A sardonic eyebrow quirked as Koyama tilted her head, the question lingering in the air, "No?" she mused if the Nepleslian hadn't been thinking about the man she may well be now, her gaze lingering on Sanda.. "Much like the knife fighting you so love," she began, her fingers skimming the racks of practice weapons like a blind sculptor seeking the perfect form.
Some held her attention longer than others. A bokken, akin to the Ranger's blunted training instrument, was dismissed with a flick of the wrist not meeting her standards. A quarterstaff flashed past, its potential elegance ignored. But a long spear seemed to snag her gaze. A flicker of solemnity crossed her usually stoic face, a ripple in the still pond of her demeanor.
Yet, in the end, she returned to the familiar comfort of the practice blades. With a fluid motion, she snatched one, the bokken sang through the air like a whispered threat as she performed a few practice swings. A sniff, laced with disdain, punctuated the brief silence before it found a home in her sash. "Some embrace the singularity," she tapped the weapon at her side, "finding solace in the singleness of blade or spear, bow or staff. Short swords," she gestured to what was on the rack, "mere whispers promising violence until they're found by those that can properly wield them."
With a snap of her fingers, a Nekovalkyrja materialized, a phantom echo of a true and physical counterpart. A mere volumetric simulacrum.
The synthetic warrior bowed, photons wrapped within EM fields mimicking flesh, and Koyama offered the same courtesy in return.
The practice opponent drew her sword. The simulated dance of death began. Koyama swayed, a willow in a gale, deflecting blows without drawing her own just merely dodging. The Generic Nekovalkyrja No.1's blade sang again, a horizontal slash aiming for decapitation.
Koyama ducked a blur of cotton white yukata, and jet-black hair, her feet finding purchase on the mat after the last attack. She'd bent one leg in front, the other sliding back. And in that instant, the bokken, once a slumbering serpent, became a viper unleashed—an
iaido, a draw cut.
The cut split the opponent's sword arm, arterial crimson blossoming where wood (Meant to simulate steel in this little demonstration) met flesh. The blade continued, etching another wound across the chest, a deep and fatal gash. The Nekovalkyrja dissolved into nothingness as Koyama sheathed her weapon with practiced ease. The demonstration, a brutal haiku in violence, hung heavy in the air.
"With just a draw of the blade," Koyama rasped, "you'd be a gushing fountain within seconds. The second blow was mercy, a recognition of the Nekovalkyrja's resilience. For someone like you, however," her gaze flickered to Sanda's cybernetic arm, "your left side lacks such luxuries. Your metal companion, while a loss, leaves you with the one you were born with. That mechanical limb," she smiled, a flash of her tiny fangs in the dim light, "might even grant you an edge."
"But sever it," she snarled, the predator revealing its claws, "and that edge becomes a chasm. Then you rely on your left, a limb you haven't yet learned to sing the song of war with in such a fashion." One of her ears twitched, catching the subtle sound of machinery that was the Ranger's right arm. "Make no mistake, if I could hear the difference, others like me can as well. Pick out the little details if we so choose. See which you rely upon more."
Koyama paused, eyes gleaming chips of amber. "So I'd give you two choices. Hack off your flesh arm, and watch the pain paint your face as you start to bleed out, and shock soon to follow. Your metal facsimile wouldn't replicate such agony unless you've woven pain receptors into it, full tactile simulation as it were." She circled Sanda, a predator stalking its prey.
"Or I could part you from your manufactured comrade, leaving you one-handed yet again and facing me with a limb barely past infancy when it comes to what you desire to understand and use properly."
She leaned in, her voice a chilling whisper. "But I wouldn't give you time to mourn your fallen blade or lost limb. Just as with Generic Nekovalkyrja Number One," she chuckled, a dark melody, "don't judge me by her name. The dance would continue with each strike of my weapon a brushstroke towards your doom. Across your chest, your neck, your legs, or thighs each cut a torment. Each a reminder that death could take you in an instant if you lacked
care or respect toward the opponent you face."
A predatory gleam flared in her eyes, then vanished behind a mask of stoicism. "It wouldn't even need to be deep, depending on where I decide to strike," she murmured, the final line echoing in the silence like the promise of a coming storm. "That is what I teach. Precision. Precision, patience, adaptation, and speed. To pick out the details of the enemy you face. What is brute strength measured against knowing where to precisely hit one's opponent to end the fight quickly? Efficiently? To go no further than what is required? To be able to find an advantage where someone else may find none?"
Koyama then beamed, clearly enjoying doing something other that didn't involve her daytime job, "I prefer to use a daishō set." Nodding to what Sanda held in her hand, she gestured behind her directly to the shorter variants. "My teacher specializes in the use of two blades. Her method centered around facing multiple opponents. And is potent as a duelist's style. Adaptable and capable. Fierce.
It provided a foundation for my preferences. What I just demonstrated was from another form. It teaches to kill in the initial strike but admittedly I am a novice with that method to its fullest extent. To end the fight then and there. As I dodged the attacks I did so with patience. Waiting out my simulacrum of an opponent. Much like gentle rain and distant thunder, a storm brewing on the horizon and taken for granted." Koyama looked at the Ranger intently, "And at the moment they least expect," Koyama tapped at her pale skin, right where her friend's facial tattoo would be.
"That is my
budō, my philosophy. The three major influences of my life are woven into one and turned into my own. My teacher whom I love as closely as I would someone of my blood. The enemy I despise most, and my oldest and dearest friend whom I miss more than you could know."
"Each of my sisters prescribes to their own. It's how we approach our instruments of war, how we paint death across the canvas of combat. How we shield those who cannot do so themselves. And how we live each day. Each of us is different in our little ways. A personal journey to find who we are and what we are capable of achieving."
It was a clear and present message. This was who she was. How she presented herself. Capable of a varied level of patience or unpredictability. Adaptable under pressure. Cruel if needed but capable of mercy if not. Something dangerous hidden beneath a thin silken sheet waiting to be bared when the need arose.
@Cowboy
