Thread: A Drunken Monk Battles a Katana Wielding Cowboy

-A Katana Wielding Cowboy opens the western-most door, the first lick of sun hitting his figure; a shadow cast from the rim of his hat casting shade over his eyes, and beneath the shadow a confident smile gleamed.

His black cowboy hat had apparent age, with a midnight blue band above its tattered rim, which was barely missed by an apparent bullethole. Messy strands of dark hair fell from beneath the rim, aiding it in enshrouding his face. His soft brown eyes were calm, and gained an ironic emphasis by the shade when someone was close enough. Two feathers hung on a chain necklace about his neck; one of Glass, the other of Silver; and with each a chapter of his life could be told.

Heavily weighted pauldrons adorned his shoulders, and a longcoat, the color of desert sands from which he hailed, kept most of his innards concealed. The handle of his katana protruded from one edge however, ornated at the end of its violet handle with gold. The sleeves of his coat were open, and ended just above the elbows; his right arm crossed his chest, as he carried a large bag over his shoulder. Despite the weight, he had a very loose comfortable walk; the stride of a wanderer. Simple black pants, baggy and comfortable, along with light shoes matching in color finished his attire.

His eyes scanned the platform, and as he approached, he put his left hand on top of one that was only head-high, pressing down as if to test its stability. Now that his arm was extended, the glass gauntlet he wore was illuminated. Named glass for its sharp translucent appearance, it was a very light but very strong armor, a brilliant green in color.

He took several steps back from it, across from the eastern set of doors, checking on his opponent's arrival. Seeing that he still had some time, he dropped the simple leather sack on the ground behind him, and as it opened up the head of a fox, or more precisely a fox skin, very noticably popped up from the confines of the bag. He then unstrapped his pauldrons, letting them drop to the ground and sinking into the earth with their weight. Now that his logncoat was removed, his odd undershirt coul be clearly seen.

Its style was that of a muscle shirt (wifebeater), but it was a stunning white, its ethereal material intricately woven. With his lean musculature, he seemed naked without all the heavy clothing... he was defined, but lithe. His arms now bare save the gauntlet, scars could be seen littered across every inch of his skin... it'd be easier to find a spot without a scar then to to count them all. Slashes, gashes, stabs, burns, and bullet wounds collected in his unusually long life as a bounty hunter marred his skin. A most noticable burn covered the outside of his left arm, spreading from the bottom of the upperarm and over his elbow in rough pinkish flesh. On his right upperarm, a tattoo of a fist could be seen in faded black ink.

The outlaw tilted his hat forward slightly, standing in a patient wait for his opponent's entrance-

The door at the eastern entrance to the arena swung lightly open, and a short man of Chinese descent, dressed in a monk's robes, staggered through, followed by a gentle breeze. Grinning happily and somewhat drunkenly, the monk paused to admire the greenery of the bamboo stand before him. Staggering backwards for a moment in an attempt to go forward, the monk's heel seemingly inadvertently nudged the door, causing it to swing sharply shut. A small whorl of leaves rose on the worn path from the sudden movement. Righting himself, the monk started forward, still grinning widely.

As he wandered slightly unsteadily along the short path to the arena, the monk brushed belatedly at his light-colored linen robes. They were a light tan in color, and were held closed by a loosely tied red sash at his waist. No weapon was visible on his person, nor was armor of any sort. The monk's feet were encased in soft-soled cloth shoes that made nary a sound on the packed ground. Stepping out into the sunlight, the inebriated monk turned his gaze upwards, eying the arena and its contents.

Platforms of varying sizes, made of bamboo and held together by rope and pegs, were placed all over the arena at various heights. There was plenty of space between these platforms to fight hand-to-hand or with weapons, but they were close enough together to easily leap the gaps if fighting atop the platforms. Strewn across the arena was what appeared to be uncleared debri from past battles, though there was not so much as for the objects to hinder footwork. Keen eyes picked out a rack at the base of the platform nearest, which held a variety of edged weapons. On looking closer, the monk noticed several other rack at the base of other platforms, seemingly at random points.

"Ah, a nice place to take a drink!"

With that the monk pulled himself unceremoniously to a seated position atop a support beam of the nearest platform, raised the small flask in his hand to his lips, and took a large swig. Smacking his lips, the monk swung the flask by its sling over his shoulder, nodded his close-shorn head exaggeratedly, and promptly fell from his seat.

"Whoopsy!"

