Sabaku no Mitchi

Solomon Grundy

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A hand twitched, outstretched from a shifting sand dune. Fingers flexing, the ground it jutted from roiling and shifting as another hand burst from the ground, a robed head soon rising out of it frantically. The figure that rose from the sand coughed, expelling the dry grit from his lips and struggling to assume an upright position. His head ached, his body felt sore and weak, but his chakra...he could feel his chakra waiting to respond to his motions and will. Hands now free, he made one symbol - the symbol of the Ram.

fwipfwipfwipfwifwipfwipthwapthwapshhhshhh

Sheets of paper burst from the ground as the youth simply dissolved into sheafs of the white material, floating in the breeze as more and more sheets poured from the ground. Floating lazily in a loose cloud nearly ten feet wide, they pulled back together above the sand where the man had been buried, a figure taking form from the numerous sheets. The soft sound of a thousand newspapers rustling, of bags of letters being shifted spread throughout the air, audible from near a hundred yards away. The man that stepped forth was tall, dressed in a black robe that hung loosely and comfortably from his frame even as the paper finished sticking to him. His face was marked with strange blue lines of makeup, covering a neutral expression with thin, pursed lips and placid grey eyes. Upon his forehead was a red strip of cloth attached to a metal plate, four vertical lines parallel to each other. Anyone from his homelands would know what it meant, but this did not look familiar.

Haruhiko Kami, shinobi of Amegakure, the Village Hidden in the Rain, was unsure of himself. He stared out across the dunes, felt the wind rustling at his body as the paper amalgam returned to being normal flesh and blood, for the moment at least. "The Land of Winds? But....I have never been to this part before." The ninja mused to himself. Perhaps if he gained enough height, he would spot Sunagakure, the Village Hidden in the Sand in the distance. A wise idea, but one that might leave him open to attack. In any case, there was no use in trying to hide in these sun blasted lands. He was a ninja of the air, not the earth.

The rustling sound grew louder as thick, curved wings began to form on the back of his robe, growing impressively wide as he felt his body grow lighter as he returned to the state of being he felt most at home in. "Shikigami no Mai: Angel." With a powerful flap, he was airborne, sailing upwards and scanning the horizon. Nothing. Nothing that was familiar . He was very far from home. But there, almost invisible....tall structures...and...shapes. Moving shapes. Civilization.

Haruhiko Kami set off towards the signs of life, soaring above the dunes on angelic wings of paper, inwardly fretting about being torn from his homelands, the disruption of his plans....but that would come later, when he was in a more comfortable environment. Now was the time for action.
 

Solomon Grundy

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As the flying ninja neared the cluster of buildings and spires, he could see they were less impressive than they looked. This wasn't a settlement... it was a ruin. An inhabited ruin, it seemed.

Shapes lazily ambled back and forth, until one of them spotted the approaching shadow in the center of their encampment. A shout went up and more people came out of the twisted piles of metal and stone. It seemed to be a rudimentary base camp, especially judging from how the occupants were dressed. Heavy robes and thick, jagged armor for most, with lighter clothing for the rest.

Haruhiko was so engrossed in studying the anthropological details that he just managed to turn aside and dodge the large ballista bolt that flew by him, tipped by a nasty looking scrap metal head. Well...if he was committed to playing the role...this would be the first place to make an impression...

The winged shinobi came to a halt and slowly floated downwards toward the assembled warriors. Guns, arrows, pointed blades, and all sorts of weaponry were trained on him. Opening his mouth and sweeping his arms aside, he began to speak. "Lay down your weapons and hear me. I only wish to-"

The sound of so many weapons firing at once was the only warning he needed, his body exploding into paper sheets as so many projectiles ripped into what would have been regular flesh. A cheer went up from the assembled group, dispersing as they figured the threat was over. "Alright, you lot. Get back to gettin' ready, we got a hard ride ahead for tonight's raid!"

The voice came from a taller man at the head of the assemblage, wearing a fearsome spiked helm and no shirt, showing off his muscled abdomen. Obviously the leader. Paper sheets fluttered away and dispersed as the raiders went back into their hovels.

Meanwhile, the paper came back together, collecting and reforming into Haruhiko's frame once more. He floated above the settlement, wings spread wide and a placid look on his face. "An example, then. A warning." He started performing hand seals. Only a few were required for this jutsu. He wasn't intent on leaving no survivors.

But they had dared to attack him, to disregard his words.

"Shikigami no Mai: One Thousand Cranes!"

