In another time, at another place, with an entirely different person…
Staring at the reflection of the water, pale skin shimmering through the ripples with a ghostly image, amber eyes that glistened of gold belonged to the cloaked individual. The person in question was a tall man, skin pale as death itself. Down the left side of his face, starting from just below the eyelid, purple and blue scales that seem faded with time littered around. His hair was thin, straggly, and the strands of grey seemed to outnumber the natural black that sparsely littered his appearance, perhaps emphasising his age, or weariness. Beneath both of his eyes, bags weighted with the weight of the world hung, and the tops of the lids were heavy, resulting in a perpetual sleepless look. A glare at the world he dwelled in.
Atop his head, parting the scraggly hair that barely reached past his forehead and neck, two horns akin to those of a gazelle stood stiff, curved ever so slightly with detailed ridges emphasising their existence, deep, grey pillars with the tips sharpened enough to draw blood from a finger prick. His attire was bland and uninteresting. Beneath a deep grey cloak, tattered with rips and holes, the stranger wore a plain white shirt littered with wrinkles and lines. The white was dark, as if unwashed for a time, and matched the rugged appearance of his hair and cloak. His legs were covered by basic training trousers that also appeared ripped, and on his feet were wooden clogs, the sort used by those training in martial arts. At his waist was a thick leather belt with assorted pouches attached, and a single, long metal whip that was curled up neatly, and held in place by a single leather strap.
In his left hand was a bottle, while in his right, a photograph. He raised the photograph to look at it from down his nose, studying it as he mindlessly tossed the bottle away – the sort of bottle one would expect medicine to be within. The image was basic, clearly taken with a Polaroid camera, yet perhaps exposed incorrectly as it was faded by the sunlight. A rather small family of only four, with a woman, a man, and two nearly identical children, all of which featured a prominent feature. Horns protruding from the top of their heads – the only difference between the children, in fact, is the size and shape of their horns. Otherwise, eye colour, facial appearance, hair, everything was the same – one in blue attire, one in purple.
As he had with the bottle, the man simply screwed up the photograph, walking away as he tossed it behind his back, littering it onto the sodden ground. The surrounding woodland offered no reprimand for his disrespect, and his footfalls were deceptively quiet, as if he were not walking at all, but merely floating as a phantom. Not long into his apparent walk, however, he stopped, golden eyes glaring. A single footstep, followed by a few more. Finally, from not far ahead, a small merchant caravan arrived, looking curiously at the man. The man spoke nothing. “Hey! Are you lost buddy? You’re welcome to return to Kiri with us.” Offered one of the merchants, a rather spry looking young woman clad in traditional Kirigakure attire.
With a motion of his hand, the whip at his side came unhitched, and the blade struck forwards, the tip of the whip scratching against the arm of the woman before quickly snaking around to strike the two others, and even the pack animal. No words were said further as he stepped forward, the whips wires coiling around the necks of those it had cut, slowly but surely suffocating them as he looked through the items on the back of the pack animal. Confirming there was nothing he cared about within the goods the traders were selling, he withdrew his whip, glancing at the woman as the trio collapsed to the ground, grasping their necks, the pack animal running off in a wild panic. Tears in her eyes, she gasped for words, desperate to try understand what had just happened. Yet nothing came out. The two others found similar problems, gasping and coughing desperately. The silent stranger, meanwhile, stretched out the blade of his whip, scraping off some of the blood with a finger, before rubbing it dry between the finger and his thumb, as if grinding it to dust.
The odd act done, he turned with a wild ferocity, unleashing the whip once more. No screams, yet also not long until the trio had died, their blood scattered like puddles across the ground, and their cadavers little more than food for the local wildlife. Crimson dripped from his whip all over, and with a hand he wiped it off, put the whip back at his side, and then rubbed his hands together, drying the blood as much as possible. Face as void of emotion or recognition as prior, the silent stranger walked off once more. To where was a mystery, and it seemed the wanderer was intent on keeping it that way, guaranteed.
Meanwhile, back in the present.
