Post by Rensou Hiruen on Feb 20, 2012 23:09:50 GMT -5
These were the deciding days, the final moments of a countdown that could possibly decide the lives of millions. A race was threatened, and their planet itself; animal, man, the very stones and miniscule bits of dust that composed the sphere orbiting twin suns could very well see the end in the coming minutes that became hours. Every passing second was of the utmost importance. Each breath of air, taste upon the tongue, pleasurable sensation – all of this, threatened by an intergalactic tyrant hellbent on conquest and glory. An insurmountable force that must be stopped no matter the cost. . .sweat, blood and tears themselves would be shed to see the end of that one written upon the pages of this era of existence!
The name echoed within the chamber, a chamber that had become a place of utmost heaven and most miserable hell. A forge into which a weapon of powerful nature was being reshaped into one of the most prominent fighting forces the universe knew. A tool bound for greatness, a sword shaped and sharpened by the trials of hardship and impossibility. This creation was a blade to be plunged into the heart of a sole entity, a purpose so grand that none other could ever topple the feat it was meant to accomplish. This would be the penultimate chapter in the story of this pinnacle of Saiyan way of life and ideals. For the entire span of his short but wondrous life, this warrior had stricken out in search of greatness beyond the means which an angel's voice could herald.
Onyx locks were baptized in the holy waters of his pilgrimage. Eyes of night were furrowed, focused – but pained and prepared to endure the utter worst. A visage as grim as the reaper himself tightened with the exertions that were his trials. A broad chest rose and fell. . .for the bellows beneath the dark armors were broken in and prepared for the most treacherous lengths. The blade of this Saiyan sword was multiple things, for every striking point of his body was being fashioned to spill the blood of his foe. The hilt, as well, could defend from every angle imaginable with such speed and undoubted precision that the movements were nearly those attributed to a god. The body was a field, a thing to be tilled and turned until it could give life to unimaginable beauty. The mind was the plow, constantly purifying that which it had been set upon.
Bathed in the blood of those whom were his enemies by the choice of the masses, he had fought and killed in the name of naught but monetary gain and fame. Stenciled with the loss of his family, he had become something so much more complete. This one had shut the ever-staring eyes of a dear friend, whom had died so that he might live. The Saiyan had sworn he would lose no more as long as his heart beat with the spectacular blood of his race! The time had come for that peak of combative ability to rise, with his people whom had once been the undisputed master race of all the star's systems. Shining with the glorious light of an ever-burning sun, he would lead his chosen to heights unforeseen. Never again would those and that he cared for die out, as if they were but shooting stars.
Conquest. His fist would reach out to the planets and subjugate them, and the men and women whom held the honor to serve under him personified the digits of his mighty grasp. Wealth. With the resources obtained by such methods, his sons and their sons would live lavishly. . .as they should, gods among peons. Their names would be whispered with reverence, whether it derived from the utmost respect or deepest fears. Within the mentality of this one was the most basic of instincts, and with the cold and calculating brain sculpted within his skull he was very much one capable of such things. To the strongest, the spoils. The unworthy would serve and protect, or they would wash away under the storm that was the Saiyan species.
With the full fury of a hurricane, he touched upon new additions to his arsenal as his body wracked and rocked with the utter abuse he pressed through with all the intensity of a man without sanity. The hands, clenched, sheared the air as if it were but wheat the sickle. Blasting and bolting he made his implications known to himself that no man, no beast, no deity would stand before slashing legs and puncturing fist. His offense was one of marvelous ability, demonstrating what one would become when pressed into the confines of a corner and challenged with a single ultimatum: life or death. It was another of those instincts borne to him, that Saiyan would choose to flourish rather than perish. That was the ultimatum delivered to one such as he, for it would be he that would rise up to defend his planet and the people residing there. It was as well presented to the foe whom had driven him to such reaches beyond logical understanding.
