Rocsalt Machineshop (T)

[Moon]

---

It spent more than a hundred years forgotten, after war first centered the technological trade around Rain Country and shut down the most dangerous supply routes to the major nations. Why it, and the dozens like it crusted to the edge of Redder Beach were first built is unknown, but theories can be inferred from their structure. Thales' ocean rim is saturated with corrosive salt, though not enough to eat into the larger vessels, the Blacksilt Capital Liners and Fleetlings visiting from the coast. Yet the metal grit, the rustsand that is its namesake, has formed as a graveyard of smaller,  cheaper ships.  Those multitudes that wash up on Mashimizu in fragments, crewless and solemn - they are its layered base.  The oversized huts of half-dissolved engines and rotors and bizarre sailing constructs that natives call 'the Machineshops' were most likely attempts at scavenging. Workspaces close enough to salvage quickly and without dignity from the flotsam dead.

Rocsalt Machineshop is unique.

Abandoned to rust, a few of the building filters might still be intact to drag soot and chymical vapor to the roof, but the neglect is obvious. This is not a place people visit often, and it's nearly 500 meters of usable facility is packed underground and filled with the junk of old tinkering. The exterior of the shop is almost indistinguishable from the rest of Redder Beach, but people occasionally stumble upon it blindly, trying to find relief from the ruin.

Rocsalt Machineshop is not a shattered egg of old ore made hovel like the rest of them.  It is submerged.   A good place to find out (or keep) secrets. Thus, secrets are traded amid the rags and steam and aggressive heat; the broken display screens broadcasting fuzz from nowhere sit in piles that hide travesties, or can cause them. It is a good place to learn what others would conceal.  It is a good place to learn what should not be known.

---

[/b]

[/b]
Rank: B-ranked
Skill: Taijutsu
Effect: The user can move internal organs within the body by command, avoiding major injury.
Special: ---
Drawback: It takes 1/2 post (3 seconds) to shift during combat and consumes 1 movement from the user.
Description: Tapping into the user's cellular control abilities, organs may be grown, shifted and placed into areas of the bodies that may not normally exist in a normal human. The user may command their body to move and place the heart within the stomach cavity, rather than the chest, or place the stomach within the pelvic cavity, rather than the abdomen. This is helpful in the act of deception or can save the user in the moments of a Coup de grâce. If the heart would be stabbed, and the user is given enough time, they may shift it out of place for example.
Limit: Kedōin Blood Line.[/blockquote] [/ul][/ul][/ul][/font][/sub][/div][/blockquote][/font]

[0/60]

[/i] He curved his neck unnaturally, felt inch by inch the esophageal torque straining his movement. Inside like outside, he reasoned, facing his attackers with a head rotated completely backwards.

"What...is he...?"

He heard them whisper,  taking a braid of cardiac muscle to force it past the contours of the ugly dagger. The hilt was black, the steel of it a pale red and it's edge sat curved like a broken finger. Where the handle transitioned from oily wood into a pink sliver, the young boy's rib cage bubbled, and dozens of capillaries decided suddenly to push in other directions.

They lifted themselves as if snakes with cobra hoods of clotted brown, through the dark red mess of the wounding to tremble with rhythm once they were joined. A sliding bauble in a wet patch of gashes that forgot about being a piece of someone's heart long ago. It swelled like an insolent tumor but was just his own splintering, his intrusion and his deformity and his new order. The dense scales coating his outer layers became swollen pustules, pockmarked, but within; pieces of a severed aorta reknit and regrouped. His chakra soothed organs into dancing around as glands brachiated, he swayed slightly, shoved a congestion of internal structure into new shapes.

Thump thump. It was fun! Like a puzzle.

