<Snipped quote by Tasuke>
Some sort of wrestling inspired round of finale-esque fights from what I gathered, potentially influenced by the scoreboard.
I am so in.
First I'll have to claw my way to No. 1 Contender.
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IAmTheIsland
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I am so in.
First I'll have to claw my way to No. 1 Contender.
The supercard is... what?
The lady appears ignorant of imminent impalement as the brand glides its fang for the delicate curve of her spine; its hunger must continue when they evade thru a timely twirl tied to riposte. A jagged arc of crepitating light and heat bolts through the air before crashing into the beckoner's barrier with bright, refracting resplendence. The Fateful Death tails and vanishes into the glittery glow; it dims and dies to reveal an upright, unharmed and confident Hisame holding the katana acute to her left leg. At a glance there is no effect to her protection but discernment of the spiritual will notice the tiniest of cracks in the ethereal weave.
She stands in silent, smiling scrutiny amid the rhythmic deluge. Their toy has vanished from vision and presumably gone for a swim in the sea of trees. Taking three hip-swerving steps forward as she scans left-to-right for signs of the missing maiden, the cold of the wet earth stinging her feet, she stops when nothing is found; then a rightward cant of her neck and a backward tilt of her head allows a gazing at the flickering, thundering heavens thru a streaming pane of shielding. Hisame inhales deeply, tasting the wet air while song fills her voice.
“Oh, whe-ere; Oh, whe-ere has my lit-tle bitch gone... Oh whe-ere; oh, whe-ere can she be-e-e?”
She stands in silent, smiling scrutiny amid the rhythmic deluge. Their toy has vanished from vision and presumably gone for a swim in the sea of trees. Taking three hip-swerving steps forward as she scans left-to-right for signs of the missing maiden, the cold of the wet earth stinging her feet, she stops when nothing is found; then a rightward cant of her neck and a backward tilt of her head allows a gazing at the flickering, thundering heavens thru a streaming pane of shielding. Hisame inhales deeply, tasting the wet air while song fills her voice.
“Oh, whe-ere; Oh, whe-ere has my lit-tle bitch gone... Oh whe-ere; oh, whe-ere can she be-e-e?”
Sorry for the wait; things have been a bit busy.
I'll have a post Monday; it's my sister's birthday tomorrow and I'm busy tonight.
I'll have a post Monday; it's my sister's birthday tomorrow and I'm busy tonight.
I believe you misunderstood my last post, as the katana is coming from behind Procella, and moving to run both the ghost that's wrapping her and Procella through the back; since it's not mentioned this way in your post, my wording may have confused.
The witch is apathetic toward conversation when they let the knife fly in interjection. It glides with a threatening whistle, but where it should pierce soft flesh, it passes unfettered; likewise the stalking apparition continues, accelerating their stride awhile two new knives are drawn. But would they be so rude to the one whom wraps a friendly right arm over their shoulders from abaft, like frostbite to the touch while they exhale a cool whisper into the woman's ear. "Such ferocity..."
As for the weeper, suspiciously dry despite the downpour, is hushed by the ding of the projectile when it strikes something unseen inches before its goal; she shudders quiet, looking up over her knees as the knife sticks into the ground. Even the rain runs in rivers around them, suggesting a clandestine protection curtails harm. The disturbance provokes action, however veiled from the threatening specters they may be: an elevation of the dextral arm and accusatory pointing of the finger, as if a silent condemnation via what's to come after.
Called by its master is the elusive katana, which has lain dormant atop the moist ground behind the maniacal maiden. Now it moves through the air to be held afresh, and betwixt its wielder are two appetizing spines, soon to be run through.
As for the weeper, suspiciously dry despite the downpour, is hushed by the ding of the projectile when it strikes something unseen inches before its goal; she shudders quiet, looking up over her knees as the knife sticks into the ground. Even the rain runs in rivers around them, suggesting a clandestine protection curtails harm. The disturbance provokes action, however veiled from the threatening specters they may be: an elevation of the dextral arm and accusatory pointing of the finger, as if a silent condemnation via what's to come after.
Called by its master is the elusive katana, which has lain dormant atop the moist ground behind the maniacal maiden. Now it moves through the air to be held afresh, and betwixt its wielder are two appetizing spines, soon to be run through.
"Liar!"
The accusation merits correction; a conversation to enlighten ignorance when female response comes immediately out of thin air.
"Oh, but she tells the truth, woman!"
