Post by Deleted on Feb 10, 2013 12:38:37 GMT -5
As landlocked as he was, Haipachi noticed a theme of liquid in his life.
First, there was liquor. A hard working rural town like this couldn’t function without its drink. Haipachi had always looked forward to the opportunity to take over his father’s business here, making more than a comfortable living and becoming lauded as one of the more valued members of the town unit. This was the liquid that made hard men merry, warmed the bones of weary travelers, and brought everyone together for a time to have fun and forget all trouble and pain.
But it was also venom that beguiled its way through the veins and liver, slithering into the darkest recesses of the mind and heart to recruit only the most foul and recluse of secrets. It made honest men false, and gave liars a dangerous honesty. It turned merriment into brawl and conversation into adultery. It was a shackle, it was a liberator, and some would say it was the lifeblood of this town.
Second, there was sweat. Haipachi was naïve to expect that he could run an orderly tavern without an iron fist. He could deal with the sad and angry drunks with simple force; he was fairly athletic. But then there were those for whom alcohol was but fuel for their already bad intentions. Those of the Red Snake clan were such people. They would come in about once a month to rest their bodies and find new prey after long, hard days of robbery and extortion. They prided themselves on having an at least basic level of martial arts training, and they simply toyed with Haipachi whenever he tried to protect his customers from them.
The sweat of these tense situations was light, forming a film of weakness on his skin as if he were trying to hide his fear in a transparent room. What to do but fight martial arts with martial arts? Haipachi trained relentlessly, shedding his weakness in large globules, making way for a new sweat, bolder and saltier, that drenched his clothes and burned his eyes. His body was ready and, with two years of practice, his mind as well.
Third was blood. It would be insufficient to say that Haipachi’s deft suppression of the Red Snake angered them. They were angered by sideways glances, soft liquor, and late payments. Defeat, however, enraged them. It made their alcohol spill and their blood boil. It formed foam at the corners of their mouths and revenge at the fronts of their minds. It bought them the swords that would cut down his employees and bold customers. It kindled the flames that would engulf the tavern. It weaved the cloth that would gag Haipachi’s wife and child as they were taken to be held hostage. Haipachi – beaten, broken, and bleeding – had scarcely even seen this much water in his life, let alone blood.
Fourth, and most pathetic, were his tears. Tears could not be sold to rural workers. Tears could not be drunk to increase one’s power. Tears could not put out the fire in the tavern, and they could not bring back his family. Tears were useless. Or so the mysterious Makaoishin told him.
“You trained, bleeding out your life’s essence, for two whole years,” the Makaoishin said. “And your livelihood still lays charred in front of you.”
Haipachi could only stare. He’d never seen a demon before.
“You lie here injured and helpless because you are weak,” he continued. “Barring ascension, there is nothing this single frail, soft, and pathetic human body can do to stop even a small army. Your wife and child will die because there is nothing you can do to help them. You are weak.”
Haipachi wanted to scream, to defend himself somehow, but the beating had left him too weak to move his jaw. The Makaoishin was right.
“But you can become strong,” the demon said. “For this strength, you need not sweat, bleed, or waste your time in years of training.” He reached out his palm, and a sudden puff of smoke materialized into an Oni mask. “You need only wear this mask.”
Haipachi suddenly felt the strength return to his arms and jaw.
“I-I-Is there a c-catch?” Haipachi said, trembling.
“If there is any ‘catch,’ it will be that you become too powerful,” the Makaoishin said with a deep chuckle. “You wish to save your family, do you not?”
Haipachi hesitated, but it was a vain exercise. He knew that he wanted that mask more than anything, and he snatched it hungrily, placing it onto his face. The mask immediately dissipated into smoke which crawled into Haipachi’s nose, ears, mouth, and eyes. His insides were overcome with an unbearable burning, but the smoke kept him from screaming.
His body underwent no transformation. Rather, a red, muscular, and imposing demonic figure ripped his way out of Haipachi’s skin, letting the flesh fall onto the ground. From the neck down, he could be confused for a very tall, muscular human in the dark. But his face was that of both a human and an Oni demon, and Haipachi no longer resembled himself.
But Haipachi had never felt better. His entire body was overcome with fever, but it was a fever he felt he could use. He felt powerful.
And he was powerful. Within minutes he managed to somehow locate the den of the Red Snake, and in his power, he slaughtered every last one of them. Every body lay splattered, crushed, lacerated or burned. All except two.
These were his wife and child, but he did not recognize them. Rather, he heard only their terrified screams that had not ceased since he had entered. The noise was shrill. It irritated him. It would not stop. It rang in his ears. It drove him mad. He slammed his fists onto the sources of the noise, and the noise ceased.
At this moment, horror gripped Haipachi even tighter than rage. His senses returned to see the crushed skulls of his wife and child, silent and without peace. He stared at his hands, soaked with blood that was practically invisible on his deep red skin.
These hands are not mine! Haipachi thought. He struggled to suppress his fury and his willpower cooled the fever. The demonic flesh melted into a disgusting pool, leaving a naked Haipachi there, weeping over the fragments of bone and brain. His tears still could not bring them back.
