Spirit Chronicles~Fragment 009~
Done as a random character exercise for Crossover Spirits (but wasn't used in the end...)
Spirit Chronicles
Fragment 009~Dance~
Kurehou glanced down at the group through narrow eyes, his azure pupils slitted. Sighing, he casually flipped his hand through his crimson hair. The hair always stood up a bit in the front, and the two long strands of red that perpetually hung down before his face refused to behave, but still, the waist-length curtain of red was a sight to see. Needless to say, he was quite proud of it, though not to the point of narcissisism. He wondered whether the hair looked like fire or blood to the people below. It didn't matter. What mattered was that his victims were below. They were the target. They were going to die. He jumped down from his perch, his black robe reflecting tints of dark navy blue, his pale skin reflecting the hues of the melting sunset.
Kurehou enjoyed the fight while it lasted. No one would expect such a feminine-looking person to fight so well, especially not with iron fans and pieces of paper splattered with dark ink. They underestimated him, but he knew everything about them. It was his habit to investigate the next targets beforehand, and this he did systematically and coldly. He was not one to go against tradition, and surely not his own habits. Besides, he was famed for being one of the most knowledgeable fighters around, and he planned to keep it that way. He didn't care how he got the information, so long as he got it. Usually he didn't have to deal with the same person twice since he always remembered anything he's learned, and thus anyone holding a grudge never got a hold of him. It didn't bother him much. He lived for himself. What else was there to live for in the twisted world anyways? Knowing too much does that to a person.
However, when he enjoyed something, his usual cold demeanor gave way to a crazed fervor that was more passionate than one would have thought possible. He pranced past one person's sword while noting the slight lack of range, his robe flapping behind him as though the wing designs on his collar and chests were truly flapping. He swung past another's spear, twirling over the man who was only slightly taller than Kurehou. Kurehou noted every one of their movements, noted that his red sash, tied at the waist, had been nicked by a small knife, thrown by another member, noted one of the enemy's movement was a tad slower than the rest. The first target was decided.
Kurehou reached into his sleeves, decorated with intricate red and yellow and gold. He pulled out the small slips of paper, four in each hand. Jumping away to increase the distance between him and his enemies, he threw the slips of paper towards them. They shot like arrows, and then burst into flames and flew like balls of fire. They barely dodged. Kurehou preferred to fight at long range, though close-range was much more interesting. He waved his hand in the air. The others stopped in their tracks, waiting for something to happen. They yelped and scattered when pillars of flame burst from the ground right where they were standing. Then more pillars rose again, and again. Just as Kurehou decided to finish it, raising his hand to call upon a great conflagration, he heard something. He stepped back, never failing to remain graceful, a small knife thrown by one of the hunted flying inches from his neck. Kurehou grinned. A change of pace. Why not? He reached into his sleeves again, pulling out what appeared to be two long knives. Then he spread both open, and the enemy found himself faced with a man holding two iron, bladed fans.
Spirit Chronicles
Fragment 009~Dance~
Kurehou glanced down at the group through narrow eyes, his azure pupils slitted. Sighing, he casually flipped his hand through his crimson hair. The hair always stood up a bit in the front, and the two long strands of red that perpetually hung down before his face refused to behave, but still, the waist-length curtain of red was a sight to see. Needless to say, he was quite proud of it, though not to the point of narcissisism. He wondered whether the hair looked like fire or blood to the people below. It didn't matter. What mattered was that his victims were below. They were the target. They were going to die. He jumped down from his perch, his black robe reflecting tints of dark navy blue, his pale skin reflecting the hues of the melting sunset.
Kurehou enjoyed the fight while it lasted. No one would expect such a feminine-looking person to fight so well, especially not with iron fans and pieces of paper splattered with dark ink. They underestimated him, but he knew everything about them. It was his habit to investigate the next targets beforehand, and this he did systematically and coldly. He was not one to go against tradition, and surely not his own habits. Besides, he was famed for being one of the most knowledgeable fighters around, and he planned to keep it that way. He didn't care how he got the information, so long as he got it. Usually he didn't have to deal with the same person twice since he always remembered anything he's learned, and thus anyone holding a grudge never got a hold of him. It didn't bother him much. He lived for himself. What else was there to live for in the twisted world anyways? Knowing too much does that to a person.
However, when he enjoyed something, his usual cold demeanor gave way to a crazed fervor that was more passionate than one would have thought possible. He pranced past one person's sword while noting the slight lack of range, his robe flapping behind him as though the wing designs on his collar and chests were truly flapping. He swung past another's spear, twirling over the man who was only slightly taller than Kurehou. Kurehou noted every one of their movements, noted that his red sash, tied at the waist, had been nicked by a small knife, thrown by another member, noted one of the enemy's movement was a tad slower than the rest. The first target was decided.
Kurehou reached into his sleeves, decorated with intricate red and yellow and gold. He pulled out the small slips of paper, four in each hand. Jumping away to increase the distance between him and his enemies, he threw the slips of paper towards them. They shot like arrows, and then burst into flames and flew like balls of fire. They barely dodged. Kurehou preferred to fight at long range, though close-range was much more interesting. He waved his hand in the air. The others stopped in their tracks, waiting for something to happen. They yelped and scattered when pillars of flame burst from the ground right where they were standing. Then more pillars rose again, and again. Just as Kurehou decided to finish it, raising his hand to call upon a great conflagration, he heard something. He stepped back, never failing to remain graceful, a small knife thrown by one of the hunted flying inches from his neck. Kurehou grinned. A change of pace. Why not? He reached into his sleeves again, pulling out what appeared to be two long knives. Then he spread both open, and the enemy found himself faced with a man holding two iron, bladed fans.