1 Evening at the River [No Kill/Maigo/Private] Tue May 19, 2015 6:29 pm
Ryota Suzuki
D-rank
As the sun died the day's death and set to sleep, bleeding orange across the horizon this pool of blood lit the lone assassin sat without coat or mask upon the ledge-marked marshland upon the outskirts of Kirigakue like a forge of the gods. Sat cross-legged Ryota let the wind kiss away the warmth accrued in his flesh and bones, a deep core within his meditative state preserving his final lines of defense against the chill-reaping ribbons wrapping about his skin and threading their way downwind to seek out further prey. It was a matter of perception without sight. Persevering, straining his senses Ryota reached out for a world without sight and to know it just as well as all the gifts eyes could give.
As moments elapsed into minutes, a calm was reached and the feeling of warmth recorded in his mind to add to the symphony of feeling marking the transition to deep-rooted focus, his special method of composure as such. Freezing the compound memory made patchwork yet beautiful within the waters of the mind and the mists of the subconscious reaction held it tight in their nurturing bosom, slowing the decay of time. Heaving a steady, lengthy sigh the studious novice watched along the true outer reaches of the city beyond his jurisdiction and pondered the wealth of knowledge beyond it. As pale fingers rose to finger and itch at an old surgical scar seated in the nook of his elbow absent-mindedly the wanna-be swordsman contemplated the fact he was missing a true blade to fight with. This would have to be his first recourse, as was decided. Training could persist but without the proper tools, battle might never be won. Releasing the silvery tissue from probing, neatly cut nails Ryota rose gently and daintily to his full height with a creak and groan of his ankles through to his shoulders, rolling his neck and arms in wide circles with much popping as stiffness faded.
Breathing deep the calm was preserved amongst these almost-marshlands. The layer of sweat accrued earlier through sturdy physical persistence had blown cold and mostly departed from his skin, a tut resigning to the foul smell provided by the world of fitness and fighting. Couldn't his captors have worked this feature out too? Mused the Yuurei as he tugged at sweat stained patches of his jumpsuit. Yielding a shrug, he turned to face the road home with hands upon hips, a final heave of his chest with a longing for just that bit more from the day. Perhaps a jog? No. As he mulled over the options, Ryota watched over the lands from his ledge, nary a meter above cool water.
[457]
As moments elapsed into minutes, a calm was reached and the feeling of warmth recorded in his mind to add to the symphony of feeling marking the transition to deep-rooted focus, his special method of composure as such. Freezing the compound memory made patchwork yet beautiful within the waters of the mind and the mists of the subconscious reaction held it tight in their nurturing bosom, slowing the decay of time. Heaving a steady, lengthy sigh the studious novice watched along the true outer reaches of the city beyond his jurisdiction and pondered the wealth of knowledge beyond it. As pale fingers rose to finger and itch at an old surgical scar seated in the nook of his elbow absent-mindedly the wanna-be swordsman contemplated the fact he was missing a true blade to fight with. This would have to be his first recourse, as was decided. Training could persist but without the proper tools, battle might never be won. Releasing the silvery tissue from probing, neatly cut nails Ryota rose gently and daintily to his full height with a creak and groan of his ankles through to his shoulders, rolling his neck and arms in wide circles with much popping as stiffness faded.
Breathing deep the calm was preserved amongst these almost-marshlands. The layer of sweat accrued earlier through sturdy physical persistence had blown cold and mostly departed from his skin, a tut resigning to the foul smell provided by the world of fitness and fighting. Couldn't his captors have worked this feature out too? Mused the Yuurei as he tugged at sweat stained patches of his jumpsuit. Yielding a shrug, he turned to face the road home with hands upon hips, a final heave of his chest with a longing for just that bit more from the day. Perhaps a jog? No. As he mulled over the options, Ryota watched over the lands from his ledge, nary a meter above cool water.
[457]