Roark's Training Thread

OOC: This will be a weekly training to raise my Hokkai Speed from D to C.

As Banjo wandered the walls of the Nazogakure maze, Roark sat idly in his shotgun form strapped to the Blango's back. He didn't much care for his human form when out and in public. It was not only more entertaining to watch peoples' reactions when a monkey wandered through the village strapped with a heavy duty looking shotgun, but it also kept Roark off of most peoples' radar as well. He wasn't one to make friends easily and as a result if he didn't have any interest in being friends with people, he simply didn't have any interest in them at all. So few people had ever actually seen Roark, that while he of course existed on paper, most simply assumed Banjo was in fact Roark. Of course, that was exclusive to those outside of the Hokkai Clan, anyone from within could easily see who Banjo was. Still, some members of the Hokkai didn't know Roark was the shotgun strapped to his back and instead assumed he was a hermit or shut in, who used his partner as an errand boy.

To Banjo's credit, he did his best to entertain Roark from his perch on Banjo's shoulder. Often acting the part of the dumb, dangerous monkey rather than the highly intelligent simian he was. Banjo would stuff fingers up his large nostrils or scratch his colorful bottom and then rub it along the sides of buildings, to the public's disgust and Roark's delight. Today however, there would be no fun or games to be had. With the chunin exams taking place in their own village, the place was buzzing with excitement. Shinobi from all over the Republic had flocked to Nazogakure for these exams. Naturally, that made the entire village inhospitable for the introverted Banjo and Roark, so Roark decided he'd have himself a training day out in the maze, far away from the riffraff and commotion that the exams had brought.

Oi, alright Banj, this should be good here. Roark said through their mental connection. The Blango paused, looked around for any prying eyes, or anyone who might have been following them for whatever reason. Satisfied by the silence of the towering stone walls, Banjo took the shotgun from its holster on his back and tossed it into the air. The shotgun writhed and kicked, instantly transforming into a young man approaching mid-life. Roark coughed for no reason in particular, looking about him before pulling a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the inside of his jacket. He lit a cigarette and took a long pull, basking in the silence of the maze.
Alright then Banj, today I'm working on upping my speed a bit. Roark said, talking more to himself than the monkey. Banjo eyed the cigarette in Roark's hand with a look that said, "You're joking, right?"
Hey now, don't give me that look. You're developing a gut there yourself Mr. Monkey. Roark countered, to which Banjo exhaled fiercely through his nostrils and waived him off. He turned his back to Roark, moving back a few steps before settling on the ground to watch the fool attempt to train.
Yeah, that's what I thought you said.

Roark finish his cigarette, stomping it out on the floor of the maze. He didn't really have a plan here, it was just about increasing his speed, so he started by simply jogging. Banjo had taken them to a long corridor of maze that ran for maybe two hundred feet from end to end before breaking off into separate intersections. So, to warm up Roark started with a jog, running back and forth twice as Banjo watched, unamused. Halfway through the first "lap", Roark had already shed his heavy overcoat, tossing it onto Banjo with a smile. The Blango, tossed the jacket off his face with a low grunt, but continued to watch without interruption. With a bit of a sweat worked up now, Roark sighed, Ooooh boy, I might be getting too old for this already. He cleared his throat and spit, while Banjo smiled silently. Right then, time to pick up the pace.

From there, Roark began sprinting down the corridor, back and forth, back and forth. He ran as fast as he could, pushing the muscles in his legs to a point he didn't think possible. Twice he tripped, scraping his knees and hands on the old stones of the maze. Once he even hit the bridge of his nose, causing a nice trickle of blood to blossom down the side of his face. Still he kept going. Roark wasn't exactly a hard worker, but he was as stubborn as a mule and if he set out to complete something then by the gods above and below, he was going to complete it. Sucking wind now, Roark placed his hands on his knees and bent over, trying to catch his breath. Beads of sweat dripped and pooled beneath him.
Now listen here...don't...don't go giving me that look, alright? Roark said to Banjo between breaths, holding up a finger at the amused simian. Standing upright, Roark took in a big swallow of air, Okay, here. He said, grabbing some fallen bits and pebbles of stone wall.

