BEDAZZLED - open, knife throwing

[ocelot .]

The wind on his face was cool.

He thought of flicking a wrist, sending a knife spinning, and so it was made to be - but the thought of the temperature of the wind was enough to throw it off trajectory, sending it into the edge of the board he had set up; far from the bullseye he had intended upon. A small sigh left his maw. Clearly, he wasn't adapting right, if something as simple as the wind was enough to throw him off (and it didn't even have the decency to send his knife off course in the traditional way). A small grimace, and then nothing, as he marched over to pull it back out with his teeth. Something physical.

He thought of the desert; of a hot, dry wind, battering his face; of sand in his eyes and in his paws, cracked from exertion, from walking; he thought of his home, empty save for himself, and someone he didn't know -

He stopped thinking about it then.

Perhaps the cooler wind of the sea was better. It didn't carry so much baggage with it, so many memories. He already had enough mementos of his past - had even taken a trip to retrieve some of them, only returning now - so he didn't exactly need any more, especially not of the emotional kind. Even if they weren't traumatic, in his opinion (which was far from professional), he wasn't the kind to sit around thinking about his feelings. He preferred action, preferred doing, preferred taking in what was around him, like the light smell of salt in the air, or the wind blowing through leaves, or the heat from the sun as it shone down onto his form.

Ah, that was familiar. It was more gentle, less of a barrage, more of a dusting, but it was still familiar.  He focused on that feeling, trying to remember his training, even with how long it'd been since he'd used it.

He got back into position, and concentrated.

The knife floated in the air, hanging by its blade, and he imagined the motion of flicking it. It spun through the air, and -

Bullseye.

Another sigh, this time of relief. He still had 'it,' then. He still had his abilities, and more importantly, the finesse and practice with which to use them properly. Once more, he stalked over, spotted limbs stretching with a certain elegance in their motion - elegant less like nobility, and more like a predator. It was unconscious, something he never really realized he had done, but something about that walk screamed experience. It was the same thing that was in his eyes, perhaps. A steely glare in already grey eyes, hardened from battle, even when he did his best to soften up for the people around him.

He gripped the hilt with his teeth and pulled, feeling the serrated edge pull free from the wood, as he retreated back to the spot. No use in stopping now, he mused silently, holding the blade in front of him with his mind so as to make sure it wasn't damaged harshly. It was a combat knife, and holding it in the sunlight revealed little nicks and scratches; he had never actually picked up a set of knives specifically for throwing. Figured it was better to get practice in with the stuff he'd actually be using. And Revolver did have to keep practicing - he had to be ready for anything at any times.

He wouldn't repeat the mistake of being unprepared for combat again.

tags - "speech"

[eggplant18]

//OOC

Ska'arq had never thrown a knife before. He had never seen one thrown before, either. When he lived with his sisters, hunting was done the old fashioned way, with tactics and chase. Occasionally one of them would use their fire breath, but it was with limitation as to not start a wildfire. Unfortunately, he was one of few dragons without the ability to breathe fire.

When the occasional but repeating thud sound reached him, the purple reptile decided to investigate the source. The source in question seemed to be holding a knife. He watched as it was torn from the target, carried back a distance, then thrown again. For what reason? Ska'arq stayed silent, maintaining a risk-free distance as the knife was thrown once, twice more.

After it was torn from the target again, he came closer. "What is the purpose of this repeating action?" he asked, head tipping gently to the side. "A knife is not a ranged weapon."

[align=center]ATTACK IN BOLD #6e65b5 - TAGS
[i]note - ska'arq does NOT have the necklace as shown in his pfp

[arcy]

[div style="color:#0f9b3e; font-size: 20pt;"]

