The blades of vengeances have fallen swiftly. The shinobi are no more as 'Absolute Justice' has returned...now, it is the Samurai that rule the Five Major Nations!
But at what cost? Have they become the very thing that they despised the most...? Heroes and villains seem to change roles every day, but one thing is for certain - we yearn for our freedom, for days gone by where we flew the skies unhindered.
Nodachi Rank: C Type: Primary / Sword / Melee Description: Known as a 'Field sword', the Nodachi is a large two-handed weapon, retaining the shape of the traditional katana, but boasting a much longer blade - sometimes up to five feet in length. Cost: 10,000 Ryo
Senbon Launcher Rank: C Type: Primary / Ranged Special: Launcher holds up to 5 Senbon, which are launched all at once. Senbon travel 20 meters at double their normal speed before losing effectiveness and crashing. Description: Usually hidden on either of the user's forearm, this launcher can be used to send needles at their opponents at higher speeds with better accuracy. Up to five needles can be launched at once, resulting in deadly surprise. Cost: 10,000 Ryo
Kiri-Oni (Demon Claws) Rank: C Type: Primary / Melee / Ranged Description: Claws are useful weapons for a ninja to have as backup mainly due to their reliability. Though difficult to hide, they are nonetheless effective as a secondary means of attacking. Kiri-Oni even come with modification options, such as ranged options, and even a conjunction system which mixes the power of certain poisons and dispensable items alongside the claw. Cost: 10,000 Ryo per claw
Senbon (Throwing Needles) (x2 Packs) Rank: D Type: Secondary / Ranged Special: 10 per Pack. Description: Senbon were first used by doctors in acupuncture, but due to its reported widespread effectiveness, it was quickly adopted by ninja in order to hit points on the body that can induce paralysis, loss of consciousness, or even death. Cost: 1,000 Ryo per Pack
Kakkou (Retractable Wrist Blade) Rank: C Type: Secondary / Melee Special: 1 per Pack. Description: As its name implies, the user equips these retractable wrist blades so that the attach to their forearm without risking exposure. These blades can spring forth when needed to surprise any opponent fought in hand to hand combat. Cost: 10,000 Ryo per Pack
Flak Jacket Rank: B+ Type: Universal Accessory / Extension / Self Special: Allows the storage of 10 extra Item Slots, while taking up a single Accessory Slot itself. Only available to Chuunin+. Description: The Flack Jacket is a step above the Satchel, allowing for even more item space all across the user's upper body and torso. Excellent for easy access. Cost: 120,000 Ryo
You need to remove Kage Bunshin, and subsequently Shuriken Shadow Clone, as in the restrictions it states only Jounin can learn the technique.
If youre wanting to start your character as being off of the radar of the samurai completely, as per your history, then who exactly makes him a chuunin? I've noticed no village listed, so you'd essentially be a non-ninja that was chuunin equivalent, which is fine, its just a weird logistics thing. If youre off in the forest minding your own business and training with family, then nobody really has any authority to increase your rank up from genin (though i understand ooc that youre merely taking the newcomer package); youre halfway through the academy, by your own admission, when you essentially bail. Tie up that character loose end, fix the shadow clone issue, and we'll get you rolling.
The storm came slowly. So slowly in fact that what few natural waterways, inlets, and rivers graced the gravel mooring of Tsuchi No Kuni's continental lump could scarcely contain the years of dirt-rain that accumulated into tempest. It was a storm deep beneath the earth and crashing down from above, tectonic plate shift that raised the heat in the Land of Earth to levels that assaulted even the upper atmosphere. When lightning fell, it was gathered by the stonescape into quartz crystal regoliths. Everywhere covering the dry expanse of the country were ships that had been carried from distant oceans by the grand storm and thrown to become wreckage. A wasteland of dead vessels buried in rock.
Fate would spare not even a handful this day, only you and the cracked earth and the wind spreading thick particles like unguent on the structure-bruised skin of the earth.
