A Kuzuryu is meant to be the best possible reflection of their master. A paragon of grace, beauty, composure and unrivaled competence in all situations. Ashiko has always, always done her best to live up to this standard, to make her ancestors as proud as possible, to—to reflect as positively as possible against not only her current Danna-sama, but the memory of the young master she should have served.
It is this devotion that nearly crushes her as an old wound is torn anew in a few short sentences.
Her eyes burn, the dim moonlight enhancing rather than hiding her fury as it boils over. But Ashiko is still herself, is still enough of a Kuzuryu to ride that churning maelstrom of hatred and despair, and she growsexacting rather than sloppy. He's close, close enough to murmur, and that made him perfectly positioned for her to strike.
She rolled her wrists, selecting the proper needles and darting forth, slamming them straight into the veins just above his elbows. It's technically a toxin, though it takes days to become fatal. It's a favorite of her Danna-sama for intelligence eextraction; it paralyzes the victim in a matter of seconds while simultaneously leaving them capable of speech. The extremities are targeted first, making it especially effective against shinobi, and the effect spreads from there like ink on silk.
Ashiko speeds matters along, hooking a foot around his ankle as he sways and tugging, sending him tumbling down. She stands like that for a moment, looking down at him with glittering, boiling eyes, and then she bends down. She doesn't quite straddle him, but she half-sits half-kneels at an angle that leavesher leaning up against his chest in a intimate parody of her initial offer. When she has enough composure to speak, it's in a crooning murmur that could have just as easily been at home during pillow talk.
"You don't get to talk about them," she tells him, one hand planted next to his head to support her weight. "I don't know what sick rumors you may have heard, but toting around a stolen sword does not earn you dominion over the Kuzuryu. Not even the human one." Her other hand came up, cradling his cheek with unsettling gentleness. "It only earns you death for spitting on my true master's memory. And believe me, you will die," she assures him, as though speaking of something as banal as the weather. "That's a given at this point. How long it takes and how much it hurts, however..."
She pulls her hand back, using the long sleeve to hide her smile as her eyes crease in a demure smile.
"Well, good sir, that depends entirely on how much you're willing to tell me about when and where you came across that sword. I'm a reasonable woman; shall we negotiate?"
no subject
It is this devotion that nearly crushes her as an old wound is torn anew in a few short sentences.
Her eyes burn, the dim moonlight enhancing rather than hiding her fury as it boils over. But Ashiko is still herself, is still enough of a Kuzuryu to ride that churning maelstrom of hatred and despair, and she growsexacting rather than sloppy. He's close, close enough to murmur, and that made him perfectly positioned for her to strike.
She rolled her wrists, selecting the proper needles and darting forth, slamming them straight into the veins just above his elbows. It's technically a toxin, though it takes days to become fatal. It's a favorite of her Danna-sama for intelligence eextraction; it paralyzes the victim in a matter of seconds while simultaneously leaving them capable of speech. The extremities are targeted first, making it especially effective against shinobi, and the effect spreads from there like ink on silk.
Ashiko speeds matters along, hooking a foot around his ankle as he sways and tugging, sending him tumbling down. She stands like that for a moment, looking down at him with glittering, boiling eyes, and then she bends down. She doesn't quite straddle him, but she half-sits half-kneels at an angle that leavesher leaning up against his chest in a intimate parody of her initial offer. When she has enough composure to speak, it's in a crooning murmur that could have just as easily been at home during pillow talk.
"You don't get to talk about them," she tells him, one hand planted next to his head to support her weight. "I don't know what sick rumors you may have heard, but toting around a stolen sword does not earn you dominion over the Kuzuryu. Not even the human one." Her other hand came up, cradling his cheek with unsettling gentleness. "It only earns you death for spitting on my true master's memory. And believe me, you will die," she assures him, as though speaking of something as banal as the weather. "That's a given at this point. How long it takes and how much it hurts, however..."
She pulls her hand back, using the long sleeve to hide her smile as her eyes crease in a demure smile.
"Well, good sir, that depends entirely on how much you're willing to tell me about when and where you came across that sword. I'm a reasonable woman; shall we negotiate?"