04/13/2022 08:25 PM  Date Night. [ft. Diana Lane]   D a t e   N i g h t .   G u e s t   S t a r : D i a n a   L a n e [ A R / 4 9 6 3 3 6 ]       [ To set the mood.]   Tsukuyomi graces the latest hour. The ethereal glow above lends enough authority to decree upon advanced darkness to lurk somewhere else. The breeze brings with it minty comfort for the lungs. Fallen leaves sail away on the fresh formless current. What a night for lovers to settle their differences. Well, in a certain stride of thought, it may be the case. But to one who sees the big picture, this is just date night.   Up from sitting on their legs, a fair-haired pair is beyond thirty yards from each other. In this clearing with the trees, shrubs, and little critters as the audience, they long to be groovy but as combatants. One of the East, a brunette bloke straight out of Samurai X. One of the West, a blonde Barbie straight out of Disney. Their navy blue garments were tailored from the hidden village the lad grew up in, fit for stealth while allowing free-flowing movement to exact snake-swift strikes. Much of their noggins are tucked in a cloth mask with a decent strip around their dreamy eyes exposed.   Tug down those masks. Out with a red Lifesavers, a piece of spicy treat crafted in blessed sugar by mountain monks who exalt a fallen hero the treat is named after. Laddie flips his up like a tossed coin. Lassie rolls hers on her knuckle, to and fro. Open lips catch the falling or chucked piece and soon shut. Let the sugar melt in the mouth. Take a deep breath. The sweet and spicy sensation is letting each one know it is taking effect quite quickly. Tug those masks back up.   Awaken, resting katana on the back or on the left hip. They gleam from the dark sun up high. Stomp down a foot with the blade held above one’s head! Spiked up with a divine drug, a punch, a kick or the curved fang in hand is devastating if it connects. However, they have to endure having their postures more easily broken as a side effect. Mind each move, lest this ends with more than just a few wounds and bruises.   Rush and confront him like he just cheated on her! The vice-like grip on her weeb-stick is firm. Wide steps hop forth left, right, left. Impressive how her once slowpoke stride is later shy of Usain Bolt. His green eyes are well at work to comprehend that she means business. Where her foot lands. How her limbs bend, twist, and work together. Her lovely icy blue eyes. The possible trajectory of her steel that can be imbued with enchantment to make it more ferocious than it already is.   The fellow takes a step back to anticipate that blade she has ready to give him what for. As his backstepping foot lands and gains a better grasp of the forest soil, he performs an overhead half swing towards her that if she gets too close, that pretty face is will be undergoing a surprise sinister surgery. Eyes on his wrists and shoulders, the hoppity lass stops herself just shy of a yard before him. She sweeps up her sword before her to meet his with the intent to deflect. Both quickly puffed a suppressed roar as their lungs had to burn air so their strikes are crisp. The first note of their sword duet rings throughout the forest air!   Both warriors recoil with Ninja Barbie soon going for a pirouette to be more than a foot further away from him and regain her balance. But her spin comes with a bite. A hearty sweep of her sword from upper left to lower right is released as her twist nears its end, the razor-sharp strip aiming for his nearest forearm. Discount Sekiro nearly jumps from her fierce follow-up, jolting away a side slash to repel the surprise. Retort with a step back, another forward, and aim a stab directly on her throat. She chops up her katana going the opposite direction as the sweep before, eager to preserve her little limb from the coming blade-boop. Blades clash and bounce away!   Elsa strafes to her left. Kenshin does the same. Meadow emeralds are locked onto the blade of his pernicious playmate. Winter sapphires are minding his steady footing. Sword points are towards the head of the other. Breaths are steady, hiding a bit of discomfort from their stamina recovering after taking a bite from each deed to deliver or deflect danger. How each still denies the other first blood is fairly amusing. But neither is an amateur. One little dumb act can mean a wound or worse.  The rush of the blessed sugar coursing through their veins is making their blood boil a bit. While they writhe, they also delight. What pair of masochists they are, Diana and Hanzo. Stride forward again. Make their steel sing and dance some more, even long after one or the other bleeds!   Date night is just starting.     A  R  /  7  5  0  3  0     2 Comments

