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Let's do the Test Drive Again
I. BEARING FRUIT (NEW CHARACTERS ONLY)
It starts out as a pleasant dream. You’re in your favorite place, with your favorite people. It’s a moment of idyllic comfort.
And then, it goes wrong.
The sky turns dark above, and as you look up, you see the black expanse of space spotted with faraway pinprick lights of stars. Yet, they’re not stars. You’re certain. They’re watching you. A billion eyes all looking down, and they spill forth as if sky itself was a dam holding back those dark waters. You reach back to the people you’re with, but they’re frozen in place. Their eyes are black, reflecting only the expanse of dark eyes.
So you run, even though you know you won’t escape it. You glance back and see it not overtaking, but consuming. The landscape around you is being devoured, and you can see it cracking apart. The world itself is breaking, and it cracks under your feet. You fall, and the billion eyes chase after you until the darkness swallows you whole. There’s agony as if you’re being ripped apart, and then—
You cannot see. You cannot feel. You simply are. Yet even so, impossibly, a woman’s voice speaks gently.
I’m sorry it couldn’t be saved. But, come, it’s time to wake.
You wake with a start, cradled by soft, velvety plants, and sticky with a sap that smells faintly of honey and iron. You can see the veins of the leaves that hold you, lit warmly and gently by what looks like a crystal embedded above you. Yet, it’s odd, because that crystal calls to you. When you reach out to touch it, it’s warm. Familiar. Important. You don’t know why, but you know you must hold onto this, because now it feels wrong for it to be suspended in these leaves. So, you pull it out.
The light starts to fade, but only in time to see as the leaves cradling you immediately start to soften and crumble, and with it comes a torrent of dirt. Soft, loamy soil starts to fill the space around you in the dark as you’re buried. Or, rather, you already were. You reach out through the dirt desperately, and your hands finds a root, so you pull while you clutch that precious crystal so close that it almost feels like it sinks into you (in your panic, you don’t notice that it does). You reach out again, and this time, your hand hits open air and plenty of sturdy roots around to grab.
From a seed you’re born, and like a sprout, you make your way out of the ground.
And once you’ve clawed your way out of the soft earth and the roots, nearby, you see the soil shift. Another hand comes up to grasp desperately for something, anything, just as you had been.
And then, it goes wrong.
The sky turns dark above, and as you look up, you see the black expanse of space spotted with faraway pinprick lights of stars. Yet, they’re not stars. You’re certain. They’re watching you. A billion eyes all looking down, and they spill forth as if sky itself was a dam holding back those dark waters. You reach back to the people you’re with, but they’re frozen in place. Their eyes are black, reflecting only the expanse of dark eyes.
So you run, even though you know you won’t escape it. You glance back and see it not overtaking, but consuming. The landscape around you is being devoured, and you can see it cracking apart. The world itself is breaking, and it cracks under your feet. You fall, and the billion eyes chase after you until the darkness swallows you whole. There’s agony as if you’re being ripped apart, and then—
You cannot see. You cannot feel. You simply are. Yet even so, impossibly, a woman’s voice speaks gently.
I’m sorry it couldn’t be saved. But, come, it’s time to wake.
You wake with a start, cradled by soft, velvety plants, and sticky with a sap that smells faintly of honey and iron. You can see the veins of the leaves that hold you, lit warmly and gently by what looks like a crystal embedded above you. Yet, it’s odd, because that crystal calls to you. When you reach out to touch it, it’s warm. Familiar. Important. You don’t know why, but you know you must hold onto this, because now it feels wrong for it to be suspended in these leaves. So, you pull it out.
The light starts to fade, but only in time to see as the leaves cradling you immediately start to soften and crumble, and with it comes a torrent of dirt. Soft, loamy soil starts to fill the space around you in the dark as you’re buried. Or, rather, you already were. You reach out through the dirt desperately, and your hands finds a root, so you pull while you clutch that precious crystal so close that it almost feels like it sinks into you (in your panic, you don’t notice that it does). You reach out again, and this time, your hand hits open air and plenty of sturdy roots around to grab.
From a seed you’re born, and like a sprout, you make your way out of the ground.