Whence existence had been chosen, that mind would urge the body with two options. To fight was to maintain his honor. To face the foe head on was to test his own power against that of his opponent. To fight was to uphold his ethics and make his beliefs known to all. To fight was the most glorious, intoxicating thing known to him. . .for only when he was smashed to literal or metaphorical pieces would his entirety become whole. The option was clear, easy to arrive at. In truth, there was no option at all. An alternate choice did no exist within the Saiyan psyche. A warrior could not run, and he was the very definition of such a thing. He could but stand and reign victorious or be swept away up into the wind. To fight was to be.
The level of his efforts were of those unprecedented, for each movement and thought was ciphered to absolute flawlessness. The cards were upon the table, and this one lingered dangerously close to blackjack. The fact was that he could not afford to bust, but the gamble was one too steep to lose. The choice was to hit, and he did; he struck the air again and again and again, tens and hundreds and thousands of times that culminated into tens of thousands! Body burning, crying out for respite, he crashed onward like an unbroken steed too proud to be saddled; beaten by forces against his will. Victory would be his if his luck played out in his favor, but to bust now would be the ultimate loss. The warrior did not matter. It was the point that he was the last beacon of defense for his beloved friends and ideals that mattered to this one.
This one fought not just for himself, and in that he would not fight alone. Whilst he yearned for honor like a parched tongue for but a drop, it was for a multitude. A victory for himself would be a shared thing, a moment in history unparallelled and worthy of immortal recognition. Statues would span the universe for the accomplishments of this one, the peoples would whisper his praises for thousands of years to come. Upon their tongues would be the names of others. . .the ones he had fought for, the ones that fought with him. . .the ones he died for, and those whom paid him in kind. This Saiyan fought with the entire Saiyan race in his heart, and for that. . .they went with him into battle.
He was a Saiyan of twenty years, a blossoming rose with the sharpest of thorns. A grandiose thing to behold. A terrible thing to the touch, piercing the skin. . .causing those whom did so to recoil with horror and pain. The last of his clan. A champion of those gladiators whom warred in the slums for the love of the multitudes. A friend of an Inaurian whom was his brother, a hated mountain to overcome to a Saiyan hybrid he wished to push to her potential, the only person a Saiyan lieutenant could ever call her equal and she his own. That Saiyan had a glorious name that would echo in eternity!
[25x gravity, weighted clothes, yeah. Complete!]
“Touketsuki Yakedo!”
[/b]The name echoed within the chamber, a chamber that had become a place of utmost heaven and most miserable hell. A forge into which a weapon of powerful nature was being reshaped into one of the most prominent fighting forces the universe knew. A tool bound for greatness, a sword shaped and sharpened by the trials of hardship and impossibility. This creation was a blade to be plunged into the heart of a sole entity, a purpose so grand that none other could ever topple the feat it was meant to accomplish. This would be the penultimate chapter in the story of this pinnacle of Saiyan way of life and ideals. For the entire span of his short but wondrous life, this warrior had stricken out in search of greatness beyond the means which an angel's voice could herald.
Onyx locks were baptized in the holy waters of his pilgrimage. Eyes of night were furrowed, focused – but pained and prepared to endure the utter worst. A visage as grim as the reaper himself tightened with the exertions that were his trials. A broad chest rose and fell. . .for the bellows beneath the dark armors were broken in and prepared for the most treacherous lengths. The blade of this Saiyan sword was multiple things, for every striking point of his body was being fashioned to spill the blood of his foe. The hilt, as well, could defend from every angle imaginable with such speed and undoubted precision that the movements were nearly those attributed to a god. The body was a field, a thing to be tilled and turned until it could give life to unimaginable beauty. The mind was the plow, constantly purifying that which it had been set upon.
Bathed in the blood of those whom were his enemies by the choice of the masses, he had fought and killed in the name of naught but monetary gain and fame. Stenciled with the loss of his family, he had become something so much more complete. This one had shut the ever-staring eyes of a dear friend, whom had died so that he might live. The Saiyan had sworn he would lose no more as long as his heart beat with the spectacular blood of his race! The time had come for that peak of combative ability to rise, with his people whom had once been the undisputed master race of all the star's systems. Shining with the glorious light of an ever-burning sun, he would lead his chosen to heights unforeseen. Never again would those and that he cared for die out, as if they were but shooting stars.