You wake up, sprawled across the length of what appears to be an enormous weapon-casing, a missile shell as big as a small town. There are bodes impacted in the dry land around you, but they are difficult to see in the dust. The sky is so gray you cannot track the sun's movements, do not know if it is some peculiar twilight or merely some larger thing blocking out the day.
Nearly 200 meters from where you will no doubt stand to better gather your bearings, you'll see the unmistakable pipes of an even larger ship that has almost completely succumbed to the land around you. You can hear, high above, thick thunder cracking the sky into frenzy, but no rain falls...only dirt and mud and needle sharp pebbles whipped into insanity by the unusual storm.
To the north, far far beyond even several days walk, are the lights of what appear to be a city.
To the south, equally far, something is moving. It is larger than the ship-pieces around you, given its distance, but it is impossible to tell if it is a living thing, or some sort of machine. It seems to be moving towards the city, albeit at a slow pace due to its size.
Behind you, close enough to trip over if youre not careful to look, is an ornate treasure chest, unusually long and wide. It is almost 2 meters in total length, and carries a simple lock, and a note.
The note says "Do Not Open". If you check, you'll find that the chest is quite heavy, but the lock probably isn't too difficult to break...
Shin had a point. They didn't have time to waste dealing with this warriors dross; larger prey loomed out, predators roamed the nearby countryside and reinforcements could appear in overwhelming numbers at any moment. Though their prowess with chakra had seemingly been returned, there was little guarantee it would remain as such, as they nothing of the Samurai's capability to effect it. Naitome did not wish to take leadership of the group, it was a simply a rush of unusual comfort to speak and have others understand what he was saying. He tried not to think about how much he relished the extermination, the revenge and requital malevolence. He would yell back in response to Shin's concerns only once sure their current batch of 'handlers' had been felled.
"It is strange to have shinobi from so many nations attempting to work together. But if there are any old grudges still standing between us, now isn't the time. Let's mo--"
Not an explosion, a crushing. Metal warping metal with pressure bent beyond breaking, a smothering of weight. The dense bracing that had formed the elevator itself was pounded through by incredible force from above as the shaft - their means of escape - seemed to be choked by an unknown power and collapsed into little more than a junk obstruction. Where they would have been able to circumvent the elevator's interior and simply climb up the inner-shaft area to freedom, such chances became moot. One of the many cell-blocks scattered across Anchor-9's massing collided - no - ran through the shaft, the elevator, and their current floor, seemingly forcing them into an ugly bubble of compacted imprisonment. They hadn't been fast enough.
Dust and blood, flesh and bile, it gathered and was swept up and erupted in disjointed fractal clouds drowning them in sightlessness. Tremors would shake the entirety of their level, of every level, of Anchor 9 as the prison itself was readjusted by destruction, given new forming by a section of near impermeable bulk. When the vibrations of the massive shattered drill-bit-building settled and it was clear that the shinobi within D-Block had survived their impromptu tossing, a familiar voice shuffled clear of a pile of rubble and limbs.
"Err...I guess we won't be using the elevator shaft. Uh...anybody else got any ideas?"
They seemed to be free of Samurai counterinsurgency for the moment, but for how long?
Erusa, Shin... The names would commit themselves to memory as the Jonin took a brief side-step to his right, allowing a procession of frozen birds to gyrate out of thin air, whirling fast, launched to assault the full brunt of the guards in a lees sleet. Nani?! Hyouton? A surprise and a delight, as their front-most assailants seemed entranced by the weaponized whiteness glistening in dust cinders drizzling water. The flock parted in a piecemeal crackling against armor that seemed able to withstand it, though the momentary unbalance their flight caused was all the opening Naitome would need.
"The elevator shaft..."
He called through gritted teeth, in answer to Shin's inquiry, only after a softened glaring scuttle shoved him forward, alacritous route tamed by his clawed hand crashing against the soldered busby of the samurai's head. Like a clarion call to arms, he felt the others in their tension veer. They were ready. They would not be denied.