And once you’ve clawed your way out of the soft earth and the roots, nearby, you see the soil shift. Another hand comes up to grasp desperately for something, anything, just as you had been.
II. BOUGH-BREAKER, ROOT-QUAKER
There are new Shard-Bearers at the Tree of Life, and Yima has asked that their elders return to the Tree to greet them, to bring them forth and answer their questions. She warns that it will be unlike the last time, for the Dryad's presence has gone -- the root-caverns of the Tree are damaged, the previous actions of some of the Shard-Bearers have left it injured, blackened by ill intent. Be careful, Commune where you must, but be aware that the Tree has reacted to its injury and will seek out the space within your Communions to make its agonies known.
All will experience the consequences to the actions of the few.
Whether awakening within or descending once more into the cavernous, root layer of the Tree of life is precarious; passages are maze-like, with claustrophobic squeezes and sudden chasms. Worse yet, is the miasma that hovers in the atmosphere. It leaches into your eyes, your skin, the space below your fingernails and drags through your lungs with every inhalation. Images of explosions, of fire and the sensation of shrapnel tearing through you begin to spark like fireworks within your mind. The pain builds, souring as it does.
The ambiance here is revolting. Great chasms have opened in the environment, threatening to pour inattentive Shard-Bearers into the Tree's deeper underbelly. The cloying, dark vapors around everyone dull the senses, until those you may have entered with are gone, or perhaps new bodies have joined you in the rancid space. The miasma urges you towards your baser desires, your desperate violence, and even as the Tree's pain evokes a sense of desperate self-defense, your Shard warms upon your body.
Somehow, the Tree still seeks to Commune with all -- pressing its need upon you: a single flame. A roaring pyre. A chilled ember.
All will experience the consequences to the actions of the few.
Whether awakening within or descending once more into the cavernous, root layer of the Tree of life is precarious; passages are maze-like, with claustrophobic squeezes and sudden chasms. Worse yet, is the miasma that hovers in the atmosphere. It leaches into your eyes, your skin, the space below your fingernails and drags through your lungs with every inhalation. Images of explosions, of fire and the sensation of shrapnel tearing through you begin to spark like fireworks within your mind. The pain builds, souring as it does.
The ambiance here is revolting. Great chasms have opened in the environment, threatening to pour inattentive Shard-Bearers into the Tree's deeper underbelly. The cloying, dark vapors around everyone dull the senses, until those you may have entered with are gone, or perhaps new bodies have joined you in the rancid space. The miasma urges you towards your baser desires, your desperate violence, and even as the Tree's pain evokes a sense of desperate self-defense, your Shard warms upon your body.
Somehow, the Tree still seeks to Commune with all -- pressing its need upon you: a single flame. A roaring pyre. A chilled ember.
THE GAME IS AFOOT
The Tree of Life cannot communicate but in abstract images and sounds, but the general gist of its need is eventually grasped by all Shard-Bearers: the miasma present is the result of an attack upon the Dryad that once lived among the roots of the Tree. Actions taken by other Shard-Bearers have left the Tree in dire straits, deeply wounded and unable to prevent itself from naturally lashing out in its own defense as it dies. It cannot let go of those it has imprisoned, until they have revealed their nature to it - until it knows it can finally, finally let go.
Characters can decide amongst themselves how to deal with the threat of miasma. It's easy to figure out, as your shards will naturally want to absorb what's similar to discord within your shards, but just like with discord, holding hands, or joining together in some way will allow the pain to be shared amongst everyone in the group. There's no such thing as failure, but if a character decides for the group, there may be the opportunity for intervention…
Characters can decide amongst themselves how to deal with the threat of miasma. It's easy to figure out, as your shards will naturally want to absorb what's similar to discord within your shards, but just like with discord, holding hands, or joining together in some way will allow the pain to be shared amongst everyone in the group. There's no such thing as failure, but if a character decides for the group, there may be the opportunity for intervention…
- Characters may choose to take on the role of a martyr, accepting the Tree's miasma ( its pain ) upon themselves as the sole sufferant. They will experience excruciating pain and lasting effects, but will spare others from this trauma.
- Characters may also choose to share the pain among themselves, though doing so will require Communion to be shared between all parties -- this will result in the temporary collapse of boundaries and barricades, and emotions and memories may flow against their will into others.
