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About ronin

  • Rank
    Main Character
  • Birthday 09/29/1980
  1. ronin hated to lie to Totem. They'd never been friends, but the inherent nature of an untruth was something bitter and sour to the man. But at that moment, a lie was what was needed, and so a lie was told. And it worked. The smaller beast climbed higher and faster, reaching a screaming crescendo of lightning and wind and blood, nearing ever closer to the mad god who sat at its epicenter. With a screaming, shuddering lurch, the pair were altogether upon their opponent, Totem rushing in claws-first as he made his desperate bid to wrest control of the storm from his dark self. It claimed the thunderbird's senses for a hair of a moment, an advantage to exploit no wider than the absence of a single scale on Leviathan's back. ronin's mind rested on thoughts of Stamford Bridge and Thermopylae and Guilford Courthouse. He was calm. "Dog soldier", Wakinyan called him. It was more accurate than he'd ever know. Space shifted, and ronin was again atop the beast, standing in the space between his shoulder blades, a space large enough to accomodate a horse. Lightning and wind sheared him, singing and shredding the very clothes from his back. He dug in, lowering his stance. He would not be moved. Beneath him, Totem and Wakinyan battled. A moment frozen in time as clean as machined crystal tore forth, a symphony of slaughter. Totem was losing, and both ronin and Wakinyan knew it. He'd been beaten so badly already. The battle would be over soon, regardless of the victor. This time, no steel found Wakinyan's flesh. Totem's valiant distraction had provided the opening he needed. His forehead felt like a blossoming inferno as his node surged new strength and vigor into his body. ronin clenched a newborn sun in his fist, and it erupted into a shaft of light that immolated the surrounding air and made the rain boil before it left their cloudy hearths. ronin tensed, and with zen concentration, eased the shining star into the back of Wakinyan's head until his hand rested on the back of his crown. The space between Wakinyan's eyes erupted in white light, and the storm broke. They fell to earth.
  2. The massive beast's opening move was meant to be a killing blow, a hurtling, claws-first bum's rush intended to end the fight immediately. Wakinyan was too eager, and it spared ronin some injury in the immediate. ronin thanked the fact that he and Wakinyan had not fought before. Wakinyan was underestimating him. That, and his anxiousness, would be a disadvantage. Wakinyan was an untamed force of nature, primal and atavistic. ronin embodied war, strategy, tactics, precision. Wakinyan was a hurricane that digests an entire state, but ronin was the bombing of Hiroshima, the last stand at Thermopylae. He was calm, patient, and precise. And he had studied his opponent in a dozen incarnations on a dozen worlds. Wakinyan's claws left their mark upon ronin's blade, and would have shattered it to splinters of steel had it not been brought under the aegis of his opponent's personal protection. ronin knew that the marks could easily have been on him. Wakinyan sailed by at near sonic speed, narrowly deflected by the blade's edge, albeit without a scratch. ronin turned to prepare for Wakinyan's next pass, readying his blade in the same fashion he had before. Wakinyan's ego was a profound weak spot; if ronin could remain unhurt, and as calm and cold as new snow, he might be able to goad the Thunder God into doing something rash. ronin's face was serene as Wakinyan whipped his tremendous frame back around, this time determined to tear the stoic man to shreds. The man stood there in perfect silence, as motionless as stone as he waited for the next pass. This time, Wakinyan was resolved to send his opponent to the ground. As he sped towards ronin, he opened his tremendous, beaked maw and unleashed a surging bolt of raw force that split the heavens and shattered the cloud cover as it hurtled forward. The bolt would hit a fraction of a second before Wakinyan himself did, and he was certain the double-blow would overcome the frustratingly calm warrior. ronin saw the blast in time. With a motion blinding fast and as fluid as water, he deflected the blast with the edge of his blade, redirecting it straight upwards to briefly shine day upon the ground below. Wakinyan, on the other hand, was committed to his course, too close and too sure of his aim to adjust. ronin crouched and sidestepped an impossible distance