Post by Ramen on Jul 4, 2023 20:46:44 GMT -5
OLD MARTIAL ARTS
| Ramen's PL: 125 (28,000 - Suppressed) |
| Ramen's PL: 125 (28,000 - Suppressed) |
The monastery Ramen trained at all those years ago had no name.
That was part of the point. It was located on the outskirts of South City, and yet somehow--virtually no one knew it was there. It sat overlooking the water, a plain building: simple white brick. It lacked the familiar design or décor of most proper dojos, and even the inside was somewhat spartan: there was a rest area, a locker room, and a wide floor to spar on. However, most of the sparring took place outside in rain or shine. Fighters would spar with one another on the beach, any sign of their training washed away with the tide, again and again. Yet each day, it was the same: a dozen of so, always in matching teal, white, and grey gi.
The colours they wore were the only thing that set the monastery apart to a casual viewer, compared to the simple design of the so-called monastery itself. That, and the kanji that adorned their gear. It was the symbol for wolf. An idle viewer, and more than a handful of prospective applicants over the years, might have jumped to the wrong conclusion about that. In popular imagery, wolves were everything from violent aggressors to symbols of some kind of misguided domineering. Such ran in direct opposition to the monastery's true philosophy.
No single fighter was held to be any better than another. There were instructors and elders, maybe even one or two old masters--but it was not power that earned respect, but experience, tradition, and communal need. The ultimate lesson behind the nameless monastery near South City was simple: a true martial artist is nothing alone. A lone wolf will never prosper.
It was perhaps ironic, then, that one of the monastery's most respected elders was Ramen, who had vanished for decades from any contact with Earth. The last they had heard of her, she had either helped to save a planet from a deadly attack out in the distant stars--or else helped to attack it herself. She was one of them, and she would always be so, but suspicion lingered about her name. What had she done out there? What had been so damning that she decided to lead a life of exile?
They had no answers.
Ramen did, and she chose not to give them. That was why, as the sun set over the monastery and the last of its fighters began to trickle inside to wash up for the day, their respected elder was not among them. She instead overlooked the monastery from afar, atop a jutting cliff-face nearer the road. She wore the same gi as them, and the same symbol as them, yet it was hard to count herself amongst them. They didn't even know she had returned to Earth.
But, her presence wouldn't be a mystery to everyone. She could have hid her power signature a little better than she did: certainly, she could have passed off the large tree-branch-turned-staff as a walking stick to assist her in old age. However, it was not to be. Decades away and the benefit of experience had not doused the fire of defiance in her heart, and upon learning of the Central City Accords, she couldn't help the temptation to mock them, hovering just past the limit.
It was an act that might well come back to bite her one day, but it couldn't be helped. She was still herself, however much she had changed.
The colours they wore were the only thing that set the monastery apart to a casual viewer, compared to the simple design of the so-called monastery itself. That, and the kanji that adorned their gear. It was the symbol for wolf. An idle viewer, and more than a handful of prospective applicants over the years, might have jumped to the wrong conclusion about that. In popular imagery, wolves were everything from violent aggressors to symbols of some kind of misguided domineering. Such ran in direct opposition to the monastery's true philosophy.
No single fighter was held to be any better than another. There were instructors and elders, maybe even one or two old masters--but it was not power that earned respect, but experience, tradition, and communal need. The ultimate lesson behind the nameless monastery near South City was simple: a true martial artist is nothing alone. A lone wolf will never prosper.
It was perhaps ironic, then, that one of the monastery's most respected elders was Ramen, who had vanished for decades from any contact with Earth. The last they had heard of her, she had either helped to save a planet from a deadly attack out in the distant stars--or else helped to attack it herself. She was one of them, and she would always be so, but suspicion lingered about her name. What had she done out there? What had been so damning that she decided to lead a life of exile?
They had no answers.
Ramen did, and she chose not to give them. That was why, as the sun set over the monastery and the last of its fighters began to trickle inside to wash up for the day, their respected elder was not among them. She instead overlooked the monastery from afar, atop a jutting cliff-face nearer the road. She wore the same gi as them, and the same symbol as them, yet it was hard to count herself amongst them. They didn't even know she had returned to Earth.
But, her presence wouldn't be a mystery to everyone. She could have hid her power signature a little better than she did: certainly, she could have passed off the large tree-branch-turned-staff as a walking stick to assist her in old age. However, it was not to be. Decades away and the benefit of experience had not doused the fire of defiance in her heart, and upon learning of the Central City Accords, she couldn't help the temptation to mock them, hovering just past the limit.
It was an act that might well come back to bite her one day, but it couldn't be helped. She was still herself, however much she had changed.
TWC: 590