π Toua Koumyou SanzΕ Hoshi-sama the 30th γε
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voidtreckerexpress2021-01-06 01:21 pm
its_dad_sanzo) wrote in voidtreckerexpress2021-01-06 01:21 pm
there's more than meets the eye, there's more than meets the price [OPEN]
Who: Koumyou Sanzo, OPEN
Where: Carriage J: Music Carriage - upstairs, in silence
When: Forward-dated to Jelly 4!
What: Sneaky solo martial arts practice a couple days before the next mission. Folks are welcome to catch him doing his thing, despite his effort to be secretive. If you ask for lessons (in anything, ever), he will almost certainly say no... but folks are totally welcome to try to convince him. (Also if anyone wants to just ATTACK, he'll adapt accordingly.)
Warnings: Otoha thread has some sensitive topics (warned in the comment titles). Devero thread same and same, but also some kinda graphic self harm injury shit from Koumyou etc.
if you can't see the sky there's too much artificial light
Muscle memory requires rote practice. Patterns mastered, then broken, to keep one's actions independent in a real fight. Even at his level, Koumyou needs to sharpen the blade once in a while, lest he lose his edge when he needs it most.
Koumyou Sanzo has picked a time when most of the train seems otherwise occupied. Maybe it's the middle of the 'night' and they're sleeping, or perhaps this is a typical meal time in the dining car. One way or another, he's gone out of his way to have as few witnesses as he can, tucked upstairs in the silent music car.
He stands still in the middle of the stage, and checks one last time that the room is truly empty, at least here at the start. Satisfied, Koumyou drops his center of gravity, bare feet sliding into position. One hand tucks against his shoulder, the other out before him, fists loose.
Breathing carefully, in through the nose, and out through the mouth... slowly, he lets his eyes slip shut.
And then he begins to move.
A block, a duck, a shift to one side. Another block; flowing, diverting an imagined attack away with the edge of an open hand. A step back, one kick at the level of a stomach. Spinning to the right, his braid and the long ends of his clothing flutter behind him. Fluid, each graceful movement morphing into the next without hesitation or pause.
There is nothing rigid here. Not until it's needed. A fist tightens at the instant of impact, not a moment before. The snap of force in the air, even without a real target, is audible in the quiet room.
If one watches him for more than a second, one can almost see the invisible opponents rushing him. They come from all directions; some are even armed. With a knife he side-steps, with a sword that he ducks beneath to rise again with the arc of an uppercut palm-strike. To a chin? A nose? ...A throat?
He flips as though it's easy, as though up and over someone who had been rushing to tackle him from behind. Landing, the heels of both palms snap out in a strike to their back, his whole body behind the movement. And then he's gone, rolling backwards, momentum changing directions as fast as a stray gust of wind. Up with another kick; that foot comes down, and he spirals out and up into a spin-kick aimed even higher than his own head.
Sometimes, he gets quite close to the drop off the stage. But he never actually touches the edges, and he certainly never falls.
Koumyou's braid whips behind him as he moves. His long sleeves flutter behind each sweeping attack or diversion of his arms. The hem of his robe skims against his bare ankles with every wide movement of his legs. Light though it is, the bamboo breastplate on his chest barely shifts on his thin frame. The sutra certainly doesn't go anywhere, though the ends and the back both flutter as if it were real paper.
It would be easy to turn this into a dance, and it would be equally easy to turn this into death. There is not a single second in which he isn't moving, flowing, striking, diverting.
If left alone, this will go on for a while longer.
His eyes do not yet open; his movements do not yet slow.
He will not lose his edge.
Where: Carriage J: Music Carriage - upstairs, in silence
When: Forward-dated to Jelly 4!
What: Sneaky solo martial arts practice a couple days before the next mission. Folks are welcome to catch him doing his thing, despite his effort to be secretive. If you ask for lessons (in anything, ever), he will almost certainly say no... but folks are totally welcome to try to convince him. (Also if anyone wants to just ATTACK, he'll adapt accordingly.)
Warnings: Otoha thread has some sensitive topics (warned in the comment titles). Devero thread same and same, but also some kinda graphic self harm injury shit from Koumyou etc.
if you can't see the sky there's too much artificial light
Muscle memory requires rote practice. Patterns mastered, then broken, to keep one's actions independent in a real fight. Even at his level, Koumyou needs to sharpen the blade once in a while, lest he lose his edge when he needs it most.
Koumyou Sanzo has picked a time when most of the train seems otherwise occupied. Maybe it's the middle of the 'night' and they're sleeping, or perhaps this is a typical meal time in the dining car. One way or another, he's gone out of his way to have as few witnesses as he can, tucked upstairs in the silent music car.
