A TRAIN COMES INTO THE STATION.
You wake up on a train.
Your phone is buzzing. It's in your pocket, in your hand, on the seat next to you. It's a normal phone, and you're on a normal train car. One of the lights flickers, a little further down. The world is very quiet. It feels like you're right where you're meant to be. On the phone's surface is a white screen and the words—
WELCOME TO THE CITY. BEGIN ORIENTATION?
▶ NO
Please take a moment to complete your orientation.
Once you're finished, the subway doors slide open to let you out onto the train platform. To your right, the platform continues on and eventually ends; to the left is a set of stairs that will lead you up into the station itself. The platform is quiet, clean, empty—there's no one else around, and the only sounds you can hear are your own footsteps, your own breaths, and the occasional faraway sound of a creaking pipe or rush of air. The train you disembarked will stay there as long as you do, its doors still open, until you finally decide to venture up into this new locale.
As you make your way up the stairs to your left, you find yourself in the belly of City Hall station. The station is large, a sprawling underground mini-metropolis of corridors and storefronts. Here, you may find others like you, freshly-arrived city residents from other realms (or even your own). There is also a subway map, which will give you an idea of the layout of the neighborhood, and ticketing machines, which can currently only be used to buy tickets to a handful of stations located on lines 1, 2, and 9.
If you're hungry or in need of any kind of supplies, there are plenty of storefronts inside the subway station as well—snack stands, convenience stores, restaurants, clothing stores, a pharmacy, and a variety of empty shops that may or may not have ever been in use. Everything is unlocked, and you can take whatever you need.
Characters may stay on the train platform indefinitely, and may re-board and re-disembark from the subway as many times as they like, but the train will not depart nor will the doors close. Once they go up the stairs into the train station, they may hear the train doors closing and the train departing. Another train will not arrive, no matter how long the character waits. Only once they come up the stairs into the station itself may characters encounter their fellow newly-arrived residents and take advantage of what the city has to offer.
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WELCOME TO THE NEIGHBORHOOD.
The station is located in the city center. It has three major exits that lead to areas of interest in the district, but there are several other smaller exits that lead in other directions around the neighborhood. You are welcome to use any of them, but may find the north, southwest, and east exits to be the most welcoming.
TO THE NORTH
The northern entrance to the station leads up into the sunlight and puts you out in a brickwork plaza. There's a modest building in front of you, three or four stories of stone with a welcoming facade. There's a sign above the entryway—it says City Hall. You may be tempted to explore, if you're interested in learning more about the city and how it functions, but prepare to find yourself disappointed—the folders in the records rooms are full of empty, blank sheets of paper, and the logbooks and balance sheets are similarly devoid of information.
Immediately to the southwest of City Hall, you will find a small building that houses the tourist information kiosk. It looks welcoming, with an inviting glass facade and a sign above the entryway announcing it as the "TOURIST CENTER." It's a humble building with a receptionist's desk on the back wall opposite the entrance, empty magazine shelves lining the side walls, and a few spinning brochure racks full of blank pamphlets. Anyone is welcome to peruse the tourist literature, though they won't offer much information, being primarily filled with pictures of the surrounding area—City Hall, the park, a statue garden, and the surprisingly heavily-featured cemetery. There are a few sentences sprinkled throughout about basic offerings of the city, such as apartment complexes and office buildings, as well as a few maps with the same limited scope as the larger version on the wall behind the receptionist's desk.
The main feature of the tourist center is the interactive kiosk installed dead in the center, right in the middle of a few rows of uncomfortable chairs that fill the small room. It's noticeably in the way of any would-be foot traffic through the tourist center, and something about the technology seems a little more modern than the computer behind the desk or the landline phone on the wall. The kiosk is a tall silver rectangle, about average adult height, and the upper half is a screen welcoming visitors to touch it to activate the kiosk. If you were to touch it, the screen would come to life with simple dialogue inviting visitors to ask it their questions.
