At the Slaver's Association
The Fire This Time
At the Realm of Thorns
Dragonfly
Firefly
At the MorCon
Stumbling Blocks
At the ABYSS
Mook Jong
Bright-eyed Fancy,
hov'ring o'er,
Scatters from her
pictured urn
Thoughts that breathe
and words that burn.
(Thomas Gray.
The Progress of Poesy.
III. 3, Line 2.)
HOME
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FIREFLY …in a darkened room at dusk, twilight spinning in through a dust-coated window and landing in pools, haphazard, on the bare hardwood floor, illuminating splinters and highlighting rough patches where the finish has worn away…Once-white cotton curtains, soiled now with streaks of soot, billow inward, victim to a gust of wind from the outside, a sharp burst of air that slips through the fissure between glass and sill, rattling the window in its casement. A current carries the drapes back out again, along with a whiff of smoke, a few curls of silvery film that wind and spiral and then dissipate on the briskness of the evening atmosphere. Inside rests an old-fashioned wooden wheelchair, the kind with the high back support of wicker mesh, the kind with the wheels that clatter and springs that never work so the ride is always a rugged one, the kind with great boorish foot rests that kick out to the sides like pelican wings, hinges screaming complaint… the kind that once populated every convalescent home from here to Peoria, and now rolls along under its own ghostly steam, down darkened hallways, rumbling over the tongue and groove and coming to rest in the most ominous shadows… This particular chair is turned resolutely from the window, however, and occupied by a gaunt figure, bone-thin and china-white, hiding itself from the light with such determination that all that can be seen are a pale hand draped over the arm rest and an emaciated forearm peeking out from the edge of a black canvas sleeve. With suddenness enough to make your heart cry out in alarm, that stagnant hand twitches, as though a bolt of electricity had been shot through it. The limb slumps once more, and then with just a trace of movement creeps up from its repose and along the wall - every inch is a struggle, and the joints are knotted and tense with effort, but those skeletal fingertips continue their ascent up the paneling (the eensy weensy spider went up the water spout). Pads of skin etched with whirling ridges scrape across the charcoal marks where someone has worn ruts before - five distinct lines, burned into the plaster, faint but still discernible (down came the rain and washed the spider out). Joints creak, fingers bend, digging into the wall, and the acrid aroma of flesh ablaze grows suddenly stronger, but the smoke still only comes in faint swells that weave through the fingertips and dissolve on the air shortly after (out came the sun and dried up all the rain). As though exhausted by effort, the hand slips down the wall, palm riding rough over paneling and wood scars alike, finally coming to rest in a lazy heap back on the arm rest… and a long, mournful sigh issues from every corner of the room, the whisper of winter winds, the sound of the demon taking a long draw on a soul cigar, inhaling deeply of the ash of human regret (and the eensy weensy spider went up the spout again) FUDO SHIN
With the abruptness of a violent thunderclap, a brief salvo erupts in the center of the courtyard - then the sound is severed almost as instantly, living on only the echo from moss-covered walls… She occupies the center of the floor, on her knees and with ankles pressed flat beneath her haunches, the time-honored posture of correct and quiet sitting embraced by warrior kings and feudal lords for centuries past. The wheel chair, by this time, is forgotten, pushed into a corner and ignored - if she could will it away through sheer power of resolution, she would, but as it is, this loud reminder of her weakness must be allowed to speak its peace. The best she can do is to refuse to acknowledge its presence. Her heart marches within a drumbeat, steady and methodical - the sound coming from the courtyard outside is perhaps all that keeps her alive, the driving tattoo of bamboo striking goatskin pumping adrenaline and forcing life through her veins. Turning her back on the offense, she leans forward over a shimmering satin cushion, her chest rising and falling, her hands clasped as though in prayer. It almost appears natural, this kneeling in devotions; the collar on her robe is slung low, the folds of ivory canvas meeting just below the edge of her brand, but the mark of her benefactor appears benign - the scar is reduced to the warmth of a mere raspberry burn, not charred blackberry as it once was. Still, the upper curve of Leviathan's signature upon her skin ripples like a softly stirring serpent as she breathes. Her eyes are fixed at an unseen mark straight ahead, glossed over and the likeness of mannequin glass. Inside is a maelstrom of thought - surf turgid with driftwood and the refuse of vague memories breaks on the shore of her consciousness, landing with a sound like shattering glass and then peeling away again with protest, as scales are flayed away from the carcass of the ill-fated whiting; all the while, electric pulses leap from the inside to reach the surface of her skin where old cells are burning away and new ones are rising out of their embers in a procession of miniscule torments. But you would never know it to look at her - her features, in this moment, are as immovable as her mind. In a placid, ghost-like state, she is alive in a void, yet