tampered | LOG // ONGOING

LOG // ONGOING

When; Today
Rating; R, for violence.
Characters; Akechi Mitsuhide (

baptisminblood), Sasaki Kojiro (

swallow_cut), and anybody observing from a safe distance. :3
Summary; After waiting in anticipation for the right time, Kojiro and Mitsuhide take to the streets to satisfy their bloodlust and create a massacre.
Log;

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Swish, swish…

The City was filled with chaos, and Mitsuhide was restless.

He had avoided killing humans, even after reforging his friendship with Kojiro secretly. The secondary personality found the idea disgusting and abhorrent, but had settled happily for hunting on the underground and reaping the blood of the monsters there instead. There was entertainment to be found in such beasts, of course, in their deaths and the efficient strikes with which Mitsuhide killed them, but the first personality could not be satisfied with such meager challenges. The second one had held it back for a while, but…

Swish, swish…

It was finding it hard to do so now. The spreading chaos and panic had brought with it the scent of blood, and getting a lungful of that salty, copper taste was exciting the bloodlust of the first to the point where it was becoming more dominant and in control again. Death! It wanted to kill proper humans, or at least humanoids, to fight properly and look into their eyes as they died on the blades of his sharp scythes, then watch the blood trickle from those same blades as he pulled them free from flesh. 'They'd' taken Waverly too... and that had ignited his anger and only fuelled his bloodlust further.

Swish, swish…slam!

The blunt end of his right scythe was slammed into the ground, and Mitsuhide chuckled.

It was an unsettling sound, the sign of an internal battle gone horribly wrong.

“Mmm… he whispered, voice managing to be both passionate and icy, both shy and alert, “I can’t take this anymore, heehee! I need to get out. This simply won’t do anymore! I need to kill them... for what they did... and because... I want to... oh, Kojiro, please hurry!”

The one visible blue eye gleamed softly, the other hidden behind a veil of silvery hair. Mitsuhide was a beautiful figure, and looked almost fragile to the naked eye. Many people had thought so in the past, but those were usually the ones who died the quickest. If you looked closer, you could see it, and if you were really attuned to the world around, you feel it. Something…. Not quite right.

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Finally.

Finally.

The anticipation that had preceded this day had almost been too much. It was time - he would not have been able to hold back for longer. It was not the anticipation alone. In his hand, in his presence, with every step he had made, his beautiful, dearly beloved blade had asked the same:

How much longer?

Now it was time. He had been called, her thirst would be sated, that he had promised. She was a fickle companion, and hard to please, always demanding more, stronger, and more. But their bond was as tight as ever; a symbiosis that gave them both life and meaning. He could feel her presence in every step he took, faster and faster, felt her delightful laughing in every breeze of air that met him outside, his spirit focused, his heart pounding-

No, it was not his heart. He was dead, his heart did not beat any more. But there was something different, something he could feel within him and around him, like a phantom, the pulse of another being that was both part of him, and another being entirely. He could not hold back from drawing in a breath. He did not need the air any more either, and he liked the breathless emptiness of death inside him, but now that the air around him was heavy with the promise of bloodshed, he had to feel it, absorb it, become one with its call. He was excited like he had not been in a long time. Every nerve in his body was strained, stimulated to the degree of bursting. It was as if he could see everything a thousand times clearer. He felt every inch of his being. Every muscle was aware, prepared, ready. The pupils in his spookishly pale eyes were constricted and focused, noting every detail of the way he followed, in instinct rather than conscious awareness. His right hand clenched around the hilt of his drawn sword, fingers adjusted to it, tense and flexible, as if it was part of his body. He was running, leaned forward against the pressure of the air, sword-sheath tied tightly to his hip. His feet barely resounded against the ground, but the whistling of the wind against his ears was like the voices of his blade, communicating with him and guiding him, whispering promises of carnage. He heard her, felt her come alive in his hand, and echoed her anticipation with his own, while an unmoving, predatory smile of red-coloured lips made his dead, white-powdered face made it look like a kabuki-mask.

His steps stopped abruptly, with impeccable reflexes, when Mitsuhide came into his field of vision. It was a beautiful display. He stepped forward, and for the first time since he had left for their meeting, his lips moved, slowly, whispering, "Now."