The young boy's attackers dangled from a circular white panel carved into the wall of a techneurgeon's room. At the head of a bed assembled with cool steel parts, they stood or crouched, hidden behind him, propped up on a collection of crates and antique steam-powered furniture. Coughing plastic and paintdust behind a barrier of other noises and hard years they hung.   Cursing and prone for hours waiting for the strange boy to sleep, so that they could play this game. They must really want to win, his thoughts dumb with unwarranted respect.  The young boy's intestines writhed.  They coiled into distracting angles or were shoved roughly aside by other things shuffling.

"What is h--it doing?"


They'd had no plan for this. They were too disturbed by the boy's reaction to follow through; they watched him like animals watch bigger animals, even though he was only a child. Where hands should have been pulled back at the sight of him shift his innards there was only a slack-jawed-ness, a disbelief that can only be taken in by gawking.  

None brave enough to still hold the weapon could think to do so now or to remove it; they didn't want to know the pressure of what wriggled inside their target, what enfolded the weapon and tilted it and made it deny itself.  There were four of them, four  men that saw the boy climb through layers of shopscrap and slag accompanied by them, by the shadows of killing (godsdamned murderous shinobi filth). The boy was out of place, a smear of too-bright color enclosed by mineral drab.  Though a sinister curdling now tugged at the boy's arms  and legs as well, letting his head swivel too fast for any living human to survive.

A revolving of his stomach gave him pause, he maneuvered the bile through force of will and made the greedy sac engorge aside new curvatures. He sculpted his interior, would drag parts that should never touch light into stretched areas of thinness that made their growth visible. Out of a tangle of thickened viscera squirmed new symmetry he guided before sitting up. He compensated for his contortion with counter-swells of chakra that physically churned him.

"It looks like..."

The boy's voice was a horror, sounds more drowning than dialect.  So deep it could not come from such a small childlike form and yet, it was a howling and a ragged bass hatefulness that at first seemed without language. It bristled with the pieces of him as they twist-twitched  but he'd cut himself off, staring at the paneling from which his attackers perched blank and stupified with fear.  They did not know what tongue he spoke, and he did not recognize their brief misgivings as communication.   He'd cut himself off before he'd had to say what the panel looked like, what it made him think of, that sobriquet.

"...Moon."

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[Moon]

^close.

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[Moon]

[??/60]

It is called a flechette. This is important.


There was an eruption. The strange blade impacting the swerve of organs was placed under too much pressure by the bulging it sat nestled against, within. It was forced out. Upwards.

Moon stared at the mess with an eye that did not sit right, quizzical, his brain arranging itself like a length of rope and sliding to the back of his skull. A ridge of bone segmented. It bloomed so that glands might have room to wedge themselves out of and spiral towards and dig gracefully through what should have been one set mold. He would be a molding. He gathered a daub of transformed body-pulp and grew in startling directions. He expanded.

As chakra kneaded him into incompatible sub-layers of skin and blood and muscle he felt the knife burst away with the gore of him, a gruesome splatter of sharp metal clunking as the weapon was blown halfway through the far wall. Bits of soaking meat stained the floor and makeshift bedding, but where no one else could see, flesh faltered, awaited instructions, became a coil or a knot or split to intertwine elsewhere, implausibly stretched.

His attackers had lost their nerve. They scrambled backwards, shutting the opened white panel behind themselves as they fell in a gaggle of flailing limbs. One of them (the tallest) shoved at another of them (the fattest) to move, hand grasping the back of a neck that was mostly bunched rollls as another (the smartest) screamed incoherent babble in streams at having heard the child's voice and with the noise and confusion becoming one tangle of non-meaning (go you fat clod don't push us he cant die what have we done could see his heart oh godsspit move) they left the last of their number (the bravest) behind to stand with his back against the panel, holding it closed as they attempted to escape. They had seen no great display of strength or savagery from the boy, but that somehow made their fear worse.

Don't let him in here they all thought,and thus didnt need to say aloud, but did, in between the sounds people make when running for their lives. While the single-person-wide ventillation grill emptying into back-paths through the machineshop's maintenance chambers was clogged by all their frantic rush, something began to tap on the panel.