- Characters may also decide to do nothing at all, whereupon their decision to take no action will result in the miasma growing stronger, denser and more cloying until they are rendered unconscious and ejected from the roots of the tree.
- Have you a choice unique to your character that wasn't mentioned? Might you try to heal the tree's pain, or perhaps harm it further? If you're making the attempt, make sure your group is aware and submit your record of action to the link included below!
III. TWO CITIES, ALIKE IN DIGNITY BUT WE ALL KNOW YIMOMMY'S WHERE IT'S AT
Having just celebrated the dual-natured festivities known as the Year's End Festival and Qiasu, Springstar and Highstorm ( respectively ) are wrapping up the period of time where Kenos a celebrates unity and togetherness, coming together with friends and family, to be kind to others and share in one’s wealth - whether that comes in the form of knowledge, monetary gains, or the exchange of gifts and one’s time. While the core festivities are over, many of the residents of Kenos are still caught up in the celebratory mood; those who are not, have begun to fret and whisper about a rumor that has spread throughout both cities.
( Many more residents are attempting to get rid of their excess stock, and may attempt to pawn off kitschy goods and, strangely, unclaimed gifts for people they claim they have no memory of, or simply do not exist. )
With the new Shard-Bearers present or en route, it is Kathova and Cetina that approach the established ones, requesting that they form mentorships with the new souls to assist them with the integration process. To this end, they have both provided a centralized zone in both Highstorm and Springstar for a small, casual meet-and-greet to be held before the new Shard-Bearers are unleashed upon Kenos as a whole.
Additionally, as Springstar and Highstorm are holding their events on different days, it is possible for the knowledge-hungry to participate in both informational sessions -- the tones and opinions held by both cities are doubtless to differ, and some Shard-Bearers who have chosen to harmonize with either faction may even find their way to the opposing faction's session as well. After all, the year's end is still lingering in the air, and cooperation is the current name of the game.
( Many more residents are attempting to get rid of their excess stock, and may attempt to pawn off kitschy goods and, strangely, unclaimed gifts for people they claim they have no memory of, or simply do not exist. )
With the new Shard-Bearers present or en route, it is Kathova and Cetina that approach the established ones, requesting that they form mentorships with the new souls to assist them with the integration process. To this end, they have both provided a centralized zone in both Highstorm and Springstar for a small, casual meet-and-greet to be held before the new Shard-Bearers are unleashed upon Kenos as a whole.
Additionally, as Springstar and Highstorm are holding their events on different days, it is possible for the knowledge-hungry to participate in both informational sessions -- the tones and opinions held by both cities are doubtless to differ, and some Shard-Bearers who have chosen to harmonize with either faction may even find their way to the opposing faction's session as well. After all, the year's end is still lingering in the air, and cooperation is the current name of the game.
SPRINGSTAR, αιώνιος ήλιος
In Springstar, the seat of the Tribune becomes available for such a forum. While a section of the building itself has been reserved for the meeting between fresh faces and experienced Shard-Bearers alike, the hustle and bustle of Heliopolis continues around them -- acolytes still gather their robes and tomes, hurrying from their quarters to lessons. A score of young militants march in step across the yard to the training grounds.
Tables draped in white-and-gold-trimmed fabrics fare filled with fare common to Springstar's warmer climate -- fruits and wines, savory smoked meats and roasted vegetables, a series of meze platters and souvlaki skewers have been lain out to encourage forum participants to snack as they speak. The atmosphere is light, ambient with informality and friendliness, though topics will inevitably stray towards philosophic, Springstar's meeting grounds are decorated with handsome chaise lounges and slouching klismos chairs in small, intimate groupings.
Tables draped in white-and-gold-trimmed fabrics fare filled with fare common to Springstar's warmer climate -- fruits and wines, savory smoked meats and roasted vegetables, a series of meze platters and souvlaki skewers have been lain out to encourage forum participants to snack as they speak. The atmosphere is light, ambient with informality and friendliness, though topics will inevitably stray towards philosophic, Springstar's meeting grounds are decorated with handsome chaise lounges and slouching klismos chairs in small, intimate groupings.
