[col]
OC: Sorry for the delay - mix of modding and work. Also, Walt Whitman is a classic.
IC:
The young man was not one for stealth, or at least he lacked such on this day. As he dashed through the finest and most exclusive portion of the city - it was fenced in for a reason. To keep the riffraff out. The village was crawling with troublesome youths such as this. He burst through the crowd, nimble and smaller than most at least in consideration of his relative strength and durability. He had the body of a teen but the power-set of a man. Sure, he caught the eye of a few rich cougars, if he was caught he would probably fetch a pretty penny but that would not happen on this day. Indeed, there would be no uncomfortable fade to black scenes between utter and complete strangers.
He split into three additional figures that looked a lot like the original. There would be a moment of lucidity for one of his pursuers, but not both of them. This spiraling race to bottom was not going to get them anywhere as one of the sentinels failed to identity him in the newly formed quartet or rather trio. The second awareness check, however would fail, as the deviant's facade and garments changed to something more suitable to his setting. A dress shirt, a tie, a pair of grey pleated plants. His hair coiffed and apparently freshly dyed, the teen had aged well over a decade in the blink of an eye. Even those in a service capacity dressed better than most bankers in the heart of Sunagakure. Wealth, like anything else can be easily seen in what a man wore, how they groomed themselves and how they carried himself. The transformation was effective against the second guardian who was attempting to incapacitate him with his genjutsu.
Dumbfounded, the genjutsuist stopped casting half-way. The illusionist stopped and looked around. Where did that brat go? A string of profanities escaped the pair as they stood there. One confused about which way to follow and the other knowing already that there was not one among the three that were dashing away. Newspapers would likely tell this story among several others, the style of journalism these days was that of a sensationalist. They would claim destruction, probably give a fancy name and there would be some sob story by one of the women present that she was about to mother their 'love child.'
There were a few names tested: Nitropace, The Dash, Speedracer, Quicksilver, The Flash. None of these would stick of course, most either dumb or absolutely unoriginal and likely the subject of a future lawsuit as they are not among the creative commons domain. In either case, a name had not yet been determined for this reckless youth.
Meanwhile on the rooftops or among the crowd, there would be spectators. Spectators not subject the the RNG gods or the whim of the random writer who seems to have a love for writing random NPCs. Did they see the young man as he broke away from his pursuers and as he faded into the crowd and was nowhere to be seen but Shiromaru was not actively attempting to hide his identity from these distant onlookers.
Shiromaru would likely find himself a 'safe' place free of his pursuers. Why he ever came in here -- to cause trouble, because rules are meant to be broken, 'meh.' Hard for this narrator to say.
Shiromaru is good at running, perhaps he liked the practice.
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Come my tan-faced children. Follow well in order, get your weapons ready. Have you your pistols? have you your sharp-edged axes? For we cannot tarry here. We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger. We the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend,
O you youths, Western youths. So impatient, full of action, full of manly pride and friendship. Plain I see you Western youths, see you tramping with the foremost. Have the elder races halted? Do they droop and end their lesson, wearied over there beyond the seas? We take up the task eternal, and the burden and the lesson,
All the past we leave behind. We debouch upon a newer mightier world, varied world. Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and the march. We detachments steady throwing. Down the edges, through the passes, up the mountains steep. Conquering, holding, daring, venturing as we go the unknown ways,
We primeval forests felling. We the rivers stemming, vexing we and piercing deep the mines within. We the surface broad surveying, we the virgin soil upheaving. Suna men are we. From the peaks gigantic, from the great sierras and the high plateaus. From the mine and from the gully, from the hunting trail we come.
From Soons, from Sora. Central inland race are we, from Babylos, with the continental blood intervein'd. All the hands of comrades clasping, all the Southern, all the Northern. O resistless restless race! O beloved race in all! O my breast aches with tender love for all! O I mourn and yet exult, I am rapt with love for all.
Raise the mighty mother mistress. Waving high the delicate mistress, over all the starry mistress, (bend your heads all). Raise the fang'd and warlike mistress, stern, impassive, weapon'd mistress. See my children, resolute children. By those swarms upon our rear we must never yield or falter. Ages back in ghostly millions frowning there behind us urging.
On and on the compact ranks. With accessions ever waiting, with the places of the dead quickly fill'd. Through the battle, through defeat, moving yet and never stopping. O to die advancing on! Are there some of us to droop and die? has the hour come? Then upon the march we fittest die, soon and sure the gap is fill'd.
All the pulses of the world. Falling in they beat for us, with the Western movement beat. Holding single or together, steady moving to the front, all for us. Life's involv'd and varied pageants. All the forms and shows, all the workmen at their work. All the seamen and the landsmen, all the masters with their slaves,
All the hapless silent lovers. All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked. All the joyous, all the sorrowing, all the living, all the dying. I too with my soul and body. We, a curious trio, picking, wandering on our way. Through these shores amid the shadows, with the apparitions pressing.
Lo, the darting bowling orb! Lo, the brother orbs around, all the clustering suns and planets. All the dazzling days, all the mystic nights with dreams. These are of us, they are with us. All for primal needed work, while the followers there in embryo wait behind. We to-day's procession heading, we the route for travel clearing.
O you daughters of the West! O you young and elder daughters! O you mothers and you wives! Never must you be divided, in our ranks you move united. Minstrels latent on the prairies! (Shrouded bards of other lands, you may rest, you have done your work). Soon I hear you coming warbling, soon you rise and tramp amid us.
Not for delectations sweet. Not the cushion and the slipper, not the peaceful and the studious. Not the riches safe and palling, not for us the tame enjoyment. Do the feasters gluttonous feast? Do the corpulent sleepers sleep? Have they lock'd and bolted doors? Still be ours the diet hard, and the blanket on the ground.
Has the night descended? Was the road of late so toilsome? did we stop discouraged nodding on our way? Yet a passing hour I yield you in your tracks to pause oblivious. Till with sound of trumpet. Far, far off the daybreak call—hark! how loud and clear I hear it wind. Swift! to the head of the army!--swift! spring to your places,[/col]
