Post by Soldier 76 on Oct 19, 2016 4:21:07 GMT
The target range set up in one of the many cornfields of Indiana is where Hanzo had spent most of his day, pulling the string back, letting it go. He was stubbornly refusing to go and greet Reaper, he should come to him of course. Why was he upset with the man? It was probably a long story he had no intention of telling. Another pull on the string, and he released. He reached back, out of arrows. All of the ones he'd fired had ended up in much the same spot very little deviating. He snorted. "This is no challenge;" he muttered. He'd never much cared for target practice, no one stood still and let you kill them, and you'd never really be in a position to use perfect form.
Hanzo was a master of improvising when it came to his style. It had to be done, one must flow like water on the battlefield. Rigid is for the dead. He let out a "tch" sound, something he seemed to do a lot, it was equal parts annoyed and derisive. "The scent here is terrible." He grumbled a bit to himself before he pulled his arrows out of the target and slotted them back into his bow. Nice thing about them was they were reusable so long as they remained in good shape. Unlike bullets. The elder shimada had never cared for guns, though he'd been mildly impressed by some of the marksmen here. They had an eye even if they used such brutish means.
"They will all perish, however, their foe is a many headed monster," why was he talking to himself anyway? Because there was hardly someone else worthy enough to speak to. He'd like to be paid for the time he wasted here. He was assured compensation. "If they are dead, how will I be paid?" He got a sour look on his face. So maybe he ought to help them out enough for a reasonable sum. He sat down on his knees, and closed his eyes. No shrine here, and they were very far from home, but perhaps his ancestors ears could still hear him. At least it cleared his mind.
Hanzo was a master of improvising when it came to his style. It had to be done, one must flow like water on the battlefield. Rigid is for the dead. He let out a "tch" sound, something he seemed to do a lot, it was equal parts annoyed and derisive. "The scent here is terrible." He grumbled a bit to himself before he pulled his arrows out of the target and slotted them back into his bow. Nice thing about them was they were reusable so long as they remained in good shape. Unlike bullets. The elder shimada had never cared for guns, though he'd been mildly impressed by some of the marksmen here. They had an eye even if they used such brutish means.
"They will all perish, however, their foe is a many headed monster," why was he talking to himself anyway? Because there was hardly someone else worthy enough to speak to. He'd like to be paid for the time he wasted here. He was assured compensation. "If they are dead, how will I be paid?" He got a sour look on his face. So maybe he ought to help them out enough for a reasonable sum. He sat down on his knees, and closed his eyes. No shrine here, and they were very far from home, but perhaps his ancestors ears could still hear him. At least it cleared his mind.