The samurai he'd struck toppled down, a defeated sagging, but his partner slid back, slicing horizontally at the same time. Two dived towards Shin, rolling even in their heavy plating, katana like deadly spokes rotating wild. Two took off towards Erusa, not quite the speed of the infamous shunshin but still fast, reducing their distance only to take a vertical swipe at her body, a bisecting blow, from both above and below simultaneously. Naitome moved back from the edgeways rushing, three samurai attempting to overwhelm him with blows as they anticipated his dodge and countered with ferocity, with hatred and duty. They lunged, whipping their blades, the spiked nodachi of their apparent leader seeking to impale his belly while the other two scissored in his neck and torso from opposite sides. He jumped. Twirled. Above the stabbing motion, between the slantwise rending with only inches to spare. His body became a slender thew, only strength, only speed. The sound of the blades cutting nothing rang in his ears as he landed. Palms flattened against the earth and continued his spin, translated up as a vertiginous banging step that impacted the center of their protectorates with loud booming. They backed up, one dropping his weapon as he crouched to the floor, visibly more shaken than his comrades. Their leader growled in frustration, came forward again, a double-cut aimed to distract as his own gauntlet-bearing fist flew between the poniard feint.
Naitome's feet were brought swiftly down, he tumbled beneath the punch, into the kneeling guard, twisted him beneath his own body with momentum, used him like a back brace, as the leader's twin slashings tore wide his companions metal shell instead, dug through spine. Naitome slithered up, then forward suddenly at full speed, stepping onto the slowly retreating sword made unsure in its travel by his circum juking. He forced it to the ground beneath his weight, then flipped with his right hand gripping the wielder's mask, threw him like so much trash into the remaining squadron. His left hand rose to remove a length of hair from his face, and he turned finally, to take in the scene around them.
He was almost warmed up.
He roared at their strangely silent party member, the one who hadn't given her name, whose smell he found intoxicatingly familiar. She seemed to slither - in much the same way he could - away from the encroaching danger with minimal effort, retreating to the shadows without moving enough to draw the guard's ire. He wondered at her thoughts, but only for a moment.
They could do this. He could do this, with them.
More guards seemed to appear, as if from the air itself, concerning themselves with the actions of a prisoner who'd not moved much during the opening moments of their 'release'. The guard's ordered him as if insurrection were not afoot on all sides, and Naitome could only listen in amusement as the man rebelled, chagrin and fatal charm and all the amiable sincerity of a man who would be free.
Another joined the fray, female, small, with gauche fumbling that crusted a tongue in the new tundra. The boy-child had fired a senbon that impacted against a slant of the giant's sparse armor with no effect. In response, the behemoth had thrown burning ferrule timber at the maladroit lass, the newcomer, used his girth as if it were a weapon, sent in a chemical drove the stench of intimidation as he swung at them.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
At the barking command for archers, three of his warrior-fellows made their presence plain. To the hulking attacker's left flank, his south-west, west, and the narrow strip of avoided debris between, they moved carefully from the cover of addling slag and knocked arrows behind bows gross with confidence. Each took aim. Each could hit their targets, who seemed perfectly numbered for the occasion, and were sliding over the crisp cool with blurring steps or novice inelegance or the calm of one who has seen too many bleed to react with despair. Naitome considered himself lucky. To compete with the soot-choked screams and fleeing as it melded and still be heard by his comrades, they were thus not so far away that they could see the Jonin come for them. This was his moment to act.
The instant of landing was immediately an afterthought, it happened beyond fast. He was just on the ground, then seconds later, a swirling eructation of snow coughing out a swift roundhouse embedded along the back of the furthest archers exposed hand, concurrent with the point all three archers turned to address his approach. The kick lowered his initial adversaries aim, the contraction of bone begrudging muscle that followed forced the arrow to fire against its wielders will, too soon, and at the wrong location. As he'd been twisting, the arrowhead was pointed directly at the second archer, whistling through the man's wrist and forcing him to release his own arrow prematurely, in shock. The second archer's altered position, pivoting to face Naitome's rotating assault, meant that as his wrist spasmed, releasing his ammunition, his arrow sailed through the eye of the third. The third archer in turn, released his arrow too soon, but rocked by the force of his sudden injury, accidentally shot while falling, allowing the thin metal dart to pierce through the first and second archer's head and throat, respectively, as they died. Naitome had kept low to the ground, steadying his balance with his left hand as his kick spun round, shielding him in crushed rock ice and detritus, and by the end of his odd flexure, was in a prime location to rip a lone arrow from the bodies before they landed.