The sound of paper being folded was loud and obvious, which drew some people back out into the open.

And then the origami birds descended, ornate, aerodynamic....and sharp.
 

Solomon Grundy

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As the ninja watched the flock of birds fall upon the crowd, in the instant before the carnage began and paper sliced flesh a thousand times, he had a fleeting thought, one that would have come along sooner if he had not been so obsessed on his "grand scheme".

You've never killed anyone.

The world went into sharp focus, noise washing out as Haru contemplated this, floating above a field of violence, his beautiful white paper staining red with blood. Screams echoed in slow motion as he gazed down at the scene with a blank and quizzical expression. His mind was a million miles away, and several dimensions too.

In the Great Archives of Amegakure, the paintings and poems about the Fourth Great Shinobi War were not hard to find. It was more or less recent history, in fact. Haruhiko had spent hours reading everything he could find about the different battles, the ninja who fought each other, the glorious and heroic legends that he'd visualized so many times. He knew that to accomplish what he sought, to galvanize the ninja world into the state it should be, that he would have to kill. But the thing that he failed to take into account was that in this new age, this new era of peace...shinobi from different nations rarely killed each other. Fought for sure, and maybe there was an accident every now and then...but nothing like the Bloody Mist era, or the war between Senju and Uchiha. He was only beginning to realize the true cost of his path with this - his first act of death.

After the initial wave of cranes, there were very few bandits left standing. Some lay dead, sliced to ribbons, pools of blood staining the dirty sand underneath them where they lay. Others had managed to crawl before expiring, and still more had survived to cry out in pain. It was...a battlefield. But with only one side as the victor,

Haruhiko turned away, unable to stand the sight of the carnage he'd caused, the scent of death hanging in the air over the camp like a fog. The angelic wings flapped, propelling him up and away as he flew from the scene of his first killings, flying as fast as possible until the wind burned his eyes. Tears clouding his vision, he angled too far down and crashed into a sand dune, rolling over and dry heaving onto the ground.

Did you think everyone would lay down their arms and pledge themselves to your 'noble' cause? Did you think this would be a bloodless endeavor? You are a villain, an angel of death. Your crimes must be worthy of punishment, worthy enough to make heroes rise to oppose you.

The shinobi laid on the sand, staring up at the fading sun as the air began to chill, thinking of home. The rains of Amegakure. The polar opposite of this dry, aching desert.

This was going to be more complicated than he had dreamed.
 

Solomon Grundy

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The sun was setting, a huge red orb burning along the horizon and emitting vapors like fumes from a coal. Night was beginning to dawn, Haruhiko lying face up on a sand dune and staring at a caravan in the distance. The wagon was surrounded by multilegged furry beasts, each one with six limbs to itself. A pair were lashed to a rather intricate harness, the wagon more of a sledge that could be slid across the shifting sands.

The ninja stood up and reached to the large scroll case on his lower back. Unclasping the latch, the pulls the sturdy wooden handle and unfurls a yard of it. Looking down, it was marked with symbols for various warnings and forms of forbidden seals. A small smile was brought to his lips when he remembered stealing this from the Archive reliquaries. A difficult operation, requiring no small amount of acrobatics and reaction times faster than even one with the dojutsu.

Up the last bookshelf, wary of the exploding tags taped under each shelf; a leap over the aisle to swing three times from a chandelier, which opened a small tunnel in the wall. Then, a hurried crawl through the tunnel before the nature jutsu that formed it collapsed again and into the sepulchre.

The Grand Forbidden Nirvana: Libraries of God scroll. The mobile armory that the Akatsuki had collected for their Lord. It was a sustained space-time jutsu, that when activated allowed you to retrieve a jutsu scroll from the battle racks that Pain had established during his reform of Amegakure. The only problem was, it was always different, and not always entirely useful. Only one could be withdrawn at a time, and the scroll refused to open until it had been used. A shrewd measure, thought Haruhiko. To prevent overuse and reliance on such a grand tool.

The one he pulled out was marked with green ribbon, denoting it as a Wind Style Jutsu. A very powerful Wind jutsu.

Almost uncontrollably so.

The grand white wings manifested above Haruhiko's shoulders, and he took off towards the caravan, shadowing it against the thick clouds of pinkish mist the sands of Mesa Roja admitted at night. The planet's bloody namesake, made ethereal by the sudden cooling, hung in thick patches. Anyone being followed would have too many other things to worry about than an occasional shadow as they traveled towards the end point of most caravans: a city.
 
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