Clumsily, the monk gathered himself up, popping to his feet, a silly grin across his boyish face. His brilliant blue eyes squinted, peering across the arena to finally espy the cowboy-hatted man watching with a patient look across his own weathered face. Realizing he was not alone, the monk's eyebrows raised joyfully. Staggering closer, he bowed to the stranger, waved a hand, then giggled to himself with barely suppressed glee.

"Beautiful day, stranger! How do you fare this fine morning?" The Drunken Monk called across the arena.

I'm alright, friend.

-He holds the front of his hat in greeting, returning the monk's goofy smile-

And I agree. It is a wonderful day for fighting...

-Not yet alarmed at all, he casually takes a small flask from his hip, opposite the katana, bringing to his lips for a long drink. It was customary to carry whiskey in such a flask, but few ever learned the contents of his. On the same hip was a much bigger container and looked like it was made from pottery clay... it was carefully corked and fastened behind the flask as he returned it-

The name's Eriks. What's yours?

Still grinning gleefully, the monk tilted his head to one side, as if pondering the question.

"You may call me... Monk."

Cocking his head to the other side jerkily, Monk eyed the clay container at Eriks' belt with an innocent curiosity. Shaking his head, the odd man shrugged and spoke again.

"Conversation over. Now we play!"

With that, he took a light-footed leap and pushed off the side of the platform to his right, gliding for a brief instant, almost indiscernably, before landing deceivingly heavily atop the next bamboo platform. With a short cry of glee, he ran along this platform, leaping the gap to the next, and so on and so on until he landed on the eastern edge of the centermost platform.

Now breathing a bit heavily, the Monk stopped. Unslinging his flask from its place on his shoulder, he unstopped the small wooden container and took another swig, then, fumbling a bit, replaced the stopper and slung the flask back into place. Adopting a more serious expression on his almost monkey-like face, the Monk waved at Eriks with a loose hand. Then his sober expression broke, and the Monk burst into laughter gaily.

"Come now, let us play!"

-After the Monk was done calling to him, he made his way up the platforms... he did it with ease, but there was nothing superfluous at all about it. He could pull himself upward with his arms and replace his feet with them.

When he was one level below the Monk, he very quietly walked towards the eastern side. He wasn't exactly under the Monk, but not far away by any means, when he stopped. Taking the violet handle of his katana in his right hand, arm crossing his body, he sharply drew it from its black sheath. The bamboo supporting the structure in front of him split in an instant as his blade whirred by, with the resistance a little less than that of a human spine, he noted. After that first slice, he began running in the opposite direction of the Monk, systematically destroying each supporting column of bamboo as he made his way back to the westernmost side of the platform.

The platform above him (and below the Monk's feet) would start to become unstable, and if he was left to finish even half it would fall completely-

Ah, now the fight had begun. The Monk chuckled to himself at the cleverness of the Cowboy, or rather at how clever the Cowboy thought he was. With surprising ease for one so obviously imbibed, the Monk backflipped from his pose at the edge of the platform, caught the edge with one hand, and swung deftly underneath, clinging to the bamboo with sure fingers. Swinging hand over hand, the Monk quickly navigated the underside of the now unstable platform, and dropped lightly in front of Eriks at the far side just before he could cut the final suport.

With an impish smirk, the Monk cocked his head to one side and made a small derisive noise halfway between a snort and a laugh.

He then dropped into a crouching run, almost more of a scamper, and charged head on at Eriks. At the last possible moment, the Monk dropped to into a sideways roll, peforming a sweep with both legs that would have appeared impossible to the untrained eye. If the sweep contacted, Eriks would find his legs gone from underneath him, and fall flat on his face as the monkey-like Monk rolled back to his feet and looked on in amused enjoyment.

-Eriks watched calmly, his last cut delayed now as he watched the Monk slip through the structure with much ease for a drunkard with thin eyes. His snorting laugh gave the outlaw ample time to prepare himself, though just a slight tilt of his katana marked any necessary preparation-

Slippery little fellow, aren't ya? The yellow blur...

-Eriks smiled at his little nickname for his opponent. As soon as the Monk scampered headstrong for his position, the cowboy simply stabbed his katana into the platform below him, directly in front of him and within the Monk's path. This would mean the Monk would have to change direction and, now that Eriks had left his sword where it was, he had all of his natural weapons unattended and ready for his "drunken" friend's reaction to the obstacle.

While Buke-zukuri's blade stood erect and sharp enough to split a strand of hair, Eriks whipped around in a swift roundhouse, his right foot slashing through the last column as the Monk made the necessary changes in his fighting plan to avoid being halved. Eriks' full rotation left him facing the Monk, and in the few seconds between the Monk changing direction, and the platform crushing the both of them, he would decide his next move-