#from now on my life is cleaved in twain

[sihaya74]

NEW The Lessons of Bryan Fuller's Hannibal S1:E3 -- THE GOOD SHIP WOLF TRAP

Lessons of Bryan Fuller’s Hannibal

S1:E3 – THE GOOD SHIP WOLF TRAP

As metaphors go, boats are fabulous vessels of meaning. If you think about it, boats are one of humankind’s greatest inventions. From the humblest rowboat to those massive cruise ships the size of small cities, the fact that humans, who are inherently sinkable, found a way to float on the surface of the water is truly amazing.

            And boats don’t just float – they sail, they fly, they carve out their passage through the waves like a giant, power-driven blade. A beautiful description of a boat as a presence of power is in Thomas Hardy’s “The Convergence of the Twain,” his poem about the cruel fate of the Titanic and its passengers and crew. While discussing the construction of the Titanic, which Hardy rivets with mythological imagery, he calls the ship a “creature of cleaving wing” (17).

            A boat is a thing that can cut as well as it floats. It can be a home, an escape, a bridge, a cage; ships are many things to many people. Even the ships that science fiction authors launched into the skies, like Star Trek’s Enterprise and Battlestar Galactica, come to mind – sailing through a sea of stars filled with symbolism and significance.

            Human beings once looked out over the grey-blue waves of an ancient ocean and saw nothing on the horizon but water and clouds. To all appearances, there was nothing past the horizon. Word was, if you sailed far enough, you would sail right over the edge. But still, in different locales all over the world, humans said, “Fuck it. I wanna see what’s out there.” And they built boats and went to go have a look see.

            Authors love to use boats as metaphors and symbols – just check the works of Homer and Coleridge, Shakespeare and Dickens, Melville and Hemingway. The list goes on and on.

            In Season 1, Episode 3 of Bryan Fuller’s Hannibal, we are introduced to the concept of an important boat; it is inside the hull of that very boat that our lesson is stored, wrapped up lovingly in a water-proof tarp and tucked away under our feet. But first, let’s discuss how we come to this lesson, through the tempestuous sea of Hannibal’s characters – namely the turbulent emotional lives of Abigail Hobbs and as always, my darling Will Graham.

            S1E3 is called “Potage.” A potage like the English word, “pottage,” is a thick soup – similar to a stew. Potage can be fancy, but its origins were with the peasantry, who threw whatever odds and ends they had left over from cooking into a pot with broth and let it simmer on low for a few days, or a whole week even. The result was a thick, hearty, highly concentrated meal, redolent with the scents and the flavors of its many and varied ingredients.

            With “Apéritif” and “Amuse-Bouche,” Fuller and his fellow chefs teased our palates and stimulated our appetites. With S1E3, we are indeed served a potage, a hearty issue that has been simmering since Episode 1 – the issue of Abigail Hobbs and what she knows about her father’s life as the Minnesota Shrike.

            “Potage’s” story is credited to David Fury. The script was written by Fury, Chris Brancato, and our creator and visionary, Bryan Fuller. It was directed by David Slade.

            At the beginning of the episode, as we dig our spoons into the bowl, we are gifted a large chunk of significance. Now in an upscale mental hospital, Abigail Hobbs awakens from her coma. She has emerged from a nightmare about her father – one filled with hunting and gutting and bleeding. She is frightened and confused when she wakes up, and we as the audience cannot blame her. The last time we saw her, her father had killed her mother, then slashed her throat. As she lay exsanguinating on her family kitchen floor, a strange, trembling man shot her father to death. The strange man tried to save her life but was too shaken. Thankfully, another man with a very strong hand clamped down on her wound until help could arrive. She eventually loses consciousness, but not until after she sees Will Graham kill her father and Hannibal Lecter save her from the flood of crimson darkness that awaited her.

            Only a scene later, the audience is given another tasty morsel to chew upon. This being Will Graham standing out in front of his quaint, clean farm house in a t-shirt and underwear – garments that cling in all the right places and make me personally thankful for Hannibal’s costume and wardrobe department. Alana Bloom has come to inform Will about Abigail’s reemergence into the waking world. Will wants to go see her immediately. Alana convinces him that she should test the waters with Abigail first. Alana very rightly concludes that the first person from the BAU’s team who approaches Abigail should not be the man who killed her father or the man the who saved her life. That’s a lot of baggage to start off with. I have to say that I feel that poor Abigail is never really given a chance – that she and her fate have its own message attached to it – something about victimhood and patriarchy that I will discuss much later in this series of blog posts. Still, Alana is right – (she often is) – and she heads off to visit Abigail in the mental hospital with a bunch of clothes and music and gift cards.

            In their exchange, as Alana examines Abigail’s state of mind, in an effort to build rapport, Alana admits to Abigail, “I’ve got a stack of gift cards. I don’t do well redeeming gift cards;” Abigail replies, “Probably says something about you” (Fury et al. 10). I am also a person that doesn’t do well at redeeming gift cards, and I would love to know “what it says about me.” As far as I can tell, I think it means I work too much, but any other deep meaning is lost on me.

            Soon, Alana, Hannibal, and Jack Crawford have a conference about Alana’s impressions of Abigail and whether she should be exposed to Will yet. It is very apparent from this scene that there are two people who definitely suspect Abigail of having helped her father kill his victims: Jack and Hannibal. Jack’s belief is based on a cop’s instinct; Hannibal’s is based on a killer’s. You get the feeling somewhere deep inside that Alana believes it too, but she will not allow that belief to manifest. It is also apparent in this scene that because Hannibal is convinced that Abigail helped her father commit his crimes, that he automatically begins deflecting suspicion away from her saying things like, “I would suggest she can be practical without being a murderer” and that the impression of secrecy she radiates may “simply be her trauma” (Fury et al. 11). The fact that Hannibal begins tossing out red herrings this early on is important considering the end of the episode and how Abigail and Hannibal come to understand each other.

            Hannibal talks quite a lot about God – in Harris’ works and in all on-screen depictions. Hannibal is not an atheist – he lives in defiance of God. He continually dares the deity to stop his reign of tasty terror and continually God chooses not to. So, Hannibal goes on killing and eating victims knowing he is doing so either because of God’s indifference or with God’s tacit approval. Even though later in Season 3, Will Graham says that “Hannibal’s not God. Wouldn’t have any fun being God,” Hannibal perseveres in the same actions as God, namely making others in his image (Vlaming and Fuller 11). He persists in the nurturing of fledgling killers. Murder is Hannibal’s answer for all things that ail you, especially for the people he finds interesting enough to invest time into.

He believes Abigail has assisted her father in his slew of murders and so Hannibal encourages Abigail to carry on a life of killing; to Hannibal, it only makes sense. Randall Tier is sad and depressed and thinks he’s a beast who wants to ambush, kill, and gnaw on people – Hannibal gives him the go ahead. Bedelia has a troublesome patient – trouble courtesy of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, but still… Neal Frank dies with Bedelia’s arm down his throat and Hannibal is pleased as punch. Margot Bloom has a sadistic, abusive brother? You know Hannibal’s answer. Will Graham thinks exactly like a killer. But Will Graham is a murderer who doesn’t murder – a sad, specter of himself like a vampire living on animal blood. Will can’t sleep; he has nightmares. Will is barely comfortable in his own skin. Hannibal’s answer – walk down to the dark end of the street with me and never feel pain again, Will. So many people Hannibal attempts to make in his own image – at a certain point, we must assume it’s because he’s lonely. Since Mischa, Hannibal has had no family. That’s why in Seasons 1-2, he tries to make himself one.

It's agreed upon that Will should now be allowed to interact with Abigail, as long as Hannibal goes along for the ride. When Hannigram arrive at Abigail’s hospital room, they find it already occupied by the persistent, nosy Freddie Lounds, who is attempting to scoop Abigail’s story by endearing herself to the confused girl. Whether or not Freddie truly cares about Abigail is immaterial, but I think she ultimately comes to care about Abigail. Freddie is a creature of ambition and as such, is one of the most honest characters in the story, even in Harris’ original male Freddy Lounds – both Loundses are clever, dogged, and can often be extremely annoying – that’s the paparazzi for you. Freddie has already begun trying to turn Abigail against Will Graham, hence Will’s snippy dismissal of her.

After the visit at the hospital, Hannibal, Will, and Alana escort Abigail back to her family home in Bloomington, Minnesota. As the group arrives, they discover that vandals have spraypainted the word “CANNIBALS” on the doors of the house. There are two important moments in this homecoming exercise: 1. Abigail reveals that she knows Hannibal is the man who called her house on the morning her father was killed and 2. Abigail crosses paths with Nick Boyle. While they go through items in the family’s living room, Abigail asks about recreation of the crime. She indicates that in this portrayal, Alana should play her mother, Will should play her father, and she turns to Hannibal and with a piercing stare says, “And you be the man on the phone” (Fury et al. 26). I remember gasping the first time I saw this. Even after all my rewatches, it still gets me. It’s a great moment.

