A Fine Mess. [Closed]
Character(s): Ryoma Sakamoto, and whomever wants to run into him~
Content: Ryoma gets shot and then enters the gates. D:
Setting: Muspelheim.
Time: Thursday afternoon.
Warnings: Violence, gunshot wound.
It was raining. The sheets of water spread across the rooftops, falling down, creating makeshift waterfalls off their edges where there were no gutters. The sky was grey and dreary, the clouds concealing the sun. Alongside the sound of the constant, dull roar of the showers, the sound of a pair of geta clopping along the cobblestone streets, working their way through the endless labyrinth of the town. Passage ways were tight, and many establishments had separate buildings for each of their rooms. It was difficult to tell if one was passing through private property or not; but then again, in all honesty, Ryoma had found himself unable to truly care long ago. Land was land, after all.
The samurai made sure to keep beneath awnings, and one gloved hand lifted - positioning his cowboy hat better on his head - to make sure none of the rain got in his hair. His dark-shaded glasses sat on his forehead; only a fool would have worn them on such a dark day. At his side, he clutched the hilt of his sword, and when his other hand returned to its previous position, it in turn rested upon the handle of the gun on his other side.
He felt strangely but uneasily calm today. The wind blew awkwardly through his dreadlocks, shifting them and causing them to stroke his dark cheeks, even as he moved against it on his way. Something was amiss in the city; even his religious support of change left him unsteady. Something was happening. Everyone in the city was uneasy, because everyone knew that too. Ryoma just wondered what it was...
And then it happened. There were loud noises; the townspeople jumped at the sound of unidentifiable sounds, loud and sharp. Ryoma immediately identified them as gunshots; his head turned around quickly, his hat swinging off of his head as he did so, in the wind - though was not lost, as it had been kept attached to his neck by the string strewn through it. Before the hat could fall down to his chest, however - a bullet pierced it, inches away from his heart.
The samurai gasped, and froze in place. The rain beat down on his head and face, and his dark eyes widened at the sight of something very peculiar and unfamiliar - Westerners. Americans, Englishmen? He squinted slowly, turning to face them completely, his head bowed low like a threatened animal, with its hackles raised in the back of its neck.
They seemed to be some sort of bandits. White bandits. Ryoma grunted with disapproval, immediately drawing his sword with one hand, and the other his gun. Moments later, he forced a smile and a pleasant expression on his face - frowns didn’t become him!
However, times like these he had mixed feelings about the westernization of Japan; the other countries over there were getting so much stronger, but they were smart and their weaponry was good. They could not be samurai forever if they really wished to persevere through the change. But Ryoma hated to see the bastardization of the towns, of his home, but...
“Real sorry gentlemen,” Ryoma interjected, sliding his gun out of the holster on his belt, beginning to twirl it around on one finger as he slowly approached the group, “But I’m gonna have to break up this little gittagether real quickly, ‘cause ya see there’s people here tryin’ to go about their business and you’re kinda interferin’ with that.”
They laughed, and insulted him. The samurai sighed dejectedly, reaching up to rub his head somewhat with the hilt of his sword, making a displeased face, as if he didn’t know what to do. Honestly, he was just biding time. But unexpectedly - the sound of a gunshot rang in his ear again. He gasped, feeling a strange white-hot shooting through his entire body. He didn’t know what was going on, what was happening, suddenly - never before had anyone been able to catch him off guard so easily - “Listen here, you damn-”
Ryoma only heard half the sentence. White encompassed his vision. The pain, the feeling of the cold rain on his head was gone, and his clothes felt dry - almost like some healing light had taken over him. He blinked his eyes open - but found they either were already or he simply could not.
Seconds later, he felt cold again, but his clothes were dry. He wasn’t in the city anymore - and fuck, glancing around frantically to find out what had happened, Ryoma discovered he wasn’t even in Japan anymore at all! Had the foreigners shot him...? They must have done something, because as far as he could tell, there were a bunch of them here - wearing western clothing, with blond hair and blue eyes - all of them lined up at some sort of gate that looked nothing like Japan’s usual architecture. Rather, the large gates seemed to be composed of some kind of shiny, yellowy-red metal - looked almost like flames crawling up all around it.
