Razgriz

IC: Jolek "Nah. I'm good with directions." That one flippant, devil-may-care, assured by an adolescence of proof. "I've been... Here. Here and In There." This one none of that. Ponderous, strained. Faltering, as though there was more that needed, or maybe desired dictation. Yet couldn't, regardless. "Ga and Ko once, too, but only passed by." An afterthought, and not pretending they weren't. If he'd been pressed by his counterpart, he would've barely been able to name anything he'd done in either. When he pressed himself, for that matter, he could only come up with an idea of "something about a school?" He wasn't hiding anything— it wasn't him. However vexed it might leave the Lesterin, This was It. He clicked his tongue. "Signed on before I could fill the gap. Bombing and all— Speaking of, I should ask the same:" His eyes met the Lesterin's again, finally. Still narrowed, searching, they weren't hostile— just direct. Following a lead that was personal, not professional. "Lotta Lesterin and Skakdi we've got on call have had new memories turn up out of the blue on them lately. You from that..." "Seprilli...that's the island I'm originally from. It's the homeland of all Lesterin. I'm not sure why, but I remember it now." "Seprilli place too?"

IC: Jolek Still staring in the direction of home?, the Fa-Toa's eyes narrowed for a moment, coming to a conclusion with an unspoken process. "...Nope." Maybe before he'd washed up, but that would have just been like all his family's stories to the conversation they were having now— secondhand. A beat later— No, two— Three, the— "Never been, actually."

IC: Jolek The soft thumping rung through his bones, inaudible to the world around him as he mulled over the question. The thought of running out of trees was absurd, for one— but then again, the original wall-whacker didn't seem to be too familiar with the jungle. Even now, his monochrome counterpart wasn't certain if he was truly all too familiar with the city. Who was to say it was any different, then from him all of... how long had it been? A year ago? A few months? A decade? He'd never kept track, instead just letting it pass. In a way, it must have seemed like looking at a mirror of the road not taken. The tangle of wood and vine regarding and being regarded by the grid of stone and ash. A "dabbler" versus a "generalist". Trees and Walls. Known and Discovered. "Depends on the tree." he replied, enigmatic in the statement of the obvious. "Young ones with fruits like bananas are soft. Bendy. You can put all the force you can handle into it. Get good enough that you smash them down in time. Charred ones we've got here are stiffer. Brittle. Dry. Hard surface, but no give." Thump. His hand had pulled back until the fingertips brushed the stone behind again— and now swiftly turned over as the knuckles careened back into the wall with a stern report. Only so much velocity you could build up over a few inches; not enough to break skin, but enough to feel and compare. "But the hardwoods are different. They're big and dense, and their bark'll bend you long before you bend them. If you know what you're doing, you're not gonna blast those anywhere close to full speed. If you don't..." Half-theatrically, but wholly illustratively, he pulled the knuckles free from the pub behind him and shook them out. If anything, the wall might have been more forgiving on simple account of smoother surface, now that he'd done both. Here, he folded his arms in kind and leaned back into the relatively cool stone, before his eyes and head drifted South. "This whole town wouldn't be able to run out of either of 'em, let alone me. Not for a long time."

IC: Jolek He nodded along, watching the hand protection slide into a previously unclocked pouch on the belt passively. For all the fella's tension moments ago, he seemed comfortable enough to humor the conversation— his earlier jabs (verbal and physical [snappy enough to take note of either way]) hadn't been the precursor to a back-alley brawl after all. Not a surprise, not really— things were never really escalating— but nonetheless a small relief. Secluded area in the middle of a worker's district meant everything was a little more rough-and-tumble, just by nature of where they were. Honestly, that was why he'd liked it. Kept him honest. "Dabbler's not a bad thing to be." he said simply, lifting his right arm to the wall behind him, opposite Myhruk's canvas. Slowly, calmly, he wrapped his hand into a firm, compact fist once his fingertips brushed the slate, before pressing his knuckles (first two, always) into the stone, as though testing the idea himself. "Everything's got ideas. Better a deep bag of tricks than a shallow one." His tone wasn't quite reassuring. More like elaborating, concurring. Whatever character judgement the Su-Lesterin feared, it wasn't coming from him. Rather, the only evaluation that mattered was technique. Having discovered the source of the noise, his initial curiosities were already satisfied— At this point, the off-duty enforcer was happily talking shop.

IC: Jolek "Guard's the job." he answered pointedly, making a distinction he saw that the wall-puncher hadn't deigned to speak on. Maybe there wasn't one for him. Who the karz did conditioning on a solid, flat stone that thick? "As for the Art, I'd call myself more a generalist. I take it you are?" Not untrue, but hands were in his top three. He couldn't help liking kicks and knees.

IC: Jolek The Fa-Toa blinked, almost nonplussed, then felt his brows begin to draw close, just so. Guy wasn't a talker per se, but... Well, his tongue was acrid enough. Testy fella. "I grew up in Le-Wahi." he replied, offering little more than a shrug as he folded his arms. "They were there. Charred Forest isn't too much of a hike for me, so I keep the habit." Folding in his next answer to the grunted questioning, he pointed back towards the wall of carved slate, pockmarked with scuffs and scrapes from the impact of the metallic rings upon its formerly uniform surface. "And being honest, part of it's the rounded surface and material of the wood having enough give to go bareknuckle on and make sure my form's correct—" Wryly, the corner of his mouth quirked upward. "Another part's that I'm pretty sure that's the back room of a tapestry place you're knocking on. I'd get complaints."