silently conscious of every speck of dust that so much as stirs in the dismal room around her… the picture of peace… coiled and ready to strike at the slightest provocation… starving herself of sensation that her mind might feast its defenses on contemplation… A bird cries hollow from the rainforest beyond the estate walls, the high-pitched trill of its voice tempered by the subtle cushion of a light rain falling… until another fleeting winter storm splits the jungle harmony, rolling tribal rhythm demanding attention, silencing the animals, crushing every creature but the mournful palms whose fronds whisper caresses to one another… At least the specter has come to life, no longer a two-dimensional shadow looming against the corner wall, but even in three dimensions she is not much more to look at. Wafer-thin, a painfully gaunt, delicate thing, she may as well be a scarecrow, the way she sits so still and the hakama hangs so loose over her bones and swims in pools on the floor. She looks as though she could collapse under the weight of the atmosphere if the wind were to change suddenly and a draft to come whistling through chinks in the wall paneling. Somewhere slave boys with bodies glistening golden perspiration, wrapped in loin cloths of butter-suede that loop over their hips, down between their legs and then up again, pendulum cloth brushing across the tops of their thighs as they sway back and forth… ritual… ceremonial… and the reedy click of bamboo sends up a mating call, love song serenade to the cicadas that hover in breathing glowing clouds atop the temple walls… The walls are undressed pine, suffering now the few scars she was able to leave behind in those first angry days of awareness, when she realized the frailty of her body and the extent of her captivity, and madness broke down the studied calm of a lifetime and slipped free through the burning ends of her fingertips. These walls belong to the man she has come to know as Sokaku, and it presumably his home in which she resides. She does not know how she came to be here, nor what the sempai knows - he is either blind or oblivious to her corrupt history and predilections, for he leaves her to recover in peace, and retrains her weary muscles with inspiration alone. Their few communications have been soundless - sparks jumping from his eyes, alert and luminous champagne surrounded by the wizened wrinkles and gray hairs and liver spots of an old man, and hers, flat and dead like shriveled autumn leaves blown down the dust of an abandoned highway, but framed in thick black kohl and lashes and the timeless skin of a porcelain doll. KUDEN
The golden-haired cherub is here with her, her companion who waits in the corner by day and holds her hand in the night, when the air fills with mist from the tears striking her cheeks and steaming instantly away. Her most subtle indications - a nod, a twitch of her brow, a brief glance at the burn marks that remind him to pull up his shirt collar and tug down his cuffs - have carefully schooled him not to behave in any way untoward. He is to be no less than a comrade - in these uncertain days before she has determined the old man's usefulness, it is best that Sokaku not know the truth… that the golden boy is forever owned… Dagger-quick, glances dart back and forth, and the rain gods grow effulgent, overfed on the ki of one drummer, then two, then a third and then an army… the cadence takes on weight and falls to an ominous requiem bass … a tiger tattoo wraps around the small of his back, claws distended across the groin, heart beating, pulse racing; teeth bared at the scent of gunfire and blood… devouring raw fish from the curves of nubile flesh, bare and stretched across the dining table - And so they all remain silent, day after day, each teaching their lessons, giving their orders, defining their boundaries… passing their messages from person to person, nerve to nerve, by touch and by sight alone… Sokaku will help her heal, but first, she must clear her mind of the enmity that owns her. If she cannot win his trust, then, for all the rigorous training he must put her through, he will hold something back. If she is to become like the cobra once again, taut and ready to strike, her mind must be both open and rigid, and her only hope is in willing herself to be well by seeing it so. …arms rippling muscle like steel cords, pounding away at the heads of the gigantic taut-skinned beasts, the reflection of firelight gliding over their oiled backs and dripping in beads from their foreheads… overwhelming like blood thundering in her ears, bursting with energy and incapable of flagging, never slowing… the deadening roar of percussion, out of which can be plucked only the faintest details of the voice of each part… A chambermaid in a wide-sashed robe and wooden sandals is bent before her, tending to a tray she had not acknowledged was there before now. Soundlessly, without a trace of movement, Schonen breathes in the refreshing warm steam coming from the rice bowl, and lets the aroma of green tea brew on her lips and tongue, until, finally, she stirs, and one hand stretches mechanically from the folds of her gi, sliding serpentine to rest alongside the tray. Unperturbed by the sudden movement (presumably, she is accustomed to seeing her master in so xombie-like a state of meditation that she might assume he were dead until the twitch of a fingertip or an unexpected address says otherwise), the maid simply glances up. Her lips are spread in the beginnings of a gentle smile - until she meets Schönen's eyes, and there she stops cold. For the many weeks that this pitiable creature has been a guest in her master's home, for all the time that she has cared for the woman's body and nurtured her consciousness back to health, she has only seen lifeless orange, like globes of tarnished brass, in those eyes - the spark of amber fire is new and screeches hunger like the falcon swooping into a grassy field to steal its next meal. But… what's this?