They were not alone any more. He only threw one glance at his comrade's eyes, cold and clear, hungry. Then with a swish, his blade slid through the air, and severed a head horizontally. Human or not, it did not matter. The warmth against his back was alluring. He only turned around slowly, stepping over the slumped body, and smiled calmly and in satisfaction when warm drops from his raised blade hit the skin of his hand. It was not only blood.

"Enough for both of us."

Mitsuhide did not look at Kojiro directly at first; face somewhat calm and unsmiling, he glanced to take a look at the first victim of the massacre they were going to create. A clean strike and a bloody one. The sword of his companion dripped with the fresh, crimson liquid of life now, and Kojiro was smiling. Ah, but he had been waiting so long, just like Mitsuhide has. The scent of blood and war in the air had been intoxicating, and now... now it was time.

“More than enough for both of us,” he whispered, lowering his head briefly. “For every one of those beings that we slaughter, another returns to take their place. It’s never ending…”

When he looked up again he was smiling, and it was an unsettling look.

“Or perhaps not. We’ll discover soon enough…”

He moved his hands along the poles of his scythes until they were holding them right at the blunt edge and raised them up… and then he moved.

Who or what was it he killed? It could barely be relevant to anybody who had the ability to watch without feeling ill. Mitsuhide rushed past his companion and descended upon his hapless victims, smiling all the while. Scythes moves swiftly through the air, cutting and slicing in every direction but not staying still for a single moment as they found and thirsted on blood. Pale green light, the life force of the enemies, poured from the body of each being cut down and flowed into the silver-haired man’s body, fuelling his rampage and keeping him fully healed, no matter what minor hits landed on his slender frame. Blood flew everywhere, staining the air, the grass, any structures nearby… simply everything within range.

By the time all were felled, the ground was a mass of headless bodies. The chests of some were cut smoothly through, their hearts no longer beating and seeping blood through the wounds. Mitsuhide stood at the centre of this, and raised the pole of his right scythe to his lips. He briefly trailed his tongue down its length, before bringing it down again.

“We should… move to the busiest locations, hmm?”

The real battle had begun and a shiver of adrenaline and elation rushed through Kojiro's body. No matter how many battlefields he had fought on, it was always the same feeling. And now, outside of a world of constant wars, all the built up and unreleased excitement broke out at once. The splatters of blood and brain-mass from his first victim's head that covered his back had no time to dry. He had not come here to watch, and even though he felt no jealousy towards Mitsuhide, he was eager to take his share of the killing. He charged forward, giving his attackers - were they even attackers or just bystanders? - no second chance to prepare themselves. Speed had always been his major strength, an ability in which, it had been said, he was second to none during his lifetime, and even without the ability to regenerate through his foes' life force, he made up for any vulnerability by evading, and, mostly, counter attacks carried out with the speed and power of a raging beast. This was what he had been born for, the one thing he had learnt and done all his life - he never fought with anything less than all he had, and with the single outlook of death. A weapon was not wielded to preserve life, not even his own, but to cause death, and nothing else.

The first group he clashed with was the luckiest - they died in a flash of blades and a shower of blood when his sword indiscriminately slashed and hacked at anything that came into his reach. Severed limbs flew to all sides like a spray of mud and rocks - fingers, heads, hands still holding weapons, entire arms. Ganryu, "rock flow", was what he was called by other sword-fighters, and here, on this stage, he was willing to demonstrate why he carried that name. Attack followed on attack, merciless in speed and wildness, seemingly blind to the number of victims that dropped down lifelessly. The ground was growing slippery underneath him, and the mutilated dead bodies and body parts made it difficult for his involuntary opponents to move without stumbling; he, on the other hand, rushed through their rows with a security as if he was moving on even ground. The whirring of his sword slashing through the air took no break. One slash of the edge of his blade cut straight through an opponent's nose and eyes as if they were paper, leaving him blind and screaming with a face full of blood - at least for a second, before the blade returned, felling two others on the way, and split his torso from the shoulder to the stomach. Another man's jaw-less head hit one of his comrades in the chest when the victim had decided to scream instead of raising a defence, and the sword had cut cleanly through the cheeks and skull, severing the top from the rest of the body. The victims who were unlucky enough to stand too far away to be immediately killed were decimated in a worse manner; where the blade could not reach far enough to sever them completely, they lost whichever parts came close enough, fell to the ground crippled or cut open, to die of blood-loss. Kojiro had no time to give them the coup de grâce, even the ones who had received blows to their legs that left them alive and defenceless on the ground to be trampled in the panic, or the ones who were frantically clutching their stomachs in agony when their entrails were already beginning to burst out through their sliced abdomen.