HIGHSTORM, луны-близнецы
Eternally in opposition, Highstorm provides the Manor's courtyard as the setting for their informational meeting. Here, formality is of utmost importance, with attending Zenith loyalists and residents dressed in beautiful, albeit austere attire -- they are, after all, standing before Lady Yima's home. A buffet-style luncheon is spread alongside one of the largest reflecting pools, wherein you may gaze and find your memories revealed in retrospect upon the water's surface.
There are few places to be seated in the Manor's courtyard, resulting in a milling of bodies as they flow and ebb between smaller gatherings, clustering in small-to-large groups with small platters and shimmering flutes of drink held in their hands.
There are few places to be seated in the Manor's courtyard, resulting in a milling of bodies as they flow and ebb between smaller gatherings, clustering in small-to-large groups with small platters and shimmering flutes of drink held in their hands.
RUMOR MILL
In both locations information passes between all in a forum, spread and disseminated among the masses - it's a good opportunity for city residents, faction loyalists and interested new parties to share and share alike. Once the meet-and-greet has concluded, twin missives from both of the faction leads are read out -- invitations for all present to explore the cities to their heart's content, and warnings about stumbling ill-prepared ( or at all ) into the Below, or worse yet, the Beyond.
No matter how conversations between player characters go, everyone will walk away with the following knowledge to ensure new players do not feel "behind" in terms of what has previously happened on Kenos TV.
No matter how conversations between player characters go, everyone will walk away with the following knowledge to ensure new players do not feel "behind" in terms of what has previously happened on Kenos TV.
- Cyrus, the head of the Meridian faction is a native aristocrat of Springstar, who provides characters with an iliachtida, or sunbeam. This item tethers a character to their world, ensuring it does not fully disappear. His stance involves the idea that, using Meridian's light, worlds can be restored and you may return home.
- In contrast, the head of the Zenith faction is Yima, who has been the head of Highstorm since - arguably - its inception. She provides characters with a Shard of that they love most, to protect and hold. Yima believes former worlds to be lost, and looks to the future instead.
- While Harmonization occurs as the characters' Shard ( literally the manifestation of a character's soul! ) accrues the natural energies generated by Meridian or Zenith, Discord is also as natural an occurrence -- a symptom, in fact, of that process. Discord is best reduced by someone from the opposite faction, and is also influenced by the Aspect of one's character.
Cyrus likes enchiladas.- Many individuals recommend the following locations to new arrivals, as a means of enjoyment, involvement or further information-seeking: Highstorm's Court at Yima's Manor remains a great area for reflection and self-discovery, while the Tomes - a series of libraries - possess a magnitude of amassed knowledge, both foreign and relative to yourself. Heliopolis, the capital of Springstar, is the core of government and administration, and houses many avenues towards involvement in the goings-on of the city. Likewise, the Psychagogía District is the beating heart of entertainment within an island known for its passions.
- Rumors of past exploits linger on the lips of many. Did you know that one of Meridian's Harmonized slew one of Zenith's before the eyes of countless bystanders? That there was an expedition of Meri and Zenite Shard-Bearers dispatched to Alenroux, and some came back brutalized! Did you hear that the Shard of a Zenite is being held hostage by the Meridians?
- The new marking that has appeared upon your character's body is known as their sign of Aspect, and supposedly correlates to the fundamental truths of their soul. A Shard also exists, and is known as the characters' soul itself.
NOTES
for 'warmare'.
The lack here, on this planet, feels degenerate. From the moment he'd broken the surface of his peat-soaked prison, all he'd felt is this absence, this fury, this hatred; revulsion has clawed its way through every inch of him, threatened to bare fangs in every stray interaction, left him feeling wild under the plaster of his affable smile.
(he remembers being in court, remembers the polite twitch of his mouth at every mention of Seimei, of his shadow growing longer the deeper he bowed his head.)
Socializing becomes untenable. Eventually, Douman displaces himself from the raucous din of festivities in favor of the familiar tranquility of nature, its laws familiar even in a place as alien as this: he counts the pulse of the wind, finds the susurrous rhythm of grass under his feet, the rustle of creatures too small for him to currently track.