to avoid Wakinyan's massive, hulking frame hurtling at him, and with sublime precision, extended his blade outward, striking the back of Wakinyan's wing where it met his back harmlessly with the flat of his blade. A "counting coup", an expression of bravery originating with the Sioux, taking the form of a harmless but meaningful blow struck to an opponent who would likely respond with deadly force. ronin thought that Wakinyan would appreciate the significance of the gesture, and it said more than any lethal attack could; "I could have just sheared your wing off, but I chose not to. I don't need to in order to defeat you. I can play with you all I like." That wasn't the truth, and ronin knew it, but he also knew that's how Wakinyan would interpret it, making him even more mad with rage. The shriek of hate that came from Wakinyan's mouth shook the mountains to their roots and rendered any of the natives unlucky enough to be within range deaf. "Son of a bitch! Arrogant, tiny, fucking bastard motherfucking pathetic monkey! I'll eat his damned heart!!" Blood pounded in Wakinyan's ears, raw fury pounding through his brain like lava. He rebounded off a rock face and struck back like a coiled serpent, his claws extended, his body combusting into a holocaust of ghostly fire, bringing the full force of his raptor screech down upon the tiny, impudent little man who mocked him. ronin felt his stomach heave, the sonic scream momentarily putting him off his center. He suppressed a surge of bile rushing up to meet his mouth with a cringing flex of his solar plexus and grimaced. Wakinyan saw his opening and took it. Claws bit into flesh, but a hair of a moment too late; ronin's sword slapped the Thunderbird's rump, almost playfully, followed by the back of his massive thigh. Wakinyan became unhinged. His opponent was mocking him, despite his injuries. He must be crazy. In his mad play, however, Wakinyan had discovered a weak point, and smiled sadistically, knowing to exploit it again and again. On the ground below, ronin had picked himself up and turned, raising a hand with his thumb and two fingers extended, as if in protest, begging for him to stop, his other hand clutching his bleeding shoulder. Wakinyan snarled and opened his beak to let out another devastating scream, throttling forward at full tilt, confident that this time the grim, small man would be in too sorry a state to effectively fight back. No sound came out. Wakinyan realized far too late that the gesture ronin made wasn't pleading. He was shunting off his power. It was too late to turn back. Wakinyan had comitted to the attack, and he'd be damned if he was going to let this runty little ape get the best of him. He redoubled his speed and continued his headfirst dive. ronin hadn't even redrawn his sword! He was still using his blade arm to clutch his bleeding shoulder. Wakinyan could smell the blood as he closed, coppery and hot, and see it trickling away from his palm in jagged rivulets. He needed to see more. Staring up intently with his one good eye, ronin simply held up his hand. Wakinyan smiled; this idiot was about to be turned into slag meat. ronin could feal the Thunderbird's breath approaching his neck when he finally made his move. His eye never left Wakinyan's gaze, as if he'd been waiting - intently - for this precise moment, where he dipped his two fingers downward. The world surged and lurched under Wakinyan's body, and where ronin was, now the ground was rushing up to meet him. A lightspeed evaluation of the situation told him that ronin and the world had stayed put, it was him that had changed direction. With all his might, the Thunder God attempted to change his course, lunging forward with his claws extended. A surge of unnatural strength rippled through his body as he managed to pull his body out of freefall, lashing out at the War God before him. He was gone. Wakinyan's claws found purchase in the stony embrace of the earth, charcoal and basalt molding like clay in his grip. He instantly knew where ronin had gone, but it was too late. White fire exploded from ronin's fist, enveloping the length of his blade in a pillar of baleful light. Steel and fire seared into Wakinyan's spine and he howled in fury, pain and hatred. With a wrenching twist, the War God turned the knife separating two of Wakinyan's vertebre. The Thunder God snarled to the man who now stood atop him like St. George come to slay the dragon, his wings slumping as pain pumped in thick, electric gouts through his body. The battle was not yet won.
