1 Am honouring your request[closed/sekuro] Fri Apr 10, 2015 7:32 am
Aomine
D-rank
Dray lay gently on his bed in the abandoned house that had now become his. He looked at the ceiling looking at the many cracks in the wood. Stretching his right hand towards the ceiling, a flexible wood ejected from his hand slowly as it grew to the ceiling and patched the cracks. Sighing, he turned to his side, looking towards the window. The weather was bright and the wind was calm. Perhaps, a nice day out would do but what exactly was he to do in town? He hardly went anywhere in the village and even when he did, he went to get materials for making a puppet.
He had no friends, just acquaintances. One he knew as Harichimo Kazako and the other called himself the phantom eye warrior. Just then, some words rang in his head..
"Also, if you have time later on I would like you to join me in this shop in the village. They have great food and your drinks would be on me, there is so much I want to know but that is for a later date, for now tell me who you are. Hopefully one day we can battle again, and then, I will not lose so easily." They were the last words of Sekuro Karumo before they parted way. Perhaps, if dray went to town, who knows what could happen...
He got out of bed and headed to the bathroom. In no less than seven to eight minutes, he was done having his bath. He dressed up in his usual attire of green and black and made sure to bring along his basic projectiles because a shinobi was never safe or so he had learnt. He exited his home and headed straight for the town. He wondered where could be a good place to have food and drinks in iwagakure no sato.
The bazaar... Dray had heard of its goodness or richness from passerbys and they had good food too. A perfect place to start looking it was.
As he walked the streets knowing that he would have to leave the village soon, he would think of the days when he would lay on his bed and rest his head on the pillow stuffed with cotton. His half exposed body which was his upper torso would lay straight to give him a posture of death. The silvery bed sheets that half covered him from toe to waist would reflect the white light that shone from the ceiling of the room. He would always stare into the nothingness that seemed to envelope his vision. His mind that is as white as a lamb's skin. He would always try to think but the many mysteries of this abandoned house would not let him. He would think to his book of poetry. I dream my art and I make an art of my dream. We are only puppets, our strings are being pulled by unknown forces. Death is a release from the impressions of the senses, and from desires that make us their puppets, and from the vagaries of the mind, and from the hard service of the flesh. We are no longer puppets being manipulated by outside powerful forces: we become the powerful force ourselves. My puppets shall be far more liberated than I am for ventriloquism is a useful way of expressing myself. I could never be on the battle field on my own but puppets can say things that mere humans can't say. Fighting an opponent is not a big task. The trick is that you have to let them know they are holding the strings. You can’t play hard to get. You have to give your all, leave your wounds open for the salt to be poured in cause that’s what it’s all about! It’s about being defenseless with that one person, letting them crawl under your skin cause if it’s true, they’ll be the first to stretch out the helping hand. You may think that letting them hold your strings is a wicked thing but in the end, those strings that they’re holding..
Are the stiches they use to pull you back together... It's all about convincing them. It's become a part of me, always near but
never seen. Born from torment, raised on agony. Devoured my innocence, taken my soul. The demon now has control, a new misanthropic mindset. Countless days, destruction reigned.
Clashing thoughts and actions like swords on a battlefield. I've become a puppet, no longer able to act on my own. Pulling my strings I bend to its will, dance to his tune, aged and tattered, It
has no use for me. I look around and see nothing... It was all very nice and he would be glad to move on and write more.
WC:838
He had no friends, just acquaintances. One he knew as Harichimo Kazako and the other called himself the phantom eye warrior. Just then, some words rang in his head..
"Also, if you have time later on I would like you to join me in this shop in the village. They have great food and your drinks would be on me, there is so much I want to know but that is for a later date, for now tell me who you are. Hopefully one day we can battle again, and then, I will not lose so easily." They were the last words of Sekuro Karumo before they parted way. Perhaps, if dray went to town, who knows what could happen...
He got out of bed and headed to the bathroom. In no less than seven to eight minutes, he was done having his bath. He dressed up in his usual attire of green and black and made sure to bring along his basic projectiles because a shinobi was never safe or so he had learnt. He exited his home and headed straight for the town. He wondered where could be a good place to have food and drinks in iwagakure no sato.
The bazaar... Dray had heard of its goodness or richness from passerbys and they had good food too. A perfect place to start looking it was.
As he walked the streets knowing that he would have to leave the village soon, he would think of the days when he would lay on his bed and rest his head on the pillow stuffed with cotton. His half exposed body which was his upper torso would lay straight to give him a posture of death. The silvery bed sheets that half covered him from toe to waist would reflect the white light that shone from the ceiling of the room. He would always stare into the nothingness that seemed to envelope his vision. His mind that is as white as a lamb's skin. He would always try to think but the many mysteries of this abandoned house would not let him. He would think to his book of poetry. I dream my art and I make an art of my dream. We are only puppets, our strings are being pulled by unknown forces. Death is a release from the impressions of the senses, and from desires that make us their puppets, and from the vagaries of the mind, and from the hard service of the flesh. We are no longer puppets being manipulated by outside powerful forces: we become the powerful force ourselves. My puppets shall be far more liberated than I am for ventriloquism is a useful way of expressing myself. I could never be on the battle field on my own but puppets can say things that mere humans can't say. Fighting an opponent is not a big task. The trick is that you have to let them know they are holding the strings. You can’t play hard to get. You have to give your all, leave your wounds open for the salt to be poured in cause that’s what it’s all about! It’s about being defenseless with that one person, letting them crawl under your skin cause if it’s true, they’ll be the first to stretch out the helping hand. You may think that letting them hold your strings is a wicked thing but in the end, those strings that they’re holding..
Are the stiches they use to pull you back together... It's all about convincing them. It's become a part of me, always near but
never seen. Born from torment, raised on agony. Devoured my innocence, taken my soul. The demon now has control, a new misanthropic mindset. Countless days, destruction reigned.
Clashing thoughts and actions like swords on a battlefield. I've become a puppet, no longer able to act on my own. Pulling my strings I bend to its will, dance to his tune, aged and tattered, It
has no use for me. I look around and see nothing... It was all very nice and he would be glad to move on and write more.
WC:838
Last edited by Zennyo on Mon Aug 03, 2015 12:34 pm; edited 2 times in total (Reason for editing : put correct word count)