Scene #1400: Swordplay and Sand

Owner	Pose
Ariah	The beach, crafted pocket dimension or not, feels natural enough. The climate is anything but tropical, however. A dusting of snow covers a portion of the white sands with its own whiteness, the trees don't look damaged but a chill wind ruffles the palm fronds. Sitting on a sizable piece of driftwood is Ariah, staring intently into a bonfire. Not so many yards away is the arrival dock, a simple boat providing ingress and egress from the island to the rest of the Citadel and beyond. It's peaceful, just the sound of wind and waves with intermittent crackling of flame.
Fake Avenger	Sand is something the man who now wears the name of Kojirou Sasaki never saw much of while he was alive. During most of his life, he held himself near the temple in what would come to be Fuyuki, for he had nowhere else to go. After his death, he was resummoned in Fuyuki, and given the memories and identity of a man who never existed - and Kojirou Sasaki, in his legends, had not been much of a sailor either. Then, the world had ended, and landscapes became a dreary, endless grey, so there hadn't been much in the way of beaches anyway. So it's probably not terribly surprising that, when Kojirou just sort of fades into existence - quite literally, as one moment there was nothing, and the next there's a tall man in a lavender kimono - he does so facing the ocean. He watches the waves beat against the land with a dispassionate, peaceful smile on his face. The black tattoos across his body seem to settle - which is ridiculous, of course they weren't moving? - as he watches the sea. There are no footprints in the sand. It probably raises further questions. He says nothing for a long moment. He just...gazes off, silent, unmoving, as if some kind of mute - no, as if a statue, a statue wrought of flesh and cloth but an unmoving statue nonetheless. Not even the telltale sign of breathing. After an inexorably, incomparably long moment, he turns and lowers his head politely at Ariah.
Ariah	Ariah sits in silence, watching the man appear and stare across what looks like an infinite ocean. Only when he turns to look at her does she speak, bowing her head politely in turn. "Welcome to my home," she states quietly, voice as cold as the winds dusting sand and snow here and there. "My home in the Citadel, at the least. I do not have one otherwise or elsewhere, even if another world could attempt to claim as such." Slowly, the witch rises to her feet, taking up her staff and walking towards her guest. "I am Ariah, soldier of the Confederacy. I believe I heard your name spoken before, but I find it more polite were I to hear it from you personally," she states. Her accent is heavy, French, but not to the point of making her difficult to understand.
Fake Avenger	Kojirou just sort of nods at the welcome. He doesn't look around much. He either doesn't need to, or doesn't care to. He also either doesn't talk much...well, he doesn't talk much, it can't be that he /can't/, he does it on the radio frequently enough. Indeed, when she asks his name, he finally gives it - his voice as peaceful and calm as the ocean around them. It's a strange disconnect - the black-tattooed samurai seems like he ought to be less peaceful, perhaps because of those strange tattoos, but he's so perfectly detached as if to be...unaffected? It's like looking upon a still pond in the middle of a raging storm - the storm howls, but the pond is unmoved. "Kojirou Sasaki, Avenger-class Heroic Spirit."
Ariah	Ariah is certainly calm herself, but instead of a still pond in a storm, she seems more as a frozen pond in a peaceful snowfall. Closer she steps, leaving footprints in the sand until she is just out of arm's reach. "Spirit," she says simply. "You had mentioned your life's completion, and your passing. I admit to not knowing much about your world, or the mechanics of such that give you a classification." She looks towards the flames behind her, the bonfire's fuel ample, bringing warmth and extra light to the surroundings. "I did invite you hear to speak with you, but I did also suggest we share our talent for swordsmanship, yes? I do not profess to be an expert, nor will I make such a mistake." She presses the end of her staff into the sand in front of her, the tip sinking into the ground at an equidistant point from the tips of her toes. Centering her in more ways than one. "Do you wish to set the terms?"