Later, Nick Boyle has come looking for Abigail, who he blames for his sister Cassie’s murder. As Abigail stands in her backyard talking to her one remaining friend, Marissa Schuur, Nick appears from the woods, accusing Abigail of helping her father pull Cassie’s lungs out as she died. For repeat viewers of the series, this scene is always rife with irony because we know good and Goddamned well who pulled out Marissa’s lungs, and it sure ain’t Abigail. It’s the plaid-suited meow meow who stands in the winter sun looking as innocent as a kitten. Marissa throws a rock at Nick and tags him in the head – a piece of convenient carnage Hannibal will use to maximum benefit later.

Then, the whole BAU crew take Abigail to her father’s hunting cabin. Abigail explains that her father believed that the only way to “honor” a kill, speaking about deer and other game, was to use every part of the animal. She details the process, saying, “He sold the pelts on Ebay or in town. He made pillows. Carved knives out of leg bones. No parts went to waste. Otherwise it was murder” (Fury et al. 31). She then comes to the realization that her father was feeding his victims to she and her mother. Immediately after this, the whole team discovers the mostly nude body of Marissa Schuur impaled on a stag’s head in the antler garden of an attic Hobbs crafted for himself. Abigail is whisked away by Alana. Jack, Hannibal, and Will examine the crime scene.

Jack questions Will’s powers of deduction, and expresses, in a huffy, petulant fashion, that Abigail could be manipulating Will – he is an empath, after all. Will is confident that the same person who killed Cassie Boyle in the “field kabuki” murder has killed Marissa Schuur. They have named this killer the Copy Cat. Both girls have been impaled on racks of antlers. Cassie is displayed horizontally, like a coffee table. Marissa is hung on the wall, a tapestry of murder. Will now theorizes that Nick Boyle is this Copy Cat based on the presence of some of his blood and tissue on Marissa’s front tooth, which he surmises was lodged there when Nick punched her in the face.

The audience thrills with dramatic irony at this point again knowing that Nick’s tissue came from the rock Marissa threw at him that Hannibal cleverly hid and then obviously, absconded with. This is why Hannibal deserves many viewings – the dramatic irony is not fully enjoyed until the viewer has done so. And, the absolute mastery of Mads Mikkelsen’s performance does not truly hit home until you realize how often he is directing the character of Hannibal about like a agile cat, always on its toes, always twisting mid-fall, to cushion its landing.

Jack buys the Nick Boyle theory, albeit reluctantly. He sends Hannibal to retrieve Abigail and take her back to Baltimore/DC. Will stays at the crime scene with Jack.

When Hannibal and Alana return Abigail to her family home before the journey back to Baltimore, Freddie Lounds is waiting for them. And so is Marissa Schuur’s mother, who is driven wild with grief. Hannibal cooly and skillfully deals with both and Abigail is sent inside.

It is in this moment of isolation – the first Abigail has had in a day fraught with trauma and heartbreak that Nick Boyle breaks into her home and confronts her. He says he just wants to talk. Abigail is terrified, shaking with fear. Just as she was taught, she kills Nick – gutting him from belly to chin with a kitchen knife. His corpse is laid out on the floor like an opened deer, his eyes as black as onyx. Alana and Hannibal then enter the house. In a mirror, Hannibal sees the bloody Abigail ascending the stairs and in a moment of almost Bond-like badassness, he knocks Alana’s head sideways against the wall, rendering her unconscious.

Slipping immediately into a paternal role, Hannibal commands Abigail to show him what she has done. His exterior is calm, but the viewer knows that internally, Hannibal is overjoyed. Abigail has natural killer instinct – a thing that cannot be taught. He explains to Abigail that based on the condition of Nick’s body, no one will believe that Abigail was simply “defending herself” when she killed him – and the method of slaughter will definitively signal to Jack that she participated in her father’s crimes.

Then, in a weighty moment, in a line of dialogue that is echoed later in Season 3, Hannibal says to Abigail, “I can help you, if you ask me to” (Fury et al. 40).

The character of Hannibal Lecter, specifically as written by Bryan Fuller, is vampiric in so many ways. One being that he always wants to be asked for help. He offers a lifeline, a way out, but he insists on being asked before he intervenes. He is a Narcissist King of the highest order. By helping Abigail hide Nick’s body, Hannibal locks her into an unbreakable contract with him. She has quite literally made a deal with the Devil. At the end of the episode, when Abigail sneaks out of the hospital and comes to Hannibal’s office, she confronts Hannibal about being the man on the phone the morning her father died. Hannibal explains the circumstance away as a random coincidence, although Abigail knows better. They agree to keep each other’s secrets. But the viewer feels the dreadful weight of the agreement Abigail has just entered into when Hannibal says, “Reassuring to recognize when the bolt of our fates slides home” (Fury et al. 45). The imagery is that of being imprisoned, jailed. Hannibal and Abigail are now locked in a cage together – and as we all know…two men enter, one man leave. In this case, two liars. But the MadMaxian theorem holds true.

Just before the end of the episode, after Nick Boyle’s supposed “escape,” Will sits in a therapy session in Hannibal’s office, discussing the confusing and emotional events of the past few days. And this, my lovely reader, is where the vessel of our lesson rocks back and forth slowly on glass-smooth sea.

Will describes his home – his lovely farmhouse in Wolf Trap, Virginia.

WILL: Sometimes at night, I leave the lights on in my little house and walk across the flat fields. When I look back from a distance, the house is like a boat at sea. It’s really the only time I feel safe (Fury et al. 42).

The original source of this line, along with Hannibal’s comments about “the bolt of our fates sliding home” in from the Foreword to Red Dragon that Thomas Harris wrote when the book was reissued in 2000. This Foreword is a beautiful and astonishing look into how an author works with his characters. In Harris’ case, it is almost like spiritual possession or haunting. He “goes along” with his characters into their fates. He never makes the decisions for them. They decide for themselves and Harris merely bears witness…and takes copious notes.

Harris tells the reader that in the fall of 1979 when he was working on Red Dragon, a family illness caused him to return to his home state of Mississippi, where he was to remain for eighteen months. He was housed a shotgun cabin in the middle of a cotton field, kindly loaned to him by family friend. There, in the dark, cold nights – he and Will Graham journeyed forward into both of their fates. Harris then explains that it was he who walked out into the “flat fields” surrounding his cabin in the bitter oblivion of night and looked back at the little house, which resembled “a boat at sea” (Harris IX). Harris also tells the reader the story of the pack of feral dogs who lived in the fields outside his abode and how he befriended them with pounds of dog food. A Hannibal fan cannot help but tear up a little reading Harris’ description of his pack: “They walked with me in the fields at night and when I couldn’t see them, I could hear them all around me, breathing and snuffling along in the dark. When I was working in the cabin, they waited on the front porch, and when the moon was full they would sing” (Harris X).

Will’s love of dogs comes from Harris’ love of dogs. And in Hannibal, Will’s love of dogs is extended by Bryan Fuller’s love of dogs. And who can blame them? You gotta love dogs. They’re better than all of us.

In the “Potage” script is the addition of the line where Will says, “It’s really the only time I feel safe” (Fury et al. 42).

Will feels safe because his house is like a boat. Will grew up on boats. His father was a fisherman who Will followed to ports all over the Gulf Coast and up to New England. The boat of Will’s home, let’s call it the S.S. Wolf Trap, is adrift in an ocean of snow as a boat is scudding among the waves of sea. The point is, the boat is isolated, alone, away from land. And being away from land – Will is away from people. People and all their words and faces and insinuations and manipulations – all of it rubbing against his empathic nerves. People put him on edge, wring him out, stretch his patience, test his politeness, but mostly, they suck him dry. They fuse themselves into his being and Will becomes a twisted hybrid of every person he interfaces with. It is well documented in both Harris and Fuller that Will’s empathy causes him to take on other people’s speech patterns and mannerisms without even knowing it. He becomes other people. And then they use him. And when he realizes, he feels empty and alone. This idea returns many times throughout the series. Deep down, Will just wants someone to love his INNER MONGOOSE (see my blog post for S1:E1), but people just want to train the mongoose and use it to hunt snakes.

Will feels safest when he’s alone surrounded by a pack of dogs. That says a lot about Will, but it also says a lot about other people and just how truly shitty they can be.

And so, my friends, THE LESSON.

WE ALL DESERVE A SAFE PLACE.

Whether it is a real, physical place or a mental refuge, not unlike a mind palace, some might say… all of us, every one of us deserves a place we can go to get away from the shitty people of the world.

My friends, do whatever you have to do to find that place. To you, it might be someplace you go alone or it might be in a room with thousands of other people.

It could be in your cozy bed under the covers or it could be at a fan convention surrounded by music and noise and laughter. It could in a movie theater by the light of a silver screen or it could be at the gym with only the sound of your pulse drumming away in your head.

In your car, in the shower, behind your eyelids when you lay down your head at night – wherever it may be, be like Will Graham, and find your safe place. And do not feel ashamed of the need to retreat into your personal fort whenever you need to. Life is hard.

We all deserve a little boat of our own.

Here endeth the lesson…

References:

Hardy, Thomas. “The Convergence of the Twain.” Poetry Foundation. poetryfoundation.org/poems/47266/the-convergence-of-the-twain. Accessed 15 Dec. 2022.

Harris, Thomas. “Foreword to a Fatal Interview.” Red Dragon, by Harris, Berkley, 2000, pp. IX-XIII).

Fury, David, Chris Brancato, and Bryan Fuller. Writers. “Potage.” Hannibal, season 1, episode 3, Chiswick Productions, 2012.

