APPEARANCE DETAILS: Of average height at 5'7, Masashi is rather athletic and sports a lean physique. He's not the sort to smile widely, but his features do make for a rather sharp grin. While he does have fancy earrings as pictured, his daily wearers are just plain, unadorned gold studs. Other than that though, he's not particularly fashionable and sticks to more plain clothing. The heat isn't much of a bother, so it's not too uncommon for him to be seen in long sleeves even in the midst of summer.
PERSONALITY: It's a shame that Masashi's focus and drive seems to solely be dedicated towards his practice of kendo. Thankfully the discipline does seem to extend beyond that at the least. He's punctual, dependable when called on, and not the sort to give up just because something is hard. Unfortunately, he doesn't reserve these standards for just himself and he most definitely looks down on people who can't keep up. Thankfully, it's usually his friends who manage to even rope him into helping out, so they're used to each other's behaviour. He's quiet and frank, but growing up in a small town like Fujihama means there's a few people that have grown on him. Or has he grown on them?
It's a sharp contrast with who Masashi becomes when he's all suited up. His kiai is loud, almost deafening so, and he's certainly far more aggressive. Like a man possessed with a fire burning hot in his chest, Masashi is not the sort to take things easy. If asked about the difference, he chalks it up on being unchained a bit. Being all aggressive in his day to day life doesn't really do anything but bring trouble, but in a match it's practically encouraged!
SHORT BIOGRAPHY: Born and raised in Fujihama, he's got no real strong feelings about his hometown even after 16 years of living in it. It's a nice and peaceful place to come back to, but there is awfully little to do when it comes to his passion. For that reason, he hopes to leave it on a more permanent basis once he's finished high school. He already travels to other prefectures and cities on a rather regular basis to attend various kendo competitions.
Sometimes he feels as if he may have been born in the wrong time period. Most people don't feel more alive than ever when weighed down by kendōgu with bokken in hand, but there's little that lights Masashi's heart up like so. The savage glee he feels at breaking through an opponent's guard and smacking them off their feet. Of course then he grits his teeth as he stops himself before the judge's disqualify him again. It's not winning that counts for Masashi, but it's a small comfort at the least.
He's had a rather regular and even privileged childhood growing up, so it's not like there's any issues stemming from there. His parents are both alive and well, and they run the Saboru Springs together. It's one of the hot spring ryokans in town that cater to tourists and he helps out when he has the time to. It's by no means an obligation to him, and part of the reason why he doesn't mind it. They were happy enough to allow him to pursue kendo as a hobby and then a passion, and are quite satisfied with the awards and accolades he has to his name. It's only right that he should at least try to repay that a bit.
He didn't see the gory broadcast live, but a friend has shown him the morbid affair. He honestly hasn't given it much thought. There were no doubt hundreds of trained professionals looking into what happened and why, and what's the point of thinking too hard on something that's so unconnected to him? His ability to care about the situation is all but used up listening to the grumblings and complaints of his friends as they bemoan the new curfew. Tourism has taken a bit of a hit as well, but his parents are rather optimistic that things will bounce back once everything's been sorted out.
TRIVIA:
Below average in school, but only really excels in PT and English. Not really academically inclined and his main motivation for keeping his grades decent is to maintain club attendance.
Masashi quite enjoys spicy food, and his tolerance for it is quite high. A bit of a wimp when it comes to bitter foods though, and the main reason why he spat ghost peppers out.
May or may not have avoided a suspension thanks to his position and achievements as the kendo club's president.
Well that couldn't be too comfortable. If Signar had noticed the short pause after Julian had turned around, he made no comment of it. That was the blonde's name right? His match had been memorable enough, and pretty entertaining all things considered. A poor showing for his redheaded opponent, but sometimes people just needed a bit of a reality check.
Back to the present though. He had taken care not to invade the other boy's personal space, but Signar took another step back, so Julian no longer needed to crane his head upwards. Raising an eyebrow as Julian's posture quickly closed off, he raised his sandwich up and took another bite. He didn't look like he was another noble given the clothes on his back, but things did seem a bit confrontational. Best he had his mouth full for a bit so he didn't blurt out the first thing that came to mind.
He totally wasn't trying to rub the rather delicious breakfast in Julian's face. He couldn't have even heard the poor blonde's stomach rumbling with all the other noise around them! So it was absolutely also not intentional when he licked his thumb as a bit of the glaze ran out.