10/30/2021 04:27 PM  Danger and Duty. [Entry for Saturday, 10/30/2021]   D a n g e r   a n d   D u t y .   Color the cool canvas where the breeze blesses brisk brushstrokes on, ashes and leaves. Stillborn still, the coming parting of Amaterasu from this half of a grand marble filled with life and death. A wide clearing before a dilapidated temple serves as a place of a looming conflict. A flightless falcon has business inside it. But it comes with a cruel caveat: a threat by three towering twice his person. They are guarding what could be of interest within. Two are with a large crescent blade each and one is with a three-pronged spear. Brave the brutes, this brown-haired lad must. There is fear lurking within, yes, but it will not overtake him. By the order of a humble wounded lord where his allegiance was forged from the kindness upon the poor folks affected by warring clans of these past three decades, he must persevere in his quest. Armed with the means to deny harm, even deliver it with grace and gusto, he is not deterred; he will not be. As the threats rise to their big feet, hands gripping on what will strike to kill, a preparation is quickly attended to by the lad. Out with the sharp steel resting on his left hip. He then nourishes himself with a ring of red sugar from a small brown pouch. Stomp down, left foot, and raise the blade nigh-flat above his head! Blessings of Yashariku upon him! The sweetness comes with a strong spice of stellar savagery but at the cost of having lesser vitality. A wound can be mortal if he is not careful.   S t a r t   t h i s   c o n t e s t !   [ Play to add vibe. ] The spear-brute sprints towards the falcon; the latter minds well with those green eyes the coming cruelty. Once less than three yards away, halt and bring those perilous points of the pole towards that belly behind raggedy cloth! The falcon responds with a twist of his whole frame, head to toe, strafing left and almost facing his right side! Bring his right knee high and then stomp down as the spear ends are beneath the thick straw sole! The points quickly and cruelly kiss the earth! The brute stumbles forward upon the release of the weapon! He was startled from this answer to his onward aggression. The falcon is stoic without a twitch of ego on his dirt-smeared face. His sharp sight stride from the wielder to the weapon and back. Take three small steps back and face the stumbled spear-brute. With both hands, the falcon lets his steel fly from above his head and down before him. The anger of the bite is doubled from the blessings of the sanctified sugar he ate less than half a minute ago. The spear-brute is struck just above the right elbow, cutting through what cloth and skin are naked of any fair protection.   F i r s t   b l o o d ! The other two, utter buffoons for not joining their comrade sooner, now come to the rescue upon hearing the brief cry of pain. The falcon in careful back-steps brings his fearless friend inches before his face. It mildly gleams from the silky late noon sky and the paint of fresh blood from a successful slash. One sword-brute delivers a downward slash of the big blade with a bitter yell towards the little fellow! Reply with a fast forward sweep, right to left! Spark and clank, two blades, violently denying each other! The lad was pushed back! Another downward flight of the sword, the other replies the same as before but left to right! Pushed back again! The spear-brute is trying to regain composure from the agony given to him. The other swords-brute goes on to flank but the falcon takes wingless flight with a sharply-curved journey to soon be behind the would-be flanker. Strike once close, falcon! Keep well the wits and kiss by steel-strong hits. Let these brutes feel humility with each graceful peck given upon them. Duty must be fulfilled. These threats will not impede him. They will not.   A  R  /  7  5  0  3  0 0 Comments

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03/18/2021 03:56 AM  Will The Good Die Young? [Writing Sample.] This will eventually be edited into a much longer entry. E v e n t u a l l y .       No rest for the wicked. And so the good must comply. The latter, this young warrior, is stripped of the great strength he once had. Snarling whispers from aching lungs. A knee on the ground giving lift to the weakened knight without armor. The fang lightly shudders from hands that lost the steadiness they bore during the young hour of this enduring conflict. The wicked thing before the frail fellow is a cheat. With a blood-soaked grin, he is taunted. The wounds he inflicted were lies. The sword dance he gracefully displayed was in vain. The true victim of the flaunted fang was the flesh of another, not this black behemoth towering over him even from tens of yards away. The crimson stain on it belongs to a few poor souls used as shields while the fangs of the creature with piercing yellow eyes are smeared from him after an eager lick of those claws the size of his own hand. “Where is the pride and the smile you had when we brought life to our... disagreement, lad?” It grunts its harnessed humor away, amused by this fellow predator gradually behaving like a prey. His spent ferocity now turned into hardship to even lift both his knees up and stand well makes him quite tasty. This puzzle of a battle, the languished lad has yet to figure out which pieces to turn and in doing so the tides in his favor. Breath lessens in desperation. His pair of peerless peridots do not leave the sight of the hunched monstrosity capable of issuing a decisive strike at anytime. Weakened as he may be, there is still some spirit in him. Enough to spill a short-lived snide. “Oh, expect them back, biggun. They’re just... taking five.”   Will the good die young? Rise, aching limbs that give credence to a lightly-lofty stature of this valiant biped. Fight the pain embedded in those nerves, nuzzled on the bruises, licking those wounds. Fight it well, for there is evil to slay. In silence, he gives such harrowing question no one asked a rebuttal.   ‘Hell no.’ No rest for the wicked. And so the good must comply.   0 Comments

