LC

My Hero Academia: Just Another Hero, Act 2

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---

Ace had been, quite cleverly he thought, hidden behind the professor's hologram during the announcements- leaning back at that long vacant desk, legs kicked up and crossed atop its edge. It was all about entrances, after all, and if the professor wasn't going to use his desk, then somebody certainly had to! The fox was more pretty, than handsome- at least, so long as one could get past his mutant nature. Androgynous in the extreme, his style was little help, riding the line enough to leave people guessing at his gender. He was quietly taking a file to his nails, carefully maintaining the points they naturally grew to, and glanced up only briefly when the hologram dispersed to favor the classroom with a smile. Despite the toothy nature of a vulpine face, he managed to make it seem pretty, wiggling his fingers in the semblance of a wave before he returned his attention to the task at hand.

Despite his apparently keep interest in nail care, he kept an ear pivoted towards the rest of the class, trying to get a feel for this supposedly wild bunch. Spending time in the States had been a good move, he knew, but it had certainly left him out of the loop here, and what he'd caught up on so far painted the picture of a chaotic, trouble prone group of misfits. Which, he supposed, was par for the course for a hero course, but they could at least stand to be less blatant about it... He found himself rolling his eyes at the antics of Kyoya, all too familiar with that type, and peering warily towards Kagari soon after. The little giggle sounded positively menacing- Just what was she daydreaming about? He'd heard less sinister laughs from actual villains!

Then, the contributions of his own yearmates. He loosed a soft, breathy laugh as Reiji's introduction came to a close, looking up through his lashes at the lot of them, brilliant green gaze sweeping across them each in turn.

"What Reiji means to say is he's heard a lot, and he's choosing only to listen to the good bits~. You all gathered quite a reputation while we were away, you know. I'm still sorting through all the gossip. Oh, and, don't mind Izanagi too much. The only chains and cages he knows about are stashed in his room, where he thinks I won't find them~. The field trip was only sprung on us a few minutes before it was on you all, so don't get your hopes up too high on questions. So far as the training exercise goes, we'll be feeling you all out in our own ways. Some of us are a little more prone to tests of strength than others, so get stretching, hmn? Personally, I just plan to get to know you all a little, do a bit of.... Digging~."

He grinned, playfully menacing, as he pressed a nail to his temple- The implications of his tone somehow riding the line between flirtatious and deeply disconcerting. Was he planning to dig through their heads? Just seeing who of them was made uncomfortable by the thought alone?

"Now, if that covers all the baseline questions, let me get some introductions from you all. I know your names, but I don't know the faces to put them with, yet. At least, not most of you. I, for one, am Akai Jace. You can call me Ace, or Vulpes if we're in costume. I just got back from Stateside, so I'll need whichever one of you is the local gossip hound to catch me up on all the good tea after class. Knowledge is power, and all- and the little things come in handy as much as the big things."

My Hero Academia: Just Another Hero, Act 2

Buddy time

My Hero Academia: Just Another Hero, Act 2

Ace

M Y H E R O
M Y H E R O

The Kitsune Hero- Vulpes

I d e n t i t y
Akai Jace, 23

_{3 ★ P R O H E R O Japan, Unranked - Eirei College}

---

_{P e r s o n a l i t y}

Akai Jace (Going, most often, by Ace) is a generally light hearted and playful person, preferring to face the world with easy laughter and mischief well suited to the creatures his family have long been compared to. Well aware of the androgynous nature of his appearance, and the reputation of his mythical cousins, he is also something of an incorrigible flirt, though harmlessly so- rarely, if ever, taking things beyond the surface.

He has a deep seated love for music that rivals even his commitment to heroism, to the point that he very nearly attended a college of the arts rather than a hero college, the final decision made entirely upon the knowledge that, even without additional schooling, he could at least continue to pursue music in his free time, where the reverse might have meant losing the opportunity to work as a hero entirely.

_Origin

Ace comes from a long line of supers who share, to one degree or another, his quirk. There are some who believe his bloodline was somehow engineered to be as they are, given the uncanny similarities they have to a creature of myth and the broad range of their abilities- and not even Ace knows the truth of the matter. All he knows for certain is that he has a gift, and he intends to use it for the betterment of the lives around him.