  3. Journal Entry, Day 442, Omicron-Delta-Delta ,,In off the moors, down through the mist bands,God-cursed Grendel came greedily loping. The bane of the race of men roamed forth, hunting for prey in the high hall. Wise sir, do not grieve. It is always better to avenge dear ones than to indulge in mourning. For every one of us, living in this world means waiting for our end. Let whoever can win glory before death. When a warrior is gone, that will be his best and only bulwark. After Chicago burned, I'd made up my mind. The Alpha-Beta-Gamma version of the nova who called himself "Wakinyan" - called "Totem" on my home plane, which I have shamelessly labeled Alpha-Alpha-Alpha - could not be permitted to exist any longer. He must be destroyed. I'm certain that Neil and the others thought they were pursuing the wisest course of action when they banished Wakinyan to a world in which he would be alone with his hubris, but they must have known that in doing so they were taking the easy out. Putting a bandage on a bullet wound. Wakinyan would find a way out, and very likely in a manner of a few short years. Possibly even months. And in the meantime, to leave him as God over a world still developing? No. Unconscionable. I could not allow it. It took some convincing to wrest Wakinyan's chronoplanar coordinates from anybody who knew. Timeslip, Neil, Long, Singularity, they were all mum on the matter. I can't blame them. The A-B-Γ version of me didn't survive his eruption. They had no reason to trust me. Truth be told, if they knew why I wanted to know, they wouldn't tell me, anyway. Why they chose not to kill him I can't say. Their forgiveness must be limitless, even in the face of all the destruction he wrought. Perhaps they haven't the stomach for murder. I don't know. At any rate, it didn't take too long to find what I was looking for. I first came to A-B-Γ three years ago, and made the wise decision to cultivate a small number of contacts while there. Agent Kurwin was less than forthcoming about the details I needed, but I managed to pry them out by telling him what I had planned. I die or Wakinyan dies: either outcome would be satisfactory to him and who he represents. I confirmed the information two days after arriving in O-Δ-Δ, spotting Wakinyan soaring above a blanket of clouds that blotted out the sun. Rainmaker, they called him below, bowing to their thunderbird. He struck a handful of them down with fire from the sky for sport. A constant reminder that he could give and take as he liked. He thankfully missed me. Too wrapped up in his grandiosity, I suppose, reveling in his deific power. I left to gather some things. From Alpha-Phi-Omega, I retrieved Honjo Masamune, my sword. This one was not mine, in truth. My Honjo Masamune came from Lambda-Phi-Rho, but I had shattered it some time ago on the snout of a dragon that I fought when I was Tanata, a student of Jubei. This version of the blade, from an Earth without novas, was recovered from an antique store in a coastal down in northern California, when Sgt. Coldy Bimore's niece sold it with the rest of the articles she found lying about the house after his death. It was very easily the finest example of Masamune's work left in that world. Strange. This one bore my name. I wondered for a moment if it really was mine, somehow, or if I had - or would be - through the past of this universe, or if I had subconsciously supplanted the space of someone named Tanata who existed prior to my meddling. No time to wonder at the moment. I paid the clerk and left. It cost me sixty dollars. My next stop would be A-A-A, for the first time since I started this journal. Before my most recent departure, I had put it an order for a parcel, one which I finally meant to collect. My sudden arrival on Prime very probably raised a few alarms. I knew I wouldn't have long. People would be looking for me. The Machinist was expecting me when I went to meet him. He was one of those who knew I had returned. He handed me my parcel, and I assured him that I would not be using it on his plane: the secondary price of his services. I exchanged with him the parcel I had carried for him for many days. He smiled, thanked me, and told me to leave. I have known this man in six of his different lives, and I haven't the heart to tell him that he is exactly the same in all of them. The last item to acquire was retrieved from a cache I established on Mu-Delta-Iota, where time flows so slowly that I could leave my things in a thicket at noon, travel elsewhere for a decade, and return