Vlaming, Jeff and Bryan Fuller. Writers. “Primavera.” Hannibal, season 3, episode 2, Chiswick Productions, 2015.

[nelfs]

a longass poem i wrote rapidfire into wordpad probably about 8 years ago while stoned out of my mind. here it is with all its typos intact. the syllables don't all line up well and I changed a name halfway through because i was blitzed. but i always get a kick out of it lol.

so here before you, now I stand, with heart in throat and sword in hand, begging you to understand. i was a knight in days gone by, who rode the seas and touched the sky, who cleaved and crashed and rode in fleet, in rain and mud and snow and sleet.

you must remember, my dear king, discovering that awful thing had stole the princess Soo Chee Kin. that horrid thing! with smould'ring eyes, with twisted claws and wings to fly, that lured her in for her to die. but I was there, my lord, i swear!, i saw a trail of golden hair, leading up the ancient stair to the creatur'es rancid foul lair. the fight was long, and blood did fly, it gurgling with each war cry, and in my sword i felt a light as though the sun was shining bright to illuminate my heart with sight. through the cleave, i saw her form, and something inside me felt warm. i felt revived, and fought to stand, i took my bloody sword in hand, and charged the creature-- it fell tto the land. it burbled out some final words, and though i heard and knew She heard, i couldn't help but be disturbed. i slit its savage throat in twain, and carved right out its gruesome brain, to show you, king: the beast is slain! and as for your fine daughter, friend, it's hard to try t omake amends but understand i did not intend to caus my servitude to end. it was one night, we had to share a tent-- i saw her standing there through fabric sheer. such a thin layer the curtain did provide, i swear. her form i thought to see, i must and through the screen of fiery lust i knew for me she had found trust. we made love late that evening night, sweetly in the candlelight, and fell in love - well, at first sight. i'm sorry my dear king, you see about my love for Soo Kin Wee but as i stand in front of thee you can't forget my service, see? here is the brain of evil, sir its horrid claws no longer stir I've rid us of the horrid cur! the choice is yours, my sweet dear king, i know you could do anything but i am just a poor small thing with love for life and some drinking, so please don't let my body swing. so here I am in front of thee, in front of you in front of me, as you consider my small plea….

**

plus here's a tiny little epilogue that i wrote at a later date, i guess? i don't remember making this part, but i am charmed by my past self's use of the word limning.

Soo Chee Kin That gorgeous dame, whose beauty lights the land with fame-- I must admit I feel the same. The first time when I saw her, sir, I had to turn away from her milky skin draped with rich fur. The gems encrusted on her crown limning all its ups and downs glittering with her renown… Even such a gorgeous thing Of which the bards and ladies sing looked dim against the daughter of the king.

[myra-bird]

Slime girls = Best girls (Part 1)

I wasn't supposed to be here. "Slimes" were supposed to stay on the bottom floor of the dungeon, not climbing to dangerously dizzying heights, felling her fellow fiends floor by floor. And I certainly wasn't supposed to be doing it to help a human heroine plunder the tower's treasure! 

Sorry, am I getting annoyingly alliterative again? Octavia says I do that when I get nervous. She also says I start sucking on my bottom lip. That usually ends up with her sucking on my bottom lip and that's how I more or less ended up in this mess... 

.... 

See, before that gleaming goddess came into my life, I was content to be a lowly slyme (that's the correct spelling, but no one ever gets it right), and I never really imagined doing anything but getting splattered over the dungeon walls by adventurers and then sloooowly pulling myself back together while they tried and failed to climb the tower. 

Really, I kind of felt like my role was mostly ornamental. I never ran a tower of unspeakable horrors myself, but I honestly think they are in woeful need of a reorg if they are anything like my cursed keep. I mean, why put all the wimpy monsters at the bottom where warriors can smash them and grab what little loot they offer?! If I was running this joint, I would have at least a dozen of my best baddies ready and raring to go on the first floor! But no one asks a slyme for its opinion. Noooooo, they just take us for granted and put us on the ground floor to get ground up! 

But I digress...Octavia says I do that a lot too. Still, it's hard to stay on track when your story used to be wait, splat, recover, wait, splat, repeat. Ooh I'm definitely digressing darn it! And now I'm alliterating annoyingly again! Aaahhh! 

Sorry. It's just that I get especially nervous when I think about the first time I met the woman that changed my life. I never saw a knight shine so brightly. Solid gold armor, molded with an intricate feather design that complemented the phoenix crest helmet that obscured her upper face but left her smooth, supple chin exposed and revealed her full, sadistically smirking lips... 

I remembered wondering why she would leave such a vital area unguarded, and  later she would tell me that it was  so the arrogant demons and hellspawn would see her smiling as she smote them and lose all sense of their bully's cowardly courage and allow for her to get the upper hand. 

So imagine her surprise as she brought down her golden sword, gleaming so bright it made her auburn hair glow like a flowing fire, readly to cleave me in twain effortlessly, and instead of a scream of terror or roar of impotent rage, she heard a ball of slime half whisper, half whimper, "Dark Gods you are beautiful!" 

Imagine my surprise when she stopped her blade just shy of my dome and laughed, "Well that's a first! Is this some slyme trick you've learned to avoid getting splattered along the dungeon wall?" Imagine my mortal terror when she pulled off her helm to reveal her brownish green eyes blazing and her rosy cheeks glowing as her delicate doll like nose flared in comtemptous mirth. 

"You can splatter me against the wall if you want to..." I stammered silly and stuttering and could not hide the blush that ran through my entire bulbous body. Worse still, I lost the concentration I used to maintain my spherical shell, and my body shifted and slid and splorped until it revealed my true form. 

"Why you aren't a bottom floor bitch after all! You are an honest to badness slyme girl!" The armored attention of my ardor gasped in what sounded like 99% shock and maybe 1% excitement, but I had never been one for math. 

I suppose I couldn't blame her for being shocked. Slymes are a zenny a dozen. They are big round blorbs of glorb that get picked last in team sports and mostly get stuck in the worst monster jobs. Slyme girls however, are exceedingly rare since slymes don't even breed sexually (not that it prevents folks from trying) and we are supposed to be selected at birth, based on some version of phrenology for people who are all head. 

Me, I preferred to keep what I knew about myself a secret, more or less content to hide in an armor of jelly than take on the "tasks" usually assigned slyme girls: espionage (fucking creepy, crusty old men then stealing their secrets), assassination (fucking dusty decrepit dudes then smothering them in our ample glubs), and just plain trophies (which I think screams for itself at this point.) No, it was better to get splatted than that. But when I let my guard down in front of my golden goddess, my blue blorbs blossomed into a curvy, comely coquette with a short slime bob, a plump pucker, button nose, and eyes that shined like iridescent jewels (because they were)! I even allowed myself a little hope that the knight was still eyeing my form moments after my sudden transformation for reasons other than shock. 

"Soooo..." she practically let the word drip from her lips like honey, leaving it, and me dangling as she circled me with her sword still drawn, and her ever more blazing eyes still drawn to me. "If they knew what you really were, they would give you a much more 'intense' assignment. Wouldn't they?" She let the question linger and it felt much more threatening than her sword or her stare. Still, a part of me hoped she would offer me some quid pro quo that would give me an excuse to spend more time with her. I nodded meekly and my blush gave me a light purple hue. 

"Well I hate blackmailers almost as much as I hate slavers, so I wouldn't do that to a sister, not even a monster six hundred and sixty six times removed." My jaw dropped. I had to push it back into place and everything! My experience with the "good" guys to this point had left me with the impression that they basically favored a different color scheme than us.

But here was a woman who had me at her mercy, or at least thought she did, and she actually showed it. 

I suppose she saw my shock , because she sheathed her sword and said, "The way I see it, you have a real choice, in many ways the same choices you always had. You can go back to hiding in your sphere, slip right out the front door and see what lies beyond this tower, or...." she smiled as she slipped her helm down and I knew I had no choice at all, "you can come with me as I clear out this festering horde of evil and we can find out together what you are really made of." 

Dear reader, is it any wonder you find this journal on a floor higher than I even knew this tower extended before?! At least, I suspect that is where you will find it, because tomorrow we face...no, I will save that for "The End", if that is what it is to be. In the meantime, I am digressing just when I got to the good part! 

So there I was, exposed, embarrassed, and eerily excited, and you'll have to excuse the alliteration because I can't even think about it without blushing all the way magenta and sucking my bottom lip like a pretty, plump pacifier. I couldn't believe she was offering to join forces with me, I can't believe I was even considering it. I had never so much as tripped a bard before, and here I was planning to scale what Dungeons Digest described as 58 on "100 Most Challenging Dungeons to Challenge Before You Die (Which you will in these dungeons)"?! 

So imagine my surprise when I stammered,  "I would follow you anywhere!" Again, I am turning practically pink remembering Octavia's smug smile, twisting captivatingly cruelly like a knife as she turned and walked towards the stairs in the back of the room. I knew that by following her up, I would be betraying everything I was supposed to believe in and putting a target on myself for the rest of eternity…at least. Unholy armies of darkness tend to take a much more moralistic view on turning against them than you might think. If I went up even one step outside of my designated watch, some beholder would feel beholden to blab or some ratt would rat me out. It would mean a destiny of torment for only a minute chance for a minute of happiness.