… just a mirage… the fire is gone as soon as it came, and the servant hesitantly smiles again, convincing herself with a nod that it was mere illusion, afternoon light from the window glancing off of the woman's irises… but she is a zombie again now, just waiting for the tea to be poured… With a start, the girl glances down, just then realizing that the teapot she held has, in fact, been tipped forward all this time, and tea is spilling over the edges of the cup and onto the tray, a tiny stream just about to threaten the floor. Her trauma is complete - with the blush of humiliation rising to her cheeks, the servant girl backs away with quick, nimble steps, bowing in the way of apology, eyes shuttered by frightened lamb lashes, trembling the slightest bit as she disappears through the door… …a pause, pregnant silence, and a bamboo stick skitters lightly over the skin of a single drum, gradually thrumming faster and faster, heavier and heavier, leaden wheels rolling up the mountainside to a bellowing crescendo… raindrops pattering on wooden roof and plinking against the shutters of paper houses, downpour dancing in the streams like diamonds striking the water… drums chanting, preparing the war march… Something between a disgruntled half-smirk and a sly grimace comes to life on Schönen's lips. Like liquid enamel, her fingertips flow towards the chopsticks lying alongside the rice bowl, this just fractions of a second before the hum of a drone beetle becomes audible, and as the whirring becomes a mechanical roar past her left ear, she wraps her fingers around the sticks and snaps up… ..heavier still, the drums round down to a deeper bass, and steam rises as frozen raindrops pelt the earth, melting instantly on contact with ground in the embrace of sultry tribal passions… …and comes back with empty air and a deepening frown. But it's wintertime, and so all the local insects have seen fit to come visiting through the walls, out of the cold, so it's not long before a spindly daddy long legs comes creeping along the floorboards, just inches from her bowed knee, crawling alongside the shadow of her skirt… …chieftain spurs the drummers on, his shouts heard over the pounding, his ki alive with concussion and lightning… a heavily marching column, thousands of footfalls and hoof beats thundering across the landscape, a herd of soldiers ascending a foothill and pouring down the other side like a wave cresting and breaking… The spider is an easy mark, trapped beneath the pad of her thumb… and as a single wire of smoke begins to rise from between her fingers, at last the grimace curves upward, into a genuinely wry smile… …bells and shakers, tandem beads rifling nervously through blades of grass in an endless search for peace until with one last demanding clatter the siege comes to a halt, mouths frozen wide in bloodthirsty horror, swords upraised, their tips glinting uneasily in the dewy sunlight and poised above the heads of an enemy prone with fear… SHUKI
A delicate clean frothing breath parts to the four winds and clears away over china doll features, and a trick with mirrors sends the vapor disappearing into a fold in time somewhere behind the chill air... Schönen's amber eyes are focused dead ahead, her gaze leveled on nothing less than her own imagination. Her cheeks are slightly flushed from having just ascended the steep colonnade of steps, and her otherwise ashen features are outlined in rosy pink from the cold; her arms are hanging at her sides, seemingly limp, but her wrists have begun to bend, and her fingertips are just crimping into claws. Her gaunt frame is draped in far less than the weather requires, and just enough to prevent exposure: loose canvas pants rolled at the cuffs, and a loose-fitting mandarin jacket, hanging open to allow a view of the grey cotton tank top, neckline scooping brazenly low over her modest, almost boyish, bosom, to reveal the upper curve of a circle and the top of a goat's pointed horns. She is poised at the top of a stone staircase, on a portico shrouded in evergreen boughs. Even this close, within a few feet of her, the trunks and branches and spindly needles are difficult to discern - the veil of wintry fog drifts threateningly close to smothering. On remote stretches of the forest path, from where only the topmost spires of the temple are visible above the treeline, grass and mud and shrunken leaves are all laid equal beneath a blanket of powdery white. A few stray beams of sunlight force their way through the branches, illuminating animal tracks, from dainty paw to cloven hoof. Just a whisper of labored breathing sends another puff of mist drifting from between her lips, to hover a long moment in silence, before dissipating. The air is deadly still, no breeze at all, as though the wind itself were invisibly frozen. Icicles drip from the aves above and behind her; the spikes are glassy sentinels, hanging protective over a set of double doors carved with what were once sharp images of animals and kanji characters, but have been worn by time to mere indefinite textures. At the bottom of the sheer embankment of moss-dusted