaki— hilt, guard, tip. The blade itself mimics metal on closer inspection, its hada appearing in the minute channels of Soul that fill the boundaries— a pattern akin to her fingerprints, to the many rings 'round the trunk of the willow. Most beautifully of all, those tiny channels, streams of Self, converged down the length of the cutting edge, estuaries conforming into the mighty river of her blade's hamon. The pattern within the lines was a rippling wave of mist, specks of pure white within the stable cerulean field, like dust made of diamond caught in the current. They lend the cutting edge a greater luminosity than the spine. They are the seat of the blade's most important refinement— raw force turned into a precise instrument. It's everything I need to emulate, in pragmatic terms. That's what I know to focus upon. The process I've felt, the framework being drawn from memory, and the easy filling of that frame with energy, water into a vase. It's a world away from what I have been doing. I feel the difference— it lacks pressure, lacks force, lacks the turbulence of ambivalence crushing the structure. I felt it all through her process. I need to be able to feel it without her guiding hand. That's the priority of this exercise. But... I can't help myself. When I see the creation before me, I can only think it a work of art. The culmination of countless hours refining skill, precision, clarity of that which resides deep within ones' being, brought into the fore through pure expression. It's a painting, it's a sculpture, it's... a sword. Beautiful simply in how it's shaped like itself. Metallurgic arts and Psionic arts occupy the same slot in my head, when I am confronted with craftsmanship like this. There's beauty in the skill, in the exactness of proportion and fine detail, in the purity of the form. That kind of crystal-clear image is one I've beheld only... "Hold tight!" echoes Sasaki, in far-off thunder. Once. The lake ripples again, and embers rise and fade away again from the charred grasses. With a thought, I motion my hands to rest upon the flat from beneath, between Kilanya-renshi's. It's not a real manifestation, and real ones are unable to be wrested from the Menti who produce them. Those are long-understood rules of the Disciplines, the nature of our connections with the weapons. They are our souls borne into the without, but they naturally must be linked to the within. What's happened here isn't that. It's more like recalling the process, I believe. The way you know how to do something you've done a thousand times, down to the smallest elements, without actually needing the tools in your hands or a stance to stand in. A feeling your mind, body, and soul all remember perfectly. It's so much more efficient than my own, in this way. What she holds is an image of everything I've said. It is the memories, it is the process, it is the sap, it is the Soul. As much as she is the tree, the blade is her representation. A painting she cannot forget the strokes for, a carving she sees in the grain of all wood. While we are in the recesses of the mind, an image like that holds tangible weight, value you can know and feel. And I take it into my own grasp, rising to meet the boundaries of the Imagined Soulsword with ginger reverence. I am holding something priceless here— and if her hands deign to fall away, I know letting it drop would be a slap in the face to all the work that led to its creation. We are in the mental realm. This is the only place I could hope for a chance to so thoroughly interact with an Image like this. If allowed, if able, I: have to do it properly.:
  9. IC: Rudra, 小さい竜 (Chiisai Ryuu) The Hero of Naho Bay Hmmmmm. That stuffy leff-tennant had been quiet an awful long time... some logjam in the chain of command after all? No good. If they wouldn't play ball, he'd have to take the ship and get the whole thing moving himself. What a pain that'd be... But surely, Mata Nui would lend his favored son another boon? In his grip, the not-really-a-Toa's head rolled, stirred... and a groan escaped her lips. So she was alive! My eternal thanks, Great Spirit! This I can work with! He shook the young woman again, more vigorously now, definitely coaxing her as he called out to Ageru Tazera in a bellow thick with tension, a thunder of the oncoming storm rolling through the hull. "Hey hey, what's the hold up? They care about her or not?" If he could get her eyes open, get that eye contact between the two crewmates again... he'd be able to really squeeze her for it. Since she clearly had more attachment to this girl than her immediate superiors, probably that faceless voice of their commodore that only wanted to spout platitudes from afar and do nothing but delegate when faced with the lives of her subordinates, He needed to attack that to get to her, his only mediary for that side of the table he could really trust this bit to work on. So all the more reason to wake the harmless, maskless thing up— remind Tazera of who she was really fighting for. Did he dare push his luck further? ...Surely, Mata Nui would lend his favored son a bolt of reason for these foreigners. Really, why was it a question they had to grapple with? He had her Right Here.
  10. IC: Jolek "No worries, bro." It felt familiar, his rock-hard knuckles tapping against a friend's of similar mindset and conditioning. Once, this had been a daily occurrence. Once, it had been the signifier of a promise, just as much as this one was a friendship. The Lesterin seemed to have clear heading now— the fog of confusion that had knotted up his face no longer seemed to cloud his bearings. What the man had said was non-committal, sure— But this wasn't the first time Jolek had seen a renewed purpose and drive alight in the direction of this "Seprilli" even today. He'd find his way there, doubtless. He'd dig up whatever past was worth finding from the new memories and shape his future with it. Learn. Grow. Experience. This would be a journey in far more than mind, far more than miles— The kind that he was supposed to go on, before he began spinning his wheels. What the karz had happened to that? "Good luck."
  11. IC: Jolek "Well," he began, running back over what he'd known. "Just today I had a girl blaming some Pirate named Lokhar for getting from there to here." It was a name that'd popped up a few times before Hakari, but not so often that it seemed like he was the end-be-all answer to everything. If his pugilistic cohort recognized him, then it'd speed along the same lines as last time— maybe Jol's last name would help him out here too. If not... "Point of order being that it sounds like it's pretty far— past that fog you see way out on the cliffs. Need a ship for sure to get there." Back to general terms. There was only so much help he could give here, and not simply due to his own gaps in knowledge, either. More to the point— "That'd mean taking a hike to Ga, same way I sent her." he conferred. "It's not like we've got much of a port, let alone any Navy— couple of docks, really. The naval minded are packing their things and going north. You..." There were a few guards he could send this guy to to compare notes, but he'd not known any of them well. Gyrahn, A Skakdi of Earth, had invited him for drinks wiuth the fellas once, but been politely rebuffed as the fa-Toa was walking home. They'd not spoken three words since. Lasavra, a normally flighty wind Lesterin, seemed to close off whenever he caught her muttering about the sudden memories of Seprilli, like she didn't trust him listening in. The Rumbling Brothers, a Fe-Skakdi that Fought as much as he Drank and a Fe-Lesterin that Drank as much as he Fought, already didn't seem to like him— "too quiet. It's weird that he doesn't make a fool of himself a little." he'd overheard, before both gave him the side-eye as he'd ambled through the training area, before returning to packing their bags. Effectively, he didn't think any of these weirdos would help, and the others would barely know his name if the man dropped it. May as well just go the more direct route, in Jolek's opinion. "Your chances are much better if you swing up there and get through an actual crew."
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