The Kwazulu Alcazar (CVnU Location)

Why can't people let dead things stay dead.

@musa_bashir: ....ahhh...I kinda wrecked this place

@ada_guillaume: Is there still land? Could I get the bare bones basics of what happened :D pleaseeeeeee

Not much actually happened to the Kwazulu Lands, more so Liafador Island. Pretty much Y-Intercept went there looking to kill everyone. Instead of allowing her to do so, Maya teleported the remaining Kwazulu to Daytonville and turned the Island into a Stone Structure. But Liafador Island and the Kwazulu Lands were separated by a veil you could spin it like that if you want.

@musa_bashir:

@ada_guillaume: Bet. I can work around that. Dont actually need the people or structures so it'll work.

@musa_bashir:

Yikes.

That movie pulls no punches.

@musa_bashir:

@hawkshade: These bones

Which movie is that?

@adriana_huntington: Beasts of No Nation

@musa_bashir: Ohhhhh I've had that in my queue foreverrrrr

3 week prior to his arrival in Gothic City

The crystal crisp waters of the False Bay flooded over Musa's sand dusted combat boots as he stoically stood on the edge of the beach, gazing at the remains of the Kwazulu as if for the first time. He now knew his true origin, his true parentage. But it only served to further stoke his internal flames of an unobserved vendetta.

Disgust and anger visibly hung the lines of micro-expressed agitation. It was gone. All gone. A series of events had culminated in the destruction of Kwazulu Alcazar. Be it by his father's doing, the Liafadors, the Strixs, it didnt matter to the Beast of No Nation. All that mattered was it had been erased. The storied legacies of the Bashir Wardens were no more.

However, while most of the historical significance had been literally paved over and a portion of its surrounding island missing, Musa could feel the pull; breathe the hidden power of a bloodline tainted by his father's corrupted soul. It was in the ground, the air, all around him. As if by simply uncovering who he truly was, the Kwazulu Alcazar had unlocked an ancestral ether of spiritual energy.

"I undahstand. And I will not fail."

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Body bruised and battered, ribs and orbital broken the beaten vigilante spent days drifting in and out of a Strigidae trance to accelerate the bodies healing process. At first he could do little but lay in bed and attempt to focus through the stabbing pain that came with every breath but in time he was able to kneel upon the floor of the abandoned church basement he turned into a temporary sanctuary.

His body healed but his mind was not idle. For hours he turned those fateful minutes over and over in his mind, barely capable of paying attention to anything else for more than a minute at a time.

Saw Musa. Teargas. Skylight. Chase. Fight. Flee.
Saw Musa. Teargas. Skylight. Chase. Fight. Flee.
Saw Musa. Teargas. Skylight. Chase. Fight. Flee.

There had to be something he missed. Some detail some clue something no matter how small it had to be there he knew it and he turned those minutes over and over and over again and again in his mind until it was like a blade scratching a rut into a stone and he was trapped in those moments reliving them again and again, those fateful words-

But you are to'late. Dee gurl, is dead.

-gnawing at him like the claws of some invisible beast upon his back and he couldn't shake it no matter how ha-

-wait.

Piercing blue eyes flew open. Dee gurl, he said.

Sociolinguistics. The study of accents. His eyes closed and Hawkshade was dashing through the grim stone halls of his mind palace until he stood before the door that held the memory. He opened it and he could hear Musa's words washing over him again as if he was there. He grimaced and played them again and again his lips moving with each sound until he could imitate the sound of Ali's words himself.

Then he cracked open the plastic packaging of a burner phone and dialed the Yale Center for Language Studies.

"Hello, this is the YCLS, how may I direct your call?"

"Dave Malinowkski please."

They put him on hold for fifteen minutes.

"Dr Malinowkski speaking, how can I help you mister..?"

"Alexander Walker, Interpol human trafficking division. I was wondering if you had time to answer a few questions Mr. Malinowkski?"

"Umm... sure, I guess? What's this about?"

"We're tracking a human smuggling ring out of-" He made something up. "-Mongolia and we're trying to put together a profile on one of the traffickers. The problem is, we can't identify his accent. I have a sample of his voice, if we played it over the phone could you identify where it's from?"

"Possibly. You see my field of study is sociolinguistics-"I know. "-and while it isn't an exact science human vocal dialect varies by prosody, vowel stress and other-"

"Thank you Dr Malinowkski I get the picture."

