[ A steady stream of questions, denoting interest. Douman keeps his crouch, starting to sketch an alarmingly-accurate outline of Japan as he knows it, dividing and subdividing the island nation into parts. He draws the borders of Echigo, a thin sliver on the northwest curve of the country, and taps it with his forefinger. ]
From Murakami to Reizei, power passed quickly in my timeー but yes, I know of Echigo. I've heard it gets frightfully cold in the north, though I've never been.
[ As if Kyoto also isn't a freezing hellhole in winter and a humid bog in the summer. Douman misses none of these things, and also yearns deeply for it at the same time; his emotions are always somewhere slightly left of the truth, felt and unfelt, acknowledged and denied. Still, spite is not love; once upon a time, the latter of the two could've made him a real beast.
Speaking of himself as if he's freshly plucked from court is slightly irritating, but not enough for him to make an actual distinction about what he experienced in life and what he's become after death. After all, he isn't lyingー all of these things are, in fact, bits and pieces of his truth. ]
It seems these things are familiar to you, Hayame-dono. How reassuring to know that there's a bit of our homeworld left between the both of us.
[ That's a lie.
There's something about Hayame, though, that does ring deeply of someone he knows: Minamoto-no-Raikou, a woman at odds with herself and her nature, her softness struggling not to be subsumed by her own monstrousness. A perfect product of the Heian period; Douman wouldn't be surprised at all if Hayame hails from the same miasmic mess. ]
no subject
From Murakami to Reizei, power passed quickly in my timeー but yes, I know of Echigo. I've heard it gets frightfully cold in the north, though I've never been.
[ As if Kyoto also isn't a freezing hellhole in winter and a humid bog in the summer. Douman misses none of these things, and also yearns deeply for it at the same time; his emotions are always somewhere slightly left of the truth, felt and unfelt, acknowledged and denied. Still, spite is not love; once upon a time, the latter of the two could've made him a real beast.
Speaking of himself as if he's freshly plucked from court is slightly irritating, but not enough for him to make an actual distinction about what he experienced in life and what he's become after death. After all, he isn't lyingー all of these things are, in fact, bits and pieces of his truth. ]
It seems these things are familiar to you, Hayame-dono. How reassuring to know that there's a bit of our homeworld left between the both of us.
[ That's a lie.
There's something about Hayame, though, that does ring deeply of someone he knows: Minamoto-no-Raikou, a woman at odds with herself and her nature, her softness struggling not to be subsumed by her own monstrousness. A perfect product of the Heian period; Douman wouldn't be surprised at all if Hayame hails from the same miasmic mess. ]