While some in his lineage have been heroes, they were fairly minor- and far more recent, fresh in the minds of the people, is his mother. A notorious villainess, she modeled herself after the legend of Tamamo-no-Mae, the spirit of a Kitsune supposedly trapped within a sessho-seki in ages past. She wielded her powers of enchantment to sow chaos amidst the government and the hero association, and was only barely brought down near the culmination of her plans by Endeavor.

With the shadow of his mother's actions looming over him, unable to escape ridicule, Ace became determined to overcome adversity, to undo the damage she had done, and become a beacon of good and hope where she had been one of paranoia and suspicion. While his powers are ill suited for the flashy displays and powerful blasts common to hero work, he works hard to be a comforting presence, and while he might not blow a villain away, he makes a point to handle them quickly and efficiently.

Q u i r k
Kitsune

Gen 5 - Metamorphosis/Psych - Awakened

---

Kitsune- Like the mythical creatures of old, those with this quirk are possessed of a singularly persuasive and mischievous nature, and physically altered to resemble the foxes these mythical beings were modeled after. With powers of illusion and suggestion, they may warp the minds and perceptions of their foes, for good or ill, and guide them towards a new course of action.

_Supermoves
° Glamour: Ace completely focuses a target's attention in himself, and makes himself appear dazzling and beautiful in their eyes, to distract them and leave them vulnerable to strikes from himself or his allies.

° Suggestion: While a foe is glamoured, they are far more susceptible to persuasion and direction, and he may suggest a course of action to them. So long as he makes it seem reasonable or enticing, and the foe doesn't possess high mental fortitude, they may feel compelled to go along with it.

° Hallucinate: Ace may alter a target's senses to make them perceive, with all five senses, things that are not really there- or to fail to perceive things that are there. This can be used to distract and confuse his foes, or even to make them believe they have suffered injuries that they haven't.

_Ultramoves
° Nightmare: A heightened form of Hallucinate, this move requires extreme concentration and skill from Ace. Manipulating his target's perceptions, he places them in an all-encompassing hallucination akin to a nightmare, wherein he works to drive them to a state of terror- or bliss- that leaves them completely insensate for several hours afterwards.

S k i l l s
Persuasion • Ancient Weapons • Deception

Support Item - Staff of Foxfire - Selfmade

---

Acting as a focus for his quirk, Ace's staff works to allow him a limited ability to project illusions that are visible to everybody nearby, rather than only his target. It also works just fine for knocking people upside the head.

The Elder Scrolls: In the Shadows of Oblivion [Closed]

It'll be fiiiine he can always get more

The Elder Scrolls: In the Shadows of Oblivion [Closed]

The Orange One

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---

Age: 36
Race: Khajiit (Cathay-Raht)
Appearance:
As a Cathay-Raht, Kiffar will never have an easy time blending into a crowd. Standing at a full three meters and change in height, with a broad, powerful physique, he towers over kin and strangers alike. Orange fur, striped with black and accented by cream, make him stand out all the more- for even amidst his fellow Cathay-Raht, commonly darkly hued, he is unusual. Eyes of an icy blue give his stare a disconcerting level of intensity, let alone the unwavering nature of a feline gaze.

Beyond the natural gift of size, he is well muscled by a life of hard training and effort, with a fair share of scars beneath the veil of his pelt- enough to suggest a life of violence, though not so many as to imply he does not know how to duck. So far as gigantic tiger men go, he may yet be considered handsome, despite the beginnings of grey sneaking through the orange and cream around his chin, brows and whiskers.

Personality:
Kiffar is a simple man, of simple drives. While it would be incorrect to call him stupid, he does not make a habit of concerning himself with intellectual matters, believing them best left to others with wiser heads than his own. He believes that there are very few problems that cannot be solved with either violence or flirting, and he vastly prefers the former option when possible. On his own, he is prone to aimless wandering- But with proper direction, he can be a terrible tool of brute force... So long as he remains fed and entertained.

Without one or the other, he can be prone to becoming moody, either growing increasingly irritable, or descending into a state of pouting from which it can be difficult to rouse him. Likewise, long bouts of discussion on matters which interest him little may drive him to wander off, bored, which rarely ends well for anybody nearby...