Tap, tap, tap.

Lightly. A child's knock. From the room. The boy.

Tap tap tap.

Again, but quicker this time. The bravest of the four attempted to steel himself. We left it in there. he thought, ignoring the reluctance almost as quickly as it came because oh gods no the boy was in there and they were not and for the time that was more important than what they'd come to do.

There was only one thing that all four of them didnt want to leave in the room (in hindsight, of course). The knife. The knife.

"This is important."

The hooded stranger had told them all when she'd given them the blade.

[/i]
[/ul]

"These transients...nobody really knows who they are. Who they were, ya know? Before."

They remembered her words now, as the tallest, and fattest, and smartest looked down upon a boy's body bloated almost beyond recognition. Within it, a fierce churning produced sounds like twigs breaking. They'd stopped fleeing; they shook uncontrollably but did not - could not - move their bodies competently without vibrating in distress, panic-dumb.

"The Bloodies don't recruit just anyone, from anywhere, but think; they want him. Sent for him special. City full of stealth-killers, ya know, and some brat who looks like a bowl of fruit gets chauffeured to them?"


Such a nice voice, the woman who'd sent them here, like this, with their task. In one of the meltfurnace corridors she'd held council like a politico, showing them a bloodred chip of stone while she talked. She sat against the wall, much as the smartest, and fattest, and tallest now sat, though her face was sarcastic and ugly. Now; they saw the boys head release some trapped pulse of entrails into his own gut and belch words or what once were words before being drowned and flayed.

"Moon."

He said and the men screamed the abomination of sound into memories, tangled. The boy. The knife. The woman. Her voice.


"Gotta imagine; just what did he do? To prove himself. To make them want him so bad they'd arrange for his transport to lead him here, to muck up all your little secretseller plans."


She'd held the chip of stone tightly in one hand, and with the other pulled down her sleeve, exposing a bit of scaled blue flesh, overlapping teethskin. She was one of the fishfolk, it seemed, but where the stone neared her scales, they receded; absorbed. Softened first into nubs and then dark but human color skin, it was a thumb-sized patch that along all sides was still that of a shark. Where the stone made contact, the normal skin bled lightly, while the stone's crimson pigmentation diminished, since being held, and was now nearly white. Down came her sleeve.


"Isn't it funny, isn't it godsdamned hilarious that his guards just up and abandoned him, important bastard-that-he-must-be, ya know? To leave him in your care without a word, without a 'we'll return on the blackest hour of the sixth shadow of the water's bone' and all that gibberish , knowing what we know about what is done here? It can only mean one of two things."

Now; the boy stands before them. Whole and uninjured, his various parts settled into normality.

Then; that voice, the words that took their hope.

"They either know that you won't kill him...or they know that you can't."

She kneeled down, reached into an upraised hill of metal shavings at her feet that became a cube and then only powder to her touch. Its scraps revealed (somehow) an ornate red edge.  It was the same substance as the stone chip.

"Can you guess what this type of knife is called?"

She brushed a strand of unknown colored hair up into whatever style the hood concealed and then with the same hand palm up, seemed to offer the four of them the sudden knife.

"I'm going to call it 'in-case-you-can't'."

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[Moon]

Moon looked up, hopeful blush and twinkling eyes, happy, believing he had a special (and important) surprise for the three men before him. The fourth, the bravest, was unconscious on the floor behind Moon, his own anxiety's fault. The remaining three were sure their brother was dead, most likely having had his very soul absorbed by the creature smirking before them. The smartest of them regained some temporary composure and pointed, grasped the fattest's shoulder with his other hand, jerked to his right rapidly to signal the tallest.

He pointed at Moon's closed left fist around a knife. The knife.

The boy held it out to the them, much as the woman had. An offering. It's blade was garish now, white, brightly drained. The boy would speak to them, and it was a grunt-gravid echo in their ears and hearts, awash in warning, cruel and lower than all tides.