He stands still in the middle of the stage, and checks one last time that the room is truly empty, at least here at the start. Satisfied, Koumyou drops his center of gravity, bare feet sliding into position. One hand tucks against his shoulder, the other out before him, fists loose.
Breathing carefully, in through the nose, and out through the mouth... slowly, he lets his eyes slip shut.
And then he begins to move.
A block, a duck, a shift to one side. Another block; flowing, diverting an imagined attack away with the edge of an open hand. A step back, one kick at the level of a stomach. Spinning to the right, his braid and the long ends of his clothing flutter behind him. Fluid, each graceful movement morphing into the next without hesitation or pause.
There is nothing rigid here. Not until it's needed. A fist tightens at the instant of impact, not a moment before. The snap of force in the air, even without a real target, is audible in the quiet room.
If one watches him for more than a second, one can almost see the invisible opponents rushing him. They come from all directions; some are even armed. With a knife he side-steps, with a sword that he ducks beneath to rise again with the arc of an uppercut palm-strike. To a chin? A nose? ...A throat?
He flips as though it's easy, as though up and over someone who had been rushing to tackle him from behind. Landing, the heels of both palms snap out in a strike to their back, his whole body behind the movement. And then he's gone, rolling backwards, momentum changing directions as fast as a stray gust of wind. Up with another kick; that foot comes down, and he spirals out and up into a spin-kick aimed even higher than his own head.
Sometimes, he gets quite close to the drop off the stage. But he never actually touches the edges, and he certainly never falls.
Koumyou's braid whips behind him as he moves. His long sleeves flutter behind each sweeping attack or diversion of his arms. The hem of his robe skims against his bare ankles with every wide movement of his legs. Light though it is, the bamboo breastplate on his chest barely shifts on his thin frame. The sutra certainly doesn't go anywhere, though the ends and the back both flutter as if it were real paper.
It would be easy to turn this into a dance, and it would be equally easy to turn this into death. There is not a single second in which he isn't moving, flowing, striking, diverting.
If left alone, this will go on for a while longer.
His eyes do not yet open; his movements do not yet slow.
He will not lose his edge.
In the afternoon~ Well, closer to evening.
But having a meal was the furthest thing from his mind now.
True, he was getting lessons from Piccolo, so the urge to rush forth and ask more questions was soundly repressed. But what he did let himself do was find a place to quietly watch.
This was an expert in action, after all, and who knew if he'd have the chance to see it during another mission?
no subject
Left to it, he just keeps moving. A low sweep of a leg, a block and punch, another flip through the air, landing with a heavy thud of bare feet on the stage.
He doesn't stop until he's certain all his movements are still just as smooth as they've ever been. The machinery is still as well-oiled as ever.
Only then, does he drop down to sit on the stage and wipe his long bangs away from where they stick to his face, opening his eyes.
no subject
Physically, it's just as well he opts for quiet. Koumyou's finisher, however, breaks it, and all at once the boy stands up in a hurry, abashed.
"Ah, should I get you a towel - sir? Sanzo," he self-corrects.
no subject
"If you want to, sure," the priest, for his part, just flops onto his back on the stage, resting. He must be getting old, for... a half hour? or so? of continuous practice to make him feel tired!
At least he's not out of breath, that would be embarrassing.
(And perfectly reasonable, for a normal person. But what Sanzo is normal?)
no subject
Instead, he runs off to the nearest bathroom for towels, paper or otherwise.
Once he's back, though, he's wide-eyed again, trying to see if the priest has moved at all during his short time away.
no subject
Once Alfredo's back, he'll find that the priest hasn't moved except to push his own bangs out of his face. Koumyou sits up only once the kid returns, and reaches up one partially-covered hand for whatever's offered, and starts patting his face dry with it. "Thanks."
This would be awkward if Koumyou was the sort of guy to feel that around a stranger. Thankfully, he's not. But he'll at least offer a polite, "I can move if you were wanting to use the stage."
no subject
Alfredo steps back respectfully, after giving away the towel, then shakes his head.
"Ah, no. I was on my way to dinner, but... got distracted."
Unless-
"You are still serious about not giving lessons, right?"
no subject
no subject
"Yes. They're going well."
Slowly, as to be expected for a human, but well; he takes his practice seriously.
"I won't be ready to really use those skills in time for our next mission, though; I know I have much further to go for that."
no subject
"I'm glad you found a willing teacher, since you want to learn."
no subject
If disappointing.
"And... thank you. For making me interested in chi in the first place."
no subject