Having his mouth full did stop Signar from snorting in amusement, but the shake of his shoulders and slight curl of his lips were quite obvious signs. Maybe Julian was a bit too embarrassed to catch on though, and he quickly swallowed again to reply. "Jumping around in the middle of a crowd would be pretty hard and bothersome," he agreed with a nod as he played along with the blonde's story.
Before he actually introduce himself though, Signar's attention was similarly drawn up towards the stage. He rubbed one of his ears as the trumpet's echo faded away slowly, and ended up whistling as he took in the different outfits worn by each of the Commanders. Some had worn their armor, while others were dressed in what he assumed were their ceremonial attire. It was all of fancy make and material though, that much was easy to see even from a distance.
Taking another bite, Signar settled in for what he expected to be a rather long ceremony.
While Signar wasn't completely immune to the worries of whether his performance had been adequate for admission, he did find a way to distract himself shortly after the trials. Maintenance for much of the generic equipment held by the Knights was carried out by some of the blacksmiths in the city, and he had paid some of them a visit. None of them were willing to entertain the idea of hiring him on just yet while he was waiting on admission, but he did manage to get a foot in the door with one or two.
Well hopefully it didn't come to that. It would be a bit depressing to just end up working at a blacksmith after he hopped borders and spent a long time on the road. His savings were much diminished though, so he wouldn't have much choice in the matter.
Bah, it was too early in the morning to have such doubts. Even if he was a bit tired from a late evening, the warm sun and fresh air did wonders to wake Signar up. It was a far cry from the heavy air that clogged the lungs with each breath in Lanhelm. A welcome change that he could still appreciate even after nearly a year later.
There were many things he missed about the bustling and industrial city though. With so many craftsman in one place, it was practically alive at all hours of the day. Those willing to become night owls had less peers to compete with when it came to the shared workspace. As a result, there were all sorts of other businesses and services that cropped up. One could find something to eat, even at the latest of hours.
Then again, this was Grayle's capital, so it was practically just as busy. He had little trouble noticing a vendor peddling fresh, hot foodstuff, and he broke away from the congregation of applicants for a brief moment. It wasn't like he'd be unable to see if he was at the back of the pack. From his few months spent in Grayle, it had been rare to see anyone break six feet.
By the time he returned to the courtyard, it seemed like the other applicants had settled in for a wait. Conversations had already started to pick up as there was no sign of any one stepping onto the stage yet. No staff waiting for them in the courtyard. Naturally some of the more nervous ones kept to themselves, but Signar looked among the crowd for his sparring opponent. He had been a pretty decent guy, and Signar wouldn't have minded chatting to kill the time.
He might have been an applicant, but Signar had to admit that Charles certainly had a noble bearing to him. He had introduced himself politely, if a bit softly for Signar to hear over the crowd's excitement. An elegant fighter that drew a sharp contrast to Signar's more brutish swings, but neither haughty nor arrogant. It had been a bit rattling to realize just how easily his attacks were guided away given the disparity in size and physique, but he supposed that's where a lifetime of training came into play.
Using up one of his Replicas had at least let Signar surprise his opponent, but unsurprisingly, the noble had his own magic to counter with as well. The smoke hadn't so much cleared as it had been blown away by a gust of wind, and in the blink of an eye he had found the other boy's rapier pressed against his neck. A rather decisive end to the drawn out spar, but one Signar couldn't even be too mad about. He wasn't skilled, there was no changing that, but thanks to his opponent allowing the match to drag on? Signar had been able to show off what he did have.
Picking just one noble out of the crowd of hundreds was tough going though, even with his height allowing him to scan over their heads. In the end, his attention settled on the oddity hopping around like a rabbit at the back of the crowd. The blonde hair was frankly a bit too common for Signar to recognize who they were from the back.
Julian probably would have noticed the shadow that suddenly loomed over her. Or maybe the smell of freshly baked bread and fried meat caught her attention. Whatever the case was, Signar cleared his throat as he finished swallowing. "Mornin'. Need some help pushing to the front of the crowd?"
Full Name - Signar Wayland Age - 17 Gender - Male Heritage - Tradesman. Almost finished his blacksmith apprenticeship in Valefor. Magical Affinity - Fire and Earth melding into Metal.
