kusema ya shetani... speak of the devil
Feb 14, 2013 11:02:08 GMT -8
Post by BLKND on Feb 14, 2013 11:02:08 GMT -8
The trees in this portion of the country were nothing of any complication. The only real issue that this forest possessed was the thick brush that would whip against Moroku’s thick case of muscle. His cargo had lost feeling in his legs, and so as the whipping would tear against the back of his calves, he would not protest. He knew something was happening, but had seemed almost apathetic at this point. He was running blind at this point. He knew the rendezvous point was to the southeast, so that was where he was headed. His partner, Asano was their navigator. He was simply the medic, as well as the most physically powerful, giving him the capability to travel the furthest and fastest with the cargo in mind. He wasn’t fast enough however. Tossing his cargo to the ground in a hasty manner, his fists would raise into the air, as he would feel the shadow of an adversary come washing over his bare skin. Soon, that shadow would bear teeth. His hand would reach for his baton- hidden on the outside of his right leg, while his left hand would extend to prevent himself from being hit in the face by what appeared to be a blunt sword. It was far from it.
The blade would come through the air; Moroku’s reach assisting in him grabbing the wrist of his assailant, as he would fight to move his body out of the way. It was a simple attempt. Being the height that Moroku was, it was easy to see oncoming attacks, especially when directed towards his head. The blade would hit the ground, and instantly be retracted back into the assailant’s comfort zone. Rising towards the air, he would come in for a secondary swing, this time from the ground up. By this time however, Moroku had acquisitioned his baton, his fist plummeting towards the chest of the assailant, who would soon find themselves careening across the forest floor, their back instantly crashing into one of the many, massive trees which populated this place. They were thin, nowhere near as massive as those found in Konoha, but still fairly tall. The pressure of the body would cause a massive ‘crack,’ in the unlucky foliage, though not enough to knock it down. Moroku would look at his downed opponent, who would struggle to stand- obviously still conscious, whatever breastplate they had decided to wear to this battle had saved their life. A masked figure, with glowing red eyes, and skintight battle armor, save the torso, would emerge through the thick grass that would come past Moroku’s knees in this area. Littered with dead leaves falling from their armor, they would finally regain their composure- dropping their sword to use both hands and pull off the now dented armor.
“You pack quite a punch.” The metallic voice of the man would say, heaving heavily from the wind he still battled to obtain.
The mask appeared to be that of a respiratory device- perhaps a gas mask- perhaps no. The breastplate seemed to be made of metal, which opposed the rest of the outfit, which appeared to be composted primarily of Kevlar. They had anticipated coming in to contact with him. They had learned.
The blade would come through the air; Moroku’s reach assisting in him grabbing the wrist of his assailant, as he would fight to move his body out of the way. It was a simple attempt. Being the height that Moroku was, it was easy to see oncoming attacks, especially when directed towards his head. The blade would hit the ground, and instantly be retracted back into the assailant’s comfort zone. Rising towards the air, he would come in for a secondary swing, this time from the ground up. By this time however, Moroku had acquisitioned his baton, his fist plummeting towards the chest of the assailant, who would soon find themselves careening across the forest floor, their back instantly crashing into one of the many, massive trees which populated this place. They were thin, nowhere near as massive as those found in Konoha, but still fairly tall. The pressure of the body would cause a massive ‘crack,’ in the unlucky foliage, though not enough to knock it down. Moroku would look at his downed opponent, who would struggle to stand- obviously still conscious, whatever breastplate they had decided to wear to this battle had saved their life. A masked figure, with glowing red eyes, and skintight battle armor, save the torso, would emerge through the thick grass that would come past Moroku’s knees in this area. Littered with dead leaves falling from their armor, they would finally regain their composure- dropping their sword to use both hands and pull off the now dented armor.
“You pack quite a punch.” The metallic voice of the man would say, heaving heavily from the wind he still battled to obtain.
The mask appeared to be that of a respiratory device- perhaps a gas mask- perhaps no. The breastplate seemed to be made of metal, which opposed the rest of the outfit, which appeared to be composted primarily of Kevlar. They had anticipated coming in to contact with him. They had learned.