And dear reader, it might seem like I made a foolish choice, but you haven't watched my lady's chainmail stockings shift and shimmer as she ascends angelically up the stairs.

Eternal torment sounded like a bargain. If I only knew then what I know now…

I would have taken those steps two at a time!

[miasmaremnants]

Entry 0:

A morning of unexpected turns...

Woke with a pounding in me head. Blasted hangover. The kind that makes ye wish you'd stopped a pint or two earlier. Found meself in a cramped space, might've been an old maintenance closet once. Memories of last night's merrymaking blurred, but the urgency of the banging on the door brought clarity. Some gladiator-looking brute was on the other side, hollering for me to get up.

Gear in hand, I left the room. Not sure what I expected, but it wasn't a sewer pipe. The gladiator gestured, making it clear where he expected me to go. So into the stink and darkness, I went.

Emerging from the muck and grime, I found meself in a vast pit. Spikes adorned the walls, and a horde of raucous raiders peered down, their cheers echoing in the confined space. This was no ordinary pit. 'Twas a battle arena!

A masked man, flanked by flying drones, greeted the crowd and introduced the day's spectacle. Only, he botched up me name, calling me 'Brongan'. Before I could correct him, another figure made an entrance. A mutant, introduced as Gerrit VanHelsing, though he quickly corrected it to VanHouten. The masked announcer’s credibility waned by the moment.

Battle was inevitable. Crossbow bolts zinged through the air. His went wide, bouncing off my trusty helmet. Mine found its mark. Drawing him to the arena's centre, I watched as he jabbed himself with a syringe, his veins pulsating with newfound vigor. As our blades clashed, I realized that my sword did little against his rubbery hide. Changing tactics, I reached for my hammer, the very essence of the Rusted Edge Virtuoso.

With a prayer on my lips and strength in my arms, I swung. The blow landed true, felling the mutant in a single strike. The gods were surely smiling upon me.

As VanHouten lay defeated, the crowd's roars filled the air. Victory was sweet, but I couldn't help but wonder, "What now?" No sooner had the crowd's cheers faded when a monstrous figure crashed through a wooden barricade. The sight of him, like a behemoth born from the very nightmares of the wasteland, made the very ground quake. Yet, the raiders cheered for him as if he were their champion.

A voice from the crowd broke through the tension, and a can – some sort of drink – hurtled towards the arena. Yet before I could decipher its purpose, the giant advanced. Poor Gerrit still lay senseless, the remnants of our duel evident on his form. 'Twas just me and the beast now.

Speeches were delivered, blows exchanged. Despite my best efforts and the teachings of the Rusted Edge Virtuoso, this colossus's strength was unparalleled. Like a ragdoll, he hoisted me and ran, intent on impaling me upon the arena’s spikes. By sheer luck or divine intervention, I evaded that grim fate, only to be hurled against a water tank.

In desperation, I reached for the mysterious can, pouring its contents into Gerrat's slack mouth. The result was miraculous! Rising like a phoenix, Gerrat joined the fray, his bone saw gleaming. In a whirlwind of rage and vengeance, he cleaved the behemoth in twain.

The arena's mood shifted instantly. The masked announcer made himself scarce, and the crowd, fickle as ever, began to rain stones upon us. Taking our cue, we made our exit through the breach left by the beast.

Safety, and more importantly, a bar awaited on the other side. There, a man named Magnus hailed me. Gratitude was exchanged – for it was he who'd thrown the life-saving can. But Magnus had more on his mind than mere pleasantries. He offered a job, details scant, but he insisted on a rendezvous at the docks in three days.

While the prospect was tempting, the Rusted Edge Virtuoso is no one's pawn. Promising to mull it over, I collected my winnings – a humble Glowing Pod – and took my leave. Gerrit, in his own way, slipped away separately. Only the wasteland knows what adventures tomorrow holds for us both. Three days since the pit, three days scouring the wasteland for a proper drink. No luck. So, to the docks, I went, the promise of Magnus's job a distant glimmer of hope. There, among the shadows and the creaking of the boats, I spotted Gerrit. That wiry frame and doctor's coat of his stood out even from afar.

Our path led us to the Ironsides Junior, a boat that had surely seen its fair share of voyages. Yet as we approached, a challenge awaited. A woman, Aegis by name, stood guard. With a swift motion, she drew her gun, fixing it upon us. What followed was a series of bizarre, guttural exchanges between her and Gerrat. Whatever the meaning, it seemed to satisfy her, for she lowered her weapon.

Magnus emerged soon after, gratitude evident in his eyes. He outlined the task – journey to 1 Mile Island, a rumored sanctuary free from the deadly miasma. Our objective was twofold: confirm the miasma-free claim and procure any technology that might aid our survival. Yet, we wouldn't be embarking on this quest alone. Magnus mentioned others, strangers, who'd be joining our party. Their arrival was imminent.

To sweeten the deal, and perhaps to even the odds, Magnus replaced our crossbows with musket rifles. A significant upgrade, to say the least. As the weight of the rifle settled in me hands, anticipation built.

For now, we wait, the horizon filled with both promise and uncertainty.

Till the morrow,

Brogar

[words-writ-in-starlight]

I’ve seen a bunch of people talk about the spell Ceremony in 5e (marry two people for +2 AC for both of them) with regards to Critical Role, but hear me out.

I have deduced how Julia and Magnus Burnsides got married.

[dungeonaspects]

Sir Radcliffe: Aarakocra Paladin

"You have absolutely no class, black robes AND skull motif? At least TRY to spice it up a little, have you tried burgundy?"

Oh how the breeze tickles my feathers, so soft and perfect, aligned and uniform. I certainly see why everyone swoons, the thread I picked up yesterday will be a lovely splash of colour, perhaps tied just atop my crest?

A twist of my spear and the gnolls shoulder popped out, it was snarling something. I hope it doesn't slobber on me, it might stain. A quick step back, ohhh I'm glad the material I bought is glistening as I hoped, a perfect flourish with each step around my waist.

I twisted back and brought the edge round my back and over my head quickly cleaving into the creatures limited brain space. Oh how perfect, no spatter on my clothes or a dent on my armour, I must remember that move.

Sudden impact, jolted me forward from my dance. A disgusting thing, taller than your average gnoll, a large flail too, this must be the one. It cackled something, ah well, it will enjoy the view.

While I'm going for the elegant riposte this foul thing just keeps waving its flail around, absolutely no style to it. I mean seriously, a spear has form and flow, a compliment of my practiced stance, THAT is just insulting.

Just executing a three quarter pirouette into a reverse thrust this stupid thing had the audacity to hit me. How DARE IT?!

I can see the dent, my perfect armour has a dent! The artistic curve now ruined by this horrible blemish that will take hours to return to its former glory.

No more flourish, dispatch it quickly, I wouldn't want a second.

I draw back and watch it, gods does it always drool like that? No wonder it doesn't invest in a decent tailor. I begin the motion, smooth, simple, elegant. A gentle sweep of my spear, serene, but now it flares, around it wings form, and as time slows for the gnoll (its final moments, it should relish this) it can enjoy the divine strike, a final blessing.

The bird of Paradise closes in, the regal elegant neck curved to the side, pristine beak curved into a perfect tip. The wings are iridescent, prismatic feathers shimmering around the blade as it impacts the gnoll the bird strikes deep at the creatures soul, offering solace in its death.

The slobbering creature slowly slumped forward, its movement fluid as the end came. I suppose the only beautiful thing it could do was die, a shame, yet there is more beauty in the world.

Time to fix my armour, perhaps I'll have time to visit the tavern, see what wonderful souls I can enamour tonight.

Some Ideas

This creature is conceited, prideful, narcissistic, and in love with life. He spends every moment searching for beauty (normally in themselves), and will spend enormous amounts of gold for a rare cosmetic to accentuate a feature.

As self absorbed as this paladin is they truly believe that making the world a better place will make it more beautiful. They try to exemplify a just warrior, a beacon of goodness for all.

While not quite as "smite the heretics" as most paladins he will happily cleave evil doers in twain. He is a touch more morally flexible however, being aarakocra has instilled a sense of freedom to the bird, desiring freedom over something as laughable as law.

His greatest secret however, is a fear of heights. He wears heavy armour to avoid flying as his phobia leaves him a snivelling whimpering mess (something quite ugly and therefore not allowed). When questioned why he does not fly it is usually deflected with something like:

"It is far too easy to seem elegant while flying, but flapping your wings? Seems terribly uncouth. Now flowing like a breeze with your talons upon the ground? THAT is graceful"

As always have fun with him, get along with the party but maybe try to get them to "freshen up" a little when the barbarian is drenched in blood and the warlock thunderstepped into an enemy spattering everyone in entrails.

Something important to me though, is smite. I love the divine light enveloping a blade and striking the enemy with deific light. But there's so much flavour potential.

Smite is an extension of the paladins/gods power, you can go nuts with it.

Strike the enemy and a lightning bolt thunders down, divine judgement. A blow and the earth shudders, a stone launching from the ground to strike them. A stab and a lashing root pierces their side. Death god sends a terrible wail to assault the enemy. A war god brings a ghostly hammer down on the enemies head.

And if your pc is very literal, strike them with a sword, then a ghost form of their soul launches out of your chest and socks the dude in the jaw.