Knife throwing was, shockingly, not something Izuku was wholly unfamiliar with. ... Weapons really something Izuku actively tried to look up, granted, because Izuku didn't like it all that much, and -- and All Might hadn't used them, so Izuku didn't either.
Not that Izuku had much combat experience out of the theoretical, that is. His, um, his mentor had trained him to get stronger, but he'd incidentally just sort of ... overlooked ... the combat part. He was supposed to be learning that in school by now, but, well --
Izuku's been starting to wander closer to the people living here, now. He hadn't stopped exploring, and he hadn't ... actively talked to people yet, but he was ... getting there. This is the only reason that the kitten is close enough to, conveniently, wander by. The kitten has no intentions of making any commentary even still, but then -- he sees something.
A floating knife.
Izuku stops dead, wide eyes turning to regard the scene. It has to be the one inspecting the knife that's doing it -- that's a form of telekenisis, right? Izuku's paws itch for one of his journals, but he left them at home, and he hasn't been able to, um, replace it yet. It's not ... not a big deal yet, though. It's not like there's a ton of information he can get just from a brief glimpse.
"You were throwing knives?" Izuku guesses, ears pricked. It's the first time he's initiated contact while he was here, which is notable in itself. He trots forward, ears flickering half-back from nerves. Under normal circumstances, he'd probably avoid all of this, but his excitement overrides his nerves. "Was ... did you do it ... like that?" There's something bright to the kitten's gaze, and he awkwardly motions to the knife in Revolver's grasp. It's a convenient way to do so, Izuku thinks -- you can throw a knife without using your paws. It'd be faster, Izuku thinks, and more controlled. "How ... How precise is it? How far can you throw it?" Izuku nearly buzzes with energy, barely biting down on his words fast enough to not release a -- a barrage of questions before he even gets confirmation. He doesn't even have anything to write his notes down in, and what if somebody finds out about them when he does and thinks its weird and creepy and then they hate him and destroy it or something --
Right.
Anyways.

[ocelot .]

Perhaps he should grow used to the feeling of being watched.

Having an audience, he meant - because he was used to the paranoid little itch on the base of his neck, the tingle that told him to look behind him in case there was danger around, but there being people around, just... watching him? Not so normal. Where he was from - not his first home, but the place he was turned into the person he was today - people minded their own business. All this attention reminded him of white walls and metal instruments and false mirrors, of being watched and documented, and that unsettled him, ever so slightly. It was a feeling he learned to shake off, though, over time - much like the tingle at the base of his neck, it might never go away, but he could usually ignore it.

The dragon looked like a bit of a threat. He was tall, and the teeth he could see when his mouth opened look sharp enough to rend flesh; no doubt he had sharp claws or talons hidden somewhere. Luckily, though, he seemed harmless. Mostly curious. Sure didn't understand the concept of throwing things. He gave a grin, false in its sweetness, but still a well enough acted facade it should be believable, except to the extremely close of eyes. "Oh, I'm just practicing - gotta keep my mind in shape, and I was always keen on throwing knives," he said, giving a mild shrug as he readied the knife again and threw. A few millimeters off the center - close enough, in his opinion. He marched again, tugged it out, marched back, and looked Ska'arq in the eyes. "And don't be mistaken, fella - anything's a weapon, and anything can be ranged if you throw it right." His grin might seem cocky, now, given what he was saying, and the upbeat attitude he held while saying it, the warning in his words - the implication that you should always be wary - hidden behind his cheerful mask. He glanced at the dragon's body once again, then back at his face, asking, "Haven't seen you around; what's your name?"

The next was a kid. That made two that he'd interacted with beyond his joining - hopefully this one didn't speak Spanish too, otherwise he'd be smitten again. Another curious one, though far more nervous - his previous interrogator seemed more... clinical seemed accurate. Not quite like a scientist, but close enough to put him just a bit on edge. This one was nervous, though, in a way that suggested he didn't have enough experience with the world to hide that sort of weakness up. Perhaps that sort of ignorance was to be admired, though. Sometimes he wishes he could go back to his far more simple youth, before... everything. The kid was asking questions, though, which was something he was always obliged to respond to. "Indeed I was, chico - it's a skill that's saved my life many times, and I reckon it's best to practice those kinds of things, otherwise ya might find yourself in a sticky situation you aren't prepared for." The underlying sentiment of caution at all costs was there again, running through his words, a subliminal message. It was unintentional, even if he did measure each and every word and action he took, making sure nothing he didn't want out there got out there. He paused for a moment, pondering the second set of questions - the knife, which he was holding in the air, drooped a bit, as if he had loosened is grip on it some. "Well, it's accurate to about three meters away from me, though hard winds can mess it up; I can throw it farther if I control the whole thing telekinetically, but I'm partial to throwing it like a human does. Uses less energy, and it's usually faster. Hits harder, too."

tags - "speech"

[candorosa]

[align=center][div style="width:70%; text-align: justify; padding: 1px; font-family: helvetica;"]Bokarsi had never seen a knife thrown, much less by an animal. They watched with mild fascination as the knife flew, body moving on its own as they tried to imitate the man's stance. No luck. They pouted but stowed away the information for later. They were sure sir Cekirse and the rest would be thrilled to know that the inhabitants were able to wield human weaponry.

