01-29-2010, 11:54 PM
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1140.
It reminded him of Foxhound. He would lose himself in his anger as well, becoming something that was not quite of this world. His twin brother had a demon in him, and it was unleashed especially when they fought. Patriot had, at a young age, instilled a rivalry in the two. Snake had not really cared as much, but it had grown to be Foxhound's obsession. He had always tried to be the dominant one, fighting his blond brother to make him submit. Snake had won often in those days, mostly just out of self-defense. But Foxhound had grown angrier and angrier with every passing loss until he used that rage well against his brother. Snake still thought, and would always think, that anger was more of a hindrance than a boon in battle. But it did work for some—some used that mad strength and managed to still think logically, making them absolute juggernauts. Fortunately Foxhound, and Daisuke, were not to that point yet. If they were, Snake would be dead.
After the shock of the hit wore off, the golden wolf growled and snarled in response. Obviously, he had made him even more angry. All the better—it was just another veil lowered in front of the other creature's eyes. Snake assumed his defensive position, lifting his knife to where his other hand was positioned, ready. He was not ready enough, however. He had expected Daisuke to be a little discombobulated from the sudden shock of nerve pain to his system, but he recovered far faster than he had thought. The blade that he had not cut off flashed, a crescent of silver fire in the light of the moon and stars. Oh, and it felt like fire, what tore across his chest. Top to bottom, a slash that went across his right side, intersecting the scar that, so many long months ago, Foxhound had left with a knife given to him by Patriot. The pain would have been crippling for anyone who had not been tempered by it. Oh, Snake had learned from it. He had learned to tame pain, to keep it captive until it was safe to let it out. Pain was good. It focused the mind sometimes, it told you when something was wrong. One without pain would die much quicker than one who did. He accepted it, and did not think about it. The wound became a dull, blazing throb, but nothing more.
He looked up to see his adversary apparently crowing in the victory, the blade dark with blood that was sampled by the wolf. Snake's lip flickered in a snarl—this was definitely not the wolf that he had gotten to know. What was wrong with him? Oh, he shouldn't be thinking about things like that during battle, but it plagued him. Was this all about him, or was there something else? Daisuke had always been a little crazy; had he finally snapped?
And then he was charging again, and Snake readied himself to counter it. He came forward like a linebacker looking to tackle, his arm ready to strike. Snake stood where he was until the last moment, when he slid again to Daisuke's unarmed side. He rolled with the punch, so to speak—he took a final step backward until Daisuke was only a few inches away from contact. Then he reached up with his uninjured hand, grabbing Daisuke by the scruff of the neck. He rolled, twisting and using the wolf's momentum against him. A moment later he had pinned the wolf to the ground, his one hand still clenching fur and skin of the wolf's neck and the other holding his knife. He kept one foot on the bladed arm, though Daisuke was still free to attack with both his teeth and his unarmed hand. He kicked with his hind paw, cracking the clasp on the blade to where it was no longer on the wolf arm. But perhaps it was the pain that was beginning to claw its way back to his consciousness from that wound on his chest, or perhaps it was Daisuke trying to get free, but something caused Snake to have a temporary lapse in judgment. Daisuke's head lifted slightly, and he saw his chance to strike. Like a cobra he darted forward, teeth scything. There was the scent of blood in the air, in his nostrils, in his mouth. Snake was immune to the intoxicating effects of blood by sight and by smell. But when he tasted it—that was different. His pupils dilated somewhat, and he felt his mind beginning to go awry. Immediately he relinquished his grasp on the wolf, rolling away and scrambling away, standing as best as he could. He swayed; he had lost blood, a lot of blood. His breathing was labored, his bandanna loose and slipping over one eye. The other was pained. He placed his unarmed hand on the wound across his chest, a deep fear growing in him when he felt the warmth of the blood that was staining it. He coughed and he tasted blood—whether it was his own or not was never known. He could see that Daisuke was bleeding, capillaries in his ear busted from where Snake had bitten part of it off. He felt ashamed, but he felt afraid as well. Daisuke might have been disarmed, but he was not very wounded—just maybe a little shaken up and with a bleeding ear. If he wanted, he could dispatch the Hydra right now, for his compassion for his friend had been the crux of his failure.
Things began to slip in and out of focus for him. It was the blood, the blood—the taste of it, the smell of it, the sight of it, the feeling that it gave him as it flowed from his body. He knew that he could not stand for much longer. This had happened to him once before, when he had gained the scar across his ribs. Patriot had watched him bleed then, letting him see the Gates of Death before calling in the medics to help him back. It had taught him a lesson, he said. Perhaps it had. But now Snake was feeling ill, lights flashing before his eyes. His knees gave out, and he crumpled to the snow, stained red with blood. He was cursing himself, over and over, until it became a drone in his head. He was better than this, better than this, better than this. Pity, compassion, emotion! Accursed things. He despised them, he loathed them. Without them, Daisuke would be the one bleeding on the ground. Not him.
And with that thought, everything went black, and Snake collapsed onto the ground, one hand clutching his chest and the other locked in a death-grip on his knife.
