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Old October 11, 2014, 12:45 AM   #9
Shiro Shimizu
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Join Date: Mar 2009
Posts: 533
Wealth Tier: Sterling
Shiro Shimizu is a benevolent AdventurerShiro Shimizu is a benevolent Adventurer
That...was probably not the brightest moment of Shiro Shimizu's life.

He realized that all far, far too late as his initial pressing of the button—left or right again?—on the mechanical wings began to grow more and more panicked and frantic as he saw the land come rushing up fast upon his senses. It...wasn't...working...His palm hit hard on the band across his chest, caring little about the bruises he was surely creating underneath its constant pounding as he tried to force the contraption open by sheer angry will.

"OPEN!" he screamed, a word loud and yet thoroughly lost in the sound of the air moving so furiously around them, and then he felt that satisfying and comforting thud. His body pulled back, beginning to slow underneath the flux of the breeze, and the boy's fear began to slowly settle appropriately. At least it worked. Whether or not that was a credit to that ugly beard-man remained to be seen.

That sense of peace was dangerously short-lived however as he began to realize that while slowed, it wasn't really slow at all. He recoiled, trying to move his shoulder in the way of the inevitable impact with the ground, but it was all too late. He felt it, or more accurately him, collide with the hard and unforgiving ground below in one terrible blow. The world shattered into a thousand pieces and he felt each of the cuts grate and scratch against his skin as it did. What did he hit? It didn't feel like ground or rock or tree or any of the things that the Kemite boy had been expected, but...

...he didn't have much time to think about that either as he skidded hard against a smooth—smooth?—floor, still dragging along the little shades of glass like a shower as he did. Experience then took over as he tucked his appendages into himself and barreled into a roll, trying to gain control of his momentum and direction enough to slow it down and move it somewhere away from obstacles and that painfully sharp scattered glass. He skidded and then took one more long, deliberate thought before he dug his heels in and thrust himself upward, trying to burst into a standing position against the push and force.

Instantly upon regaining his feet his hand was over his shoulder and the sword was out of scabbard and now extended in hand, sharpened, cutting edge away and at whatever threat or enemy or something that had the misfortune to be the first thing that moved and thus garnered his attention. That scowl, deep and terrible as it was, formed again on the boy's face as his abrasive wounds slowly began to heal courtesy of the supernatural "gift" granted by that trip in the ziggurat, and then took off in the nearest direction that had any semblance of appearance of leading onward into the structure, and ran.
Unless I grip the sword, I cannot protect you.
While gripping the sword, I cannot embrace you.


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