IC: Rudra, 小さい竜 (Chiisai Ryuu) The Hero of Naho Bay He continued to stalk backwards with his quarry in tow, her heels sliding against the flooring of the bridge dully while Tazera spoke. He could see the slack jaw fighting the furrowed brow beneath the clenching, choked words. She didn't know whether to be scared or angry, but one thing was clear: she wasn't talking so tough any longer. That was good. What was better was that none of her tension had snapped to stop his movement as he crept towards a back panel, one of the few lacking a redecoration that smelled like fresh ozone. THUNK. Amid the clamor of the Dasakan Navy, scrambling over his sub like so many ants on a carelessly kicked mound, Rudra's ears caught the faint sonorous thudding of a body hitting one of the decks from a fair height, incongruent with the many taps that were muffling through and upon the hull. It was far away enough that, were he not so keenly aware of his surroundings thanks to weighing his odds on the stunt moments prior, he'd have totally missed it— But he was excessively pleased he hadn't, manic expression unfurling into a victorious chuckle. Perfect. She'd kept her word for sure— Negotiations were under way, and that was definitely gonna be that stuck-up Commodore bringing herself down to sea level to bargain for the girl. Very, very good. Almost there. He was sure that, one way or another, he was leaving this a winner. If the Leff-tennant had faltered here, of all, times, then surely even if her superior officer held more strictly to those "virtues" that blindly sacrificed the cogs for their machine... she'd be none too happy. Clearly she wasn't so hard-nosed after all. A worst-case scenario of dysentery in the ranks. You had to love those odds. "Now you're speakin' my language." he spoke brazenly, nodding once, then twice as the Dasaka placed her fingers to her temples to keep pleading to her superiors to see reason. "Violence never solves anything when you can just talk." Without waiting for a reply, he stepped back again— and felt his heel touch the boundary. This was as good as his position was gonna get. He could take in most every part of the room here... and most every part of the room'd still see the sparks on his fingertips. He pulled his loaded gun a millimeter back as he watched, imperceptible to the emotionally stricken antagonist of his... And without really knowing why, shook the fighter whose lapel he held in that white knuckled grip, as if seeing whether or not he could rouse her. Arm hooked under hers as he had it in taking her hostage, their heads were naturally stuck quite close together— he'd even craned his neck once or twice to avoid her noggin lolling straight into his brow while he was trying to sell his bit. He thought he might have heard a groan, so working on that assumption— "You know, you're lucky." The bravado had all but totally erased itself his voice, instead leaving beneath his breath in a softened, almost contemplative murmur. Whether or not she heard was only for her to know. "'Fight to death', 'know nothing of honor'—Yeah, you're lucky, alright. Lucky your boss is full of ####." He clicked his tongue and then snorted a fraction of mirth, a weird little thought occurring. "That's...Lucky for me too actually— Guess you caught some of mine." ...Back to waiting.

IC: Ageru Shiki (Dastana Republic Odaiba Encampment - Fort Kizuno) I can hear the severity in her tone, and despite the sorry state of my training, I'm more than aware of how well-founded it is. I've only ever heard of the Eiyu clan, who are generations-old specialists in Ideatalk, sharing a mental state like this— to forcibly link a consciousness by utilizing the Willhammer is a tall order, if she intends to leave me with any agency. I know that my mental defenses would be strained at best right now if I were to resist. So. "Yes, Toroshu-dono." I bow my head deeply and close my eyes. I won't. I understand that even in accepting such a grasp upon my Mind willingly comes with inherent risk. I could easily begin to lose my sense of autonomy if she overreaches even slightly, and with her Mind taking Root within mine... she's correct. I could well share more than I mean to, simply thanks to her access to the unfiltered flow of Thought. There is great import in the naming sense of our disciplines, after all— "Willhammer" hammers the will, not the declarations that ring within our heads. Emotion, intent, memory, association, action— all are brought to heel by the art, and all are known to the practitioner the very moment they're known to me. What's more, the participant's capability needs careful monitoring, too. If something goes awry, I could be pushed too hard for my own training, or even my own wellspring of energy. If in her demonstration, the Action were to accidentally leak into me, as though orders sent to the wrong ship in the Navy, I would begin helplessly watching my body try to forge an alien blade— something so wholely unfamiliar to my Soul that Rejection would swiftly recoil into me, as though I failed the dangerous internal steps. Altogether, I have to acknowledge those risks, just as she has. "If I can feel the difference, I'm sure I can start on the right path. I want to be able to pull my weight." Like Mom did. If this is my way forward that I've been incapable of finding this whole time, I accept them. I won't lie. I, like anyone, have my misgivings about baring my being like this, when there's the possibility of correcting the issue without such an intrusion onto my fragile, faltering Self. Even when you invite it, the entry is forceful. You wouldn't want anyone, even your best friend, kicking down your door. But as she said— we don't have such a possibility. For Ageru Shiki to continue as she has been now, I would never be up to speed in time to protect the people I care about. This is the only option that gives me the chance to fight. If there's even a hope for a miracle, I have to seize it. I might not be safe for the duration— but if I were to flounder endlessly, I wouldn't keep anyone safe for as long as I live. One in a thousand, or one and never. That's all there is to it— so it's fine. A breath escapes my lungs as I sit in seiza, helping the bundle of tensed muscle that is my shoulders slack and rest. "I'm ready when you are."

