Storyteller Mode

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He tried to mask the irritation in his voice. Try as he might, he could not tear his gaze away from the Wolf Style insignia. Though he'd lived in the searing desert for three years now in near complete isolation, it did little to temper his short fuse. Part of his failure as a master was often losing his patience with his students, who in turn, lost faith in him.

It was one of his greatest regrets. Self-imposed isolation had always been his goal. The constant threat of intergalactic terrorists destroying his home was simply the excuse that allowed him to do it. His leathery hands creaked quietly under the strain of his curling fingers, tight fists forming where he held them behind his back. Though his facade was calm, his ire was stirring.

Where could this young punk have learned of the Wolf Fang style? It was popular, dedicated to swift yet precise strikes designed to cripple a foe versus crushing them with raw, untethered force. Many students sought to master it. Few ever did. It was not something to show off at tournaments. It was a lethal style meant to end one's life.


"Wild Wolf of the Diablo Deserts... yes... I suppose I could see that." He mused quietly, taking the sheaf of papers from Yoroshu's grasp and studying them for himself. It was all here, plain as day. The tenets and fundamentals of the Wolf Fang style, though heavily altered from what Oroi remembered teaching his own students. Perhaps adopted into the philosophy of bandit life.

Despicable. "You should be ashamed of yourself." His tone was low, nearly a growl as his steel gaze met Yoroshu's. "This is but a modified perversion of the true Wolf Fang style. These... Diablo Devils... I have half a mind to deal with them myself." He shoved the sheaf of papers into Yoroshu's midsection, stepping around the youth to head inside his home.

"I suspect you know nothing of the true Wolf Fang style, nor would have the proper patience to learn to wield it. It sounds like you've cut ties with this terrorist organization, and for that, I applaud you. But you had better come into a full knowledge of that which you proclaim to practice... that insignia is earned, not given."

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Yoroshu | word count: 1,287

Storyteller Mode

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A heavy sigh escaped the old man. Another pot of freshly brewed tea was calling his name. His typical morning routine consisted of gazing off into the red sands, sipping a cup of tea. Sometimes the flavor varied, yet green tea held the best medicinal properties, so it was what Oroi most often drank.

The sights and sounds of the desert did not change often. Aside from the occasional tumbleweed rolling through or the eddies of swirling dust -- dust devils, as the kids liked to call them -- there was often little in the way of 'entertainment'. Tea, meditation, breakfast, followed by more tea, more meditation, a couple hours of reading, lunch...

His routine was designed to the smallest modicum of time, down to the nearest second. He didn't have time to train some haggard youth just because he happened upon his dwelling abode in the middle of the desert. However, this seemed far too planned to be merely a coincidence. Almost as if fate itself were giving him a shot at redemption.

The youth's hand on his shoulder gave him pause. The youth's desperate plea stoked his conviction. With a huff and a slight flare of annoyance at his usual routine being disturbed, Oroi turned around to face the young man yet again. "You truly want to learn to wield the Wolf Fang Style? I warn you. It possesses none of the pomp and circumstance your ridiculous generation gets away with calling 'martial arts' these days..."


"If you insist. I'm more than happy to beat some respect into a punk like you." He slid into a defensive stance. A look of grim determination crossed his elderly features. Fingers curling sharply, they resembled the snarling maws of a dangerous wolf. "Prepare yourself this day. Master Oroi, Snarling Fist of the Red Sands, will be your liberation... or your demise."

BATTLE TRACKER

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Yoroshu | word count: 1,604

Storyteller Mode

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This youth fought to showcase his ability, not with the serious intent to do great harm. It was evident in the way he charged headlong into the fray, despite the fact that nothing about Oroi's form was left unguarded. Only a fool would dash in so brazenly as this youth had. He probably thought himself clever, disappearing just seconds after launching his assault, designed to confuse Oroi.

But a master of this style could never be deceived. Closing his eyes, Oroi searched out Yoroshu's energy. He found it, appearing just behind him. Few seconds passed between Oroi sensing his energy and the coming assault. His own form flickered from sight, Yoro's palm rushing through the space his head had once been, met with only empty air.

Oroi did not possess the speed to dodge the second assault as Yoro's foot sailed toward his face. It was all he could do to pivot his head to one side, taking the blow in the shoulder. Before Oroi could react, Yoroshu dashed backward to avoid a counter attack. Perhaps he is not a complete fool. Oroi swept a casual hand across his shoulder, brushing away the sand left there by Yoro's foot.

"Your form is sloppy. Your technique and timing are in disarray. And you're far too slow. You've yet to give me reason to waste my time teaching you anything, young man." It was time to show this youngster what the Wolf Fang Style was all about. Slipping back into his stance, Oroi dashed forward with blinding speed, drilling a fist toward Yoro's eyes to blind him.