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P E R S O N A L I T Y
Straightforward A rather extroverted individual, Signar is boisterous, frank, and all the things a refined noble of Grayle is not. He is happy to introduce himself to those he meets, and his greetings to friends usually include some physicality of sorts. Even in a meritocracy there's those who believe their family name gives them some greater importance than their peers. An intrinsic value to their existence, independent of their skills and actual worth. Signar was quite fond of butting heads with those peers of his, even if sometimes it meant eating his own words. Considering where he is now and his relative inexperience and lack of training? Well, his head is probably about to get significantly tougher.
Adventurous Perhaps it's ill-fitting for someone who aims to master his craft to have such whims as travelling. A waste of time that could be spent honing his trade and perfecting his skills. Yet, Signar was raised on the stories and myths that brought the Age of Darkness to an end and ushered in the new era. As much as he loves the challenge and work, he's not quite able to hermit himself away in seclusion and simply forge day in and day out. Valefor may produce the finest steel the world has seen these days, but there are plenty of stories of what came before. The weapons of heroes lost in the lands abandoned by men.
Competitive Given that Valefor is largely a meritocracy, it should come as no surprise that Signar welcomes any challenges that could be used to help improve. The constant struggle to be recognized out of the many apprentices and peers has long been ingrained in him. He's done his best to learn not to take things too personally or grow malicious over what should be healthy competition that allows each party to recognize their short comings and improve. With that said though... he's clearly got some ways to go seeing as he got worked up enough to get barred from the trade guild.
S K I L L S E T
Blacksmith It's been just over a year since Signar was barred from completing his apprenticeship. Three out of four years isn't bad though, and he's got a solid enough foundation to work with. Though he hasn't had a chance to work in a forge for some time, the knowledge is still fresh in his mind and he's itching for a chance. At least a proper forge. With his affinities and magic, it's quite possible to set up a portable forge wherever he likes. Having actual equipment does make for better practice though. He hasn't had the time or experience to fully devote himself to a particular field as an armourer, weapon-smith, or the like yet.
Dragonic Blood If one wants to truly become a master artisan though, the importance of magical skill and knowledge can't be understated. Even before he started apprenticing as a smith, Signar was taught to control and utilize the affinities he was gifted with. The Waylands are alleged to have the Dragon Lord's blood flowing through their veins, however diluted, and it is supposedly why the affinities of Fire and Earth are found among them. The use of magic for Signar has always been something that was meant to assist his work as a blacksmith. As such, he lacks practice when it comes to using magic in combat.
Enchantments! Sort of... The culmination of refined skill and magical expertise. A lofty goal that Signar strives to eventually achieve. The depth of understanding required to design even a single piece is something beyond him though, and even his best attempts are shoddy and flawed. While capable of placing a spell onto a weapon he has forged, it increases the time required. His skills as a smith are also lacking to create a truly reliable weapon. The end result is generally unstable and fragile, rarely good for or worth the risk of squeezing out a second use. In short, instead of weapons that are fit for Sword Saints and Knight Commanders, he's got daggers and hatchets that function as grenades!
Physical Description
Standing 6’4 with a burly build, Signar makes for a rather imposing figure among those his age. Even more so in Grayle, where his height and naturally tanned skin give him away as a foreigner. His black hair is somewhat coarse given the amount of heat damage it has suffered over the years, and he keeps the worst of it tied back and out of the way. He could just cut it off to simplify things, but… His pale blue eyes aren’t too remarkable either. Watchful and perhaps even a bit wary, but lacking in intensity that some nobles might wax on poetically about. They aren’t gleaming sapphires, sharp as ice, or deep like the ocean’s depths and as capable of pulling one in. They’re just the eyes of a learned young man who’s still a bit hopeful about his future.
His choice of clothing also tends towards the simple and plain. Much of it is starting to show signs of their age with a bit of patchwork, but he’s not the sort to replace something that just needs a bit of fixing. While they’re obviously meant for the warmer climate of his homeland, Signar seems rather unbothered by the weather in Grayle. He hardly seems to notice the chill at nights, even while wearing a short-sleeved tunic. His clothing is often wrinkled or somewhat out of place, but rarely is it ever outright dirty.
The one standout would be the pendant that dangles around his neck. A dragonic embossing practically leaps out from its surface, highlighting the workmanship that must have gone into it. Given how dull and scuffed the metal is though, it seems as if Signar has only treated it with the bare minimum to prevent actual tarnishing.