IC: Jolek "Hm. That's tough, planning..." he scratched the back of his head, brow of his Pakari furrowing in open annoyance. "I mean, with the job, you just never really know— Something pops up, we get called in or need to work extra." He folded his arms now, crossing them over a lightly rumbling stomach that was broken up by sounds of masonwork drifting in from afar. Truth be told, he'd not changed much in regard to his taste for alcohol since the last time that sort of offer was extended to him... But if he remembered right, Pumice at least had some decent food to fill the void. At the very least, he'd gotten the impression from overheard dinner plans. Were it not for this obstacle, he wouldn't mind giving things a shot and making good on a promise, but... "Ah, whatever!" Things inside came to a head, popped, and released all at once as he decided he was overthinking— to karz with locking himself into a day he couldn't speak for properly. Regimentation, scheduling— it'd sort out on its own anyway. Balian'd more than likely be there, the Turaga'd said so himself. "I'll drop in when I can, we oughta catch each other after a couple days at most. If not tomorrow, the day after. One of the two's gotta work." It wasn't like he'd break out of the larger-scale holding pattern, anyway. A night would line up. Could be tomorrow, could be in three days— but it'd be there. He turned for the door after double-checking his belt, opening it before standing in the frame for a moment. He never really had gotten farewells figured out. Well, the whole point of things is that this wasn't supposed to really be one, right? The wiry young man looked over his shoulder, and smirked. "'Till then, Balian." And at the Turaga's response and not a moment later, he vanished into the street, a ghost on the wind. Time to head home, settle his stomach (That Lava Rat was well and dried by now), and think some things over. —————— Two hours passed before he hit the streets again, gut full of a light stew that served to take the edge off of the pit that had been steadily growing since the end of his rounds. Given that he usually kept active even in his lounge time, he liked not to gorge these days— if he wasn't in the jungle, making things last over the span of weeks at a time between hunts, he needed to keep everything from weighing him down too much. That kind of thing. So saying, he found himself milling the network of pathways through the village, waiting for just a few minutes more for his stomach to fully settle before he hit the woods again— this time for his own reasons. If he needed to mull anything over, or at least shake off a day that was bugging him, Jolek had found his own ritual. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. What the Karz is That? Stonework? He couldn't help it, having time to kill— as he drew close to the source of the noise, stemming from a winding alleyway along the outskirts of the manufacturing district. He'd thought it was the stonework he'd heard earlier at the Dragon Forge... but down this alleyway? Really? That ain't right. Curiosity overtaking him, and stomach abiding, he ducked down the winding path of cobblestone footways and carved obsidian walls at a light jog, each bounding step chewing through the distance until he came across a dented stretch of wall, and... As previously stated, he had his rituals for clearing a clouded mind, letting work wash away thought until understanding seemed to bless him. With the day's events, he had been about to pursue that one in earnest, just as the man before him, albeit— "Sheesh. I stick to trees." he murmured, eyes flickering curiously as he noticed the rings of brass 'round the Lesterin's phalanges. That was weird. Limited the conditioning to just the bone stacking, rather than absorbing the brunt of the impact on the knuckles— one's technique would slag. Bareknuckle was smart to reinforce proper placement every now and again... at the very least, hitting with the flat of the fist first would give you bad habits. Ones you'd break away from quickly. —With a few differentiating factors.

IC: Jolek Perhaps before realizing it had slipped free, the Fa-Toa shared the chuckle, scooping the widgets off the stool and making as many notes as he could to remember he owed Balian a drink in his head should their paths cross again. Guess there wasn't much to hide from a man that studies faces and masks— even if you didn't realize you were wearing 'em. "Read me like a book." Clinking, jangling sounds of metal on metal joined the concert, the high and bright beats over the top of the subtle hiss and gloop of the melting metal of the mask as the Toa offered not a handshake, but the fist that had always felt more natural. Compact, and hard as stone, and with pronounced knuckles, it too was the signifier of his craft, just as the forge was his new friend's. "Hold me to that, yeah? I can forget things pretty easy, but I owe you that much."

IC: Ageru Shiki (Dastana Republic Odaiba Encampment - Fort Kizuno) Her words are vague enough on their own, even before the voice carrying them steeped itself in metaphor that could well be directly illustrative. In matters of the Minbd like this, it's hard to blame her— I've had more than one of my prior teachers grumble about how difficult perspectives and perceptions can be to synchronize. When dealing with such a craft as this, the struggles of differing ways of thinking are all but impossible to avoid. Nonetheless, I'm listening as intently as I can. If one framework wasn't working, then surely knowledge of the other could only help. A lot of what she said made sense to begin with... I could see where it might link to what I had known— or thought I'd known. But uprooting the understanding is hard work. Reconciling it with the inertia of so much I'd done before... I couldn't do it immediately. "Please, by all means." No matter what we did here, I wouldn't be able to make such a prodigious swerve.