"Right, sorry I ramble on a bit sometimes. What I was trying to say was probably. I can at least narrow it down."

"Alright. Here is the sample." Hawkshade put a cloth over his mouth and repeated the words now burned into his head but in Musa's accent. "Dats an impressive trick. But you are to'late. Dee gurl, is dead. She was a fighter. She went hard, a wo'yeahs death. Tell me, how will you go? I will drag you into dee deepest parts of mental and physical exhaustion. Dhere, I shall drown you.... as I drowned her......"

Silence for a moment and then a nervous chuckle. "Well that sounds sinister. But the tone, stress and rhythm indicate a Kwazulu speaker. You see it's a unique region whose linguistic quirks are-"

Richard hung up and destroyed the phone and it's sim card.

Kwazulu.

His ribs weren't completely healed and his eye was still swollen and black. He didn't care. Africa was a long way from Gothic City. He didn't care. The last confrontation had ended in disaster. He didn't care. He threw his meager possessions into his backpack, grimaced as he climbed onto his bike and kicked it to life. A twist of his wrist sent it growling into Gothic's streets.

Kwazulu awaited.

@hawkshade: Now that was cool.

That was...Wow.

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At two AM a cargo ship docked in Mombasa Kenya. Rust stains ran across it's plate metal sides like blood seeping from wounds and on the shore cash changed hands. Cargo crates were unloaded in the dead of night and many things entered the country as the authorities pocketed their bribes and looked the other way.

Hawkshade was one of those things. He rolled his bike out of the steel cargo crate and pulled the straps of his backpack snug.

With the light of the stars and the soft glow of his GPS he set out across the face of Africa.

He slept during the day and moved at night, the growl of his modified off-road bike echoing across windswept plains and the deep treads of his tires carrying him across washed out gullies, around collapsed bridges and through shanty towns of scrap metal and firepits that smoldered with rubber tires and gasoline.

The Son of the Shogun arrived at dawn. The engine of his bike rumbled down the main road and he saw the bright spender of the modern day Alcazar.

It was as good a place to start as any. He leaned his bike against the outer wall and scaled it in a quick display of acrobatic athleticism and begin his search.

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@hawkshade:

Soul stirring beats echoed along the coast of the Bay, just outside the protected cove entrance of the sacred midnight gardens of the Geliefedes. Spiritual epicenter and birth place of the Great Panther. Draped in dazzling fauna spliced with Vibranium and Aethrium technology, were ceremonial combat bled into ritualistic rights of regal passage and kingly prestige. The Geliefedes were the esoteric bloodline that linked the Bay to the Bashirs, and the Bashirs to the Bay. The sacred bond between Panther, Blood, and Earth.

For generations the Bashirs had been the heralded Wardens of the Bay, until an unfortunate curse drove the Vibranium Mahjarah, Ali Bashir, insane. Killing most of his own people. . Defiled by outsiders, abandoned by their protectorate, its people massacred, the Kwazulu Alcazar had all butdied.

But as the tribal rhythms continued to hammer forth from the cove, it would seem as though the Bay had been reborn. Its savoir, the former Unknown Amiriyy. The Beast of No Nation, hereditary heir and warrior Warden. A man who had embarked on an intercontinental reign of patriotic terrorism in an effort to breathe life back into the rogue nation. And indeed, he had...

The drumming continued. The drumming thundered.

@musa_bashir:

Drums.

They reminded him of a heartbeat, which reminded him of the hearts that would no longer beat because of the Prince of Orphans. His eye was still swollen and it made his cowl uncomfortable tight. Ribs ached with every breath.

No matter. He was here for something more important than his mortal flesh.

Hawkshade entered the sacred gardens. Outsider's boots tread upon hallowed ground and his worn leather gloves brushed aside the flora and fauna that blocked his path.

He thought about those crime scene photos. Bodies burned until they were unrecognizable.

Dee gurl, is dead.

A fist clenched at his side and he redoubled his pace through the garden, abandoning stealth and storming straight ahead toward the drums through sacred ground, teeth gritted and muscles straining against his shirt.

She deserved justice. They all did.

@hawkshade:

Afro-centric tattoos decorated the faces of the Kwazulu acolytes, former diplomatic emissaries called home for the great rebirth of the rogue nation. Their physical gyrations coming to an unexpected halt as they angrily turned to gaze upon the colonial intruder. The drumming had stopped, suddenly. "Heresy!" members of the congregation hissed. "He has violated dee sacred gardawn." outcries rained down from cliffs up high.