Farther still, away, awayー
ーthe hum-whizz of an arrow in flight. Instinct has him tracking the root of the sound, long strides meandering until he finds the half-woman, half-mare with her weapon drawn, cutting graceful lines with the angles of her body. Douman barely notes the unfamiliarity of her shape; he knows what monsters look like, and she doesn't fit the bill.
So. He claps. There's a certain holiness to archery that allows him to allocate reverence, even if something about Douman always screams insincerity. ]
Wonderful, wonderful.
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If she did... she would fall. And the shards in their bodies refused to allow even the dignity of a slit-belly being the end of it all.
So she spends her days largely apart, nursing her grudges and holding desperately to her hopes in private. She trains, over and over and over- enough that her hooves have worn a path of barren dirt at the makeshift target run on the outskirts of the city she uses to attempt and return her skills to the level they had been before a demon had plucked an eye from her head. Yabusame was a vital skill for a warrior... and she had been her stable master's best. She might no longer gallop down the run with vibrant silk sleeves fluttering behind her and ceremonial tassels strung over the expanse of her muscular equine chest, but for just a moment, as she runs and fires, the wind blowing her ink-black mane behind her... She almost longs for the days when she had been a mare awaiting sale.
At least then she had known her place, in a world that made sense.
But this round, after she has fired her arrows and they have all hit the target (though not as cleanly as she would like)... there is a man. Her momentary escape broken by reality, Hayame comes to a halt, drawing up to her full height with a flick of her tail, her six foot length bow still held at the ready, fingers brushing over the fletching of an arrow, ever on guard.]
- Who says so?
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She could kill him. The thought makes his currently-useless blood stir, fear and admiration and anger in one heartbeat, but the serene smile on his face betrays none of it. ]
Ah, my apologies. How uncouth of me to clap during a warrior's training.
[ A sweeping bow, creasing the loose fabric of his bastardized priest's garb. Too colorful and garish to be traditional, but with the same fundamental silhouette. When he straightens, relaxed despite the obvious threat, the bells attached to his hairs twinkle. ]
Forgive me my bad manners, and I'll gladly keep my mouth shut. [ this is a lie!!!!!!!!!!!! he never shuts up!!!!!! ]
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But so far... as quick as she was to find insult or offense in the words of others... It has not happened yet. It could be noted that it had been mere seconds, but. She's done worse.]
This is not a performance, nor an offering.
[It was training, as he had said, and though she points it out... her one remaining eye picks out details about his clothing that clash with... she would think them familiar, those robes, but- bells?]
I have no desire to teach, either, if that is what you have come for.
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Douman is also unnaturally large, six foot and a half, more monster than man. He still cranes his neck to look up at Hayame, gray eyes like two pits on his face. ]
Mm, no, no, not in the slightest. I'm but a humble priest, looking to the land for its secrets and whispers.
[ The term he uses in his native language is onmyouji; he's not sure how that translates in this strange world. ]
If you'd fault me for being enticed by the whistle of your arrows, then I suppose I'd be guilty as charged. It's so rare, you see, that one hears something so straight and true.
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[He looked like some sort of... hulk, and that is what he claimed to be? If the bells and garish colors did not dissuade her from thinking there might be something familiar in his speech and the cut of his robes, his strange hair and height would have. Though she has met some tall men in this world... she is still not accustomed to those who did not have to strain their necks so severely to look her in the eye.
Which might explain how her tone comes out a bit more like "you are a priest?"
But she does not disparage him further, just waiting for the answer. A courtesy earned by the fact that... as much as she almost accuses him of lying, dissatisfied with her aim since the loss of her eye...
There is a weak and womanly part of her that is flattered by his wording. The straight, true shot of a warrior. It had been all she'd wanted to achieve, when her life had been a miserable slough of desperation with only a single possible hope. ... But at least things had made sense. At least a stranger who likely had no eye for such things admired her skill. (Hah.)]
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Palace politics. Men snickering behind wide sleeves, turning the rumor mill, asking about Douman's stature and his ambition, whispering Seimei-dono would never. He's so far removed from these things now, centuries away from the things that turned him inside out, and yet.
It rankles. It always will. Him, clawing at dirt, wondering what made him so illegitimate, and what made Seimei so venerable. "You are a priest?" ]
One of many.
