[420 / 39 / 91]
Quoted By: >>5711197
"<span class="mu-i">A swordsman who has lost his arm, can never sheath his blade.</span>"
You shake the words of the dead from your mind, and awake to your dark and damp cell once again. Five days ago it had rained, and since then the dripping has never, <span class="mu-s">ever</span>, stopped. The rats come and go as they please, but are smart enough to never approach. Ten days is a long time for a man to be left to his own thoughts, there is a darkness that exists at the edge of the mind that should never be allowed to overflow. Yet what is a man to do with so much time on his hands, but debate with the darker parts of himself? "He can distract himself", you are quick to remember. So apart from cutting apart anything that moves, you do your best to distance yourself from current self by pouring through your faded memories. Attempting to piece together exactly how you ended up here, as well as sorting through your sordid past. Unfortunately, are no closer to putting the pieces together despite all your free time. Sake is often both the bane, and only companion, of the travelling vagabond. It clouds the mind, and buries memories far on the edges.
You brace yourself as footsteps begin to come near. As soon as the guard shows his face, you draw your blade and slice him from behind his knee and upwards through the base of his thigh. A cutting blow, clean enough that he should survive to be tormented by the memory of your blade for the remainder of his life. Without moving, you have cut this man six hundred and forty nine times over the past ten days. Yet he still remains standing. Six hundred and forty nine perfect strikes, and he still doesn't know he has even been cut.
His remarks are snide, and his grin is mocking. He spits into your daily watered down Miso before placing it just beyond the white chalk line that separates him from life and death. You don't respond, and you don't hear his words. There is no reason to speak with a man you have already killed so many times. The dead can keep their riddles. You say this loudly in your mind, as if speaking to someone listening in.
You ignore the soup as the rats come to claim it, and look upon your empty hand. Rhythmically your fingers attempt to close over a hilt that is not there. You feel the phantom pain of your missing sword. Without it, your arm is simply not complete. Your hand is little more then a festering wound that won't close.
You shake the words of the dead from your mind, and awake to your dark and damp cell once again. Five days ago it had rained, and since then the dripping has never, <span class="mu-s">ever</span>, stopped. The rats come and go as they please, but are smart enough to never approach. Ten days is a long time for a man to be left to his own thoughts, there is a darkness that exists at the edge of the mind that should never be allowed to overflow. Yet what is a man to do with so much time on his hands, but debate with the darker parts of himself? "He can distract himself", you are quick to remember. So apart from cutting apart anything that moves, you do your best to distance yourself from current self by pouring through your faded memories. Attempting to piece together exactly how you ended up here, as well as sorting through your sordid past. Unfortunately, are no closer to putting the pieces together despite all your free time. Sake is often both the bane, and only companion, of the travelling vagabond. It clouds the mind, and buries memories far on the edges.
You brace yourself as footsteps begin to come near. As soon as the guard shows his face, you draw your blade and slice him from behind his knee and upwards through the base of his thigh. A cutting blow, clean enough that he should survive to be tormented by the memory of your blade for the remainder of his life. Without moving, you have cut this man six hundred and forty nine times over the past ten days. Yet he still remains standing. Six hundred and forty nine perfect strikes, and he still doesn't know he has even been cut.
His remarks are snide, and his grin is mocking. He spits into your daily watered down Miso before placing it just beyond the white chalk line that separates him from life and death. You don't respond, and you don't hear his words. There is no reason to speak with a man you have already killed so many times. The dead can keep their riddles. You say this loudly in your mind, as if speaking to someone listening in.
You ignore the soup as the rats come to claim it, and look upon your empty hand. Rhythmically your fingers attempt to close over a hilt that is not there. You feel the phantom pain of your missing sword. Without it, your arm is simply not complete. Your hand is little more then a festering wound that won't close.