---

Skills:

Sharps:
Kiffar has always appreciated a good blade, and as a warrior and a manesguard, he was expected to know how to use them well. While he has a personal preference for a greatsword and a backup dagger as his standard kit, he is well versed in the use of swords and axes big and small, and is particularly fond of axes as a tool for throwing, when he can loot them off of somebody else. Blades overall, however, are tools to him, things used for killing on the job, not for fun. He greatly prefers to go without them entirely, where he can afford to have a little fun.

These Hands: Kiffar is a master of each of the Khajiiti traditional Claw-Dances- The Zhan Khaj, Vrin-Thak, Rawlith Kahj, and Ziz Kurah- and was, once, renowned for his prowess as an unarmed combatant. While he still maintains these skills, he has grown fonder and fonder of a more instinctive, wild brawling as the years passed, relying on his sheer power, speed, and reflexes to thread the formal techniques into a far less pretty and refined, but far more adaptive and brutal style all his own.

Yeet and Skeet: In the rare case that Kiffar's prey is too elusive for him to close the gap, he has grown adept in covering that distance with thrown weapons. While it is far from his best skill, there is something to be said for the raw power with which he can put a javelin, axe, or dagger into- and occasionally through- somebody's chest. While his strength allows him to cover incredible ranges, his accuracy leaves something to be desired beyond the length of a room.

You do not see Tyberos Kiffar: While it would be nearly impossible for Kiffar to actually conceal himself from view without the aid of magic, he is quite capable of standing still enough to go unnoticed in the right circumstances- And he moves with a shocking degree of care and silence for somebody of his scale. So long as he isn't in somebody's line of sight, he is more than capable of sneaking up on them.

Poison Tester: Due to his incredible constitution and keen senses, Kiffar occasionally acted as poison tester during his time as a Manesguard. While he is hopeless at brewing potions, he can expertly identify most common, and some rare, potions and poisons by taste and smell- And, generally, is able to survive imbibing the latter in small doses.

---

Magic:

Kiffar is orange. Kiffar is not good at silly spells and magics, and is offended that you would remind him of this fault in his incredibly narrow broad range of talents.

---

Equipment:

Personal Items:
Garb of the Unbound- A fancy title for the only clothes anywhere nearby that (Mostly) fit Kiffar. As pictured.
Scabbards (Empty)- The empty scabbards for Kiffar's favorite sword and dagger. He called them perverts for trying to take his belt.
Satchel- Kiffar's satchel. It contains mostly snacks, a pathetic scattering of septims, and several blacksmiths puzzles.
Amulet of the Kitten- A Malachite pendant, crafted for Kiffar by his beloved mother. His most prized possession.

The Lockbox:
Leg guards- Light weight, sturdy leg armor. Kiffar attempted to claim it was decorative. A Guardsman's broken shins begged to differ.
Sword and Dagger- Kiffar's favorite sword and dagger. Sized and weighted for him, they are almost comically large to others.
Moon Sugar- Kiffar was... Holding it for somebody else?
Wrist Weights- Taken for similar reasons to his leg guards.

Stored Items:
Storage? What is this storage you speak of? Why would Kiffar trust others with his things? You are silly, man-thing.

---

Background:

Kiffar, the Vast:
Born a Cathay-Raht, destiny marked Kiffar for war, to be used by his people as an instrument of brutality, in defense of their home, or in pursuit of their goals in other lands. Even amidst his kindred, he grew to be large, powerful limbs lending him speed and strength fit only for violent use. The Cathay-Raht were once described as large and fast enough to do battle with werewolves, and Kiffar is a breathing example of that truth.

He was tutored by warriors and by claw-dancers, and pit against his kindred to refine him. His life was one of training and of action, and it was upon his sixteenth nameday that they considered him ready.

They named him Kiffar the Vast, and for ten years, he did battle in their charge.

Kiffar, the Manesguard:
So great we're the actions of Kiffar the Vast, in the years of his youth, that honors were extended to his family- To come to the city-state of Torval, to be of the kin of the Mane. Kiffar was to serve as warrior guard, to be bastion and claw to the Mane himself, and he took this duty with pride. There he was refined further, and came to be among the most lethal and feared of his people, for all the Manesguard must be so.

For ten years did he protect and serve the leader of his people. For ten years, he bore the palanquin upon his shoulders when his master sought to wander his realm.

