I live my life by this blade.
The steel is my façade I place up, making myself cold and merciless behind amber tinted eyes. The sheath is my defense, strong and unyielding. The hilt is my foundation. The blood my blade sheds courses wildly through my veins, a constant reminder of the pain.
Like my blade I am sharp, I am deadly. I hold back nothing, swing in deathly arcs that read my tale of destiny, my life story of pain and horror. In the short instant from when I pull my third arm from its sheath, I show my anger, show my hatred, and expose my emotions that are usually hidden. The accuracy with which I use my blade is so precise that those who have the chance to see why I am what I am never get the chance to speak of their vision to another. Their souls lay embedded in my blade along with their blood, where they stay floating with the others I have entirely resting within my life.
The sheath itself is battered and worn down from years of use, from the constantly empting and filling. The bloodlust it holds is stronger than any other feeling, and it courses its way into my own body with any contact I place upon it. The urge to do as it says is strong, almost maddening. To resist would be a maniacal idea, so there is nothing else one can do but step back and let it do as it pleases with the death it already holds by the weapon it surrounds. Thousands lay resting because of this.
It is a curse, to be so connected to your blade. I cannot leave it, for the chance I might need it in my own defense is suffocating. So many enemies I have gained due to this blade, which is now eternally tinted the rustic red of the blood it sheds. To most it is still the chrome of steel, but to me, the haunting colors of red and black cover it. They coat me as well, draping my soul and body in a never-ending blanket that only grows more with each life I slaughter.
The hilt of this sword is the only thing that is keeping me grounded as I am. The foundation levels everything. It is the only thing that keeps me from expanding the bloodlust to my own hands. I hold the blade, and the blade kills. I do not kill with my own hands. My hands hold the murderous blade. I am an innocent drawn into an abyss of dark deeds and dark times, enveloping me. My hilt is the small light that keeps everything in check; that shows, that one day this thirst for the blood of others will end, I will be freed.
A hunger, there is no other way to describe it. Once you hold something so deadly, so easily used against another, a hunger stirs within you. But this is one you cannot ever fulfill, one that stays with you everywhere you go, causing your mind to think of only one thing, the sounds of metal slicing skin and sawing through reluctant bone, blood splashing like rain again your skin. A hunger you wish to fulfill but pray to keep starving, hoping it will die.
The blade is made to kill, is meant to kill. It possesses demons that sink into your head, into your soul, overtake you and make you into the assassinating, serial killing machine you are. This weapon has a mind of its own, could use itself for the purposes it takes over the body of the unsuspecting victim. You are called to it, it draws you forth, and from the moment your fingers brush against it, you are connected.
For life. It becomes your life. You live by your blade. You breath for it, you live for it, you drink and eat for it. You see for it and you feel for it. You kill for it. You become one, melding with it in ways you could never another human being. It becomes an attachment of yourself, one that was missing.
You carry its guilt. You carry its sins and you live its evils. You are one with your blade.
I live by my blade. I kill for my blade.
I am my blade.
Battousai is not a manslayer. He is not a person at all. Battousai is his katana, his sword is the Battousai. Not him.
Battousai is his blade.
Author's Notes: Strange......... what do you think? New approach on Battousai, don't you think? I just started this one day at school!!! Procrastination is good for the writers soul, ne?
Luv and hugs,
Crystal Renee
The steel is my façade I place up, making myself cold and merciless behind amber tinted eyes. The sheath is my defense, strong and unyielding. The hilt is my foundation. The blood my blade sheds courses wildly through my veins, a constant reminder of the pain.
Like my blade I am sharp, I am deadly. I hold back nothing, swing in deathly arcs that read my tale of destiny, my life story of pain and horror. In the short instant from when I pull my third arm from its sheath, I show my anger, show my hatred, and expose my emotions that are usually hidden. The accuracy with which I use my blade is so precise that those who have the chance to see why I am what I am never get the chance to speak of their vision to another. Their souls lay embedded in my blade along with their blood, where they stay floating with the others I have entirely resting within my life.
The sheath itself is battered and worn down from years of use, from the constantly empting and filling. The bloodlust it holds is stronger than any other feeling, and it courses its way into my own body with any contact I place upon it. The urge to do as it says is strong, almost maddening. To resist would be a maniacal idea, so there is nothing else one can do but step back and let it do as it pleases with the death it already holds by the weapon it surrounds. Thousands lay resting because of this.
It is a curse, to be so connected to your blade. I cannot leave it, for the chance I might need it in my own defense is suffocating. So many enemies I have gained due to this blade, which is now eternally tinted the rustic red of the blood it sheds. To most it is still the chrome of steel, but to me, the haunting colors of red and black cover it. They coat me as well, draping my soul and body in a never-ending blanket that only grows more with each life I slaughter.
The hilt of this sword is the only thing that is keeping me grounded as I am. The foundation levels everything. It is the only thing that keeps me from expanding the bloodlust to my own hands. I hold the blade, and the blade kills. I do not kill with my own hands. My hands hold the murderous blade. I am an innocent drawn into an abyss of dark deeds and dark times, enveloping me. My hilt is the small light that keeps everything in check; that shows, that one day this thirst for the blood of others will end, I will be freed.
A hunger, there is no other way to describe it. Once you hold something so deadly, so easily used against another, a hunger stirs within you. But this is one you cannot ever fulfill, one that stays with you everywhere you go, causing your mind to think of only one thing, the sounds of metal slicing skin and sawing through reluctant bone, blood splashing like rain again your skin. A hunger you wish to fulfill but pray to keep starving, hoping it will die.
The blade is made to kill, is meant to kill. It possesses demons that sink into your head, into your soul, overtake you and make you into the assassinating, serial killing machine you are. This weapon has a mind of its own, could use itself for the purposes it takes over the body of the unsuspecting victim. You are called to it, it draws you forth, and from the moment your fingers brush against it, you are connected.
For life. It becomes your life. You live by your blade. You breath for it, you live for it, you drink and eat for it. You see for it and you feel for it. You kill for it. You become one, melding with it in ways you could never another human being. It becomes an attachment of yourself, one that was missing.
You carry its guilt. You carry its sins and you live its evils. You are one with your blade.
I live by my blade. I kill for my blade.
I am my blade.
Battousai is not a manslayer. He is not a person at all. Battousai is his katana, his sword is the Battousai. Not him.
Battousai is his blade.
Author's Notes: Strange......... what do you think? New approach on Battousai, don't you think? I just started this one day at school!!! Procrastination is good for the writers soul, ne?
Luv and hugs,
Crystal Renee