Sliced Leaves [Rank A/Will and Volt only]

Gen listened as the boy before him spoke, apparently agreeing that at least a preliminary rundown of one another’s skills would benefit the two greatly. At least the person with whom he would complete this mission seemed at least basically competent. As Makoto spoke, Yogensha kept meticulous track of what he said about himself, noting that he was in possession of an interesting bloodline which Gen had virtually no experience with; he had vaguely heard the name in the past but did not know anything about it outside of the chunin’s assertion that the people of his clan specialized in controlling their own blood at that it was, in the words of the other man, a pretty weird skill. Gen nodded at this, showing both his agreement with the estimation and that he had taken in the information.

The boy went about detailing some of the particular techniques that he knew, something which Gen found superfluous at best but about which he said nothing. He recalled that, in group combat and the like, not everyone adapted as quickly as he did, something that the village council never forgot to mention in regards to his missions since he generally preferred to go them alone. They unanimously felt that such an attitude was a great loss and seemed to take great pleasure in putting him on group missions even though he was not a fan. The young man felt a ping of shock travel through him as Makoto began outlining his own abilities for him, going so far as to reference his ability to use the wood release. Controlling his face, he allowed only a singular eyebrow to raise as his partner would speak, confused as to how he could possibly know such a thing; the council of elders of the clan tended to be rather tight lipped on the subject of who had unlocked the coveted ability and while it would logically be displayed somewhere on a file with the village council, it surly constituted as classified information of the highest order.

Then again, Yogensha’s name was public knowledge, so perhaps Makoto had simply assumed that, being a Senju, he would logically have wood release. Perhaps this was how his own clan worked in that all those with the blood had full control of it. Gen made a mental note to ask him at a later time.

”Hm… yes, I do have the wood release, though if you would mind terribly not to spread it around I would be much obliged. Aside from this, I have a great level of proficiency in general in the field of ninjutsu as well as genjutsu, so fear not the illusionary arts while I am at your side. As for my taijutsu, I actually know none and would consider this my greatest weakness. I thus propose that you be the point man, if that would be alright with you, while I support you from a medium range. I would envision that your unique ability to control your own blood should give you a distinct advantage in close quarter combat, correct? Will you be able to hold your own with the samurai in close quarter combat?” Gen would then pause, waiting for a response. He did not wish to overly pressure the young ninja or send him into a situation he could not handle. He needed to know if the boy would be able to hold his own. ”Additionally, have you any weapons to use, or will your blood suffice? While I would imagine that the samurai in question will outclass you in this regard, it may do you well to have some ability to block his blows.”

With these final few questions and preparations, Gen and Makoto should find themselves prepared to head out and put down the samurai bandit.

Now that was a lovely sword indeed.

It came unsheathed in a fluid motion, smooth and singing steal flowing through the air with expert precision. The man before them, while clearly a lunatic, as evidenced by his crazed quaking, mad shouting, and the spit flying from his quivering mouth, certainly had been well trained and wielded a magnificent blade. Gen took the slight shock of the samurai’s appearance in stride, not allowing himself to outwardly blink or in otherwise express the mild shock of it. The man had, apparently, been eavesdropping on the shinobis’ conversations and had heard at least some of what Gen had said. Gen inwardly shook his head, realizing that this samurai could in no capacity be allowed to live. Before this, he may have allowed him to be apprehended, an unlikely event to be sure, but something distinctly possible, but now he needed to die.

The samurai would, after a long while of raging uncontrollably about the vile nature of ninja and the laudable nature of samurai. Gen hardly managed to resist actually rolling his eyes on the battlefield, a pitfall of habitual sarcasm and general disregard for other people. However, he had at least a modicum of survival training and instinct and thus avoided removing his eyes from an opponent so clearly versed in physical combat. And then the sword came out in all the aforementioned smoothness, the handle resting in the other man’s grip in a strange way, his arms held in a pose that was unfamiliar to the Senju but which doubtlessly heralded danger.

The samurai, clad in a full suit of gleaming armor, charged forward at that, still quivering with mad rage and having only just completed his tirade of shouting. At his the unsheathing of the blade, the shinobi fell into a lowered stance, prepared to duck or move at any moment’s notice. His hand hovered in front of him, palms ready and poised for receiving weapons or anything else that should be required of them. He did not.

To his left his partner, Makoto, constructed some kind of shield on his arm, a large collection of what appeared to perhaps be a darkly colored blood, pouring out and forming into a solid mass on his arm, He attempted to move in front of Gen to block it, but the older man’s arm was swifter, shooting out to his side and colliding with the boy he had traveled here with, attempting to keep him out of the way of the incoming blade. The samurai seemed blinded in his intense focus on Gen, the man he had specifically called out, and this could be advantageous. With any luck, the boy would not only attempt to step in front of the older man but would ready a counter strike, perhaps maneuvering around the assailant to strike from his flank.

As it were, the man moved with almost astonishingly speed and his blade moved doubtlessly with more. When he had stepped within a threatening distance, Gen’s mouth would drop open, his eyes staring impassively at the approaching man as his right foot struck the ground. He was about seven or eight feet away, not quite enough to strike the man even with a full extension of his arm but still a bit too close for comfort. His momentum should still carry him forward and he would likely begin the inevitable strike at any moment, the blade shifting to either stab or swing at the man who stood, mouth agape, before him.