Decoratively dressed in purple and gold robes, the priests of the Alcazar slowly parted to reveal the Bashir prince in the center of a beautiful ankle high spring. No shirt, black shorts and a wooden replica of his panther mask. At first the Great Jaguar simply scuffed, easily dismissive of his dedicated foe.

"By what meaning is dis, Musa? Who is dis'man?"

"He is no'whaaan. An outsidah" Musa arrogantly stated with inflated sarcastic exhaustion.

"Clearly he is someone. Clearly he has come here with a purpose...broken dee sacred ring and entered da Garden. Challenge!" There was a moment of silence before the surrounding members of the Fase Bay congregation chanted out in unison, "CHALLENGE!!!"

And the drums began to play

"So be it. I would have killed you eventually anyway, in my time. Dis merely replaces dee stage. You want justice?" Opening his flexed arms out wide. "Come and claim it."

@musa_bashir: [I got a little long, sorry about that.]

It was a clash of worlds. The urban world of crime, vigilantes, concrete sidewalks and a skyline made of rooftops colliding with an older world, a tribal world of blood ties, sacred rites and traditions with roots that ran deep into the bones of history.

Hawkshade could not have been more out of place amongst them. They wore an elegant panoply of jewel tones and traditional craftsmanship, he wore a worn pair of boots and dirty cargo pants mass produced by the automated robotic hands of the lowest bidder.

He was an outsider and he felt it.

CHALLENGE!!!

But he also felt at home and his heart rate slowed as he walked across the ancient ground toward Bashir. Every night of his life in the Strigidae temple he was gathered together with the other children in the courtyard. Ten children. Nine meals. One tournament. The victors ate and the weakest starved.

"This man is a criminal." He said as he rolled his neck and came to a halt in front of the Unknown Amiriyy,

"A murderer who kills women and children." A throb of pain ran through his ribs as he sank into a deep Strigidae guard, lead hand lifted and extended, palm open and facing up and rear hand making a fist beside his chin, weight heavy on his rear leg.

Briefly he wondered how he could possibly defeat the man who had easily bested him in their last confrontation. He pushed the thought aside. It was not the time for doubt.

One more challenge. One more fight. Just as he had done so many times before. But for justice. For revenge.

"And-" He spat on the earth in front of Musa. "-a coward."

@hawkshade:

Without arrested pause or anchored hesitation, the man who would be Khan began to ginga. Literally rocking back and forth swinging his hips, dexterously dancing on his feet, fueling a continuous state of motion that could; at any moment, violently bleed into an unorthodox strike. Or if need be, an illusive slip of a jab, duck of a kick.

And feints. A swarm of killer bees' worth of them, serving as the Prince's combat catalyst in his misleading menagerie of mesmerizing motion.

Coming close yet never truly encroaching into the dark avenger's personal space, leaving a perceivable distance only to antagonistically fake a strike or arrogantly lean in with his chin exposed.

Looking to provoke a reaction and thus an opportunity to exploit a punch that was too slow, or a kick that had been left out there just a second too long. Musa was going to to take the would be seeker of holy justice apart. And in doing so in the spotlight of the rogue nation, solidify his claim as the Great Khan of the Kwazulu Alcazar.

sneak attacks

@musa_bashir:

He had hoped his insult would draw the Beast of No Nation into an ill advised assault but he was disappointed.

A tidal wave of information rolled in as Musa poured forth a fountain of martial misdirection. The Son of the Shogun absorbed the onslaught of contradictory combative clues as the Beast of the Bay circled and then he attempted to time the martial master he currently faced by shifting forward and dropping into a spinning sweep, aiming to swat the legs from under his agile rival in a swift and fluid strike.

Regardless of his attacks success or failure the powerfully muscled vigilante carried the momentum of his spinning sweep into a heavy rising palm strike targeting his foes wooden mask, either mid-fall should his sweep land or standing should it miss, aiming to shatter the wooden nose and brow of the mask, obscuring the murderous Musa's vision and breathing.

@hawkshade:

Like a shotgun loaded spring Musa fluently vaulted over the leg sweep. With an acrobatic carnival of horizontal contortion, upper body strength and balance had allowed the False Bay Jaguar to aerially cartwheel onto his hands in place of his legs and feet. Narrowly missing the athletic attempt to usurp his gait. Spinning in unintentional chorus, partial skill married with situational luck allowed the merciless Bashir to also avoid what would have been a damaging palm strike.