Here, I want you to throw these down the hall here and I'm going to try to race them. Banjo stood up, slowly raising to two feet. He picked a pebble up and tested the weight in his hand, tossing it into the air once. He looked at Roark before nodding down the hall and the Weaponkin took off running. In turn, Banjo wound up and chucked the pebble down the hall. Roark stuck out his hand, trying to catch the pebble, but it whizzed by before his arm had even left his side. Sighing, he came to a slow jog and circled back to Banjo. Alright, again. He said and the Blango nodded to start his run. Again and again they practiced, each time he got a bit closer, but still never caught the rock.

Finally, on the verge of collapse, Roark nodded and said, Okay, one more time. Think my heart might just explode at this point. Banjo regarded him with a look of concern, asking with his eyes, "you sure about this?"
Oi, if I can't even run, how are we ever going to get out of this village, huh? Let's go. Banjo nodded and signaled Roark to run. On this time, Roark reached out and felt the rock strike his palm. He closed his fingers around it and, too focused on the rock, tripped on the uneven footing of the stone floor. He fell to his shoulder, sliding a bit. Banjo came over on all fours to check on his partner. Triumphantly, Roark held up his hand, a pebble resting in it.
I need a smoke. He said with a sigh, letting his head rest against the cool stones.

WC: 1151/1000

C-rank Hokkai Speed attained.

OOC: Bulk Training Done

Jutsu Trained:

Roark lounged in a hammock in the Hokkai compound, the shade of the trees protecting him from the harsh sun above. In the near distance he could see Banjo picking through the fur of another simian Hokkai pet. They were splitting the bounty of bugs and crunchy creatures that called their fur home. Roark sighed, it was disgusting, but at least he wouldn't have to worry about feeding Banjo later. Roark set the trim of his hat over his face, adding more shade. Between the trees, it was cool and comfortable. The sound of Hokkai and their pets training, interacting and going about their lives created a white noise that soothed him to sleep. Before he knew it, Roark was lost in another one of his fantastical dreams.


The smell of fresh mud filled the outlaw's nose as his horse trudged into town. Whisky River Junction, an old mining town by the looks of it, and one that had seen better days. Word was that the coal mine had just about dried up, leaving more men without work than coal carts. What appeared to be main street was nothing more than a short row of buildings ranging from the post office to the town jail to some small saloon, realistically the only non-government establishment still in business. The wet sucking of the mud around his horse's hooves drew the attention of several porch rockers, old timers who had nothing better to do than sit and wait for the reaper. Roark nodded in their direction, tipping the brim of his hat but saying nothing as his horse moseyed on up to the hitching log out front of the saloon. A trough of relatively clean looking water sat in front and Roark watched his horse take several big gulps of water while he secured her to the log.
Alright girl, you got yours, now I'm off to get mine. Behave now, ya hear? He patted her on the base of the neck, but she paid him no mind, just happy to have a rest and some cool water. Her tail swished back and forth happily, not a care in the world.

For himself, Roark climbed up the three steps leading to the doors of the saloon. Each step creaked and groaned beneath his weight, not that he was a heavy set man, but the wood was old and worn down. On closer inspection of one of the pillars holding up the porch, he noticed termite bites along the outer wood, which meant the bastards had already chewed through the middle and were making their way to the outside. Roark pushed through the door, letting them fall back behind him, disturbing the air as he took in the saloon. A few half-drunk customers regarded him with a glazed look, but most of the patrons turned back to their drinks within a second or two of looking him over. No one seemed very interested in another strange face in strange lands. There was nothing worth stealing in Whisky River and no crimes worth committing. Roark made his way up to the bar, taking a seat on one of the sturdier stools. He placed his arm on the bar top and turned, regarding the piano man in the corner with a curious look.
What'll it be, son? A voice asked behind him. Roark turned his head slowly and found a staunch, nearly bald man with grey wisps of hair and an equally gray mustache. The gut beneath his apron proved he was a saloon owner who often sampled his own goods. He cleaned a large tumbler in one hand with a dirty rag in the other, the irony not lost on Roark.
How's the whisky in Whisky River?
Shite, like the rest of it, but cheap.
Cheap whisky it is then. Roark said, reaching into his jacket for some coin, which he placed on the table.
Mind if I have myself a smoke in your here establishment, sir?
Look around ya, ain't no one here give a damn. Bet your dusty arse they'll come asking for one though, bunch a coyotes round here. The barman said, tossing a small book of matches on the bar near Roark.
Much obliged.

