Figurehead: Chosen One<br/>Appearance:<br/><a class="postlink" href="http://owen21.webs.com/loka.jpeg">[ img ]</a><br/>Age: 15<br/>Name: Piro YÄ«nghuÄ<br/>Gender: Male<br/>Skills:<br/><br/>*Staff (Gun)<br/>*Spear (Qiang)<br/>*Sword (Jian)<br/>*Various styles of Kung Fu<br/>*Can cook very well<br/>*Resourceful<br/><br/>-----------------------------------------------<br/><br/>Piro walked through the bustling crowd, his hands around the straps of his bookbag, iPhone blaring music in his ears. He listened to modern music mostly, yet there were a few tracks of simple, old fashioned melodies of Chinese music.<br/><br/>He weaved through the crowd filling the streets of Chinatown, heading towards one shop in particular. An old pawn shop full of relics of Chinese past, yet the owner was a nice old man, steeped in wisdom of the era long ago. Piro had a certain affection for his heritage, even though he was only half chinese. His American side was far from exciting compared to the rich history of China. He studied martial arts in a local dojo, studied the language and everything else Chinese. He even learned to cook rather well, which was convenient since his single mother was never home.<br/><br/>Pulling his earphones out, he wrapped them around his phone and shoved them in the pocket of his hoodie before pushing open the door to the shop. The hinges protested to moving since they were so accustomed to remaining closed.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">The old manâ€™s name was Roshi Zhanghe. He sat there fixing up the ink upon a scroll he was finishing up restoration upon. He was on the final stroke of the brush when the bell chimed. â€œWelcome. Welcome. We are still open. Feel free to look around.â€ He said without looking up in a gravely old chinese accented voice. When he put it away to dry and cleaned up...he moved out from behind the counter. Lighting up and chuckling as he saw who it was. â€œAh...you again. You come here long time. Very often my boy.â€ He said with an amused smile. â€œYou often help me out. Mr. Piro. Yet you seem troubled by something. I can close early. Come into back young man.â€ He said.</span><br/><br/>"Good evening, Roshi." he said with a polite bob of his head. He sighed and moved into the back room with the old man.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">Hobbling over to the front door and put it as closed. Locking it and hobbled past the young man. He waved for him to follow. â€œCome along Mr. Piro we can speak on what troubles someone as young in years as yours...mind.â€ He said with a concerned yet familial way. The boy came here every day since the boy was five years old. He felt like family to the old man. Leading the young man into back and into his living area. Indicating the couch. Over the mantlepiece of the fireplace he lit rested the monkey kings staff. For now it appeared just ornately decorated ancient wooden stick.<br/><br/>The old man hobbled his way into the kitchen area to make a pot of tea. â€œWhat brings such woe young man?â€ he called out.</span><br/><br/>"Does it show that much?" he asked as he sighed, "Just an argument with my mother. She's insisting I get a job and help out. I'm not ready for that kind of responsibility. I'm still in high school."<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic"><span style="font-weight: bold">The longer the young man stayed the louder and louder the song played in traditional chinese ways upon that of a bamboo flute would become. Soon surrounding and echoing around all of the room and the shop. Surrounding the young man and drowning out all other sounds but the music and the room would seem to dim. A golden glowing light would shine forth from the mantlepiece. Growing brighter and brighter still as you neared the wooden stick that was the sole resting piece upon it. The song would grow louder and louder still as the music seemed to come from the glowing stick itself. As if calling out to the only one who was able to hear its song.</span></span><br/><br/>Piro thought he had left in an earbud at first. He grabbed for the cord but it wasn't there. The music was soft at first and mesmerizing, one of the most beautiful pieces he has heard. The room seemed to dim and the staff on the mantle demanded his attention as he stood and shouldered his bag. He stepped closer, almost in an hypnotic trance, staring at it as it began to glow. He stood now an arms length from the weapon and he lifted his arm, his hand inching closer and closer as the music became louder and the light brighter. He thought he heard the old man yelling at him, but the sound was but a muffled drone in the distance, overcome by the graceful music. He continued on, and his hand finally rested on the smooth wood of the staff....