Alone by the Riverside

[kami]

Lily sat along the river’s side, watching the ripples in the water. It was about noon when a slight breeze could be felt. The breeze could be heard through the nearby tree tops though. Lily looked towards where the breeze was coming from, feeling the air wash over her face. ‘It has been so long…I feel as though I’m alone without Kami…I wish I could see him again…’ she thought as she closed her eyes. She took a drink from the crisp, clear water and then took another handful in her hand and looked at her own reflection. “I can’t believe I’m obsessed over him…although…we did to everything together…”she said as she laid back onto the grass. She looked up to the sky, she was starting to get sleepy, but who couldn’t. The wind through your hair, the sun being so warm and a grass like bed. Lily pulled her sword and small daggers to her side, just in reach in case anyone was to attack.

[Shatan]

¡˅¡Nagurikorosu¡˅¡
¡˅¡Have you heard the news¡˅¡
¡˅¡That you’re dead?¡˅¡
¡˅¡I think they never¡˅¡
¡˅¡Liked you anyway¡˅¡

I’m an addict for dramatics.

Ah yes, he was indeed a fan of the dramatics: a painful death here, a tragic story there, a great hero felled by the horrible villain, a battle of wits, a battle of blades, a battle of fangs, a battle of lives. He smirked; the type of battle rarely made a difference to him, so long as it was interesting, dramatic. Fights were no fun if there was no drama; he wanted entertainment, he wanted something new, something fun, something interesting. These petty lesser demons of this land were rarely enough entertainment for him, so easily beaten, so fragile and easily killed, so easily broken; their dreams and hopes all so weak, all ready to be viciously demolished by the one who simply had the guts to do it.

Little better than humans, they were; all so filled with worthless emotions, weakening their demon spirit, suppressing that inner animal, the very thing which all demons drew strength from. They fought their instincts and destroyed themselves. They were simply waiting to be killed, a job which needed to be done; it was a job that was rarely interesting, but someone must do it, so why not him? His smirk widened, his tattoo smirking along with him; though, their emotions did add some spice to the drama. He did so enjoy the sound of a distressed cry, the sob of one whose spirit has been battered and beaten and broken, and so easy it was to accomplish this.

So easy, in fact, that even that small spice had become quite bland to his tastes. Drama was hardly drama when it occurred time and time again, now was it? After all, he had broken the spirit of that cowardly lion enough times to last anyone for a life time, even a demon such as he, old enough to be pushing a millennia. Though, it was ever so easy to break the spirit of that pathetic excuse for a youkai; so sensitive he was about the death of his parents; one would think he would give over it, it was so long past. But he never did; every meeting the wound was just as fresh as it had been the last, so pathetic. There was no drama in simply carving fresh anew a wound that was already fresh.

But some of these other youkai, weak as they were, were more interesting to crack. Their spirits were still so easily broken, but the wounds were scabbed over, and needed to be worked at before the bled with the same ferocity as they one had, before they caused the same pain as they once had. But they were still there, and scabs and even scars would open eventually, it simply took a little coaxing. There was where things became interesting, digging and digging to find the one thing which put the final nail in the coffin, the one thing that would set them off, break their spirit, with the slightest mention.

For Raion, it was his parents; that was the case with many others, as well; a simple mention of a fallen parent could set anyone—youkai or human made no difference—into a frenzy or into a depression, and either outcome was quite enjoyable. For others it could be a past failure; keep digging and digging and find that one thing they screwed up on and then grind it in, ripping and tearing until the wound became as fresh as the day it began. Or perhaps a threat; a loved one or charge they protected. Find that one person that meant everything to them and then describe—in great detail—exactly how they will be killed, prepared, and eaten. And if that didn’t work, well, one had a plan that could be easily followed; the death of that one they so cared for would be all it took in so many cases.

But there was rarely a need to go so far; even that calm, collected little crippled pup had gone into battle mode at the mention of that little human girl; a powerful youkai like him, so wrapped up in keeping that pathetic little girl alive. He chuckled; it was so easy to find that one thing that would rip a wound wide open. So easy, and yet still so satisfying, so enjoyable; well, at least for a while. He did indeed tire of how easy to break these youkai and humans were; he longed for a true challenge, a true drama, an emotional mystery whose breaking point was buried deep, deep within them, one who would require him to dig and dig and dig to find that one thing, that one sure fire thing that would rip that old wound right open in a most satisfying way. But he had yet to find such a person; these pathetic youkai, those with such an emotional wound that needed to be ripped open, were all so pathetically easy to read.

And those that were not easy to read? Well, they were the ones who were not so pathetically tied to human emotions, those that had no wound to be ripped open. They were the ones who needed to be taunted and taunted and taunted until they angered and fought. Not quite so interesting, but fun all the same; after all, with no emotions to tie them to, they fought so very well. But they were still weak; pathetically so, boringly so. So weak to the point that it was hardly even worth killing them, were it not for the fact that they often tasted quite wonderfully.

But then, there was, in itself, one more reason for the drama; after all, drama was indeed a spice, was it not? It made the meat taste ever so much better. Fear was, by far the best seasoning; the very reason why he thrived so much on striking fear into the heart and very soul of his victims, toying with them until they would quake in sheer terror at the very thought of his name alone, so that they saw death when they looked upon him, so that even their spirit when at last he decided to end them would wander in eternal fear of him. His smirk turned to that of a predator’s, the very wolfish grin that would send chills of fear through so many of his victims as he stood over them. Fear was indeed a wonderful taste.