For ten years, they named him Kiffar the Manesguard.

Kiffar, the Unbound
Chaos came to Elsweyr in the dusk of the third era. Chaos came, for leadership was lost. Assassins came in the night for the Mane, and like ghosts, evaded the watch of his guard. The Mane was slaughtered in his bed, and Kiffar knows only that the deed was done in the wake of his master's treaty with Cyrodiil, and the rise of the Renrijra Krin. He believes, knows in his spine, that it was they who brought blades in the night. But this belief does not rid him of blame, and of guilt. The Manesguard failed in their charge, and were reviled for their failure.

The whole of them were removed of their posts, as war began in the sands of Elswyrr, and banished to wander, shamed and outcast.

They named him Kiffar the Unbound, and he left his home forever.

Kiffar, the Troublesome
It has been nearly a year now, since the day of his banishment, and Kiffar has wandered far beyond the warm sands of home. To the lands of the Empire proper did he roam, and there he sold his talents as a mercenary, as a bodyguard, as a champion, and as a common thug, for no duty was too little or too rough for his shame. He turned to mischief to ease his guilt, turned to fighting to ease his rage, and became a common face within the dungeons.

They knew him there, and in a way, that was a comfort, for he knew he would never again know home as it should have been, only as it could be found.

They did not name him here- And he believed he would never be named again.

---

Ambition:

Kiffar will find the Renrijra Krin agents who slaughtered the Mane, and he will rip them apart with claws and fangs, and leave the scraps for their betters to find. They, he will haunt to his final days, for the failure in his duty can be answered only with his end... And first, with theirs.

The Elder Scrolls: In the Shadows of Oblivion [Closed]

I give to you... Kiffar.

Kiffar, the Orange

---

---

Age: 36
Race: Khajiit (Cathay-Raht)
Appearance:
As a Cathay-Raht, Kiffar will never have an easy time blending into a crowd. Standing at a full three meters and change in height, with a broad, powerful physique, he towers over kin and strangers alike. Orange fur, striped with black and accented by cream, make him stand out all the more- for even amidst his fellow Cathay-Raht, commonly darkly hued, he is unusual. Eyes of an icy blue give his stare a disconcerting level of intensity, let alone the unwavering nature of a feline gaze.

Beyond the natural gift of size, he is well muscled by a life of hard training and effort, with a fair share of scars beneath the veil of his pelt- enough to suggest a life of violence, though not so many as to imply he does not know how to duck. So far as gigantic tiger men go, he may yet be considered handsome, despite the beginnings of grey sneaking through the orange and cream around his chin, brows and whiskers.

Personality:
Kiffar is a simple man, of simple drives. While it would be incorrect to call him stupid, he does not make a habit of concerning himself with intellectual matters, believing them best left to others with wiser heads than his own. He believes that there are very few problems that cannot be solved with either violence or flirting, and he vastly prefers the former option when possible. On his own, he is prone to aimless wandering- But with proper direction, he can be a terrible tool of brute force... So long as he remains fed and entertained.

Without one or the other, he can be prone to becoming moody, either growing increasingly irritable, or descending into a state of pouting from which it can be difficult to rouse him. Likewise, long bouts of discussion on matters which interest him little may drive him to wander off, bored, which rarely ends well for anybody nearby...

---

Skills:

Sharps:
Kiffar has always appreciated a good blade, and as a warrior and a manesguard, he was expected to know how to use them well. While he has a personal preference for a greatsword and a backup dagger as his standard kit, he is well versed in the use of swords and axes big and small, and is particularly fond of axes as a tool for throwing, when he can loot them off of somebody else. Blades overall, however, are tools to him, things used for killing on the job, not for fun. He greatly prefers to go without them entirely, where he can afford to have a little fun.

These Hands: Kiffar is a master of each of the Khajiiti traditional Claw-Dances- The Zhan Khaj, Vrin-Thak, Rawlith Kahj, and Ziz Kurah- and was, once, renowned for his prowess as an unarmed combatant. While he still maintains these skills, he has grown fonder and fonder of a more instinctive, wild brawling as the years passed, relying on his sheer power, speed, and reflexes to thread the formal techniques into a far less pretty and refined, but far more adaptive and brutal style all his own.