However, residents should note that the kiosk is only programmed to assist with exploration within the available areas of the city. It may not be able to answer every question, and tampering with the kiosk may result in unreliable or inaccurate answers!
TO THE SOUTHWEST
The western exit of the station takes you up into a city park, lush and green with a very light fog still hanging about the trees. There are lampposts on the walkways and benches where you could rest, and plenty of flora, although you can neither see nor hear any signs of animal life. You walk the paths that meander idly through the verdant grass and you feel a sense of peace, some of your unease about this place easing into a pleasant calm. The air smells fresh, like it's recently rained, and you'll find the grass ever so slightly damp should you decide to take a seat.
As you make your way deeper into the park, the trees grow denser and the smell of soil and plant life grows stronger. This is the older part of the park, very nearly a forest, with ivy climbing the trunks of the trees and plants and shrubs growing riotously around their bases. As you turn a corner, you find yourself first in the statue garden, although the statues are harder to see now, choked as they are with ivy. There are many statues, some partially obscured, some fully—very few of them still stand free of the vines and clinging roots. (It doesn't feel quite as peaceful here.) If a statue's face looks a little bit familiar, you may not want to look at it too long.
Continue down the path and you will find yourself in a graveyard, one that seems centuries old. Most of the headstones are worn away by time and covered in moss, rendering them impossible to read. The few that are free of moss are blank, or bear only suggestions of names too faint to be understood. (Was that the name of—no, it couldn't have been. Could it?) Many of the headstones stand at an angle or are toppled over completely, having been subjected to either strong winds or the roots of the trees that grow up from some of the graves, spreading branches toward the sky.
TO THE EAST
The final exit of the station, to the east, puts you out on a quiet surface street. Are you hungry? Or are you paralyzed by choice? There are plenty of restaurants, offering options of almost any food you can imagine. You could try a convenience store—it's well stocked, and the items there seem free for the taking. How about a restaurant? There's no one to take your order, but when you look in the kitchen, there's something on the stove, and it's just what you've been craving. Imagine that.
A few blocks down, you come in through the lobby of a tall building and find yourself in a corporate office. The fluorescent lights are steady and unforgiving, and the cubicles and offices are empty. There are a few pieces of paper on desks, a few folders left in organizers, but everything is perfectly blank. Despite how empty and quiet the office is, it nonetheless gives you the feeling that just a few minutes ago, this place was bustling with workers going about their daily business.
You enter another building and find yourself in the lobby of an apartment complex—finally, a place to rest. The first door you try opens easily into a completely empty living room, freshly vacuumed but without a single piece of furniture. It's a nice apartment, quiet, but with a little too much echo for your taste, maybe. Still, and perhaps oddly, you have no trouble envisioning what life here would be like.
The second door you open leads to an apartment that feels lived-in. Why does it feel lived-in? It's fully furnished with items that seem to go together perfectly, true, but the feeling is more than that—the room feels like someone was just here, maybe standing right in the kitchen only moments before you swung the door open. The air is a perfectly comfortable temperature, and it somehow smells like home despite that you've never once set foot here before. The refrigerator is stocked, and the cabinets are full of spices and flatware and kitchen utensils.
As you look around the living room, you find that there are pictures in frames on the walls and some of the flat surfaces—a seascape, a field, a shot of a city park bench. In each of the photos there's something just slightly wrong with the angle, as though the photographer were aiming for a subject that can no longer be seen.
Characters are welcome to explore the district around the City Hall subway station to their heart's content. The City Hall building itself contains several floors of offices and file rooms, but none of them contain any particularly interesting information. Nonetheless, characters may wish to team up with other newcomers and try to find some hints about the nature of the city. They can also spend a while in the park, the statue garden, or the graveyard. In the blocks surrounding the station there are plenty of options for food and housing, as well as office buildings, storefronts, and alleyways to look around. There are no workers in any of the buildings, and there does not seem to be an honor system for payment, nor any consequences for taking food from the stores or setting up camp in an apartment or office building.
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I SCREAM, YOU SCREAM.