Despite the competition that had been arranged, Kojiro had lost count of the deaths long ago, and he doubted that Mitsuhide himself was still counting. It wasn't the point, and neither was Waverly, for whom Mitsuhide had fallen into such a rage. The point was exactly this, it was what they both wanted. This was their purpose, this was what they did best and the only meaning their lives had. They were slayers of men. They had their weapons and their skill, and nothing else. And they needed nothing else. It had been long since his blade had been allowed to feed so freely, and now that the City had given them an excuse, Kojiro would not pull back from it before both he and his beloved sword were satiated.

He talked. He talked a lot, to his enemies, and to himself, as always when he was fighting. Less to his allies, unless they showed skill that was worth a comment or two from him. But whether it was complaining over boredom, in an almost bratty tone, or complimenting his adversary on their appearance or pleasant smell, he always had something to say during battle. When Musashi was there, he was known to talk especially much. For now, he was content ensuring that his blade was enjoying this long-desired meal, that it was so nice to to meet the man he grabbed by the throat, lifted, and cut in four before any of his comrades had even time to catch a breath, and counting his movement - "Hack, hack, slash... hack, hack, slash." It sounded like a rhyme for children when he repeated it, adjusted to his movements, almost chanting. His fighting was instinctive. A prodigy as he had been called, he had never been properly trained, and the techniques he used were something he had taught himself, or seen and copied - from former opponents, or from nature. Hence, when he fought, he fought as the situation required, without a strict style, without a real defence because he had never needed one, but with the natural force of a rockfall. The blood drenching his hair ran freely down his face, forcing him to keep up the speed he was moving at to prevent it from running into his eyes and blinding him - even for a second, it would be fatal in a real fight. His coat clung heavily to his shoulders by now, soaked with so much blood that it dripped down from the edges in a constant stream, and even the blade of his sword, for all its quick and brutal slashes through the air that let blood spray from the metal, was now stained with dried red and the traces of flesh. Kojiro was more often walking on corpses than on the street itself by now, most of them warm, some of them even still giving the slightest signs of protest and pain when he stepped on them or changed his position. The area immediately around him had been cleared almost completely within mere minutes, but there were always more that followed. Some, who had decided that they had seen a clear enough display of their fate to come, had turned around and run, but there was always at least one other to charge in for every corpse, and for every one who ran away. One of the fleeing slipped in a puddle of blood and landed straight in the sprawled out intestines of one of his fallen comrades. He did not seem to care much, fought his way back on his feet, and tore the corpse's bowels out a little more when he tore to free his foot that had tangled in them. The image of such a frantic and ruthless wish to live could have amused Kojiro, if he had not been distracted by the fight again. This beautiful dance was anything but over, and the best was yet to come. He chuckled softly, surrounded by all the screaming and enraged cries, when he remembered Mitsuhide's suggestion. Maybe it was time. Cutting through another row of opponents, none of them worthy to be recognised for his skill, Kojiro took a second to throw a glance in Mitsuhide's direction and realise they had ended up in conveniently close distance to each other. A smile sharp as a blade crossed Kojiro's features and the lids over his dead, expressionless eyes rose minimally, giving his face an expression of childish joy for a second. His hand slid through the air, and mimicking its movement, a spiked blade as large as a man and mantled in shadow appeared out of thin air, slashed through the two, three rows closest before him, and blew their broken forms dozens of metres through the air where they dropped down as lumps of dead flesh, bones shattered and bodies cut messily through.

"Mitsuhide?" he asked softly, despite the hoarse shouts that had accompanied his attacks and charges before. He did not say more. There were still enemies around who wished to feel his blade, and Mitsuhide, who had a mindset very similar to his, would understand what he wanted.

((OOC: SORRY I FELT LIKE IT. ;_; Musou tiems when you've done Mitsuhide's killing spree account? :D))

Reaper… that was what they had called him, back in his home. Reaper of souls, he did give the appearance of some kind of supernatural entity when he was fighting, the constant stream of pale green light flowing around giving him a strange, ethereal glow. But he wasn’t just a reaper of souls. He reaped bodies and blood like a farmer reaps his corn, cutting the bodies like they would cut the stalks.