Yeet and Skeet: In the rare case that Kiffar's prey is too elusive for him to close the gap, he has grown adept in covering that distance with thrown weapons. While it is far from his best skill, there is something to be said for the raw power with which he can put a javelin, axe, or dagger into- and occasionally through- somebody's chest. While his strength allows him to cover incredible ranges, his accuracy leaves something to be desired beyond the length of a room.

You do not see Tyberos Kiffar: While it would be nearly impossible for Kiffar to actually conceal himself from view without the aid of magic, he is quite capable of standing still enough to go unnoticed in the right circumstances- And he moves with a shocking degree of care and silence for somebody of his scale. So long as he isn't in somebody's line of sight, he is more than capable of sneaking up on them.

Poison Tester: Due to his incredible constitution and keen senses, Kiffar occasionally acted as poison tester during his time as a Manesguard. While he is hopeless at brewing potions, he can expertly identify most common, and some rare, potions and poisons by taste and smell- And, generally, is able to survive imbibing the latter in small doses.

---

Magic:

Kiffar is orange. Kiffar is not good at silly spells and magics, and is offended that you would remind him of this fault in his incredibly narrow broad range of talents.

---

Equipment:

Personal Items:
Garb of the Unbound- A fancy title for the only clothes anywhere nearby that (Mostly) fit Kiffar. As pictured.
Scabbards (Empty)- The empty scabbards for Kiffar's favorite sword and dagger. He called them perverts for trying to take his belt.
Satchel- Kiffar's satchel. It contains mostly snacks, a pathetic scattering of septims, and several blacksmiths puzzles.
Amulet of the Kitten- A Malachite pendant, crafted for Kiffar by his beloved mother. His most prized possession.

The Lockbox:
Leg guards- Light weight, sturdy leg armor. Kiffar attempted to claim it was decorative. A Guardsman's broken shins begged to differ.
Sword and Dagger- Kiffar's favorite sword and dagger. Sized and weighted for him, they are almost comically large to others.
Moon Sugar- Kiffar was... Holding it for somebody else?
Wrist Weights- Taken for similar reasons to his leg guards.

Stored Items:
Storage? What is this storage you speak of? Why would Kiffar trust others with his things? You are silly, man-thing.

---

Background:

Kiffar, the Vast:
Born a Cathay-Raht, destiny marked Kiffar for war, to be used by his people as an instrument of brutality, in defense of their home, or in pursuit of their goals in other lands. Even amidst his kindred, he grew to be large, powerful limbs lending him speed and strength fit only for violent use. The Cathay-Raht were once described as large and fast enough to do battle with werewolves, and Kiffar is a breathing example of that truth.

He was tutored by warriors and by claw-dancers, and pit against his kindred to refine him. His life was one of training and of action, and it was upon his sixteenth nameday that they considered him ready.

They named him Kiffar the Vast, and for ten years, he did battle in their charge.

Kiffar, the Manesguard:
So great we're the actions of Kiffar the Vast, in the years of his youth, that honors were extended to his family- To come to the city-state of Torval, to be of the kin of the Mane. Kiffar was to serve as warrior guard, to be bastion and claw to the Mane himself, and he took this duty with pride. There he was refined further, and came to be among the most lethal and feared of his people, for all the Manesguard must be so.

For ten years did he protect and serve the leader of his people. For ten years, he bore the palanquin upon his shoulders when his master sought to wander his realm.

For ten years, they named him Kiffar the Manesguard.

Kiffar, the Unbound
Chaos came to Elsweyr in the dusk of the third era. Chaos came, for leadership was lost. Assassins came in the night for the Mane, and like ghosts, evaded the watch of his guard. The Mane was slaughtered in his bed, and Kiffar knows only that the deed was done in the wake of his master's treaty with Cyrodiil, and the rise of the Renrijra Krin. He believes, knows in his spine, that it was they who brought blades in the night. But this belief does not rid him of blame, and of guilt. The Manesguard failed in their charge, and were reviled for their failure.

The whole of them were removed of their posts, as war began in the sands of Elswyrr, and banished to wander, shamed and outcast.

They named him Kiffar the Unbound, and he left his home forever.

