[ After hours of wandering the city, clueless, weaponless, alone and unfamilair—the outlet of each strike is a balm. Arm crossing arm, leg sweep, forward strikes and backward dodges. The dull ache of knuckles meeting a forearm, of flesh accepting blunt brutality in rapid swing. Exertion burns, a sweet sensation that Rokurou relishes while licking the blood from his teeth.
Formerly, the man intones, and the daemon cocks his head in that next parry. ]
That's fine then.
[ Curse eater is an epitaph that he has less context for. It could be a boast, something a strong man decided to call himself after winning so many battles, but with that whiff of malice still lingering ... Rokurou does not think it is quite that simple. For it to be literal, though, his experience only involves daemons that devour other daemons. Would they really be human if they could?
Nothing to think about now. No room for contemplation in the thrall of battle—the man cuts down and Rokurou turns, hitting his elbow down to make hard contact before falling back against that force. True enough, hand to hand combat is not his specialty; his back hits the earth and a tall figure darkens over him, shadowed against a blocked backdrop of sun. A foot hits the center of his chest, and one of Rokurou's hands grabs his ankle out of habit. Where have these feet been? Don't dirty his clothes with that, sir.
The knife is within tantalizing reach. They both know it—Rokurou is not dull enough to think that this Getou hadn't noticed. Mutual knowledge does not stop him from reaching for the hilt—a simple steak knife, how times have changed—and deftly flick the tool between his fingers. Such a lackluster blade that it does not even glint in the light with that motion.
Rokurou smiles up at the other man, cheek flushed. Dark hair falls away from his face; the right side is still covered by bang but the blotting along his jaw and throat are more pronounced without layers of hair in the way. ]
H'ohhh, that was fun! [ a good round; he may not prefer hand to hand combat but there is something about it that hits the spot. ] I knew you'd be good.
[ His grip tightens around Getou's ankle before he swings the knife in without hesitation. Rokurou is a petty man, and repaying what is owed is a family creed. The slice dug into his arm has stopped bleeding but the streak remains, slower healing than he is used to, reminding him that it is only fair to exchange a pound of flesh during a spar.
If Getou doesn't manage to yank away from him, the daemon will plunge that blade right into calf. Not through, just deep enough to mirror what he was given earlier (blatantly ignoring, of course, that he had pushed through that strike himself in a stubborn move). All done with that same happy smile—this man truly does not care about hacking into someone else, even during a training session. ]
no subject
Formerly, the man intones, and the daemon cocks his head in that next parry. ]
That's fine then.
[ Curse eater is an epitaph that he has less context for. It could be a boast, something a strong man decided to call himself after winning so many battles, but with that whiff of malice still lingering ... Rokurou does not think it is quite that simple. For it to be literal, though, his experience only involves daemons that devour other daemons. Would they really be human if they could?
Nothing to think about now. No room for contemplation in the thrall of battle—the man cuts down and Rokurou turns, hitting his elbow down to make hard contact before falling back against that force. True enough, hand to hand combat is not his specialty; his back hits the earth and a tall figure darkens over him, shadowed against a blocked backdrop of sun. A foot hits the center of his chest, and one of Rokurou's hands grabs his ankle out of habit. Where have these feet been? Don't dirty his clothes with that, sir.
The knife is within tantalizing reach. They both know it—Rokurou is not dull enough to think that this Getou hadn't noticed. Mutual knowledge does not stop him from reaching for the hilt—a simple steak knife, how times have changed—and deftly flick the tool between his fingers. Such a lackluster blade that it does not even glint in the light with that motion.
Rokurou smiles up at the other man, cheek flushed. Dark hair falls away from his face; the right side is still covered by bang but the blotting along his jaw and throat are more pronounced without layers of hair in the way. ]
H'ohhh, that was fun! [ a good round; he may not prefer hand to hand combat but there is something about it that hits the spot. ] I knew you'd be good.
[ His grip tightens around Getou's ankle before he swings the knife in without hesitation. Rokurou is a petty man, and repaying what is owed is a family creed. The slice dug into his arm has stopped bleeding but the streak remains, slower healing than he is used to, reminding him that it is only fair to exchange a pound of flesh during a spar.
If Getou doesn't manage to yank away from him, the daemon will plunge that blade right into calf. Not through, just deep enough to mirror what he was given earlier (blatantly ignoring, of course, that he had pushed through that strike himself in a stubborn move). All done with that same happy smile—this man truly does not care about hacking into someone else, even during a training session. ]