Both attacks were visual illustrations of the vigilantes inherent training. Neither overtly complex or stylishly trademarked, yet both held the fundamental premiums of an elite level combatant.

"You are well trained hero, yes? Resourceful. Driv'n. Foolish." Confidence radiated off the Prince's elongated shoulders. Bouncing and shifting levels to the acoustic beats cascading down from the Geilifields.

"Challaaaaaange!!! Challaaaaaange!!!!"

The chants enticing Musa's overstated sense of self, his arms firing upwards with the emotion filled calls. Championing his people.....champion of, his people.

"You think you understahnd. You think you are heah for justice." Slowly stepping to the side allowing the masked crusader a clear path of vision. A path at the end of which stood a teenage girl. Stood thee, teenage girl. And along either of her shoulders stood a congregation of similar stories. The stolen Children of the Vault.

"I have murdahd, dis is true. But only to reclaim what was stolen. Only to retrieve what was ours all along." It angered him. The idea, the thought of having to explain himself or motivations to an outsider. But he wanted him to know the truth, before.....

"I wanted you to know dee truth before you die. I did not murdah dee child....I brought her home." Waving his fingers mutely calling for a Aethrium machete. "I have brought dhem all, home. For like my faddah before me, his faddah before him....I am dee King of Orphans."

@musa_bashir:

His eyes fell upon the girl and a great weight seemed to lift from his shoulders. I wasn't too late. He lied.

He lied.

The white eye-slits of his Strigidae cowl turned upon the Prince of Orphans, drawing himself up out of his guard and circling away from Musa's machete arm in an outwardly relaxed, casual gait.

"Perhaps some of what you say is true. Perhaps this is their true home. But what does that change? Nothing except it gives you an excuse to indulge your sadism."

A little shrug. "Nonetheless I can acknowledge the potential for truth in your words. Perhaps she does belong here."

"But you should hear the truth in mine." Hawkshade's voice rang out across the gathering.

"You weren't easy to find. You know why? Because nobody knows anything about you. Not even in my circles. But why is that?"

"You dress like a warrior. Talk like a warrior. Walk like a warrior. But you don't live like one, you never made a name for yourself. There's a world of legends out there and the only people you put in the grave were tied up on the floor"

"And you didn't even do that by yourself. Did you even have the guts to watch? Or did you just set things in motion and run away so you didn't have to face what you had done?"

"Even now." He stopped and spread his arms. "Even now, surrounded and emboldened by your people you don't have the nerve to fight me without hiding behind a weapon."

"Yeah, you're the King of Orphans alright. Only children would follow a man like you. Everyone else sees through you."

@hawkshade:

Musa cocked his head and neck to the right unveiling a hundred displays of registered micro-expressions. Most, if not all, obscured by his wooden ceremonial mask. But there was a clear level of genuine interest in what the vigilante had to say.

So confident, so sure. Even while faced with the reality that he had set in motion an intercontinental crusade to avenge the death of a girl who had not died, Hawkshade sought the moral high ground. It wasnt that he was wrong either. But in Musa's sphere of self-serving narcissism, perception was reality.

"Did you know dhem? Dee people I killed? Did you look into who dhey were, where dhey came from? You speak of legend but he'ah, in dee Flase Bay...dhose people were infamous. Dhey came from Gothic..." scuffing for a moment, "much like you have now. Did what dhey wanted....took, what dhey wanted. Believing their politics, power and money cloaked dhem an impenetrable shield of privilege. Dee same misguided privilege that lets you believe you can go anywhere, and do anything in dee name of justice. But I took too.....I took it back...I'm takin it allllll back" he theatrically emphasized.

The best lies were lined with truths

Momentarily shining a light of contradictory introspection at the Strigidae N'agha (exile in Igbo), Musa skipped forward channeling the energy from the small cameo of motion and exploding from his core, launching several short bursting chop like strikes at the urban shinobi's head and neck. Nothing overtly stylish or even technically. Just speed and proper angular use of the utilitarian blade. Like all great Panther's there was enjoyment to be mined from the chase. Endorphins, excitement, chemical reactions that would flood and wash over the senses in a euphoric state of situational stimulation. The cat and the mouse....or rather, the Cat....and the Bat

(lol I couldnt help it)

@musa_bashir:

The blade flashed in the African sun and Hawkshade's head begin to move before he had consciously acknowledged Musa's strikes. His lip curled in disgust as the masked man chose to attack with a weapon and he slipped the first few strikes with fluid, rolling movements of his head and shoulders, backpedaling to keep his hips over his feet as he circled in a half-moon away from his foes center line, surprisingly light on his feet for such a huge man.