to pick up my things by supper. Life remained confined to the oceans, here. I rummaged through my sack, found what I was looking for, and put it in my pocket, drawing the strings on the bag shut again and gently placing it back in its cradle, where it would remain another twenty or thirty years. Thus prepared, I was ready to return to O-Δ-Δ to commence my bloody business. This may be my last entry. Wakinyan has had more than adequate time to recover from the wounds he was given. Even at full strength, I may not be powerful enough to defeat him. A-B-Γ's Daniel Thunderhawk embraced all the demons of his primal nature, and has accordingly become something so inhuman he may very well be a god. There is nothing more inhuman than a god, this is something I can attest to personally. No sense forestalling the inevitable. The Thunder God versus the God of War. End Entry. ___________________________________________________________________________________ ronin left his perch outside the valley on foot, deliberately preserving the precious energy he knew he would shortly need. He was dressed shabbily, roughly, like one of the natives, obscuring his identity from above, where Wakinyan preferred to observe his subjects, sitting in satisfied silence. It was plain to see, looking into the cowl, the pale skin of a wasicu, a word both known and unknown on this earth, as well as the shaggy mess of a beard tinted like red clay. There was only one eye in the cowl, burning brightly as it turned itself towards the ground. A sword and a satchel hung from the belt he wore beneath his shroud, his only other clothing a pair of cuffs that fit snugly over his wrists. He would fight better without the encumberance, and the gods have no need of modesty. He was still a good distance from the Thunder God's cave high in the mountain cliff when he detected - not one, but two - distinct quantum signatures. He bristled, his gaze becoming hard. Had someone beaten him here? Had he misclassified this planet as being bereft of telluric resonance? Or had Timeslip or one of the others returned for him? No matter. Time was running out. On his bare feet, he ran forward. What he found made him halt fast. Wakinyan was here, in all his awesome and terrible majesty. He'd been injured. Beneath one of his rear paws was also Wakinyan, but a smaller, less monstrous analog. ronin could smell them both from where he stood. He knew both of those scents, was familiar with both of those quantum signatures. He had found Wakinyan, and it seems Wakinyan had somehow found Totem. There was no time to question. Wakinyan leaned down towards his younger self and whispered at a volume so low and deep that it was indecipherable at that range, but the gestured of raising his taloned paw over Totem's head that followed was unmistakable. In one quick motion, ronin pulled away his cowl and drew his blade, fire radiating in his one eye to mirror the inky black left by the pit of the other. Before the killing blow could be struck, ronin had moved into a battle stance, taking his place atop a rocky outcropping that sat onerously like a throne above the plain. Both Wakinyan and Totem could smell him, suddenly, and as Wakinyan did, his eyes widened, his throat erupting with a thunderous growl of hatred that rolled across the plains like the stampeding of a thousand horses. ronin gazed down at him, his one eye reflecting not hatred, not malice, but a firey resolve, as he held his stance at ready, waiting for the Thunder God to make his move. Wakinyan cursed with rage. There was no way he could dispatch Totem without leaving himself fatally open to attack, and ronin knew it. So be it. The son of a bitch had traveled this far to die, it seemed criminal not to oblige him. "Don't even think about moving, you fucking weakling. You can rethink your stupidity while I kill this idiot", he snarled down at his smaller self. With a grim finality, he added, "You're lucky he showed up. He just bought you a last chance." With a bound that shook the earth, Wakinyan leapt into the air, his massive wings beating a war drum tempo that carried him into the black and starless sky. The clouds stirred above into a storm, and freezing rain began to suicide to the ground below like piercing darts thrown from the heavens. Thunder heralded the arrival of lightning, and from across the plain, the Thunder God met the gaze of the God of War.
  4. Character sheet added, accurate to the above date but possibly incomplete, and with appended and expanded character history and information.