Have you ever visited the ice cream parlor located in District 2? It's a pretty quirky little joint!
When you walk in, what you'll likely notice first is the colors. Everything is bright, almost oversaturated—the pink of the leather seats, the teal of the walls, the red of the menu sign hanging over the counter. By all rights it seems like these colors shouldn't go together, but somehow they do, or maybe that's just because being in an ice cream parlor puts you in a good mood. It smells like waffle cones, and overhead, there's music pumping through the speakers at just the right volume, providing some nice background noise to your decision-making process.
Wait, music?
There's a jukebox at the far end of the shop, which seems to be where the music is being chosen. As you head over, the song comes to an end and the jukebox machinery shuffles through its options before landing on a new one. The song sounds sort of familiar, doesn't it? And the longer you listen, the more the lyrics really seem to speak to you. It costs money to pick your own song, so if you happen to have some coins on you—or if you're really, really determined—you can choose the next round of tunes.
When you're done at the jukebox, you can go check out the serving area of the shop. Behind the counter you can see milkshake mixers and waffle cone makers; there are ice cream cakes in the freezers that line the wall; and when you approach the main counter you can see the tubs of ice cream in almost any flavor you can imagine.
Pick a flavor, whichever one's your favorite! Do you want it in a cone or in a bowl? There are regular cones and waffle cones, and all kinds of toppings—sprinkles, syrups, gummy candy, mini marshmallows. Decorate your ice cream however you want, the sky's the limit when it comes to choices! You can even come back for seconds if you want, or thirds. Who's going to say anything about it, after all?
But the more of your ice cream you eat, the more you start to feel… strange. Maybe you're starting to get angry, or sad, or giddy—maybe you feel romantic, or feel like you want to tell a secret to a stranger, and you're not really sure why. You also can't quite seem to stop eating your ice cream, and the more you eat, the less worried you feel about whatever's happening to your emotions. After all, why be concerned about that when you have something so delicious in front of you?
| Flavor |
Effect |
| Strawberry |
You find yourself compelled to seek out strangers and tell them a hidden truth about yourself |
| Rocky Road |
You find yourself compelled to seek out strangers and convince them of some egregious lie |
| Vanilla |
You are overwhelmed by a sense of total calm, and can only speak in aphorisms and platitudes |
| Rainbow Sherbert |
You are overwhelmed by amorous feelings towards whoever is near you and try to cuddle or kiss them |
| Chocolate |
You feel suddenly morose about something in your past and cannot stop crying until someone consoles you |
| Bubblegum |
You become uncontrollably giggly and giddy, and can only speak in rhyme |
| Caramel Ribbon |
You become angry and perhaps even violent, trying to attack anyone who comes near |
| Mint Chocolate Chip |
You suddenly have a common but exaggerated phobia (for example, a fear of heights where the step down off the curb is too much) |
When characters first enter the ice cream parlor, they may notice that there's music playing overhead! That's from the jukebox, and the lyrics of the song may sound like they're particularly apt for a character's circumstances. Players are welcome to choose their own jukebox songs for their characters—it doesn't need to have appeared in canon, but characters from modern times are welcome to recognize the music being played. (Players can also feel free not to pick a real song at all, and instead just describe the overall sound of the song and content of the lyrics!)
This is an ice cream parlor, so of course there's also ice cream to be had. Characters can serve themselves whatever flavor combination they want, but shortly thereafter will find themselves suffering certain emotional effects depending on what flavors they chose. These emotional effects, shown above, will last for roughly an hour before slowly dissipating, and their intensity depends on how much ice cream the character ate and whether they were able to recognize what was happening and stop eating. Not every flavor has an emotional effect, so players can also choose to have their character eat a normal scoop and go about their day.
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WILDCARD.
The city is by no means small, and there are plenty of things for you to see. There's no rush in exploring, so feel free to take your time looking around and peering into various nooks and crannies and alleyways—and don't worry, you're not very likely to find anything peering back.
If none of the above prompts appeal, feel free to check out the Locations and Maps pages and write your own freestyle prompt using one or many of the available locations.