steps, to one side of the landing, stretches a simple meditation garden; the clearing is filled with layers of sand, raked into spirals around a few shallow boulders. Nearby, a stone-rimmed pond glitters with the sheen of an icy cover; the water is frozen still, and the koi are all gone, have been for centuries it seems. Directly ahead, a paved path marches through the temple's outer gate, a towering pavilion roofed with stone wings and strung with paper lanterns that sway not the slightest bit - for there is no breeze. Just past the gate is a small oblong courtyard, and beyond that a labrynth of frozen gravel, crystallized sand dusted with snow, winding like a serpent through the little bit of green that remains dormant under a varnish of ice, preserved for the coming spring. At least thirty steps above it all, Schönen stands before a squares stone archway. In the recess behind her, a set of banded double oak doors is framed in rough-hewn stone. The doorway was not originally so calloused, but the centuries and elements have ravaged its outlines, leaving them pockmarked and ill-defined. The temple is miles away from the estate of Sokaku, in the heart of a frostbitten wood, but her hours-long walk here, in bare feet and over miles of rutted gravel roads, was a necessary pilgrimage. She will be returning to the sempai in the dark. A few flakes of desperate crystal white drift slowly to the ground, breaking the silence with the crisp crunch of their landing. Her breathing, steady and rhythmic, is soundless, barely expanding the casement of the black canvas robe with the rise and fall of her chest. Face expressionless, hands likewise as they curl at her hips, she gives not a clue to her launch… the transition is seamless… …to stepping back, blocking invisible strikes to the east, opening her palm to brace against silent foes from the west… …flowing back and riding the tide to rest on the opposite foot, arms melting across into a mirror's reflection… …then drawn up on the ends of marionette strings… breathe in… breathe out… foot matched to foot to become that motionless china figurine once more… …a step forward, a silent step, as the burn of her skin radiates through tabi cloth, melting the snow before her foot can touch it, creating a feather-down landing… … Juji Uke Gedan… her arms slide down to cross over one another, locked into place with a barely perceptible punch… …another advance, on the right, and her arms swallow-tail, one drawn forth, one back… if ever combat were masked as dance, this is it… In mid-step, she chances a glance up, just then noticing the lanterns that have begun to sway from the eaves of the gate, and the distant tinkling of bells drifting to her ear and growing steadily louder, burgeoning into a tympani bellow. She unwinds, fast but fluid, limbs falling slack at her side - and not a moment too soon, as the ground begins to tremble, and she catches herself with feet planted in a broad step. Up ahead, the gate pillars are shifting on their foundations, as though the temple itself is offended by her presence. The quaking lasts for only a few short seconds, then the rumbling stops abruptly and everything falls to still once more… in the surrounding forest, not a creature stirs, not a bird cries… Slowly, she turns, glowering at the door, seduced by the challenge laid down at her feet by a monument of stone and wood and the spirit residing within its walls. Her eyes are narrowed in derision, her features canted upward in defiance, and, seething inwardly, she struggles with her own practiced poise. But the steam is already rising on her skin - damn nataSha for sowing the seeds of passion within her! Her womb is long since healed, but control must be relearned, and the discipline that was once her birthright will forever be in jeopardy, separated from hysteria by a tissue-thin line of purpose. She takes two supple steps forward, long ballerina strides that keep her toes extended and her soles falling with a murmur on the cobbled stones. As she moves forward, her forearm rises, as though it were on a marionette string and controlled by her footfalls. The cuff of her sleeve slides back, rolling down over her wrist and slipping nearly to her elbow, revealing whip-thin fingertips flexed and a hand already pale ivory glowing even brighter with heat. Another two steps, and she advances into the shadows of the recessed doorway - the impact of her open palm striking the door resonates out of the shelter and sends ripples of sound out into the surrounding forest, at last disturbing the peace of the few nesting birds left behind in their wintry nirvana. Immediately after, the bitter aroma of skin and wood burning in harmony bites at the air, and billows of steam surge out of the shallow enclosure, turning to sugar-frosted mist the instant they enter the crisp winter atmosphere. When she backs away, her arm falls aside, revealing a hand print on the temple door, her own doll-like impression left behind in charred dimples with a slightly oiled sheen, as though they were just a few other of the many blackened veins of age threaded through the wood... and as she watches, satisfaction turning her eyes to nuggets of pitiless amber, frozen fire, the lines of her mouth tightening, the stripes fold in on themselves, wriggling over the surface of the oak like tiny lizards formed wholly of India ink... Whorling like dervishes on crystal meth, the thick lines tangle themselves into a helix, wrapping about each other in a torrid orgy, seduced into new shapes by little more than a