Roark placed his hand rolled cigarette in his mouth and struck a match, listening to the hiss of the flame and watching it dance for a moment before bringing it to the wrapped end. Once lit, he shook the match out, leaving it smoking faintly on the bar top while he listened to the sad tunes of the piano player. They weren't particularly sad songs that he played, they simply weren't happy or upbeat. Nothing in this town seemed to be. For a happy and upbeat song, you needed hope, but hope had abandoned this town months ago. The barman returned with Roark's whisky, placing the amber liquid near his customer's hand.
So what's the story here then? Roark asked, raising his glass to his lips. It smelled of whisky and river water, though he wasn't sure which was stronger. Regardless, he took a sip and found he was entirely right, though it was at least 60% river water.
Not much to tell. Years ago, Whisky River Junction was bustling with miners and their families. Moved here from all over, not exactly a gold rush, but the mountain owners offered steady work and good pay to anyone willing to risk their hides to rip some coal out from the inside of the mountain. For awhile it was nice, miners had more money than they knew what to do with so they spent it in town. Town grew to accommodate them and from the influx of wealth, but people didn't plan ahead. Everything ends, so when the coal ended, so did the town. Most of the miners packed up and headed for the next rush. The few that stayed behind you see in my bar right here. Of those, at least half of their families left their sorry, drunk arses behind.

Roark nodded and took another sip from his drink, chasing it with a pull from his cigarette. The smokey tobacco helped choke down the river water cut whisky. Wisps of smoke rose from his nostrils as he sat in silence, pondering in his own little world.
And you?
Hmm? Roark asked, pulled back to reality and fixing his gaze on the barman in front of him.
What's your story? What brings you to this shit hole? Whisky River Junction is a bit off the beaten path, not exactly a road stop on the way through.
Ah yes, I'm looking for someone as it just so happens.
Looking for someone? In what way? You with the law?
I am with the law, in a way, though it might be a bit different than the law you're referring to.
Welp, sheriff's office is two doors down, nice man, but he's getting on in his years. Not sure he'd be of much help. So what'd this fella, er lady, do that you're lookin for? One of these miners mess up your friend's crops? Steal from your missus?

Roark laughed, No, no, these poor soulless miners aren't of any trouble to me. The man I'm looking for wouldn't know an honest day's work if it struck him clean in the face. Behind him, the piano came to a resounding halt, the song finished and pianist standing to take a quick break. Some patrons regarded the thin, wiry man with a grunt of approval or even thanks for giving them something worth looking forward to in their miserable lives. The pianist came up to the bar beside Roark and said to the barman, Gin, neat Gary. These louts might not be appreciating my symphony, but that won't stop me from having a good time.
Aye Lionel, coming up. Gary said, tossing the old rag over his shoulder and turning to fix the drink.
Ello then, who might you be? Lionel the pianist asked, leaning against the bar on his elbows and looking down at Roark with a bored, but interested smile.
Roark looked up at him as Gary brought Lionel's drink over.
Roark, pleasure. He said, raising his glass and Lionel met it with his own before the two men drank.

Roark? No surname? Or is that your surname? A stranger enters the bar after a peculiar storm the night before and he is just bounding with secrets. My, my, perhaps this air of mystery you bring with you Mr. Roark is just what this sleepy town needs. I mean honestly, Lionel said, raising his arms to take in the entirety of the bar, look at this place. It's the place your spirit goes after you've already killed yourself just so it can have a turn trying the process out.
Don't seem so bad to me. Roark said, finish his drink.
Bah, no offense to be given Mr. Roark, but what could you possibly know? You've been here, what? All of ten minutes? No, no, just you wait. This place, it creeps into your very bones and drags you down with it. One day this town will simply collapse in on itself and take everyone around with it. Dreadful, simply dreadful.
So, why are you still here then? If this place is so terrible, I mean.
Well, that's really quite simple my friend. Every great musician needs to have his start somewhere. The best stories are rags to riches, no? What better representation of rags than this dreary place?
Oi. The bartender chirped from behind Roark.
No offense meant Gary, your establishment is positively glamorous in comparison to the rest of the town. To conclude my answer to your question, I get free drinks as long as I'm playing in Gary's little hole in the...ground, so that keeps me coming back for the time too.
Not a bad gig then.
I've certainly heard of worse. And you? What is your...mmm...gig as you say?
Me? I find things, people mostly. I'm usually hired when people have infestation problems. They pay me, I find the problem, I get rid of it.
Ah, so an...um, exterminator as it were? You kill spiders and such? Ugh, dreadful creatures honestly.
Sure, spiders, roaches, ants, all the little nuisances of the world. If they pay me, I'll squash them.
A bit dreary of a profession if you ask me, but necessary to be sure.
Eh, depends how you look at it. Me? I see it as a public service that I just so happen to be paid for.

So, what brings you to ole WRJ, then? Gary finally save up enough to hire someone to take a gander at his termite problem? Honestly, that porch roof is a strong breeze away from coming down. I'm amazed it weathered the storm last night.
No, fraid not, no termites this time. I'm here for a roach.
A roach? Surely you mean roaches, multiple roach as it were. Who'd hire a man for a singular roach? Lionel chuckled as he finished his drink. I mean really, just step on the infection riddled bastard and move on with your day.
It was Roark's turn to laugh now, You know, that's funny. That's exactly what my client told me to do. They said, "don't care how you do it or what you do, just crush the slimy bastard."
Fah, who is this client of yours? Some timid housewife who's wasting her husband's hard earned money because she's too frightful to squish a simple bug?
No, no such housewife that I know of. Roark said, rising to his full height and looking down slightly at the short, little man. It was actually a contract given to me by the Red Dixie Gang, you might've heard of them, eh Reginald?

Lionel's glass dropped from his hand, shattering on the floor at his feet. Oi! Gary's voice boomed from behind the bar.
I, I- I can't say I have, sir. And who might this Reginald be, you heard Gary, I am Lionel Strappe, the one and only.
Aye, the one and only because you made up your little fru fru name. Although Reginald St. Pierre ain't much better, I s'pose. You really have a liking for the extraordinary, eh Regi? Oh well, I'm not here to judge you on the names you make for yourself, just here to do a job.
As Roark spoke, his right hand seemed to writhe and transform into the barrel of a shotgun, which he promptly held against the chest of Reginald/Lionel. To his left, he heard the cock of another shotgun and turned to see Gary holding his own weapon, shaking a bit, but steely eyed in his resolve to get rid of the threat Roark had become. Roark sighed and shook his head, This doesn't concern you old man, put down the gun. I'll pay any cleaning fee after I take care of this guy.
Oh thank you Gary, I knew you wouldn't let this bastard harm me. Now do it, pull the trigger, blast him to bits!
If you think for two seconds, I'm going to let you waltz in here and take out the only thing still keeping my bar afloat, you've got another thing coming mister. Don't much care what he did in the past, right now his music is one of the few things keeping my customers in here. Drop the weapon...or your hand...or whatever sorcery shit you just pulled.

