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Prompt #2: Bargain

“Frumentarius.” The word rang out like the echo of a gunshot, deafening as it were -- yet nothing he was unaccustomed to. It had been fifteen long years since he had formally completed his state-mandated tutelage under the finest Garlemald had to offer, working himself into pieces night after night, simply to wrap his mind around the virtues of Imperial philosophy, and more importantly, the dynamic of master and slave; a principle oftentimes applied to the far-off provinces that fell beneath Garlean hegemony, and his homeland was no exception to this rule. Yet the conquered had a propensity towards unruliness, history had proven that much, and he knew the educational investment placed into him was a debt that would be called back in full. An astute mind had earned him his place outside of Doma; his affinity for the academic disciplines secured him a career in the foreign intelligence of the Empire where his talent might’ve been put to good use serving Imperial interest within his homeland of Othard.

“Frumentarius!” It came again; that echo, unwelcome as it was, harsh enough to shatter glass. And with it the nostalgia of yesteryear, a time past where he had been subject to grueling training, the contemptuous bark of hateful instructors deriding and demeaning. Hammering the martial discipline expected of any leal subject of the Empire into their very bones, he was but a single face amongst several dozen, all bound for the same fate as he. Ten long years since he had set foot on frigid Ilsabard since he had said his farewells to Garlemald, that had become his home away from home. His departure for Othard had come alongside two other Frumentarii, graduates of the very same class, and native Domans all. The shadow of the Empire, as supernal and far-reaching as it was, was not a creature maintained by majesty alone. It required caretakers, those who would tend to its needs, pruning away the sick branches to ensure that the disease wouldn’t spread beyond its furthest boughs.

The Decurio’s lips had parted to speak again, though there would be no need for it. Genjiro rose to his feet, abandoning his knelt position however reluctantly to stow away the banded chain of wooden beads into his sleeve. Hues of a soft amber leveling squarely upon the soldier as he whipped around to face him. “It’s time.” The youth spat out; despite his rank, he could’ve been no older than twenty-two, yet it was often talent that carried one through the ladder of Garlean hierarchy, and this couldn’t have been truer of the Imperial Prince’s own XIIth legion where strength and callousness were lauded above all else. Genjiro offered no acknowledgment, weaving past the officer to make his way out the door and into the blistering heat of the Othardian summer. Imperial reprisal had been swift in extinguishing the fires of Doman liberty. Zenos yae Galvus brought his sword to the neck of the rebel cause in the form of the XIIth, stamping out the local resistance with impunity. And what had become of her people in the wake of subjugation was a pitiful thing to behold; broken spirits and shattered wills were all that remained, save for the few who still reared their ugly heads in defiance of the Empire. And it was those insurrectionists that gave purpose to his station in Doma.

Namai had been cowed into an artificial lull of quiet, her citizens gathered around to spectate the ongoings. Where sympathy might’ve presented itself in the past, there was only weariness; an unwillingness to so much as lift a finger out of fear for their own livelihoods. Three faces had been lined up in the center of the village; all familiar, all frantic and all belonging to members of the Liberation Front. It was his enterprise to know who was who, what they believed and whether or not they would act on that belief. He had even spent time himself amongst the rank-and-file of the Front and they were none the wiser to the fact that the enemy had abused their hospitality to make himself at home in their very camp. Though he hadn’t enough time to garner trust that might’ve opened the doors of the House of the Fierce to him, bloodshed would be enough to appease his masters for a time. At the Frumentarius’ approach, the ruliness of the prisoners quickly escalated, a scene of tumult overtaking the crowd as they spat every manner of venom at their countryman. Traitor, snake, rat, and perhaps gravest of them all, coward and craven. And yet their cries of perfidy-born-tantrum fell upon the deaf ears of a man who could care less for the opinions of savages; who were once his people, no longer so, they now held a place little above the beasts of the field. They were beneath him.

With a gesture as simple as a wave of the hand, their fates were sealed. And with that, defiance became pleading for some; cries of mercy, bargaining for their lives, where others upheld the front of apathy, stony-faced and taciturn in the face of their oncoming demise. Urged to their feet by the hateful, grasping hands of Imperial rank-and-file, their destination was the nearby wall of a home. Eir Metius simply looked on with contempt; a coward he was not, not in his mind, but what credence was there in the sniveling of frightened animals teetering on the cusp of death? He hadn’t need concern himself, and if anything, he took joy in seeing the tables turn so quickly, those who spat accusations of cowardice themselves groveling now that the heel of their Imperial hegemon’s had found the back of their necks. The Decurio took to the Doman’s side, seeking affirmation in the form of a harrumph. All the response he could muster was a nod, looking on in glee as the order was given.

