Petals on the Wind

Mugen

Stabby Grabby
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A lonely compact lay atop a pile of neatly folded clothes. Next to them, a sheathed blade both ornate and simple at the same time decorated an empty coffin. These possessions were all that remained of Mugen, last name unknown, and they were all that he'd left behind to bury.

At the conclusion of Dante's Abyss, Karl Jak's flunkies had shipped the lone ronin's personal effects back to Kraw - no one knew where he'd come from, and since that's where he'd signed up for the death march, that's where they assumed he should be laid to rest. Or, as close to rest as he'd ever been, anyway.

And yet rest was so rare for the wicked.

The compact, flipped open to display a single cherry blossom on a tiny velvet cushion, began to glow. At first it was a dim light, scarcely noticable.

"And so we lay this poor wretch to rest - he died doing what he loved, as far as we know, and may whatever God he followed have mercy on his eternal soul," the quavering voice of a priest intoned. But to whom? There were no attendees to his funeral.

The light emitting from the compact swelled to a crescendo, and in the span of a few breaths began to take shape. It grew long and thin, bony and angular, and began to form the profile of a crude young face. Pencil thin mustache and a wispy goatee sketched themselves into life where moments ago there was naught, and thus began the life of Mugen anew. He took his first gasp, groped around in confusion, and then began to panic.

Everything was dark.

"What kind of fucking Hell is this!?" bellowed the samurai. He flailed about in the coffin, and was startled to find that he had both arms...fully functional, too! "LET ME OUT OF HERE!"

The priest, startled into action by the thumping and shaking coffin previously unoccupied, fumbled around for the latches on the coffin until his clumsy fingers found the clasps. Upon release, the straining clasps gave way to the coffin lid exploding open; from its maw leapt the rib-skinny ronin as naked as his name day. Manhood flapping in the wind, face alight with the joy of life where previously there had been none, Mugen sprang into the sun and stretched himself limber before the gaping man whom, moments before, had been ushering him to his final resting place.

The samurai doubled over to touch his toes. The priest cried out, and shielded his eyes. The cries drew the attention of the reborn, who turned abruptly and trained his beady eyes on the old man in the garb of God.

"...you gonna stare all day, old man? 'Cause that's gonna cost ya."


His eye caught on the gleam of his blade's sheath in the harsh Kraw sunlight, which he strode over to retrieve. His blade yawned free from its cover, delicate as a yawn, and whispered into the open air.

Mugen leveled it at the priest, his naked body eased but ready - it'd been awhile since he'd held a sword, having been deprived of weapons on the island of Dante's Abyss. In fact, he'd been so hard pressed to find any tool of use that he felt certain he'd done something to rub Karl Jak the wrong way. ...no matter. He was back now, nude and free.

"Scram, old man. You don't want any part of this," Mugen warned, giving him a snarl.

The priest obliged, tripping over himself to exit the graveyard. Though happy to be alive, the ronin was irked at his loss and wasn't in the mood to be gawked at. At least he'd gotten his sword back...small miracles.

In the midday light he dressed by his coffin, strapped his sword to his back, and looked out towards the forest behind him. He had no way of knowing if Mickey had returned or not, or even if the mouse had been slain on the island at all. ...for all he knew, the pint-sized pipsqueak had won it all. After all, he was full of surprises. It'd felt like they'd had a bond...but perhaps he'd been over-analyzing. Maybe ol' Mick had won the prize, set his sights on brighter pastures, and bid the samurai a 'see ya' later pal'. This brought consternation onto Mugen's visage.

...no, that didn't seem right. Perhaps he'd just missed him. The best place to check for Mickey, likely, was back in the settlement where it all began. Where they'd signed up. When you lost something, you looked for it in the last place you'd seen it, right?

With that notion in mind, Mugen made way for the barracks where they'd had their last evening of peace before the bloodbath of Dante's Abyss.

If nothing else, maybe he could get something to drink there. He hadn't had a drop of booze in days.
 

Mugen

Stabby Grabby
Level 1
Joined
Mar 28, 2020
Messages
20
Essence
€3,606
Coin
₡7,000
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World
Kraw
Profile
Click Here
He strolled through the street, lanky legs a-loping, sake flowing liberally from his flask and into his open maw at every impulse. The sun was bright, but not overbearing. The temperature was moderate, and conditions were perfect for a stroll. Before long, Mugen even found himself whistling tunelessly, some tone-deaf rendition of a tune he'd heard around the barracks here in New Abraxas before the Abyss.

Things were looking up for the ronin - sure, they'd been better before, at times. But they'd been a Hell of a lot worse, too. Even now, he could count two friends out there in the universe...assuming they'd come back from the Abyss, like he had. That was two more friends than he usually had at any given moments. Sure, there had been the occasional hangers-on throughout his marauding. Thugs, usually, and miscreants who found themselves emboldened by Mugen's headstrong rambling; those were the ones that followed him, but there was no longevity in it. Usually his flunkies found nobler pursuits, or died in the pursuit of a life of liberty.

Took a certain kind of rambler, Mugen figured, to hold to a life of vagrancy. And it took an even higher caliber of rambler to thrive in such conditions.

As it stood, he'd received an infusion of coin from the Abyss. Karl Jak, somehow, had anticipated the nature of his revival and when Mugen dressed himself post funeral he'd found a veritable wad in his pocket. More coin then he'd had in a long time, in fact.

Yeah, life was looking up.

And so was Mugen, gazing catatonic at a rather phallic looking cloud, half drunk...when he shambled right into a big bull of a man.

The rather brutish looking obstacle in the ronin's path stood at least a head taller than he himself - a feat, since Mugen was no small fry. The man wore a look of outright irritation upon his face. That face, in turn, wore an outrageous mustache that draped itself over the man's lips like a massive caterpillar and gave him the appearance of a frustrated walrus. His head, otherwise, was completely hairless.

Mugen found himself staring at the mustache.

"Watch where you're going, beanpole!" barked out the man. His voice was unexpectedly high-pitched for such a muscle-bound fellow.

The ronin quirked an eyebrow.

"At least I don't look like a walking meat slab," he mumbled, eyeing the guy from top to bottom. "...can you even hear me through that mustache? Looks like it's overtaking your head."

Mugen brought up his hand to take another swig of sake, and hadn't notice that the man had grown red faced and thrown a ham-sized fist his way the knuckles of which bowled right through the sake flask and shattered it. The samurai had enough time to widen his eyes before his combat reflexes kicked in - without even realizing he was moving, Mugen weaved deftly out of range of the technique, contorted his body into a coil, and then bucked backwards so that he landed with his arms fully outstretched and his palms acting as anchors. Both of his feet surged out and mule kicked the shit out of his hulking attacker's guts. The victim, whose face was already a violent shade of red, grew practically tomato-like.

With as nimble a motion as he'd attacked with, the ronin bucked left and narrowly avoided a spattering stream of projectile vomit. With his larger opponent doubled over and dry-heaving up what was left of his breakfast; Mugen's elbow swung around swiftly in an arc and delivered the short bout's final blow to the behemoth's neck, rendering the legged human walrus unconscious. The man slumped to his knees, let out a whimper, and then fell face first into the mess of bile, eggs, and blood.

...it was at this point that Mugen's small, supicious eyes noted the ring of onlookers that had gathered. Here in New Abraxas, he was mostly unknown, and he had planned on keeping it that way. He cast his eyes downward, hiding his face with his hand.

"Err...I'll just be, uh...going now..." he muttered, not meeting anyone's gaze. Hushed whispers surrounded him, and he pushed his way through a growing throng of townsfolk.
 
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