If he reacted instinctively to protect those vital organs, he would lower his guard. If Yoroshu lowered his guard, he would pay dearly for that costly mistake as Oroi leveled two straight, lightning quick jabs to his abdomen, seeking to knock the pompous air from his lungs.

BATTLE TRACKER

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@diddlypoo | word count: 1,916

Storyteller Mode

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His words seemed to stoke the ire of the young man. Oroi was notorious for provoking his opponent during a fight. Combat was as much a mental game as it was physical. If you could shake them up, cause them to lose focus for even just a split second, it was all one needed to deliver a swift blow to end the battle decisively.

Oroi weaved and dodged the coming onslaught as best as he could. But his sandals did not maneuver well upon the sand. Stepping onto a particularly dense pile, his shoe caught, causing him to falter. Yoro's blow caught him hard in the ribs, hard enough to knock some wind from his old lungs. He fought to suck in a gasping breath, managing to free his foot from the shoe and create distance.

His ribs stung where the blow struck him. One of them were possibly cracked, and he winced as his fingers prodded to assess the damage. It annoyed him that Yoroshu could get such a lucky hit. The former bandit would most likely mistake it as skill, or even having caught Oroi by surprise. Such a maneuver would not happen again.

Slipping out of his other sandal, hot grains of sand wedged between his bare toes. It would have burned the soles of his feet had he not long grown accustomed to the searing sands, as often he trained barefoot in the midst of the desert itself. He recomposed himself, hands swishing about as he swept into his offensive stance once more.


"Impressive. It's been such a long time since anyone's been able to land a decisive blow against me. I'm almost hopeful that this won't be a waste of time. Do not disappoint me, boy." Oroi rushed forward once more, fist cocked to deliver another straight punch. At the last moment, he feinted, sweeping low to the ground and grasping a handful of hot sand.

He tossed it into Yoro's eyes, hoping to startle and rob him of his sight. He never promised to fight fair. Anyone who did not use any advantage at all, even the environment itself, was an utter fool. "Wolf Fang Style: Wolf Bite!" His hands flew in quick precision, sending a flurry of chops toward Yoroshu. Each blow was designed to strike a vital nerve, thus crippling his striking power.

Keeping the pressure on the lad, Oroi would dip low, swinging a leg around to take Yoroshu's feet out from under him. And, to finish off the swift combo of lethal moves, should Yoro have lost his balance Oroi drilled a stiff palm straight down. Combined with the momentum of Yoroshu tumbling to the ground from the leg sweep, it would drill him hard into the sand.

BATTLE TRACKER

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Yoroshu | word count: 2,374

Storyteller Mode

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This was just what the old man was waiting for. It was the signature technique of the Wolf Fang style, the Wolf Bash. One would harness their ki, condensing a ton of energy into their assault before striking a powerful blow meant to utterly stop a foe in their tracks. Oroi had used it against many a fighter. He'd even killed a man once, an old student turned rogue.

That was the real reason he exiled himself to the Red Sands, wasn't it? To escape from a murky past. He could only imagine the shape of his old dojo, no doubt little more than a dusty old ruin by now. By the time he'd left, he had no more pupils. Most of them quit in fear, determining they would be next in line to endure the old man's wrath.

I've made... so many mistakes. It nearly brought tears to his eyes as Yoro's fist came sailing at him. Time seemed to slow as Oroi watched it draw near. A part of him wished to simply take the blow. It held enough power to do great harm. It would be just desserts for the pain and misery he'd caused in the past. But this battle wasn't about penance, was it?

And he had long since stopped feeling sorry for himself. Perhaps this was a chance at redemption... this young fighter, Yoroshu, held some promise. With the right tutelage... anything were possible. By the time Oroi came to this conclusion, it was far too late to dodge. The best he could hope to do was pivot his body, so that he took the blow to his shoulder instead of his face.

Pain exploded in his shoulder, rattling his body, though it did seem to absorb some of the impact. His muscles had tensed on instinct, thus, saving him from being dealt what could have been a fatal blow. Still, it popped his shoulder out of place, and the stinging pain in his neck once he turned his head told him his collar bone was most likely fractured as well.

He no longer had the luxury of toying with this youth. In truth, in that moment, Oroi had made up his mind. He would teach the poor lad to harness the Wolf Fang Style. And maybe, in the process, find some measure of redemption. Power exploded from Oroi, throwing up a massive column of stinging sand and knocking back Yoroshu.


"You really did a number on me, young man." His aura danced wildly around his form, a result of drawing out every ounce of latent energy he possessed in order to power up his current form. Oroi worked his shoulder about, having popped it back into place, wanting to shake some of the stinging pain and limber up a bit. In this form, his natural body was amplified, packing on a ton of protective muscle.