Kiffar, the Troublesome
It has been nearly a year now, since the day of his banishment, and Kiffar has wandered far beyond the warm sands of home. To the lands of the Empire proper did he roam, and there he sold his talents as a mercenary, as a bodyguard, as a champion, and as a common thug, for no duty was too little or too rough for his shame. He turned to mischief to ease his guilt, turned to fighting to ease his rage, and became a common face within the dungeons.

They knew him there, and in a way, that was a comfort, for he knew he would never again know home as it should have been, only as it could be found.

They did not name him here- And he believed he would never be named again.

---

Ambition:

Kiffar will find the Renrijra Krin agents who slaughtered the Mane, and he will rip them apart with claws and fangs, and leave the scraps for their betters to find. They, he will haunt to his final days, for the failure in his duty can be answered only with his end... And first, with theirs.

Bleach - Resonant Souls

Sagamiyama - Sakuhana Park
Night

Everything happened fast- and in so doing, further pressed on Darius just how similar these Hollows were to older, familiar foes. That pulse of pressure, the terror it wrought on his companions, may as well have been an IED- the tactics were identical. Take the group by surprise, paralyze them, then come shouting and hollering over a hill, guns blazing, while the troops were still collecting themselves. The familiarity of it all helped him to stay calm, in truth, rising carefully to his feet once the worst of the pressure passed, jaw set and determined as the Hollows unveiled themselves.

This Regalhorn had a big mouth, and if he hadn't just felt the impact of it's spiritual pressure, hadn't listened to the briefing, he might have thought it was all hot air. The byplay between it and Ouga went mostly unnoticed by him, his attention fixated on the horde, grim. They were many, but they were foolish, charging head on. It they had a good machine gunner, maybe-- no. This was a realm of swords and claws, and he couldn't wish for what they didn't have. Or at least, he thought he couldn't, until Ouga unveiled a truly surprising trick. He could feel the air change, feel Ouga's strength flex in the pressure around him, as his sword became something else, something new- and unleashed hell upon the charging force.

That was as good as any machine gunner, cutting the horde down to size and leaving only a few left to skirt around Ouga and attack the kids... And himself. He resisted the urge to grin at the efficacy of that lightning, focusing up on the still very real threat that faced him. Before he could so much as bark a warning, though, Bakugo and Anthony were bull rushing past, headlong and reckless into danger. With an irate grunt, Darius lunged after them, ripping his sword from its sheath with one hand and drawing on reishi with the other, the sensation familiar by now, through weeks of practice. Kido, the soul reapers called it. He still thought of it as magic, to himself, and found as much delight as confusion in wielding it. He raised his voice to his best battlefield shout, deep and carrying, easily audible over the chaos, even as he brought his hand down in a slicing motion, drawing an invisible line- between the reckless boys and the Hollows they had charged, praying he was fast enough to save them from what vengeance might come. He hoped, too, that he was loud enough to be heard by their missing companions, too, to draw them towards the group. Hopes that they were still alive to hear.

That power manifested like a solid wall of light, rusty orange in hue- a broad, heavy barricade between hollow claws and fangs and the soft flesh of his companions.

"Bakudo: Fūsa! Are you boys out of your minds!? Keep behind me- You strike around me, around the barrier, at any claw or face that pokes it's ugly way out! Keep them penned in, pick them off, and keep your damn necks safe!"

There was no guarantee that they would listen- they didn't have the training of soldiers, didn't have that discipline ingrained in them, to jump at a good ol' Sergeant's holler, but he hoped the noise of it, the physical block of the barricade, would be enough to get some sense into them. To keep them safe. Even as he shouted, he ran to the barrier himself, lashing out fiercely at the first claw or mask that dared to try and peek around the top or sides. The Hollows could skirt around it widely, of course, but at least then they would have time to see them coming and react.

The Elder Scrolls: Before the Great War

The Gold Road

Kiffar had been busy, while the other employed clever strategies and bandied words, turning bandits into babies. Those few who had been foolish enough to charge him head on, and foolishly brave enough not to flee soon after, were methodically bruised, bloodied, and broken by the Cathay-Raht, their weapons turned against them and limbs bent very firmly in wrong directions. He was busy wresting the axe from the hands of the most stubborn of the bunch when the atronachs were brought into play. Seeing one bear his own shape, Kiffar could have wept with glee for the challenge presented. With a harsh yank, he tore the axe from the Bandit's fingers, the man practically forgotten in his excitement. He spared him only enough thought more for a headbutt that produced such a meaty crack, it may well haunt the nightmares of the others for days to come. It was certainly enough to make the man go limp, ragdolling to the ground as Kiffar turned, stolen axe in hand, to face the frosty replica of himself while it lumbered closer.