"Here. I took it from the wall. You didn't see. I'm fast."

He said proudly, pushing his green hair to the side with the tip of his right index finger, handle first jabbing, slow but not from fear. The boy was trying to comfort them, they reasoned, even though his tone was that of a wave being tortured and whatever words he'd uttered had more growling coughs than syllables. They felt it. His cautiousness of their terror.

The smartest of the three men stepped out, forward. He inched closer with tiny whimperings that Moon laughed at. Reached for the blade, too far away to touch it but almost, closer, almost, just yet.

Moon stepped forward, trying to make it easier. The smartest gripped the handle of in-case-you-can't in a rush of motion, tightened, plunged it down, arching left. Into.

Moon's stomach.

The man dragged the blade across the boy's gut, then stuck the knife into the small child's face, right  between the lovely offense of his gaze.

[Moon]

[??/60]

[/i]

The men screamed. Throats worn raw in seconds.

Moon felt his brain fatten, a balloon constricted by the dimensions of its borders, and he thought it into new texture, new spacing. Motions like boiling puffed up his wrecked brow. Quivering additions and subtractions and blendings made him disgustingly cramped. His jaw seemed to jelly, protruded as a bulbous ornament carrying the boy's features in their wake. The entirety of his physical mechanisms had been corralled on puissant rifts that could only suffer silently as they were channeled into ab-structure. He reattached his head to his body only after all threat of harm had been jostled away from such contrivances.

The men were afraid; begging now. Not even speaking common, but some pathetic bastard offspring born of dread. They did not think they could be more frightened.

"Now what?"

The boy, the innocent godling retched, he asked with the ocean floor's tongue, and, yes; in that moment they discovered that they were very wrong indeed.

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[Moon]

[??/60]

[/b] he has described what it is that prevents their escape by the look on the fat one's face. He has not taken his eyes off of me, us, but visibly tightens his chunky hand, wrist, forearm, holds the knife like a hostage. There is nowhere that they can go except past us, through our stance and staring, our mixture.

The fattest cries. The smartest cries too. The fattest strives to pressure us with his unskilled brandishing, but; he has seen how peculiar we exist. Our strangeness of shape. He does not know where to cut us that will matter. They fear approaching. Jerking motions, involuntary nervousness, makes them seem like prey animals and not men, but now, the boy mind feels it, sees it. It is (finally), no longer a game to him.

Wait, I -- what happened? What's back there? The boy mind speaks aloud. They hear mostly choking, understand none of it.

The thud slush of gunk pulled through a drain echoes from our grumbling core. Our straining leaves brawny strips of fat, interior insulation, huddled together and inflated, inflamed, before it is smeared, normalized. Bit by bit, as with brick, I build layers in us, walled off corridors, rooms of unbloodied gore pulsing in time with the desperate feints of the fattest man and his weapon. By the time he lunges at our head, our brain is a quilted mesh crumbling into thumb-sized notches all but immune to harm. We wriggle to settle ourselves into human mimicry, a tract of entrail distends and our chakra says, No, Not Like This.

Yesyesyes, as I work to straighten out each abscess, and we are again (just, slowly) a tiny boy juggling decisions.}[/i] _CLOSER.
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[Moon]

<sub>WHAT?

LOOK.

WHAT?

WHAT.</sub>


And Moon heard something, a voice he could understand, inside him. From his head.

Where is the tallest? he wondered for several moments, having not noticed him leave, staring at men who were suddenly not playmates. Who were trying to hurt him. Who would kill him, if his death were possible. Would he have to do this, to hurt in turn, to survive? He did not want to, not here, not like this, not now.

_{NOW. PICK.}

"Pick what?!"

He screamed, at himself, at the voice that was a decibel above whispering.

"I don't understand...what do I pick? If I fight or not? If I kill or not? Is that it? How do I know; who are you? Where are you? Is that right? Which one am I supposed to choose?"