But his luck could not hold out forever and blood ran from his left palm and right forearm. Then one of the blows struck home. A normal machete would have bounced from the reinforced material of his cowl but the Beast of No Nation's weapon was no ordinary steel and the Aethrium sliced through the scalp of his cowl and left a groove along the bone.

Red ran down his mask and coated his mouth and the stubble of his jaw.

Get some kind of bracers to deflect weapons. He told himself and not for the first time.

"Shield of privilege?" He laughed in Musa's face, brushing the blood off his lips with the back of his hand. "You have superpowers but you complain about privilege. You have in your hands one what I presume to be vibranium or adamantine, one of the most valuable materials in the world. But you complain about privilege. You literally got away with murder but you complain about privilege."

There was some small part of him that had been afraid of Musa after taking a beating at his hands. Some part of him that had followed Musa across the planet not for justice but to get even (though he would have denied it.) Some part of him that respected Musa's skills and powers, even though he may have despised what the Prince of Orphans did with his gifts.

That part of him died.

In his heart he lost all respect for his foe.

Hawkshade attacked with a snort of amusement, his motions relaxed and almost casual. The flick of his wrist sent a flashbang sailing from his homemade utility belt toward his opponents eyes, the pin spiraling off into the dirt before it exploded between them with a deafening CRACK and a brilliant flash of light, ideally blinding his agile foe and depriving him of the agility that had confounded Hawkshade up to this point as the fluid in his ears was disrupted by the shockwave.

His cowl protected him from the blindness, deafness and disorientation associated by close proximity and he struck like a hawk diving upon a hapless housecat. Barely a fraction of a second had passed between the detonation and Hawkshade's flurry of strikes, giving his foe as little time to recover as humanly possible.

Still assuming his foes superhuman strength was undiminished Hawkshade spun into a stomp targeting Musa's lead knee, believing that he would have to overcome the resistance of muscles capable of lifting dozens of tons overhead and thus opting to spin to infuse the blow with a vastly unnecessary degree of power, aiming to stomp Musa's knee backwards and cripple him for the duration of the fight, if not life, ideally bringing an unceremonious end to his rivals agile maneuvers.

Normally Hawkshade would have stopped there. Disengaged. Reset and guarded himself against counter attack while analyzing the success or failure of his strike. But that secret fear inside his heart was gone. He had no more respect for the Prince of Orphans than he had for any of the criminals he fought on the street.

He stepped forward inside the priceless blade's reach and unleashed a casual backhand with the thunderous power his massive body was capable of generating. It was no skillful stroke mastered under the gaze of sinister martial masters in a distant temple, just a backhanded slap intended to swat the blade from his foes hand with contemptuous disregard for the mortal danger his rivals enhanced body and masterful skills posed.

Nor did Hawkshade stop there.

The image of those burned bodies flashed in his minds eye and deep in his heart, in a moment he would never confess, he remembered the humiliation of fleeing this man, this scum, at the end of their last encounter. In a burst of profound recklessness he exploded into a front flip, hurling his arms and head downward and tossing his booted heel out at the last moment, aiming to drive a spinning axe kick into the top of his foes skull with the freakish power generated by his two hundred and forty pound body spinning nearly three hundred and sixty degrees through the air and the monstrous torque generated by his tree-trunk legs.

Hit or miss, he landed on his toes, knees bent to absorb the energy of the flipping kick and wiped the blood from his mouth. "You're just a whiny boy in the body of a man with superpowers. Like a kid driving his dads car."

@hawkshade: @musa_bashir: Loving the repartee.

@hawkshade:

His blade cleaved, and he smiled. The Gothic City Hawk spat venom, and his smile grew larger. Pure uncut arrogance. You see where the Hawkshade had the ability to respect a foe, even if to ultimately lose it, the former child soldier turned would be dictator had murdered that part of his being along, long time ago.

Narcissistic detachment, as well as whatever mental magic he had been forced to retreat into as a boy in order to survive made it impossible for him to feel an emotion such as respect. Even an introspection thought such as 'if I could, would I?', had been surgically removed and never replaced when the Beast of No Nation reconstituted his mental development, World view, and moral philosophies as a freed adolescent.

