Description: In Southtown, sometimes even the wolves hunt one another. A shadow, long thought dead, arrises once more to test herself. A priest is on the hunt, looking to spread his sacrament amongst the flock. Saint finds in Marise the one thing he cannot stand. Marise finds in Saint the one thing more painful than any other. Neither of them could have expected what they found.. A meeting of monsters.
Many people avoid this section of town. Gedo High has a reputation for being both punks and bringers of vigilante justice, and this street being so close to the school, many people just want to avoid the possibility of meeting one of the Gedo students that adhere to the former descriptor. The dirty streets, the graffiti, the ill-lighting all add to the feeling of being unsafe, as well. And who could blame them? Who wants to be mugged, beaten, or at best merely taunted by ruffians?
Apparently the young priest does.
The young man, wearing his full outfit of a black priest's uniform, white overcoat, black derby, gloves, and wielding his polished mahogony cane walks through the area, looking of money. He does not walk quickly, trying to appear as though he has a weapon and is willing to use it, but rather walks slowly, with a smile on his face. And where others would try not to attract attention, being as quiet as possible... the priest /sings/. In a rather pleasant tenor, his voice can be heard extremely easily, carrying through the mostly empty streets.
~o/ There are few who deny, that what I do, I am the best, and my talents are renowned far and wide! /o~
Saint Casimir, a Catholic priest, a man who looks sickly thin, with pale skin, looks to be entirely out of place on this highly dangerous road. He does not try to hide. He doesn't even look unhappy, because as he sings, he looks really, really happy. He even makes flourishes with his hands, and his cane, gesturing as he sings, emulating the scene the song is taken from from memory. He even gets up onto a closed trash bin to recite the line, ~o/ And since I am dead, I can take off my head! To recite Shakespeareian quotations~! No animal or man, can SCREAM like I can, with the fury of my recitations! /o~ And on he goes...
Notably, the few punks left in the area at this time of day do not mess with the priest. He's been to Gedo before... and they've seen what he can do.
There's something.. wrong.
Something not right about the way the priest's voice echoes from the paint-lathered alleyways of Gedo Street. The volume of the voice tapirs off, inexplicably losing a sliver of its depth in a way that brings one's own sanity into question. A street lamp flickers out of sync with its opposite across the cracked streets. More over.. The sounds of the urban night life dim. The faint crackle of a cheap radio in a nearby apartment fades to nigh-subliminal static. Cities are not made to be this quiet, not ever.
To some, this subtle shift of ambiance would raise heckles and chill to the bone. To this Priest? .... Well, that would be a different story.
The deviant emissary of Christ has earned a potent reputation amidst these streets. Potent enough where even singing and carrying on like a lunatic does not summon forth the Gedo hordes whom look poorly upon those who intrude upon the solemnity of their hallowed neighborhood. Few are offered that respect.
At a glance, The Devil of Koga can see why.
%No announcement is made. No bold statement or intrusive claim. Rather, the first evidence the Christian receives that he is no longer alone is a simple feminine breath. A gesture somewhere between a sigh and a moan, teasing his senses from afar.
A simple turn will reveal a silhouette looming beneath the severe light of a low street lamp. The light offering only the symmetry of this female visitor, her kimono arranged politely even as her long-sleeved arms hang at her sides limply. Her stance loose, effortless, motionless. Death-like. She could be a mannequin for all her silent demeanor if it was not for the intensity of a gaze he cannot see. Only feel.
What man is this.. She wonders? She has had the dubious privilege of being in the presence of many Christians of late, but this one is most unique. To her.. The man is a skeleton. A whisp of nothingness that has no right standing. Let alone continuing to live. Only a.. strangeness suffusing his presence that she can only faintly make out.
It is a coven of shadows, this. The invisible meeting the unseen.
This Christian is precisely what she was looking for...
Plush, violet lips slowly lift into the contortions of a smile beneath the shadows of her veiled bangs.
...How marvelous..