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citycenter) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
citylogs2023-08-02 12:00 am
rubs my grubby hands like a fly
I’ll do the same. Hand-to-hand isn’t my usual style, so I’m a little rusty.
[ Truly tragic that he can’t use any of his preferred abilities. Just as well—he may a swordsman but he can make concessions when necessary. Even so, regret bubbles in his heart when he watches the other man drops into position. Danger spikes, an astringent flavor that saturates the daemon’s mouth in saliva, excitement needling into a thin vibration along the map of his veins.
Really regrettable.
Exhaling, he falls into position. Spine straight, feet spread, one forearm forward and the other braced low. Positions all rooted in kenjutsu—old memories stir, rustling of the since ingrained building blocks of self-discipline and strength. Never the genius, he had spent years carving every motion into bone.
Concentration: smell of the earth, shift of the air, the rhythm of breathing. The weight of his gaze. Rokurou slides a heel and turns sharply to block the first strike and then pull away from the second, letting out a short laugh at the knife swinging toward his side. ]
Ah, I want one too!
[ The tip of the blade cuts a small gap in his underclothes, drawing a red line along the tanned flesh beneath. The daemon’s eyebrow doesn’t even twitch as he skips back, relying on footwork to make up for what his style lacks in aggression. His family’s hand-to-hand training as a precursor to the sword lies more in defensive stances but footwork is paramount regardless.
That doesn’t stop him from striking forward, viper precision as he aims to strike one of the other man’s vital acupuncture points: lower conception vessel. A point around an inch beneath the navel, which has Rokurou daggering his arm forward and low in direct opposition.
Risky against someone clearly better versed in hand-to-hand? Yes. But that’s never stopped him before.
Regardless of whether or not he manages to strike that point, when he’s close enough, he inhales deeply trying to catch a thread of the man’s natural scent. ]
no subject
[ blood blooms because he's holding both the daemon's wrist and the knife in his hand, squeezing the blade down so that it cuts into the top muscle ribbing his forearm. Rokurou's own pressure determines how deep it cuts: reach for him, bleed more. with them at a still, dark eyes flicker over the proximity of his face, of his animal sense. he smiles. ]
There were better ways to do that. [ even so, he doesn't look offended, lips curled like they're on the rim of a laugh — one that would match his scent, rich and husky. earthy, with his recent training in the clearing, spiced with masculinity and split with sweat. perhaps the daemon's keen nose will detect death like a shroud cloying him: dried old blood past expiration still in his veins. the thick cloy of ceremonial incense that's probably been embedded in him since before even that. religious sobriety. ]
[ still, Rokuoru has two hands where he only has one, and this moment won't last forever. he forces them apart by raising a leg, pulling that sword-arm forward so his body is yanked into the sole aimed right at his gut. the knife is lost in the process, slipping from his grip, struck in the earth silver-first. an unimportant loss for the sake of space — or so it would seem. subterfuge: between the swordplay stances and the wishing he had a blade, he's testing a theory, tempting Rokurou to go for it. just how much does he wish he had one? ]
Tell me your name, [ so Getou demands as he licks blood not his own from the webbing between thumb and pointer finger, hooded eyes luring him forward for another attack. ]
no subject
Between reaching for what he wants and pulling away, he will always reach. The blade cuts deeper with his forward force toward the other man, beads of brilliant red curving to paint alongside green veining beneath tanned skin. Not an eyebrow twitch or grit of teeth; the clearest mark of his feeling it at all is the enthralled flush that runs along his throat. Beneath a thick cut of dark hair his red eye gleams, prey drive triggered with the man's show of skill.
He takes the slam of knee to his gut. That does make him grunt, but the hit is not without comeuppance. His free arm loops beneath to catch that knee and hold up against himself, solid body creating a snare over the man's thigh. ]
Rokurou—[ sliding a foot for stability, he digs the hand that had yanked forward against Getou's side before slamming his heel into the earth; both of their body weights shift as Rokurou hits his shoulder into that strong chest, trying to throw him down toward the earth, ]—Rangetsu.