  5. You've got to know I was just fuckin' around. Besides, everyone knows both Jager and I just have two dots of Totem.
  6. You fucked up. Jager has three dots of ronin.
  7. Wow, that's special. Maybe I'll just go as Snake like I did at AUSA.
  8. Gah, get it off! Get it off me!!
  9. ronin peers up at Neil, mildly perplexed. "If I ask you for help, that would be a good time to worry. And yes, you may touch me." Turning back to Howard, ronin cracks all the knuckles on both of his hands and stretches out his right palm to meet the surface of Howard's not-flesh, and hesitates just outside of it, waiting for Neil to do what he needs to do and awaiting a reciprocal reply from Howard's form.
  10. A pity they don't make one for 'Psychotic Warmonger', or else we could both wear character-themed jerseys.
  11. Not too bad an idea, Tote. I haven't heard much about it, but just the idea sounds intriguing. Sounds like we'll have to sign up for that well ahead of time. Something to keep in mind.
  12. "The process is simple, Howard, because my command over telepathy is crude and functional. I will establish a link between my mind and whatever sentience is within you. From my vantage point I should be able to communicate both with individual identities and to see the whole picture of the quilt of voices in your head. "Through this, I may be able to understand what has happened to you and what can be done for you. To do this, I will need to touch you. You need not worry for my safety, however. I am quite indestructible. Any questions or concerns before I begin?"
  13. "Just be ready to patch me up if our friend here does something to me that managed to get past my defenses. I'm more worried about psychic backlash than physical damage, but either way, I'm glad you're in attendance." ronin turned to howard and crouched, squatting and resting his forearms and his knees. "Are you ready, Howard?"
  14. Adult Situations Ahoy, True Believers. Nothing You'd Want Your Children Reading. Caveat Emptor. Crouched over her delicate form, ronin ceases Sakurako's speech with his lips, tasting her lips and embracing her tongue, then pulling back briefly, and striking again at her cheeks, her neck, her throat, her choulders, her collar, dotting her with kisses, flicks of his tongue and brushes with his incisors, accompanied by lupine growls and the hot blast of air from his nostrils and breath as he showered his lover's body with affection. He wanted everything to be perfect for her. He loved this woman like instinct, like it was a part of his born nature, something he knew and understood but had no basis for recollection. Everything had to be perfect for her. It was prima noctur for both of them, in a way, and as ham-fisted as it sounded, he wanted the occassion to be unique, special. ronin could not recall the last time he had made love, and for Sakurako, it would be a literal first. He felt honored and loved to be the one to share it with her. Endeavor's conscious mind when scarlet. Psychic feedback coiling outward from her mind swam into ronin's own, and feeling it, he sent his own thoughts and feelings back to her, a loop of mnemonic ecstacy feeding from one to the other. ronin took it to advantage, adjusting his attentions as necessary as he gleamed every subtle and voiceless plea from Saku's thoughts. He moved at once from the right side of her neck to the left, from the top of her ear to behind it, from her shoulder to her collar, and finally, a few agonizing seconds after she could take no more, ronin gripped her lapels and rent her top to ragged fabric scraps. Sakurako winced, unused to the violent display of attention, and gazed up into ronin's good eye with a watery apprehension that nevertheless pleaded him to continue. Before any words could be exchanged, ronin lunged in, a hungry beast of wild lust that evoked in Hino a mixture of fear and passion that teased her with an enticing danger that made her all the hotter. Time dissolved, it's meaning unraveled as the moments stretched on to a horizon endless and yet passed like light being absorbed into a singularity. They kissed, and held each other. They played, and were serious. ronin took a more active role, allowing Sakurako to relax as the subject of his affection, an entity of worship, a body temple he praised with every movement of his form. His mouth's ministrations found all of her body, and as he contorted her and she writhed and moaned for his efforts, she spent her ecstacy from atop her thighs onto his lips. At last, she was ready, and with half-squinted eyes and breathless pants, she asked him "Now?", almost pleading, adding "Please? Now?" as she groped desperately at the bulge threatening her lover's pants.
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