Silence. That is all Tji heard, as he swept through the deserted, nighttime streets of London. Being a stowaway from Japan, this was a world very different from his old life. Being about 20, Tji was in his prime. His black hair swept back into his hood added to his ability to hide in the shadows.
Only a bit of wind rushing past his ears, barely detectable, even for him. And he was ninja. Well, not a proper one, actually. Most ninja assassinated people. Tji mostly saved them or snuck around seeing the sights and selling information. Tji was a sort of "good guy".
Tji thought of himself as a ninja, though. Such a rank was only given to those skilled enough to bear it. Tji's grandfather had taught him many tricks and skills. And his grandfather had told him the qualities of a ninja. Complete stealth, no sight or sound. If you were caught, you fought. If you were subdued, you tried to escape. Interrogation? No answers given. Torture? Even the weakest of ninja could survive days without food or water and could survive excruciating pain.
Before he had left Japan, his grandfather taught him the art of weaponsmaking. Tji couldn't make any but a shuriken, but that was all he need mass-produced. His grandfather had also given him the garb of a ninja. Clothed in black by night, with the long black shroud of honorable cloth, the shinobi shozoku. A black swath, the traditional ninja garb. On Tji's back was his ninja-ken, or short sword. With its biting blade, quiet as death, Tji could cut through metal. Hidden by his shinobi shozoku were three of his shuriken, or thowing stars. Tji crept along with one of these in his hand, making no noise.
And if anyone was listening, all they would hear or see would be nothing. Nothing. Silence. Such dead words. Emptiness, forever trapped by the barriers of those two words. The ninja were defined by these two words and others of the sort.
Scritch-scratch! A rat skittered by, making a huge racket, or at least to Tji's ears. Glancing down off of the tall, slanted rooftop, Tji checked to see if the constable on watch had heard. Tji's breathing and heartbeat was calm, but his thoughts were like a train, running quickly, here one moment and gone the next. Tactics and ideas what to do next were among the ideas. The night watchman had not heard, luckily.
Not that Tji couldn't handle a bumbling policeman.
This is all I have so far. Stay tuned...
Only a bit of wind rushing past his ears, barely detectable, even for him. And he was ninja. Well, not a proper one, actually. Most ninja assassinated people. Tji mostly saved them or snuck around seeing the sights and selling information. Tji was a sort of "good guy".
Tji thought of himself as a ninja, though. Such a rank was only given to those skilled enough to bear it. Tji's grandfather had taught him many tricks and skills. And his grandfather had told him the qualities of a ninja. Complete stealth, no sight or sound. If you were caught, you fought. If you were subdued, you tried to escape. Interrogation? No answers given. Torture? Even the weakest of ninja could survive days without food or water and could survive excruciating pain.
Before he had left Japan, his grandfather taught him the art of weaponsmaking. Tji couldn't make any but a shuriken, but that was all he need mass-produced. His grandfather had also given him the garb of a ninja. Clothed in black by night, with the long black shroud of honorable cloth, the shinobi shozoku. A black swath, the traditional ninja garb. On Tji's back was his ninja-ken, or short sword. With its biting blade, quiet as death, Tji could cut through metal. Hidden by his shinobi shozoku were three of his shuriken, or thowing stars. Tji crept along with one of these in his hand, making no noise.
And if anyone was listening, all they would hear or see would be nothing. Nothing. Silence. Such dead words. Emptiness, forever trapped by the barriers of those two words. The ninja were defined by these two words and others of the sort.
Scritch-scratch! A rat skittered by, making a huge racket, or at least to Tji's ears. Glancing down off of the tall, slanted rooftop, Tji checked to see if the constable on watch had heard. Tji's breathing and heartbeat was calm, but his thoughts were like a train, running quickly, here one moment and gone the next. Tactics and ideas what to do next were among the ideas. The night watchman had not heard, luckily.
Not that Tji couldn't handle a bumbling policeman.
This is all I have so far. Stay tuned...
2 comments:
Wesley could survive excruciating pain. As long as it wasn't from... the Machine!
Nice picture, by the way. Though Big Ben really is just a very large clock tower when you actually see it.
Okay, this might sound weird and random, but who was in our tundra group last year? I was trying to remember, but failed (of course), and it's driving me insane.
Never mind, death told me.
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