First, there was liquor. A hard working rural town like this couldn’t function without its drink. Haipachi had always looked forward to the opportunity to take over his father’s business here, making more than a comfortable living and becoming lauded as one of the more valued members of the town unit. This was the liquid that made hard men merry, warmed the bones of weary travelers, and brought everyone together for a time to have fun and forget all trouble and pain.
But it was also venom that beguiled its way through the veins and liver, slithering into the darkest recesses of the mind and heart to recruit only the most foul and recluse of secrets. It made honest men false, and gave liars a dangerous honesty. It turned merriment into brawl and conversation into adultery. It was a shackle, it was a liberator, and some would say it was the lifeblood of this town.
Second, there was sweat. Haipachi was naïve to expect that he could run an orderly tavern without an iron fist. He could deal with the sad and angry drunks with simple force; he was fairly athletic. But then there were those for whom alcohol was but fuel for their already bad intentions. Those of the Red Snake clan were such people. They would come in about once a month to rest their bodies and find new prey after long, hard days of robbery and extortion. They prided themselves on having an at least basic level of martial arts training, and they simply toyed with Haipachi whenever he tried to protect his customers from them.
The sweat of these tense situations was light, forming a film of weakness on his skin as if he were trying to hide his fear in a transparent room. What to do but fight martial arts with martial arts? Haipachi trained relentlessly, shedding his weakness in large globules, making way for a new sweat, bolder and saltier, that drenched his clothes and burned his eyes. His body was ready and, with two years of practice, his mind as well.
Third was blood. It would be insufficient to say that Haipachi’s deft suppression of the Red Snake angered them. They were angered by sideways glances, soft liquor, and late payments. Defeat, however, enraged them. It made their alcohol spill and their blood boil. It formed foam at the corners of their mouths and revenge at the fronts of their minds. It bought them the swords that would cut down his employees and bold customers. It kindled the flames that would engulf the tavern. It weaved the cloth that would gag Haipachi’s wife and child as they were taken to be held hostage. Haipachi – beaten, broken, and bleeding – had scarcely even seen this much water in his life, let alone blood.
Fourth, and most pathetic, were his tears. Tears could not be sold to rural workers. Tears could not be drunk to increase one’s power. Tears could not put out the fire in the tavern, and they could not bring back his family. Tears were useless. Or so the mysterious Makaoishin told him.
“You trained, bleeding out your life’s essence, for two whole years,” the Makaoishin said. “And your livelihood still lays charred in front of you.”
Haipachi could only stare. He’d never seen a demon before.
“You lie here injured and helpless because you are weak,” he continued. “Barring ascension, there is nothing this single frail, soft, and pathetic human body can do to stop even a small army. Your wife and child will die because there is nothing you can do to help them. You are weak.”
Haipachi wanted to scream, to defend himself somehow, but the beating had left him too weak to move his jaw. The Makaoishin was right.
“But you can become strong,” the demon said. “For this strength, you need not sweat, bleed, or waste your time in years of training.” He reached out his palm, and a sudden puff of smoke materialized into an Oni mask. “You need only wear this mask.”
Haipachi suddenly felt the strength return to his arms and jaw.
“I-I-Is there a c-catch?” Haipachi said, trembling.
“If there is any ‘catch,’ it will be that you become too powerful,” the Makaoishin said with a deep chuckle. “You wish to save your family, do you not?”
Haipachi hesitated, but it was a vain exercise. He knew that he wanted that mask more than anything, and he snatched it hungrily, placing it onto his face. The mask immediately dissipated into smoke which crawled into Haipachi’s nose, ears, mouth, and eyes. His insides were overcome with an unbearable burning, but the smoke kept him from screaming.
His body underwent no transformation. Rather, a red, muscular, and imposing demonic figure ripped his way out of Haipachi’s skin, letting the flesh fall onto the ground. From the neck down, he could be confused for a very tall, muscular human in the dark. But his face was that of both a human and an Oni demon, and Haipachi no longer resembled himself.
But Haipachi had never felt better. His entire body was overcome with fever, but it was a fever he felt he could use. He felt powerful.
And he was powerful. Within minutes he managed to somehow locate the den of the Red Snake, and in his power, he slaughtered every last one of them. Every body lay splattered, crushed, lacerated or burned. All except two.
These were his wife and child, but he did not recognize them. Rather, he heard only their terrified screams that had not ceased since he had entered. The noise was shrill. It irritated him. It would not stop. It rang in his ears. It drove him mad. He slammed his fists onto the sources of the noise, and the noise ceased.
At this moment, horror gripped Haipachi even tighter than rage. His senses returned to see the crushed skulls of his wife and child, silent and without peace. He stared at his hands, soaked with blood that was practically invisible on his deep red skin.
These hands are not mine! Haipachi thought. He struggled to suppress his fury and his willpower cooled the fever. The demonic flesh melted into a disgusting pool, leaving a naked Haipachi there, weeping over the fragments of bone and brain. His tears still could not bring them back.
Jorlaxl, master of crane.