[ His answer is curt but saccharine, lilting. He wasn't lying when he said he was impressed by this straight-postured stranger, because the truth can coexist with the warped nature of his personality; she is allowed to be skilled, as he is allowed to be wicked.
He folds his hands in front of him, claws wound around claws. ]
They call me Ashiya Douman. [ Might as well come out with it, and let any judgment come swift and early if it will. ] By no means a noble name, and especially worthless here, I suppose. Unfortunate, unfortunate.
What do they call you, milady?
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She still thinks he looks too strange to be a priest, but in a place like this... She had to believe much of what she is told at face value, with no way to refute it. Until that is...
He gives his name. She does not recognize it, not exactly, but the sounds... are strung together in the proper way, it sounds- It sounds like a man's name, a proper name, unlike things she is told here to call people. (Robles? Gabriel? Liem? Dextera?) And yet- a Japanese man who was six feet tall with black and white hair? Surely impossible. (If you don't know how FGO works.)]
You have a clan name, that is noble enough.
[Buying time, she mutters something to that effect. The Ashiya... did she know any Ashiya? If they were real, they did not send any representatives to her master's auctions.]
I am no lady. You may call me Hayame.
[Breeding stable jinba did not have a second name. To her, polite titles such as Miss or Lady only served to remind her what she was, and she did not fancy them. But... Fine, she will test him. Sure she is going to be disappointed, she continues,]
I am sure you can guess why.
[She could not read herself, but she had been told what the characters carved on her stall had mean. "As quick as a fish in water". 速魚.]
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(Who's to say that he doesn't, still? He can understand that spark of feeling, and disdain it with whatever of himself he has left.)
Douman laughs, a high chime, and crouches in training-grounds dirt. Long nails rake over soil, drawing characters with a surprisingly delicate hand.
He has no idea that she won't be able to read them??? Embarrassing. ]
"Haya-me"... mmmm, or "ha-ya-me"?
[ 「早芽」, he writes first, then tries a few more permutations: 「疾瑪」, 「葉矢目」. The last one is decidedly more "modern", and seems unlikely. 「魚」 for "me" doesn't come to mind, though he'd find it novel. ]
You needn't concern yourself with upbringingー for a while, I was merely a monk in the outskirts of Harima.
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Harima Province… ?
[She has not moved, her hooves rooted to the spot and her dun knees locked, ready to be told she hallucinated or misheard, or some bullshit about the world being over two thousand years old, but she cannot help… but hope, even though hope was foolish.
What was in Harima Province? The Kuroda had sent buyers to her master when she had been but a filly, but since their defeat no one had come from Harima… what was there? She may not be educated, but in her desperate attempt to make herself a valuable purchase for a general she has striven to remember every detail that a proper warrior light to know, so what-]
Harima by the sea… ?
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In life, Douman has felt both: the agony of being more talented than most, and the soul-rending torture of exile, of being banal. He's burned himself to ashes too many times not to know.
So. He feigns delight. The act comes easyー this is what "Ashiya Douman" would do or say, after all. "Limbo" sits under "Douman's" skin, wondering what it'd take for such a beautiful creature like Hayame to break. ]
Mmmmmm, yes! So you're aware of Hinomoto-no-kuni! [ A purposefully antiquated way to refer to the country of his origin. ] Though you might come from a slightly different variation of it, as even our illustrious Heian-kyo, boasting its abundances, wasn't home to those as yourself while I was still in it.
How interesting, how interesting.
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Then you hail from the Japan with only humans?
[She has heard of it- she has only met people from it, not a single person who’d seemed they should know of her race had, and yet-]
But… You know of the capital. Who rules there? - Do you know Echigo Province as well?
[Hayame thinks herself guarded. She considers herself strong. There are plenty of fellow shard-bearers who would label her inapprochable, impossible, too proud, or too quick to anger. But that is all just to cover for the fact that she knows too well there are cracks in her armor, that she is far weaker than she can ever let anyone see-
And one of those cracks is loneliness, the seemingly never ending reminder that she may be the only jinba left in existence. Another is isolation, coming from a world far more medieval and different in manner and culture to many others brought to Kenos, forever feeling misunderstood or dismissed by those who thought far differently.