Saint only notices the presence of the woman insomuch as she seems to be interfering with the harmonics of the street. His voice doesn't carry as much, and rather than echoing, his tenor thuds against a deadened wall, as if the very air past a certain distance were afraid to approach. This curious change causes him to pause, his singing trailing off in a confused inflection at the end of the last line he sings. His footsteps slow, and then he stops altogether, tilting his head to the side as if considering the sudden lack of noise in the city. Indeed, he'd been one to wander the town at night many times, and he had never heard such a bustling metropolis be so quiet, even at the wee hours of the morning. "Hmm..." his voice floats out as he considers this. "My, my..."
A gloved hand moves towards his derby, placing a hand over it, as if expecting a strong wind to blow it off his head any moment now. Ducking his head, he considers what could possibly cause this sudden, eerie shift in the air. He can feel no supernatural power in the area, for this was not his to feel. He can feel no 'presences' for likewise, he cannot feel these things. What he can feel...?
Bloodlust. The will to do harm. The want to cause pain.
Turning suddenly, doing an about-face, the man stabs his cane into the ground, his black-gloved hand still holding his derby onto his head, the angle at which he holds it obscuring his eyes from view. "It is rude, I fear, to stop one from singing. Particularly so to stop his listeners from being able to listen," the priest says. His head lifts up slowly, and his hand withdraws from the derby. Even though his eyes are no longer obscured, the narrowness they possess prevents a clear view of them. Even so, his mouth turns upwards into a smile, natural, easy, and even friendly. Settling both hands onto his cane, one atop the other, the young priest offers a smile, despite his words. "But I suppose, since this is our first meeting, I can forgive you."
His eyes open partly, thin slits that show red-tinged irises. Though he is smiling, and it is somewhat difficult to tell if the emotion touches his eyes, it doesn't seem likely. "And what can I do for you this evening? A confession, perhaps? Or... do you wish to visit God this night? He will always be accepting of you, my child."
A hollow thing. It speaks as a man, it conjures words and shambles in the manner of a person. But it is clearly not. At least.. Not as this creature would define it. While he defeats her most invasive of senses, it does not take the soul-scrying techniques of the Kinmagan to know this man has blood on his hands. He reeks of pain, sounds of suffering.
At a simple glance, there are no secrets between them - even if they continue as mysteries to one another. As much as the Devil despises the cloth shrouding his frame and the symbols adorning his person.. She finds herself unable to dredge more than a peripheral hatred. The hate she possesses for all life as opposed to a loathing for a directed slight, imagined or otherwise.
As he speaks, the gaunt shadow at first replies with silence. No words of greetings of acknowledgement crosses her lips. The slightest tilt of her head confirms that she is, in fact, not a trick of the light. Pearlescent skin, paler than fresh cream, contrasting sharply with the ebon silks upon her frame.. And the ocean of shadow pouring past her shoulders, revealed to be extremely long tresses, touching the Earth beneath her as hundreds of tendrils of black.
"...Forgiveness?" A word betrays her quietness. Lips tasting that word, curling distastefully upon it. "Nazathrean, the word is insult."
With those words, the shadow animates. Stepping forth from the spotlight of the lamp, allowing the night to swallow her symmetry entire. The subtle shift of blacker than black allowing the Priest to know she is, indeed, closing. "If there is forgiveness to be begged... Your fetid kinder would be first if they truly believed in the stone etchings their blessed lunatics brought forth from mountains. Nooo.."
The Devil's form draws closer, her arms slowly lifting outwards. Fingertips spreading and .. extending. Nail-tips stretching forth with the sound of whispering steel. "Should I desire to meet any of your pantheon, Profaner of Isis.. It would be Archangel Lucifer. You see.."
The creature's head tilt's. Her bangs part themselves as if dancing upon an unseen wind. Inhuman, golden eyes with slitted-black pupils glint with predatory intensity. Illuminated in the evening's shadow, "... We see eye to eye on a great many things. Most notably.. Removing weak-minded fools from thrones they hardly deserve to sit upon. Point of fact.."
The ghoulish monster pauses a few steps away. Claws lifting demonstratively, as if she -wants- him to run. Or at least.. prepare himself, "..As I send you to meet him, please offer my warmest regards.."
She has no idea. No idea of what exactly fills him. He is not hollow; he is full of pain. All of his painful memories, every stone thrown at him, every bone broken, every punch, every stab, every bruise, every scar. He can never forget it. Indeed, he lives it. Every time he fights. Every time he touches another living thing. Pain fills him, then reaches for the other soul. Christians desire to know God's love. Most believe God's love to be something soft, something gentle. Others mistake the pain inflicted by Christians in the past to be malicious, to be hurtful.
