[A fine blade. His eyes brighten, beaming starlight back at him before he's brushed against something, bony hands gripping shoulders. And just like that, his very white, very clean sword's scything through black teeth and cartilage; far more startle-response than skill yet, detached efficiency sweeping the edge up and through. ...Ah. Still that easy. The head's dropped first. Milky eyes peering up at him. Still vacant, though he's taking steps back.
He's frozen the rot over. Splintering through like dropped crystals, dry ice protruding.]
Mom- [starting over again,] Mom liked the blue ones best. The amaryllis.
[Distractly. One zombie down. Getting used to things over again—the violence. Scents rattle him more than sights do, but he's recalling sights too, again; a young uncertainty rising up in him, the bright-eyes dimming, seeking approval, permission. Anything but the scolding that Heroes shouldn't react this way. Even if monstrous, still vaguely human—life. At one point. The very thing he'd scolded Stain for, for killing, coming too easily for him. He's eyeing the corpse again.]
...Sorry.
[To what's left of it. He has to do this... protect the still living. He won't let anything touch. The swordsman's far too precious to him.
He straightens. Considers his sword a long moment. Softened smile creasing his mouth before he's swiping its gore off. Reassuring himself.] I, uh, [stumbling over words again. His eyes lower briefly.] This is just what samurai do, right? [The rest comes thoughtfully: an almost wonder lacing into it, quietly. He's thought a lot about something; the samurai, lately.] This means I'll fight in your world, now. [A true swordsman. He'll do this many times over again; ugly things with pure intentions. A good, awful calling. His eyes flash brighter.] That's one down.
[He'll be the wakizashi.]
Let's hope they're all this weak.
[Recovering already. He's pushing ahead with far more confidence now.]
cw: dismemberment, gore from this point on...
He's frozen the rot over. Splintering through like dropped crystals, dry ice protruding.]
Mom- [starting over again,] Mom liked the blue ones best. The amaryllis.
[Distractly. One zombie down. Getting used to things over again—the violence. Scents rattle him more than sights do, but he's recalling sights too, again; a young uncertainty rising up in him, the bright-eyes dimming, seeking approval, permission. Anything but the scolding that Heroes shouldn't react this way. Even if monstrous, still vaguely human—life. At one point. The very thing he'd scolded Stain for, for killing, coming too easily for him. He's eyeing the corpse again.]
...Sorry.
[To what's left of it. He has to do this... protect the still living. He won't let anything touch. The swordsman's far too precious to him.
He straightens. Considers his sword a long moment. Softened smile creasing his mouth before he's swiping its gore off. Reassuring himself.] I, uh, [stumbling over words again. His eyes lower briefly.] This is just what samurai do, right? [The rest comes thoughtfully: an almost wonder lacing into it, quietly. He's thought a lot about something; the samurai, lately.] This means I'll fight in your world, now. [A true swordsman. He'll do this many times over again; ugly things with pure intentions. A good, awful calling. His eyes flash brighter.] That's one down.
[He'll be the wakizashi.]
Let's hope they're all this weak.
[Recovering already. He's pushing ahead with far more confidence now.]