[ Ideal if he can make him go flat down, but Rokurou doesn't expect a skilled man to fall so easily. Regardless, he slides back, disregarding the knife in favor of putting a few inches of distance between them. Not that the blade is forgotten—he glances at it from time to time like a dog that knows you've put something it wants within reach. Playing innocent before going for broke.
He raises his arm to judge the wound. Not shallow, but it won't scar. After assessing, the daemon lifts his elbow to lick along the cut, directly meeting the other man's lidded gaze as his tongue flicks upward. There's a moment of thought before he drops that arm and he questions, ]
Exorcist?
[ Before he falls back into a new stance. That scent—had felt familiar. Hints of earth strike nostalgia. Fresh sweat, a rich aroma. The incense, however, still tickles in Rokurou's nose. A nasty blight on an otherwise delicious spice. He does not wait for an answer before surging forward again, light as a sparrow on his feet as he cuts round the grass to go for an upper kick at the side. ]
no subject
[ the arc of a backflip through the air is a graceful sweep, landing him solidly in nearby grass. he watches the display while he can still feel the tang of iron on his own tongue, and it snakecharm-swivels with interest; the inner rim of his bottom lip is still red, he realizes as he detects more flavor there. the guess is a good one, and for that, he lets Rokurou drawn him in close. the sounds of meat against meat, packing and beating, are barely louder than his calm words as he strikes, dodges, parries, speaks: ]
Formerly.
[ what he is now is a much more complicated thing. the exorcising still happens, but only incidentally — and he doesn't have the energy signature of love and light, healing and protection. no, it's dark — consumptive and greedy, swirling and twisting, a sick spiral that starts deep in his core. ]
Curse eater, [ he says instead, his style switching up again for a brutal-boxed undercut, intent to return the notion: to throw him back, down him on the ground, step on his chest as a point of pride... but to feign ignorance at the proximity of where Rokurou's landed to the knife, right at the tips of his fingers. ]
Getou Suguru.
no subject
Formerly, the man intones, and the daemon cocks his head in that next parry. ]
That's fine then.
[ Curse eater is an epitaph that he has less context for. It could be a boast, something a strong man decided to call himself after winning so many battles, but with that whiff of malice still lingering ... Rokurou does not think it is quite that simple. For it to be literal, though, his experience only involves daemons that devour other daemons. Would they really be human if they could?
Nothing to think about now. No room for contemplation in the thrall of battle—the man cuts down and Rokurou turns, hitting his elbow down to make hard contact before falling back against that force. True enough, hand to hand combat is not his specialty; his back hits the earth and a tall figure darkens over him, shadowed against a blocked backdrop of sun. A foot hits the center of his chest, and one of Rokurou's hands grabs his ankle out of habit. Where have these feet been? Don't dirty his clothes with that, sir.
The knife is within tantalizing reach. They both know it—Rokurou is not dull enough to think that this Getou hadn't noticed. Mutual knowledge does not stop him from reaching for the hilt—a simple steak knife, how times have changed—and deftly flick the tool between his fingers. Such a lackluster blade that it does not even glint in the light with that motion.
Rokurou smiles up at the other man, cheek flushed. Dark hair falls away from his face; the right side is still covered by bang but the blotting along his jaw and throat are more pronounced without layers of hair in the way. ]
H'ohhh, that was fun! [ a good round; he may not prefer hand to hand combat but there is something about it that hits the spot. ] I knew you'd be good.
[ His grip tightens around Getou's ankle before he swings the knife in without hesitation. Rokurou is a petty man, and repaying what is owed is a family creed. The slice dug into his arm has stopped bleeding but the streak remains, slower healing than he is used to, reminding him that it is only fair to exchange a pound of flesh during a spar.