It was a terrible sight to be hold, fearsome to be sure. There was a reason he was the Snarling Fist. "I've taken the best shot you possess. Now, it's time to return the favor, ten-fold." He squatted low, gathering his energy. The ground trembled beneath his feet as his spiritual pressure rose, gathering and condensing his ki into his own fist.

"There is a reason the Snarling Fist of the Red Sands has been feared for quite some time! Wolf Fang Style: Snarling Fist!" He unleashed his assault, the force of his swing stirring up a powerful wind that send waves of aura and sand propelling forth in tandem with his devastating blow. He aimed it at Yoroshu's body, though avoided his vital areas.

It wouldn't do to kill his new protege, now would it?

CURRENT PL: 25,350 | BASE PL: 16,900
HP: 49/78 | KI: 91/130 | DEF: 75 (Edge I) | TOUGHNESS: 0 | DMG DIE: d8 | ACC: 30

Storyteller Mode

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There it was.

The faintest of glimmering aura. In the bright light of the desert sun, and considering the velocity of their quick-paced sparring, it was easy to mistake this as a trick on the eyes.

But much like his body, his eyesight was sharp and infallible. There was no mistaking the spirit of the wolf that briefly enveloped the youth as he bombarded Oroi with his signature attack. He faltered at the sight of it, causing his foot work to miss a step. This forced Oroi to parry the blows as opposed to dodging them.

He could feel the power behind each strike, sending ripples of brute force through his aching limbs.

A sense of elation filled his heart though his face did not betray the new emotion. Yoroshu had not only convinced him of his commitment to learning the true Wolf Fang style, but he seemed to possess a natural skill that made him a formidable foe in battle.

Even now, as his palms weathered the stinging blows rained down upon him, Oroi knew that he had found the one.

As Yoroshu charged forth with his final assault, Oroi chuckled and sidestepped it.

He gingerly placed a hand on top of Yoro's extended fist.

"That is enough. You've shown me all that I need to see."

Oroi took a step backward, fists meeting behind his back as he observed Yoroshu, clearing his throat as he did so.

"I have made my decision... I will train you in the art of the Wolf Fang Style. You possess raw power, but it is sloppy and unrefined. While you may deal an earth-shattering blow, which in and of itself is no small feat, you are wasting far too much ki and energy to do so. And the way you leak your aura during battle? It is sickeningly amateur."

The tongue lashing was harsh and unforgiving, but necessary. His steel gaze penetrated the former bandit of the Diablo Devils.

"However... what you've shown me is the potential to wield this style. Perhaps you even possess the natural talent to surpass even one such as myself..."

His gaze grew wistful as his eyes drifted past Yoro, staring off into the distance with his deep, furrowed brow betraying the depth of his thoughts.

"Yes... I suppose you would make a fine apprentice."

Clearing his throat once more, feeling more like an old man off on a senseless tangent as folks of his age tended to drift, he walked past Yoroshu, crossing the threshold into his home.

"Come, now. I've not yet had my second cup of morning tea."

His form disappeared into the shadows of his quiet home, the door remaining open as an invitation.

Would Yoroshu follow, and thus, fulfill his destiny?

Or would the thought of becoming a student of the infamous Snarling Fist prove far too heavy of a burden to bear, sending the young pup trembling into the desert, tail tucked between his legs in defeat?

It was his choice to make.

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Yoroshu | word count: 3,503

Storyteller Mode

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Several Hours Later...

Steam rose from his cup as Oroi raised it to his lips, taking a long sip of tea.

He eyed the cup in Yoroshu's hands, noting the youth's reluctance to drink it. With a sigh, he placed the his own cup atop the mantel place that overlooked the hearth. Despite the warmth of the evening, a small fire crackled within.

Its flames were mesmerizing, cracking and popping as tongues of fire lapped thirstily at the wood, consuming its fuel.

The smell of wood and smoke filled the tiny mud dome, along with the delicious scent of the stew which bubbled in the pot where it rested on a cooking spit in the fire.

"Drink your tea. No pupil of mine can expect to learn the true Wolf Fang style without a proper education of tea. Perhaps it may seem pointless to you, but the Wolf Fang style can be just as diverse. It isn't all about brute power."

Everything with Oroi was a lesson. The teaching began the moment Yoroshu followed him into his home. And it would continue, every second of the day, until Oroi felt Yoroshu understood the implications of their arrangement.

"Think of a tea leaf. It sprouts from a stem, often supple enough to bend. Yet it can support the weight of the leaf and help to give it shape. Now, imagine how many hundreds of thousands of leaves there are... how many hundreds of thousands of trees there are... innumerable."

He turned, hands held rigid behind his back to face his new pupil.

"The Wolf Fang style could crush a boulder, or split the wings from a butterfly. It is both brutal and precision. If you can combine those... you are a step closer to mastering the style."

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Yoroshu | word count: 3,806