The noise was heavy enough to make anyone turn around, but though the giant would still stand unharmed, his 'back-up' had fallen. Naitome had been sure to keep enough distance that, should the giant turn, his gaze would not be able to follow Naitome's chakra-fueled dash back up the nearby building's roof, disappearing into the shadow of derelict obstruction before those present could confirm they'd really heard anything. How they dealt with their single remaining foe was on them. The chill of his violent dance wailed slowly into focus. Ice? Had one of them somehow created it? He knew it would require serious mastery of both Suiton and Fuuton to achieve such a thing, but, amongst these striplings? This close to the Mizu No Kuni mainlands it would be a danger to have a Kekkei Genkai of that nature free and roaming. Especially if whomever possessed it had managed to become a target for the Land of Iron.
He gripped the arrow tighter, clung to the disphotic tumor bludgeoning horizon in a rooftop jig. He felt that the worst of whatever they were facing, was yet to come.
It was pandemonium. The gutter ruckus sundering. Everywhere there was blood. Every scrap of dense space grating against limbs in bric-a-brac capsules of savagery. The shinobi seemed to pull from below, a dark fishing net in the slack bastille deep. They caught up to their keepers. They exploded, rankling malignity scintilla sparked into a sortie rush. They pooled around Naitome from all sides, the 'it' that constitutes the swarm.
A scythe careened down, was aimed to pierce Naitome's skull above where his eye's centered, met air and his own sudden grip as it was ripped from its wielder's grasp with brutal strength. Left arm at its hilt, twisted its head, the back of the blade's square wedge flowing down to be kicked by Naitome's curving right foot, ricocheting it up and back into its owner. A suit of armor tore at its middle, fell. The Jonin leapt over its thudding, vehement. His right hand bent low to grip the back of the fallen guard's helmet. He threw the corpse.
It knocked down scores of others with its flight, most shinobi capable of dodging its path even mid-combat; many did just this. Those that did not used its appearance as an opening, perhaps taking some small damage but pressing the temporary confusion to deliver their own killing blows. At the base level of Owira, what had been named "The End", Naitome spurned the rebellion as a swirling asterisk of killing blows. What remained were, with few casualties, all shinobi.
"Half of you stay here, the other half plays clean-up with me. We take each floor, one by one, from the bottom up. We're on Floor One, send a roaming guard set of ten to sweep, then sets of two to walk each floor after its been secured; clog all access to this floor up on Floor 3. Boobytrap 4 and 5. I'll play advanced guard. That's right, we're not leaving."
He said to a young woman, who amongst the fighting had seemed the most capable, the most thorough. She was a Chuunin still, he believed, though he'd seen her picture many years before, younger and more innocent. Heat in her gaze nearly argued at the out of place ordering-about, but as she craned to take in their survival show, she nodded quick compliance. The others followed suit, happy for the secure-feeling of military structure. This, they could handle, especially now.
Naitome stretched both arms up to their limit, snake-thin limbs extending in ways no normal man's could, gripped the upper edges of the broken sixth floor balcony. He pulled.
He let his body follow the tugging of his arms as their chakra-assisted embellish distended. Like a slingshot, he was catapulted up and above most. Drifted for scant seconds, then landed without the softened modification of his flesh in sight of the embowed top. The entrance was not so many floors away now.
Are those...children? What are they doing here? What's really going on? He wondered, beginning the slow gather of errant chakra into power he could use.
He would have to handle any future reinforcements himself, alone.