[ Perhaps, almost comically, Mitsuhide pauses as he sees Daud be kicked away. His head follows the motion blur of the man, but the movement of his arms did not stop. But rather than meet empty air, his scythes meet steel. His head snaps back as both of his wide attacks were repelled with a series of strikes -- he could feel them reverberating against the length of his weapons, running up to feel those violent vibrations against his palms.
And even with the tight hold he has on the scythes, the scythes are knocked clear out of his grip. They sail a good distance before embedding themselves blade first into the ground hard enough that they remain upright. But he has very little time to dodge back to retrieve them. He has very little time even to turn back to see where they have gone.
He bursts out with laughter. Bright, flowing, exuberant. He laughs even as his body takes each vicious cut. In fact, he laughs that much louder. His choking laughter only broken up by saying: ] That hurts! That hurts! [ Yet he hardly sounds bothered by the pain. He hardly sounds bothered by the agony as rivers of blood pour down his arms, chest, legs, face. So many cuts but not enough to kill -- not meant to kill.
At the end of the attack, he is knocked backwards. His back slams into a tree just outside of the clearing. There is a resounding crunching sound of the bark splitting upon the force of which he hit. His head lulls down, long hair that was once white now stained red. ]
More... I want to keep playing. More, more! He ... he... [ Crimson flows past his lips as he lifts his hand up, reaching out toward the two. He flops forward, starting to drag himself to them. His clawing hands stop. ] No. [ His head tilts as he looks through a veil of hair, sticking to his face wet with blood. The manic light is strangled out of his gaze. ]
1/2
And even with the tight hold he has on the scythes, the scythes are knocked clear out of his grip. They sail a good distance before embedding themselves blade first into the ground hard enough that they remain upright. But he has very little time to dodge back to retrieve them. He has very little time even to turn back to see where they have gone.
He bursts out with laughter. Bright, flowing, exuberant. He laughs even as his body takes each vicious cut. In fact, he laughs that much louder. His choking laughter only broken up by saying: ] That hurts! That hurts! [ Yet he hardly sounds bothered by the pain. He hardly sounds bothered by the agony as rivers of blood pour down his arms, chest, legs, face. So many cuts but not enough to kill -- not meant to kill.
At the end of the attack, he is knocked backwards. His back slams into a tree just outside of the clearing. There is a resounding crunching sound of the bark splitting upon the force of which he hit. His head lulls down, long hair that was once white now stained red. ]
More... I want to keep playing. More, more! He ... he... [ Crimson flows past his lips as he lifts his hand up, reaching out toward the two. He flops forward, starting to drag himself to them. His clawing hands stop. ] No. [ His head tilts as he looks through a veil of hair, sticking to his face wet with blood. The manic light is strangled out of his gaze. ]