Sensei Suchin Giro sat in the traditional jujitsu style, face unreadable, as two of his students practiced katana kata in front of him. They moved fluidly, their weapons gracefully cleaving the air. in unison, they stepped, silently, and then did a wassu, coming to face him. They stepped once, slashing, stepped again, stabbing, stepped again, this time wiping imaginary blood off of their blades. Then, in a practiced motion, they sheathed their swords and waited.
"Rei." Suchin said, and they bowed to eachother, and then to him, not daring to look at his eyes, focusing instead on his chest. He steped down from his slightly elevated platform and came level with his two pupils.
"Seiza." They sat, watching him silently, as he seemingly glided across the bamboo floor and took his katana and wakisashi from the rack at the front of the dojo. Then, he bowed in respect to the kamidana, and faced his students.

As he reached to the scabbard at his hip, he immediately sensed something was not right. But, not seeing anything wrong, he merely shook his head and began to continue with his demonstration. As he drew his sword, however, something happened. He suddenly felt as if heaven itself was weighing down upon him, and fell to his hands and knees, grimacing, a sweat breaking out on his forehead.
"Sensei?" One of his students had gotten up to help him.
"Seiza!" He said through gritted teeth, and tried to force himself up. However, his efforts were in vain. The floor began to glow pure white, and a column of white rose up around him, seemingly encasing him. Then, everything went black as he fell for what seemed like an eternity...

The battle had nearly begun. With a mass of Normans on one side, and an equally large but not as well equipped army of Tuatha warriors of Eirinn on the other, it was yet unsure who the victor would be. For the past year or so, Ireland had been defending itself with all it could muster against the Norman invasions, but the majority of the battles (save perhaps for the first few) had been lost on the home front. For a few moments, the grounds were silent, each force waiting for the other to order for attack. At the front of the Irish side, among the other men and women in the military service, stood Caelan of the O’Braonains. Her nearly black hair, in traditional Celtic style, had only the top bit tied back, small braids mixed in with the slightly wavy tresses. Her deep green eyes looked out at the opposite side with a deep-rooted hatred, as her hands rested on the hilts of the two Irish short swords hanging from her wide leather belt. She would have no regrets on spilling their blood.

She turned to her captains, and smiled darkly. In a medium pitched, sharp Gaelic tongue she spoke to them.

“Would you think their blood will help the crops grow?” She said, chuckling, then looking out at the horizon. “Let us find out…”

With this, she unsheathed her weapons, letting out the battle cry of “Death for Eirinn!” as the Norman army charged. The blood bath had begun.

Yet minutes later, as she was removing one of her blades from a Norman gut, something did not feel right. The world around her was somehow distorted, yet she did not feel that it had changed any…Was this what it was like before death? No, she had not been wounded yet, but when the ground beneath her began to glow, her eyes widened. The last things she heard before the world around her disappeared were the cries of her infantrymen and women, yelling in maddened bewilderment as their commander was removed from their sight.

The shadowed man raced across the tops of the bamboo roofed houses and shops. He had lost the pursuit of a fellow ninjitsu master. He had been trailed for weeks and finally was able to knock his assassin unconcious long enough to throw him off of his path. he was headed towards Kyoto to obtain a key bit of information regarding the mark that started this all.

Though everybody has to eat and now's the perfect time. The black-clothed figure swooped into an open-air shop where various foods were being prepared, he grabbed a serving bowl of rice with meats and vegetables of different kinds. He carefully grasped the bowl as he ran deep into the nearby woods until he found a completely secluded spot amongst the trees. Eying the bowl he lowered his face mask to reveal his mouth and kneeled down reaching for his chop-sticks.

Something moved. He could feel something around him. Quickly he covered his face and scanned the area. There was a small humming sound as he scoured the trees with his eyes. It grew louder and louder... The ground began to glow and he dissappeared into the light.

Without lunch.