Roark looked around the bar as the scraping of chairs echoed around him. Men stood to see what all the commotion was about, their fingers twitching idly on the handles of their guns. The bar was eerily silent, the only sounds coming from the heavy breathing of its inhabitants as Roark decided what to do.
Gentlemen, before we do what I think we're about to do, I want you to know none of this is personal. I just wanted to do my job and squash this roach here, then be on my way. What happens next was of your choosing my friends, please remember that.
Some gunslingers in the crowd looked at each other confused, muttering among themselves and that's when Roark made his move. He raised his other hand, pointed it at Gary beneath the arm being held against Lionel/Reginald's chest and fired. The bar man flew back, his shot gun going off and kicking out splinters from the roof of the bar. Bottles behind him shattered as he fell into the back of the bar, covering the good liquor in a smattering of blood. At the same time, Roark blew a hole in Lionel/Reginald's chest big enough he could fit his fist through. The blast threw the roach of a man back a good five feet, knocking him off his feet and to the ground in a puddle of his own insides. Next, all hell broke loose.

Roark jumped the bar, as shots rang out, shattering even more bottles. Apparently, the local populace wasn't too fond of their only watering hole needing new management. Which, to be fair, Roark couldn't really blame them. Behind the bar, he looked at the bloody corpse of Gary and sighed, Sorry old man, wasn't supposed to go like this. He reached forward and began taking the apron off the body, tearing a strip of fabric from the ties. Bottles were strewn about and Roark reached for one of the unbroken ones, popped the cork, took a swig and began soaking the strip in the alcohol. As the shots rang out closer, chipping the wood of the bar, Roark raised his right hand up over the bar, transformed it back into a shotgun and fired three times. The sound of a man hitting the ground with a bloody gurgle, a moment of stunned silence as people realized what had happened and then frantic movement and scraping of chairs and tables to take cover was all Roark had been looking for. With the rag soaked, he felt around for the pack of matches Gary had given him earlier and struck one. It took a moment, and the shots had already started up again, ripping away at the bar, but it caught. Roark tossed the bottle backwards, listening to it shatter and the flames begin to hiss and sear. Men screamed and cried out as the old tinderbox of a bar went up in flames almost instantly. Those that could, sprinted out the front door, attempting to drag their injured or stunned friends with them. Roark stood, firing off a few more shots for anyone brave enough (or stupid enough) to stick around. They seemed to get the message as they in turn, followed their friends out of the bar as well. Roark came around the bar and bent down over Lionel/Reginald's body. He grabbed the man, hoisted him over his shoulder and made his way out before the flames blocked his exit.

Out on the front steps, Roark coughed as townspeople gathered around in awe of the blaze. His brain raised, realizing he'd need to figure out a way out of all this. A stranger comes to town, shots ring out and now the only bar in town is on fire? That didn't exactly look good for him, especially since he was carrying what appeared to be a very dead pianist. Roark coughed again and did his best to sound disheveled and distraught. He was going to need to sell this, and sell it hard if he wanted to escape this town.
There's still some inside, I did my best, but we have to help get them all out! Roark yelled, doing his best to hide the hole in Lionel/Reginald's chest so he looked more like an unconscious burn victim and less like the second casualty of a massacre. The brave souls of the town immediately ran forward and into the blaze as Roark took this opportunity of panic to untie his horse, saddle the body up and ride out of town. He did his best to hide Lionel/Reginald's gaping chest wound, but figured the faster he moved, the less chance someone would have to see it. His horse was frantic, neighing and attempting to yank its reins from the hitching post. Fire was no friend to a horse. Roark soothed the beast with a hand on its neck and whispers of carrots and rice cakes. The horse was on edge, but calm enough for Roark to tie the body down and climb on himself. Alright girl, come on, get us out of this godforsaken place. He pulled the reins towards the entrance of town and the horse nearly broke out in a sprint. If he hadn't pulled tight to keep her in a trot, Roark was worried she'd buck him right off and take off into the west lands alone.