Fake Avenger	Kojirou shrugs and looks off at the ocean again. "I'm not the right person to tell you about that," he replies with that same weird placidity he seems to carry with him in all things, "The mechanics of the Holy Grail War aren't really something I ever bothered to learn." He waves his hand in front of his face dismissively. "I'm merely a man who spent his life chasing a worthless dream," Kojirou observes distantly - his fond and oft-repeated humility coming to the fore, as ever. Indeed that seems accurate - the man certainly doesn't carry himself like he's dangerous, or powerful, or skilled, or anything. In fact, as far as concepts of heroes go, Kojirou looks as far from a hero as one can get. He's slight and effeminate, almost girly, and he lacks the musculature of the ancient Greek or Babylonian or Nordic heroes and gods. He doesn't even look much like the idealized Japanese hero. He's so wispy, so ephemeral, as to seem almost without definition. If his demeanor is that of a still pond, his appearance is the mist that rises from its surface. And his sword is so...impractical. Even by the standards of the multiverse, it's long, though it isn't wide or immense - it's simply long and slender, slung over his back as it is, a long and slender nodachi that is probably as brittle as glass. "I'm not a very formal duelist," Kojirou replies cheerily as he draws his sword. The long sheathe makes a /shnnnnnk/ noise as the blade frees itself, falling into his hand and sliding to his side. He takes no particular stance at all - the massive, nearly-five-foot blade just sort of sits there in his hand.
Ariah	"I would be curious to know who I can learn it from, then. The Holy Grail War is passingly familiar to me, but only since coming to the Multiverse..." Ariah states quietly. "Or where I can read more about it. If only to aid my allies further." She tilts her head at the gesture and then the words, eyes following the man's stance and pausing on his weapon. She grips the top of her staff, then there's a magical lock, a small twist, and she pulls free a straight-edged saber lined with runes. It's silver, both sides sharpened, a hidden surprise within that staff. The other half she holds in her other hand. "Then a simple exchange of blows until one sees fit to yield of their own reasons. Magic or no magic? Steel alone?" she asks, a ghost of a smile curving her lips at the cheery-ish demeanor of her new acquaintance.
Fake Avenger	Monohoshi Zao is not a magical nodachi. It is surprisingly long, but it is no no way magical. It has no magical traits. It has no mystical energy, except the most basic energy that a Heroic Spirit might have. It is not supernaturally sharp. It does not roil with promise or prana. It is not like Excalibur, Excalibur Galantine, Mordred's magic sword, or any other Heroic Spirit weapon. It is not a weapon of any particular specialness at all, in fact, except for its abnormal length - and even that ought to be a hindrance rather than a strength, as it lacks the weight of a wide blade of its size. Indeed, if it was a European greatsword, it might be a great and heavy weapon, but it isn't. Katanas are made for cutting flesh rapidly, not for breaking armor, so length does little to make one more useful - in fact, the opposite, it stretches and makes it more brittle. "It doesn't really matter to me," Kojirou replies distantly, "You can do what you like." It isn't an ego-laden boast - a 'you'll never measure up to me, so do what you want' sort of thing one might hear from some members of the Confederacy. It's just a...it's that same disconnectedness that seems to pervade everything Kojirou does, an intense apathy that seeps into his very self. He legitimately does not seem to care if Ariah uses magic to fight him. He might not even care if she tries to kill him.
Ariah	If Ariah seems put off by her companion's seemingly careless, or perhaps carefree nature, she doesn't show it beyond the quirk of a brow. "If we are able to learn from each other, then, I will refrain from mystical arts as best as I am able," she states. For one who has used magic for so long, it may take effort to consciously not use it. "I wish to see how you wield your long blade, " she says with a nod, and a clear intonation of respect. She takes a bow, then a step back, before she nods. "Strike me."