"You have given Kiffar a present, and it is not even his nameday! Kiffar has fought many things, but he has never fought Kiffar!"

As fire rained down from the treeline, lashing out at the copy of Arndvir and blocking the mage woman's retreat, Kiffar turned his toothy grin towards the source, waving his new axe overhead.

"Do not hurt this one! Kiffar wants the challenge, yes yes!"

Then, a clash of giants. There was an audible crack as Kiffar and the atronach charged into one another, and it was unclear whether the sound was bone or ice. For a long moment, they strained against each other, shoulder to shoulder, frost slowly spreading along the real Kiffar's fur from the point of contact. Neither could gain much ground, never more than a step, given and taken- until, at least, Kiffar suddenly dropped his center of mass, abandoning the contest of strength to instead loop an arm under his icy copy's legs, heaving it up onto his shoulders with a roar. Frozen limbs creaked, flailing, before he turned over the other direction to slam the thing's head into the road.

Against a fleshy mortal target, it would have been a deathblow, and probably put their head in their chest cavity. Atronachs were made of sterner stuff, however. The cobbles cracked, and fractures raced along the thing's head and chest, but it lived still. Kiffar came down at it with the axe, splitting the air with a thrum, only to be stopped cold and sent stumbling back by a brutal blast of frost magic, a stream that hit like a hammer and spread rime over Kiffar's arms and chest, forcing him to guard his face with the axe. It slowed him, and the chill cut deep, giving the atronach time to regain its feet as Kiffar fought to break the shell of frost on his joints, straining and snarling. He broke loose, scattering chips of icy shell all around, just in time to take a hammering fist to the gut, sending him back a few more feet, almost to the wagon.

It wasn't pain, though, that twisted his expression. It was disappointment. The creature was strong, true, and durable- it's strikes hurt, it's frost burned him, and it survived much... But it was not him, as he had first believed. It was without grace, without technique, without the feral, frenzied glee in battle that Kiffar could embody. It was but a crude reflection. He sighed heavily, tail drooping as he ducked under the atronach's next strike, twisting sharply at the waist to drive his free hand into its side brutally. It had no liver, of course, but ice still cracked, chips still fell away.

Another powerful, flailing strike from the creation. Kiffar took this one against his elbow, parrying it off to the side, and returned with the axe, an upward cleave that split ice like wood, and sent the thing's arm spinning away, cleanly removed. His disappointment only grew as another stream of frost came in reply. Painful. Slowing... But not debilitating. This time, when he broke the shell and it came for him again, he dipped to the side, and brought the axe down in a cleave that would have split a man from head to groin. It bit only chest deep in the atronach, but it was enough. The creation shuddered, cracked, and went inert, to slowly melt away as the day went on.

Kiffar left the axe in its chest, limping towards the wagon and taking a seat on its bench. He was badly frostbitten, but seemed otherwise okay... Save, perhaps, that he appeared to be pouting.

"Stupid mage-woman... Kiffar wanted to fight Kiffar, not a normal frost-man..."

Oh... Oh dear. Not only was he wounded, but it seemed all the joy had been sapped from the enormous cat. He'd completely lost interest in the fight- cleaning up what remained of the enemy force would be left up to the others while he pouted.

Bleach - Resonant Souls

Sagamiyama - Stone Household
Evening

Darius leaned against the bathroom counter with a low sigh, peering at his reflection in the mirror. A heavy frown drew lines across his face, wrinkled the skin between his brows. He could swear there was grey in his hair, could believe that some of those frown lines were wrinkles that were here to stay. War aged a man, and stress wore him down. He had thought he was done with the first, and dealing with less of the second, yet here he was, about to put on yet another uniform and strike out against yet another force. The spiritual nature of it all was just a detail- the result was the same. Conflict. Always, always, there was conflict. He was so tired... And what would Aiko think? Even if he could get her to believe he was running around as a ghost, hunting spirits, he doubted she would be pleased he'd lasted all of six months in retirement before finding another war to fight.