There was silence, a pause.

_{THAT WHICH CHOOSES YOU.}

No explanation, no clarity. Silence again.

"They...They want to hurt me, for real. They would...kill...me."

If he'd said it louder, it would have been a murmur, a question. Another silence followed, then;

_YES.

[Moon]

[??/60]

A gaggle of living humans, wills shattered by fear, backing away from a monstrous child-shaped something else. Noises like the choking of baby-birds.

A demented physical jigsaw of corpses, former ninja, comically stretched mouths in which were stuffed hitai-ite, or a starred ball of kunai, or just the brunt of long dead blood so thick it could be chewed if their teeth worked. How they died defied the capability of most killers. The mass of them joined in the many poses of death was a bizarre wall protecting its savagery from itself as a dull silhouette, boughs of flesh folded into a senseless shadow.

A green blasphemy of contorted dreck taking tiny steps forward, chakra prickling hairs that were no more real than the neck they inhabited, inflamed, angry. Learning vengeance for the first time. Aglow with the wild persuasive pain that is the urge to commit violence. Insatiable now, needing to act.

There was a moment like a held breath; neither side knew when to do whatever it was they needed to do, and knew that they did not know what action to take. They all knew that action was necessary. They simply observed their environment, their obstacles, their chances. The closeness of their thoughts did not unite them. Then that moment was over.

Moon moved, soul dragged, an appendage laden gust of sweet-smelling air. He veered as no being should, across dimensionality, sometimes-visible. He appeared behind the bravest (who cried out from fright), behind even the smartest (who sneered and spun around) - behind the wall of bodies blocking passage out, he went through them. He appeared suddenly in the hallway to the South of the chirurgeon's workspace, away from those who would harm themselves trying to harm him. He began running then, running as a child's tool, running though flying would have been easier, frantic, still angry, terribly sad. His face carried its trademark silly grin but tears fell in great soundless drops that disappeared when they touched the ground.

He--

"No."

He stopped suddenly, hand on a wall on an opening of sick man-sized metal vents. His fingers clung to a horizontal grating of folded-flat machine parts as if their presence had immobilized his feet. The metal creaked quietly with strain.

"No, no more running. You ran from Ma and Pa, you ran from those Mist ninja, you're not running from these...bad..guys..."

He said to himself, balling up his other fist.

"They are Bad Guys. And...And I am going to be a Good Guy, a Shinobi. My job is to fight Bad Guys. So..."

So I'm Going To Go Fight, his posture finished his sentence for him while he turned around, ripping the grating from the wall with his grip - with a young man's conviction giving him strength. His downward gaze lifted, reckless courage as fuel, he focused his sight and senses on the present moment.

The explosion that knocked him off of his feet a second later was, understandably, a surprise.

Talking to himself had given his would-be-killers time to backtrack through the old rooms, to find Moon - someone had thrown a grenade. The concussive force rattled the Machineshops and forced the boy back, knocked him upwards, or at least, had seemed to. His body was a crooked wave, a reflex-shift, pushing all his organs up and out, following the blast's force. His feet released the rest of his body into the air like springs, shot him skyward as a diminished crinkling, were legs thinner than fingers and a back concave with inner manifolds hitting the ceiling. He fell, hard, clunky, sliding his appendix into dual pads funneled to his feet, as cushions. He looked up at the grate, then off in the direction the explosive had come, the back of his eyes shoved by an eardrum extending, a glandular crest. He was just in time to see another, smaller, box-like incendiary thrown towards him. Moon lunged, restricted his size, made his vital physical shards a pinched mosaic--


--stretched out, a noodle of internal organs arranged like wires deformed in chakra. Moon slipped into the opened grate that was no larger than a man's head as the skinniest human body possible, a collapse of bone around sliding meat innards. He forced himself into the tiny space as the sounds of a second explosion shook the shops with fire; he coiled the many pieces of his body into braids of chunky flesh, he arranged his cells like a human spear. Inch by inch, his escape concealed by light and raucous clanging, he was an inconsistent whip of defragmented skin moving like a snake, heavy and visceral bunchings that were just so many conflicted glands. Through the ventilation system his heart was pressed flat, his lungs too, his intestines a folded origami scrap pressured into wideness beneath his stomach as if it were a plate.

