Cutting Country
Roleplaying Log: Cutting Country
IC Details

Two bastions lock horns in the black night.

Other Characters Referenced:
IC Date: October 06, 2019
IC Location: New Jersey
OOC Notes & Details
Posted On: 10 Oct 2019 11:24
Rating & Warnings:
Scene Soundtrack: [* ]
NPC & GM Credits:
Associated Plots

New Jersey. Past midnight.

It was quiet. To the point where it was just a little bit TOO quiet. Imagine the surprise on people's faces if they knew what was really out there in the night. What really stalks people and its not the criminal element.

But tonight, the hunters were the hunted.

The name?


The Daywalker. The Vampire Slayer. He had been hunting three vampires who had essentially been taking women off of the street at night. Those women were never seen or heard from again.

Two of them had already been killed, and the last one was running, retreating. He managed to get onto a rooftop before Blade arrived. The vampire immediately started to plead for his life, knowing he was no match for Blade. For the half-breed.

"You know what I see when I look at you?" The vampire shakes his head. "ANOTHER DEAD VAMPIRE!" and Blade decapitates the vampire with his sword, the body turning into brimstone and ash. With a shake of his head, Blade sheathes his weapon and takes a breath. He's alone.

There never really is such a thing as alone, is there? There is the simple term of the thing — there are almost nine million people in New Jersey. Even while Blade wrenched skull from body with steel, a seven year old child was asleep not much more than six feet below him. Not much more than six feet below him, the child's parents were arguing over something plain and pointless, finances for the month, whatever would make ends meet, the latest bar trip's price tag. Not much more than six feet below him, people were living their lives.

Not much more than six feet separates the living from the dead.

Of course, there are other, more literal impressions of not being alone. The sky always seems a little red after the kill, though a vampire leaves no body. Today, it's different, and the skies are alive with cerulean blue, a lightning flicker of ionization in the clouds tonight, easily written off as a trick of the senses, even for the trained hunters in the night. What is less simple to do so with is the flickering of the streetlights below, the interference of something in the airwaves and electronics. A rolling blackout, it would later be described as, something that causes the argument six feet under the Daywalker's boots to stop cold, as even the satellite television loses reception first, then power.

It is, in fact, the only warning Blade gets.

The shape that crosses the moon is in his blind spot, little more than a falling shadow, little more than spilled ink. The Black Panther is not someone to — ever — give anyone a warning. And when his claws slip from his gauntlets, he drops from the sky at approaching terminal velocity, his body lengthening into a maiming blow aimed right down the back of the Daywalker's head, before even the last of the ash has blown away in the breeze. The Panther descends from nowhere at all, and makes no sound.

Even when he lands to (apparently) murder the Daywalker, his landing will not even cause the child to stir from his bed, six feet below him. He will wake no one, even as he goes straight for the neck. As soundless as the night itself.

Not even a child stirred in the night, nor did a rat even skitter along the ground in nearby alleys. It was so quite that one could cut through the air with a dull blade. But then, Blade heard something. Something that definitely shouldn't be there.

How could he hear that? He fights foes of supernatural nature. The ones who make no sound, the ones who claws make no mark, the brutal killers of the night who cannot be tracked — but by those who know how.

Thus the Panther King might be surprised to see Blade jerk his body out of the way of the path of such a powerful weapon that the King uses to his disposal.

And even a counterattack is given! T'Challa may see the glint of the titanium blade coming for the neck, but would it penetrate the Panther Habit? Unlikely, but Blade does not yet know whom he fights. Its a knee-jerk reaction that bears experience behind it.

The panther's claws slash through empty space. The man behind them moves onward, driven as if the tip of a spear thrown by God. He lands deeply in the crouch, his claws coming down just far enough to touch the rooftop, but not pierce it. He rolls easily, much closer to the kinds of horrors the vampire hunter is accustomed to fighting than any human, his weight moving seamlessly from hip to hip as the blade slams into his neck.

His head arches, and there are surprisingly few sparks tossed from the fabric of his habit.

There is something strange about hitting the metal that sheathes the man. It's not the same as coming in contact with steel, or body armor. The blade sags in Blade's hand as it slams into the Black Panther, as if it were 'powerless' to cut the metamaterial, moreso than merely meeting resistance or anything of the sort. The young panther turns an eye towards Blade, the titanium of his namesake still against the weave of his neck. For a moment, Blade can see the soulless optic that angles at his helm. Even that does not gleam, the matte white and grey hard to catch even in the light.

His silhouette is not one that is easy to pick out from the rooftop itself, or even the open air. It is an eerie reminescence of any assassin in the night. But there is something different in the young panther, in that moment that he regards the daywalker. There is plain annoyance in the way he regards the attack, and the faint nettle of pride. He is not the one raised all of his life to fear stories of the man before him. He is something different. He is the one that they tell stories of.

