Stolen Goods (Round Three)

[Kitsuné]

OoC: It's finally up! Shot, Exodus, you know the drill.

Blood. Pools of thick liquid gashing freely across kitchen tiles; words glittering across the pale green wallpaper. Crimson carved into the wall paper, the words bleeding through reality. Tears meshing with blood. Heishuro peered at Taki throughout the chaos, his stare bound to hers. Taki began to move toward her brother; her arms swinging at weeks; her lengthy strides at months. But Maruchi’s gaze did not waver; nor his eyes flicker. As she reached him, he felt his power pulse inside him. His grip automatically tightened on Xuriken, but with his sister at his side, wouldn’t need to be his saviour.

“Destiny?” he whispered softly, his gaze bending under hers, and glancing beyond them.

Following her eye without thought; he found Fujima’s kitchen evaporating behind his stare. Hellfire of crimson blazed the room, circling the room; spherical orbits meandered into one common direction – where lights of angels; darkness from daemons; and the flames of Lucifer met.

“Fate,” Taki’s gentle response soothed the calamity of emotions that erupted from the sight that corrupted his vision.

Crimson wings of light burned from a shell of shadow; power ripping through the air. A large, angelic white wolf stood proudly beside the hellfire of reality. The fighter assumed it was a wolf, though it looked more like a fox. But foxes weren’t that big, surely? Nine gleaming tails spun behind it, waving in the power that echoed beside it. Returning to look at the vessel of power, his emotions overflowed; bubbling over the limits that he could contain. His throat constricted forthwith; oxygen burning within. Groping at his neck, he stared frantically at...

“Taki?” he asked rhetorically, already beginning to understand that it had been a dream.

Heishuro swung himself off the creamy-white hammock, glancing around at the room for his sister. A dingy cupboard was propped up in the corner, but Maruchi had nothing to put in it. Murky browns and greys swirled on the revolting wallpaper; which matched everything but the hammock.

Reaching down onto the creaking floorboards; he scooped up Xuriken. A powerful warmth immediately spread into his body, allowing him to comprehend how cold he had been. His loose grip around his weapon tightened as he focused his will. His eyes automatically closed at his concentration; but they snapped open seconds later, gazing at a can of Dr. Pepper rolling across the unsavoury floorboards.

Satisfied, Heishuro flicked his Nunchaku at the can. Gusts flashed at the conjurer; along with the can. Popping it open, he held it to his forehead; cooling his perspiration. Though before long, the multi-flavoured drink was gashing freely down his throat – the unusual sensation of liquidised fire burning him, as usual. Xuriken still in his hand, he watched the can shrivel up in heat, decomposing itself.

Recently, frequent dreams of Taki had become somewhat of a routine for Maruchi; though this did nothing to steady his confusion as he woke. He’d always spend frantic second searching for her, before forcing himself to realise the false authenticity of his dream.

He was yet to decide whether he welcomed the dreams or not, for the dreams contained the one person that could answer his questions. But she was also the person that took his life from him. Life had been carefree; effortless even. But she had forced his so called, “fate”, on him. Foxes? Burning Angels? That made no sense to him at all; though chills tickled his spine at the thought of the power that radiated from that figure.

Maruchi’s thoughts readjusted as he began to swing his nunchaku around playfully; snapping back to his plan for the day. Damn, I might have to nick some bread, otherwise I'll be hungry ’til tomorrow… nevermind, a swim in the lake will probably cheer me up, the fighter’s thought rang as sentiments in his mind, for the bitter loneliness behind them would have been all too clear in speech. He spent no longer brooding on his thoughts though, for he was out of the inn within minutes.

Looks and stares seemed attracted to him as he scurried down market. It was always like this, though this wasn’t as consoling to the martial artist as words would describe; oh no. He was in the thriving market-town of Lein. Although a primarily neutral town; villagers seemed reluctant to serve or even speak to Heishuro, knowing of his heritage. They didn’t seem to dislike him, persay; they just seemed to be overcautious of the danger that was likely to follow the Maruchi around. Heishuro forced an ugly smile as he recalled his incident just the over day…

“Why‘d you ‘ave to come ‘ere? ‘Uh?” the bald man’s accent was amusing at first, but then reality struck as he realised the positioning of Lein: in the same dimensional square as London.

Ignoring the shouts, the artist had continued down the market. But persistence was certainly with the middle-aged man.

“It’ll only do bad, I tell ya’!” the same cockney-slang voice rambled in hysterics, “your mum and dad put towns in danger, and now your doin’ the same!”

Gritting his teeth; biting his lip; chewing his gums. He did everything to stop himself from turning and killing that man; from taking his first life.

“You… you… son of a *****!” he finished desperately, his chest audibly pounding as he yelled at Maruchi.

Luckily for him, that was all needed to set Heishuro off. Unluckily for him, when Heishuro Maruchi gets pissed off, faces get broken.

Spinning like a twister, the fighter’s palms stretched out towards the old man – Xuriken clutched tight in his right one; his nails digging into his palms on the left. Lightning battered into the man’s chest, his eyes widening with every heartbeat that could be his last. The heaped slump fell to the floor with barely enough life to stay alive. People gathered around the calamity and Maruchi’s face began to burn; reddening with every cry for help.

Without another thought, he fled, leaving the old man and the crowd with a first impression that he doubted could change. He knew the man would live - for he knew the amount of flame and light that had echoed out of his weapon – but that didn’t stop regret taunting him.

He had fled to the inn then; but he could see on the faces of the people now that they still remembered the little accident.

Shrugging off the dirty looks, the fighter hurried towards the food merchant; his weapons hanging low with his head. Aromas of selection burrowed into Maruchi’s nose, fresh bread among them. Deep in banana-centred conversation, the merchant didn’t notice Heishuro hide a large loaf of bread behind his jacket. As the middle-aged merchant finished his chat with the previous customer, he turned his attention to the martial artist with a scowl.

“What’ll it be then?” he growled, making no attempt to hide his vexation and reluctance to serve Maruchi. “Bread?”

Shaking his head on instinct, he blundered away through the crowds towards the lake, pulling out the stolen bread as he went. Though he hadn’t been careful enough, for angry shouts of “thief!”, and “get him!” supplanted his hidden glee.

Reacting on his ever-helpful instinct, he sprinted passed the inn; he raced around the houses; and bombed through the forest towards the lake, his heart beat pounding him forward. Dying under the sound of blood pumping, the villager’s shouts hadn’t resurfaced as Heishuro caught his breath, he must have lost them.

“Perhaps I should have been a sprinter?” he rhetorically joked to himself as his sprint wavered into a jog, then finally a slow walk.

Although not particularly dark, the forest seemed more menacing than it should have. Maybe it was because of the fighter’s close escape from Lein? Maybe it was due to the lingering thought that taunted him: That he couldn’t return to Lein? Maybe it was just that, without the buzz of shoppers to surround him, the lack of company felt more lonely to him than he would ever admit…

Slowly turning his gaze toward the lake, he silently marvelled in its beauty. White streaks of light bled through the waters, flaming in the lake. An omnipresent allure always brought Maruchi back to the Lake of Lein, though he failed to understand the lack of people who could appreciate that.

Sitting on the river-bank, the red-clothed fighter gripped Xuriken in his left hand, his right palm open flat. Waiting patiently, he gazed at the lake, waiting for his hand to drop. As it did, a smooth, brown pebble could have been visible in his hand for a second, before it was hurled at the river, skimming twice over the waves, then plummeting on the third bounce. Shards of liquid radiated from the impact zone, though one reached the over side of the lake, drawing Heishuro’s attention to the fresh footprints that rested in the muddy bank.

He dove into the lake at once, swimming across as if life were bound to it. Once upon a time he wouldn’t have cared about footprints in the mud, though times like that had passed. Boredom was now a factor for Heishuro Maruchi.

As he gashed out of the water, dripping in salubrious pureness; he gazed beyond the trees for any signs of life. Receiving none, he made his way through the forest, determined to find the owner of the footprints, for reasons unknown to even him.

[Power Shot]

OoC: Chronos has stolen some goods alright... LIKE YOUR INNOCENCE!

BiC:

It was just a routine exercise.

Chronos sat low inside a nestle of tree leaves, his attention directed to the guinea pig that had just wandered into his training ground, having lured the young man in by planting footprints nearby the lake. Chronos had taken care to wipe his boots afterwards, as he did not want to leave a trail for his prey to follow in the dewy, and easily readable grass. So he waited, evenly breathing to balance his body on the branch he had anchored himself to.

He had had to pick his hiding spot very carefully, as his uniform was not the first choice many would make in a bright tree hollow. The tall oak he was hiding in was massive so, even without his…talents, he had a very broad view of the training field. He was hidden amidst the middle branches; any lower would allow his prey to spot him from bellow, and any higher... He smiled briefly underneath his mask. Any higher and my head would be poking through my cover. So, trusting that the veil of leaves would cast his dark uniform in enough camouflage to keep the man away, he continued his observations.