If Getou doesn't manage to yank away from him, the daemon will plunge that blade right into calf. Not through, just deep enough to mirror what he was given earlier (blatantly ignoring, of course, that he had pushed through that strike himself in a stubborn move). All done with that same happy smile—this man truly does not care about hacking into someone else, even during a training session. ]
no subject
[ this man beneath him, with all of his attention drawn to one intense focal point of gold, feels split down the middle by something unseen, but gravitational. the swirl of it draws him in, and he can just make out how curse energy is redistributed in a jagged, broken way before reaching a smooth, swirling epicenter — and how strange to see it maintain its location here, instead of the usual chakral meridians and spinal system. there's something special about it... ]
[ and for all the lack there is to do (and all the violence he hasn't tasted in just a little too long), his interest fixes on it with receptive curiosity— ]
[ the knife is sharp enough to cut instead of tear, separating the layer of his sweatpants and splitting skin enough that he feels warmth seeping down his leg, stickier than the humidity of the gleaning sweat dappling his own skin. he tilts his head in consideration, but his dark eyes stay so very still, keeping the daemon fully in his scope, lenses widening into a close-up. he is receptive to praise and empathetic to the weak — so long as they aren't fucking monkeys — and their sense of justice. ]
Thank you. I also feel it wasn't a complete waste of time. [ he doesn't move, balanced patiently with just enough pressure of his toes on the man's sternum. Rokurou might count himself lucky in that his shoes look less than days old, primarily dirtied by the soil of his hike getting here. without the presence of the simian like in this city, things become much more sanitary, don't they? ] Please remove the knife. I'll let you invite me out for a drink.
[ full of himself, isn't he? maybe a tickle at the back of Rokurou's neck knows why, the ancient way every animal can feel when it's being watched. ]
no subject
[ Gripping the handle, he does as requested and yanks the knife free from where it had sunken into flesh. The construction of the blade is poor. With just that gesture, he can feel the shift of metal in plastic, not meant to endure more than cutting into a few inches of meat. Regardless, desperation is king. The daemon tucks the knife between his teeth while shoving Suguru's ankle away from his chest. Even beneath another predatory gaze he is bold and proud, unwilling to remain stepped on. It would be a different situation were this Getou Suguru a beautiful woman, but he is not. Guys don't get to freely step on him.
He rolls over in one graceful, fluid motion, returning to his feet. There is no lag or twitch of pain from the manhandling, as if he hadn't been touched at all. It naturally exists, a pang here and an ache there, but he has long grown accustomed to feeling nothing while feeling everything. The natural state of a yaksha.
Pink flashes along the dull edge of the blade. His tongue lashes up to catch the sheen of slick blood, smearing red into the gaps between sharp teeth. ]
Generous of you, [ if he doesn't sound feverishly enthralled at such an honor, it is because he is not—but he is dryly amused at that loftiness, ] but I don't know where to invite you to. I arrived here just today.
[ The shitty little steak knife is slid into his belt once licked clean. His contrary nature demands he set off here and now since he has gotten what he wanted, but the call of a drink is even stronger. Where can they go in a city like this, where there is such a small number of people? Even if there is a bar what are the odds that it will have a bartender? Variable, variable, variable.
Knowing no fear, the daemon approaches the other man. A small bird approaching a hawk, hopping around its feet, he openly studies Suguru from toe to head. There is no particular reason for the scrutiny, just continued vague interest. ]
I think you're older than me.
no subject
[ he can probably figure out how to contact him online — eventually. or they can chance it to random occurrence again, Getou's not too pressed about the issue. small city. small sliver of a small city. corners get retread, less sharp. a bit like that knife there, this place is a shoddy construct reflecting a world he may have one day created, but not enough to satisfy. not enough to quell violence. ]
[ he isn't. not really. the dark energy in him still hungers and haunts, beasts that want to howl and chew. the only thing here in an amuse-bouche. ]
Even so, I'd prefer you didn't call me "uncle". [ and yet to posit it with a tone that swings playful, eyes closing as he smiles, teeth sitting prim behind his stretched lips. vulpine. kindness beneath the transparency of fine silk. naturally straight-backed and broad, a bulkiness swathed in that t-shirt a few sizes too big for him, he weathers a second study with courteous patience, indifferent to what's sought and found both. ]
Is it my turn to make an observation? [ this time, his head swirls with Rokurou's turn, twisting with him on that invisible pedestal. his calf oozes with a step. ] You're something more than human.