Saint knows. They are all wrong.
The priest's eyes close, though at the same time his eyebrows lift in interest as the Devil speaks. He does not interrupt, letting her speak her piece. The entire time, he is stock still, hands resting on his cane, his position relaxed, as if this were some chance meeting between acquaintences. Even when the Koga ninja's nail -extend- he doesn't even flinch. When she moves forward, he doesn't tense up or back away. He merely smiles.
"I see..." he states, his smile growing a little wider. He's not disturbed at all by the blasphemous talk. Indeed, he lowers his head some and tsks, shaking his head side to side. "People misunderstand. They never see the true meaning in God's actions."
That's when there's a small 'click' noise from Saint's cane, though the reason for it isn't made apparent yet. "You make the mistake of thinking God's, indeed all Christian's actions, are hypocritcal. But think! The Great Flood. Job's perils. The pain and agony Jesus went through. The Spanish Inquisition. The Christian missionaries across the world." His hands move slowly, one gripping the top portion of it - the part plated in metal - and the other the wooden haft. He then slowly draws the metal portion up, revealing the blade hidden within the cane. Drawing the sword straight up out of the cane, the thin silver blade reflects the surrounding light - and shines it directly on Saint's smile.
"God's love... is pain. Pain to the nonbelievers, pain to the believers. We suffer, because it is what God wishes. Because while we are capable of feeling pleasure, the feeling of pain, suffering, dying, of madness, insanity, of being tortured, of being tread over - it is HIGHER, more POTENT than love!" The blade is swept around so the point now goes straight up, and then Saint turns it, so the edge faces Marise and his own face, the light no longer reflecting off his features, casting them in darkness. "If you are to send me to God... I would welcome it. So long as you know the right path to lead me down. I, too, shall do my utmost, as is my God-given duty, to show you the path in return."
It is now the Devil's turn to listen to this wizened fellow's retort. Finding herself curious about a great many things this skeleton-man represents. An irony that she cannot see what this empty-seeming man possesses in great quantity. Only as he then brandishes his weapon and explains in implicit detail does an expression of revelation pass over the Kunoichi's pale face.
The single emotion that the ghoul maiden was not expecting. The one thing she did not really believe she would feel once she confronted this Christian in person.
She's actually impressed.
A hand lifts as her fingertips touch her semi-bared chest, razored nails hovering over her skin with the gesture. The creature finds herself moved by his words. Finally.. FINALLY.. someone who -understands-. Someone else who -knows- the truth of things. She could have said those very words. Matter of fact, she has. 'Pain is truth.' 'Suffering is power.'
Unfortunate that this truism is in the hands of a heretical fanatic. But then, nobody's perfect.
For a long moment, the tall woman simply stands before the priest, transfixed by his sentiment before breathlessly offering, "..My.. No.. I will not send you to your God this night.." Marise decides then and there. She'd sooner set the Scrolls of Koga alight than kill this man. This being who may be the single redeeming virtue for all spawn of the Western world. If only more were like him.. If only..
"Come then.." The Devil declairs, holding her clawed hands aloft as her ocean of ebon locks slowly slithers into the air as if borne upon an unfelt wind. Eyes joyously aglow as her lips spread into a wickedly fanged smile, "Let us share in our faith together!"
As they both know, the only way to learn the truth of another.. Is to see them in agony. Marise has a mission, and it must be fulfilled. She must determine if her recent alterations have given her a fighting chance against the hollow-kind with their powers of the mind. Little did she know that.. She would find someone else just like her..
COMBATSYS: Marise has started a fight here.
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Marise 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Saint has joined the fight here.
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Marise 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Saint
No more words. He doesn't need them. For he will show God's love in the only way it can truly be expressed - through the sensation of pain. Saint's sword snaps out to the side, and he tosses the cane into the air, catching it in a reverse grip, then snapping it out to the other side, holding both cane and sword as a weapon. He takes a step forward, taking in a breath, his eyes unable to be seen through their narrowness. There's a slight pause, significant, as he holds the breath in. Then... he exhales. Taking another step forward, the sword and cane begin to bob up and down, in time to an invisible beat. He conducts an orchestra in his mind, the tools of his trade acting as batons to mark the time. His steps follow suit as he approaches the woman, the ghoul, and he begins to hum. The lines to Mozart's Requiem.
