[ The daemon laughs when he’s chastised, delighted at the kindcloaked rebuke. With smile unwavering, he tilts his head in easy acquiesce, accepting the selfish mantle while stepping into the clearing proper. Grass crunches beneath worn sandals as pale lavender flickers against green. ]
I’ll do the same. Hand-to-hand isn’t my usual style, so I’m a little rusty.
[ Truly tragic that he can’t use any of his preferred abilities. Just as well—he may a swordsman but he can make concessions when necessary. Even so, regret bubbles in his heart when he watches the other man drops into position. Danger spikes, an astringent flavor that saturates the daemon’s mouth in saliva, excitement needling into a thin vibration along the map of his veins.
Really regrettable.
Exhaling, he falls into position. Spine straight, feet spread, one forearm forward and the other braced low. Positions all rooted in kenjutsu—old memories stir, rustling of the since ingrained building blocks of self-discipline and strength. Never the genius, he had spent years carving every motion into bone.
Concentration: smell of the earth, shift of the air, the rhythm of breathing. The weight of his gaze. Rokurou slides a heel and turns sharply to block the first strike and then pull away from the second, letting out a short laugh at the knife swinging toward his side. ]
Ah, I want one too!
[ The tip of the blade cuts a small gap in his underclothes, drawing a red line along the tanned flesh beneath. The daemon’s eyebrow doesn’t even twitch as he skips back, relying on footwork to make up for what his style lacks in aggression. His family’s hand-to-hand training as a precursor to the sword lies more in defensive stances but footwork is paramount regardless.
That doesn’t stop him from striking forward, viper precision as he aims to strike one of the other man’s vital acupuncture points: lower conception vessel. A point around an inch beneath the navel, which has Rokurou daggering his arm forward and low in direct opposition.
Risky against someone clearly better versed in hand-to-hand? Yes. But that’s never stopped him before.
Regardless of whether or not he manages to strike that point, when he’s close enough, he inhales deeply trying to catch a thread of the man’s natural scent. ]
rubs my grubby hands like a fly
I’ll do the same. Hand-to-hand isn’t my usual style, so I’m a little rusty.
[ Truly tragic that he can’t use any of his preferred abilities. Just as well—he may a swordsman but he can make concessions when necessary. Even so, regret bubbles in his heart when he watches the other man drops into position. Danger spikes, an astringent flavor that saturates the daemon’s mouth in saliva, excitement needling into a thin vibration along the map of his veins.
Really regrettable.
Exhaling, he falls into position. Spine straight, feet spread, one forearm forward and the other braced low. Positions all rooted in kenjutsu—old memories stir, rustling of the since ingrained building blocks of self-discipline and strength. Never the genius, he had spent years carving every motion into bone.
Concentration: smell of the earth, shift of the air, the rhythm of breathing. The weight of his gaze. Rokurou slides a heel and turns sharply to block the first strike and then pull away from the second, letting out a short laugh at the knife swinging toward his side. ]
Ah, I want one too!
[ The tip of the blade cuts a small gap in his underclothes, drawing a red line along the tanned flesh beneath. The daemon’s eyebrow doesn’t even twitch as he skips back, relying on footwork to make up for what his style lacks in aggression. His family’s hand-to-hand training as a precursor to the sword lies more in defensive stances but footwork is paramount regardless.
That doesn’t stop him from striking forward, viper precision as he aims to strike one of the other man’s vital acupuncture points: lower conception vessel. A point around an inch beneath the navel, which has Rokurou daggering his arm forward and low in direct opposition.
Risky against someone clearly better versed in hand-to-hand? Yes. But that’s never stopped him before.
Regardless of whether or not he manages to strike that point, when he’s close enough, he inhales deeply trying to catch a thread of the man’s natural scent. ]