IC: Rudra, 小さい竜 (Chiisai Ryuu) The Hero of Naho Bay ... Let me tell you a story. I was always a man of the sea, you know. Growing up around Ga-koro, it's bred into you even as a man with the blood of foreign elements— even firespitters from here can feel the call. I wasn't any different. I did my time as a deckhand aboard a merchant caravel, shipping rice to Onu-Koro. I know the route well. Those are rough seas up there— always brewing up a storm. It was the dead of night, and rain was beating down upon the oaken boards. As a Vo-toa, I was naturally among the crew that got the short end of the stick— had to keep rigging the sails against the thrashing wind. I learned a lot about the sea in those days. Currents, reef patterns, the topography of the rocky spire below the waves. I learned a lot about the storm, too. One of my compatriots, a fellow crewmate picked up in Le-Wahi, was scrambling around the main mast to keep our lateen sails properly against the southward winds. He was a hardworking Toa of Iron, which in retrospect may in turn have had something to do with it. But our ship had three masts in total— fore, mizzen, and main. In the fireworks of the open sea, most of us were just doing our best to survive the ride of the waves, a feat in and of themselves when maintaining course— but his was the worst task of all. For while struggled against the dervish, he felt the hammer of the storm. I still remember the heat. even as a Vo-Toa, innately resistant to the shock, I could feel my skin tingling and standing on its end before our mast went a pure, blazing white. I was deafened by the crash and explosion, an explosion of the force of the sea's and storm's shared anger that drowned out even the wind, so all that remained were my eyes— And I saw him, clinging to the rigging of the masts, entire body clenching and seizing. I saw his eyes, panicked, as his spine burned and heartlight flickered without rhythm. You can surely picture it. He didn't let go. Why not? The Vo-Toa's grin widened, edges of his mouth pulling back to reveal yet more teeth as his eyes met Tazera's again as she whirled, panic splayed plainly across her face. So she did feel it, then? No matter. It was already too late, for her lackey was already reaching out, grasping for his freely offered wrists, guard all the way down. Whatever she wanted to do to stop it, she wasn't close enough, and wasn't fast enough, and he'd just spotted a crack in all the things she'd said. Because he couldn't. At once, all the stored elemental energy Rudra had sequestered into himself, built as raw static charge, found a new path to circuit through. All those untold hundreds of volts surged out through his wrists and into her palm, clamped down irrevocably onto his left wrist as her body and mind went into a tensed, involuntary lock, the buzzing and undeniable energy of the storm flowing through her. Whether or not it would kill her, the Vo-Toa wasn't certain— he'd already been running low on juice while making his pitch to Aeragot, and these were, admittedly, pretty tough military aliens. Lightning from Mata Nui himself wasn't always a sure kill either, let alone his humble scion— but he was certain it'd knock her out. Enough, at least, to turn this around yet. "You looked, Lieutenant!" he crowed triumphantly, exploding into motion. His free hand rocketed forward towards the young Menti's face even as the current flowed through their paired system, clawing fingers snatching the edges of her Kanohi. "Hahahahaha, you were bluffing!" Wrenching back, he ripped the mask free and flung it far, far away, out towards the ruined remains of the bulkhead that had once sealed them off from the outside world. A clear message to any who entered, and something he was sure the officer's eyes were also bound to follow. He cut the current now, as the seizing not-a-real-Toa finally went limp in his grasp. Any strength she might have had through the shock, seemingly as totally unexpected as it may have been, had now left her as her whole world grew heavy. Even if she had been trained to function without it normally, between it, the thunder that had flowed through her, and competing with him and his Kanohi-enabled athleticism would doubtless still be no contest. By the time Tazera's eyes flicked back to Rudra (if we assume they followed the Kanohi), he had snaked his left arm around the guard's neck, shoulder, and back, hooking under the armpit and gripping the lapel of her uniform coat. What use did she have for that anyway? This boat would suffer no winds. His right hand was now in a very familiar posture, but an inch away from her exposed temple as the tip of his finger gun crackled and snapped threateningly. His last, probably, but enough to sell this. In fact, he had the heavens on his side— it only took some time on the water for a storm to grow anew on the waves. As long as she believed it, he'd doubtless earn time to make it real. "YOU STILL SAY THEY'RE ALL READY TO DIE, AGERU TAZERA?!" he roared, loud enough that it would reverberate into the halls where more doubtless lay in wait. "YOUR HONOR WORTH THIS LIFE?!" He wore the face of something more feral than a man. Beneath panting, tense breaths, a snarling, rakish threat of a smile, his eyes pinned the officer-at-command to the place she stood as he began to slowly shuffle backwards, intent to pull the entire room into his view. He had to press this for all it was worth. Not give her any time to counter this gambit. Mata Nui was on his side. He had to keep pushing forward now, if he lost faith in the Spirit, then the Spirit would lose faith in him. "Let's write a new deal, you and me. I want two things!" he began at a growl, before eclipsing it with a rough bark, the sharp volume going for the attention of all listening. "I want all your goons off this ship, and I want my passage to Onu-Wahi!" His knuckles around her coat's collar were bone-white, and his fingertips jammed towards her temple, compressing that space to a mere centimeter. "Get my boat moving, before she gets to FOLLOW THOSE 'IDEALS' OF YOURS!"

IC: Jolek "Yeah, that's what I've been telling myself..." He was... pretty sure, at any rate. That way of speaking sure as karz wasn't getting any easier to parse, certainly— but the majority of the words, however accented, were there, lining up with his old reassurances from peers and himself alike. The thoughts weren't without merit, and probably weren't even necessarily untrue, either... but something still seemed to ring hollow to the Fa-Toa's ears. Moreso coming from his own mouth, rather than Balian's. As far as the maskmaker was concerned, he was a man who'd found a calling in honing his art, walking his Way, in a path that lead from home to forge and back again. There were plenty in the Guard who could say the same, too. Jol knew they had their roots in this city, their callings to defend it that came from well-thought reasons and senses of duty to their home. They said as much, often as they liked, in training facilities and on patrol. About half of the people that walked the street day in and day out were reserve forces, to boot (according to Angelus, at any rate). Ta-Koro had the valiant defenders the smith was speaking so glowingly of on call and in spades, men and women who lived and breathed the Volcano's ashes and tasted Home. Those with ties binding them here. ... Friends locked behind the doors and shackled by that same duty. A lion in a cage of high black stone and paperwork. Family, those that accepted him as such, gone into the mists, off on one last adventure. People he'd only just learned to Know, and be Known by, as wraithlike as he. Foes still lurking in the shadows, quietly biding time as the Koro's marshaled forces settled into this new time of their lives. Always the ones you can't see coming, always the ones you just sit and wait for. "Well, if nothin' else," he drawled, rising to his feet and fumbling around his beltline in search of the widgets he'd previously proven his own naivete with. "Patrolling these days gives me nothing but time to keep holding out for it, right?" He located the pouch, slipping his fingers inside and plucking free a loose fistful of the coins with a pensive expression— not quite a grimace, not quite a grin. Maybe he did feel a little awkward after all. Eventually, it settled into something that felt friendly, if nothing else— looking at a mask being made most have made him more conscious of his own face than usual. He placed them on the stool, warm from his weight and the heat of the craft he was observing. It was a haphazard pile, totalling about a meal's worth in widgets. "For the trouble."

IC: Rudra, 小さい竜 (Chiisai Ryuu) Bridge Watching the erstwhile candidate for a Fair Take (Rudra wouldn't mind letting him post up on the back half of the sub while they made the trek to Onu and refined their sales pitch) amble away unaccosted, Rudra felt his mind be set at ease. In truth, he didn't believe overly in good-hearted deeds going and being punished, even if that sort of fettering tended to be what got in the way of his scams— at the very least, repaying favors was still in the playbook. He'd not proved himself an obstacle— and really, what more could you ask for on a caper? Staying out of the way was a support all its own. All this saying— "Good kid," the Vo-Toa allowed a smirk to play across his mask, the click of his tongue heralding a kindly disappointment in his sigh. "Real shame he can't see it." His tone was conversational, casual. Almost compliant, in comparison to his earlier standoffishness. When he offered Tazera that same smile, his hands came with it, lowering calmly out in front of his chest, a little beyond a manacles' breadth apart. His eyes were less readable, but he was always unsure how people could present them as anything else. Focus, big dog. You get one last ride out of it. These last drops count. Around him, though, and hopefully beneath notice, the air began to feel like brushing feathers against the skin. If someone, preferably someone psychic and wearing Toa's faces ran in to grab him, bind him, cuff him... They'd be shocked to learn why. He knew he'd be thrown in a pit, if he was lucky.