Character Conceptualization
The Wayland family is just one of many that make up the ever industrious nation of Valefor. A family of metalworkers that can trace their lineage all the way back to one of their great nation's founders. Blessed with a fraction of the Dragon Lord's splendour, they lack the enterprising nature of their peers and thus remain a relatively small family business. With a few Enchanters over the generations though, they have their own claim to fame even among the ever improving works flowing forth from Valefor.
For larger families that are practically companies in their own right, it's not too uncommon for them to run apprenticeships in-house. They can afford the cost of setting up such an institution to guarantee them a steady flow of new workers. For smaller families though, such as Signar's own, the state provides an option through its guilds. Lanhelm is truly something to behold. An entire city dedicated to any aspect of metalworking. The cloud of smoke hanging above the city from its innumerous forges and workshops would likely send anyone who holds the sanctity of nature into shock too!
It's here where many of the nation's artisans attend their apprenticeships. Even within the guild, competition is fierce and there are rarely enough anvils to accommodate each individual. Rough housing wasn't that uncommon, and he can remember spending a few days sweating by furnaces while bruised and battered. Good times that. Occasionally things might escalate beyond small scuffles and require the adults to step in, but it was rare. They were all aspiring craftsman rather than trained fighters, so there was only so much danger a few rowdy kids could put themselves in.
Of course that's before magic gets involved in the picture. Let's not even begin to mention the overconfidence of an idiot experimenting with Enchantments without any real guidance given the high level of precision, knowledge, and expertise required. It's not like a practitioner of that level simply hangs around looking for possible students to raise. In short, Signar's creation may just have blown apart another apprentice's shield and almost taken their arm with it. He may have ended up stripped of any qualifications and barred from the guild. He may have almost been disowned by his family for such a blunder.
So Signar's got something of a bad reputation back home, and he may have escaped his homeland rather than walked out freely. His family intended to keep him grounded until a bit more sense had been instilled into him, but years spent away from them at a place where competition was practically a way of life? Unsurprisingly it left Signar somewhat of an independent individual who refused to simply bow down and accept his punishment.
Why Grayle of all places? It's the closest nation given how his hometown is practically on the border between the two countries. As a result, they have quite a few customers in the country as well, so it won't be too odd for him to be seen. At least until the news spread. As for applying as a Knight Candidate? The most important aspect was the ease of application and the magical education that was included. Trekking all the way to Alexandria as they geared up for conflict seemed... unwise, and he had heard enough disparaging remarks about how the stuffy bookworms worked.
Other Information
Signar's experience with fighting amounts to the occasional spar and weapon testing. He may have lost the debut spar, but the combination of physical might and a decent magical education made for a match instead of a simple beatdown.
He uses a warhammer for its familiarity, but has no real preference as he’s tested all of his creations. Given his large stature, a polearm or spear of sorts could make for a truly oppressive reach.
Full Name - Signar Wayland Age - 17 Gender - Male Heritage - Tradesman. Almost finished his blacksmith apprenticeship in Valefor. Magical Affinity - Fire and Earth.
-
P E R S O N A L I T Y
Straightforward A rather extroverted individual, Signar is boisterous, frank, and all the things a refined noble of Grayle is not. He is happy to introduce himself to those he meets, and his greetings to friends usually include some physicality of sorts. Even in a meritocracy there's those who believe their family name gives them some greater importance than their peers. An intrinsic value to their existence, independent of their skills and actual worth. Signar was quite fond of butting heads with those peers of his, even if sometimes it meant eating his own words. Considering where he is now and his relative inexperience and lack of training? Well, his head is probably about to get significantly tougher.
Adventurous Perhaps it's ill-fitting for someone who aims to master his craft to have such whims as travelling. A waste of time that could be spent honing his trade and perfecting his skills. Yet, Signar was raised on the stories and myths that brought the Age of Darkness to an end and ushered in the new era. As much as he loves the challenge and work, he's not quite able to hermit himself away in seclusion and simply forge day in and day out. Valefor may produce the finest steel the world has seen these days, but there are plenty of stories of what came before. The weapons of heroes lost in the lands abandoned by men.