To someone familiar with those cracks… perhaps they are not hard to find at all, even though her tone still sounds like cold demands.]
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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. ]
sorry for the delay, tokyooooo trip
So this man was not lying about that part, at the very least, no matter how strange he seemed in her eyes. Eye.]
I do not know those names… Emperor Go-Yozei reigns in the capital…
[More dressing for the act of a warrior worth purchasing, who suddenly feels… something, murmuring in follow-up,]
But the winters are indeed cold, for humans…
[The strange elation of a potential comrade melts into the reality of their differences, of realizing… she could be found for a fraud, a pretender to the throne of respectability… and the honorific sounds so foreign and strange when attached to her own name that she cannot help but add again,]
- I said just “Hayame”.
no worries! you were in my neighborhood, uwoh
Hinomoto holds nothing for him but old grudges and bitter aftertastes, but common origins can be a saccharine tether holding two disparate people together; context allows him to start constructing a profile of the woman in front of him. Her shirking of titles, for one, and her mention of his family name holding nobility. "I am no lady", whip-fast and knife-sharp.
A chip on a shoulder a mile wide, he thinks. His country bred those insecurities the way they bred their ayakashi; varied and plentiful. ]
Of course, of course. If that's what you prefer. [ A low sweep, a practiced bow. ] I will call you "Hayame", if you'd refer to me affectionately as "Douman"!
[ He raises his head, and chuckles beguilingly. Very weird of him. ]
As those far, far away from home in both land and spirit, I suppose it's imperative for us to... mmm, how do they say it, "keep our chins up"?
oH HEY! /waves from back home in kyoto
He has.... a strange laugh. But he has a familiar name, and his hands can trace a familiar land.]
Douman.
[There... it is even between them now. Though she immediately opens her mouth to tell him not to pour such positive tripe about keeping their chins up at her hooves... No, perhaps, she is just assuming. These lands are vast, the population far more than even her whole province. So first-]
Are you newly spirited away, or have you resided her long?
!!! i miss kyoto... kansai superiority tbqh
Why tie herself down to those rules at all? If they call you a beast, be a beast. Tear every single detractor to pieces and preserve your honor. Enlightenment is a state of mind, taken and not given.
For now, he takes her thorns and lets them prick. He likes the way the barbs feel, familiar and easy to digest. ]
Hm? Oh, quite new, quite new. An embarrassing predicament, to be sure, not knowing my right from my left.
[ Spreading his hands, then patting dirt off of them in a show of theatrical meekness. He's gigantic for a human, so this act may or may not land. ]
Though I've heard plenty from the others about the difficulties we face, and the helplessness with which we're forced to accept them. How troublesome, how troublesome...
sorry new event eating me BUT KANSAI RULES ur so smart...
I see.
[Difficulties. Helplessness.]
Then I will leave time to be the one to show you how foolish it is to tell me that we will keep our chins up. I was taken to a world called Horos for months, and it has been moons since I was ripped to this one.
[Her fingers are tight on her bow.]
We move forward. There is little point to wasting the effort to do so cheerfully.
npnp!! def open to handwaving this for your poor inbox's sake, if you need...! 🙏
[ A low, insouciant laugh. The near-exaggeratedly exuberant way he presents himself clouds for a hairline fracture of a moment, making way for a mercurial blankness that sits just under the surface of his careless geniality.
Almost like nothing really matters to him, one way or the other. ]
How right you are! We whistle through one hell to the next, holding broken hands with strangers until we've no fingers left.
[ His voice is a pleasant drawl; arms open, as if appealing to an invisible crowd. ]
No quarter, no solace. What point is there in hoping, when the terms of our contract here are written in despair?
Yet still, I find that I'm compelled to laugh through it all. A farce, all of this!
hayame is a conversationally constipated loser, so I think we can wrap hereish???
She'll take it.]
I will not be laughing.
[She should be asking questions. She could be finding out more about the world he had come from, that might be enough like her world that it provided some comfort... but to do so also risked finding out that it was not so, that some superficial similarities were all there was...
And she did not wish to take that. Which left only-]
If you will be doing so, though, do it quietly.
[She begins to turn back to the path her hooves have worn in the grass, looking back over her shoulder.]
I have practice to finish.