11-09-2014, 02:37 AM
But all kidding aside, Yoshimitsu was not very pleased with this change of scenery. Never before had the ritual of Yoshimitsu been interrupted and with the cursed blade in the midst of its theatrics, he wasn't so sure how it would react. Further, he didn't know what the ramifications were for denying the spiritual ascension of the next Manji Ryu leader. Oh boy, what were the consequences for committing seppuku with Yoshimitsu? The souls of all the leaders rested within this blade and here he sat, eyes casting downward once more to see the blade still in his midsection, middle of adding his own to it.
Consider his shit spooked.
Classically Yoshimitsu, the collective Yoshimitsu, was meant to inspire superstition and fear of retribution. What was more terrifying than a lone warrior coming for you over and over and over again, never waning in strength, never losing momentum, never giving up? Not much. Further, it's a face you never truly see. Always a mask. And if you break that mask? Hell, if you're lucky enough to land a hit on the son of a bitch you'd think you'd deserve to see his true face, right? Eff that ess, there's another mask underneath. He represented divine intervening judgment. He was karma incarnate. He was the laughing face of crippling irony, the howling hyena of “you fucked up, bro.”. If you were stupid enough to mess with an intimidating armored wild man with a cursed blade, you're gonna have a bad time. Not only did he have skills beyond most human limits, he was a master of mystical arts, which is where superstition came in. Which is where we return to...
...Seriously, his shit was spooked.
With a cautious, tentative hand, he grasped the hilt of the katana, feeling the familiar tingle of a blade against internal organs. In one sick sounding movement, he slid the ancient weapon through his body and out of the slim wound it left behind. He watched with a curious eye from behind his face as blood ran along the hi, letting gravity pull it to the kissaki as it dripped to the impossibly white ground. A thick purple miasma dropped like dense fog from the katana. Yoshimitsu, the eternal blade, raged and did not hide its fury. He didn't know what he could do to calm the blade this time around. Normally it was the blood of the wicked that satisfied its dark needs. But he could hear it. Feel it. The cycle was broken and it was not pleased by that fact. He kept it from from its saya, allowing it to spill its venomous poison in smoky wisps. Let it shout, kick and scream for now.
Consider his shit spooked.
Classically Yoshimitsu, the collective Yoshimitsu, was meant to inspire superstition and fear of retribution. What was more terrifying than a lone warrior coming for you over and over and over again, never waning in strength, never losing momentum, never giving up? Not much. Further, it's a face you never truly see. Always a mask. And if you break that mask? Hell, if you're lucky enough to land a hit on the son of a bitch you'd think you'd deserve to see his true face, right? Eff that ess, there's another mask underneath. He represented divine intervening judgment. He was karma incarnate. He was the laughing face of crippling irony, the howling hyena of “you fucked up, bro.”. If you were stupid enough to mess with an intimidating armored wild man with a cursed blade, you're gonna have a bad time. Not only did he have skills beyond most human limits, he was a master of mystical arts, which is where superstition came in. Which is where we return to...
...Seriously, his shit was spooked.
With a cautious, tentative hand, he grasped the hilt of the katana, feeling the familiar tingle of a blade against internal organs. In one sick sounding movement, he slid the ancient weapon through his body and out of the slim wound it left behind. He watched with a curious eye from behind his face as blood ran along the hi, letting gravity pull it to the kissaki as it dripped to the impossibly white ground. A thick purple miasma dropped like dense fog from the katana. Yoshimitsu, the eternal blade, raged and did not hide its fury. He didn't know what he could do to calm the blade this time around. Normally it was the blood of the wicked that satisfied its dark needs. But he could hear it. Feel it. The cycle was broken and it was not pleased by that fact. He kept it from from its saya, allowing it to spill its venomous poison in smoky wisps. Let it shout, kick and scream for now.