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.
no subject
It's just as he's said, of course. Devero uses the hem of his shirt to try and wipe away the blood on Koumyou's hand. He's not very successful, but it doesn't take much to reveal the healed and whole fingers.
"You used the sutra to heal yourself," he says, his voice faint. Make that overwhelming relief. Every part of him seems to slump, his hands even releasing Koumyou's and falling back into his lap.
no subject
What is wrong with you echoes in his head, said twice within moments. What indeed. Devero's seen just a flash, just the tiniest hint, of the darkness hiding inside the priest's soul.
"...I said I'd do anything," he says quietly, tiredly. "If dragging you into the light means you end up hating me, I'll accept that cost. It's probably better that way, anyway."
Then Devero will be free to find someone to be in the light with. Someone who isn't Koumyou Sanzo.
Someone whole.
no subject
He doesn't know how to respond, actually curling up and covering his head with his hands as Koumyou continues to talk about him like-- like he's-- like--
But his head comes up at those last few words, and suddenly he's-- angry?
"Oh, fuck you!" he snaps, and before he can think about what he's doing he lashes out, kicking Koumyou in the hip. It is a rare display of temper-- Devero tries not to ever let himself touch someone in anger or frustration. Not with how big, how strong he is.
But he does so now, and the only thing that restrains the force is the awkward angle.
"You don't get to do something like that to me for--" His voice breaks and twists. "--'for my own good' and then sit there and feel sorry for yourself if it changes things between us!"
no subject
And it's totally honest. Feeling sorry for himself would require something the priest honestly just, lacks. Something that broke a very, very long time ago.
no subject
no subject
He'd miss Devero, absolutely he would. So, so much. But that isn't the same as feeling sorry for himself. It's a flame he's willing to hold his hand over, even though it will hurt.
The priest has no sympathy for himself, in general. The only person's attention he's ever been truly worth is Ukoku's anyway. He's not like Devero, who cares so deeply for everyone around him, who tries so hard to bring everyone else light while himself being held down in a dark pit.
Devero deserves better, and Koumyou just isn't it. The moon helps no one.
no subject
It doesn't help. Instead he finds himself raking through what just happened between them, trying to find the moment where things changed, the moment that all the charged emotion had crystallized into this-- this violence--
So he can make sure it never happens again? He realizes what he's doing, realizes the significance of the emotional reflex, and he just starts to laugh.
"Do you know who else likes to terrorize me for my own good?" he asks after a moment, his voice dripping with vitriol. Directed at who? Good question. "My Madame does."
He turns to look over his shoulder at Koumyou, so blank and distant where he lays on the floor. "At least I understand what she gets out of it."
no subject
He feels ill.
cw depersonalization, abuse trauma
His vision swims as his eyes well up with tears. "You almost had me, you know," he says, his voice still dripping with poison. "That was well played. I had actually started to believe that maybe I-- that maybe you really--"
He can't finish the thought. He slams the palm of his hand across his eyes, actually knocking his Interface all the way off, and he doesn't even stoop to catch it. It clatters to the floor and spins away.
"Well, no need to go through this buildup again," he spits down at Koumyou. He turns on his heel and pounds for the edge of the stage. His voice chokes up as he continues but he forces the words out anyway. "Next time you want to play, sir, just say the word and I'll come crawling. Next time we can jump right to the good stuff!" He jumps down, then turns once more to look at the priest. He throws his arms open wide and it's his turn to yell so loud it echoes. "This is what you wanted all along, isn't it? A toy? How lucky for you that all my Madame's hard work fell right into your hands. Shall I give her your compliments the next time I see her!?"
It's not actually a question and he doesn't wait for an answer. Big blustering Devero crumples in on himself, and it's the hunched and beaten hound that turns and runs for the end of the car.
no subject
If he's anything like Valdana, Devero needs to-- deserves to be free of him.
Koumyou's the only monster, here.