The strike would not find its mark.

Rather, a massive arm of stone would shoot out at blinding speed from the Senju’s mouth, the hand and forearm alone shielding the entirely of his body from the front and extending for a foot around his person in all directions. The appendage continued forward though, reaching for the samurai and his offending blade with outstretched fingers, searching to grab the warrior and crush him in its vice like grip or, if not that, to attempt to disarm him by grabbing the blade of the sword in its stony grasp and wresting away the fine hunk of metal. While not successful inherently, the samurai’s forward motion would make it difficult, though not impossible, to alter his course on such short a notice, particularly if he was both poised to strike at the man and of the belief that he could not defend himself at close quarters.

Regardless of the success of the venture of the hand, the entirty of the golem would extract itself from the man in only another moment, resulting in a golem comprised of stone standing between the samurai and the shinobi, a twelve or so foot tall behemoth with gargantuan hands and phenomenal strength. Additionally, his ally, Makoto, should have a clear shot from the attacker’s right side had he moved himself around to the left and taken advantage of the samurai’s finding the large barrier of the giant obstructing his path.

Sending a pulse of chakra out from his body, Gen would relocate the enemy within only a single moment of having lost sight of him, expanding his senses to include the life force of those around him and tasting the unique signature of the craze sword wielding lunatic. He had a cold, hard texture about him sharpened by a metallic spice and run through with a flavor that Gen could only describe as that of cooking oil. His hands would come together than once more from behind the golem, cautiously preparing himself for whatever was to come next. He doubted that the samurai would truly be able simply shrug off one of his illusions and he felt the urge to test this theory.

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The charade had gone on quite long enough and Gen felt his face fall, felt himself grow bored and restless with the screaming lunatic of a samurai near him. The man, flipping elegantly over the earthen golem that Yogensha had made, definitely impressed the shinobi a bit with his grace and poise, though his absolute insanity and insistence on yelling irked the dark haired man to now end. The time had come to put an end to this with a single, final strike, and Gen was more that equipped to do so. The golem, its purpose served, would simply begin to fall apart, crumbling slowly and tumbling into little more than a large heap of rocks. However, the samurai would have large issues with which to preoccupy his time.

As the thing began to wear away, the samurai would, once again, open his mouth. He seemed incapable of resisting the urge to talk endlessly and this not only made him phenomenally annoying but also would serve as his downfall. His banter beginning, Gen’s hands would come together, quietly, in to formation of a single seal. His hand yet hovered before his body, the man behind him would find no warning in the upcoming assault, the muscles of the green eyed man’s arms moving imperceptibly beneath the long sleeves that we wore. Gen would then turn around as the samurai spoke, an effort to meet with his eyes and ensure his own safety, but such was simply a ruse, serving only to further lessen the guard of the bladed mad man. His hand broke apart as he turned, returning to the hovering position they had previously occupied in front of his chest.

However, as he turned, the samurai, still speaking about “bringing,” would find himself incapable of further motion, for the seal had been woven and with it, the swordsman’s life would be forfeit. Trees erupted from the ground, their speed surpassing even that of the warrior’s as they grew up and around him. Their trunks, sprung from the ground not a foot away from the man, surrounded him entirely as their branches reached up for him, growing rapidly and intending to twist around his body, his limbs, and his blade. With such little time to react and his inferior speed, the samurai had no course of escape. Even more problematic for him, though, was the pollen the trees produced, flowers blooming the moment the wood burst from the ground and spreading a faint, yellow mist as they grew. The pollen would knock him out in seconds, the stuff spreading all around the battlefield in a moment’s notice, avoiding only the person of Makoto and the immediate breathing space of its master.

His head burst then, for just a fleeting moment, with the watery, distorted presence of the Old One, the monstrosity visiting him now. Yes, good. Good. Though I cannot help but wonder, to what purpose does this poor soul go? No matter though, he is weak and foolish. It would be wise to track him, I feel. Follow where he goes and learn what it is this fellow needs of his body and mind. You must. The idea had not immediately struck the man, though it did make sense. Moving slowly over to the thicket of trees, Gen approached Shugu, the pollen parting at his coming. He reached his hand out slowly, cautiously, to test the pulse of the enemy, but such caution meant little; he was long gone, knocked unconscious by the pollen. His fingers grazed the man’s neck before trailing off down his armor, confirming he was alive, and leaving behind a collection of microscopic spores all over his body.

The thing chuckled deeply, a twisted sound comprised of no voice and rather a collection of many sounds of nature: the waves, thunder, birds flapping, metal tearing. It was unsettling to say the least. Here. Take it. It was yours, all along. And then the thing was gone, the whole ordeal taking only the time required to test the man’s vitals. Yogensha turned to his companion, his voice filling not with regal authority but with an air of command. ”You can take him back to the village. I have a few other matters to attend to. Nice work though.” And with that, that man was off, striding back towards the village walls, the pollen of the trees finally subsiding and admitting Makoto passage.

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