"You are to be married in a fortnight."
Her fathers word hit her hard. Somehow she had allowed herself to dream the day would never come. She was the youngest of 7 children, and the only girl. Her mother died giving birth to her, and since that day her father had not denied her anything. He had laughed as she struggled with her bothers training as they trained fighting as they fought. He called her his "Littlest knight" not knowing that what he thought of as joke she wanted more then anything. He didn't understand that when her brothers lay defeated on the practice field, they had not been going easy on her.
"Yes, father I shall commence with the preparations." As she curtsied deeply and left she didn't bother to ask who. It would be to the aged duke of Cumbria, whose land her father had desired since before she was born. Now she would be the price of the land. She would be made to bend to his feeble hand, to raise his existing children and bare more. Her temper rose at the thought. She burst in to her room tearing off her dress her corset and all the trappings of a medieval female. She flung herself on her four poster bed and fought the burning tears that threatened to fill her eyes. Then the idea came to her.
Her father would be so confident in her obedience he would not bother to leave the main hall for the rest of the night to check on her. She could escape. She would find away to become a true knight.. despite her gender. She rose from her bed and went to one of her wardrobes. She opened the doors to reveal her armor and weapons. The black colored full plate armor, the long cross hilted sword, and the shield that bore her family crest. All had been a gift from her brothers who knew what she was in truth if not in name.
She grabbed the helmet shaped so that it resembled an enraged dragon and placed it over her head. Her eyes narrowed. No man would bend her.
Moments later fully dressed in her armor she mounted her Warhorse Striker. He had been bred trained and raised by her, and if anyone other then her tried to ride or even touch him, He would kill them. Just as she settled into the saddle and urged striker forward she felt a strange sort of pressure. Striker whined nervously, and bucked a little. before she could settle him, he reared upwards. White light an enormous pressure engulfed them both.

Un solide commence à mener à une fin parfaite "A solid beginning will lead to a perfect ending."

_________________________________________




"Jacques, S'il vous plaît n'aller pas." (Jacques, please do not go.)
"Je dois le faire pour mon pays, Celia." (I must do it for my country, Celia.) Jacques walked up to Celia and gribbed her wrists firmly in his dirty hands, working hands, blood-stained hands. All of these terms applied to Jacques' wrung-out, haggard hands. He had spent all of his life fighting for the beautiful nation of France during it's struggle to live on in Europe throughout the English advances. However, Jacques' France existed long before it's prosperous times under the rule of Charlemagne, far before it's wealth, but the love that the nation had been known for was there from the start. This was something that Jacques; who only knew Charlemagne as the jealous brother of the current monarch, Carloman, knew as he stared deep into Celia's eyes. Love. His love. Though by the standard's of that age long forgotten, Jacques at 30 years of age would be considered old, he felt young around her.

But what many did not know throughout Carloman's short rule, was that there was an unwritten battle between the Franks and the English, which would be echoed many times in the future. And Jacques had to go to fight in this battle.

Fitting on his half plate armor and grabbing the halberd from the barracks (in which women like Celia were not allowed in), he kissed her and grabbed the shoulders of her beautiful flowing dress. Well, in his eyes it was that way but in reality Celia was only middle-class at best, the dress was very form-fitting unlike the noble's attire, but Jacques would always tell her that she had the most beautiful gown in the entire kingdom regardless. "Je vous aime" (I love you) he said to her. Jacques then turned and left the barracks.

He was never seen again.

Suchin awoke lying down, gazing into a cloudless blue sky. He blinked once, remembering only a white light, wanting to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. Was he dead? He hadn't felt pain, at least he didn't remember if he had... He grunted once as he sat up, his back sore from the incredible strain it had been under only- come to think of it he didn't know long it had been. How long had he been sleeping? He didn't know, wasn't sure he wanted to know.

He stood up, and felt his stomach rumble. He apparently hadn't eaten in some time. He looked around in front of him and saw he was in a grassy clearing, that seeme dto be in the middle of a small forest. Then he heard the sound of someone moaning, and whirled, his hand on the hilt of his sword...

((I apologize for not actually writing her dialogue in Irish Gaelic, but alas, I don't know the language very well at all))

Caelan groaned as she stood, trying to discern what had happened. The battle, the battle...was it over? Was she in the afterlife? She didn't remember being injured, so this couldn't be it. Then where was this? Upon looking around, she discovered something that angered her immensely. This was not Ireland. Those Norman bastards! They must be to blame for this! It was either that or her people, and her people were loyal. That or...oh goddess, had the great ones sent her here? What had she done to deserve such divine punishment. No, she told herself, this must be the Normans' fault.