Competitive Given that Valefor is largely a meritocracy, it should come as no surprise that Signar welcomes any challenges that could be used to help improve. The constant struggle to be recognized out of the many apprentices and peers has long been ingrained in him. He's done his best to learn not to take things too personally or grow malicious over what should be healthy competition that allows each party to recognize their short comings and improve. With that said though... he's clearly got some ways to go seeing as he got worked up enough to get barred from the trade guild.
S K I L L S E T
Blacksmith It's been just over a year since Signar was barred from completing his apprenticeship. Three out of four years isn't bad though, and he's got a solid enough foundation to work with. Though he hasn't had a chance to work in a forge for some time, the knowledge is still fresh in his mind and he's itching for a chance. At least a proper forge. With his affinities and magic, it's quite possible to set up a portable forge wherever he likes. Having actual equipment does make for better practice though. He hasn't had the time or experience to fully devote himself to a particular field as an armourer, weapon-smith, or the like yet.
Dragonic Blood If one wants to truly become a master artisan though, the importance of magical skill and knowledge can't be understated. Even before he started apprenticing as a smith, Signar was taught to control and utilize the affinities he was gifted with. The Waylands are alleged to have the Dragon Lord's blood flowing through their veins, however diluted, and it is supposedly why the affinities of Fire and Earth are found among them. The use of magic for Signar has always been something that was meant to assist his work as a blacksmith. As such, he lacks practice when it comes to using magic in combat.
Enchantments! Sort of... The culmination of refined skill and magical expertise. A lofty goal that Signar strives to eventually achieve. The depth of understanding required to design even a single piece is something beyond him though, and even his best attempts are shoddy and flawed. While capable of placing a spell onto a weapon he has forged, it increases the time required. His skills as a smith are also lacking to create a truly reliable weapon. The end result is generally unstable and fragile, rarely good for or worth the risk of squeezing out a second use. In short, instead of weapons that are fit for Sword Saints and Knight Commanders, he's got daggers and hatchets that function as grenades!
Physical Description
Standing 6’4 with a burly build, Signar makes for a rather imposing figure among those his age. Even more so in Grayle, where his height and naturally tanned skin give him away as a foreigner. His black hair is somewhat coarse given the amount of heat damage it has suffered over the years, and he keeps the worst of it tied back and out of the way. He could just cut it off to simplify things, but… His pale blue eyes aren’t too remarkable either. Watchful and perhaps even a bit wary, but lacking in intensity that some nobles might wax on poetically about. They aren’t gleaming sapphires, sharp as ice, or deep like the ocean’s depths and as capable of pulling one in. They’re just the eyes of a learned young man who’s still a bit hopeful about his future.
His choice of clothing also tends towards the simple and plain. Much of it is starting to show signs of their age with a bit of patchwork, but he’s not the sort to replace something that just needs a bit of fixing. While they’re obviously meant for the warmer climate of his homeland, Signar seems rather unbothered by the weather in Grayle. He hardly seems to notice the chill at nights, even while wearing a short-sleeved tunic. His clothing is often wrinkled or somewhat out of place, but rarely is it ever outright dirty.
The one standout would be the pendant that dangles around his neck. A dragonic embossing practically leaps out from its surface, highlighting the workmanship that must have gone into it. Given how dull and scuffed the metal is though, it seems as if Signar has only treated it with the bare minimum to prevent actual tarnishing.
Character Conceptualization
The Wayland family is just one of many that make up the ever industrious nation of Valefor. A family of metalworkers that can trace their lineage all the way back to one of their great nation's founders. Blessed with a fraction of the Dragon Lord's splendour, they lack the enterprising nature of their peers and thus remain a relatively small family business. With a few Enchanters over the generations though, they have their own claim to fame even among the ever improving works flowing forth from Valefor.
For larger families that are practically companies in their own right, it's not too uncommon for them to run apprenticeships in-house. They can afford the cost of setting up such an institution to guarantee them a steady flow of new workers. For smaller families though, such as Signar's own, the state provides an option through its guilds. Lanhelm is truly something to behold. An entire city dedicated to any aspect of metalworking. The cloud of smoke hanging above the city from its innumerous forges and workshops would likely send anyone who holds the sanctity of nature into shock too!
It's here where many of the nation's artisans attend their apprenticeships. Even within the guild, competition is fierce and there are rarely enough anvils to accommodate each individual. Rough housing wasn't that uncommon, and he can remember spending a few days sweating by furnaces while bruised and battered. Good times that. Occasionally things might escalate beyond small scuffles and require the adults to step in, but it was rare. They were all aspiring craftsman rather than trained fighters, so there was only so much danger a few rowdy kids could put themselves in.