whim, until finally they dance outward in a quick whirring spiral that slows and slows and settles into lazy revolutions, reforming themselves into a duplicate of the image that Schönen wears on her chest... Leviathan's blasphemous hallmark... O, sacrilege! The portico springs to life with a violent jolt beneath her. She stumbles to the side, knocked off balance for a fraction of a moment before her knees recover, turning to elastic beneath her and allowing her to flex nimbly over the quaking stone. A feathery vapor continues to escape from her pores, rising from her hand, as she catches herself on a post near the head of the porch. Swinging around, she glances out through the trees, to the garden below - there, everything is perfectly still, and past the gate, the timberland is also silent ... but the temple trembles fiercely, its foundations belching outrage, the voices of spirits ancient rumbling like a chorus of tambours as they attempt to shake her vile presence from their abode. Unperturbed, Schönen turns on her heel, wheeling so abruptly that her braid looses itself from its careless chignon and whips behind her back, wrapping over one side of her collar and then dropping down between her shoulder blades to sway like a pendulum. Crossing her arms over her chest, she keeps her chin pointed high as she stalks away, bobbing slightly with every footfall, struggling for balance, as she makes her way down the staircase. She'll find another place for her exercises, some place not quite so prudish and sacrosanct - fighting the tired ghosts here would be a waste of energy. --------------------------------
...miles away, a pair of wizened eyes peer from the recesses of a shadow-streaked window... a sheer layer of milk-white, the beginnings of cataracts, washes over the natural champagne, but renders the watching no less intent... almost as though the scene on the temple steps were happening as nearby as the courtyard below... but is the storm clouding his features just a shadow reflected from the fluttering drape... or does the old man Sokaku already know that she will bite the hand that feeds her?... does he see and accept it as his fate?...  Ribbons of smoke stream into the rafters from the dozens of censers that line the walls; to the inside of those columns, a miserly straw runner marks the path to the altar. The lesser nature of the tatami is in sharp contrast to the gilded walls, and the golden icons at rest in their alcoves; sly like a Bedouin dancer, the veils of smoke whirl and slip away from time to time, affording a teasing peak at the rich silk tapestries of scarlet and nectarine, and the ruby eyes of the idols as they stare down from their shelves. With a creaking complaint, the ancient chapel door strains to open, as though its hinges were capable of expressing a preference for keeping the chill winter out and hoarding all the warmth and perfume inside. A gust of frigid air sweeps in, and in the resulting breeze, brass bells of all sizes, on hangers at the ceiling and strung from carmine cords around the edges of the altar, sway gently into a chorus so beautiful it could make your heart cry. A few dead leaves and a gust of snow follow in, riding the tail end of the draft, looping around the curtains of charcoal silk that swish around a pair of narrow ankles, and then falling idle at the cleft toes of a pair of black shoes. Schönen whispers up through the anteroom on kitten feet, the soles of her serviceable tabi hardly seeming to touch the straw - there is no grating or scuffing, only the lean whistle of air parting around her limbs, and that is more likely the product of the silk robe that swims on her lithe frame. A few feet in to the chamber, she pauses, stirring the incense smoke with her sigh. In the seconds following, as the fog reforms itself to an impenetrable soup, she could be a china doll again… inanimate… composed of clay, glazed with enamel, and little else… Her features are perfectly pallid and still, revealing nothing but a trace of pride in the upward tilt of her chin… her eyes are unblinking, and in fact, the only thing moving is the barely discernible ring of flame around her pupils - they shine eagerly, like tears on amber, or dollops of syrup glistening on a tree branch in the sun-riddled winter's afternoon… Contemplative, silent, with lips pursed in unspoken defiance, she stands with hands clasped at the small of her back and gazes towards the altar. Sokaku is there - she can tell him by the blazing orange robes that radiate like a beacon through the myrrh fog. Her sudden movement is startling, but her steps are measured. With automaton precision, she marches up through the center of the temple's main chamber, treading still more lightly on the straw, as though she were an ancestral ghost floating and not human at all. On reaching Sokaku, her hands flicker out briefly from behind her back, catching at the thick fold of fabric between her legs and pulling it aside as her limbs crimp together and she sinks to her knees. The posture is an indication of respect, and respect him, she does, in some small measure, but behind her eyes is a sliver of resentment, and reflected in them is a moving picture show, of men impaled on their own pikes while all around them a battlefield succumbs to the ravages of flame. Schönen has traveled over a great distance in the past months, making the journey from crippled infant, broken and wallowing in her own inertia, to focused killing machine - and all on a diet of thin broth, rice, and green tea. Her womb will always