Classic style is still cool, but if a wizard can flavour magic missile to be a swarm of furious pigs then you can flavour a smite.

Have fun everyone, let me know what you think :)

Art by Ruushes

I ADORE this artwork, the side on view, the armour. I love the detail around the eyes and beak and oh my god the flowing material underneath. Fantastic and wonderful, thank you.

https://ruushes.tumblr.com/post/178863486396

[lordrethandus]

Daily Writing Challenge 2021 Day 21

Carnage ( @daily-writing-challenge​​, @serararku )

World: Final Fantasy 14

Content Warning: Blood/Gore/Suggestive Themes

Theme: Heilung - In Maidjan

A dozen corpses lay sprawled in the searing heat. If S’rarku Nuhn has his way, a dozen more will join them.

“YAAARGH!” S’rarku bellowed with a voice that rolled across the sands like thunder. The flash of light from the tip of his glaive and the fight was over as quickly as it began; the terrified Miqo'te Tia saw the glint of his demise and tasted the bite of the Nunh’s thrust, tearing through leather, flesh, and bone alike. He let out a short-lived shriek before the glaive reemerged through his back, spilling his blood onto the sand. S’rarku gripped the shaft of his mighty weapon before spinning it in his hands, splitting his foe in twain from chest to collar. “HAHAHA! Another weak pathetic fool! Another offering to Azeyma!” The old man threw his head back and laughed again, twirling his glaive until the blade was clean again. “Who dares challenge me?! Who’s next to offer their bodies to the Warden?!”

All seventeen wifes watched in the shade of their tents, along with his twenty daughters and three sons. S’yuun, his favorite wife, simply looked on in disgust: bored, inattentive, and unimpressed. “How much longer must we endure this dreadful heat? S’rarku?! Hurry up and defeat the rest of those Tia so we can go to the hot springs!”

Her husband turned to face his wives with the biggest grin on his face. “Soon, my lovelies! Let me cleave just a few more and we’ll all go together! I promise!” S’rarku was a monster in Miqo'te skin once, unmatched in strength and absolutely fearless. But now he was old, with a crown of silver hair, and an undying lust to relive his glory days. Young Tia, desperate for breeding rights, travel from all over Eorzea to challenge ‘an old Nunh with one foot in the grave already’; but once they find the Zu Tribe, the folly of their greed often takes a heavy - and permanent - toll. “YAAAGH! AGAIN!”

Another Tia rushed forward for his best chance at living a life surrounded by his own wives and children. S’rarku leapt high into the air with a single bound, blinding his challenger when his fearful gaze brushed against the glaring sun. He caught sight of the Nunh’s shadow dashing across his face, before he saw the familiar glint of the tip of that terrifying glaive.

His wives turned away in disgust while doing their best to cover the many eyes of their children, but S’era looked on, awestruck and nauseous. She watched her father gore and gut the Tia like the prize after a day’s hunt, spilling his organs out into the sand with a wet flop; it sounded like an overturned barrel of fish being emptied onto a pier. The young Miqo'te woman covered her mouth but not her eyes, refusing to look away from such a gruesome execution. S’rarku tossed the now inside-out body away before pointing his glaive toward the others. “A death more painful and gruesome awaits the next one! And the next one! And the next one! HAHAHAHA!” Many aspiring challengers wisely decided to live today and fight tomorrow. S’rarku balanced his glaive on his shoulder and watched the cowards turn to flee, knowing his daughters would remain unsullied, and his wives would remain his. One by one their courage failed them. One by one they abandoned their hopes and dreams to return to their tribes empty handed, or try their luck challenging other Nunhs elsewhere.

All but one. The last Tia remaining stood there in silence with a concentrated look in his burning orange eyes. It wasn’t until S'rarku was finished laughing at the vanishing cowards did he notice him. “YOU THERE!” He bellowed again, pointing a finger at the Tia. “Look around and bear witness to the fate of all who seek my daughters and wives! Will you not flee while you still breathe?!”

Despite his calm and focused demeanor, the Tia’s tail flicked and twitched about in eager anticipation. “My name is U'tage Tia! I have watched you slaughter Tia stronger, faster, and braver than I, but I have something none of them possessed!”

Intrigued, S'rarku sneered before asking, “And what might that be?!”

“Patience!” U'tage pulled himself free of his jerkin and dropped it into the sand. His body was well toned, yet he was still a fraction of the brawn of his opponent. Even worse, he had no scars of any kind - the telltale signs of an inexperienced Miqo'te. The moment his jerkin came off, the interest and curiosity of the women in attendance collectively died off. “I’ve studied your movement, learned your techniques, and observed your strengths and weaknesses! I’m going to defeat you right here in front of your family. Then I’m going to pleasure your wives. Then I’m going to fill your daughters with my seed. What do you think about that?” S'rarku threw his head back and belly-laughed, far harder and louder than he had all day. Yet his wives remained silent, knowing that laugh all too well; it was forced, and he was furious. With nothing else left to be said, U’tage grabbed the hilt of the blade fastened to his lower back, and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long - S'rarku soared across the sand with all his fury propelling him! Tha-thump. In a heartbeat the glaive was thrust toward his chest, striking little more than air. Tha-thump. It caught a few strands of fur from an ear when he ducked underneath. Tha-thump. A side step saved him from being cleaved in half. Tha-thump. It came down again, slashing the sand between his outstretched legs.

U'tage couldn’t keep this up for much longer. Tha-thump! His body was screaming for rest. Tha-thump! But the heart pumped, and his limbs obeyed. Tha-thump! With each miss, the glaive came closer and closer! Tha-thump! Blood splashed across his chest when the razor edge cut through his skin! Tha-thump! He was out of time-! Tha-thump! One last surge of strength pulled his blade from its scabbard and clanged the fatal thrust away from his chest!

SHWIIIING!

S'rarku and U'tage stood there under the pummeling heat of the desert sun, both covered in sweat and panting. The gilded scimitar gleamed and glimmered in the brilliant sunlight, captivating all who looked upon the golden blade; it was enough to even give S'rarku pause from his bloodlust.

“Who did you kill to steal something like that?” He called out in between labored breaths.

U'tage spit into the sand before pointing the tip of his sword toward his foe. “All you need to worry about is how sharp it is. Have you caught your breath yet, old man, or do you need more time?"

"You have a warrior’s heart, I’ll give you that much! Hahaha!” S'rarku swung his glaive around his body like it weighed nothing. “But I can see right through you, boy! Your legs ache! Your body falters! You pretend you’re not exhausted even as you stand there, slick with your own blood! But for your effort, your death will be clean! You have earned that much!”

It was now or never. U'tage took the initiative this time and charged fast and low toward S'rarku with his scimitar out to his side. If he could just throw him off balance, or better yet- get behind him, victory would be his. But S'rarku had the strength and the reach; getting close enough for a killing blow would be no easy task.

S'era gasped at the song their blades sang when they met, a chorus of sharp rings and soft hums. Her heart fluttered as she watched this stranger dance with her father, their feet and tails whipping up sand and dust while they leapt through the air and twirled around each other. What was this feeling? This tingling in her stomach? This rising warmth between her legs? Her mother noticed her firstborn daughter’s labored breathing, and instantly knew it wasn’t from the searing desert heat. “Patience, kitten.” She smiled, rubbing S’era’s back. “These feelings mean you are a woman now… but not in the eyes of our tribe. You will have to wait until you are of proper age.”

Then suddenly, S'rarku swung his glaive down from above to split him from collar to waist, but he wasn’t fast enough. U'tage moved like water, flowing around the blade to let it bite at the skin on his forearm. Then they stood there, almost hugging in a friendly embrace, before S'rarku coughed up blood, and his trembling hands released his glaive. With a sharp twist of his wrist, U’tage split his stomach open to spill his entrails onto the hot golden sand.

S'rarku collapsed to one knee in shocked disbelief, cradling his innards in his trembling hands. Agony gripped him like the heat of the desert, and he knew no amount of healing would save him from this mortal injury; the fight was over, and so was he. Yet he was too proud to admit defeat. Too used to spilling the blood of his kin. Too accustomed to his life as a Nunh. S'rarku bellowed with all the fury he could muster, even as blood oozed from his mouth and his slick entrails slipped from his fingers. He rose to his feet with his waning strength, turned to face his foe, and charged; if he would not survive this day, then he swore on the Warden herself that he would take this Tia with him!

S'era covered her mouth and gasped at how easily U'tage spun on his exhausted feet, how his blade hummed through the air, and how silent her father’s beheading was. His lifeless body took one step without his head before crumbling into the sand, never to move again. “It… is done!” U’tage shouted in between labored gasps for air, his body slick with warm blood and cold sweat. He was one foot in the grave himself, with barely enough strength to spare; he staggered a few steps before the grip on his scimitar faltered, and it slid into the sand with a soft thunk.

“Rise, kitten.” S’era’s mother softly commanded, taking her by the hand. One by one the widows of S’rarku and all of his children rose in silent solidarity at the death and replacement of their Nunh. “Show U’tage the respect he has earned.”

“Come forth, champion.” Elder S’huuna commanded. S’rarku’s children guided the ancient Miqo'te woman from the comfort of the shade to face the winner of this deadly duel. “You have succeeded where so many have failed… you have killed the great S’rarku.” She opened her useless glazed eyes when she spoke the defeated Nunh’s name one last time. “What is your name, stranger?”

