Footsteps in Blood (Open)

[Winterhair]

"What the fuck." the white-haired man spoke as he withdrew his blade from yet another bandit's stomach. It was soaked in the blood of the man, who's face the wandering mercenary had already sliced off. The red liquid that had previously inhabited the bandit's stomach now poured outward onto the killer's feet, before the body finally collapsed into a heap. "None of them. None of them were any good." The white haired man's voice was soft but masculine, and there was an underlying note of anger playing along his vocal chords as he stepped forward, prodding the bodies hard with the end of the ivory scabbard he held in his right hand. Sun rays poured down and exposed the scene of the massacre to the birds and the creatures of nature, with only the black-robed and white-haired man standing amongst the bodies of the men.

Akashima, he had heard, was full of strong warriors. So far, the rumors had proved to be false. First, a warrior he had easily defeated that had attempted to stop him from crossing a bridge. The man had been cut down within seconds. And now, bandits. Vincent gritted his teeth as he sheathed the saw blade he held. "Fuckin' lies. Isn't there anyone strong in this place, or am I just a'wastin' my time?" The wanderer spoke to himself. This was something he did often. It wasn't that he was messed up in the head, rather, he was crazy in another sense of the word. Crazy for a battle worth his time, was the easiest explanation. But even that could go deeper, for his insanity went far beyond the mere boundries of mortal needs. The taste of steel, the touch of the blade, was what his skin longed for. To be cut.

Stepping in the pool of blood, he wrapped the sheathed blade onto his back using a piece of cloth that he had ripped from his opponents' cloth, and closed his silver eyes as he recited a small prayer to God. He did not believe, however, that there was an actual God up in the heavens. However, he did believe that the strongest warrior on this forsaken world would have the right to call himself God. And so Vincent sent a prayer up to his God, the God of blood, the God of battle, that God that Vincent himself hoped to become one day. Until then, he would remain respectfully out of the warrior's shadow, and work towards becoming the second strongest.

He wasn't going to achieve that goal, though, if he continued fighting small fry like these bandits, which had led him on his quest to fight strong opponents. But his luck had drawn him instead to a place of weaklings, it seemed. So, the only way to go was forward. Each footstep leaving a footprint of blood in the soddy ground, Vincent Winterscar left the bandits to their ever growing silence, until he dissapeared from even the sight of the birds into the forest.

[Slayer of the Rot]

"C'mon grandfather, what's the news today?"

A wisp of smoke twisted it's self through the small road side tea house, around the small table in the very center before vanishing into the wind. A slatted shade had been pulled down over the top of the entrance, to bask the shop in comfortable shade, and though the light was dimmer within, one could see easily enough; at the table was an elderly neko-jin, as grey and wise as his considerable girth, feet folded beneath him, hands in his lap, staring straight ahead through his glasses. Two younger men sat to his left and right, exuding the exuberance of youth, dressed in plain colorless kimonos. They didn't have much as far as material possessions went, but times in Akashima were pleasant and easy, and for rich or poor, the people were always happy. On the porch just outside sat a tall man, hunched in his red kimono, sakkat low over his face to shade his eyes, with a slender wooden pipe cradled in his fingers. A long sheathed sword leaned against his shoulder.

The old neko-jin stirred when one of the tea girls set a steaming clay cup before him. "Harumph...mm, news, yes. Wouldn't you rather hear a story first? Perhaps the legend of the Snow Heron?"

One of the young men shook his head, grinning. "Ah, c'mon, grandfather! We both know that story by heart. Every Akashiman does." The man on the porch stirred in curiosity, though no one seemed to notice him. 'Neither of these men are neko-jin,' he thought with a hint of irritability. 'So why are they calling him grandfather? Maybe it's an issue of respect. Nothing I'm used to.'

"Yeah, tell us some good news with action." The old man laughed, then took a sip of his steaming tea.

"Action? In our home? Why, this is a time of pleasantness and peace! The construction of the ninth Battle Ark continues, but surely, it will be just for show and celebration on its completion. We've no reason to war, and no reason to join the wars that scar Althanas. Mm, in the restlessness of youth, perhaps you would crave action and adventure, but when you get to my age, you'll be very grateful for the tranquility of our home. Though..." The old man seemed to sigh, and behind his glasses, his eyes dared a glance at the stranger in the red kimono, the stranger with the long sword resting against him.