IC: Jolek "Me?" He had remained quiet for the Turaga's answer, nodding along as the old man had spoken of the pride he took in seeing his creations brought to life upon people's faces, rather than seeing them as becoming them. He supposed it made sense from that viewpoint too— when he could pierce the seemingly-thickening dialect. At times it took a moment's focus, usually while the older man paused to take a breath. All the while, his eyes never seemed to leave the work being done. He narrowed his brow as he rolled the question over internally, watching the master tradesman nick away at imperfections to find the form he saw beneath. To some end, even if it wasn't all that tied to an identity in the wearer, that detailing held one in itself. Was that supposed to just be the craftsman's self-expression, then? Or did it take upon a distinction of its own? How could you say it's different from another Miru he's made? Maybe it's not for anyone but the maker to know. "I signed on after the bombing, like a lot of people," he answered as he finally met the eyes of his impromptu acquaintance, gold presenting a strangely dulled sharpness to green. "I'd known Captain Angelus for a while before that, and always had taken up a bit of a vigilante streak to keep busy. Had ventured out towards Ga a little bit before that, but honestly hadn't ended up doing much on my own. Came home in time for the siege. During the bombing, I'd kind of just..." He shrugged, as there was really not much to work with here. He had really just heard the commotion. "Wandered into the alleyway facing the East side, a little after the explosion. Bunch of other people all lined up out there trying to smoke a couple of them holed up in there out, so I fell in with them— eventually they ran right into us. I owe the blue one a dent in the back of the head." For a moment, the spark of something raw appeared in the depths of his gaze, cutting through the dull, almost apathetic recitation of everything beforehand. "If I'd just been able to see the brakas..." The point of light soon faded beneath the reflection of the forge, however, and he continued on. "Well. After that, I figured that if I was gonna post up in a house around here and liked fighting anyway, I'd better join up officially. Be on call for when my buddy needs me. Help out since it's basically what I've got for a home, now that I'm outta the jungle." The Fa-Toa folded his arms and let out a puff of air through his nostrils, a frustrated grimace playing over his face. "Except that kinda day hasn't really come. I'm just out on patrol trying to fill the time, because every shift's been feeling the ****** same. So do the roads." He glanced down at the drying Lava Rat. Dinner. "Bet the food would too, if I didn't go and catch it on my off time. Guess I've been doing some second-guessing."

IC: Ageru Shiki (Dastana Republic Odaiba Encampment - Fort Kizuno) I blink. ............. I blink. Define, then fill? But we're supposed to make the sword, and that means I need to be able to access the raw material at all before worrying about shaping it. What's there to mold and decide how it flows, if we treat it like water? I understand I'm wrong in what I'm doing now, but— "Hwah?" The sound of a fine, hairline crack, like first hoarfrost beneath a heavy step— And then, glass shattering. "...Ah." I was left with a palm becoming a closed fist as it grasped only void. In my racing mind, I'd forgotten to meter the Soul's pressure— and regulate the boundaries with my Mind as it was wandering. I let my brow openly furrow, too annoyed to hide any consternation at this point, and rubbed my temples as the shards of glittering ultramarine dust were swept up by the wind. "That's... pretty fundamental, then. I'm not sure I even understand. Mold it first?"

IC: Jolek "Funny how it works like that." A smirk flickered across the Toa's Pakari this time, taking his eyes off the mask-in-progress to finally pull the corner-dwelling stool to the fore, the metal legs floating quickly into his hand before he set them back to the floor. Seemed he was running into kindred spirits and shared circumstances all over the place. Sometimes, it felt like he might've been the weird one for feeling like the weird one in such sense. "Some days it feels like I'm lucky I knew my name when I hit the shore, but getting in dustups just... ran deeper. Never doubted it." And yet this man was another who didn't share the turbulence, a small, quiet part of him noted. "It's good to find a calling that quick, though. Happy for you." the rest of him relentlessly continued beneath the somewhat awkward, but friendly air of a lad not so used to small talk he was making. He was following a whim that didn't strike often— but for whatever unsurety that brought, worrying would make whatever problem might arise worse. As he sat, the young guard shifted the carcass to face the forge, letting the dry, hot air that billowed out from the glow brush over the flesh as Balian carved. He was now working past the shaping of the metal into the right frame, instead chipping out details— these on the brows. Thinking back on those aforementioned colleagues wearing the same Kanohi... Yeah, it was split into those two bits, wasn't it? Even on the different stylings. He felt his free hand reach up and brush along the smoother Pakari covering the same region. Then, down to the scar on it's cheek. If there was anywhere detailing mattered... "What's it like, seeing someone wear one of your masks?" he asked further on, taking a moment to glance back over his shoulder and towards the displays before returning his gaze to the craftsman. "Kinda like looking at a face you made?" Not literally, of course. Even he, bad with faces, knew that much. But you couldn't ignore the link between the face you wore and the person you were. A Kanohi was surely part of it. So in a sense, men like Balian played a part in people that way too. Right?

IC: Jolek "Oh." The glance back at the Fa-Toa, meant to carry a grin of jest and reassurance, nonetheless revealed to the old craftsman— no, Balian— an innocently nonplussed hand halfway out of a pocket and gripping the tied end of a jingling cloth sack. The expression matched the picture his hands painted, a high brows above golden eyes that clearly had been taking him seriously. I'm really gonna need to get better at this. "Thanks," he continued, letting the widgets slide back down with a shrug. He hadn't often kept many on his person to begin with— the weight had always shifted a little weirdly on his belt. The less transactions in the day, the better. Ambling up to the forge, he spoke again as his eyes, meaning to search for a chair and take the Turaga up on his offer, instead were drawn to the heated orange glow of the... "Jolek. It's a pleasure, sir." He squinted. ...Of the Miru. He had comrades with Mirus on the force. They usually got wall duty. Had that Fe-Matoran from earlier had a few Mirus among his many wooden masks? Truthfully, they'd all kind of blended together once the initial confusion at his attire wore off. In his line of work, and in his experience, the only ones that mattered were the ones on the face. The silence hung between them as the Turaga resumed his work, tapping away at spots Jolek's eyes told him were already in the right shape. If it looked right, it was right... right? He pondered his own craft. The details. Turning over the knuckles so the wrist and forearm supported the strike. Rising up onto the ball of the standing leg on a head kick, so the hips could fully rotate through and push power into the leg. Pointing the foot on a knee strike, much like the one he'd concussed that Skakdi with. He'd trained with all types of people with new wave of recruits after the Lavapool— few even noticed those when he did them, only how they seemed to make all the difference. "My first time stopping in, but I feel like I always pass you by on my patrol." he spoke without much preamble. The statement simply was. "How long you been making masks, Balian?" They were called Martial Arts because of those details— where form meant function, efficacy met artistry. An old man like Balian had probably shaped the faces of his fellows longer than Jolek had even known of a "Ta-Koro"— so if he was hammering, there had to be something there.