“Ahh… U’tage Ti- no…” U’tage caught himself before he finished. “U’tage Nunh, Elder.”

“Still wrong.” S’huuna turned to the direction of her family. “This man is now S’tage Nunh, from this day, until a Tia defeats him! I feared Azeyma would take me before I saw our sect of the Zu Tribe receive a new Nunh, but the Warden herself has granted me the privilege of sending our fallen champion off to the afterlife!” She turned back to S’tage and smiled. “What do you want us to do now?”

“Bury the fallen Tia.” S’tage commanded, finally catching his breath. “They don’t deserve to be left for the carrion birds.” He ran a trembling hand across his chest, wincing from the gash S’rarku gave him as a parting gift; it was deeper than he realized.

“And for the one you replaced?” She asked, hesitantly.

“Burn his corpse.” S’tage turned to look at his remains. He clapped his hands together and bowed. “Let him be devoured in flame so he may walk unburdened in the sunlight of Azeyma.”

S’era began to trot over to the new Nunh, but her mother caught her by the shoulder. “Wait with your sisters. S’tage must be cleaned by me and his new wives.” The idea of her mother claiming the right of first wife was oddly infuriating.

“B-but I’m old enough to carry children! It’s not fair!” Her mother was already heading over to her new husband, along with the rest of S’era’s aunts. Left alone to keep her half-siblings from running out to poke and disrespect the bodies, she helplessly watched as S’tage was swarmed by the attention of other women.

Staring at him from this distance made her knees weak. His silver hair was beautiful, even with it stained red with blood. Behind his filthy face sat two orange eyes that burned like the sunset on the last day of the desert summer. S’era was so busy swooning over him from a distance, in fact, that she barely had time to notice her half siblings making kissy faces at her. She so desperately wanted to be his first wife, but she knew she couldn’t go against the wishes of her mother and aunts.

“Let’s get you cleaned, healed, and rested.” Her mother smiled, taking S’tage by the hand.

“You’ll need your strength for tonight.”

[mirageofthecrystal]

FFxiv 30 Day Writing Challenge - Day 12: Adversary

(I'd like to thank Merriam-Webster's word of the day for gifting me this, because it's just further excuse to piece together all my writing prompts into pieces of a larger backstory puzzle.

I've also never in all my years of writing and roleplaying managed to perfect the art of the fight scene, so apologies if the fighting is a little clumsy.)

adversary (noun)

one's opponent in a contest, conflict, or dispute.

"I don't want to hurt you," Faiolan snarled through gritted teeth. The knights would take no heed of a 'heretic's' words, drawing their blades and surrounding him. He was most assuredly outmatched, but they left him little choice in the matter. He brought his own blade to bear, adjusting the weight of his shield in his man, staring them down and waiting to see who would make the first move. The Inquisitor looked on as his men cornered his quarry, wicked satisfaction plain on his face. "Throw down your weapon and surrender, heretic scum, or it is you who will suffer. We serve the will of Halone, and cannot allow you to prevail." "You serve the will of that cruel bastard and nothing more. I am no more a heretic than he is, but at least I'm not hunting down my fellows like animals."

Swords clashed, Faiolan dancing back a few steps only to find the foe at his back thrusting his blade. His body twisted, bouncing the blow off his shield, with a third knight thrusting his lance downward to pierce Faiolan through the calf. He raised his foot at the final moment, letting the knight find a new mark as he buried the head of his spear in the snow. He stepped down onto the spear, and smashed his shield against the knight's helmet, sending him sprawling onto the ground.

"You would call yourself a knight of Ishgard, but you fight without honor," one of the men barked. "Honor is the easiest way to get yourself killed. When you fight for your life, honor will not intercept your enemy's blows or safeguard your life. To fight with honor is to fight only half a battle..." Faiolan echoed the old wisdom of his former mentor, Sergeant Belmont, who would have loathed to look upon him now. Surely he'd critique Faiolan's form, tell him his footwork was rubbish, and that when fighting multiple foes, one needed to be entirely aware of their surroundings. How in the seven hells was he supposed to watch all of them at once, unless he grew eyes in the back of his head?

The downed knight sought to struggle back up onto his feet, but Faiolan took advantage of this slight break in formation, planting one of his greaves firmly into his foe's head and ringing his bell once more, rendering him unconscious. He was no longer completely surrounded at least, leaving him more room to maneuver. The twang of a bowstring interrupted his internal strategizing, an arrow burying itself into his shoulder, slipping through the rings of his hauberk. He broke the shaft with the downward force of his arm, but each movement caused pain to surge through his shoulder, the arrowhead embedded into his flesh. He'd have to fight through the pain, his eyes now focused on the archer who was already nocking another arrow.

The next shot Faiolan caught in his shield, and he charged the archer, risking the ire of the other knights who sought to intervene. He sidestepped a swipe from a longsword, rebuffed another strike from a mace at the cost of a large dent in his shield and something that felt suspiciously like his bone cracking from the impact, and then caught another arrow, this one in his abdomen. He growled in frustration, forcing his legs to carry him those last few steps towards the archer who immediately backpedaled, lining up another shot. Faiolan swung his blade, cleaving the bow in twain, and knocked the archer back into a tree with a thrust of his shield. The immediate threat of death by arrows being successfully abated, he turned to meet the other two combatants, keeping the archer somewhat in his awareness. Fortunate that he had, for the archer drew a dagger from his belt and came in from the rear while the other two bore down on Faiolan from the front.

"Persistent bastards, I'll give you that..." Faiolan muttered under his breath, at a severe disadvantage for his want to leave his countrymen with their lives despite the fact that they sought to bring him unto his wrongful demise. He would not claim their lives, as that would only embolden the slanderous beliefs of the Inquisitor and the charges he had been levied with. If he had any hope of escaping this, he had to find another way to slip past them. The Inquisitor, meanwhile, grew impatient. He stepped down from his steed, whip in hand as he slowly strolled towards the melee with malicious intent.

Faiolan's arm throbbed, the weight of the shield accompanied by discomfort from his likely fractured bone. He remember another of his mentor's important lessons, the need for improvisation when outnumbered by a superior foe. There was always a way to turn disadvantages into advantages, and sometimes they were extremely unorthodox. Loosening the grip on his shield, he twisted his body and launched it at the mace-wielding knight, who struck it with his weapon and sent it flying right back to sender. Faiolan dove to the side, and the shield struck the archer with full force, causing him to crumple into the snow. Two down, three to go, Faiolan thought to himself as he became aware of the Inquisitor's entrance into the fray.

Faiolan's breath was growing heavy. He was malnourished, sleep deprived, freezing his arse off, and still had to contend with the might of Ishgard's enforcers. Fate seemed to be cruel this day, as it appeared for a moment that all his efforts of escape would be for not. That is, until fate dealt the hand it held, and an outside force intervened. Seemingly from nowhere, as if they emerged from the snow itself, a hail of arrows struck one of the knights dead. The other cried out in a fury and charged toward Faiolan in a mix of confusion and retribution, but a lance caught him in the side, skewering him through and through and pinning him to a tree. Only the Inquisitor was left standing, and he came to his own conclusion about what was unfolding. "And thus do your true colors show. Leading us into an ambush by your heretic accomplices. You FILTH!"

He uncoiled his whip, cracking it into the air and striking out at Faiolan with deadly precision. It coiled around his throat, and with a hard yank brought him to his knees, struggling to breath. "Bringing you back to face trial is foolish, now that the truth is known. I will not allow you to escape the Fury's judgement. If I die this day, then so shall you." Mariuseaux pulled at the length of his whip, dragging Faiolan towards him. A snowstorm began to materialize around them, encasing their struggle in a sheet of impenetrable isolation. Faiolan felt darkness closing in around him, the whip growing tighter and tighter around his throat as he vainly attempted to draw a breath.

The din of combat rang out around them, beyond what could be seen. The rest of the Inquisitor's men, those who had completed their duty at the fort, had come to join him. He had given them specific instructions, as if he'd expected such trickery to catch him off guard. His men now met the heretic forces in combat, leaving him to finish his business with Faiolan once and for all. Seeing the light of life leaving the young man's eyes, the Inquisitor began a prayer. He closed his eyes to invoke the image of Halone in his mind, finding himself bathed in her warmth and her glory. And then Faiolan, who noticed the glint of the archer's dagger sticking out from the snow, took up the small blade, cut the whip, and plunged the dagger into Inquisitor Mariuseaux's throat.

[tanoraqui]

I have no idea what critical role is but you reblog it a lot. Is it just a bunch of people playing video games or something?

Critical Role is an ongoing RPG game (D&D 5e) played by a bunch of notable voice actors from video games, including Ashely Johnson (The Last of Us), Liam O’Brien (idk, he voiced some guy named Illidan somewhere? I know very little about video games), and Laura Bailey (she’s Laura goddamn Bailey). The Dungeon Master is Matthew Mercer (blanking - Overwatch cowboy) who’s REALLY GODDAMN GOOD at being a DM, and indeed does it as part of his full-time job now, because at some point they all went “fuck it” and incorporated as their own company. Because fuck yeah. Last spring (my god it was only last spring) they did a kickstarter to fund an animated series of some previous RPG adventures, and it broke several records and now - slowed by the global pandemic - there’s gonna be 2 seasons of an animated show, hosted by Amazon I think? (Every time I think about that I scream softly in excitement in my mind.)