Fake Avenger	The Heroic Spirit doesn't hesitate. There is no pause of 'why', no bumbling about with a desire not to, no questioning her logic. There is not even the telltale twitch of uncertainty that most normal people - most /sane/ people - might have. His muscles do not spasm in protest. It is not a reflexive action, either, though the sheer smoothness of it, and the instantaneousness of it, might convince her that it is - but it is a conscious decision made. With an absolute will, he strikes. This is not swordplay. Or rather, it is not swordplay as human beings might understand it. Swordplay is made up of stances, of formal styles, of rote and practice and counters and adaptation. While it's true that, on the battlefield, 'whatever works' supercedes any learning and tradition, styles exist for a reason - /because/ they work, because they teach people methods of attack and defense and how to stay alive. Kojirou's ridiculously-long blade is devoid of style. It is devoid of rote. It is devoid of muscle memory, of the telltale readable stances of ordinary people. From the instant it begins its arc - heading straight for her neck - it is like flowing water. It is formless, without style, and yet so natural as if to be a part of him. The overlong blade moves fast enough to leave the wind whistling in its wake, and gracefully enough to catch the sunlight in its arc. For an instant it seems as if in Kojirou's hands the bonfire is transformed into a liquid, and that the blade is that liquid fire itself aiming for her neck. Or maybe it's the moon caught in the steel and melted into flowing quicksilver, or the stars caught and turned into diamonds. Kojirou's first strike makes it immediately clear that, for all his humility, for all his denial, he is someone who is beyond the level of master. Even the shape of the strike is uncertain in the aftermath of it - what arc it took, how it arrived there, how the blade curved, how the strike appeared - it's as if the only points in the sword's arc that can be perceived are the start, the middle, and the end. The intervening parts are just...not there, like the sword simply teleported from place to place. Kojirou's eyes never change. His smile never changes. Though his blade moves like a terrifying, unreal thing - not through any magic or spell but simply mastery treading beyond mastery - his body language, his emotions, and his smile are unreadable. He is a blank slate. A mirror. No one and nothing.
Ariah	Ariah's enhanced senses give her the fractions of a second she needs to appreciate the sudden movement, the extension of the Spirit's body being the blade, moving as if the sword is little more than the man's arm. Her grasp of the moment remains firm, but it holds to watching, observing, appreciating, even as the blade's arc glides towards her. Eyes narrowed, faint purple glow rising in them, she moves. Her stance changes, her upper body tilting forward to bring her head and shoulders under the sweep, a hope that the lengthy, willowy sword will maintain momentum and be difficult to bring back around so swiftly. With her staff held at the ready to parry in one hand, she presses forward, thrusting her much shorter blade to try and catch Kojirou's midsection. Unlike the Heroic Spirit, the witch is not unreadable, her nigh-immortal body still possessing tells, her feet pressing into the sand to prepare her to brace or strike as needed. For her size, though, she is still with supernatural grace and strength.
Fake Avenger	Any hope that Kojirou's sword requires momentum, or that its weight and speed control him rather than the other way around, is thrown out immediately. The sword stops precisely when Kojirou means for it to, even parried. It's a precision that simply isn't possible - and yet there's nothing supernatural or magical about Kojirou's movements. Indeed, for a Heroic Spirit, he's quite weak. Heroes of the Grail War are larger-than-life entities whose stories carved their names upon reality, who can destroy enemies with magical powers forged from their tales and wreak incredible havoc on the world around them. Kojirou, by contrast, appears to be just a man - though granted, a man with a command of swordsmanship that broaches into the unreal. She strikes. Kojirou doesn't need to look down, or even move his gaze. Instinct alone guides him - an instinct honed and forged over countless battles. In the Eye of his Mind, he can see her movement. He can see her blade and her staff, her feet, her stance, the shifting sands below. He can see everything. When Monohoshi Zao collides with the staff and she stabs for his midsection, Kojirou steps into the strike. The precision is extraordinary, and if she's not paying attention, it might seem supernatural - but in truth he dodges it by a razor's edge, narrowly averting the stab as he steps into a place between life and death. It's something someone concerned for their own life could never accomplish, something someone who /feared/ could never do. Kojirou Sasaki is not concerned with his own life. He does not fear. And as he steps forward, he also steps around. Like a pawn in en passant on a grand chessboard, Kojirou steps forward and around to force her to adapt to him. Two weapons is a more powerful defensive position, after all. With two swords she can block and strike as she wills, and leave Kojirou completely on the defensive. But he steps forward instead, to force her to adjust to him. Monohoshi Zao changes hands as he slides past her, and the blade swings along as he steps, turning his razor-thin dodge into a deadly counterattack.