Roark took one last look over his shoulder at the town of Whisky River Junction. The sun was high in the sky, a small town was burning down into the annals of history, and Roark was whistling a tune on his way out. It scared him a bit, how little he was bothered at the thought of killing nowadays, but a job was a job and everyone had to make a living out on this blasted frontier. It was better than serving drinks until his back gave out and someone put a bullet in his head out of simple mercy.

------------- Dream End -------------

Roark awoke pleasantly, which was almost immediately ruined by the monkey staring down at his face not a foot from his nose.
Rah! He screamed in surprise, flailing enough to rock the hammock and flip him over into a cloud of dust and dirt. Roark coughed and scowled as the sound of Banjo's deep, throaty laughs echohed around him.
What did I tell you about watching me sleep, monkey? Roark said, standing and dusting himself off. He stretched out with a yawn, scratching the back of his head before bending down to retrieve his hat.
Let me guess, the bugs didn't really fill you up, so now you want me to go scrounge up some food for you? Roark asked and Banjo just stared at him, rolling his shoulders in a shrug. He reached around and scratched his right buttock.
Oi, don't- Roark began, but it was too late, Banjo was already taking a deep whiff of his hand. -smell that. He concluded with a sigh, already missing the dream-scape he had come from.
Alright then, come on, let's go get you some food.

Banjo clapped and smiled, baring his teeth and in a wide grin, before following Roark out of the training area. As Roark walked, he suddenly dropped into his weapon form, which Banjo scooped out of the air and holstered on his back. To any onlookers, they might look twice, rub their eyes, shake their heads and convince themselves there had never been a man there in the first place. As for Roark, he simply said through his link with Banjo, Head for Ichigawa's Ramen, the sake is good there and they usually let you come up to the bar if it's not busy. Banjo complied and the dynamic duo were off for a bowl of soup.

Jutsu Being Trained:

Alright, right here will do. Roark said through his mental connection with Banjo. The blango huffed, but reached up to his back and unholstered the shotgun that lay there. He tossed it into the air, turning away as it morphed into a human and making for a nearby shaded spot. It wasn't that the transformation was blinding, Banjo had just seen it before. Once you've seen something up close a thousand times, what was the point anymore?
Yeah, yeah, make yourself comfortable over there I s'pose. Roark said as he took a pack of cigarettes from his duster pocket and lit one. He breathed in the crisp, ashen smoke, expelling it through his nose as he took in the training grounds. Rubbing his forehead he sighed to himself, Really hate this whole, my body be a temple thing, train hard to maintain it. I'm a damn shotgun, I don't need to train it up. I just blast things. If anything, I reckon YOU should be the one hardening your furry body. He said, turning to face the direction Banjo was curled up in.

The blango regarded him with a blank, bored stare before huffing and turning his head inwards towards his belly, head resting on his massive, crossed forearms. Bah, dunno what's got you in such a foul mood lately. He turned back to the training grounds, Right then, might as well get this over with. It was strange really, seeing a shinobi, dressed as someone out of the wild west with denim and a heavy leather coat doing stretches on the training grounds. On top of that, the cigarette hanging from his lips created a juxtaposition that made any other shinobi in the area cock his/her head to the side and try to piece together what on earth was happening as Roark bent low into a squat repeatedly. He stretched his calves and thighs, trying to loosen them up, huffing the whole time not out of exasperation, but annoyance. He even stretched his arms and upper body, in a sad attempt to delay the thing he hated most...running.

With nothing left to stretch, the older Genin sighed and mumbled to himself, Right, on with it then I s'pose. No point in wasting anymore time. He flicked his done cigarette to the ground and stomped it out with the heel of his boot. Then, begrudgingly, he broke out into a light. I hate running. I hate this. I hate this so much. This is the worst. Rather have a damned monster chasing after me than deal with this. The man mumbled to himself, though the mumble came out a bit louder than he may have intended. As he continued his circuit around the training grounds, passing other shinobi in the midst of training, his complaints and groans would catch their attention. By the end of the day, everyone would know, or at least remember, the strangely dressed man talking to himself up and down the training grounds.