It’s currently on its second big, multi-year campaign, with the adventuring party The Mighty Nein. Their previous campaign starred Vox Machina. Some highlights, arbitrarily mixed together, include:

that time Vox Machina had a cannonball contest, displaying their distinct personalities and powersets really well, actually

that time the Mighty Nein accidentally got into a fight with some smugglers and then the city guard, accidentally stole a ship, and thus, and I cannot emphasize this enough, accidentally became pirates

“Take me instead, you raven bitch.”  - Vax’ildan of Vox Machina, half-elven rogue, offering his own life to the goddess of death in exchange for his sister’s and (unbeknownst to him at the time) beginning of long character arc of multiclassing as a paladin

Vox Machina’s archnemeses: doors, and also the elderly

the Mighty Nein’s archnemeses: chairs

Veth Brenatto, sometimes Nott the Brave, of the Mighty Nein regaining - with the help of her friends - her halfling form after years as a goblin, and immediately dip-kissing her husband and kicking all aforementioned friends (and her son) out so they can have sex

Taliesin Jaffe had eerie luck with nat20s in the Vox Machina campaign, but I maintain that Laura Bailey [harp music] actually has the best record for narratively on-point nat20s, including but not limited to:

two consecutive nat20s as Vex’ahlia of Vox Machina, half-elven ranger, to shoot the Briarwoods (sexy wizard/vampire couple) when they were about to kill her brother

True Love’s Nat20, rolling as part of the resurrection ritual to bring back Percy (Percival Fredrickstein von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III, human gunslinger of VM)

in the culminating moment of an episode in which the M9 one by one spoke with ancient, evil hag about what they might trade her in order to lift the curse on Nott, tiefling Jester Lavorre rolling at nat20 deception check to trick the into hag eating a cupcake laced with magic dust that lowered her ability to resist the Modify Memory curse Jester immediately cast, convincing the hag that she’d already agreed to the deal without demanding anything in return

not a Vex roll but Vex-enabled: dropping Grog (goliath barbarian) out of basically a magical pokeball with perfect dramatic timing for him to roll a nat20 final blow on his evil abusive uncle, cleaving him in twain

“Call me child one more goddamn time--”  - Keyleth of the Air Ashari, half-elven druid of VM, snarling at the ancient green dragon who’d orchestrated the destruction of 1/4 of Keyleth’s people

“You were not born with poison in your veins....Welcome to the Mighty Nein.”  - Caleb Widogast, human wizard, consoling/forgiving/welcoming aa lawful evil NPC who they’d caught playing a major part in creating a war between two empires for The Greater Ultimate Good (and kinda his own personal gain)...but he was their friend already at that point and Caleb had his own history with doing terrible things that he thought were right at the time, and actually someone else might’ve said the “Welcome to the Mighty Nein” part but that’s intrinsically part of it, and it’s...something they say to a lot of people; to a range of NPCs and guest characters. Which is interesting because Vox Machina DIDN’T; they were a tighter family unit but...well, they were a tighter family unit. And kinda...better people, more Heroes(TM)? Disastrous and often very fucked up inside and sometimes out, but Heroes(TM), on the whole. 

whereas the M9 are more trying to sort out their own personal problems, and stumble into international politics almost by mistake. Even their relationships with NPCs are different - they don’t trust, none of the M9 trust in a way VM did, the party took much longer to gel just with each other. Partly, admittedly, because by the time Vox Machina came to the YouTube screen, the cast had been playing at home for about a year, whereas we’ve been watching the M9 from level 1...but even accounting for that, they’re all much less trusting people. Most of them had big secrets in their backstory

which is why it’s all the more wonderful every time they invite someone new it, either outside the group or just with each other. And it pays off - I don’t have a whole meta, but I’ve been thinking idly for a while about how kinda...the big (DM-created) plot twists in the VM campaign were generally...disruptions, dissolutions, or betrayals? The deception of Raishan (aforementioned ancient green dragon.) Hotis’s assassination attempt on Vax, while disguised as a trusted NPC. When Emperor Uriel stepped down and before he��d even finished his speech, there was a sudden invasion of 4 goddamn ancient dragons. Whereas the M9...not only have no NPCs unexpectedly turned on them (the grievous actions of aforementioned lawful evil NPC were mostly pre-story), but it feels almost like a plot twist every time an NPC in authority is benevolent? Like, they arranged peace negotiations between the warring empires and I think every single fan and player was waiting with bated breath for it to all go wrong...and it didn’t. There’s a truce, now. Will it last? Who knows. Jester’s god turned out to not be a god at all, just an archfey in over his head, but he’s not trying to hurt anyone - he came clean and asked for help.

Idk, man. Critical Role streams on Twitch every Thursday at 7pm, or at least, it’ll keep doing so if public health concerns don’t make it take a break again, and it makes me unironically happy to watch, pretty much every time. The cast has great friend chemistry and, now that they’ve all warmed up to each other, so do the characters.

Episodes DO tend to be 3-4 hours long, shaving off maybe half an hour in the podcast versions, so be aware of that. But I just kind of set Thursday evenings aside and I love it. 

it’s funny bc I told my roommate I probably wasn’t going to go on a long emphatic ramble in response to this but Here We Are

[mattzerella-sticks]

Supernatural Crack🩹tober

Day 6: Bi Bi Bi - Generations

1957

           Henry asks him to detail his encounter, again. “I – I didn’t have my, uh… my pen.” He shakes it, awkwardly chuckling.

           The other man – Paul – whistles a sad note at having to repeat his story but does so anyway. “Like I said, I was minding my business – taking a walk through the park…”

           Nodding, Henry scribbles over the little notepad what he should have been writing from the start. If he hadn’t been distracted. By disheveled hair, five o’clock shadows, blue eyes and broad shoulders under a too-tight t-shirt. Paul describes his encounter with the shifter in full detail. Henry barely collects enough information for his investigation. When their meeting ends, Paul ushering him out the door, Henry almost cries in relief. Still, there’s a routine to this. Rules he, a Men of Letters, must follow.

           “If you see anything else,” Henry says, handing Paul a business card, “you can reach me, here.”

           Not really. Henry rarely spends time in the Bunker, unlike his fellow colleagues who skulk around like the very ghosts they study. They’d more than likely answer the phone. Why he told Paul that, he cannot explain. Neither the rush Henry felt when Paul grabbed the card, and for a few scant seconds, they both held it. Thumbs inches apart from one another. Until Henry let go, stepping past the threshold and breathing deep from clean air not tainted by aftershave and loose cigarettes. Confusion flies from his mind like the birds overhead in the sky. Cawing while he walked the short distance from Paul’s trailer towards his car.

           That’s all he would need. A simple trek would send those queer thoughts heavenward, never to bother him again. Paul’s face stayed with him, though, when he entered the car. How his lips moved when asking simple questions, like if he wanted a drink. His fingers on the bottle while he poured, somehow maintaining eye contact with him. That damned business card.

           Henry tightens his grip on the steering wheel, shuddering as it all replays in his mind, frame by frame through his mental projector.

           Luckily, pinned on the rearview, was a picture of his beloved. Millie. Smiling like a ray of sunshine, parting those awful clouds. She gives him strength, and with one final push, shoves those thoughts far away. Paul’s strong fingers were replaced with her delicate ones, and the only lip he thinks about is her soft, pink ones. Her face is all he ever needs. With Millie, he can overpower any temptation.

           “And that’s normal,” he mutters, starting the engine, “we all have temptations… as long as I never give in.”

           On the roads, it’s hard. But that’s why, wherever he goes, he carries a piece of Millie with him. To make it easy.

1989

           John wakes up with a sharp knife cleaving his head in twain, and a dull ache low near his stomach. Gurgling, he rubs a tired hand through his hair. Blocks intrusive sun rays with a calloused paw, mumbling all the while about extinguishing the sun.

           “Yeah,” someone chuckles nearby, sheets rustling as he moves. A heavy arm wraps around him. “The sun’s a fuckin’ loser.”

           Despite the monster-sized hangover he nurses, John sprung from the bed. “What the –“ He bites hard on his tongue, enough to draw blood, as he fully takes in the bed’s other occupant. Bronzed skin, chestnut hair fanning out behind him on the pillow. Bloodshot, blue eyes squinting up at him. Chest bare, the rest thankfully hidden under the blanket. But judging by his own state, and that of the room with clothes strung about, he saw enough. Blissfully forgotten, lost when he sobered.

           “Hey,” the stranger drawls, sitting. Watching John with a furrowed brow. “What’s wrong?”

           He twitches, telegraphing his next moves with blaring sirens. John barks a quick order, “No!” in time, startling the other back into bed.

           “What?”