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1140.
It reminded him of Foxhound. He would lose himself in his anger as well, becoming something that was not quite of this world. His twin brother had a demon in him, and it was unleashed especially when they fought. Patriot had, at a young age, instilled a rivalry in the two. Snake had not really cared as much, but it had grown to be Foxhound's obsession. He had always tried to be the dominant one, fighting his blond brother to make him submit. Snake had won often in those days, mostly just out of self-defense. But Foxhound had grown angrier and angrier with every passing loss until he used that rage well against his brother. Snake still thought, and would always think, that anger was more of a hindrance than a boon in battle. But it did work for some—some used that mad strength and managed to still think logically, making them absolute juggernauts. Fortunately Foxhound, and Daisuke, were not to that point yet. If they were, Snake would be dead.
After the shock of the hit wore off, the golden wolf growled and snarled in response. Obviously, he had made him even more angry. All the better—it was just another veil lowered in front of the other creature's eyes. Snake assumed his defensive position, lifting his knife to where his other hand was positioned, ready. He was not ready enough, however. He had expected Daisuke to be a little discombobulated from the sudden shock of nerve pain to his system, but he recovered far faster than he had thought. The blade that he had not cut off flashed, a crescent of silver fire in the light of the moon and stars. Oh, and it felt like fire, what tore across his chest. Top to bottom, a slash that went across his right side, intersecting the scar that, so many long months ago, Foxhound had left with a knife given to him by Patriot. The pain would have been crippling for anyone who had not been tempered by it. Oh, Snake had learned from it. He had learned to tame pain, to keep it captive until it was safe to let it out. Pain was good. It focused the mind sometimes, it told you when something was wrong. One without pain would die much quicker than one who did. He accepted it, and did not think about it. The wound became a dull, blazing throb, but nothing more.
He looked up to see his adversary apparently crowing in the victory, the blade dark with blood that was sampled by the wolf. Snake's lip flickered in a snarl—this was definitely not the wolf that he had gotten to know. What was wrong with him? Oh, he shouldn't be thinking about things like that during battle, but it plagued him. Was this all about him, or was there something else? Daisuke had always been a little crazy; had he finally snapped?
And then he was charging again, and Snake readied himself to counter it. He came forward like a linebacker looking to tackle, his arm ready to strike. Snake stood where he was until the last moment, when he slid again to Daisuke's unarmed side. He rolled with the punch, so to speak—he took a final step backward until Daisuke was only a few inches away from contact. Then he reached up with his uninjured hand, grabbing Daisuke by the scruff of the neck. He rolled, twisting and using the wolf's momentum against him. A moment later he had pinned the wolf to the ground, his one hand still clenching fur and skin of the wolf's neck and the other holding his knife. He kept one foot on the bladed arm, though Daisuke was still free to attack with both his teeth and his unarmed hand. He kicked with his hind paw, cracking the clasp on the blade to where it was no longer on the wolf arm. But perhaps it was the pain that was beginning to claw its way back to his consciousness from that wound on his chest, or perhaps it was Daisuke trying to get free, but something caused Snake to have a temporary lapse in judgment. Daisuke's head lifted slightly, and he saw his chance to strike. Like a cobra he darted forward, teeth scything. There was the scent of blood in the air, in his nostrils, in his mouth. Snake was immune to the intoxicating effects of blood by sight and by smell. But when he tasted it—that was different. His pupils dilated somewhat, and he felt his mind beginning to go awry. Immediately he relinquished his grasp on the wolf, rolling away and scrambling away, standing as best as he could. He swayed; he had lost blood, a lot of blood. His breathing was labored, his bandanna loose and slipping over one eye. The other was pained. He placed his unarmed hand on the wound across his chest, a deep fear growing in him when he felt the warmth of the blood that was staining it. He coughed and he tasted blood—whether it was his own or not was never known. He could see that Daisuke was bleeding, capillaries in his ear busted from where Snake had bitten part of it off. He felt ashamed, but he felt afraid as well. Daisuke might have been disarmed, but he was not very wounded—just maybe a little shaken up and with a bleeding ear. If he wanted, he could dispatch the Hydra right now, for his compassion for his friend had been the crux of his failure.
Things began to slip in and out of focus for him. It was the blood, the blood—the taste of it, the smell of it, the sight of it, the feeling that it gave him as it flowed from his body. He knew that he could not stand for much longer. This had happened to him once before, when he had gained the scar across his ribs. Patriot had watched him bleed then, letting him see the Gates of Death before calling in the medics to help him back. It had taught him a lesson, he said. Perhaps it had. But now Snake was feeling ill, lights flashing before his eyes. His knees gave out, and he crumpled to the snow, stained red with blood. He was cursing himself, over and over, until it became a drone in his head. He was better than this, better than this, better than this. Pity, compassion, emotion! Accursed things. He despised them, he loathed them. Without them, Daisuke would be the one bleeding on the ground. Not him.
And with that thought, everything went black, and Snake collapsed onto the ground, one hand clutching his chest and the other locked in a death-grip on his knife.