Ariah	Kojirou might find something similar in Ariah. She moves without fear. She's already dead. And as far as the lore of larger-than-life heroes? The witch has no knowledge of the past or history. For her, Kojirou may be the prime example of a Heroic Spirit to her. The way the blade moves, the way he moves, it's clear with the hint of reverence and perhaps awe in her gaze, but the rest of her is cold. The question in her mind, however, is how such a long sword can be effective in such close combat. Were the pair holding knives it would be a brawl of feints and thrusts and cuts, but with two swords, one longer than the other, it turns into a dance. And Ariah adapts. She stays close, studying his movements and his calm, bringing her sword up instead of her staff to block this time, the Spirit's blade slicing neatly into her uniform but stopping short of making contact with flesh. The staff comes up, cutting through the air to clear a potential blade lock and free her saber. Her boots find purchase in the sand, the terrain not the most favorable for such tight, close maneuvers even as she swings for his midsection.
Fake Avenger	The dead woman receives the same interest from Kojirou as might a tree or the wind or water. This, then, reveals a particularly curious facet of Kojirou's nature - for Kojirou, this is not a spar. Not once has he struck with the flat of the blade. Not once has he struck for an arm or a leg. Every strike has swept for a vital area, with full intent to kill. If he even knows she's dead, he doesn't seem to care. Sparring is an alien thing to him. But then, at the same time, this means that he is absolutely free of judgement. Whatever she may be - dead, alive, alien, or otherwise - the only thing on his mind of her is her fighting stance. It is perhaps also liberating - no matter what she is, no matter who she may be, Kojirou treats her like he would a deadly threat and reciprocates in kind. There is no judgement. There is no empathy. There is no understanding, nor anger. He does not curse her name. He does not look at her with awe, or envy, or desire, or any of the other thousand things a man might say with his eyes. His eyes are empty. They are purple mirrors, with tiny black flecks that seem almost alive throughout. Nor does he look down on her as an inferior. Indeed, he treats her as nothing less than a master. It's an odd sort of harmony, like everything else about the bizarre Heroic Spirit - cheerful, empty, devoid of desire and judgement, he seems as if he drifts through the world like a leaf upon the water, unattached and uninterested in anything but the sword. But the sword! The sword is his one passion, and that - that in all the world - does he fixate on. And that is clear in every motion. Ariah's adaptation is correct - the long Monohoshi Zao should have blind spots all throughout the length of its blade. It's much too long for close-quarters combat. It's unwieldy and impractical, and in the hands of any other person it would be a death sentence. Anyone other than Kojirou Sasaki would be doomed trying to dance this close - particularly with a dual-wielder. But it's said that the duel that made Kojirou Sasaki famous was a duel with Musashi, the most famous dual-wielder of all. Then again, the man who wears the name of Kojirou Sasaki never met Musashi. She clears any blade lock before it starts, but if Ariah is paying very close attention, she might notice Kojirou doing the same. It makes sense - her weapons have superior leverage over his, with its impractical length and impractical size. So each time the blades come together, Kojirou is quick to bring them apart before his own can be locked and shattered. She goes for his waist, and he does not block. Again, he steps forward and along the path of the blade, as though he were leading her in a waltz - forcing her to curve her arm further to reach him, to waste more energy and momentum in the process of hitting him, to turn on the sand and waste momentum and yet more effectiveness. He steps away from the arm that swings, to force her across her breasts and stomach and make the strike more awkward. He does not block because to block her is to leave himself open to an attack from the air, and he does not dodge because to dodge is to give her back her defensive advantage, her ability to determine the inaudible music they dance to. So he gambles, and leads her forward, and another flowing strike comes up for her neck to force her to block and parry once more. He is at every disadvantage. She has the superior physical ability as a supernatural entity. She has the superior weapons loadout as a two-bladed swordsman who can strike and block with each motion. She has the superior frame for such a close fight - shorter, with tighter control over her reach, an advantage for a twin-bladed swordsman. All Kojirou has is his skill. But, then, that's all he's ever had.