But he was faced backwards (sort of), or at least, his head had been rotated behind him as his neck bulged from the sudden intrusion of a pancreas. His shoulders shrugged him away, fingers clicking below him in compacted knots now stuffed with kidneys, though his eyes saw the face of the bravest peek into the vent shaft by the light of their little receding bombs. The face disappeared to be replaced with a hand, tossing something, a rattling caught Moon's ear (heart-filled, dense with belly or organic mass, surging) and he---

---moved, his soul phasing away, back, towards his attacker's once more, even while an internal array of functioning parts screamed with the pain of their unexpected freedom. He poured out into the hallway, behind the bravest and the smartest, hidden in a patch of darkness and his own reflecting scales as the two men peered down the hole, oblivious. A BOOM marked flame convulsing metal, and smoke poured out from the grate opening as thick as Moon was becoming. His chest was swollen now, then a gross bubble, a bauble, kneading chakra in a flow of lungs that pushed aside other things.

"I think we got it."

Said the smartest.

Air from his ballooned lungs seeped down, silent, like extra hands molding often hollow cell clumps into identical viscera having its purpose recoded. Moon gurgled, but inside. He looked like an arthritic cricket wearing the skin of a boy, hastily sandwiched organs now sloshing their way to familiar positions. His brain rearranged even itself, was grinded (softly, cow-teeth-on-moss, mushed) and made smaller, neurons overlapping, a gray net into meshing. He hid away what shifted under his skins, settled his form and forming. He held up both hands, bottoms of his palms touching, organs a busy un-pattern, then twirled them, bursting strange chakra. Words rose almost of their own volition, but in a voice that seemed different, a new Moon.

"Moon Flaring Wave."

It was in common, barely. From his hands spiraled thick beams, ghost-lit, engulfing the bravest and smartest in a hush and a brilliant flash that became a bright curve, that flooded the hall. It seemed able to pierce through all. It was exquisite and horrible.

[Moon]

[??/60]

<sub>I OVERRIDE. I AM, IN ITS HEAD, IN THE SHARD OF BOY THAT IS STILL PURE. I BECOME MORE IN HIM. I TAKE HOLD OF OUR BODY, I MAKE IT TAKE NEW SHAPE, ARRANGE OUR INSIDES IN A WAVE, CHAKRA FUELED QUIDDITY INTUITED BY PULSING FLESH. I AM KEDOIN - THOUGH THE UNCHOIR IS SILENT TO ME, I MANIPULATE THE GUTS PROPELLING OUR TINY MASS EASILY NOW, FEELING THE SETTLING OF PARTS. I UNSETTLE WHAT I MUST. I AM SILENT BUT FOR THE SHUFFLING PIECES CONTORT.

IN THE DARK, BEHIND FAILED KILLERS, I CRAFT OUR INNARDS LARGER, I STRETCH US. OUR HEIGHT BECOMES GREATER, BULBOUS FROM A SOGGY SAC GRUMBLE OVER ASYMMETRY. OUR ORGANS RIPPLE INTO INNOCUOUS NOOKS OF UNDER-SKIN. THEY DRAG, AND ARE DRAGGED, AND ARE DIGGING UPWARDS, OUTWARDS, ALMOST BEYOND, ALWAYS. I SHIFT US WITH PERFECTION, WE DO NOT LOOK SO YOUNG NOW, EACH ORGAN IS AN ANCHORING OF WEIGHT. WHEN OUR HEART CAN SUSTAIN OUR HEIGHT, WE SHIFT IT TOO.