no subject
[ A difficult man to read. Rokurou decides this after a long moment of plainly studying Suguru’s face, estimation based on familiarity’s itch. But this estimation is not enough to satiate his appetite—when it comes to someone powerful, he cannot deny the hunger for more. Knowledge, time, attention. It would feel good to monopolize someone like this.
In some ways he has been blessed with coming to the city; what more can a man like him ask for than the chance to find opponents stronger than him? He may not be able to devour this Getou Suguru now, but he will. Train harder. That’s all he has to do. It does not matter if it takes five years, ten years, or thirty years.
Since it does not look like Getou is going to offer showing him a place, Rokurou purses his lips furrows his brow. The picture of a cute, aggrieved junior. ]
C‘mon, you won’t show me someplace? You’re my senior, [ see, not uncle—not that he expects the age difference between them is significant, ] don’t keep quiet on where the good drinks are. Or better, if you know where to get candied sweet potatoes.
[ He smiles, generous laugh lines at the corner of his human eye creasing. The friendliness of a golden retriever to hide his wolf face and tail. ]
no subject
[ he knows much of wearing two different skins, and switching between them when necessary. he lead a religious cult, after all. ]
You're very comfortable asking for what you want, aren't you? [ a harmless question, judging from the playful, knowing look he flashes before turning back, stepping through long grasses to fetch the water bottle and phone he previously left behind. if he has any concerns of qualms about turning his back on someone who wants to see himself as an opponent, they are not apparent. ]
[ he checks his messages. a scrawl of text makes a muscle in his cheek pull. he pockets it without answering. ]
Liquor or sweets... what a funny palate you have. [ as he 'rejoins' the man in the center clearing, he runs his fingers through his hair, freezing them of sweat in a drying summer breeze; his gaze flickers to a building overhead, where he knows his overly large bathtub in the penthouse he chose is waiting. ]
[ ... he might enjoy it more with a full belly. ]
Very well then. [ there isn't much to do in this city anyway. as he turns, a finger points: to the north east, somewhere far beyond the sight of the trees, is the city's main thoroughfare maybe a kilometer off. ] Race me to the pavement?
[ duplicitous as he is... he seems to be enjoying someone wanting to engage with his prowess. ]
no subject
[ A playful quip in return as he returns to gather his own kimono. As a man who can drink with someone one moment and then kill them in the next, the back turned toward him means very little. The mood has shifted to drink, one he slips to seamlessly, amorous thoughts of beautiful throat slitting and gutting everything beneath ribs exchanged for daydreams of sake and sweet potatoes. Wanting one's companionship and wanting to kill them do not strike him as mutually exclusive.
When straightening up, he does not miss the face Getou makes. Like biting into a lemon. The daemon immediately makes an assumption: girlfriend? With a face like that, it may be an ex-girlfriend. But he quickly puts pondering on what kind of woman could make a man like Getou Suguru pull a face aside in favor of a race. As nearly as much a lover of competition and games as sparring, delight brightens his features. ]
Yeah! [ he follows the line of Getou's finger, nodding as he marks the route, ] As long as you aren't tricking me and planning to run off in the opposite direction.
[ Lightly said with a laugh, but if that really is the gambit, he will hunt this man down. You can't hang liquor and candied sweet potatoes in front of his nose and then take them away; too cruel, too cruel, especially when he has not eaten since arriving. Even if he had considered leaving earlier sheerly to be contrary, he is invested now. ]
Want to make it more interesting? [ Rokurou takes a moment to stretch, limbering up a bit more, ] Something like ... loser has to do what the winner says for—is a day too much? Maybe an hour?