Ariah	And maybe that's all he'll ever need. Ariah has so much more, but less so. Everything she has, everything she is, her body, her blood, her tools, her magic, all diluting their individual parts to work together. Without falling back on her magic, it may seem as if the witch is missing 'something' in this fight, albeit something she can cover up with the rest of her efforts. And that ghost of a smile grows a touch further, more emotion seeping out into her expression. As Kojirou steps ahead of her swing, she chases, chases for a moment before her arc slows. She doesn't follow the leader and instead shifts her weight in the other direction, turning on one foot, toes dug into the sand while the other spins her in the opposite direction. The staff is brought up again to parry, but she uses the length and her turn to bring it up behind her, shielding the side of her neck too close for comfort for some. Her turn, the momentum of a new swing brings her almost full circle, once more aiming a slash for the swordsman's torso. It angles upward this time, however, diagonally from hip-to-shoulder.
Fake Avenger	Again, Ariah makes the correct decision. Playing follow-the-leader would have reduced her momentum. Countering the strike with a spin puts Kojirou on the defensive again. In the middle of his slash, he's forced to bring his sword up to parry, a move that, though it should be awkward, looks perfectly natural in his hands. The length of Monohoshi Zao is used as both blade and shield, catching her strike from below even as it is caught from on high. Dispassionately - almost mechanical, though nothing mechanical has ever moved so naturally, so fluidly, as Kojirou Sasaki - he disconnects the blades as he defuses her momentum. Then he stabs. Stabbing, like everything else in close quarters with a sword that size, is wildly impractical. Normally one might have to swing the sword backwards and waste immense amounts of time and energy, telegraphing the move badly. The sword is long enough that it's functionally a spear, and stabbing with a spear in close quarters is impossible - it has too many gaps in its attack and defense. But, again, Kojirou adapts. He stabs with the curve of the blade directed at her neck - a stab that is less about the point and more about the sharp, thin, curved edge's momentum. It's like a razor blade slashing the wrong direction - it may not be as strong as a slash, but it's perfectly capable of opening skin, and if Kojirou receives any sort of sideways momentum, he'll be well-positioned to remove her head. That, however, is not all. For the first time since their dance started, Kojirou attacks with something besides his sword. He punches. Kojirou is a strong man when he bothers to apply the strength of a Heroic Spirit directly. Even the weakest Heroic Spirit is several times stronger than an ordinary human being. That doesn't apply much with Monohoshi Zao - the sword isn't the kind of sword that benefits from such strength, so it isn't painfully clear. But a punch? That's a different story. A punch is simply...the direct application of force. There's little finesse in Kojirou's punch, and it's clearly not a fine martial arts technique or a skilled fighting move. Kojirou is not a martial artist. He is a swordsman. That punch serves but two mutually-exclusive purposes: to knock the wind out of her, or to tie up one of her two weapons in a block and prevent her from catching Monohoshi Zao in a pincer block. It may wound it - it may hurt her /greatly/, depending on how tough she is - but that is merely a secondary purpose. Its primary goal is making it that much harder to block the thrust.
Ariah	The choice is a difficult one, the incoming blade perhaps the greater threat but the sudden lunge of a fist towards the witch's midsection being a surprise unto itself. The initial disconnection of blades leaves her in a neutral standpoint, arms and weapons able to come to rest were it anything but a close-in fight like this. She sees the fist and the edge and makes her decision, though it may hardly be the first on her opponent's mind. She takes the punch, her body crumpling, buckling forward from the force and her own weight, rolling with it and relaxing her muscles even as the impact does more than just sting. She drops her staff as her movement doubles her over and brings her beneath the brunt of that thrusting sword. Blood is drawn, red painting her silver hair as the edge cuts along her temple on the way down, but she shows no sign of pain. There's no wind to knock out of the woman, eyes blurring and refocusing quickly as her now-free hand grabs for Kojirou's wrist, intent on yanking him into a headbutt to the ribs and a comfortable position on his back in the sand. No grace or finesse, just muscle memory and decades old military training.