bear the savage scars of a hellspawn birth gone awry, but nothing shows on the outside anymore. If anything, her gaze is sharper and her movements more precise; she stands straight now, and a self-assuredness that could be mistaken for challenging insolence is etched into the calm of her demeanor. The past months have taken a toll on her figure, though, sending her from whip-thin straight down the line to emaciated, but she hides it well, swathing herself in yards and yards of rustling black silk. Her hair is different, too, at least to Sokaku's knowledge - no longer free, with the miles of raven silk swinging generously over her shoulders, it is now gathered into a tight braid, the plait coiled at the nape of her neck and secured with jade spikes. He watches her for a long moment, his eyes like tiny black marbles shifting in their sockets to follow every move. His features are the very picture of sobriety - the remaining gray hairs sprouting high on his forehead are combed back, and the long grizzled beard is groomed to a careful point, disappearing somewhere down in the folds of orange at his chest. Bloodless and faintly mottled with age spots, his lips are not pressed hard together, but they achieve the thin line of mirthlessness all the same. The silence between them speaks volumes, but can hardly compare to the bellow of his turning away. If he had words of wisdom to impart, or some new hurdle for her to jump, he is saving it for another day - he turns sharply on his heel, leaving the tails of his own robes to lap at the air in his wake. With hobbling, old-man steps, he makes his way out as gracefully as he can manage, stepping down from the altar platform and disappearing into an alcove steeped in shadows. Moments later, Schönen hears the gentle click of a door latch catching. At last, she can relax a little - her spine remains steadfastly erect, her shoulders squared, but she permits herself a fragment of a smile as she reflects on the fleeting shiver of fear she is sure she caught in his eyes. Glancing aside, she allows another expression - a flash of resentment in her eyes for the figure behind the darkened doorway. He might have saved her life, yes, but she can only be insulted that she was forced to accept his aid at all. And now, when he must surely know that his life could be forfeit to her whims at any time, he chooses cowardice. It is amazing that he stands upright, she thinks to herself, given the lack of a backbone. As she narrows her eyes on that notion, her face falls back to a mask of studied calm, and absently, seemingly of its own accord, one bone china hand weaves its way out from under the layers of black silk, rising to the nape of her neck to finger the pointed tip of a jade hair pin. KATSU JINKEN
the sword that saves life [wham!] A powerful draft sucked the door panel back against its frame; Schönen had barely the time to snatch up her voluminous robes and pull them inside before the handle wrenched free of her grip. Outside was a snowswept morning - she still wore some evidence of it in the patches of blush that marred her milky cheeks, and the light dusting, like confectioners' sugar, clinging to her sleeves and the tops of her tabi. Moisture dappled the bridge of her nose, left behind when the ice crystals had sizzled away on contact. Inside, however, was a summer's day - she had stepped out of the icebox and into a sauna. The air was dense with the stark raving mad stench of jungle rot; the musk of damp grain filled the room, sour enough to overpower even the fresh perfumes of newly cut timber and bamboo shoots. Schönen padded lightly across an ocean of stones, peeling out of a quilted coat and the layers of raw silk beneath as she went. Terra cotta tiles, glazed like hard honey candies, formed a bridge over a planter full of smooth, white pebbles, and each step, no matter how careful, brought with it a nerve-grating crunch. Had she put forth any effort, her approach might have been less conspicuous, but subtlety was not the order of the day - she was expected, as evidenced by the tatami sentinels that lay in wait. Before her lay Sokaku's own private dojo, an expanse of hardwood lacquered to a listless shine and measuring some thirty feet on all sides. Muted sunshine filtered through the walls of plain rice paper, blanketing the floor in a hazy post-dawn glow, obscuring the grain pattern of the pine and bleaching it by a trick of the light. Right down to its simple, sturdy oak corner posts, the chamber could at best be called anonymous. Two straw mats, leaden with water (and it can be presumed that this was the origin of the peculiar stench), were rolled and tied into tight bundles, each planted upright on the top of a wooden block in the center of the floor. Spikes rising out of the tops of those blocks pierced up through the centers of the tatami, impaling the marrow of the soaked mats. Shrugging the heavy robe over her shoulders, she doubled it across her forearm, folding the garment once carelessly and then draping it over a railing at the edge of the workout floor. There was the hakama, the wide-legged pants pleated carefully at the front and back, and the crisp white shirt wrapped around her lean torso. There was also revealed the edged sword hanging at her hip, its hilt peeking from the black sash wound around her waist. The moment the sword was exposed to the air, her posture shifted to the staunch, high-chinned self-importance of a soldier, and she fairly marched, with one hand folded carefully over the hilt, to the center of the room. Sokaku