His movements fall in time to this imaginary orchestra, intending on causing a cacophony of pain. The strings rise, swirling, and so too does he. His body twists, coat flaring out somewhat as the air makes it billow, and he brings the cane up and around, intending on striking in a sharp thrusting motion for Marise's forehead. It matters not where it lands, however, for upon any touch, his pain, his memories, boil and swell within him. The night he spent in the swamp, naked, coated in honey to attract the mosquitos, who pecked his flesh, and drank, slurped and drained his blood throughout the night. It floods out of him, through his hand, surging throught he cane - and then, should the contact be made, they flood into Marise. Ghost-gray lights would suddenly fill her vision, coating her body, and pecking her flesh, draining her blood. Hundreds, thousands of the ghostly mosquitos, swarming all over her, seeking to drain every last drop she could possibly have in that ghoulish body of hers - and then they vanish, just as soon as they'd came.
COMBATSYS: Marise blocks Saint's The Black Rites EX.
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Marise 0/-------/------=|-------\-------\0 Saint
Upon a time, this would be nothing.
literally nothing. His movements would simply be lifeless, pointless motions. A collections of kinesthetic behaviors without rhyme or reason. For the movement of living things is harmonious with their breath, their inner life. Without it, no warrior can power his techniques, no magician can call forth their mystical arcana.
At least, that was the reality Marise has known for longer than the lifespan of most who still live. It was not until recently when she had confronted another of his ilk. The invisible ones with weakened souls that should no longer be living, let alone thriving.
And yet, their attacks cut. Their energies singe. Inexplicably, invisibly, irrationally. Against this force the Devil had no defense. No capacity to even witness what she needed to defend against.
Indeed, even still, the Devil can hardly see what this skeleton-man is doing. His orchestrating strikes mesmerizing and hypnotic, the blade finding its mark as it glances off of the creature's brow. Her golden eyes flinching..
..And she can see it. See now the grey haze sweeping over her vision. The images of the repulsive bog. The cacophonous humming of countless creatures crawling over her flesh.
The agony.. Yes, yes she can feel it. A building pain of a hundred needles rifling through her. The image of herself superimposed over the Priest, consigned to the infested swamp.
Laughing.
"K..Kya.. ha ha... Kya HA!"
The mosquitoes of memory suddenly wither in on themselves. The flow of blood reversing as their proboscis bulge and undulate. Their little wings fluttering madly as their chitinous feet push feebly.. As the Devil draws the blood right back out of them and into herself, leaving them as withered husks pinned to her pallid flesh.
In reality, the Devil's wicked grin slides further as a long, crimson tongue slithers past her lips, "..Delicioussss..."
A flex of her hand. A rush of motion as she -swipes- with those scything claws. Shrieking through the air and seeking to find purchase in his tortured flesh. The claws, themselves, infused with a terrible chi-poison. A horrific toxin that, should it enter his body, will begin disrupting what weak life-processes his body has. Traveling nerve to nerve, and leaving no pain receptor untouched in its travels, "More! Show me!"
COMBATSYS: Marise successfully hits Saint with Shinigami.
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Marise 0/-------/----===|=====--\-------\0 Saint
Seeming unconcerned with how much or how little the strike has effected the woman, Saint eventually withdraws his cane from the woman's forehead, lifting the tip into the air, the blade held in his other hand echoing the same gesture, as if conducting the orchestra to make a slow, rising crescendo. As the strings in his mind, in his humming, reach the peak of this rise, he pauses a moment... and issues a short 'hmph' that sounds almost disappointed. Disappointed over what, however, he does not make clear. For the battle continues on, and Marise's laughter is all that can easily be heard, drowning out his own disappointed grunt. And indeed, as the claw swipes come, even Saint's humming stops. With a deep grunt of pain, red lines are carved onto his white coat, the clothing slashed away, and indeed the flesh as well. He staggers backwards, bleeding exceedingly well... and no doubt the poison working into his system is felt as a fiery sting, as well.
