Unsung vs ?

This will be simple, because i'm not in the mood for anything else.


First off, we'll start with the rules.
This is a realistic match, absolutely no powers.
Basic bladed weapons. (Swords, knives, daggers, axes etc etc.)
No god-modding.
No time-scalling.
All posts are required to be atleast one paragraph (or cut, whatever you want to call it) in length.
Thats all i'm going to require.

Setting: An empty desert.

See? Simple.

The dry and hot exhalations of the desert cast great whorls of sand about the carved hills and barren land, for this was a place hostile to the common forms of life. The sun stared down from a cloudless azure window with a piercing leer, unforgiving as it scorched the ground and forced man and animal alike to seek the shade. But amidst the desolate, derelict place traveled a man, garbed in clothes from the far east. He wore a simple kimono, silk obsidian and an accorded hood tied around his neck. Upon his back was strapped as simple bag of needed tools, and slung through his sash on the left side rested the accessory of self-defense: a katana yet undisturbed from its lacquered house of spangled green.

The swordsman kept his hands tugged against the straps of the sack as he traversed the intolerant, parched earth, unaffected by the pounding slaps of heat. For his fabric breathed and kept him cool, and his journey was one required for repentance. An admission of slaughter to those unknowing, and a potential absolving of his sins. At the moment all he did was keep his glance glued to the path underfoot, all to be seen to the watchers a few feathers of hair through the shadows about his face. He would press on, no matter what the future had in store for him.

Took a sip froma gourd that hung from the sash of his loose-badly kept hakama. The gourd made a sloshing sound, as he turned it upwards into his mouth. His throat expanded as he guzzled its contents half into his body, the rest down his neck, chest and clothing. He was very unkept, almost as if he did not care about physical appearance at all. He was, a clanless, masterless and nearly friendless swordsman who saw absolutely no value in taking care of himself nor did he seek to impress others. He was selfish, rude and manipulative and would not have it any other way. He sat comfortably in a poorly configured lawn chair, half metal half plastic. Everytime he moved, the chair would let out a high pitched metallic groan at its hinges which gave away how old it actually was. Next to him, sat the purple sheath of a modified iaito that matched his smoke-purple kimono to some degree. The middle aged man's head was protected from the blistering heat of the deserts sun by an oilpaper parasol that was large enough to cover both his head and the chair.

Unsung symphony, a many of very simple tastes. He needed very little to be pleased with himself, for he had learned to be content with what he had been given. He was a man who believed in karma and destiny, whatever happened was meant to happen and nothing would happen that the gods did not know already that he could not handle himself if he simply applied himself to the cause. This logic, the guidelines he lived by, were the source of the very problem he found himself stuck in, time and time again. What was his purpose? Who was he and why was his story important? He wasn't sure, all he could be sure of was that the gods had granted him a blade and the skill to use it. Perhaps in killing, he could find the answer he so sought out.

"My mind is up, mhm. La la laa, my mind is uuuppp." He sang in a drunken slur as his eyes fixed themselves apon the shadow approaching him.


"Yo...." He said outloud, reaching his right hand out for his Iaito.

Before long the vicissitudes of fate aligned the paths of he and another once again, as seemed to be the metaphor of his journey of cleansing and self-discovery. Tasuke's trek brought him through tumbling hills and steep mountains, over water and now atop the sultry sands, that he might venture to all lands in which his steel had loosed a torrent of blood. Indeed, there were many, and such a mission would likely take years to complete. Nevertheless, such was a prerequisite for his salvation, and would be met even if his sword need be drawn once more; it had been the case of a few unfortunate souls, most dark and unwilling to turn from their wicked ways, that his katana met their throats like a whisper in the wind, an almost mute utterance of death that seemed to say that their time on earth was up. Such was the nature of the road he'd chosen, one so close between good and evil that only he knew where his feet truly stood.

The clattering sound of metal drew his attention to the forward, where he beheld a man of drab kimono and all around uncleanliness. He swayed like a drunken man in intoxicated glee, singing to himself while he spiraled further down the pit of uncertainty...or perhaps just a fool that wished to enjoy himself in the arid wasteland. Perhaps both. Tasuke hardly broke step, instead he continued forth, however mindful of the fact the stranger had taken a weapon into hand. In preparatory accordance he likewise brought his right hand about the haft of his own katana, the Boufuuchikon held taught for any sort of needed action; as he passed by the right side of the mystery man, the stench of alcohol and other such nauseating fragrances. He would have passed on without a word, if not for the density of the terrible fog of odor that chased him even several feet past. Stopping in his tracks, he softly muttered, "You really should seek a bath. I wouldn't be the only person in the world to find your stench repugnant."

With that, he sought to walk on, although completely fixed upon the sounds about him, and those of the one that reeked of foul things. If he did something he deemed a threat, metal would fly with fatal force.

Unsung sighed lightly, as the mans words resonated within him. It took a moment, for him to decide how he was to respond to such a comment but it was nothing short of his usual. The swordsman quickly removed his Iaito from its sheath, and pointed its tip at the passing malesform by extending his arm and twisting his body some. His hair flopped down infront of his eyes and bounced against his lips as he spoke.

