[ that wraith would find itself sadly mistaken; there are no bodies in these graves. wise to take a witch with a grain of salt, but he hasn't had any particular desire to crack open a tomb just to find out the truth behind the rumor. no, what brings him to the cemetery is the dappled morning sunlight and the sweet, pristine peace. adjacent to statues whose eyes follow anything that moves and the curdling fear of death's curling finger are enough to steer away most wanderers. ]
[ ironic that finds himself spending so much time in one now that he's dead — buried or not. when he tires of the cityscape from out the window of his penthouse, the forested break in the city's lifeless grey is a welcome reprieve. maybe it doesn't have a single animal to fill the air with song, but like this, Suguru can hear the beating of his heart, the throb of his breath, the whorl of his curse energy. acclimating to a life with one less limb and a fifth his normal wellspring of energy has been slow-going, to say the least. ]
[ balance steadies when he hears the presence he's been feeling finally speak. the adjusted kata he was working his way through falls, muscles drifting out of suspension; his remaining left hand brushes back a fringe that had just begun to stick to his brow. for a moment, there's a breath of impatience, a fleeting tic of interruption. it would not be so had he not been caught in such a telling position. ]
One of which? [ instead: a smile, slatting narrow eyes closed. a bead of sweat clears the hollow of his throat and spreads out in the seam of his collar. the greeting isn't returned by anything other than that inscrutable smile and a rake of his eyes over the daemon's form, a quick assessing. he smells like blood and his energy feels like a sick miasma, rolling off of him like industrial smog, dark and dense. this, they have in common. ]
[ Rokurou — he's found something all right: inside of this one-armed man, a thousand individual mutinies for release. ]
ii
[ ironic that finds himself spending so much time in one now that he's dead — buried or not. when he tires of the cityscape from out the window of his penthouse, the forested break in the city's lifeless grey is a welcome reprieve. maybe it doesn't have a single animal to fill the air with song, but like this, Suguru can hear the beating of his heart, the throb of his breath, the whorl of his curse energy. acclimating to a life with one less limb and a fifth his normal wellspring of energy has been slow-going, to say the least. ]
[ balance steadies when he hears the presence he's been feeling finally speak. the adjusted kata he was working his way through falls, muscles drifting out of suspension; his remaining left hand brushes back a fringe that had just begun to stick to his brow. for a moment, there's a breath of impatience, a fleeting tic of interruption. it would not be so had he not been caught in such a telling position. ]
One of which? [ instead: a smile, slatting narrow eyes closed. a bead of sweat clears the hollow of his throat and spreads out in the seam of his collar. the greeting isn't returned by anything other than that inscrutable smile and a rake of his eyes over the daemon's form, a quick assessing. he smells like blood and his energy feels like a sick miasma, rolling off of him like industrial smog, dark and dense. this, they have in common. ]
[ Rokurou — he's found something all right: inside of this one-armed man, a thousand individual mutinies for release. ]