IC: Jolek "Even though their Ways are not ours, if you know the Way broadly, not one of them will be misunderstood... Touch upon all the arts."—Miyamoto Musashi Ting! Ting! Ting! The ringing bells of consistent forgework were long considered a constant backdrop to the bustle of the Ta-Koro streets. You could time your bula juice and plantain chip orders to them in a quick shop. Some guards had learned to use the rapport between rival shops as both metronome for their marches and audible reminders upon which district they were standing in. Street performing bards, carrying their lutes made from Kikanalo horn and gut string, used the rhythm for songs sung off the top of their masks. It was a welcome sound for many— for many, it was one of the signs of home, long before ghosts had floated up from the southern jungle and walked among their ranks. A rapping knock sounded through the Kanohi Dragon Forge's space, on the beats between the Purveyor's steady cadence of his craft. The owner of the gunmetal knuckles that had tapped the doorframe had always cultivated a good sense for rhythm in the Art he himself, after all. Matching and filling the space would catch the old man's attention, probably. Jolek had long written these sounds off before as something part of the low roar he now lived in. It certainly wasn't new to hear this shop— more than likely, the Turaga within was here far longer than he'd ever been. He wasn't sure what had changed things today— maybe just everything that had come before. Maybe he just figured the dry heat of a forge would dessicate his fresher-than-expected catch a little faster. Regardless, he couldn't recall ever dropping in on one of these shops of his own volition. If he sought something outside the routine toil... it'd be an easy start. "Yo," he said, youthful voice thrumming out from the lungs a little louder than normal to carry into the bright spot of the forge. "You mind if I watch for a bit?" The Turaga seemed a friendly sort, if the smile he wore was any indication. The gold of his Akaku shone with the heat of his craft, seeming to drink in the flames. The Toa of Magnetism, by contrast, could likely have been mistaken for an iron and gray Pakari display, had he stood still enough within the shop. As he glanced through the walls of the front, he saw relatively few works compared to what he'd expected, and no prices for any— weird. Maybe he did it for the process, in his later years? An afterthought struck. "Pardon the intrusion." OOC: I took a few liberties here with the layout, let me know if anything needs editing, @ARROW404