And the idea of fair play? Twice now the crusading crime fighter had pointed it out and it had tickled the False Bay warden both times. 'Had he truly bought into the pageantry of the Kwazulu Alcazar?' Sarcasm ripping through his inner monologue. There was no such thing as 1v1. It was 1vWorld. Always. Some lessons, however, could never be taught. They needed to be learned.

Again with pride and arrogance fueling his motions instead of his tactics, Musa attempted to replicate the head and shoulder movement of his foe. A perfect replication, martial art in its photographic purity. A stupid and costly mistake. The projectile ignited and instantly the Prince of Orphans was robbed of his senses. Fear. Fear had found the Bashir legacy once again. He had felt it before when his lungs were irreparably damaged, and here it was again.

Instinctively and with immediate response Musa deployed his Panther Habit. Millions of nanites exploding out from his claw themed necklace and covering his body in the trademark habit of the Bashir Wardens, just seconds before eating the kick to his knee. A kick that would have folded his leg in on itself, catastrophically jack-knifed in the wrong direction crippling him for life.

Musa was still overwhelmed on nearly every level which in turn allowed the Hawkshade's subsequent strikes to find their marks. Reduced to a knee, it seemed like an odd time for the cantankerous villain to chuckle with self-assured certainty. As if the last 15 seconds hadn't happened. As he rose to his feet, he looked around. But in a manner that was meant to guide the Hawkshade's attention as well. The drumming had stopped. The chanting had stopped. Every member of the once jubilant congregation now held the posture of hostility, as did the atmosphere.

"What did you really think? You would come he'ah alone. We would duel in a beautiful spring as noble warriahs and in dee end, you would take me in to face man's justice? Or simply kill me in dee name of yours? Ha..haha. Noooo, noooo" he deeply purred. "My faddah was dee noble one. For a time. Honor and sacred warriahs was his Bay. Dis is mine. And I am not building a nation of honor he'ah, I'm buildin dee Rogue Nation. And dee Rogue Nation is at war! Always at war!"His suit shimmering for a moment. A slight indication that it was ready to redistribute the energy the Hawkshade had so generously donated.

Gazing at his body and then theatrically sideways at his foe, Musa surprisingly vaulted straight up into the air. And then straight down with a powerful shockwave of kinetic release. A thunderous blast that all but cleared out the spring, and hopefully the Hawkshade backwards and off his feat. But irregardless, every man woman and child in attendance began to shout and brandish Aerthrium tipped spears. Today spears, tomorrow energy weapons in the kingdom of the Optimus Khan. "You shouldnt have come here looking for a happy ending hero. Tis not an American tale. Its an African one." Flicking his hands causing a switchblade like affect in witch the claws of his suit came out. The Hawkshade was right. There was no honor in the Bashir's conduct. But was a king with no honor better then a dead man with it?

???? ???? ??? ???????? ?? ??? ???? ?????!

@musa_bashir:

The blast lifted Hawkshade off his feet and flipped him through the air like a child's toy. Only his cowls noise suppression protected him from being deafened or disoriented by the shockwave.

In that moment he remembered seeing footage of his mother, whom he had never met, caught in the shockwave of an explosion. She would twist about and right herself mid air, land on her feet and keep fighting. He tried it.

He wasn't his mother.

Hawkshade slammed into the unforgiving dirt shoulder first, his stoic facade giving way to a grunt of pain as something popped in his shoulder. There was no graceful roll, no sardonic laugh and snappy Russian accented comeback. The vigilante slowly rolled to his hands and knees and tasted something metallic in his mouth. He spat. It was a mouthful of blood.

It took him a moment to climb to his feet and when he did he looked around and listened to the Machiavellian Musa's words.

"You got me there, 'Prince of Orphans.' You got me there." He shrugged his uninjured shoulder and tried to spread his arms. Only his right arm cooperated.

"I figured you were a piece of shit." He walked over to a post covered in decorative carvings and slammed his shoulder into it. There was an audible pop as the limb was driven back into it's socket. The Son of the Shogun gritted his teeth and snarled. "What I didn't count on was all of you being pieces of crap."

No mortal man could defeat this many enemies and Musa. Richard didn't really give a shit.

"You think I'm going to back down at this little show of force Musa? You want an inch out of me, you're going to have to take it. Come on then. Find your testicles under your little gimp suit, hide behind about thirty of your friends and come over here. I'll break one of those fancy sticks off and shove it up your ass."