However, she didn't have the time to do any more than stand and look around, for the sound of another body moving was made clear moments afterward. She turned towards it quickly, hands resting firmly on the hilts of her shortswords. But...her right eyebrow arched as she looked at the man before her. He was not dressed in any way she'd ever seen Normans, his garment seeming nothing like the metal plate that the invaders always wore. And his face, his face was not the same either. Perhaps he was Sasanach? No, the English looked different as well, from what she'd seen of the supporters of her enemy. This man was no Sasanach either. Perhaps he was an ally, then? No, Ireland had no allies, but perhaps he could become one. Hesitantly, she stepped forward, her brows furrowed in a confused look, as she spoke in her native tongue (though she did know a very limited amount of English). The words rolled off her tongue smoothly, yes still managed to sound tribal.

(translated to English from Gaelic)"Who do you serve?"

His breath was stifled as he pressed his mostly bare body against the arid earth, as to conceal himself against the wild undergrowth. There is no need for modesty in the savage wilderness. His left hand, which also held his Fon shield, composed of a thatch-like material, rested on his head to complete the camoflauge. Bomani surveyed the watering hole: a sparse meeting had collected there today, which raised concern that sustinance for the entire extended family might be hard to provide. But the concern as well as the responsibility rested in his hands and a sparse few others; the elders of the tribe could not be made to hunt, and neither could the youth, still involved with tasks such as training, aiding the females of the tribe, and tending to crops.

Currently partaking of the watering hole were four crowned cranes and one single gazelle: this was his target. The Majestic animal bent it taut neck so that its snout might touch the water's surface, and its wide, copious eyes surveyed its surroundings. Bomani would have wished to return later, when the sun was directly overhead (which would driver over full herds out of thirst). This situation served just as well, for the lone gazelle was much more vulnerable. His spear rested loosely in his grip as he came to rest on his elbows; the gazelle suspected nothing. Slowly; patiently; his weight shifted to his right knee, then to his left. The crude steel tip of his spear was barely visible from under the brush.

With a low grunt, he was off with a start: Bomani pushed off with his forearms and came abruptly to his feet, then shifted his right hand in such a fashion that he might hurl his spear overhandedly. The lone gazelle was only able to take notice of the fluid motion once it was too late, when the spear head had embedded itself into the creature's right thigh, greatly inhibiting its running. Even so, only a fool would immediately chase a wounded animal, for they stand a great chance of becoming an injured fool or worse. It was out of ritual that he instead waited in the brush, pre-emptively thanking the Gods for the bounty they had provided. He stood in place, bowing his head in reverence.

In large, gallant strides, Bomani was finally able to track the fallen beast by the frenzied trail its suffering created. The limp body was slung over his shoulders, the spear left where it lay.

"Shnnf. Snort."
"No.. I dun wanna learn how to embroider today"
"Slurp."
"Aaug!" Catherine sat up quickly and looked around. It was striker's attentions that had awoke her and she was not pleased by the pain that greeted her as well. The field she found herself in was nothing like any of the many fields of her lands. She heaved herself to her feet a task that was not the easist due to her armor. She grabbed striker's rengs and gave him a comforting rub on the nose. It was then that she spotted the group of strangers who occupied the field with her. Their garb was like nothing she had ever seen. Wary but filled with knightly curage she cride out in english
"What Ho! My good fellows, woudst thou tell this brave warrior in the king's service what land she stands in?"

Caelan looked up at the person on the horse, and immediately grimaced, the hands that were once resting on the hilts of her short swords reaching down to grasp them firmly, ready to pull them out and slit this person's throat. She would have recognized that dialect anywhere. True, she had only heard it spoken a few times in her life, but those were times on the battlefields, when the English had decided to join the Normans in the invasions of her people's lands. As she thought on the fact that she was no standing on her beloved Eirinn, her grimace turned into an angry sneer. This was an Englishwoman, no doubt a conspirator in whatever plot dragged the Tuatha warrior from her homeland, from a battle, no less.

Her right hand drew the celtic short sword on her opposite hip from it's sheath, and no doubt the English person would recognize the style, as both the Gaels of Ireland and Scotland shared the same basic types of technology. Even if this woman thought that Caelan was a Woad raider, she saw the rider as an enemy no less. She snarled at the word her voice let out, one that would be very familiar to this person's ears if they had ever encountered any Celts whatsoever (the term was nigh universal, and traveled well across the isles west of the European continent), a slightly less than endearing term meaning "saxon", though it was reserved for use against the inhabitants of England only.

"Sasanach..."