Returning to his starting position, Roark would look over to Banjo, sleeping blissfully in the shade. He found a small pebble and smiled, retrieving it from the dirt. Roark tossed the rock in the air, thinking for a moment if this was a good idea or not. After a few seconds, he decided it most certainly wasn't and threw the pebble at Banjo. It impacted the sleeping Blango on the nape of the neck, hard enough to sting but not so much to do any actual damage or pain to the ape. Immediately, Banjo was up on all fours, a low growl in his throat as he searched for the perpetrator that disturbed his sleep. His eyes immediately settled on his partner and that only increased his rage. Banjo gained a predatorial stare at that point, hulking over on all fours, eyes transfixed on Roark. His killing intent was palpable.

Don't give me that look. You were sleeping, we're supposed to be training, boy. There's no time for snoozin or lazin around when we have wo- Banjo went up on two legs, suddenly thumping his chest with his fists like a deep bass drum. A roar echoed across the training grounds, Banjo howling his displeasure and annoyance. All eyes turned to the beast, but Roark just frowned, Don't give me that now, ya hear? I ain't gonna- oh shit. He broke off as Banjo went back down on all fours and began charging towards him, closing the gap in a mere two strides. Roark, to his credit, turned and ran immediately, shouting back, Hey now. Cut it out, ya hear? Quit that shit, right now damn you. Banjo however, was having none of that. Murder was in his eyes and he had gone completely feral.

He chased his partner around the grounds, the leisurely jog from earlier forgotten as Roark ran for his life. Though he knew Banjo would never actually harm him, he had no interest in being on the receiving end of one of those thick muscled fists. Would you just calm down? Making such a big deal outta nothin. Go on, sit. Stay. Be a good boy. Roark yelled behind him, then, to show he clearly hadn't learned his lesson, asked, Paw? The patronizing tone only made Banjo roar louder, pushing harder and increasing his speed to catch Roark. He was now within biting range, at least of Roark's duster and honestly, the Weaponkin was more worried about that being ruined than his own flesh.
Sheesh, I was jokin boy, learn to take a joke, eh? Roark doubled down, pumping his legs harder and slowly, widening the gap between him and his pet. Banjo began to fall back, still pushing hard and howling, but step by step, Roark left him in the dust. Finally, after a second circuit, the Blango fell to a crawl and sat on his haunches, annoyed but his anger literally ran out of him. Roark slowed to a walk, turning back before jogging to where they had started and where Banjo now sat, annoyed but defeated.

Well, that wasn't fun, but it still beat joggin and stretchin. Thanks for the workout. Roark said with a crooked smile. Blanjo huffed, crossing his arms and looking away. Oh, don't be like that fuzz face. Come on, we'll stop for ramen on the way back, extra meat like you like so much. That, begrudgingly, got the Blango's attention and he followed Roark out of the training grounds with a little extra pep in his step.

1078/1000

Approved

Training:

He was lost in the maze again, fingers of mist swirling and surrounding him as a single, large eye watching him run. It followed slowly, methodically, knowing its prey could never escape it. Roark was alone now, a new feeling of dread. He and Banjo were partners, loneliness was something he hadn't felt in...decades. Loneliness and the inability to get away, for try as he might, run as he might, he simply wasn't fast enough for the lumbering, armored beast that pursued him. A tendril shot from the mist, though calling it a tendril was wrong, a disservice to the size and power of this limb. One of the creature's three tails shot forth, wrapping around Roark in a crushing embrace. He felt the wind squeeze from his lungs, his ribs creak and then break. A white wash of agony filled his body, and his brain screamed in fear. Then, the darkness-