Of course that's before magic gets involved in the picture. Let's not even begin to mention the overconfidence of an idiot experimenting with Enchantments without any real guidance given the high level of precision, knowledge, and expertise required. It's not like a practitioner of that level simply hangs around looking for possible students to raise. In short, Signar's creation may just have blown apart another apprentice's shield and almost taken their arm with it. He may have ended up stripped of any qualifications and barred from the guild. He may have almost been disowned by his family for such a blunder.
So Signar's got something of a bad reputation back home, and he may have escaped his homeland rather than walked out freely. His family intended to keep him grounded until a bit more sense had been instilled into him, but years spent away from them at a place where competition was practically a way of life? Unsurprisingly it left Signar somewhat of an independent individual who refused to simply bow down and accept his punishment.
Why Grayle of all places? It's the closest nation given how his hometown is practically on the border between the two countries. As a result, they have quite a few customers in the country as well, so it won't be too odd for him to be seen. At least until the news spread. As for applying as a Knight Candidate? The most important aspect was the ease of application and the magical education that was included. Trekking all the way to Alexandria as they geared up for conflict seemed... unwise, and he had heard enough disparaging remarks about how the stuffy bookworms worked.
Other Information
Signar's experience with fighting amounts to the occasional spar and weapon testing. He may have lost the debut spar, but the combination of physical might and a decent magical education made for a match instead of a simple beatdown.
He uses a warhammer for its familiarity, but has no real preference as he’s tested all of his creations. Given his large stature, a polearm or spear of sorts could make for a truly oppressive reach.
Well, it's done for the most part. Any feedback would be appreciated, and I'll probably take another gander through it tomorrow to see if there's anything to change up or adjust.
It enveloped him, the clammy embrace of a loveless lover, sucking the heat out of his body, dragging down his clothing with saltwater weights, even as his adaptations warmed his blood and maintained his strength. Every kick away from shore sent him deeper into the abyssal fathoms, his soundscape the only method of navigation he could rely on. Yet his head hurt, the whispers of the ocean pulling at the seams of his mind. Not suggestions, not orders, not demands, but deathly statements. It was best to hide. He ought to hide. He must hide.
His skin felt like it was being sanded off. His bones vibrated with every exertion of strength. Meager sensations, incapable of stalling the progress of a trained Egoist, but sensations that affected the mind nonetheless, repulsive sensations that grew with greater force as he drew himself towards the ‘continental shelf’ of the artificial island. And then, five hundred meters off from the shore, Shou felt it.
The agony of electricity ripping through his skin and scales, meat and bones, a magnitude of power many times removed from what he had felt in the morning. This was no longer a mere deterrent. This was meant to kill.
What was that phrase? Curiosity had killed the cat? Shou may have been no feline, but the phrase certainly seemed fitting as he gritted his teeth and pushed through the assault on both his body and mind. The irritation of hiding away like a coward because of an unwelcome memory would not disappear unless he confronted it. Discomfort and pain were no strangers to him, but companions on the path to ascension. That his body struggled meant that he had further to develop and adapt.
The sudden and almost complete loss of control over his body was jarring, but not unwelcome once Shou had a moment to fight through the haze as his muscles tensed and locked on him. His heart hammered erratically in his chest, and he was already starting to sink as he failed to continue swimming. He was not dead yet though, the pain was not blinding, and he could still struggle!
His tail snapped erratically and slowly pushed him back over the edge of the island’s continental shelf. Back out of the electrically charged death zone and towards the merely uncomfortable waters. It was truly dangerous and life-threatening, but that also meant the greatest possibility to adapt and evolve even further.
Shou was, after all, an Egoist. A warrior of unrivalled might, one whose flesh alone could survive the lightning guns of the Occident, the thunderbirds of Abya Yala. With three powerful snaps, he pulled himself back closer to the shore, the pain fading moments after doing so. Whatever this field was, it appeared to exist strictly at the five hundred meter mark, and unless the technology Bermuda utilized was beyond even that of the military, it shouldn’t extend much further either.
If he could brave the storm for just long enough, perhaps he could break through too. But with immeasurable darkness below and the all-consuming fog above, should he?