After one twisted moment, he adjusts his weight, rolling easily onto one leg. He kicks, a scything motion to reap the daywalker's momentum and strength out from underneath him, as he moves to kick in Blade's instep along the side axis. The motion will break up Blade's stancing if he does not evade it, and allow the panther room to follow up with several blows, leaping from his remaining leg easily to flip end-over-end and knock the daywalker to the roof with a twin series of rolling kicks. The motion is lightning fast, but someone trained at the level of the infamous vampire hunter can pick up the faint purple glow coming off of the suit, as well as the flare of a device at the center of the young panther's chest, the only thing that seems to stand out on the man's body, a silver-trimmed device, whose lens glows faintly with each blow the panther unfolds for the Daywalker.

Not inconsequentially, if Blade is struck, he will also discover that the man hits with the momentum of an oncoming car once he gets up to speed.
Blade's sword slices into the neck of the Panther habit, but imagine Blade's surprise when it only makes a few sparks, but not only that? It doesn't actually cut into the metametal, instead just meets extreme resistance and in that moment, Blade and Black Panther just stare into each other.

Blade can see those soulless optics angle at him, and just as Blade can see those eyes just abrely enough, The panther would also be able to notice Blade's eyes shifting behind those sunglasses of his, looking over the Panther who has come to challenge him for some reason.

Did the King get turned into a Vampire? He certainly doesn't smell the tainted blood.

But before he could even get a measure of thought out of his head, before he could even talk, there's a boot being planted behind his legs, causing Blade to fall smack dab on his back. The kicks that immediately follow in the roll that Black Panther does find no purchase at all, except for one that pushes him towards the roof's edge. Though Blade quickly finds his balance, he immediately retorts, Swinging his blade with supernatural speed to strike across the chest of the Panther in an upwards motion to create sparks to possibly blind him to a kick that is attempted to come straight for his head.

Seems the armor can block sharp attacks and piercing, but can it stop blunt force trauma?

But its in the meantime that Blade is starting to feel the train that just hit him, though thankfully his healing factor is already hard at work. But…whats that purple glow?

Who knows, but Blade is going to strike back, now using his blade as more of a distraction than an actual weapon until he can figure out how to get past the Panther Habit.

The vampire hunter, in return, hits back.

The black panther misses mostly with his complex of rolling kicks, leaving him to land nimbly on the rooftop, the kinetic force from the attack dissipating somewhere in his joints and through his feet as his attack ablates into a soundless landing, the roll in his joints diffusing down the forces until he is efficiently done with his momentum, the single step he takes towards Blade being the only remnant of the missed blows.

Though he does not scent at all of the old death, there is a difference in the Wakandan king. His scent is that of the savannah, of fresh grass, and yet his movements are more akin to a beast than a man, the slow stalk of a predator accustomed to the dark. The pride of him makes him a lion instead of a jackal, and it is only that pride that leaves him open.

He leans back, having estimated the length of the hunter's blade only moments ago during their last exchange, the titanium flare forming a silver crescent in the night, and clicking only once as he moves just barely outside of its range, the weapon finding only a chance purpose upon him. However, the realization that the sword is only a distraction comes a moment too late, and the sledgehammer blow the Daywalker renders as punishment on him is the exchange. The spear of a kick nails him in his temple, and his body rolls away from the impact, the weight of the blow enough to knock the Black Panther back three full body-lengths before he is able to get his feet under him, his claws dragging furrows in the roof before he can fully dismantle his momentum.

When the faceless man stands, he still seems to be able to see, but a branch of violet light is still crawling across his body, the corona of which flares across his suit, as if a network of force is wired through it. He stands slowly, with the mien of a wary lion in the grass. Even so, when he notices the lens on the device mounted to the front of his suit has been cut by the hunter's blade, he seems discontented. It seems that the device is not normally part of his silhouette. Does that mean he calculated out the Daywalker's blade to a centimeter's precision?

Blade did indeed strike back against the Black Panther, and honestly, it was a bit of a surprise to Blade that he could strike an opponent that moved just as fast, if not possibly faster, than Blade himself. But, the strike lands and he KICKS Panther across a solid distance.

Perhaps even the Black Panther could realize that he isn't the only one who hits like a speeding train.

But when the Panther just didn't actually -fall-, Blade narrows his eyes just a tad when he also notices that he cut the lense of the Panther's suit.

"So…how many times am I gonna have to put you down?" Blade had a feeling that The Black Panther was going to be a tough opponent, but considering that the Panther didn't attack, Blade entered a deep combat stance, like that of a blademaster from ancient Japan as he stared down his enemy.

Then, he moves like a blur. A flash of speed that can be blinding to most anyone else, but he rushes forward, attempting to unleash a flurry of strikes on the Panther King, aiming a kick to the leg, a punch to the face, a slice across the underside of the arm, and a back elbow to the chin.