The youth was shorter than he, Chronos towered over him by easily over one-half feet. Like the ebon ronin huddled atop the forest, the little man wore very glaring colors upon his coat and pants, which were both red, though the trouser garments seemed darker. Puzzling, but not particularly interesting, was the fact that he wore no shoes to protect his feet. This forest is well-known for its unkempt underbrush. The black belt the young man wore merely gave the Dark Eye cause to chuckle. So, he’s a martial artist. And an arrogant one too. Chronos noticed no less than two errors in the manner the belt was tied. He also walked with a heavy stride, and carried what seemed to be a pair of nunchaku in his hands. Latched to the Dark Eye’s back, the Arm Striker pulsated when he noticed them. Magic user, he knew instinctively. Making a mental note to later explore the possibilities of upgrading his staff to discern exact kinds of magic users, he decided to focus on the real reason he had lured the young man out here: for his training.

The Dark Eye inwardly pictured the formation of a small tendril of metal on his upper forearm, and ordered his body to produce it. Underneath his billowing coat, the exact strand of metal he had visualized formed. As it was too tiny to do anything, Chronos added mass and density to his creation, giving it enough life to be able to move. He tested its durability by wiggling it and, finding it satisfactory, commanded it to travel up his arm and extend out of his coat‘s collar. It mimicked his order, and emerged as a small silver tentacle from his back. Let the training begin. The tendril, obeying, trailed down his back like a snake towards the trunk of the oak.

Because he could see little of his tendril’s progress from his current position, Chronos altered his visual perspective from the faceless cowl he wore to the surface of the tree. He watched the boy move closer towards the oak, so he made certain that the metal wound its way down the opposite side of the tree to prevent detection. When it reached the soft grass of the tree grove, he had it dig into the ground. It silently buried its way from the prying eyes of the prey, who was still searching the earth for the footprints that the Dark Eye had long ago wiped away.

He continued to add density and mass to his growing tendril, as he did not want it to be flimsy and weak when it finally reached its target. Like a river, it flowed under the ground, winding through the tree roots and the rocks buried in the earth until it arrived at a spot two inches below the feet of his prey. Now all I have to do is distract him, remove his weapon, and lead him away from me. All without revealing my presence. Simple enough, he thought. Chronos had grown tired of constantly fighting all of the bounties he took on to furnish he research, so he had made the decision to begin nonviolence warfare training, a strategy he had devised to keep battles to a minimum and reduce the risk of damaging a target before capturing it.

Seeing through the surface of the grove, Chronos watched as his little tendril cautiously poked its head out of the ground. It kept out of sight of the young man, and he made sure it emerged far enough away that his prey would not feel it surface with his bare feet. The sense of touch, while something Chronos himself was not familiar with, was a powerful ability nonetheless, one that could jeopardize his training. So, as the boy searched, the tendril did not shake the air as it grew, for its air currents could be noticed by the hair of his target’s bare arms. Still out of sight, the tentacle reached upwards, gently wrapping itself around a small portion of his prey’s pants and belt. Chronos held his breath, for now was when his foe would most likely notice what was going on. But his tendril went unnoticed, and the Dark Eye made certain that, as his metal grew around the back seat of the target’s pants, the young man detected nothing.

Begin.

Suddenly, and without warning, the tendril ripped through the soft fabric, which produced the amusing effect of exposing the breeches underneath. All thought of hunting for the owner of the footprints dissolved, the young man’s hands dove down to catch his pants from completely parting company with him. Chronos, if he had a sense of humor, might have laughed as the boy swore violently at his clothes. But he did not, as his training session was not yet complete. He knew that, for this stage of the exercise, his metallic tendril would be exposed, but he decided that would be alright. The boy would only see it coming out of the ground; the real origin point would remain difficult for him to determine.

The tendril split into two heads and, while one concentrated on making sure that the pants stayed down, the second was sent to wrap around the metal chain that held the nunchaku together. Too late did the young man notice this development, for he had discarded his weapons without thought to the ground to save his breeches from view of any prying eyes. He shouted out loudly, “Xuriken!” which was probably the name of his weapons. Chronos, having completed the second stage of the plan, released the martial artist’s pants from the grip of the first tendril, and molded both again into a single, highly dense, tentacle. He encased the nunchaku with the spare metal he obtained from the fusion to ensure that it could not be touched by its owner, and began to move the tendril away from the young man, leading him in a chase through the grove.

Now then, all I have to do is see how long it takes him to recapture his weapon. Or lose interest. Or runs out of energy. Whichever happens first.