At the site of the strangely clad woman drawing her two swords Catherine knew that the stranger was no friend of hers. In one fluid motion she signaled for striker to bend and then mounted him.
"Sasanach..." Came the strange women's accented voice which confirmed her fears. Catherine had never been able to leave the manor.. or to join her brothers on the fields of battle, but she had listened well to their stories of the fierce wild Gaelic warriors and of the name her people had been given by them. She had learned well the tactics they were known for hoping to one day have her chance for glory.
It seemed today might be that day. She pulled her shield off her back and drew her knight's sword from it's scabbard. She was a member of the English heavy Calvary known more commonly as a knight. Her horse was almost as armored as she was and bred to be as lethal with his hooves as she was with her sword. There was only one ground based force in history that had stopped a charging group of heavy Calvary with out guns, and they had used sharpen logs and spears.
They also didn't exist yet.
She didn't know what arcane magic this strange foe had used to bring her here and she made the sign of the cross to ward of any further witchery.
"In the name of Christ our lord and father I command thee to send me back from whence I came! If thou dost not comply I shall send thee back to thy wicked ruler!"

Suchin saw the two warrior women going for their blades, and frowned in disapproval at their aggressiveness. If they were truly warriors, did they not know that one did not seek battle? Did they not know that violence was the last resort in any conflict? Apparently they didn't, shouting at eachother in their crude, alien toungues. He knew what he had to do.
He drew both blades, one per hand, and stepped between the two enemies, one blade towards each, the katana towards the mounted woman.
"Yame!" he shouted, telling them to stop. He did not wish for blood to be spilled amongst strangers in this strange land.

The shadow fell through the endless sea of white light. His tortured thoughts beckoned back and fourth as he felt himself falling and landed on the ground without any of his senses in an allmost instinctive manner. The light began to fade as his vision and hearing returned. The end of his sash touched the ground and his mask was secure.

Time stopped.

He was surrounded by seemingly hostile strangers. Two western women a horse and a Samurai.

How could they have such a broad force after me? There is no logic to this.
He quickly stood up noticing that they were the plain they were in was surrounded by a dense forest. His stomache growled but did not flinch knowing that it would show weakness to the others. Without any greeting he jumped off and sprinted to the woods leaping onto the first tree and clawing his way up, racing through the canopy into seclusion.

I have to find dinner. He informed himself as he landed in a smaller grove.

I have to find out where I am.

It was clear to her that the barbarian witch had summoned a demon who yelled at her in a strange tongue. How else could she explain the slanted cat like eyes and the pointed features? He looked like a description of the devil himself and wielded such strange blades the likes of which she had never seen! He was even wearing a dress, the disgrace of witch was almost painful to her eyes.
For the first time she felt a bit of fear attempt to overcome her knightly courage. Despite her stubborn heart and her desire to serve her God, King, and country through battle, she had not been mentally prepared to fight such evil forces upon leaving her manor.
"What manner of trickery is this? Dost thou have no honor? Wouldst thou summon the forces of damnation to battle in thy place?" She questioned the witch seeking to know if such a being could even have honor.

((Hm....I'm sorry, this just makes me flinch. You DO know that the old English people never used that kind of language, correct? That was simply a dialect fabricated by Shakespeare to fit his poetic needs.))

Caelan sighed. She may not have been able to understand such words, but the tone of them was clear. She had been intent before on slaying this member of that most hated country, which did little more than invade and conquer to satisfy it's lust for power, but now she had realized that this person would be considered but a child to her people. Not because of her age, but she had so obviously never actually been in battle before. Her tone suggested that she thought herself courageous, although to challenge a well-armed veteran with little cause did whisper of foolishness. Caelan then looked to the other person. He was separating the two of them, thin (and seemingly well-balanced) blades in his hands, and though his facial features were foreign, the feelings behind them were clear. He was not such an inexperienced whelp seeking to prove himself; he had been in possibly fatal combat before.

The member of the O'Braonain tribe sheathed her weapons, looking at her former opponent not with fear, nor defeat, but sternly in the way of a trained and (despite common English belief) honorable military captain. She then spoke, though she knew the words would not be understood.

"You are Sasanach, but you have yet been untainted by the corruption of England and Normandy, therefore I have no quarrel with you. I fight enemies, not children."

She kept her hands warily close to the hilt of her swords, though not in a way that would suggest her attacking, and looked to the strangely featured man. She gave him an apologetic look, and nodded, taking a few steps back to distance herself from them and present less of a threat.

