Of Ash and Ruin, part1
A/n: This is a self-made challenge involving all of Asch's techs. I wants to see if I could go through them all. It's long so I broke it down a bit. I initially wanted to do a short story for each, but most of my ideas would only go on for a paragraph or two, or a description... than hang there. So, I present it as it came.
1) Fang Blade:
It was hard to get the sheer hieght into the jump. It took time, efort, and more effort. He spent months practicing, training his body to learn the human limits than more time was spent to learn how to bypass them. Months of jumping and leaping ("little rabbit" smirked the servents at first, hiding smiles and banter behind a shield of raised hand, oblivious of how the sounds slipped through. Ignorant of the sheer determination within the boy. "Just a boy playing at boy's games." "Boys will be boys." engorged on cliche, basking upon those wisdoms, they looked on, never understanding), with his sword and without he trained. Knowing in his bones that he had to get the hieght just right. Scaring one collum in the salle (a shadow side, so it was less likely he'd get caught) he marked his progress with the slash of a knife, when the leap met it's peak. Finally, one bold summer day, he got it right. The jump that was. His sucess, long sought after, never imagined to be complete, was overshadowed by one horrid fact that he landed wrong. So wrong was his descent that he managed to brek both legs upon impact.
Mother had gone into hysterics. Even though he smiled and assured her as the seventh fonists did thier work taht he was "fine" and "it didn't hurt at all".
Father... was Father. Distant, indiffernet, and oblivious. Even as Luke Fon Fabre rebuked his charge in the silted language nobles favor his blocky shadow licked up a pillar, a foundation who's scars were too small to be apparent to all save the most keen observer.
2) Havoc strike
Not part of the Albert-style, that cruel desent. Boot leading, angled just so to get the upraised face with the heel... All in all the teche was perfectly designed to do maximum damage to a mundane, pedestrian, opoet. If asked, the technique had been inspired by waching Lod-Father Fon fabre's hawks at the hunt. At least that's what he would have said if asked. Atually, the idea had come to him while watching Abyss Man.
Not that he'd ever tell.
3) Raging blast
Something like hyperresonance on the smallest of scales. It was a contradiction, an impossibilty clasped in the palm of one's had, but too deadly to be gripped, to leathal not to be resrained. Still, there was a moment before the red tingued.. aura borke apart releasing it's essence taht he alwats shivered. Skittering starlets of crimson would scatter after the breaking, then hand in the air, winkingo ut like bahby stars. There was a heat tothe warmthless furnace, a rock still sability to the endless coiling. A heaviness to the air where the waiting explosion demurely hovered.
And with the lightest thoughts and darkes intents it cracked open, pouring forth it's lethal force.
Breaking thought air and atoms, ripping and tearing with... light and that with makes light dissolve.
Little wonder he hesitated before release, little wonder at all.
4) Rending thrust
Though it was untradiional and left him horribly open, shamefully so actually, and the first ew times he tangled his sword with his exoverant poising he practied it again and again. The idea and it's delivery shifted a bit, and once it complied and worked he praciced until mastered. As for why, the why he would muddle thought an unknown willing to endure the harsh disatisfaction at first to find a compromise.
Well it might have something to do with maturity.
Perhaps it has something to do with budding ("Thank Lorelie, at last!", he can hear all of his detractors, enemies, and friends alike cry out at that idel thought) patience.
Or it might have had to do with the much anticipated sight. The twisting of expression from kill or kill mentality to sheer dumfoundedness as instead of runing into "The Bloody"'s blade they meet his fist instead.
It's probably the last. Definatly the last.
Eyes closed, hands clenched, he dug deep, hard, and fast, plumbing the fire, the crucible, of his soul. Coming up with hate and hurt he opened his eyes, a soft snarl curled his lips, and murder was etched in the depths of his emerald eyes. The first time Largo sees it he cringes, daunted by the beserkers' rage that's housed in this "mere" boy.