[ He tosses a stick down to act as their 'starting line' out of fairness and stands behind it, ready to take off. ]
no subject
[ but then... if he won dishonestly, would that also not bother him? perhaps not, if the swordsman has already made up his mind on where they stand... and he seems the greedy sort that would take advantage. as he lowers his center and ponders at his gut, he finally accepts the terms with a nod. ]
I'll even give you three. [ how generous. he'll have to decide if he will give him those three hours. his hand raises, far off in the distance, a street light, perpetually running their cycles and directing a city full of traffic that does not flood her streets. it's currently green, about to throw up cautions. ]
When next that light turns blue, shall we? [ not just speed, but reaction time. ]
no subject
[ He flashes a cheeky smile while tapping the ground with the tip of his foot in anticipation. Mismatched eyes glint, once again judging the distance and calculating the most direct route with consideration to bushes and trees. At the mention of the street light, his gaze flickers, nodding once he understands the way the colors work. Traffic lights are novel and unfamiliar thing he would take the time to study in interest if there were not a competition. ]
Three? Then I really have to win.
[ Edging his foot up against the line of their charming stick, he crouches sightly, ready to take off at a flash of blue. From head to toe, nothing about the swordsman suggests that he believes that he is going to lose—even if is aware that he migh be the underdog in even a footrace against this man. It's this: the sense of dragging down something colossal, clawing hands up against a concrete wall until it crumbles, trembling under his own limits with bones grinding and tissue ripping. The best feeling, even with something as inconsequential as this.
Which is why the smile across his mouth is genuine. Eyes bright, his body is a bow with limbs taut in tense string-draw—one, two, three—and a straight shot once the light turns blue.
Crunching grass. Cutting wind. An earnest race without any tricks at all, at least on his part—relishing the challenge too much, Rokurou doesn't even think about it once he goes. Every stride is thunderous applause, synapse symphony with trickling beads of sweat and rib-expanding breath. It does not matter if he loses when he skids into their agreed upon spot; he is delighted anyway, standing tall with a happy huff and mane gone wild. ]
no subject
[ he has a good summation of this man, he thinks. will he stay interesting? ]
[ at the rectangle of pavement the traffic signs bracket, a challenger sprints with their dearest efforts, trickling sweat and lactic acid. the other blinks into existence, covering the distance in a fraction of all his admiration, before those final few steps eat up the tarmac: dry, still, regulated and controlled. the only thing out of place is a few floating hairs that delay settling into gravity after the speed of his transfer. it suggests far more strength than he released during their spar. ]
[ before Rokurou can speak, he raises a finger, hushing him. time starts now. ]
Don't complain. [ he can already hear this man accusing fraud, demanding do-over. these fall outside of the promise of his loss and their agreement, and Getou challenges him to not be a man of his word with a pointed gaze. only when he proves his obedience will they move on. ]
no subject
[ The daemon brushes back an unruly lock, scarred palm swiping along temple and hairline. Déjà vu’s fingers caress his throat and ripple fine hairs along his nape as he watches dark strands settle against Getou’s shoulder. That effortless strength and unruffled skill is solid confirmation that his initial estimation had been well off the mark. The second assessment had not been right either.
A subconscious comparison. Rokurou’s killing intent spikes suddenly, ashcloud malevolence roiling with flurrying sediment throwing calm murk into frenzied malice. Laborious swallow, adam’s apple a slow roll before he exhales; the fluctuation snaps into blank nothing quickly with a yanked zipper tab. This is not the man he yearns to claw down with him—no matter how familiar that weight may be now that he’s gotten a better feel of it.
Two losses.
But who’s counting?
Lips stretch tightly over white teeth and pink gums. Head tilting, a single dark pinhead pupil needles onto Suguru’s face, carving its features and marking its differences for his own sake. Become too familiar and he may do something impulsive. ]
I’m a man of commitment. The loss is mine—I’m all yours for an hour.
[ Relaxed, he brushes off his kimono to shake off the wrinkles from his run. Being at the mercy of another’s whims is quite the comfortable fit. ]