02-09-2016, 04:59 PM
The swordsman lumbered through the forest, hardly maintaining Teucer's weapon under his trench-coat; every few meters it would slip from under his armpit, and peak out from the bottom of his coat, forcing him to reconfigure its position like a thief smuggling booze from a bar.
Trunks wished his weapon came with a strap, or holster. Sarcastically, he brushed it aside with the assumption that such powers were outside of the spirit's capabilities (teleportation, no problem; glowing blue, piece of cake; providing accommodations, too difficult).
The terrain exasperated his sluggishness. It was ravaged by quick slopes and pothole sized grooves, which acned the ground under a facade of tangled, mid-length grass. Trunks took his steps carefully, hesitant to press down his heels until he confirmed the surface as firm.
Not much light pierced through the thick canopy of treetops, but the rays persistent enough shot fragments of bleach-yellow against the earth, dancing on-cue to the trembling leaves above. To the swordsman's trained mind, the shade of yellow indicated a rough estimate of the time; bleach-yellow meant it was late-morning, just before midday.
At the snail's pace Trunks currently traveled, getting anywhere substantial would take the entire day, maybe longer. He tried to fly earlier, but to no avail; ever since arriving to the Omniverse, nothing involving Ki has worked properly (was it because of the Omnilium lodged into him, or because of the rubix-cube physics?). The only thing accomplished from focusing his energy was a rush of fatigue, and then vertigo. It reminded him of revving an engine only to feel it sputter out at half RPM.
It was frustrating, and tiring. Soon, the swordsman would have to forage for necessities. It was something he had grown accustomed to as a child, but became a chore happily deleted from his life after the androids were destroyed.
The next few hours were uneventful. Trunks walked; he stayed alert for surprise craters hidden under the grass; he stopped a few times to rest his weapon, and rub the ache under his arm that it left; he kept notice of the light breaking through the canopy, and its changes—still not midday . . . yet. The only remarkable incident had to do with an aggravated turtle.
Around an hour into his journey, his foot landed awkwardly on a mound jutting out of the ground. The swordsman saw it coming, but treated it as a rock, and tried to slide his foot over the top of it while strangling his coat around his weapon to adjust it.
His heel caught the rear of it, and a dry croak ripped through the whispers of squished grass. The sound startled Trunks, nearly sending him wheel-barreling, but he caught balance as his trailing leg went forward. Before he could realize what he had stepped on, a sharp pinch nipped at his calf.
The swordsman yelped, and immediately jolted his leg up as if he jammed his toe. He hopped around wildly, constricting his fresh wound with his left hand. With the right hand, he kept his weapon tucked under the armpit. It felt like a he had been snipped by bladed tongs. He swiveled around while hopping to see what the hell had just attacked him, sending his glare over to the mound.
Except it wasn't a mound, it was a turtle—a pissed snapping turtle, tattooed with Trunks' footprint on its crown. The amniote growled, and stretched its limbs out from its brown shell.
The swordsman hastily showed remorse; it was never his intention to disturb any wildlife. “Sorry, little dude,” he said, putting his foot back down.
The turtle's demeanor didn't falter. With a sound relative to clicking noises, the amniote snapped its beak-like jaw repetitively, and began to progress towards the swordsman.
“Take it easy there, buddy. It was a mistake.”
The turtle ignored the apologies, and continued to approach Trunks, catching an uncanny pace as it accelerated. Its eyes glossed with determination as it drew closer, and the jawing stopped.
“If you don't stop I'm gonna have to defend myself,” the swordsman warned.
His sympathy dissolved from the heat of feeling threatened, and he retracted his uninjured leg back to his buttock. The turtle didn't stop. It took a lunge for Trunks' foot, and opened its mouth wide. The swordsman cranked his leg forward, and with a thud, punted the amniote into a clutter of shrubbery.
Trunks wished his weapon came with a strap, or holster. Sarcastically, he brushed it aside with the assumption that such powers were outside of the spirit's capabilities (teleportation, no problem; glowing blue, piece of cake; providing accommodations, too difficult).
The terrain exasperated his sluggishness. It was ravaged by quick slopes and pothole sized grooves, which acned the ground under a facade of tangled, mid-length grass. Trunks took his steps carefully, hesitant to press down his heels until he confirmed the surface as firm.
Not much light pierced through the thick canopy of treetops, but the rays persistent enough shot fragments of bleach-yellow against the earth, dancing on-cue to the trembling leaves above. To the swordsman's trained mind, the shade of yellow indicated a rough estimate of the time; bleach-yellow meant it was late-morning, just before midday.
At the snail's pace Trunks currently traveled, getting anywhere substantial would take the entire day, maybe longer. He tried to fly earlier, but to no avail; ever since arriving to the Omniverse, nothing involving Ki has worked properly (was it because of the Omnilium lodged into him, or because of the rubix-cube physics?). The only thing accomplished from focusing his energy was a rush of fatigue, and then vertigo. It reminded him of revving an engine only to feel it sputter out at half RPM.
It was frustrating, and tiring. Soon, the swordsman would have to forage for necessities. It was something he had grown accustomed to as a child, but became a chore happily deleted from his life after the androids were destroyed.
The next few hours were uneventful. Trunks walked; he stayed alert for surprise craters hidden under the grass; he stopped a few times to rest his weapon, and rub the ache under his arm that it left; he kept notice of the light breaking through the canopy, and its changes—still not midday . . . yet. The only remarkable incident had to do with an aggravated turtle.
Around an hour into his journey, his foot landed awkwardly on a mound jutting out of the ground. The swordsman saw it coming, but treated it as a rock, and tried to slide his foot over the top of it while strangling his coat around his weapon to adjust it.
His heel caught the rear of it, and a dry croak ripped through the whispers of squished grass. The sound startled Trunks, nearly sending him wheel-barreling, but he caught balance as his trailing leg went forward. Before he could realize what he had stepped on, a sharp pinch nipped at his calf.
The swordsman yelped, and immediately jolted his leg up as if he jammed his toe. He hopped around wildly, constricting his fresh wound with his left hand. With the right hand, he kept his weapon tucked under the armpit. It felt like a he had been snipped by bladed tongs. He swiveled around while hopping to see what the hell had just attacked him, sending his glare over to the mound.
Except it wasn't a mound, it was a turtle—a pissed snapping turtle, tattooed with Trunks' footprint on its crown. The amniote growled, and stretched its limbs out from its brown shell.
The swordsman hastily showed remorse; it was never his intention to disturb any wildlife. “Sorry, little dude,” he said, putting his foot back down.
The turtle's demeanor didn't falter. With a sound relative to clicking noises, the amniote snapped its beak-like jaw repetitively, and began to progress towards the swordsman.
“Take it easy there, buddy. It was a mistake.”
The turtle ignored the apologies, and continued to approach Trunks, catching an uncanny pace as it accelerated. Its eyes glossed with determination as it drew closer, and the jawing stopped.
“If you don't stop I'm gonna have to defend myself,” the swordsman warned.
His sympathy dissolved from the heat of feeling threatened, and he retracted his uninjured leg back to his buttock. The turtle didn't stop. It took a lunge for Trunks' foot, and opened its mouth wide. The swordsman cranked his leg forward, and with a thud, punted the amniote into a clutter of shrubbery.