Conquest. His fist would reach out to the planets and subjugate them, and the men and women whom held the honor to serve under him personified the digits of his mighty grasp. Wealth. With the resources obtained by such methods, his sons and their sons would live lavishly. . .as they should, gods among peons. Their names would be whispered with reverence, whether it derived from the utmost respect or deepest fears. Within the mentality of this one was the most basic of instincts, and with the cold and calculating brain sculpted within his skull he was very much one capable of such things. To the strongest, the spoils. The unworthy would serve and protect, or they would wash away under the storm that was the Saiyan species.
With the full fury of a hurricane, he touched upon new additions to his arsenal as his body wracked and rocked with the utter abuse he pressed through with all the intensity of a man without sanity. The hands, clenched, sheared the air as if it were but wheat the sickle. Blasting and bolting he made his implications known to himself that no man, no beast, no deity would stand before slashing legs and puncturing fist. His offense was one of marvelous ability, demonstrating what one would become when pressed into the confines of a corner and challenged with a single ultimatum: life or death. It was another of those instincts borne to him, that Saiyan would choose to flourish rather than perish. That was the ultimatum delivered to one such as he, for it would be he that would rise up to defend his planet and the people residing there. It was as well presented to the foe whom had driven him to such reaches beyond logical understanding.
Whence existence had been chosen, that mind would urge the body with two options. To fight was to maintain his honor. To face the foe head on was to test his own power against that of his opponent. To fight was to uphold his ethics and make his beliefs known to all. To fight was the most glorious, intoxicating thing known to him. . .for only when he was smashed to literal or metaphorical pieces would his entirety become whole. The option was clear, easy to arrive at. In truth, there was no option at all. An alternate choice did no exist within the Saiyan psyche. A warrior could not run, and he was the very definition of such a thing. He could but stand and reign victorious or be swept away up into the wind. To fight was to be.
The level of his efforts were of those unprecedented, for each movement and thought was ciphered to absolute flawlessness. The cards were upon the table, and this one lingered dangerously close to blackjack. The fact was that he could not afford to bust, but the gamble was one too steep to lose. The choice was to hit, and he did; he struck the air again and again and again, tens and hundreds and thousands of times that culminated into tens of thousands! Body burning, crying out for respite, he crashed onward like an unbroken steed too proud to be saddled; beaten by forces against his will. Victory would be his if his luck played out in his favor, but to bust now would be the ultimate loss. The warrior did not matter. It was the point that he was the last beacon of defense for his beloved friends and ideals that mattered to this one.
This one fought not just for himself, and in that he would not fight alone. Whilst he yearned for honor like a parched tongue for but a drop, it was for a multitude. A victory for himself would be a shared thing, a moment in history unparallelled and worthy of immortal recognition. Statues would span the universe for the accomplishments of this one, the peoples would whisper his praises for thousands of years to come. Upon their tongues would be the names of others. . .the ones he had fought for, the ones that fought with him. . .the ones he died for, and those whom paid him in kind. This Saiyan fought with the entire Saiyan race in his heart, and for that. . .they went with him into battle.
He was a Saiyan of twenty years, a blossoming rose with the sharpest of thorns. A grandiose thing to behold. A terrible thing to the touch, piercing the skin. . .causing those whom did so to recoil with horror and pain. The last of his clan. A champion of those gladiators whom warred in the slums for the love of the multitudes. A friend of an Inaurian whom was his brother, a hated mountain to overcome to a Saiyan hybrid he wished to push to her potential, the only person a Saiyan lieutenant could ever call her equal and she his own. That Saiyan had a glorious name that would echo in eternity!
Rensou Hiruen!
[/center][25x gravity, weighted clothes, yeah. Complete!]