Fake Avenger	Kojirou does not have military training. Kojirou does not have training at all. Surprisingly, he does not even have training in swordsanship, though perhaps that isn't /that/ surprising. After all, training would require stances and forms and all those formal things, and Kojirou has none of those. She gets her hand on Kojirou's wrist. Her cold hand wraps around the slender swordsman's arm, and she yanks forward, intent on taking him off his balance. She surprises him with the sudden display of a completely different skill, one he admittedly hadn't expected, and thus must adapt to in an entirely new way. That way is by letting her yank his arm out of its socket. Kojirou yanks backwards as she yanks forwards. The movement tears the joint out of his arm - there's a horrible sound as the magical tendons and bone are ripped to pieces inside, and his elbow pops free. He remains firmly on-balance as she comes in to headbutt him, and while she smashes hard against his ribs, it doesn't knock him off-balance. Quite the contrary - he steps backwards to lessen the blow, and moves his arm around as if to hug her. Monohoshi Zao's blade comes along with it. He stops short this time, gripping the blade with his dislocated arm to ensure that, even if she pins him, the blade is still at her throat. It's a bizarre, dangerous hug. "I am afraid that wrestling is not my forte," Kojirou offers - the first words he's spoken all fight, or indeed since she told him to strike. They're in that same disconnected, cheerful tone, free of pain or discomfort despite the dislocated arm gripping the edge of Monohoshi Zao. "Perhaps we should stop here. Winning or losing means nothing to me, but you've thrown away your sheathe. You won't be able to keep blocking me without both parts of your weapon." Proof that the nameless swordsman who wears Kojirou Sasaki's identity as his own has a wonderful sense of irony: he quoted Miyamoto Musashi's famous line when he supposedly killed Kojirou. He pauses. "I suppose you could simply stab me now or cut my leg, but then we would simply both die, as I would remove your head and then bleed to death. That seems an unfavorable outcome for you." Apparently he really doesn't care about his own life.
Ariah	A close, dangerous embrace for two dangerous individuals. Though the witch doesn't let her guard down, she does not push further when the blade meets her throat and the arm stays tight around her. "Adaptation and improvisation is important in any battle," she responds quietly. "Were I to lose both weapons and a limb I would continue to fight if the need to do so was present." Even so soon the blood on her temple has dried and beneath there is no longer a wound. Her eyes drift towards the blade Kojirou wields, but she speaks simply, "It would be a minor setback for me." There's no pride, no boastful tone. Just fact. The removal of the vampire's head by this blade would not mean the end of her. Were it a blade of fire, then there would be major complications. "Would you perish, then, to blood loss? Would it be permanent, or does being a Heroic Spirit grant you some meausre of immortality?" Even with a blade to her neck and the promise of beheading does the witch ever seek knowledge. The grip on her saber leaves it in position to drive into her opponent, but to her it would seem the fight is finished by a level of mutual understanding. Her voice remains cool and calm, eyes focused on Kojirou's as they remain entangled.
Fake Avenger	"It wouldn't kill me," Kojirou replies with that same detached, cheerful tone as he removes the blade. It vanishes into his sheathe in an instant, and he breaks away from her, lifting his broken arm and forcing it back into place with another sickening squelch. He doesn't wince. He lifts it slightly with his good arm, tucking it inside his kimono like a makeshift sling, then steps back and turns off to look at the waves again. He doesn't answer whether he's immortal or not. When he finally speaks again, he doesn't look at her. "Why an island?"
Ariah	Ariah remains quiet, just nodding, acknowledging the profession of not being killed by bleedout, but also the lack of answer to immortality. At the question, she turns, looking towards the ocean. "It affords me the illusion of solitude and peace, one that my life had sorely been without. I do have companions who visit, and my Shinki who dwells here, but... it is a home. And a home I had lacked for some time." She picks up her fallen staff and secures the blade within it.
Fake Avenger	"Illusions are all that there are," Kojirou replies distantly as he watches the pounding waves, "The shifting sands that lie underneath the illusions are too much for most people to bear. So they chain themselves." He stands there for a very long time, unmoving. Again the strange swordsman is as still as a statue - unmoving, unchanging, silent and still, as though the whole world could pass him by without his knowledge. Finally, he looks back at her and lowers his head politely. "Thank you for having me." Then he simply...disappears. The black tattoos along his body seem to wriggle and writhe into new configurations as he walks forward, and in mid-step, he vanishes into nothingness. Not even a footprint remains.