Another 'hmph' but this one followed by low, but somewhat thready laughter. Yes, the attack hurt, the poison stung. He can feel it. But his reaction is a little less than one would imagine for all the damage it apparently caused him, his coat beginning to be stained red by his flowing blood. He recovers from the blow, and then merely steps forward, his blade flashing out towards Marise in a reprisal for her claw marks, the blade glowing a soft gray as it seeks her flesh...
COMBATSYS: Marise endures Saint's Deep Strike.
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Marise 0/-------/=======|======-\-------\0 Saint
The strike is not quick, but it has form behind it. Though before he bobbed and weaved, twisting in time to his imaginary orchestra, this attack flows with a fencer's grace. He steps in, and his blade flashes in low, striving to strike at her with its oddly glowing ghostly surface. It cuts in, slicing into her, and shocks of random, nonspecific memories flood through it, memories of being stoned, of being hit, of being beaten flowing through the blade and into the ghoul. There's only the single strike, and then Saint steps past and roll-turns, almost pirouetting as he does, past the ninja, blade flourishing like a fencer's, a dancer's, a conductor's.
Oh, how exquisite!
This is a language she can understand, though the source is as yet foreign to her. These.. flashes of insight. Moments of agonized memory.. To many they would be anathema. The average human being is often desperate to suppress memories of forgotten pains and misfortunes. To The Devil? They are -ambrosia-.
Marise covets agony. Every day of her life has been an exercise in suffering. From the day she learned to walk, the precepts of her Clan have been driven into her. Pain is truth. Suffering is power. Through this rage can be harnessed, turned towards her enemies and give her focus. Every iota of agony she feels affirms her existence. That she is, indeed, still alive.
As much as she enjoys this new-found source of truth, she finds that her recently-wrought senses are not perfect. As the man moves with surprising grace after her wicked slash, the Devil's eyes strain and flutter. The greyish aura she can barely see fading away completely to nothingness, short-circuiting her psychic self in brief. More than enough time for the wicked man to step in and wreak havoc with his blade. Finding purchase into her milky flesh and leaving her stumbling ahead. Her golden eyes blindly staring out into the shadows as a rush of images flow into her mind, breaking through the haze as visions return to her. Allowing her to see this power once more.. And feel a hundred stones crash against her body, breaking bones and pummeling flesh. Yes.. She can feel the hatred others have for her..
"..M..More!"
The creature rasps with lust. Wide eyes turning to the Christian in a rush of motion. A flood of tendrils flow over her shoulders as she whips her head forth, thrusting her arms forth as an ocean of black silk flows forth in a bid to crash against the man. Attempting to coil around his lithe body like a dozen garrotes, each strand infused with more of this strange negative life-force. Should they succeed, they'll actually pull him -closer- to her, "Show it to me! You have more.. I know you do! Show me your pain! All of it!" Inhuman eyes wild with delight.. Absolutely addicted to every drop of agony this man has to offer..
COMBATSYS: Marise successfully hits Saint with Onigumo Wanami.
-* CRITICAL HIT! *-
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Marise 1/-------/=======|=======\====---\1 Saint
Swiping the sword through the air, casting off any blood that may've gathered onto the blade from the strike he performed, Saint brings himself to the ready once more, ready to continue this dance that has seemingly been forced upon him. The woman was mad was desire over the painful memories that swept through him and into others; she craved them, desired more. But despite whatever he might have in mind for her to experience next, the ghoulish woman has something in mind for him, instead. Silk ribbons float from the void, reaching towards him in an effort to clamp down over his body. Though he notes the strands, and where they fly, and his body even attempts to move out of the way, he is either two slow or there are too many for him to avoid, for not only does he get caught, but the first thing to be caught is his ankle, sending him to the floor in a heavy drop, a *thud* of his body against the asphault, issuing a grunt from the priest, a loud 'oof' of air escaping.
But there's more. Silk closes about him, normally a comforting embrace, but this time squeezing, wrapping tightly around him as though garrotes seeking his life. They grip, squeeze, and then yank him up off the ground, drawing him back towards the woman, even while that corroding energy floods into him, even more of a debilitating pain than the ribbons, a kind of searing acid that sinks into his very being. This gets even louder snarls of pain, though he doesn't react as much as most, even though it's undoubtedly excruciatingly painful. The reaction is more in his motions than his voice, the spasming and kicking in mid-air as those ribbons draw Saint ever closer to Marise...