Roark sat straight up in bed, breathing hard. He wiped sweat from his brow and Banjo, curled up on the floor beside him raised his large ape head with a questioning look. Roark stared forward, trying to process what had happened and where he was. Dreams melded with reality and for the last week, he had been having difficulty separating the two. What had really happened in that maze? He knew what would have happened had the Kage not intervened when he did. Banjo and Roark would have been added to the growing list of casualties in Nazogakure. An unfortunate, but understandable outcome. In fact, when he told people where they were during the initial attack, most didn't believe him. They thought he was hunting for glory or sympathy, trying to make a name for himself as one of the survivors. He tried to tell them he was no hero, barely even a survivor. He and Banjo ran like hell, a primordial fear pushing them away from the Bijuu, an avatar of death and destruction. They simply didn't listen and he knew, deep down, he shouldn't be alive.

Oi, come on. Can't get a lick of sleep tonight, we're going for a run. He said to Banjo, throwing the covers off of his legs and swinging around to the floor. Banjo rose to all fours, surprised by Roark's sudden desire to do something he absolutely hated and in the middle of the night. However, the Blango didn't question his partner, only yawned and followed him out the door. To say Nazogakure had been damaged in the Bijuu rampage would be an understatement. The village had been decimated. Only a week had passed since the fateful night, people were still trying to make sense of it all really. It only became more confusing when the other villages reported similar attacks by other Bijuu. That had been possibly the most frightening aspect of the attack. For so long Bijuu had been seen as mindless monsters, demons of chakra, even just forces of nature and destruction. To consider that they may be coordinated, working together to...something, that was chilling.

Roark shook off the thoughts as he and Banjo started out in a nice, brisk jog. Thankfully, the Hokkai compound was situated on the other side of the village and weathered very little damage in the attack. Roark quickly left this area, it felt wrong to run where it was safe, to hide from the damage and death that the rest of the village had faced in the attack. Their run took them towards the south, closer to the crater of destruction and closer to where he first encountered the monstrosity. He passed buildings reduced to rubble, entire streets sectioned off because they were nothing but debris and ash now. Some fires still burned in the village, controlled and watched, but resources were running thin. Rescuers and first responder shinobi were exhausted by this point and other priorities like finding the wounded...and places for the dead...took precedence.

Roark himself had a shift in a few hours looking for the missing. At this point it was turning into a recovery mission than a rescue one and that shifted the tone of the searches dramatically. Gone was the frantic rush of trying to save the wounded and dying, now it was a collection mission. Before the hunting groups had a purpose, a drive that united them, now...no one wanted to successfully find a shinobi. In a way, he should've been among those corpses out there, buried beneath the rubble. He and Banjo, lying alone and cold on the stone floor of the maze. If there had been anything left of them that was. He hadn't been strong enough, hadn't been fast enough. True, he had the Gates to fall back on, but in his moment of fear and panic, instinct kicked in and his own, natural speed had failed him. He and Banjo would have...should have been among the countless dead.

He grunted, bit down on his lip in frustration and suddenly took off in a sprint. Banjo followed behind as best he could and for as long as he could. All fours pounding the cracked pavement beneath him, but Roark didn't look back. He didn't wait for Banjo, he didn't want to. For a moment, he just wanted to be alone. He felt like he deserved to be alone, a payment for his life being saved over the thousands of others that had been extinguished. He ran with these dark thoughts for what felt like seconds, but in reality had been nearly an hour. Eventually, he stopped, realizing he was now on the other side of the village from where he had started. The destruction here was...breathtaking, deeply, darkly breathtaking. He was breathing hard as he approached the entrance to the southern maze walls, the place he had emerged from when running for his life from the Sanbi. He touched the exterior of the archway, sweat dripping from his nose and forehead. He closed his eyes, thinking, remembering. We have to get better. We have to be better. This can never happen again. He said to himself as Banjo came lumbering up behind him, panting but otherwise not complaining.

He turned and looked at Banjo, a similar resolve burned in his partner's eyes. Roark knew that Banjo understood, that he shared the fire to not only survive but better themselves so they could do the right thing next time. So they could run towards the fight and not away from it. Come on, we have a long day coming up. Let's go home.

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