The soldiers took their positions, and what followed was the thunderous fanfare of Garlean firearms snuffing out the pleading cries of rebels and traitors; all in perfect unison, the echo of death carried through the valley on a gust of wind. Women struggled to contain their sorrow, children staring on in confusion, and all Eir Metius could muster for the fallen was a smug grin, all too satisfied with himself. “Frumentarius.” There it was again, that word, uttered by the same lips as before with their all-too-characteristic militant inflexibility. Stirred from his silent exultation, they took their leave in short order, their leavings of blood splatter and corpses a parting gift to the people of Namai. A gift they would surely know again, but for now, they were left in peace, if it could even be called that. Fear, more like, come to sow the seeds of hopelessness, and that it did. Such a pitiful contrast to joy, he thought, but such was the price of betrayal, a price he himself would come to know in due time.

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

[genjiro-xiv]

Public Calendar for Uranami Onsen for the Month of Sept/Early Oct. ALL TIMES ARE PACIFIC 

Note: We will be having Early Bird Hours every 1st of the month starting October. Our first Early Bird, however; will be Sept. 21st.

[genjiro-xiv]

Commission of Genjiro by @zirouu - his page can be found here

Extremely pleased with how this turned out.

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More dumb stuff.

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FULL ALBUM CAN BE FOUND HERE: https://imgur.com/a/nmq4t1G Photos by: Fox, Ganbold, Kiki, Moshi, Yosei, Vinis

[genjiro-xiv]

Nishimuraya Yohachi, Eagle on a Pine Branch in the Rain, 1780s.

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Kawanabe Kyōsai (1831–1889), 
 1. Crow and Willow Tree 柳に鴉図. 
 2. Crow on a Branch 木に鴉図. 
 3. Crow on a Rock 岩に鴉図. 
 4. Crow Flying in the Snow 雪中鴉図. 5. Crow and the Moon 月に鴉図. 6. Crow on a Bamboo Branch 竹に鴉図. 7. Crow and Reeds by a Stream 水辺に鴉図. 8. Two Crows on a Pine Branch 松に鴉図

[genjiro-xiv]

Prompt #1: Voracious

Satisfaction was the disposition of many. Contentment, were it hard-earned, or simply yielding to one’s circumstances, and yet it was something he was a stranger to. Not once in his years had he ever known her solace. But how does one yearn for something wholly unfamiliar to themselves, whose touch had never graced them? No; a creature of appetite, through and through. It had always been ambition that drove him, a ubiquitous want to reach for the stars, capture their incandescence in his own hands. But how can one with clipped wings ever hope to reach so high? His dreams of glory and splendor had become naught but afterthoughts. Time and circumstance alike had broken him, subdued that fiery passion that only embers continued to smolder in the wake of his ill fortune.

Where an indomitable will once reared its head, a perverse hunger seeped in through the cracks to assume its stead. The tomb of his hope became a monument to the basest inclinations; a mausoleum built of vice, brick by brick, mortared by debauchery to conceal what was and could have been. A grave of his own, one that did not stop at snuffing out his appetite for grandeur, but dragged him kicking and screaming into the cold succor of its embrace. And within that cold, dark place was he splintered into a thousand tiny pieces. Broken down and forged anew into little more than a shadow. Stripped of everything that made him who he was, how could the thing that remained rightfully be called a man?

No man, but a husk; a façade whose laughter carried the echo of desolation, whose eyes betrayed lethargy behind their veil of geniality, and whose thoughts and desires dwelt always in the realm of craving. He sought to shroud the exhaustion through a guise of drunken lechery, to fill the void of ambition with pleasures of worldly making, to wear his smile like a mask in the hope that none might see past into the nihility his dreams had become, deaf to that craving- no, hunger, nipping away at his heels. Or perhaps he was glad to ignore it, to willfully succumb, bite after bite, piece after piece ripped away until the day came where there would be nothing left for his anguish to claim, utterly devoured by the beast of his own making, a creature as voracious as it was whose insatiability knew no equal.

He awoke to a reality beyond his thoughts, lids stirred from their restless slumber by the cruel patter of torrential rain bearing down upon a window. He shot up in his bed, hands instinctively seeking out steel, only to find none, nor any cause for it but a racing heart. The turmoil nature had brought to bear mirrored that of his mind; of the cold sweat that caused his sheets to cling to his body like a second skin, that stirred the pounding of his chest to greater heights. No different from any other night, like clockwork, it had become the signal of a new day. Oblivion had yet to claim him, for better or for worse? He himself did not know, and so his routine began anew, a spin of liquor to celebrate the dawn of another day, the first of many token offerings to stave back the pangs of hunger, knowing full well it would never be satisfied with anything short of his soul.

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast