To Live by the Sword (Self Roleplay | Open)

This is the way of the sword; and those who live by it must be ready to die by it!

The feel of the crimson silk in his gloved fingers felt familiar. More so of his own being than even his own thoughts, feelings, abstractions, it was a part of him - it dwelt within him as much as his very soul.

Every hero needs a cape.

The words of his mother echoed in the hollow expanse of his mind. It all seemed like something that happened so long ago; back in the days of his misbegotten youth, when everything was an adventure. Every tree was an impregnable fortress, every hill a distant mountain, every stream a vast ocean, every rock, stone and pebble a piece of a world he understood only by creating other worlds to express himself within.

Often had the question arisen, "Why here, of all places?"

And it was a justified question. Why had he left the pleasant boroughs and quiet shires of his native land to come here, of all places? The searing heat and endless sands of the desert -an alien realm from which no man had ever returned alive; where ancient cities, forgotten to the mists of time, and treasures unfathomable and innumerable awaiting those who had only the imagination to see them, to create them in the first place.

Why had he come here, to Death City, of all places?

It was an anomaly, to be sure. Never had he understood death, not truly, not fully. He was aware that things died - that, some day, he too would fade into the ether and join the ranks of the unenvied dead in the feasting halls of eternity.

But he had never really considered it. Death was just something that happened to other people. As long as his spirit remained true, he would never die. He would live on, just like the old ones - the heroes he embraced since he first understood the whispers that his beloved grandfather spoke to him in the moonlit reveries of his halcyon days.

And when he at last knew what death meant, what it really meant, he realised just how little he knew at all.

Perhaps, then, it was fate. To the underworld, the land of the dead, fate had led him. Wherein truth resided only for those who wished to find it; wherein there was love and honour and glory only to be witnessed by those who knew what it was they were seeking at all.

He shook his head.

Now isn't the time for daydreaming!

He gripped the hilt of the dull, grey blade and threw the crimson scarf back over his shoulder, where it lulled back into its gentle slumber as it was moments prior. Taking a breath, he released his battle cry and began his daily training exercises.

Interesting, the boy has some talent it would seem.

This was the only thought that crossed Leo's mind as he stood in the doorway of the dojo, watching the boy go through his movements. His reasoning for being anywhere near Death City or within the Academy, none-the-less, was for a meeting with the Reaper himself. However, he had some time to kill before hand, so he had decided to take a look around. He wasn't exactly sure what it had been that had drawn him here of all places, but now that he was here, a part of him believed it was because of this child before him.

Although he did not have the capacity to see souls like some Meisters could, he was still sensitive to feeling the Wavelengths of those around him, something that had begun to happen after he had tangoed with the Demon Shield, Drake. It had been strange at first, and confusing, but with time he was slowly beginning to understand it and focus it, though it was far more difficult than simply learning and mastering a new spell.

Exiting the doorway, Leo walked along the wall, stopping once he got to the row of practice swords that rested on a rack. Placing his book on the floor next to the rack, the Witch picked up one of the practice swords. Holding the handle, with the wooden blade in his other hand, he examined it for a moment. Then, without any kind of warning, Leo stepped back, spinning backwards, flinging his arm out. The wooden sword shot from his hand like a bullet, heading straight at the boy that was training. He did this for two reasons, the first was to get his attention, the second was to get a good read on his ability and technique. With his Soul Protect on at the moment, he couldn't simply hit him with a spell to test him, so hurling a practice sword should work just as well.

There is a theory that only those species that are capable of and willing to fight for their survival manage to propagate and live on. This is by virtue of certain evolutionary tricks and cons: perhaps chief amongst them is instinct; the natural warning signal that tells a species what it ought and ought not do if it wishes to survive; the essential alarm bells that alert a species of nearby dangers and potential predators.

Only those who can avoid being eaten and bite back are worthy of survival, and to first avoid the snarling, foaming teeth, one must sense them.

August Ashford was not such an animal. He was, in fact, a rather silly young man.

So it was that the practice sword, in all its wooden fury, hurtled towards the boy like the fist of an angry, arboreal God.