"Those are strong words for someone who reeks of copper, I can smell the blood on you from here. You're absolutely no different from me, you have no right to tell me what I do and do not need to do."

His words were quick and sharp. He had a tongue like a whip and lashed out at anyone who dared to speak against him. This, he knew, was the pride of a fool. He was not confident enough in his abilities, to truely believe that everyone would fall to his blade but up until this point in time, no one had ever proven him wrong. As far as he was concerned, he was immortal. He was a god amongst men, not a single sword on the face of this humanly world could harm him, that was his one and only truth. Unsung took a final swig from his gourd, then tossed it into the sand. Now having a free hand, he'd work himself out of the chair so that he may face the other man at his full height of about 5'9". He smirked arrogantly, indirectly challenging his new friend.

"Come on, prove me right. Take a swing at me, show me just how many otherwise innocent souls you've slain simply because you feel it right. I rarely misjudge people like you...rather, people like us."

Tasuke stopped cold, his garments swept into sway from an uncommonly cool and refreshing wind as the drunkard babbled on. Thrown funnels of sand stretched themselves across his sandaled feet, Tasuke's intemperate gaze to the distant hills that were capped with strewn granules, in such a way that the entire scene appeared to be no more than ice cream. The man's words, while a tinge of truth remained flecked amidst a hail of ignorant talk. At first he was simply going to ignore it altogether, but even in his state of spiritual rebirth, the competitive swordsman that formed the core of his being could not turn down the challenge. There it festered as if a high school fan girl over her favorite pop group, there it achedfor something that could bring back the rush of the old days when killing was the only thing he could take pleasure in. However, through new friendship he had learned to curb that sadistic side into a tool for concentration and precise destruction, no longer with the fear that his next slaying would take him back to the forlorn ways he previously craved. Now he was the warrior he had always sought to be, graceful as the eagle yet deadly as the rattlesnake.

And now this man inferred there was no difference between them. Tasuke almost uttered a bemused chuckle at his ignorance. A reply came in a gelid, low voice, almost a deathly whisper. “No difference between us, you say. Have you ever stalked a little girl through her home after killing her father, not because it was right or even part of the mission, but because you thought it would be a pleasurable thing to do?” A blast of rage ruptured into his systems, reflected in a near hiss of vehemence. “You spout words without knowledge, fool. I am nothing like you. Killing you would not prove I am, for he that kills the innocent is not worthy of the breath he tastes, lest he should repent and live with that suffering all the days of his life.” He turned fully toward the man, his Japanese complexion still obscured in the midday light. “If you knew this, you would know true torment.”

Inomono’s right hand crept to the hilt of the Boufuuchikon at his left side, the haft of the katana held tightly while its wielder spread his feet to shoulder length and sunk the knees into a relaxed stance. The torso turned to his left, partial in its hiding of the weapon from his opponent’s view. He continued with a challenge of his own. “Come and see, whether heaven has chosen this day to call your name, or whether the ground has demanded your immediate burial.” Tense words, but little compared to the maelstrom that had been ignited within the journeying swordsman’s systems. He tapped into the whirlwind, slapped the surroundings out of focus, and its noise with it. Now all that remained were he and the other, and the movements of the body no longer bore control of the mind, but the instincts of the heart. The unsheathing would be merciless, and tuned to his style: where the first blow was usually the last.

He smiled triumphantly and gripped the hilt of his Iaito, preparing it for battle. It was modified, so that its blade was longer than the usual. Fixing his feet into the sand he wrapped a second hand around the remaining piece of his blades hilt so that he could take his own stance. This, was the moment before the actual battle would start that Unsung loved, maybe more so than the actual result itself. That fleeting moment in time where he was unsure of the out come of the fight. His digits wrapped themselves tighter around the blade as he slid a foot forwards, inching himself closer and closer to his target. A rival swordsman, obviously. Someone who, even when he denied it thoroughly, could not fool someone who shared the same past as he himself. He claimed that they were different, but they were not. Unsung, saught the death of his own family. The clan he had given its right to exist, the children he put his time and love into that betray him now. His blade was bathing in the gore of his past, that the water he bathed in could not wash away.

"Unfortunately, we are exactly the same. If we were not, your blade would not be drawn. Such petty beasts we are, that we'd allow an immature trade of words bring us to arms. Truely vile creatures, to slay one another for the sake of feeding the hunger inside us and nothing more. You and I are the same, deny it as you please but I know the truth."

From here, he waited for the man to make his next movement. He was no fool, the stance his foe had taken was a typical one, Iaido, he assumed. The technique of killing your enemy while unsheathing your weapon, all based around the idea of counter attacking. A famous teaching, but also one he himself studied and was a master of. He would not be laid to rest in this desert, he was simply passing through.

"The ground rejects me, and the heavens are disgusted by my name. I am immortal, because being here is my punishment. The gods would never allow me to die."

OOC: I don't know if you got my private message, but some sort of reply is what I was waiting for before I posted.