A perfect similitude, nude and all, appears five feet before them with hands hid abaft; swaying side to side while canting their grinning, gleeful face to the right. Lavender perfumes swirl upon the frigid, howling breeze betwixt them as the figure adds, "A tormented dame with none to clothe or shelter them from the coldness..."
They take a trio of crunching steps forward, gesturing sympathy with their jumping brow and shaking head.
"...can she not help but weep?"
Another three steps bring them half a foot away, close enough to taste the garlic-scented words as they roll their head left and down to look up at the woman from an angle; the smile fades.
"...are you not sisters in sorrow...?"
They SHRIEK and jerk forward with reaching arms.
Meanwhile the heavens join the weeping maiden, speckling the land with tears and peppering the flames whom hiss in protest of their part in the ongoing crying chorus.
The accusation merits correction; a conversation to enlighten ignorance when female response comes immediately out of thin air.
"Oh, but she tells the truth, woman!"
A perfect similitude, nude and all, appears five feet before them with hands hid abaft; swaying side to side while canting their grinning, gleeful face to the right. Lavender perfumes swirl upon the frigid, howling breeze betwixt them as the figure adds, "A tormented dame with none to clothe or shelter them from the coldness..."
They take a trio of crunching steps forward, gesturing sympathy with their jumping brow and shaking head.
"...can she not help but weep?"
Another three steps bring them half a foot away, close enough to taste the garlic-scented words as they roll their head left and down to look up at the woman from an angle; the smile fades.
"...are you not sisters in sorrow...?"
They SHRIEK and jerk forward with reaching arms.
Meanwhile the heavens join the weeping maiden, speckling the land with tears and peppering the flames whom hiss in protest of their part in the ongoing crying chorus.
Like a dancer out of the music box they twirl, beckoning revelation of their persistent prey with a joyous taunt; as it is written, Ask and you shall receive...
She reappears before the smoking branches of the felled tree with hair regrown, balled atop the ground with arms wrapped around her legs and her face pressed against her bare thighs. The snapping heat cannot console her exposure to the nipping winds, nor the melancholy lacing the air as she weeps with shivers from each sharp sob. It is a song of sadness and not laughter, aching for compassion futilely.
What's curious, though, is the absence of the katana from their person; that revelation hinders entirely upon what the bolt-blasting beauty does next...
She reappears before the smoking branches of the felled tree with hair regrown, balled atop the ground with arms wrapped around her legs and her face pressed against her bare thighs. The snapping heat cannot console her exposure to the nipping winds, nor the melancholy lacing the air as she weeps with shivers from each sharp sob. It is a song of sadness and not laughter, aching for compassion futilely.
What's curious, though, is the absence of the katana from their person; that revelation hinders entirely upon what the bolt-blasting beauty does next...
So the electric lass turns and walks, satisfied and convinced of victory; one of many presumptuous souls soon to know the true horror of their haphazard crossing. The peaceful, calming crackle of the embering fire is quickly betrayed, and the woman's joy put to the test when a monotone, masculine-yet-feminine voice pierces their ears.
"Where are you going, O woman... do you no longer want to dance with us?"
Should they turn there would be no speaker, only a woody crack of the burning tree split in twain. Then a smoldering hand latches onto a smoldering section, pulling a should-be corpse forward as it brings the other arm up and stabs the earth with Japanese steel. Hisame, bald, nude and flesh aflame; her head down, crawling over the destroyed tree, driving the blade into dirt once more while they pull themselves over the wood toward clear ground. A silken female voice dominates the form's icy, raspy whisper.
"Play with me-e-e-e..."
The fire breathes, erupting like fountains of flame to block the body from view. Only for a moment, however, for they fall to reveal vacancy. Hisame, or so one would call them, is vanished from view.
"Where are you going, O woman... do you no longer want to dance with us?"
Should they turn there would be no speaker, only a woody crack of the burning tree split in twain. Then a smoldering hand latches onto a smoldering section, pulling a should-be corpse forward as it brings the other arm up and stabs the earth with Japanese steel. Hisame, bald, nude and flesh aflame; her head down, crawling over the destroyed tree, driving the blade into dirt once more while they pull themselves over the wood toward clear ground. A silken female voice dominates the form's icy, raspy whisper.
"Play with me-e-e-e..."
The fire breathes, erupting like fountains of flame to block the body from view. Only for a moment, however, for they fall to reveal vacancy. Hisame, or so one would call them, is vanished from view.
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