But anger, as well, did quite well for itself; the taste of a raging, infuriated demon or human just seemed to taste better than the more passive counterpart. Anger enhanced the taste, brought out the best flavors. A wonderful seasoning, to be sure. That was why he taunted why he dug so hard to find something that would infuriate even the most passive of victims; if he could not have their fear, then he would settle with their fury. The taste was simply bland without one seasoning or another.

That was why he roamed today, the sun high above, blazing down and warming the cold blood which ran through his veins. He was not hungry for meat so much as he was for the taste, the seasonings, the drama. He wanted an enjoyable meal; no worthless pathetic human prey would do today; no, he wished a challenge. He wanted to have some fun. And so he walked, the slight breeze that stirred the air stirring also the dark hair of his worthless human form. He did indeed hate this form, but his others, his true and secondary forms, were simply not practical for stalking and tracking when one could not move faster than one’s prey. But that was of little matter; he could always change later, after all, once the fun began.

His mouth changed for only the briefest of moments, a darkened forked tongue flicking from his mouth, tasting the air and all its scents, before it retracted, hiding again within the shadows of his mouth as it returned to its human counterpart; it was no longer needed. After all, that one tasting had caught the scent, now he need only follow it. And what was this scent? Ah, it was a sweet one: the taste of a fox, a little vixen, all alone up the river a ways. A deep chuckle, akin to the sound of rocks in the modern invention that was the blender, filled the air; a weak, lower class demon, perhaps, but foxes were tricksters, and they could be quite enjoyable little things, especially the females.

His gloved left hand rested lightly on the katana of his prized blade, the Dokuja katana, a position which was comfortable in its normalcy; his hand rarely strayed from that spot while at rest in this form. His scarf trailed lightly behind him, its dance matching the movements of his hair, the partner of both being the wind, the partner who took the lead and showed them the steps, and they following at each turn; skilled, they were, in this dance, and there was no hesitation, no misstep, only the motion.

He ran his tongue—un-forked now in its human form—over his sharpened teeth; he was close, now, and the taste was vivid. The sweet taste of fox—best when cooked rare over a raging fire—graced his senses, and he drank it in as he walked, his pace leisurely, his steps unfaltering. His sapphire gaze narrowed slightly as he gazed ahead; he must be close, for the dimmed senses of this form to get such a strong taste, now where was the little vix?

A flash of darkened fang showed as his smirk widened briefly; ah, yes, there she was. Laying there beside the river, so calm and peaceful and utterly defenseless. He did not see the sword or daggers, but even had he noticed them, he would have paid them no mind; there was no importance to weapons in the hands of one who could not use them. But regardless, he knew, if he wanted, he could have her now: he could be upon her before she knew what hit her, could knock her cold and prepare the fire and cook her alive to his liking. But where was the fun in that?

There was no honor, no fun, no enjoyment, no interest, no drama; not in sneaking up on such a one, striking them while defenseless. The actions of a coward, they were; something that pathetic lion would do. He smirked; no, he would toy with this one for a while; after all, she was a fox, wasn’t she? And foxes loved games. Well, little fox, let’s play a game, shall we?

“Well, well,” he began, his voice the hissing one of his kind, silky though it was in this human form, “what ever could this be? Perhaps I have been fortunate enough to find myself a little vixen, a pretty little damsel, defenseless and peaceful,” he paused, let out a short, bark-like laugh, and continued, “well, that simply will not do; damsels are meant to be in distress, after all. I simply shall have to fix that, don’t you agree, little vixen?”

He paused several steps away, his head tilting slightly as he looked down—literally and figuratively—at the girl, his sapphire gaze filled with all the condescension that came from looking at such a pathetic excuse for a demon, his air a jaunty, arrogant one, a challenge in the set of every muscle.

“I must say, my dear little vixen, that your scent tastes quite lovely; what do you say to being cooked over a blazing fire? How does that sound?” He asked, a wicked smirk on his face, the tattoo twisting with his mouth to cackle silently at his words, “But how about a little game, first, my dear? Or perhaps a little dance? You foxes are entertainers, are you not? Well, then, my little vixen,” he said, “entertain me.”

¡˅¡The Ending of Your Life¡˅¡
¡˅¡If life ain’t¡˅¡
¡˅¡Just a joke¡˅¡
¡˅¡Then why am I¡˅¡
¡˅¡Laughing?¡˅¡

_{Lyrics © My Chemical Romance, Taking Back Sunday}

((2000 words and I'm done xD My muse had fun with this, lol.))

[KitsuneMIKO]

((d**n it Kami cant you complete at least ONE decent post, replying to Zens post isn’t exactly hard she gives you plenty to reply to. Listen if you can’t start improving your posts then I suggest you find a lower level rpg site. This site is obviously beyond your skills and it seems that you’re not very willing to improve, for I’m finding the same mistake post after post. So either take my little rants to heart or leave cause I’m getting sick of cleaning the mess that you call posts. If you do wish to stay or are too stubborn to leave, then your post must be a minimum of 300 words. So not only am I going to be monitoring your posts I’m going to start counting them to. I’m also putting a nice little limit on how many times you can screw up. If I have to delete more then 3 more posts then you’re getting a temporary ban from the site.))