The Stranded

[Mikalo]

The rose petals drifted ever so sweetly above.. then descended onto the ground below. Soon enough, the petals had drifted its last course on the sod and had turned into nothing but beautified crystals of ice flakes. Snow had fallen down from the lustrous caelum above, the white specks being a blinding source of power in the center of the spring fields.

Skies above had become white with the clouds blending in with eachother; and then becoming a guard and a roadblock to expand outward and hide the endless cosmos. The stars twinkled and groaned, complaining about the view of the humans being blocked. The globe of Earth spiraled, and the man that walked did not feel it spiral upon the axis.

There he intruded upon the flower fields, the black hair, spiked by the vicious winds, lays upon the middle section of his flexing spinal cord, covered with muscle tissue that was growing overtime due to his strength and back-breaking experiences with opponents that dared to oppose him. He came with the black kimono wavering in the wind with greatness..

Animals looked upon him with awe and fright, and had escaped the immediate vicinity in attempts to keep their lives. Though, one unlucky singular being had been unscathed by the sound.. and the man had come only to sink onto his knee by it. Letting the phalanx go deep into the fur and fat of the hare. Entangling the skinny digits around the legs before it could escape, and ripping it from its life within the touch of a steel blade.

In the transpiring ventus; the fumes of the originated death had come through the wild. And the fauna escaped the region. The beating sun had come to let the sweat bead down his neck as he carried the meat in his right olive skinned hand. The crimson red liquid, dripped down the chin of the deceased. The nectar of the gods.. oh so sweet, ironically, coming from man. The destructive force of Gaea.

A warm breathe escaping the esophagus and exhaled through the mouth into the beating sun, as the golden and valuable dagger had cut through the muscle tissue of the prey. It leaked through his digits that were dragging themselves against the ground under himself. When darkness fell upon the earth, the clouds had soared every so straightly above, they parted.. brother and sisters to only be seen once more when the sun came out.

Though, for now, the sun had met its peak of shining lights upon the earth, and leaned downward to hide its beautified bodily structure behind the unscathed hills of green and brown from rock. The expansion of the moon's lights had run over his olive skin as his head lifted up to absorb the power of the rock's grin upon him. Revealing the honey-brown optics that strayed from the ground and into the great yonder that he worshiped.

The obsidian hair turned into a violet red.. the sleeve glissading down the anubis with slowness.. the kimono's silk shining like the light of God's face. Slowly the tips of his digits had moved across the smooth climate of the cushion of his jawline, rubbing the ex shaped scar upon his cheek.

The man stood into the light and across the field of grass slouched. His fingers entangled around the corpse of the dead hare, and within seconds he had to devour it raw. One would think the flames would be to warm the tender meat of the deceased rabbit-like creature, though, it was only to put heat upon his own self. The skinned animal was devoured completely, the bones leaking from the slit corners of his chapped lips.

Afterwards, the desperate man looked outward to see the beauty of the light shine greatly upon the waters in which he soon bathed in. The wooden sandals wet as it sat on shore, though, still being knocked over by the tsunami-like waves of powerful H2O particles within the immediate vicinity where he rested. Hours, he bathed, cleaning himself of the dirt and blood. Though he could not clear himself of the memories that haunted him, and the blood stained up the hilt of his sword forever.

Iratus Immortilis, the name of his blade. Created by his deceased father known as Thorne Izureka. The name of the katana sword was roughly translated from Latin to "Wrathful Immortal." The blade was the second feared thing next to man, he thought. The first would be the Ultimate Alchemist. Smooth, though, dangerous, it was made out of Tungsten, Adamantium, and colored like the lava-rock obsidian, the hilt the same color as his stranded hair in midnight's peek; a crimson red.

The kimono was gently strapped back onto his dry body, though, his hair still leaked, the spiked context of it had dispersed with the dirtiness upon his body that was still unscathed from scars that were attempted to be put upon him in battle. The sugegasa hat, banded together with straw and dried rice, landed upon his head. His hand had come around the rough texture of the horse's back that was scarred from a blade, and he lifted himself up with pureness in upper strength.

As the horse passes by out into the night, the samurai slumps over, falling asleep as he made his journey to be a wanderer.