Of course, Blade is not the only masterful combatant on this rooftop…

The exchange was brutal, and it was enough to give the Black Panther pause. But when he stands, he stands as he always has; as a warrior, and now as king. THe brutal hunter gives him that moment, and to the man, it is an honesty to say that the panther simply does not seem of a mind to speak. The moment that passes as Blade assumes his kamae is lightning-strung, the energy in the air like the storm in the forest. Even the Black Panther knows to respect a moment of the blade, and he lowers himself, his hand lifting to his side, claws retracting as he opens it.

In the sudden moment that Blade rushes him, the Panther responds in kind. A preternatural agility is in the black king's bones, but it is a very strong debate as to whether he can match Blade's pure muscle speed for very long. Instead, the panther folds, kiting into the air over the man's kick, leaping in place such that he does not actually vault over Blade, merely throwing his own body just shy of the savage hunter's first two blows, the fist coming an inch from breaking his back as he vaults free.

A violet flare of energy appears in the midst of his vaulting motion as he slams a spear of blacklight into the roof, energy cut from the dark as it seethes in his hands. His landing that follows is heavier, hard enough to rouse the attention of more than one apartment dweller, a sign of his speed and how hard he must fight to produce the weapon in the midst of his attack, a whirl of light to cut across the blade of the Daywalker, deflecting it and deterring a further continuation of the assault through pure spectacle, a whirl of energy between them producing a shield of dangerous energy. In only eyeblinks, the Black Panther produces a full length gutting spear out of thin air, the energy-laden weapon flaring as he takes one step back, before a single thrust down the middle enforces the idea, driving at the Daywalker in attempts to force him back in one solid movement. The lens at his chest flares briefly, reflecting the scant light in his hands.

Then, and only then, does the Black Panther speak.
"Good. That's enough."

What an exchange!

It was as if the beginning of such was from one of those asian movies, where two warriors stare each other down, each in respect to the other's abilities, before they attacked each other with full intention of killing their opponent….until that became the afterthought and not the mission. Perhaps that urge will still be there between them. Perhaps they will grow to respect each other long enough to actually even become allies.

But the agility of the Black Panther is a sight to see.

As the King leaps too and fro, Blade finds that almost all of his attacks outright miss, but a punch came severely close to striking at the King's back to shatter him, but alas, it was not to be. And rightly so, but Bast was with T'Challa.

Blade is given pause then, however, when Black Panther creates a weapon out of the energy that seemed to charge his suit, at first it is a shield, causing a clash of sparks to occur between a stabbing strike of Blade's own sword and the energy itself, before that shield becomes a spear and in an instant, Blade is already moving backwards, but the jab of the spear is intercepted by the hard edge of the sword, but the force behind it makes Blade slide backwards just a bit, much like how Black Panther was soaring from Blade's kick just a few moments ago.

Then…he speaks?

Blade takes a breath as he rises to full height, switching his blade to hold it in reversehand. "Oh, now you want to talk? The symbol of bad luck wants to chat?" Blade seems to be disbelieving, but he keeps his eyes on the warrior, his guard not quite down.

"Now, how about you tell me who the hell you are."

"I believe that you are confusing me with a black cat," he remarks.
It's hard to tell if he's being ironic or not.

The young man splits his helm, an invisible seam forming right down the middle of his facemask, as he lifts it off. The notion appears contrived, as if he didn't need to do so, a notion that is reinforced as the Black Panther steps towards the coat-clad hunter, the mask flaring as purple energy seethes through the circuit-like angular filigree of the helmet's surface. As he walks towards Blade to close the distance, discrete sectors of his bodysuit flicker out of existence, joining other adjacent sectors and sliding up, layer-by-layer, like a puzzle that grows less complex over time. They all move up his body, down his arms, and finally into his hands holding the helmet, which absorbs the suit seamlessly over the few seconds it takes for the young king to close to a comfortable distance with Blade. Gone is the energy spear, and in a moment, so is the helmet, which itself folds over end-over-end into a ceremonial knife in his bare hands. His signet rings can be seen as he hangs the blade from his belt.

A moment later, he is there, wearing nothing more threatening than a hip-length coat and slacks, all in nondescript black. The only thing that remains is the device that was once at the chest of his bodysuit. Apparently, it had nothing to do with the suit, because he detaches it from his knit shirt underneath and cracks it in a single squeeze of his hand, causing the device's internal light to go out before he secrets it away in a pocket. There are very few places in the world where the kind of technology on display only a moment ago can even be dreamt of, so it may be something of a surprise when the man mentions a place that is not one of them, only the vaguest impression of something that may once had been a satisfied expression crossing his face.

"I am T'Challa of T'Chaka, Black Panther and king of the nation of Wakanda," the young king explains.
"I would like to discuss a trade with you."

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