It wasn't strictly necessary, but Shou broke the water's surface anyways and took a deep, gulping breath. It certainly came more easily this way with his gills still tensed up. As he tread water and the feeling started to return to his limbs, he took a moment to consider his situation.
In all likelihood these measures were meant to keep something away from Bermuda's shores. Much like the weaker currents kept predators away in the daytime. Exactly what warranted such extreme measures was the big mystery though wasn't it? Along that line of thought, was the fog meant to conceal the island as well? Curious, curious.
Whatever the case was, the whispers made a bit more sense if his current assumption was correct. Breaking through the killzone only to run into whatever it was meant to keep out while exhausted sounded like a terrible idea. On the other hand though, using the charged waters as training to spur on his own adaptations sounded like a great idea. While he couldn't hope to grasp at the charges filling the waters and turning them deadly, his body could be molded to better endure them. His senses could be tuned to read the electricity as it raced through the waves. All he needed was to experience it for himself. Time and time again until the sensations were ingrained in his flesh.
It was mad, perhaps, but what self-centered artist upon the path of the dragon was not? Again and again, the carp floundered against the falls, again and again, lightning seared into his flesh. Repetition caused injuries to deepen, worsen, to become visible. Beneath the cold waters, Shou’s flesh became scarred and swollen by the electric current that surged at that unseen boundary line, each shock of electricity tracing another path, another mark through his body. Indeed, before meditation, before theory, before delving into the mindscape that allowed an emboldened soul to reshape their body to the idealized form, what one needed was experience.
In the void-like space just before Bermuda’s continental shelf, Shou swam in and out, risking death over and over again. So he could visualize it and feel it. The sensation of lightning crawling beneath his skin, the sensation of his flesh searing when facing that ultimate force. Blood filled the water, clogging his senses with the rusty taste of his self. But on this side at least, he was the apex predator, and all mundane beasts could only look upwards from their sheltered wells.
No pain, no gain was it? The phrase was certainly apt as Shou looked down at himself and slowly clenched his hands. Burnt flesh cracked at the motion and he winced a bit as he could barely feel anything from his extremities. His nerves must have been rather damaged if he barely felt more than a flicker of pain.
A flick of his tail stirred up the blood-clouded waters around him and Shou finally pushed himself away from the boundary instead of breaching it again. A trail of red followed after him, but the fresh waters ahead offered a respite from the metallic tang that had tinged each breath for the last… Just how long had he spent testing himself against the island’s security measures?
It was hard to be sure as most of his focus had been directed at keeping what control he could over his body. Breaking the surface again wasn’t very helpful either as the fog hanging just overhead was still thick as before. He should have waited the rest of the curfew out right off the shoreline. Beneath the waves, he could have meditated and reflected on the ordeal he had put himself through. Even now he could already visualize the newest addition to his markings, jagged and branching in contrast to the smooth flow that characterized most of his.
Planting one foot firmly into the sand and forcing himself to stand straight though, Shou hissed as cracked flesh was finally exposed to fresh air. The distant streetlights were just barely visible as blurry orbs of light, but they were enough for him to trudge towards. His tail left a trail behind him as he dragged it, but he couldn’t be arsed for the effort to raise it. The drops of blood would mark his passing on the streets much more clearly anyways, so he’d have to find some place to start recovering before curfew ended. It wasn’t like he had any way of getting back inside his room before it anyways.
R U N.
It was still a whisper, but the voice that had faded to the back of his mind as he wracked his body with pain now surged back to the forefront of his thoughts. Drowning out any other idle thought or consideration as he almost bolted into motion from it. As his body tensed though and he snapped the sword’s hilt into his grip with a flick of his wrist, Shou couldn’t help but snort mirthlessly.
He hadn’t pushed through the boundary because he had no wish to die tired, yet here he was. It seemed like staying in the waters would have been the right idea after all. The slosh of the waves meeting the shoreline was still there as his toes curled into the sand, and Shou braced himself. Sliding one foot back behind the other as he inched towards the ocean while maintaining his posture. His arm trembled while raising the sword, so he rested the blade on his shoulder. His eyes could hardly pierce the fog, so he closed them and strained his ears instead.
He did not run.
He closed his eyes.
And so, Shou did not see the lights on the distant street flick off, one by one by one. He was already in darkness. He had never left the abyss. And in his ears, faintly, distantly, he heard the song of whales, a foreign dirge flowing into his mind like ice melting into cracked earth.