Bomani's chest heaved as a tesitment to his labor; his proud shoulders slumped under the weight of the trophy hung over them; his dark skin shone brilliantly under the early morning sun; and his teeth showed from behind his swelled lips, hardly able to contain his satisfaction. He did not mind the heat, nor the parasites that migrated from their former host and took residence upon his nearly bare scalp.

A small stream layed before him, the main source of fresh water for the kingdom. The ford consisted of a mainly sedimentary bed, where several well-worn rocks of varying size callused the warrior's feet. He walked nimbly on the pads of his feet, and the running waters ran across his ankles and created dancing patterns in the sun's light. Much of the stream's bed also consisted on silt, mainly localized in the center. But as Bomani placed his foot upon the soft collection of soil, he began to sink. It was as if the weight of the antelope pressed harder and harder against his body; his spear which had lain in the thigh of the noble creature fell to the water before him and began to dissolve into white light. And as this occured, the water at his feet came to a boil and emmited a powerful wind and white light. Further and further his body sank, helpless to resist these forces. In his struggles the antelope was lifted from his grasp, as well as his Fon shield: in similar fashion, it landed in the turbulent waters below and vanished before his eyes. He had now sunk to his upper arms, and efforts to hold his breaths and grab hold of the banks of the stream proved fruitless. Bomani lost all feeling from the portions of his body that had disappeared into the void, and his vision was quickly obcured by the waters, then absolved from this dimension.

Universes converged and ceded, were created and destroyed.

Bomani's senses finally returned to him in time for him to ejest the water filling his mouth and throat. Only he was no longer lying in a stream surrounded by a harsh, inhopsitable landscape; the land was very fertile, filled with grasses and trees he could not possibly know the names of. A thick canopy overhead shadowed everything around him, including the collection of individuals which had seemed to take notice of him for some time. All well-armed and of light skin, and even a steed; Bomani could not help but feel a sense of anxiety and embarassment. His soaked loincloth was less than humbling.

([Unfortunately I do not know how to write in real old English like this poem here:
eadohilde ne wæshyre broþra deaþ
on sefan swa sarswa hyre sylfre þing,
þæt heo gearoliceongieten hæfde
þæt heo eacen wæs;æfre ne meahte
þriste geþencan,hu ymb þæt sceolde.
Þæs ofereode,þisses swa mæg!
Nor do I think anyone on this site could read what I wrote if I did so. Shakespeare wrote in a form of courtly English that was not spoken by the common people that is true. He wrote in a sort of way that was purposely complex for the nobles. Catherine is not speaking as she normally would she is speaking in what she thinks of as courtly knightly speech. Also they didn't speak modern English back then soo.. Unless you would like me to try and really use the old English don't begrudge me my improvisations. Heck if it works for the renfest...))

The witch had sheathed her blades then spoke more of her nonsensical language to Catherine. Although the tone was not that of overt threat Catherine felt an implied insult. After all this witch had rejected her initial friendly greeting with drawn blades, and then summoned a demon for her to do battle with. Yet the demon had pointed swords at both of them so maybe it was not being controlled by the which. Still Catherine would not be lured so easily in to complacency. The woman's hands had not strayed far from her hilts and the demon still had his blades drawn. Her brothers had pounded in to her over an over again all they knew of the battle field as well as the saying "never underestimate your enemy." She was not an untrained page fresh from polishing some other knight's shoes after all. She backed striker up slowly still keeping her sword and shield at ready and both the demon and the women in her sight. The main problem was that she couldn't understand the words of the witch, much less the demon. She didn't know weather she should strike them dead before they tried to strike her, or retreat and try to find an ally in this strange place.

((Yeah, I know. Sorry about that, it's just a mistake people commonly make and they normally think that it was how English was usually spoken back then. I apologize if I offended you.))

((oh no.. I'm not offened not at all. Actually it's pleasent to have others who respects history even when roleplaying. In truth I have done some research for this rp just so I wouldn't mess up my descriptions of her armor, and if I came off a bit testy in my ooc reply i apologise. It's more my bad then yours. After your next post i will delete this and repost it in ooc froum where it belongs. ))

((pwnt))

That in the clearing!

A beast that looked similar to a nippon pranced alone over the dew-drenched blades of grass. It's large crown of antlers signified it as one of the dominant males.

This will be my meal...