"Perhaps some of the greatest sources of unrest exist inside the home, I suppose. Despite the Lawkeepers, there are many a wandering swordsman in Akashima, looking to make a name for him or herself. There's so many, that names rarely stand out, save for a few...and one such is Uruha. They say he's a foreign man, but versed in the ways of our combat. A bloody beast, the tales say he leaves crushed and slashed bodies in his wake, and even the Lawkeepers, as great and skilled and noble as they are, can defeat him. Amongst the swordsmen, he's known as Uruha the Bloody Armed." The two young men's mouths hung agape in wonder, mesmerized in awe just by the words. One could only imagine what would happen if they say the beast in action, and the old neko-jin chuckled.

"But it's just a rumor. It's probably just a monster that has yet to be dispatched. They come around, they do, but not for long, before they are slain. What do you say, swordsman on the porch? A rumor, hmm?" The sakkat nodded as the pipe came away from under it. A moment of silence passed and a puff of smoke followed.

"Yeah, just a rumor."

"Oh, that accent! Foreign, hm? But you speak the language well. What brings you to Akashima? Pleasure, business?" The two young men had taken notice of him too, and waited eagerly as he smoked for his answer.

"A little of both, I guess. I'm looking for someone important to me."

"Wow, that's a nice sword! You're not selling it, are you?" The young man laughed at his joke, and so did the man in the sakkat, if for a brief moment. Picking the blade up, he pulled on its hilt - to reveal a wooden blade.

"Just a replacement for now, while the blade I commissioned for is being made. It feels like one is missing an arm when he doesn't have a sword to rest his hand on." The man in the sakkat rapped his pipe against the side of the porch, knocking out the ashes, and stood, a few gold pieces glimmering in the sun where he'd sat.

"Ah...I need to get back to the search."
_____

The blood was gelling around his geta. Where before, the wooden sandals had made a rhythmic clacking noise against the road, all they did was squish, and the man the others called Uruha couldn't say he was pleased at all to have dirtied his footwear to such an extreme. Piles of dismembered bodies were strewn about the path, their swords resting inches from their clutching pale fingers. Bandits, he guessed, but nothing he could honestly pinpoint told him who was the orchestrator of such a scene of chaos. Uruha sighed, and turned his eyes up to the verdant leaves of the crowding trees around the road to give his eyes a break from the congealing red.

"Not the most refined work, but decent. Whoever did it has potential, but not a great amount of skill," he muttered into the back of his hand, kicking the side of a dismembered arm. His sharp eyes studied the wound, how the flesh was cut around it, how the bone had broken when met with the blade, the path the sword had fallen.

"Not done with a regular sword, either. Something with a serrated edge. Crazy, sadistic bastard. Not bad..." His eyes flickered across the slaughter again - and finally noticed the red footprints leading away.

'A little moment of fun? Another break? It doesn't matter too much. I don't think she's here in Akashima, and if she is, she's fine. For the most part, they're good people. Mm...maybe it'd be in my favor to kill a person who'd do this. They'd make one hell of a threat to her.' The man in the red kimono straightened his posture, ears perked, listening intently for a single step in any direction, eyes flickering through the thick green bush, and down either way of the shaded path. Assured that he was alone, a massive blade of delyn appeared in his hand, and with strong, wide strokes, he carved into the road, for those who would stumble upon it later, a single character of Akashima; Beware.

Work done for the moment, the huge sword vanished, and he set down the path, following the footsteps in blood.

[Winterhair]

The murky woods made Vincent think about the men he had just slain. They had appeared out of no where, and had foolishly demanded that he lay down his money and his materials or "lay down" his life. Fools. They were weaklings, prey, and yet they had no sense of danger. He was the predator, and they were the prey. But does the predator gain satisfaction from catching the prey? No, only in a true battle with another predator can one achieve true happiness.

The dark woods were oppressive. Each footstep upon the sodden earth was silent, and Vincent barely noted the wet dirt sliding in between the toes sticking out of his leather sandals. The birds that had been singing back in the clearing of the massacre he had not seen or heard, and there was a growing sense of danger in the wanderer's gut. This only caused him to walk faster, and the grip on the ivory sheath that held his blade tightened.

Another predator had just entered the forest. Every single hair on Vincent stood up with static electricity as he felt the silence grow on him, and his left hand trembled as he gripped the hilt of his blade. His eyes now turned to the path he had walked, the silver wheels turning as a slow smile spread across his face. "Finally...someone who isn't a pussy." He spoke to himself again. He probably wasn't even aware that there was no one around to hear his words, but that was just fine with the swordsman. All that mattered, all that he was focused on now was the growing sense of killing intent that was growing, slowly but surely.