He was an Egoist. A purebred Egoist. Not the traitor to her country, more obsessed with aesthetics than function. Not the celebrity-idol, bound to an archaic discipline out of desperation. Warrior blood ran in his veins, and the leviathans of the depths have been slain by his blade and his bones.
It was not his sense of hearing nor his sense of smell, but his sense of touch that warned him. A coalescing sensation, slimy yet undeniably substantial, pressed against his back, that saltwater chill seeping into his open wounds.
Startled as he was by the sudden contact coming from the direction he had hoped was safe, Shou nonetheless did his best to react. His body protested from the sudden exertion, but a flood of adrenaline delayed the inevitable. He’d pay for pushing his body like this later, if he was even able to. His eyes snapped open as he reversed grip on it and plunged it backwards beneath his arm. Twisting away from the cool, slimy touch to rip the blade across horizontally, he turned to bear witness to exactly what he was dealing with.
Nothing but darkness and fog, billowing out from the ocean. The salt seeped deeper, digging into his back now that something had made contact. Not a violent slash or stab, but rather tracing wounds that were already there, slithering up and down to find the deepest grooves. Whatever agony was dulled by his adaptations; he was built for duress that would make even other Egoists quake. Yet his blade had cut into only the mist as well, and even that mist had become only something that he could feel, drowned in the pitch-black of a lightless district.
“Ugh.” Gritting his teeth as he grunted from the discomfort of having his wounds caressed, Shou fought down the urge to heave. It wasn’t just the pervasive cold that spread through him that made his gut turn. There was something more to this, like poison being smeared into his wounds, and he snarled as he was forced to drive his foot down to keep himself steady as he stepped back.
With his weapon useless, he released it and grabbed at his belt instead. Palming one of the rods there, he easily cracked it with a simple clench. One hard shake caused the shattered crystal to mix with the fluids, and the fluorescent reaction quickly began to illuminate his surroundings.
Light shone bright in his fist, and was snuffed out just as quickly as it illuminated.
But even weakened, Shou’s mind worked fast, processing sensations that mere humans would discard in their panic. In that instance before light was drowned, he saw it: the coalescing of the mist, closing over the tube. And now, he did not need to see it to envision it, as the entirety of his body shivered at those sensations, a film coating him in his entirety, expanding from his back, twisting around his limbs, clogging up his gills and racing for his face!
‘Really?’ This thing was just obstinate wasn’t it? As he felt the mass clinging to his back surge around to envelop him, Shou crouched down low. His leg muscles tense as the cold caressed his face before the sand exploded beneath him. His head swam as he tried to launch himself right off the beach with that one powerful leap. As if the blood had all drained to his legs, his landing would be an uncontrolled and messy sprawl at best.
There were legends of Egoists capable of leaping high enough to pluck the stars out of the skies. Shou was not one of those great warriors, but his desperation had granted him power to imitate their legion-crossing bounds. Wind surged through his body, shearing off some of that strange mass that clung to him, even as his legs loosened, popped from the sheer force that he had applied. It would heal soon enough.
It would heal if he lived.
He smashed bodily into a streetlamp that he could not even see. The force wrenched the painted aluminum pole right off its foundation, exposing the inner workings of its Telesma System Receptors, electricity sparking out of broken wiring. Meager light, but energetic light. Shou could see his immediate surroundings again, and more importantly, he could feel it.
The absence of that skin-crawling sensation.
Ah, how exhausting.
It was a rare thing for Shou to feel this battered and exhausted. He could feel the rough cobblestone beneath him, without any slimy film in the way, and that was a relief. Not one that he could appreciate before he suddenly emptied his stomach though. The retching carried away the lingering sense of nausea and revulsion as he spat up naught but stomach bile.
He coughed a few more times and then spat to clear his mouth. Just barely managing to roll himself over as his chest heaved and he sucked in deep breaths of air. Even if passing out sounded like a wonderful reprieve after all this, the adrenaline racing through his veins filled his body with a twitching energy. One that his body finally could not do anything with as he sat there by the beach. The wreckage of a ruined lightpost scattered around him as the exposed wires continued to spark.
‘Ah, this looks pretty bad,’ he thought idly as he laid back, sprawled himself out, and allowed his eyes to close again. Hopefully other people’s nights weren’t as messy as his.
Izurich
Ti
Savo