was there, had been standing all the while on the other side of the room, so that only the mats separated them. His presence was neither a surprise nor a comfort; in fact, it would appear not to be incidental in the least. She honored him, but with a shallow bow, her eyes barely dipping below his line of sight, the words uttered at so low a whisper as to be unintelligible. His wisened features remained constant, displaying no disappointment, no disdain. If anything, the thin line of his mouth softened, as she fell back and seated herself. He allowed her a few moments of meditation, and in those moments, the stillness was predatory, a hunter seeking and shedding an uneasy light on the blasphemies in both their souls. He studied her with wonder-filled eyes, the eyes of a father for his child, No, not his child, for she had been born leagues and light years away; not his student, for she had shed her innocence long before those frigid features swam into his imagination. His patient? Perhaps… but he could only direct the recovery of her body. If anything, she had taught him - through the many months of her contempt, he had been reminded of the wisdom in the awareness of one's own ignorance. Even he, the Sensei Sokaku, could not reach her, could not penetrate her darkness to heal her soul, and he did not know why - it was left only to accept and embrace his fate. Schönen held firm like a marble pillar, with silent eyes and mouth curved into a cupid's bow of childlike insouciance. But the very nature of her silence screamed heresy - the shed blood was already spilling from her fingertips, rouging her lips and adding a healthy glow to the pallor of her cheeks. "Sampo giri," the old man uttered, simply but with some slight struggle, as though it had been gasped out on his last breath. Glancing away, he folded his hands at the small of his back and stepped aside; he had no need to see what was forthcoming. A flicker of movement… a twitch at the corner of her mouth… eyelids swaying shut and open again like the wings of spring's first monarch… and then she was erect once more, her limbs all drawn up at once on the ends of marionette strings, rising in one liquid motion and passing a hand over the hilt of her sword. With feet planted firmly, she drew, her wrist flexing, her forearm sweeping into a swan's neck and then turning the blade upright before her. Every movement past that moment was precise and supple; she stepped forward swiftly, on elastic limbs, her toes slightly arched to send her springing forward on the next step before the last had even landed. The only motion unplanned was the gentle swinging of a thick rope of braid between her shoulder blades, and even that was seemingly measured, weaving like a metronome from side to side as she danced towards the tatami. But let there be no mistake made - this was no ballet. Within a foot or so of the first rolled mat, her shoulders drew up and her jawline tensed, as she lifted the sword a little higher into the air. Her gaze bored past, to an indeterminate spot on the wall, almost as though to deny the existence of the mat meant denying its importance, and render it therefore helpless before her might… (…every action sequence must have a soundtrack, and this one had electronic spikes, electric rain drop currents dancing on a tarpaulin, needles of sound pulsing against the backdrop of a sonic howl… the wail of banshees building to the horrified intake of breath of a thousand phantoms…) Her torso wound like a serpent suspended, her motions synchronizing with the turning of the earth, and seemingly without effort she drew the blade down slanting through the air… the sudden shriek of her ki rent the silence like a nail pulled down through a canvas sail… the mat sounded much less, merely whispering its despair as the layers of wet straw were severed and fell away, and before they could come within inches of the floor, her wrist had curved around again. (…and the ancestral cries that had tapered down and eddied into a pool of lazy blue sighs now swelled anew.. and the rain gods grew effulgent, overfed on the ki of a single drummer, then two, then a third and then an army…) Again through the mat with a minimum of effort, she cut clean, leaving behind an angle smooth like the surface of a powdered rice pastry… and leaving the gods in fits of outrage… SATSU NIN TO
the sword that kills On the balls of her feet, Schönen pivoted towards the second post. This time, her heart hammered impatiently in her chest, and her steps were quick, clipped, light, as though the floorboards were hot coals beneath her. In one fluid motion, her hips angled to the side, and her clasped hands sailed overhead, continuing the forward motion just as her feet came to a halt. The sword trilled, its resistance against the air joined by a chorus of phantom whispers that suddenly surged from the corners of the dojo, slipping through the seams between wood and rice paper, creeping like serpents along the floor and engulfing every available inch of silence. When the shriek of her ki came, it slammed down like a dagger embedded in the floor, skewering the sound of the mist. In startling contrast, the cuts were silent. Her blade slipped through the layers three times unnoticed, and in the end, there was nothing but the thud of three carved chunks of rolled straw as they hit the floor, thunk, thunk, thunk, rolled a few inches and stopped. (… pause … inhale … pause … exhale …) Still poised on the arches of her feet, with the sword held upright and ready to attack, she swiveled to