The wind blew and his black coat opened up as he took a few steps forward, back to the clearing he had just come from. His eyes were wide now, his breath coming in short bursts as he barely felt his legs carrying his upper half towards some inevitable end. The air grew still as his vision blurred and narrowed, and all he could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat in his blood; thump thump...thump thump...thump thump...

He was just about to draw his blade and run back to where he sensed the incredible presence when a sound distracted him. Raceous laughter came from the woods on his right, in the rustling bushes. Frowning, his vision and hearing returned to normal, and once again Vincent felt that dull anger return. Whoever it was, they had just broke off his concentration, and could have let a potentially incredible opponent slip from the wanderer's grasp. Logic ceased to function for him as he snarled something incomprehensibl, even to his own ears, and jumped into the bushes, left hand ready to draw his deadly blade and cut down whatever fool had dared to interrupt his concentration.

Branches and twigs attempted to get in the huge man's way, but they were no match for the sheer kinetic mass that was racing through, and Vincent easily brushed them aside. He had forgotten his original purpose, forgotten the deadly killing intent he had sensed, and was now focused on seeing whoever's blood being spilled once more. Again, laughter assaulted his ears, and he gritted his teeth as he ran in the direction of the sound. It was light and happy, and the mere sound of it infuriated him. It was as if the person didn't have a care in the world.

Suddenly he broke into a clearing, and he saw two figures sitting there. Immediately his hackles rose and, without speaking, he drew his serrated blade and held it high above him. At the same moment, the two figures turned at the sound of the bushes being crashed through, and one of the men dropped the container of sake' that he had been holding. The other reached for a sheathed katana that lay near a burning fire, and it seemed as if the three were about to go at each other's throats had it not been for one thing.

Vincent's arm stopped its vertical sweep, and he stared down at the two with his strange silver eyes. "What the..." he murmured, his lips barely moving. "What the fuck."

Why had his arm stopped? He didn't know, but he did know that as soon as he hit the clearing his thoughts cleared, and it was as if he were awaking from a dream. Slowly bringing his sword amr down, he stared at the two men like they were aliens, and they stared back at him with equal treatment, until the one who had dropped the bottle of sake' spoke. "Hey Kuji, did the spell get him?"

The man who had been reaching for the katana straightened up, the blade now unsheathed and ready in his hand. He had a topknot on his head and lines on his face, but from his eyes and mouth it looked as if he were still young. "I think so. See the dazed look in his face?"

"Yeah, I do." the other replied. He wore robes of a monk and in his lap Vincent noticed a sheathed knife, about 3/4's of a foot in length. The man smiled and patted the ground next to him and the topknot swordsman. "It's alright, big fellow, we ain't going to harm you. Come, sit down and have a drink, there is plenty to go around."

Vincent's head may have cleared, but now he remembered the reason he had come rushing through the forest any ways. He didn't know what the hell they were talking about spells and shit for, but the fact that these two ants had the nerve to treat him as if they were equals, well, that was another story. He smiled, grimly, and raised his sword arm again. "I don't think so." He said, and with a swift movement of his powerful arm brought the sword down and cleaved into the right shoulder of robe-dressed man.

Utter chaos ensued, as the monk screamed in pain and terror and Topknot rolled away, holding his sheath and his sword in each hand. His face was filled with sweat and fear, and Vincent drew a slight amount of ecstacy from it. Grinning like a devil, the wanderer pressed down on his saw-edged blade and continued cutting down, until a few seconds later the blade cut through the bone and the monk's severed arm fell into the fire. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, and Vincent breathed it in with a deep sigh. The monk was still screaming as he tried crawling away with his one remaining arm, blood pouring out like a crimson fountain from the stump that was now ihs right arm. Vincent paid no attention to him for the moment as he watched the topknot guy run off into the woods. "Don't be a fuckin' pussy!!" he taunted after the retreating man, but to his irritation the man kept running, farther and farther into the darkness of the wood.

The monk was almost to the edge of the clearing when suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his stomach, and admist his screaming bloody murder, he managed to look down and see a blade, with the edge serrated like a saw, protruding from his abdomen, and his last thoughts were, Dear god, how did that get there...? Before darkness took him.

Vincent grunted slightly as he pulled his blade out from the man's stomach and, not bothering to wipe the guts and gore off on the robes, sheathed it into the ivory scabbard with a thin rasping sound. "Pussies..." He spoke again once more before sitting, crosslegged, by the glowing fire, with his sword propped up against his shoulder.

In the distance, he felt that deadly presence growing once more...and his blood boiled in anticipation.