It was not through instinct or any sort of natural aptitude that it missed his head by a good two inches. It was nothing more than sheer dumb luck.

As it happened, August had sighed, lowered his weapon and begun his sauntering voyage to his bag at the far end of the room. He had taken no more than a step before the ballistic blade flew by, the gust clipping his ear sharply, and embedded itself in the nearby wall.

Then instinct kicked in.

August, alerted by the presence of something, raised his sword. With affected gusto, he turned to face his assailant.

Then, seeing the young man standing at the doorway, promptly lowered it.

It was very bad manners to point a weapon at a guest, after all.

"Oh," he said - or rather, squeaked, "Um. Excuse me. Ah."

Eyes narrowed, he peered at the young fellow in the doorway and, being unaccustomed to the finer points of gender identity, hedged his bets.

"Sir."

It didn't take an idiot to see that the boy had made a guess when calling him 'Sir.' Few things made Leo angry, but that was definitely one of them. It didn't help that when he had first entered the Witch community that he was constantly being teased for being a male with a Witch soul. Not a magic soul, a Witch soul. He did his best to stop from grinding his teeth, but he didn't his golden eyes from narrowing as he glared at the boy.

Reaching over, he picked up another practice sword before he began walking towards the boy, his strides were carefully measured, and his pace controlled as he slowly moved across the dojo. "You are slow to react, your instincts are dulled and your skill is unrefined. You know nothing of the sword," Leo spoke with each step, reaching back behind his head with his free hand, grabbing hold of the blue ribbon. With a sharp tug, the not undid itself and the ribbon fell away, letting his black hair to fall into place, bordering his eyes, making them more defined. The boy's wavelength felt wretched to Leo, made his stomach turn over in disgust.

Stopping about ten feet away, Putting his right foot forward, turning his body so that his right side face the boy, he held the practice sword at a downward angle. Most witches wouldn't last a second in a battle of brute power, but Leo wasn't a normal Witch, his magic specialized in close up combat. "Come at me boy, and bear to me your soul!" Leo exclaimed, obviously challenging the boy to duel him.

August stared at the newcomer and, mustering all the experience he had under his belt, frowned.

This was not something he was used to. In his - limited - experience, young gentlemen did not simply arrive and challenge similarly youthful gentlemen to armed combat.

That being said, honour and duty demanded he at least respond with some modicum of social grace.

"Oh. Um, alright.[/b]"

August tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. After a brief moment of stretching and deep breathing, he shook his head out, threw back his scarf and assumed a combative position.

"Since you're the challenger, it's only fitting that you be allowed the first move.[/b]"

He paused; considered the situation. Somehow, in light of the newcomer's terse enunciations and chillingly laconic actions, social graces seemed somewhat lacking.

Nevertheless, they had never failed him before, and he saw no reason why they wouldn't at this point.

"I mean, if that's alright with you, of course."

Leo sighed as the boy offered to let him move first. He was a naive child, and he would eventually pay for it, perhaps with his life. A glint in his golden eyes flared as he suddenly jetted forward, sword held at a low angle as he moved. Even the most novice swordsmen would know that the appropriate defensive maneuver would be to bring one's on blade down to halt the attack.

At the last moment, instead of sticking with his forward trajectory, he, seamlessly spun-off to the side, bringing the wooden blade up and around with him. The sword whistled through the air as it came at the young boy's head. Because of the spinning movement, Leo's body veered off towards the boys right side, which meant the blade was moving towards the back of his head, instead of the side, or front. His long legs and arms gave him an advantage over the boy, though he was in Leo's range didn't mean that the Leo was in the child's range as well. It would be interesting to see how he reacted.

August had practiced for moments such as this. This was the moment when his training finally paid off!

Every muscle in his body tensed; every nerve fired off white-hot responses; every instinct told him that he now had to fight.

As his opponent approached him, he held his own sword out and made to guard the move.

Easy! He would block, then parry, then defend some more. It was quite simply, once you--

Then his opponent turned and aimed elsewhere.

Subterfuge to August was like a wooden trap to a mouse. And, like a trap that has just been sprung, the blade swung swift and hard against him.