As Alwen felt her mind flittering back and forth upon consciousness, the sound of conversation nearby stirred her, as if prodding her awake from a dream. A haze lifting from the clouded state of her mind. Was it Maigo? Another citizen that needed help? Remaining bandits? If it were the latter, she could die trying to investigate… No, not could. She would, without a doubt. Yet if it were either of the former, then they were in danger themselves… The thought of self-perseverance left her mind as she shook the thought off, ignoring her own pain for just a little longer. Adjusting her posture, Alwen dug her nails into the ground, now physically clawing herself across the ground, blood trailing behind her from the injury to her leg. Her breath came in short, ragged bursts, and the only reason for consciousness at this point was adrenaline.
Dragging herself along the ground had its own problems of course, as shrapnel from the destruction dug into her palms, her chest, and her legs. Her tears at this point were leaking down her face as if a permanent feature, staining with the dirt and soot that was so heavy and thick within the air. It stained her face. Her clothes. Her blood. Her hair. Everything burned, and hurt, and the world itself spun in a way that was unnatural and distorted, twisted from the machinations of pain that took over her world. Yet finally, after what felt like an eternity, a single, dark figure swooped down from the air. It was still so far away… And while Alwen felt she had the energy to call out, she felt a single shiver down her spine. A force that told her not to speak. That silence was important here. To survive.
Squinting to force herself to focus for but a moment, Alwen quickly caught on that the figure was Maigo. A few motions indicated he forced a weapon into the ground, and then quickly, the jounin sank to his knees. The whole situation was one that was unbeknownst to Alwen, yet she still felt as if silence was best for her here. So, she stayed laying on the ground, conserving her energy as best she could for the moment. She wanted to stand, but the pain in her leg would get worse without a doubt. Yet perhaps once Maigo had done whatever he was doing, she could call for him, and he could escort her out. That was her hope.
Yet all silence must be broken, for otherwise words will be lost.
Looming out from the shadows, the alleys, and even the broken windows of the burnt buildings, a horde of individuals swarmed, each armed and looking like a powerful individual in their own right. From the window of a building far north of Alwen and Maigo, a woman with a rugged top climbed out onto a makeshift balcony, the roof of a porch that was arched and open. Their attire was a stark red, although patches of brown suggested that was not the original colour. Her hair was done short, with a single ponytail trailing back and to the left. On her waist was a large knife, on her back a quiver with an assortment of arrows, and in her hand, a short bow, curved and knocked with a cruelly barbed arrow.
From a nearby alleyway, three more bandits loomed out. One, a rather large man, held simply a giant hammer which Alwen guessed was roughly her own size, its weight obvious from the sheer manner in which even the large guy held it. His arms were bulging, the sleeves of his shirt ripped and his legs covered by ripped shorts. His face was round, and littered with scabs and scars, and not a single hair was to be found upon his face. Judging by the soot covered boots, it would be easier to assume he was busy destroying buildings, although realistically, there was no proper way to tell other than to get the man to say. Just behind and to the left of him, a short fellow, gangly in both width and posture, stood. Contrary to what his appearance would suggest, he was surprisingly armed with what could be deemed a sophisticated and complex weapon, holding a poleaxe in hand. All his clothes were loose and baggy, and the blood that stained him and his weapon suggested he’d been busy. And the last of this trio was certainly an odd one. Looking as if some weird hybrid of a monk and a gangster, he wore a traditional kempogi, white, yet stained with blood. His feet were bare, and his face covered in piercings. Across his arms and skin were tattoo’s, and the only hair on his head was a single fringe down the left side. Further adding to this… Unique identity, were two nun chucks, one black, one red.
From the east, another five individuals lurked, coming out from the shadows, eyes glaring forth with hatred and pure bloodlust. One of them, standing in a sleeveless jacket, torn trousers, and blood covered spikey boots, stepped forth, spitting on the ground. In his hands were a pair of trench knives, and with sharp teeth and tongue, he spoke to the other four with him, quiet, gesturing a hand towards Maigo. The one immediately behind nodded in understanding, a man so covered in scars that his actual features were perhaps impossible to notice or see. He was shirtless, and his trousers sadly were perhaps not of the right size, held in place only by a worn and rugged belt. In his hand was a crossbow, which he quickly lined up to Maigo, quiver of bolts at his side. The next three meanwhile, impatient, stepped out in front of the crossbow wielder. A trio of similar looking women, although each had distinguishing features from the other. The foremost had long hair, and a katana in hand. Her attire was purple, and blood splattered her face, a sadistic grin accompanying this look of pure malice and destructive force. The next wore orange, her hair short, and a tanto in hand. There seemed to be no blood on her, yet the deadly glance held within her eye told that she was no less violent than her companion. The final meanwhile, was simple enough. Medium length hair, blue attire. Yet her face was shown with nothing, empty, broken. At her feet were scars, and a lack of shoes, and in her hand she held a war scythe, clearly designed for taking out cavalry and not infantry or fighting against shinobi, yet nonetheless creepy to look at while the crimson dripped from its curved blade, splattering to the ground.