Ryoma was very confused. But he was free, as far as he could tell... so he started to walk to the gate to see what was going on over there. Approaching the back of the line, he holstered his gun and sheathed his sword, after that reaching up and giving a tap to the person in front of him.
“Hey ma’am, ‘scuse me fer intrudin’ but I’m jus’ wond’rin’ what’s this big line here for? And where’s this place?”
The woman turned and blinked at him, and looked very confused and intimidated. Silent, she looked back ahead and did not answer anything. Ryoma sighed and reached up to put his hat back on his head, with fresh bullet hole - before a sharp pain ran through it and his chest. He winced and grunted, letting his arm drop down. Looking at it, he made a face, making note of the blood seeping from a hole I his robe. Well, shit. He needed to get that fixed right quick, didn’t he?
Wasting no time, he carelessly tore off his sleeve, and began to dress the wound as he waited in line, applying pressure to it, holding it in place. When it was finally his turn, he gave a look up at the person at the gate - and grinned wide and stupidly. “Hey there, mister! Mind tellin’ me what this is all for? Y’see, ‘m kinda lost an’-“
“Name?”
“Oh! Uh... y’all can call me Sakamoto Ryoma, the lege-“
“Take this. Next.”
Carelessly, a strange, metallic-y pink object was shoved in his direction. He blinked and took it quickly with his good arm, eyeing it over a moment - before being shoved ahead and through the gate. Quickly, the journal was deposited into his robes as he hurried along.
Well. Ryoma looked around and sighed. “This sure is a fine mess y’got yerself into, Ryoma.” Oh well, what else could he do? The most important thing right now was finding a doctor of some sort to properly take care of his wound and take out the bullet - he could still feel it in him.
Hm, and he wondered idly what that pink thing he got was... maybe he’d futz with it.
OOC NOTE: Thread was abandoned, apparently. Moving on. Isaac and Ryoma went their seperate ways after the hospital visit, obviously.
Content: Ryoma gets shot and then enters the gates. D:
Setting: Muspelheim.
Time: Thursday afternoon.
Warnings: Violence, gunshot wound.
It was raining. The sheets of water spread across the rooftops, falling down, creating makeshift waterfalls off their edges where there were no gutters. The sky was grey and dreary, the clouds concealing the sun. Alongside the sound of the constant, dull roar of the showers, the sound of a pair of geta clopping along the cobblestone streets, working their way through the endless labyrinth of the town. Passage ways were tight, and many establishments had separate buildings for each of their rooms. It was difficult to tell if one was passing through private property or not; but then again, in all honesty, Ryoma had found himself unable to truly care long ago. Land was land, after all.
The samurai made sure to keep beneath awnings, and one gloved hand lifted - positioning his cowboy hat better on his head - to make sure none of the rain got in his hair. His dark-shaded glasses sat on his forehead; only a fool would have worn them on such a dark day. At his side, he clutched the hilt of his sword, and when his other hand returned to its previous position, it in turn rested upon the handle of the gun on his other side.
He felt strangely but uneasily calm today. The wind blew awkwardly through his dreadlocks, shifting them and causing them to stroke his dark cheeks, even as he moved against it on his way. Something was amiss in the city; even his religious support of change left him unsteady. Something was happening. Everyone in the city was uneasy, because everyone knew that too. Ryoma just wondered what it was...
And then it happened. There were loud noises; the townspeople jumped at the sound of unidentifiable sounds, loud and sharp. Ryoma immediately identified them as gunshots; his head turned around quickly, his hat swinging off of his head as he did so, in the wind - though was not lost, as it had been kept attached to his neck by the string strewn through it. Before the hat could fall down to his chest, however - a bullet pierced it, inches away from his heart.
The samurai gasped, and froze in place. The rain beat down on his head and face, and his dark eyes widened at the sight of something very peculiar and unfamiliar - Westerners. Americans, Englishmen? He squinted slowly, turning to face them completely, his head bowed low like a threatened animal, with its hackles raised in the back of its neck.