one side. Deliberately, agonizingly slow, she might have been a music box doll on a mechanized turntable, for all that her posture remained fixed as she revolved. But inside, her blood was screaming, and Sokaku knew so the instant she turned fully and met his gaze. In that long moment of contact, he found himself transfixed by those almonds of amber, found himself lost in a jungle on fire, running, a peasant boy trampled underfoot by the panicked masses and consumed by the heat of a napalm blast, and it was his scream that sang in her veins … The great sensei was looking there still when the final cut came, the sliver of cold across his throat that pulled him back to focus, to see not just the flames in her eyes but the whole of her face, the placidity of china doll white and the practiced fierceness of lips pressed tight over clenched teeth. "Tanashita…" the angels sighed… but no, it was only her voice, so rarely heard and ethereal… ... Tanashita … the mists of a memory cleared over rows of bamboo huts huddled together silent and still around a grassy meadow when hoofbeats came crunching down the gravel-lined path at the center of a village and the air was filled with smoke and the shouts of conquerors but still the village lay in wait not a soul stirring even the birds their throats filled up with anticipation their warbling stifled by the wind until the riders were upon them and the cottages fell apart dozens of armored ancient warriors walking out of a crouch where they had been hiding beneath the eaves to draw cutting edges as they rose seeking blood and vengeance … She studied him as well, her expression never changing to match the delight inside as she watched his features change, with the pain of the nerves on the inside of his throat suddenly exposed to raw air and the realization that he could not cry out. But the sensation could not last at the forefront of his dwindling consciousness for long, as a new one came to replace it, the discomfort of a blade shoved through his bowels. He held there in limbo for a long moment, expressionless, his eyes watering and rapidly losing focus, until gravity claimed his body; his legs folded beneath him, and he dropped, leaving his crimson signature on the steel. Schönen allowed the blade to sag with the body's descent, so that its tip was resting against his chest when he let his final breath fly free. Sokaku had not fought; one might say that he had walked into the day knowing it would be his last, that complacency in the face of what he knew to be true of her nature had killed him in the end. No, he had not fought, but there could be no doubt that he had felt the agony of his injuries. Pain must express itself, and his had manifested in a gruesome death mask. One eye strained open still, the other clamped shut, and his weathered lips were twisted in a grimace. A line of spittle rolled from one corner of his mouth, trailing down his cheek to join the pool of crimson spreading from his gaping neck wound, soaking into the old man's robes and the tangle of his tarnished-silver hair. "It has to be this way, old man." It was, perhaps, the first full sentence she had spoken since coming here; because of the language barrier, the words between them had been simple, primitive communications with a foundation in gesture and the understanding of the eyes. She slipped into a crouch, and, fighting back the urge to spit on his lifeless body, simply wiped the blade clean across the front of his shirt, leaving a jagged sanguine stripe to complement the formless patches of red that were spreading from the center of his belly and seeping up across his shoulders. Turning the edge of the blade away, she laid the sword across his chest and balanced it there to rest. With one arm resting on her knee, her other hand crept nimbly, like a quicksilver spider, across his chest, and a faint, disturbing smile hinted at its presence on her lips. "You were weak, Sokaku, and slow," she murmured, tracing slow circles over his forehead with one extended digit. His skin offered some resistance initially, but when it seemed to melt away beneath her touch, and the first sharp bite of burning flesh struck the air, her tracings became more deliberate. Dragging her finger across his cheek, and leaving behind a furrow as though she had been dragging it through tar, she drew the first downward stroke, then added a simple tail to that, and to either side detached arms, one slightly stunted against the other … leaving on his cheek the impression of her signature - the traditional kanji character … for fire. The burns began to cool and scar over quickly, their redness fading to the color of putty even as she drew her hand back; by the time she had reclaimed and sheathed her blade, and stood to look down upon him, the mark was matched to his skin tone, but raised and unmistakable, particularly when the light filtering through the rice paper shades caressed the dead man's features, highlighting with shadow the vulgar brand. Still, she honored his prone figure as though he were alive, but with a token bow, no pity or remorse in her expression to indicate that anything was amiss in the gesture. Her eyes had seen their last of him, however, and she deliberately averted her gaze as she turned on her heel. As she spun away, her braid snaked loose of its coil at the nape of her neck and whipped free over her shoulder; before it had come to rest, her robes were back over one forearm, and as the foundations of the dojo began to rumble in outrage, Schönen escaped into the morning sun. |