In total, 9 bandits were obvious, although the sound of others was fairly noticeable should one be aware of it, paying attention to their surroundings. Muttering. Shifting. Plotting. Scheming. The leader of their raid, the one that had been issuing them orders, was now dead. Yet this was not an act of vengeance. This was an act of release, of having the malice and bloodlust that had been caged by orderly leadership become unleashed like a wild beast, frothing at the mouth and preparing to murder with reckless abandon.
Finally, they began to act. Stalking out from the shadows. From the alleys. From the buildings. From the rubble. Roughly 10 more bandits appeared, each wielding an assortment of weapons, some wielding whips, daggers, kunai, bows, and swords. If it was usable for killing, there was a chance one of the bandits held it. Each held a unique personality, and among themselves, they talked, and bickered, and argued. A bunch of children, each armed, and each a killer. Of course, they were not literally children, but the immaturity of it all held such an image to light.
Once more forgetting her own vulnerability, Alwen ignored the warning signals her head gave her, scrambling desperately to a nearby wall before holding and pulling herself up against it. After first coughing, and gathering her attention on the crouched, silent Maigo, who from this height she now saw loom over a body, the dragon child shouted out. “
Maigo! Enemies around you! Be careful!”
As if on cue, the bandits sprung to life. Each moved to get into the thick of it, to spread yet more blood across the ground. A psychopathic orchestra. Yet Alwen could do nothing. She simply slumped down once more as the pain in her leg took over once more, sweat trailing in a bead down the side of her face. Watching, as it began…
Meanwhile, in another place, yet at the same time.
Once more the horned stranger walked, this time now towards a mass body of water. His exact location was a mystery, yet it was apparent he was at the edge of the main island of Kirigakure no Sato. Behind him, trees were concealed in the ever thick mist of the land, spruce in nature, and leaves thick from the passing summer. Beneath his feet, sands shifted, growing damp with the ever increasing tide. Despite time having passed, the man still wore the same attire, the same weapon, the same scraggly look upon his face. Yet, an audible sound escaped his lips in the form of a sigh, before finally he spoke, words soft, as if reciting a lullaby. “
No boat… I guess I’m walking.”
After muttering to himself, the man took a single, simple step into the water. Or rather, on top of it, the water acting as if it were naught but solid ground beneath his feet as he casually walked over it. Without a particular pace, or desire for haste, he moved in time with the tides, stepping over each wave and walking with a determination so tough that it could rip through steel. For hours he walked among the waves, wavering not once in step or direction. Time passed. Seconds seemed like minutes. Minutes seemed like hours. And within the ever thick mist of the land of water, the man was but a shadow on the waves. A phantom.
Within the mist, a large shape formed on the horizon. A boat, most likely a ferry of some description. Thoughts spurred around the man’s mind. Ways to make his journey swifter. He glanced around at it. No signs of anyone on watch out. And a small life boat hanging off the side. A silent nod to himself, and he was off, the paced walk now a sprint as he wildly moved to the boat, the very waves beneath him rising like steps, taking him above and onto the deck of the ship, dry despite having been running along the waves for so long. Unfortunately for him, it seemed he had made a lapse in judgement, the mist clouding his vision even as the brilliant gold of his eyes stood stark, seemingly glowing. A duo of passengers stood, watching, rather confused. Furthermore, above him from the rooftop, a single shinobi sat, watching. If he were to guess from the youthful features, the kid was just a genin. Not that it mattered.