Tamahagane

IC: Ageru Shiki (Dastana Republic Odaiba Encampment - Fort Kizuno) My process, huh? Well, I suppose that's getting to the meat of things. It was high time many years ago. I know there've been a lot of masters before who've watched me try, but maybe talking through it is to shore up my weak points? Or... "Alright. I can do that, sure." I set the bokken at my feet, and kneel down, readying myself for the rigorous process as I settle into seiza. ...She could also be meaning to spot where my Mind and Soul are disconnected. "I need to gather my focus, firstly. I look inside for the pool." My breathing is forced into a constant, deep rhythm, mind turns inward. I shut everything else out. It's important. Soulsword is all about drawing what lies inside, and making it exist outside. for that, I need to look within. Everything outside me has to go. Even Toroshu Ageru Kilanya's presence. She is there to observe, and so... needs sit back and watch. I trust her to do that. I know she asked me to simply talk her through the process... But if a demonstration was fine last time, I think it's fine here too. "It's something I have as a Menti. A lake of light that I can draw from. Soul. Ki." My voice echoes around my consciousness, cavernous and distant. I'm Within now. My breathing is no longer breath. It is a wind, giving me direction, as it helps me pull Me into my core. "My blade is all I am." Once, I was taught to use a mnemonic, as if to hypnotize myself. It would help me know where to look more easily. Honestly, it does. A small tightness squeezes the very top of my spine. I'm close. I can feel the current humming. Through my veins. Through my nerves. It's in my breath, too. The spark of life that gives my heartlight its color. All through lines drawn within my frame, it flows and ebbs, pooling at the base of my gut. it is the sensation of staring through a void of white, and finding the streaks of blue that tint it just so. I unify everything at the lake's edge, and dive in. It dives with me. After all, it is me. Normally, you cannot access this. Not if you're untrained. Not if you're a Dashi. Datsue can feel it, but they can barely call it forth. That's the next step, once I settle in. "Got it. Now pull it free." The pressure builds. dimly, I'm aware that my brow is slightly moist. sweat from training? or the concentration? it isn't important I let the thought pass— as so many more do through this. Being this close to the mind in its raw state, it's only natural that the base senses are pretty much punching you in the face. They don't turn off on their own. The focus, the hypnotism if it still takes that, is what lets them slide past without hitching, getting caught, and stopping me in my tracks as my Mind gets stuck upon it in turn. In that sense, myself and I are at war. It's one I know how to win, but need to be wary of regardless. I pull it up through my nerves. The thin tendrils connected to my spine all through me bulge and recede with the passing of energy. This is a metaphor, because I'm pretty sure if it was literal I and any other soulsword would be dead. However— A soft grunt escapes me, as the wave of Life passes my heart. There I can hear its beats, the drums of war all around me. Then it passes into the background, as the energy keeps travelling. —I nonetheless do feel it. Something like a pulse of light, sent outward from the pool that is my Soul. It's a burning wave that make my vision flash red— albeit a red that just seems blue. It probably sounds horrible, but this is Spirit being melded in ways it isn't really supposed to— a little gritting of the teeth is just par the course. Ours is a path laced with Death. It defies the kind of sense that says "avoid the parts that hurt". Soulsword more than anything is a Resolute Acceptance. we bare our beings to the word, clash them against those of our fellow Menti, and slaughter and be slaughtered. Old Soulswords could be said to live their lives as drenched by blood. My Toroshu must be the same— though I've heard a Rahkshi's blood is like poison. To compare baring one's Soul to that, to plunging it deep within one, the piping-hot sawdust I'm trudging through is child's play. I hold my palm out ahead of me, feeling a fuzz like cotton and a ripple like the sea. I recognize the stimuli more closely, having carried the well up and through my arm with my mind. It's like swimming through a column of water. There is a tiny, tingling burn within my grasp— raw energy. It's what I could summon all those years ago, barely able to walk home from the examination afterward. I've practiced this much routinely, pretty much nightly even— I'm used to steeling myself past the throbbing heat at the base of my skull now. It is fused with me, as my Mind is fused with my Body and Soul. The system is set, and the pressure is high— I now must— "Let it... flow..." Ageru Shiki could never be a Sighteye with this method. I know that much. A Mindarm might make some breed of sense, but this isn't much different than actually lifting anything, in terms of effort. Given that it feels like I'm at the bottom of the ocean... Willhammer would only serve to drown others with me. Useless for what Willhammers are meant to do. There's only one thing I could ever be. My Awareness. "And..." My breath catches, a hitch that grinding teeth and a deep exhale turn into a growl. Wavering here is easy. one eye opens, as if to escape the vice upon the bottom of my skull and jaw. I see an ultramarine point glowing bright in front of me, drowning out the last rays of sun that retreated past the horizon during this. Or was it already down that far? I don't know. Time as a concept is shaky in the depths of the Self. One's body has many different rhythms it operates upon, and each could be used as a different metronome. Mine, I remember, is breath. "Shape it... to the sword." An image flashes from inside me. It's not quite in my thoughts, not quite in my vision. Somewhere between. Maybe because my consciousness, body, and spirit are intertwined in this torrential flow, a circuit of light, I can't tell because it came from everywhere in the spread. Maybe it also became out of nowhere, a spontaneity that hit Me in the manner of many thoughts— one that I've hit upon before. An unknown wellspring, striking time and again. It must be the sword within my soul, for I look upon it and I Know. I know Structure, I know Dimension, I know Length, I know Heft. I know more things, too. Things I can't shine a light upon, for fear of losing connection. But this is enough. I am a Soulsword. My consciousness still is tied to this energy, my Life is still threaded within my Mind. I have Power within my Palms. I must now simply give it Order. I grit my teeth, and feel a tension not muscular, but mental. A pull, as the sparking blue elongates, morphs, and changes. It slowly ripples, wrenches, and compacts over onto itself, like a smith blessed with metal to fold end over end over end. I am threshing wheat. I am molding clay. I am hammering my Knowns onto the World, already fighting the Energy of Me that has filled the Energy of Ambience. A fight against the World's passivity is arduous. I am telling it, over and over, that this form is taken by this energy. That this spark is here, and that it is shaped this way. A slot of Allowance in the shape I deign. That is where the energy can exist. Overstep my bounds, play it too loosely, and it evaporates, subsumed in the natural current of the World. I must make it this shape. Take the formless, and force form upon it. It is all of me. I am a sword. It is my soul. My soul is a Sword. I can hear my heartbeat again. This time it's in my ears, as my focus pulls in, out, then in again on the form in front of me. My breathing is rough, but steady to the cadence. I've done it. I don't always. Some of the pressure now recedes, as the energy is given proper circuit to flow through, a loop of blue fire. This is a circuit I can feel every part of. My Mind could shift everything it touches. Theoretically, anyway. In truth— My eyes both open now, and I behold a flickering, somewhat faint blue blade, in the shape of an uchigatana. An ancient style, for what little in matters. Most are far more exotic than this. If i swing it now, I know it needs to be in a perfect arc. Were my strike off even by a few degrees, it would become useless. It would shatter, sapphire dust on the wind. But it is here. This is the Seishinken (精神剣). The Blade of my Spirit. "Done." I say it plainly, unable to color anything more. I'm partially enraptured by it, but... In a war like this, None have use for a blade made of glass.

IC: Ageru Shiki (Dastana Republic Odaiba Encampment - Fort Kizuno) If I say I've avoided the worst possible outcome, I'm not necessarily wrong... But that'd be ignoring just how close it came. I swear I used to be better at watching my mouth... Her voice is hard as the crystal I've used upon the wall, and could easily be just as sharp. No mistake here as to how well that went over. Scrambling to right the ship like that really was just barely enough. She's still doubtlessly angry. I can see it in the firmness of her brow. I messed up for sure. My eyes flicker down to the earth, focusing on the point of my wooden sword as I furrow my brow, and speak. It's bad enough as-is now— So I can't go and hide anything. "To tell the truth, it wasn't the first time the proverb's been said to me— Viitkha, Raihime, and others all seem to get to the same conclusion as you have." I say it with what conviction I can muster. To me, it's been just as frustrating as I'm sure it was for them trying to teach me— all the more so now that I've gone and noticed the pattern weaving together from all the different threads the honored masters have read into my training. "A scythe held backwards cuts no stems, no matter how hard one reaps." It's vexing. Anyone in my situation— anyone else— would be a full-fledged Soulsword by now. It isn't as if I'm the only one struggling. I'm not that conceited. I know I'm not special in that sense. But I'm no Enali, for instance. I may have lost my birth parents, but I wouldn't call myself orphaned. Ageru Sasaki was as much a mother to me as any could have been in their wake, even if she was weakened for a good amount of our time together. So what if she could hardly train me? I know for a fact others have succeeded quicker with less. I feel like I've cycled through every possible teacher the Ageru could field— culminating here and now, at my Toroshu herself. And I've done my best to do exactly as they did. I've been emulating my betters my whole life, haven't I? "No great epiphany has blessed me." I finish lamely, beneath knotted eyebrows. "I've come up short. Something's missing, or I'm missing something." It can't be that I'm not meant for this Discipline. I had no aptitude anywhere else. I must be a Soulsword. In times like these, I remember the importance of controlling my breathing. It was part of my Mother's early exercises after the fire— trying to save both our lungs. Mine took to it better than hers ever could. I pull in a deep, hissing gulp of the evening air, crisp against my throat, and feel my heart settle somewhat. I can look her in the eye once more. "I had thought it was the same for everyone for a long time. But my focus will inevitably flicker, and then my blade shatters into the night. I know nobody can fight like that. Certainly not against those things that crawled out of Koshiki." My knuckles almost protest at me as I grip the handle.