They seemed to be some sort of bandits. White bandits. Ryoma grunted with disapproval, immediately drawing his sword with one hand, and the other his gun. Moments later, he forced a smile and a pleasant expression on his face - frowns didn’t become him!
However, times like these he had mixed feelings about the westernization of Japan; the other countries over there were getting so much stronger, but they were smart and their weaponry was good. They could not be samurai forever if they really wished to persevere through the change. But Ryoma hated to see the bastardization of the towns, of his home, but...
“Real sorry gentlemen,” Ryoma interjected, sliding his gun out of the holster on his belt, beginning to twirl it around on one finger as he slowly approached the group, “But I’m gonna have to break up this little gittagether real quickly, ‘cause ya see there’s people here tryin’ to go about their business and you’re kinda interferin’ with that.”
They laughed, and insulted him. The samurai sighed dejectedly, reaching up to rub his head somewhat with the hilt of his sword, making a displeased face, as if he didn’t know what to do. Honestly, he was just biding time. But unexpectedly - the sound of a gunshot rang in his ear again. He gasped, feeling a strange white-hot shooting through his entire body. He didn’t know what was going on, what was happening, suddenly - never before had anyone been able to catch him off guard so easily - “Listen here, you damn-”
Ryoma only heard half the sentence. White encompassed his vision. The pain, the feeling of the cold rain on his head was gone, and his clothes felt dry - almost like some healing light had taken over him. He blinked his eyes open - but found they either were already or he simply could not.
Seconds later, he felt cold again, but his clothes were dry. He wasn’t in the city anymore - and fuck, glancing around frantically to find out what had happened, Ryoma discovered he wasn’t even in Japan anymore at all! Had the foreigners shot him...? They must have done something, because as far as he could tell, there were a bunch of them here - wearing western clothing, with blond hair and blue eyes - all of them lined up at some sort of gate that looked nothing like Japan’s usual architecture. Rather, the large gates seemed to be composed of some kind of shiny, yellowy-red metal - looked almost like flames crawling up all around it.
Ryoma was very confused. But he was free, as far as he could tell... so he started to walk to the gate to see what was going on over there. Approaching the back of the line, he holstered his gun and sheathed his sword, after that reaching up and giving a tap to the person in front of him.
“Hey ma’am, ‘scuse me fer intrudin’ but I’m jus’ wond’rin’ what’s this big line here for? And where’s this place?”
The woman turned and blinked at him, and looked very confused and intimidated. Silent, she looked back ahead and did not answer anything. Ryoma sighed and reached up to put his hat back on his head, with fresh bullet hole - before a sharp pain ran through it and his chest. He winced and grunted, letting his arm drop down. Looking at it, he made a face, making note of the blood seeping from a hole I his robe. Well, shit. He needed to get that fixed right quick, didn’t he?
Wasting no time, he carelessly tore off his sleeve, and began to dress the wound as he waited in line, applying pressure to it, holding it in place. When it was finally his turn, he gave a look up at the person at the gate - and grinned wide and stupidly. “Hey there, mister! Mind tellin’ me what this is all for? Y’see, ‘m kinda lost an’-“
“Name?”
“Oh! Uh... y’all can call me Sakamoto Ryoma, the lege-“
“Take this. Next.”
Carelessly, a strange, metallic-y pink object was shoved in his direction. He blinked and took it quickly with his good arm, eyeing it over a moment - before being shoved ahead and through the gate. Quickly, the journal was deposited into his robes as he hurried along.
Well. Ryoma looked around and sighed. “This sure is a fine mess y’got yerself into, Ryoma.” Oh well, what else could he do? The most important thing right now was finding a doctor of some sort to properly take care of his wound and take out the bullet - he could still feel it in him.
Hm, and he wondered idly what that pink thing he got was... maybe he’d futz with it.
OOC NOTE: Thread was abandoned, apparently. Moving on. Isaac and Ryoma went their seperate ways after the hospital visit, obviously.