And apparently, the lack of an appropriate vocal response, even though he has enough of a physical one, would indicate his mind still stays atop the pain. This pain was but one of many he'd ever felt; pain was nothing new to him. So as he's drawn towards Marise, his hand brings his sword up, intending on stabbing out at the ghoulish woman's middle...
COMBATSYS: Marise interrupts Liber Ivonis from Saint with Onigumo no Dokubari.
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Marise 1/-----==/=======|=======\=------\1 Saint
The blade is meant to spear into the woman. Through it, the memories build inside himself, the images of being stabbed, prodded and even beaten with searing hot iron pokers. He relives them, briefly, and then they surge through his touch, seeking escape, seeking a new victim. They travel along the naked blade, and into the skewered victim. There is no visual element, however, merely the intense feeling of countless searing, burning pokes and prods covering the body, some even being stabbed straight through. They fade eventually, however, leaving the sword to be withdrawn from the ghoulish woman.
"Is it not.. magnificent?"
The monstrous woman whispers in a low rasp, a trail of crimson flowing from the slash across her brow, pouring between her eyes and over her lips. Her slithering tongue stretches forth to collect the cool liquid. The lingering images of agony echo through her mind, a hundred images of exceptional suffering still flickering in the peripheral of her vision. Of being broken and battered, tattered and torn.
Coinciding with images of her youth. Of her cousin dashing her head against a rock at five years of age. Of being brutalized repeatedly by her mother and father alike for configuring advanced jutsu too slow at age six. It reminds her.. Yes, this pain guides her now. It is her strength. Her passion.
It makes her hate. Hate makes her feel alive.
The forest of tendrilous locks reel the ravaged priest closer to her. Herself stepping forwards as her hands beckon to him, "..Taste it.. I give this to you.. My gift to your collection.. The venom of the Demon Spider. The Resplendent Queen Of A Thousand Tears..." To be certain, her words are not ones of mockery or arrogant jest. No, this creature is sincere. The earnestness of her words reflect in her mad, devillian eyes. To her? This man is a walking work of art. A collection of everything humanity should experience. A wandering teacher. She had never known a holy man who truly deserved the word 'sacred' until this moment.
As this pilgrim of Christ reaches forth from her prison of hellish locks, she does nothing to prevent him from -stabbing- his blade deep into her middle. The pain of the wound nothing to her.. But the fresh images this man gives her?
The moan that escapes her lips is nothing short of erotic. Breath hitching as her eyes flutter upwards in near rapture. It reminds her.. Reminds her of the day she proved her worthiness to become part of her clan. The day she and her friends had all entered that pit together.. The day only she was left standing, with bloodied dagger in hand. The pain of a dozen stabs and slashes etched into her young flesh. The day she became a true woman of Koga.
"..Oh miracle... Wonder.." The Devil mewls, even as blood oozes upon her kimono. Before the man can fully recover from his strike, the woman's bangs suddenly bristle. Her head turns to the side in a lazy shake and a quintet of long black needle-like hair darts loose from her in soft whispers. Attempting to spear the man's shoulders and thighs, possibly even going as far as pinning him to the ground if he was not prepared for it.
No.. She has no intention of killing him. Slowing him down a bit so they can talk? That however...
The response to her questions, to her motions, to her feelings is... silence. For the past while now, Saint has not been smiling. The man has not even so much as continued his humming of the Requiem. His head has been tucked downwards, his hat obscuring his eyes more. He is not animated or showing much in the way of interest in the goings-on of this fight. Indeed, the attack he had made was somewhat lackluster, and his response to getting the darts slammed into his shoulders and thighs is even lacking. His body merely rocks, spasming a bit as the darts piece his flesh, dig into his muscles, igniting nerves. He gives out a choked off, deep grunting noise. But these are mere autonomic responses. He does not react as a person should - more as if, he were too tired to display the pain. Or perhaps, indeed, given all the pain this priest had gone through...
He was not interested in showing pain.