IC: Ageru Shiki (Dastana Republic Odaiba Encampment - Fort Kizuno) I retract my wooden blade from a thrust back into my neutral guard ("Open Field, Closed Gate"), and weigh her words carefully beneath an exertion-furrowed brow. Part of me, I have to admit, wants to puff up with pride at the praise from a swordswoman of my Toroshu's caliber— while the rest of my mind busies itself with keeping that in check. Stiffness, hm? I might be tense from the vaunted audience, despite believing in it appearing last we met... Or, just as likely, I need to correct something in my training. second opinions can be hard to come by these days, so I've mainly been on my own for the past few weeks. Whatever the case might've been, I try to loosen my swings up, cutting some slack to the shoulders and elbows. I still tighten my body on the imagined moments of contact, of course, but I imagine it's not perfect. I know more than anyone that changing how your mind and body approach tasks takes time and effort. "I'm humbled, Ma'am." I reply, lashing out and surging forward with a trio of overhead strikes. Three snorting puffs of breath later, the grin I was fighting to force down wryly worms its way onto my face. "I have Viitkha-renshi to thank for it. Whenever we started we'd work forms, and whenever we ended she'd settle for pulling me into sparring drills." I say that, but it always felt angry. Like she was venting a little frustration with me through her shinai. I have to thank her, though— she never seemed to go overboard while beating me up. And it taught me that slacking my guard would get me killed. More than anything, she'd stressed to me that combat was life and death. If I didn't learn, I'd be gone before I knew it. I think Mom would've been similar, in that sense. "I guess I can beat the Rahkshi over the head well, if nothing else." As the words leave my mouth, I feel a twinge on the mental plane, and remember the last time I made a joke like this. Before I look my Toroshu in the eye again, I pivot of with an L-step and settle into Gedan no Kamae ("Threshing and Winnowing") tip aimed low towards the ground, pointing between my opponent's feet. Breathe and speak quickly. Try not to mess this up more than you have. If she starts, I'm doubtlessly the dumbest Menti alive. I can't let her think I'm this way because I don't listen. "I, ah... I was kidding, about that." I helplessly fumble anyway. "I know this is serious. I've done my best to contemplate what you said earlier." I frown, my kata dying as I straighten up. But it's gotten me nowhere fast.

IC: Jolek Highwind An hour passed, and the lone hunter returned to the village gates, his paltry catch in hand and none walking by his side. A common sight for every guardsman and guardswoman on gatepost rotation. An empty grin and wave of the free hand later, and they allowed their roaming comrade back into the cage upon the lake. OOC: I'll be away for a few days, but the amnesiac punch guard is off duty and Open for Interaction.

IC: Ageru Shiki (Dastana Republic Odaiba Encampment - Fort Kizuno) I swing through the air, loosing a breath through the nose as the bokken strikes the ribcage I see in my mind's eye. In the end, I didn't jump the gun on manifestation, even though I honestly would have any other evening— knowing the stakes, the eyes that would fall upon me, I figured it was the smarter choice to wait, and conserve my focus and brainpower. A girl's only got so much, and in spite of being eager, I didn't want to risk running myself ragged before I got any of that vaunted one on one time at all. "It's going, Toroshu-dono." I respond pretty classlessly as I allow the follow through to carry me into another downward chop, my wooden sword rising and falling like the foamy waves that crash against the coast, so far from here that you'd only catch wind of them by straining your senses. It's clearly me filling time— my words and actions both. I know that in calling out to the root of my training's issues, everything else feels like dodging the issue. Maybe she thinks I'm embarrassed. I guess she wouldn't be entirely wrong if that were the case, but as I'm not one of our five poor Willhammers, her only thoughts that I'm privy to are those she chose to broadcast. Until that point, I'm voice for voice with her. I guess that's actually something that could help— I've been through these form drills so many times, they fall naturally into a cadence of breath for me as the movements coincide. Inhaling on the subtle steps and pivots our school of swordsmanship hammers home from the beginning to carry the practitioner into dominant angles over the opponent, exhaling on strikes for proper power, force, and control— I knew the rhythm well enough that I was pretty comfortable speaking in it. A thing that spoke to my educational issues, at the very least, also spoke to my conditioning. I don't often get that much out of it. "I'm sorry, ma'am." I reply after a moment, my bokken drawing into a guard near my rear brow, tip pointed at my foe. Ko Gasumi no Kamae in standard parlance, but our scrolls gloss it into "Hewing Scythe that Steps Past Sprouts"— it's about the spacing and position of strikes that come from it, more than describing the stance's imagery. Gethseru-Toroshu had a pretty process-based naming sense, I guess. Anyone could learn the guards as a picture. Ageru learned them as stems. "I spoke disrespectfully." I step out at an angle as my blade whips around into a same-side diagonal cut through the shadow's collarbone, or down upon a staff held across. Maybe. I should probably transpose Rahkshi into this, at some point. "I'm working through the kata right now, as you can see— I'm used to it, since Viitkha-renshi always wanted to start us drilling the muscle memory while our minds were still fresh and ready to learn mechanics. It helps me get my focus together, too." Starting the breathing control, getting my brain melding around the blade, the work pushing away extraneous, unrelated thoughts. There's a lot this kind of warmup has going for it, in my view. Not in the least that it left me more time to pool my life force into my mental strength. I need that time to prepare my mind for becoming my Mind.