Chevaleresse
Fetzen
Neziul
Villamvihar
mickilennial
shylarahKanbaru Otoko
The night's of Miso city were rarely dull. Whether the instinctual anxiety of the unawares citizenry or the skulking of the monsters who seem fated to endlessly spawn from the dark crevasses of the concrete jungles and glutinously feast upon the society they are forever apart from, the air was forever charged and left one tense and leery. In such a state Kanbaru found it a wonder anyone could think that walking about so late in the evening was a good idea, but such was life that people were bound by either whim or obligation to present themselves to the cold night's embrace and chance an attack by the Nightmares.
An inhuman roar drew closer to the rooftop rumble, mechanical and rising in volume as the distance closed and a headlight snapped on to illuminate the mutilated creatures being torn into from every direction by both the Light and Dark. It was a motorcycle traversing the roofs with a surprisingly smooth ride, with every gap and bump bridged over by a sheet of blackened ice that didn't detract from it's rider's control in the least. After all, Kanbaru's magic was as likely to hinder her as Ami's fire was to burn her.
With her long coat billowing in her wake and the re-breather of her costume exhaling puffs of unnaturally cold air as she passed, she looked more wasteland raider then magical girl, but Kanbaru was rather fond of the practical aesthetic it offered, and she vainly thought she cut quiet a figure as her mechanical steed shot past the horde and swung around in a wide arc before them. In the wake of her tires rose an inwardly curved wall of ice that stretched across rooftops and seemed to grow in bursts of spikes at either edge in a gradually self sustaining expansion to keep the horde from blindly wandering off as they tried to.
"Sorry I'm late. Movie night was too good to skip out on." Kanbaru remarked coolly with her back to an ice wall and confronted by belligerent nightmares who neither asked nor cared for reasoning for her appearance. She simply was, and thus, they attacked.
The first one to get withing striking distance was met with a tire raised overhead, before the grunt of an engine slammed the motorcycle down upon what passed for a head and crushed it like a melon. And with one hand upon the throttle Fortuna now raised a machine pistol to the crowd and squeezed off sharp bursts, each one accented with blossoming and shattering of ice wherever it penetrated.