It was a bloodbath. Mitsuhide had made many in his lifetime during some very violent battles, but even compared to them this was something… special. They came at him, and his scythes swung and cut through the air, finding their way into flesh and arteries and severing through bone. Though he started off making clean kills, precisely slicing through the places that guaranteed an instant kill, it did not take long before he started to become less attentive to how he took a being down. Cutting them at the knees and severing their heads only when they’d hit the floor, face wrought with agony as the blood gushed fast from their exposed major veins… taking off their arms first before actually managing to cut their still-beating hearts out of their chest… some were unlucky enough to get the blades jammed through their lungs and died of suffocation, unable to breathe. It was intoxicating, beautiful, and Mitsuhide was forgetting the anger that had prompted him to demand the kills on this exact day. Nothing else mattered right now. Nothing but the blood and flesh that coated the floor, the screams of the hapless victims as they tried to run, and his own song, his own deadly song that rang through the air. He rarely sang in battle unless he was so far ground in his own rapture that his voice expressed its joy without his mind even prompting it to. The haunting beauty of it made a strange contrast to the destruction all around him, along with the fragility of the smile adorning his face.

People in his own world feared him so immensely that often word that he was coming their way was enough to send a unit into panic. To be killed by a beautiful man that smiled softly and without malice at you while his blades were busy ripping you to shreds? Who would ask you, genuinely, if you were ‘okay’ while you lay bleeding on the floor thanks to his attack? It was not a nice death, it was a death that made one’s soul run cold even as they passed on. The humans that he slew now knew this feeling, and even the alien beings, part of one whole hive mind, must have felt the fear somewhere in their bodies.

The victims just kept coming in their foolishness, and it seemed sometimes like the air itself was beginning to acquire a slight red luster to it. Mitsuhide stepped through the ever-growing layer of bodies at his feet was grace and ease, pursuing and slaying any and all that came near. His usually soft, silvery hair was becoming heavily stained with crimson blood, his armour pieces and cloth wrapping turning red as well. It actually dripped from the spikes of his shoulder pads and from his fingers, and the blades of his scythes were so covered it was hard to distinguish where the blade ended and the bleeding began when he cut through another. Still he continued his dance, lost in his bloodlust, seeing and loving and enjoying only the death he was making.

His song was becoming more than just sounds now. There were words, though it was hard to hear them all. Mentions of words like ‘blood’ and ‘death’ and ‘destruction’ were there, but also ‘soul’ and ‘nirvana’ and, oddly enough, ‘heaven.’ Perhaps they weren’t even strung together properly, what with the fact his conscious mind was barely aware of the song, but they had real meaning that somehow stuck anyone listening straight in the pits of their stomachs. The song was, somehow, death itself in words.

He had made his first kill when he was 10. In fact, he had made a kill for each year of his life, finding his first taste of blood in vengeance for his dead mother, and those victims had been sleeping. Now there was no vengeance behind his attacks, nothing to justify why he did what he did. Even his earlier anger had gone. He simply was, now.

Stopping for a brief second to lick his lips, the coppery taste of blood swirling around on his tongue as he did so, he observed the scene and smiled. More came… they just kept coming and coming into the jaws of death! Did they want to die? Perhaps Kojiro was right… did some part of them just want to experience release with death? That could be the only explanation for why they kept coming. A group of them were surrounding him now. Stopping his song for a moment, he threw back his head and laughed. He laughed and laughed, the insanity of that laughter spreading through the air. There was a flash of green flame, then as one of the group lunged forward, he found himself only splitting through a skull-like apparition.

He paused, and paid for it when a scythe came his way, took his sword arm off and then swung around to cut off his head.

“Time to die! Ahhhhh… this is so much fun!” he chuckled, swinging his treasured weapons around to decapitate the rest of the group and thoroughly enjoying every last moment of it, every last drop of blood that splashed against his skin.

Only the soft voice of Kojiro brought him temporarily out of his fever. The man had only said his name… but Mitsuhide knew what he wanted. He wanted it as well. The amount of energy he’d drained, and the amount of those he’d killed, had fuelled him to the point where he ached to use his Musou. Death magic imbued into a flurry of blades, of darkness and green hellfire, created a special kind of destruction all on its own, but a twin Musou with Kojiro? That would be… he didn’t even know, only that his body quivered at the thought of it. Their powers mixed together…

He nodded.

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LOG // ONGOING

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