August's throat made a noise like a choking kitten as the rough wooden blade slammed into the back of his head. The flat-carved edge wouldn't be fatal - certainly, that would be most unprovidential on the part of the academy supervisors.

But crushing defeat does not have to be fatal, and as August hit the floor, the wooden edge left a splintered gash across his nape. He landed with a dull, soft thud, crimson scarf flapping limply to the ground like a wolf's deceased, useless tail.

He was late.

The young weapon ran through the halls keeping track of the time in his head like a mental clock. He couldn't believe he let himself get caught up and get to the dojo so late. He trained routinely alternating between physical training and meditation with their respective locations alternating between the dojo and the open space around DWMA. 

Today was physical training in the dojo. 

Drake tread light. His feet floating as he dashed down the hallways, turned corners, climbed stairs in hopes of reaching the dojo before another student did. The dojo was spacious but for Drake to train the way he wanted, he required the full capacity of the facility. If not,  he'd have to find himself a spot outside of the school. 

He sighed. 

His dream didn't come into fruition as he heard the sounds of activity as he made his way down the last hallway which led to the dojo. 

The closer he got the less hope he had. 

Rounding the corner, poking his head into the dojo he couldn't believe his eyes. His cyan blue orbs opened wide and his mouth hung open at the sheer amount of amazement. 

Leo Montinegro. 

The ink sorcerer was here in Shibusen standing over a fallen student. 

Deep down... I don't know why...

But I feel.. That you will do...

...Terrible things to the people I care about.

The Demon Weapon blacked out. 

In a full sprint, Drake charged toward Leo. Where Drake's position was in relation to Leo and August, Drake had to jump over the downed student. In a strong Leap, Drake came forward with his fist pulled back and as he neared Leo he would thrust forward and let gravity do its job and add extra weight to his attack. "You liar!" Drake exclaimed as attacked.

The fact that Drake had actually let himself hope that Leo was truthful in his statements during their last encounter and to see Leo in this predicament made the young weapon feel lied too. Taken advantage of.

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[Drive - 100%]

Leo dropped the practice sword down beside the boy's limp body. Perhaps he had gone a little over board in his disgust of the Wavelength he felt. Kneeling down, he place his fingers on his neck, searching for a pulse. Finding one, he let out a small sigh of relief, he was alive, and the wound in the back of his head was minor, barely bleeding, but still not good. The concussive force alone probably knocked the kid out, but Leo wasn't sure. Shaking his head, he muttered to his young friend, "Naivety will be your downfall, you must learn to use deceit and how to detect it, if you ever hope to face me again. I hope you can hear my words, for I will never tell you this again."

Slowly, Leo pushed himself up, eyes still locked on the motionless body at his feet. The sound of pounding feet on the dojo floor brought his golden eyes snapping up towards the source. A smirk slid onto his face as the newcomer came at him, fist ready, his lips parted, letting out a soft 'Oh' sound in amusement. He had kind of hoped not to see Drake again until after his meeting with the Reaper, but it would seem that fate had a different plan in mind. It was a shame, he wanted to see his face when he was told that he had become a member of Shibusen.

"Rage doesn't become you Drake," Leo jeered as he side-stepped, turning his body at the same time, completely avoiding Drake's punch and forward momentum. "Besides, it is so unlike you to attack an unarmed man. What will your precious Lord of Death have to say about that when I see him today? It's unfortunate that I'v been involved with one incident when all we were doing was sparring, but I'd hate to tell him that I was assaulted by one of his students, as well."

August, from his newly acquired vantage point, coughed. A minute spatter of blood came up.

The pain in his head was excruciating; though, clichéd and all as it was, it was nothing compared to the pain in his ego. Being felled with one blow was not becoming of a hero. Even less so when it was but a friendly sparring match.

He heard something about naivete and deceit before the ringing in his ears overcame his senses. A slight groan escaped his lips, more to himself than anyone else.

His vision became a series of faint blurs and dull colours, his eyes focusing in and out of reality. His attempt to push himself up on his narrow arms fell flat along with his chest. In the recesses of his dazed conscious mind, he made out the vague shape of another interloper arriving on the scene. He ignored them, concentrating instead on getting the world to please stop spinning.