So, kid, you want to fight this old devil to see if I still have skills? You sure? Well I'm slowed with age, but sure I'll humor you. But remember, you did challenge me, not the other way around. Still, you did ask politely, so I won't be - too - rough. -- Anon Guest
After he turned one hundred and seven, Kosh routinely wore his hakama because it was easier to don. His ageing hands were tired of buckles and his old back was complaining about bending to do them up. And the wider pants were more amenable for temperature control. And, because he'd retired from teaching at the Dojo, he wore it with his more normal shirt and red doublet. That, and the woven hat Delia made for him, did nothing to stop the occasional blowhard.
The first warning of one was their egotistical coo of, "So this is the Thrice-Sworn King, death knell of Olikent slavery? A withered old man who needs a cane?"
Kosh sighed and rolled his glowing eyes. "You think I was this old, seventy of years ago?" He sized them up. Young buck with a shiny new sword and a great deal of ego. Not yet at his full growth nor all of his facial hair. Bad stance, bad posture and, from the smell of him, bad hygiene as well. Someone wanting to look big by taking down someone with the biggest reputation.
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