Still... His hands clenched around the edge of the counter, a frustrated huff blown out through his nose. If he didn't do this, then the only ones in the line of fire would be a bunch of kids. He wouldn't stand for it. Couldn't. And there was that distant voice. Like the gong of a far away church, getting louder every day- ever since the asauchi. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew what it said. There could be no rest for him. Not while there was still something, anything, to protect.

Determined, he plucked that little green pill from his pocket, swallowing it down, and waiting a moment for the soul candy to take effect. It was always a strange feeling, being ejected from his body, stumbling back a step away from it, while the artificial soul now within looked around as if surprised. Steadying himself, grimacing as he always did at the strange, traditional nature of the shihakusho he wore in this form, he stepped forward to seize the soul- himself, really- by the shoulders, turning him roughly to stare into eyes equal to his own, but bearing a mind that most certainly wasn't.

"You. Pay attention. You're going to put on pyjamas, you're going to lay down, and you're going to sleep. You stay that way until I get back. Touch my wife, and I put you in a goldfish. Clear?"

Once he was assured that there would be no antics or shenanigans by the soul candy while it inhabited his body for him, Darius released it with a nod, and struck out. He paused only briefly in his room, stooping low to brush a kiss over Aiko's cheek, though he knew she wouldn't see or feel him in soul form.

"I'll be back... Always. I promise."

---

Sagamiyama - Sakuhana Park

Dusk

Darius leaned back against the trunk of the Sakura tree that gave the park it's name and fame, that heavy frown still pulling at his features. He was seated, his zanpakuto resting across his lap, still in its sheath. He fidgeted idly with the tassel hanging from its guard, the only sign of his nerves over the battles to come. It has always been a bad habit, in situations like this- whether it was a strap on his gear, the carry strap for his weapon, or a bit of stray thread on his uniform, he'd always needed something to futz with in the hours of waiting before action. It helped him keep from overthinking- to keep his head clear going in, so it would be clear coming out. He had been the first to arrived- and he would remain there, seated, until the last of the others arrived, or they were called to action. Whatever happened, he knew his purpose this night.

He wouldn't let those kids come to harm. Not one of them. Not a scratch.

The Elder Scrolls: Before the Great War

Kiffar, the Unbound

The Orange Road

It was a wonder, really, that they had gotten this far. Between the debates on plans, the debates on leadership, the debates on breakfast, and the debates on who rode, who walked, and who drove their little caravan, Kiffar had been beginning to believe that all they would ever do was debate. He'd been overjoyed when they finally got a move on that morning, and the only thing that has prevented him physically dragging the others into action was some thin veil of politeness that he insisted on keeping in front of the Confessor.

Now, after hours of walking, he was getting restless. He almost would have welcomed further debate if only to interrupt the monotony- but what he got was a far better gift. Bandits. Oh sweet, sweet bandits, and their eternally foolish ways. They could see a legend made flesh and still think to rob them of their purse- and while they may be led by another incessant talker, at least there were those foolish enough to charge.

The arrows that came first, of course, were a nuisance. He was able to lurch out of the way of the first few, a startling display of agility for a man of his mass- but, unlike some people, Kiffar had no magic. He wore no armor, and carried no shield. It was little surprise that a pair of the shafts found their mark on a target so large, no matter how fast he was- arrows sinking into the flesh of his thigh, and his side. The pain, sharp and deep, got an irate snarl from Kiffar, as ice blue eyes turned towards the charging fools.

"Kiffar has promised the nice Confessor he will commit no war crimes. But we are not at war, are we?"

The others were granted, then, a singularly unpleasant glimpse at just what their least favorite kitty cat did for a living. First came the knife- really, a whole short sword, for people of any normal size. It practically leaped from its place in the small of his back, sent spinning underhand towards whoever was unlucky enough to be first in line. The much larger of the two weapons on his belt was left right where it was- because it was time for hands. Just. Hands. The Cathay Raht moved frightfully fast, even with an arrow tearing at his thigh- and seemed to have no compunction at all with trying to get his claws in all the squishiest bits he could find, while he cramped the bandits for space to wield their weapons. He would be... Busy, for a small while.

The roaring and screaming was probably a bit distracting. Was he laughing? What was that crunch?