03/18/2021 03:45 AM  Boys Will Be Boys. [Writing Sample.] This is a starter I whipped up for a specific awesome friend I’m role-playing with on Discord. It’s quite fun to make, frankly. x3       Murky emeralds are glimmering as they stride upon the glowing screen. The reflection of sunlight also adds to the mellow radiance. Two fingers are pinching together the end of a silverware. Its oval single-concave opposite is making laps in an off-white cup filled with milquetoast brown beverage served hot. To the left of the cup is a round white salad plate with an eighth slice from a 12-inch rhubarb pie. Its triangular prism tip has been two fork-slices gone within the span of four minutes since it was placed on the square semi-gloss wooden table. One of the two seats is occupied by a fellow who celebrated his 22nd birthday shy of nine weeks ago. Short brown locks seem straight out of a salon with their stylists aware of the dazzling do’s from Square Enix games. In truth, he’s been in dressing rooms being permed enough to know how his stylists groom him ready to be the public heartthrob that he is. And so he’s been applying what he learned just for everyday preparation to not look awful before leaving his flat less than nine blocks southwest of this respective café in the city. Much like anything in life, practice makes perfect. The other hand is busy on the glass page of his smartphone at 52% of its total brightness. What sound it emits is transferred into a pair of black Bluetooth earphones currently occupying each ear. Reassurance is brought upon this fellow’s way by means of a text-based gratitude for cancelling the latest tour. His bandmate and a long-time friend, their drummer since the group’s inception, won’t simply abandon her mother alone who took ill less than three weeks ago while the band is in an ongoing quest for fame and glory. His disappointment will die off as days go by. His own fame produced its own cost of being often away from his family. Money and recognition are transient and shallow in satisfaction compared to having his solitude kept well at bay by those who dearly care for him. His dad, his stepmother and his stepsisters. As he pauses the stir of the hot brew, while raising the cup for the nearest part of the curved rim to be close to his slightly parted lips, Hanzo does ponder on how they all are doing lately. The sting of being distant with those who raise him better is there, though he doesn’t show it often. A nigh-unbreakable confidence is his mask. Frankly, he should also visit his friend’s mother in the hospital. Show further support. While finishing up reading the message, he makes a mental note to put a reminder on this device for a visitation tomorrow around 2:30 PM at the hospital. He replies with appreciation towards the person who is thanking him for his full support of the tour cancellation. Not his bandmate with an ill mother, no, but someone in the music business he and his friends have collaborated with several times now; perhaps he even made passionate love with, though wine fueling each steamy session between the man and the woman. Hanzo smirks after a hearty sip or two and then brings down the cup. He conjures a different message to the same person. The smooth jazz from the earphones adds aid in nurturing his lonesome spirit. He proofreads the outgoing message.   When are you in town, Di? I kind of miss us. . . He sends it but soon follows it with a row of four emojis. A finger pointing to the right. An ‘Ok’ sign. A red heart. A smirking face. He sends this sequence too, this fellow who let his silly hormones do the talking. Up with the fork next to the pie. A chunk of the baked wonder is severed away, bringing less integrity on the solid eighth of a slice it once was. Part away lips and the delicious piece vanishes with a fleshly clamp upon the silver prongs. It’s just in time for him to give this café a fair gander from farthest left to the farthest right. The newcomer who made the two tiny brass bells on the door chime catches his attention. ‘Hello, cutie,’ gleefully growled in his inside voice. He averts his eyes away back to his phone just in case they clash gaze and make things feel rather awkward. Hanzo lowers the volume of his device, enough to hear a bit of the melody playing on it and what noise and chatter are going on around him. Part of the fellow wants to look at that young beauty which his meadow-locked pearls are eager to do. And he soon does it again, puzzled in a pleasant way that the lady looks like a certain gorgeous actress from a certain television series which he isn’t too well-versed but is aware nevertheless. The resemblance is uncanny. Hanzo may not realize himself that his stare is becoming too long if the other does take notice. Boys will be boys.   0 Comments

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