My muse gives a speech before a battle.
"Complete the objective or die: I have no further thoughts for you."
A drabble about the first time the muse killed someone.
I stared at my hands, examining my blood streaked knuckles.
"Brother!" he repeated, right in my ear. I jumped back into myself, whipping to stare at him. “You really must be more prudent, what if an enemy had found us. And him?”
"Good," Aniki said approvingly. "I’ll riffle through his pockets. Wipe your blood off, Jiro-kun, we can’t go to an okonomiyaki stand like this."
I stared at my hands, and then wiped them off on the grass. I stood and walked away away from the strange fighter. If I stumbled, Taro didn’t comment.
Who taught my muse how to fight?
His father—then a collection of senseis—then himself, through diligent study and hard work.
A drabble in which my muse is forced to fight together with someone they hate.
"Karasu will you just fucking focus on the enemies?"
"I am focusing," Karasu sniffed. "Three to my right, one trying to get height on us who’s almost in position to drop on me." Four booms sounded in quick succession. “Boring.”
My muse walks between the corpses after a tremendous battle. A drabble about their feelings.
Nothing like a body count this high to make someone feel like a cold-blooded killer.
Toguro was numbed out, walking through. He gave the mercy blow to a few of Karasu and Aniki’s kills: the bastards had both given some fighters in this clan a wound intended to grant a slow, agonizing death instead of a quick one.
He shook his head, the word murderer in his mind, and walked back to camp alone, barefoot in the blood.
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