For him, those who saw him were sentenced to death.Unclipping the whip from his side once more, the man walked forward, menace within his eyes. The two quickly ran, while the shinobi jumped down, kunai in hand. He felt no sympathy, however, and although the shinobi escort trembled, the whip shot out, striking at the throat with a fast enough speed to make a physical crack resound through the air. No more motions or trembling came from the genin, who fell back on the ground, blood seeping through their clothes and staining the deck of the ship. Sirens on the boat went off, and the man bit his tongue in frustration. He was hoping it to be a much… Easier trip. A soft, whisper of a sigh escaped his lips as he picked up the body with a hand, throwing it overboard before snapping his whip to the supports of the lifeboat. With an act far from ceremonial, it fell to the waters, and with it, the man jumped down, quickly taking control of the boat and setting it forward. The ferry in a panic had stopped its course, looking into the waters with search lights, and the rest of the shinobi guarding it doing patrols of the immediate area. While the silent, horned phantom had gone with the lifeboat, remaining in the water, bobbing like a buoy, the corpse of the genin that had tried to defend the boat goers. As the violent stranger sailed off alone, the men on the boat quickly fished out the body, checking over the features and screaming out their anger to the vast, unforgiving sea. A young genin from the village hidden in the stars, the shinobi village of the land of bears.
Finally, after hours of sailing and travelling the waters alone, the sea now seeming to propel the boat itself, independent and without visible action by the stranger, the man arrived to shore, the boat landing against the shoals and rocks and sand. Without much hesitation, he dragged the boat off the shore, before turning, and for the first time since his journey began, formed hand signs, the boat combusting in flames as he began to spew an intense heat from his lips. The evidence gone, he began to walk inland. To the land of tea. To hide.
Meanwhile, back at Kirigakure no Sato.
At the clan grounds of the Sangotatsu, known locally for their horns, scales, and suiton techniques, a woman who seemed to age rapidly by the day sat in a chair, staring out of the window of her run down shack. Any wealth that could be associated with the normally silk clad clan was gone from sight, the building crumbling, faltering in its very foundations, and wracked with the age that plagued it. The woman herself was horned, the lines on her face emphasising the weight of the world that had struck her. Before her was a picture. A Polaroid photograph. A family of four, each with horns. The golden eyes that seemed to have lost their sheen simply kept watching the photograph, shifting from the photograph, to the view of the ocean before her. The mist caused the horizon to vanish. To blur with the sea in a picture that was merely a blob of grey.
Her lip quivered, as if the woman had tears welling up. Yet nothing came. A slight knock at the door, and another member of the Sangotatsu clan walked in, clad in the attire of a shopkeeper. “
Ah… Miss, I’m sorry to intrude… I’ve come to make you food and make sure you are okay. Your daughter has not yet been found.” He declared with a bow, the woman simply continuing to stare at the photograph, reminiscing of times that had yet passed and gone. Any emotional connection to the statements the stranger had made did not click within her mind. There was no reason for it to. Clad in all black as if having just come from a funeral, she simply rocked back and forth in a fine oaken chair. To her, the world had already ended.
A weak finger trailed and stroked against the frame, shaking as it wiped off the smallest specs of dust and kept the photograph in the best condition it could. Her hair was completely grey, matted and scarce, with an unkempt look. Without turning, she spoke, voice rough and aching with grief. “
Young man… Thank you for your work… How many days has it been since she has been gone? No… I don’t care… How many days since I lost them all? My son… My husband… How long have I waited here?”
The man was silent, clearly trying to best think of how to respond. Falling into an awkward silence, he simply made his way into the kitchen, turning on the cooker and beginning to prepare a meal for the woman who had given up. Setting some noodles, and a variety of vegetables and chicken, he began making a homemade stir fry, turning on the kettle at the same time to make himself and her some tea. He couldn’t make her feel better. Since the event that occurred a few years ago happened, nobody had seen her smile, and it was as if her faith in the world had drained away with the rain.
After a few minutes, the tea was ready, and he poured out the cups, before going back to make sure the stir fry didn’t burn. Having quickly made sure this was not the case, he took the tea to the mother of Alwen, setting it on the desk at her side before returning to cooking. More time passed, and eventually, he walked back out with the food on a tray, smiling as he handed the tray to the woman by gently laying it on her lap. Contrary to what one would expect, she began eating, and she began drinking. As if she hadn’t fully given up. Seeing this, the man smiled, bowing his head, before walking over to the door. “
It has been good to see you Miss. I’m just down the road if you need me, and I will see you tomorrow for your breakfast.”
With that, he left. And as she ate, silence once more fell upon that house.3767 + 11485 = 15252
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