[ kenjutsu. he clocks it without having to sweep his eyes down the length of the man's body, a perfect silhouette that matches up with the lessons he'd been taught as a youth. his own style is piecemeal by comparison, something that flows fluidly between one regiment and another based on the situation — so proposed by the flirtation with Rokurou's aim. he stops it just shy, bringing their flurry of movement to a quick little still, the tails of his hair floating elegantly back down to his shoulders. ]
[ blood blooms because he's holding both the daemon's wrist and the knife in his hand, squeezing the blade down so that it cuts into the top muscle ribbing his forearm. Rokurou's own pressure determines how deep it cuts: reach for him, bleed more. with them at a still, dark eyes flicker over the proximity of his face, of his animal sense. he smiles. ]
There were better ways to do that. [ even so, he doesn't look offended, lips curled like they're on the rim of a laugh — one that would match his scent, rich and husky. earthy, with his recent training in the clearing, spiced with masculinity and split with sweat. perhaps the daemon's keen nose will detect death like a shroud cloying him: dried old blood past expiration still in his veins. the thick cloy of ceremonial incense that's probably been embedded in him since before even that. religious sobriety. ]
[ still, Rokuoru has two hands where he only has one, and this moment won't last forever. he forces them apart by raising a leg, pulling that sword-arm forward so his body is yanked into the sole aimed right at his gut. the knife is lost in the process, slipping from his grip, struck in the earth silver-first. an unimportant loss for the sake of space — or so it would seem. subterfuge: between the swordplay stances and the wishing he had a blade, he's testing a theory, tempting Rokurou to go for it. just how much does he wish he had one? ]
Tell me your name, [ so Getou demands as he licks blood not his own from the webbing between thumb and pointer finger, hooded eyes luring him forward for another attack. ]
no subject
[ blood blooms because he's holding both the daemon's wrist and the knife in his hand, squeezing the blade down so that it cuts into the top muscle ribbing his forearm. Rokurou's own pressure determines how deep it cuts: reach for him, bleed more. with them at a still, dark eyes flicker over the proximity of his face, of his animal sense. he smiles. ]
There were better ways to do that. [ even so, he doesn't look offended, lips curled like they're on the rim of a laugh — one that would match his scent, rich and husky. earthy, with his recent training in the clearing, spiced with masculinity and split with sweat. perhaps the daemon's keen nose will detect death like a shroud cloying him: dried old blood past expiration still in his veins. the thick cloy of ceremonial incense that's probably been embedded in him since before even that. religious sobriety. ]
[ still, Rokuoru has two hands where he only has one, and this moment won't last forever. he forces them apart by raising a leg, pulling that sword-arm forward so his body is yanked into the sole aimed right at his gut. the knife is lost in the process, slipping from his grip, struck in the earth silver-first. an unimportant loss for the sake of space — or so it would seem. subterfuge: between the swordplay stances and the wishing he had a blade, he's testing a theory, tempting Rokurou to go for it. just how much does he wish he had one? ]
Tell me your name, [ so Getou demands as he licks blood not his own from the webbing between thumb and pointer finger, hooded eyes luring him forward for another attack. ]