Staggering backwards a little, the man seems at his last, as if he'd only the strength for a single attack more. Undoubtedly, with all the pain and punishment he'd taken today, he should be preparing something large, something heavy, something dredfully painful. Steadying himself, he stands up on his own power, but leans heavily on the wooden portion of his cane, still holding his sword out to the side. Panting, his coat stained in blood in a number of locations, the man brings his sword up slowly. The blade, still flecked here and there with blood, has enough of its surface exposed to the light to reflect it, giving it a kind of glow. His stance shifts, and he leans off of the cane, lifting it upwards slowly.
And then he sinks the blade back into the cane, a small *click* noise signaling the lock engaging.
"You enjoy pain. But you do not understand pain. You have suffered pain in your life, and you have triumphed over it. Feeling it now gives you strength, gives you... pleasure." With a small sigh, Saint shakes his head slowly, and then lifts his head up so his eyes can be seen - they're even open, and he looks somewhat... sad? "You have no concept of what pain is, like a child barely into their teens dabbling at romance, and feeling as though grown up for it. More mature. You are still so far from the truth, farther than any I have known." Slowly turning away from Marise, the priest begins to walk away from her, down the same stretch of road he had been walking down before. He leans a bit heavily on his cane, the wood thumping into the asphault roughly, as though stabbing each time to make sure he doesn't fall over. He has no illusions about this fight; in the 'winner versus loser' mind, he lost. But in a way, neither of them were winners, at least in Saint's own mind.
If allowed, he will continue to simply walk away, apparently having no interest in talking to the ghoul woman, whatever she had in mind.
COMBATSYS: Saint takes no action.
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Marise 1/-----==/=======|
COMBATSYS: Saint can no longer fight.
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Marise 1/-----==/=======|
Oh. Someone lost .. But it was not Saint.
Saint's stilted reactions aren't met with too much concern. Surely he must simply be experiencing the wonders of Onigumo with the highest regard. As a wine connoisseur deep in thought as a fresh vintage swirls upon the palette. That and.. The Devil is truly excited. Ecstatic really!
Finally. -Finally- someone in this world who understands the truth. Someone who appreciates the true meaning of life as she does. He may not be the ideal specimen, she was hoping a fellow Japanese would have figured it out, but she's desperate enough to accept anyone who pays homage to the precepts of suffering so ardently.
As the final exchange of the battle is given and the man staggers back, only then does Marise relent in her assault. Her locks flowing through the air around her as ebon sea serpents lazily swimming within invisible seas. Terrible sword wounds literally gush blood from her body, but do nothing to dim her hellish glee. "I-.."
The Devil was about to expound upon his very first statement.. Until his continued voice silences her. The pleased emotion dissolves from her expression. Lips sagging as her golden eyes lose their contented gleam. ... What? What is this?
Her reverie shattered as quickly as it came, leaving her stunned. Her fingers twitching as her wicked mane slowly sinks to the ground about her bare feet. Her hands slowly sinking to her sides as her face remains contorted in surprise. But.. The images. The torture he had endured.. The suffering he had felt. He knows the truth.. He knows it as she knows it! She -felt- it from him.
"...How..." Clawed hands shake. Fingers curling inwards until the ball into fists. Blood streaming from her palms moments after, "..HOW do you not SEE?" She doesn't understand. She can't understand. All she knows is pain. All she feels is hate. Love? .... Love has no meaning for her.
She'd kill him now.. She could try. With the upsurge of bitter betrayal she'd certainly like to, her baleful eyes burning towards his turned back.
But no...
Exhaling silently, her fingers unfurl from her pierced fists. Limply hanging at her sides as resigns her expression to a look of venomous calm.
No.. She'll let him go. Because.. As much as he remains blind to her truths.. The suffering he grants may yet show the true path to another whom sees things as she does. The agony he will grant shall open the path to others. Sooner or later.. He may yet bring a few to wayward children to her. One way or another.
Regardless.. As successful as a test of her abilities against the hollow ones has been... She can't help but feel.. Empty. Alone.
Golden eyes narrow to slits.. Her symmetry simply vanishing from the night moments after with a quiet whisper.
..It makes her yet more hateful..
Log created on 22:15:39 06/25/2008 by Marise, and last modified on 00:21:44 06/27/2008.