Its back was covered with gleaming and beautiful fur, hiding it's plate-like leathery hide. The shadow leaped into a tree that shadowed a bubbling spring, the creature came over for a drink-- completely unaware that it was being stalked. Our hero silently pulled cloth up out from under his sash and drew the long hunting blade from its sheath strapped to his lower back. It shimmered in the sunlight and in the blink of an eye he pounced down, slashing the deer in its neck leaving only a small incision through the thick hide.

The beast was enraged.

Quickly the hunter sprung into the air avoiding the full charge from his prey swinging strong onto the back. The beast continued to run aiming deep into the forest as the blade was rocketed deep into its neck, ending its life.

Spying a felled tree the ninja recovered enough wood to make a fire and set it ready to be lit. He returned to his hunt and removed the knife from the neck of his meal and proceeded to prepare it, removing a strong section from it that would serve as dinner.

The rest can be left to scavengers.

He started the fire using his flint stones and as it grew to a blaze he roasted his meat. The smoke erupted in a pillar from within the forest. He sat back looking at the darkness that flew into the clear sky and chomped into a piece of his victory.

The hunt is allways most rewarding when it is a hunt alone...

Suchin watched as both women took less aggressive stances, and sheathed his blades. He bowed, and then stepped back. They would fight, or they would not. He could not decipher their harsh, crude language, but he sensed a malice between them, some sort of rivalry in their tones. Perhaps they could put that rivalry aside for the moment, because he could certainly use their help to get out of here.

He turned around, surveying the vast woods that encircled the clearing. The land was strange, not like his home. not at all. The woods were overgrown and claustrophobic in their density, concealing any number of unknown predators. Suchin shivered involunatrily and then turned back to his female companions. As he did so, however, he could make out the barest light coming from the woods. Fire.

Caelan hesitated again. There had been no sign of her former opponent backing down, and the fire in her eyes would not suggest that she had any respect for Caelan, but she did not press the attack either. The irishwoman had meant no insult when she had referred to Catherine as a child, only that, by the attitude of her tone, she had never been in a potentially fatal combat before. Sparring, perhaps, and by all means this did not make her a newborn to the trade, but there was a difference between sparring with an opponent and dueling to the death. The first and foremost being that in a duel, you opponent does not hold back at all, save for strategic reasons. And why should they? They would be, after all, partaking in the combat so that it would result in the death of their opponent, for most often nothing else would satisfy them.

However, that mattered not now, as she was still on the defensive side. She re-examined the strengths and weaknesses on her part. Where strength of armor was concerned, the Englishwoman was most definitely the greater, being that her plate was broader. However, strength of armor was not the only thing to be considered, for Caelan's, too, had it's advantages. The half-plate she wore over her studded leather allowed for more mobility, which was something Caelan used often against her foes. Also, she was armed with twice the weapons (from what she could see) that the Sasanach woman seemed to be, and this would not bode well for her opponent if combat had begun. However, she had little doubt that this woman knew how to wield a blade far and well, and even if she seemed much like a rebel trying to prove herself, there was always the chance that Caelan's timing would be off just enough to recieve a new metal addition to her body.

She decided then, that careful as she must be, this adversary would not prove a useful or satisfying kill, so Caelan did a very strange thing. She lowered her hands completely to the sides, and stepped back a ways, in her eyes the sentiments of not wanting blood to be spilt clear.

Bruce trodded in through the worn-out large wooden doors. He was immediatly overwhelmed by a musty aroma, and although the scent was quite strong, he was acustomed to it.
Before his toes laid a pile of shattered glass, and aside his feet lay a man with shattered teeth. Bruce shrugged and continued towards the counter, where a damp-looking man greeted him with a filthy grin.
"What can I do fer ya?"
"Your finest brew." Bruce nodded slightly, instead of a normal "thank you".
The bartender retreated to a back room, and shut the door behind him. Bruce brought his fingers through his long hair, sighing tiredly. A man stumbled by him, lightly brushing against Bruce's shoulder.
Just as the stranger realized Bruce had reacted, the messy-haired knight already had a dagger at the man's throat.
"What are ya doin'!!" The drunk-sounding man screamed, waving his hands wildly.
"Forgive me." Bruce turned around, greeted by his thick glass of dark yellow liquid. The confused man behind him strode off, like nothing happened. Sluggishly, Bruce let the liquid flow down his throat.
..Reflexes could be a nuisance..