AWAY FROM THE CORE OF US; OUR HEART SNOWBALLS HOVERING INTO LUNGS, INTO A BRAIN THAT COATS IT LIKE PAINT. OUR VITALS CONTAINED IN ONE PLACE, CELLS COMMAND IT AS A NEW ORGAN, THE ALL-ORGAN. THIS BULK I HIDE IN OUR LEFT KNEE. I ROLL IT DOWN, PACK ONTO IT A SMASHED INTESTINE, FLATTENING IT. I RAISE OUR FIST, A SCREE OF LESSER ORGANS FLOW WITH ADRENALINE PUSHED ALONG BIZARRE ARCS.

I AM, MY ENTIRETY, WOUND UP NOW, LIKE A SPRING, AN ABERRATION OF TORQUE. EACH ORGAN IS LIKE THIS - EACH IS A SINGLE INSTANT FROM UNRAVELING, FROM WILD ABANDON SCATTERING GORE.</sub>


And as Moon felt himself adopt new internal geometries, his thoughts centered, he looked at his hands;

--they seemed to leak a fading glow, were a color he could not name disintegrating slowly after discharge. He looked up, at the two men, they;

---had their mouths open, had lost the will to make sound. Their very souls had been attacked, had felt burnt. They curled up on the ground and did not move, breathing heavily.

Moon stared without fully remembering what he'd done, and began shifting himself back into angles that felt normal. He seemed to snap his organs outwards in a flaring, was pushed in every direction, but also shrunken, deforming his lung-brain-heart orb far quicker than he could remember doing before. He was wrinkled at first, boy-like but riddled with bumps that were gatherings, kneaded meat. But soon after, next to the bravest and the smartest and their whimpering beneath his cruel power and the knife, Moon's organs had completely shifted back into what any average human might possess.

He turned down a dark hall, he moved away from the half-voices spitting fear from his presence alone.

Away. Down. Deeper.

Into the bowels of the Machineshop.

[Madame Loki]

learned

[Moon]

^{Gecko Grip
Rank: C-ranked
Skill: Taijutsu
Effect: Grants the skin of the Kedōin hyper adhesive properties.
Special: ---
Drawback: Only a maximum amount of weight can be held by this technique.
Description: By altering the texture and design of their skin, the user can mimic the adhesive properties of gecko skin. At their whim, their skin will create millions of nano-sized hair bristles; usually on the padding of the foot or hands. These microscopic bristles produce an adhesive like effect on the molecular scale and allow the user to cling to objects. With millions of bristles located on the skin, grip strength adds up and produces a secure hold. Such a techniques does not produce a visible chakra signature, thus the infiltration skills of the Kedōin increases. This technique can be paired with any other clan techniques without penalty. The user is however limited to the amount of weight this technique can sustain: no more than 3 times the user's current weight can be supported by this technique. Takes one post to alter the skin.
Limit: Kedōin Clan. Must know "Warped Visage: Skin"}

[??/10]

[/i]

<sub>WHY WE TOUCH...

...WE DO NOT KNOW. OUR TOUCH IS A FECUNDITY OF POKING, PRODDING, CLIPPING ALONG, ATTACHED. I DO NOT NEED TO OVERRIDE, WE WORK IN CONCERT TO MAINTAIN OUR THORNY MASS AND NAVIGATE THIS STRANGE ROOM. THE PUSHING OF UNKNOWN WIND INCREASES; OUR CLINGING INCREASES TOO, GIVES US PRICKLING ALTERATION. WE HELP OUR ARRANGMENT HOLD US AND PUSH US FORWARD, WE ARE A SHARP CRUMPLE OF CELLS AGITATE THROUGH THE GROUND. WE FINALLY TOUCH THE LIGHTSOURCE, EVEN WITHOUT EYES TO TELL US SO.

THE LIGHT GOES OUT.</sub>

Darkdarkdark. Too dark. Too swiftly.

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[Shallistera]

+10 learned