They would record their findings some other time; right now they had encountered three strangers. How exciting! More opportunities to learn preferences was always a plus in their books. Bokarsi scampered closer to the trio, hovering dangerously close to the blade as they studied the workings of it. They kept their ears perked as the man spoke to the other child, absorbing his advice with vivid attention.

One point caught their attention. Bokarsi glanced up at the man, head tilted. "May we get a story on how the skill has saved your life?" The child asked, poorly masked anticipation laced in their tone. They loved hearing stories--they served as lessons, if one tried hard enough. They were slightly interested in the art of throwing knives itself, but they had been told they were much too young to learn sharp weaponry. They had to settle for their staff for a few more years.

[michael t.]

If there was one thing that Michael could pride himself on – a relatively short list of things, mind you, unless he was feeling particularly cocky for some reason – it was his aim. He wasn't sure when exactly it had happened, the whole elementals thing. All he knew was that one day he'd been fighting with just his body, forced to rely solely on his own meager muscles and decent but still not amazing reaction time, and then the next day he could deal with people from a distance, and tear through flesh and muscle with ease. It hadn't been immediate, no, far from it. The first time he had tried to use his earth elementals, it had been clumsy. Rocks had floated and shuddered around him, barely supported by his concentration and falling to the ground with a sick crack, like the last gasps of a broken spine. It hadn't been useful in the slightest, but Michael had seen the potential. He knew that it could be useful, if only he put the time in to make it so. And he had, because what else was a young criminal kid supposed to do? He had no mother or father to go back to, no friends to speak of – since this was in a time before Trevor – and he couldn't exactly pull off heists if he didn't have any firepower to back anything up. So, he had just spent hours practicing. Honing his power, learning how to lift and shape the rocks properly so that they would tear through living creatures most effectively. He learned how to identify weaknesses, to know where it would hurt the most when he dug the shot in. It was hardly any fancy military training, or anything like that, but it was the best training that the wilds could buy, and it had certainly kept him alive for this long. It had saved both himself and Trevor, probably more times than he would ever care to admit.

So, when the bobcat found himself wandering over and saw what the other male was doing, with the knives and the bullseye, he immediately felt a sort of kinship. Michael had never learned how to throw knives – he had never truly seen the point, considering his other abilities – but he knew what it was like, aiming at a target over and over and over again, desperate to get closer and close to that center point. His abilities were more comparable to the usage of a human gun – his rocks weren't quite bullets, but they were as close as an animal could truly get – but the target was all the same. The intention to inflict damage was all the same. Michael found himself wandering what situations the ocelot had been in that had warranted the use of knife throwing. Was the other like him? A criminal, on the run from everyone, never truly welcome? Or was he like those that hunted him? The ones that fancied themselves to be the law, and saw fit to punish those that stole and swindled and killed to get what they wanted. The bobcat supposed that perhaps one day he would find out. Or perhaps maybe he wouldn't, considering the odd air of secrecy that seemed to cling to Revolver like an overwhelming stench. Either way, Michael found himself wandering closer, his paws drawing him over to where Ocelot was surrounded.

Taking a deep breath inwards, Michael decided to make use of the target that was already there. The world seemed to slow down around him as he focused on the bullseye, his everything – all his thoughts, and all his worries – narrowed down only to the ground beneath him, and the sand, and the object that was forming. When he released his breath, the shot of rock and sand and earth went flying forward with dizzying speed, slamming into the bullseye of the target with a satisfying thunk before splitting out the back, falling and crumpling into dust once again. The hole it left behind was rather tiny, but Michael still found himself wincing, a soft curse falling from his muzzle. Perhaps he should've asked first, before he just went using his elementals. A headache was already plaguing his head, unpleasant little tendrils of pain curling outward to grip at his mind because of the use of his powers. He desperately shoved it down, quickly swiping at his mouth before the blood dribbling down could be seen. He supposed he should probably actually say hello to the man whose target he had sort of mutilated. Turning to Revolver, he forced a smile to his face, all sharp teeth and awkwardness, fairly sure his usual charms wouldn't work here, "Sorry about that. I just saw a target and I needed to try. Nice throwin', though." It wasn't the greatest apology in the world, but Michael was hardly the greatest at apologizing.

[glow=#75603C,1,000]" oh, it's a setup, no, no, we won't fall. "[/glow]