           “No,” he continues, growling. Reaching for a pair of pants, one leg inside. “No, you… you stay there –“

           “What?” he says again, angrier, “John, what the hell is going –“

           “No!” he roars, whipping around. Jeans still unbuttoned, unzippered. “Do not address me, you –“ Like a gunshot, he hurls the insult and watches all the life drain from the other man. Paler than earlier, his lips thin. “I am going to get dressed,” John says, shoulders quaking with rage. At the stranger. At himself. At what happened last night. “And I will leave. You will wait exactly ten minutes. Not nine, not eleven – ten. After that you can do whatever the hell you want as long as we never see each other again. Because if we do I…” John advances, snagging his button down on the way. Strangles the fabric in his grip. “I promise you will not like it.”

           Learning from his earlier missteps, the stranger wordlessly nods, drawing up the covers around his waist.

           “Good.”

           He throws the shirt on, hastily buttoning it. Tucks it into his now-fastened pants, and finds his stained jacket. Then, he grabs his shoes. Exiting barefoot, no care to waste time putting them on. More important that he create distance between him and his mistake.

           It won’t be far. First, he notices his Baby. Parked haphazardly but in one piece. The relief that ballooned in his chest bursts as his gaze trails from that towards the overhead motel sign. A familiar one. The same he saw when driving in three weeks ago, checking in while he skulked about for hunts.

           John looks behind him, at the room he left. Even in a stupor, he found a room on the other side. Far from his kids, his secret safe another day. He slams a boot against his head, ringing increasing from the blow. “Stupid, stupid…” he mutters, walking, “You promised… after the last time, you promised -!”

           This happened before. More than the standard one time – because every boy practiced kissing with their best friend. At least, that’s what Marty told him in the eighth grade. Once isn’t a big deal. Repeat performances and… and other lewd acts, that crosses over into queer territory. Dangerous territory. For him as a man, and a father.

           If only Mary… she stopped it, for a while. Woman or man, there wasn’t a person alive who stole his breath quite like her. Who made his heart skip a beat in a normal way. When she died, normality went with her.

           He hoped at least some of it would stay. But with enough drink, anything is possible.

           Standing outside his door, shifting on his feet, John promises to be better. Resist falling into old habits, into men’s arms. Otherwise, one day, he won’t be as lucky. And where would his boys be…

           “Whatever,” he sighs, opening the door, “women’re better anyway.”

           John expected, with how low the sun was, he’d find a quiet room. Two children fast asleep, and a table John can sit at and consider his life choices. The table’s there, and at least one child lay unmoving on the bed.

           Dean, however, sits on the edge of his bed. Bowl of cereal on his lap, he barely flinched at John’s entrance. Mesmerized by the television screen.

           Creeping forward, he curiously spies on the cartoon Dean watches. He recognizes the explosions and music, glad his son enjoyed a perfect boys’ show like G.I. Joe. Still, freaked by his morning, John sees the cartoon with new eyes. Were the men on the show always that jacked? Abnormally so? And men don’t hug, why are they? John only hugged his fellow soldiers for select reasons, and those nights ended in hushed whispers and regret.

           He strides across the room and clicks the television off.

           “Hey!” Dean cries, “I was watching –“

           “You won’t ever watch that show again, you hear me?” he says, sternly wagging his finger. “Do you hear me?”

           Dean whines, kicking his legs. “Why? What’s so bad about it?”

           “Because,” he splutters, cheeks flushed, “because, you don’t want people to think you’re a fairy, do you?” His oldest frowns, clearly confused. Unused to the term. John, reticent, turns from him. “Besides, you’re too old for cartoons anyway. Men don’t watch cartoons.” At Dean’s silence, John heads for the bathroom. “Wake Sammy, tell him we’re leaving –“

           “What?”

           “Your things better be packed by the time I finish showering.” He shuts the door, blocking any response.

           Hidden from his kids, John bleeds every ounce of tension from his body. Shoes drop, booming in the small space. Shuffling further, John braces himself against the sink. Stares at his reflection, hating every sinful inch. “Never again,” he whispers, “you’re stronger than your mistakes.”

2020

           Dean watches his reflection mouth the words, easy without sound. But when he tries voicing those thoughts, his voice crackles and cuts out. Plug pulled before anything happens, too frightened by what might be.

           “You can do this,” he mutters, splashing some water on his face. “You can do this.” He’s had how many years? Of figuring things out. Of lying. Of acceptance. It’s three words. There are scarier things than that, and Dean has taken them all down.

           But this?

           Sam knocks on the door, “Dean? You finished in there?”

           “Give me a sec, Sam!” he calls, wiping his hands on a nearby towel. His brother drumming continuing behind him, testing his patience. “Seriously!”

           “Come on… I want to shower!” Scoffing. Sam slams a heavy hand on the door. “Can you please come out already?”

           Dean swings it open, Sam’s brows jumping in surprise. “Fine!” he shouts, flailing, “I’m bisexual. Are you happy?”

           Sam scowls, looking unimpressed. “Is that all?”

           “…Yeah?”

           “Good,” Sam says, offering a tiny smile. Only momentarily, as in the next second it flattens into a frown. “Now, if you're done, can you please exit the bathroom so I can wash the witch gunk from my hair?”

           “Sure, sure…” Dean stumbles out, Sam rushing in after. Chest lighter, as was his mood. He giggles from the absurdity of it all, raking shaking fingers through his hair. “I’m bisexual,” he repeats, “I’m bi – I’m bi!”

           A hurricane of thoughts whip through is mind. Many of them a variation of what he’s already announced. In the eye of that storm, however, is a crystal-clear lake of blue. A comfort, that makes his heart swell and feel safe. The same color as a very, important person’s eyes.

           Dean dials his number, holding the phone to his ear. He answers on the third ring, Dean speaking over him. “Hey, Cas! I – I have something to tell you. I’m –“

(Day 5 - Now That’s an Angel Blade)

[gabriel-gabdiel]

Youtou Shinnoken: Demon Sword Chapter 57: Living Sin (Part 9)

Hiei does his best to take care of Usui Uonuma, who’s gunning for his Jagan. In turn, Yusuke deals with his old behemoth of an enemy who was once merely B-Class in power level.

Kenshin in turn deals with an enemy from his past with the assistance of one of the Spirit World ferry-girls.

Credit for the pictures goes to Ozzy Oz da Vyrus. 

The original source of this idea comes from Chad Yang. I continued his story idea found here.

The rest of the chapters of my Yuyu Hakusho and Rurouni Kenshin crossover fan fiction are available here and here. Enjoy.

First | Previous | Next

Up above the Okushiri Military Base....

The flying fortress made of solidified reiatsu (spiritual pressure or pressurized spirit energy) care of the Quest-Class powers of Detective Daiji Matsudaira (the reincarnation of Aoshi Shinomori) landed on the helipad of the base, startling the soldiers there.

Yahiko had earlier requested Botan to fly even higher up than the flying castle with purple beams of light shooting out of it in order to get the drop on the structure.

Literally.

From 50 kilometers above the earth, Yahiko descended straight towards the moving castle, its concentrated jaki beams dissipating against the ghostly human missile and his neutralizing reiki.

He first skydived from the ferry-girl's oar (much to her surprise and chagrin) up in the stratosphere and did his imitation of the Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu's "RYU TSUI SEN! (DRAGON HAMMER FLASH!)" for starters.

The impact then cracked the topmost outer shell of the dense fortress.

A trickle of reiatsu leaked off of the spiritual construct, like scattering fireflies in the night.

He then did one of his own Revisal Techniques of the Kamiya Kasshin School, named, "DOU GAMI! (GOD ON EARTH!)", which rocked the castle further at its core and spread cracks all over its very foundations.

Daiji's solidified reiatsu then turned into a shower of outright sparks, the solidified energy sublimating and ionizing into pure spirit energy.

Finally, the Tokyo Samurai Spirit executed a "TEN GAMI! (GOD IN HEAVEN!)" that started the downward spiral of the moving building, the cracks turning into outright crags and debris as the teenaged ghost got jettisoned high above even the stratosphere, reaching instead all the way to the mesosphere.

He reached a height about 70 kilometers or 43 miles away from earth.

The young samurai kid drove the Onmyouji's prison that whole distance from heaven to earth with a sky-cleaving, earth-shattering strike, or at least a strike powerful enough to send cloudy shockwaves behind them as they broke through the speed barrier.  

"INGA GAMI! (KARMIC GOD!)"

Yahiko's first of two ultimate attacks had enough jaki-neutralizing power to push that huge pillar right into the middle of the military base like a meteorite. A shooting star.

The sublime mix of reiki (spirit energy) and jaki (negative energy) then ionized into their base forms, the kenki (swordsman energy) that bound them fading away into the ether.

All of these forms of energy were neutralized by Yahiko's own strange spirit energy. His own reiatsu or unique mixture of reiki and kenki.

His strike from his self-made sakabatou (Kenshin's reverse-edged sword that Yahiko manifested using his reiki) was powerful enough to warp time and space itself. Like a blunt version of the Jigen Tou.

Only a single helipad-sized spire of the formerly huge fortress was left by the time it crash-landed unto the base.

***

Youtou Shinnoken: Demon Sword

A Rurouni Kenshin/Yuyu Hakusho Crossover Fan Fiction Story by Chester Castañeda

Original Concept by Chad Yang

The Kenshingumi will now take care of their loose ends before fighting the final boss of this arc. This battle is about to explode! FIGHT!

Disclaimer: Yuyu Hakusho is the rightful property of Yoshihiro Togashi, Shueisha, Fuji TV, and Studio Pierrot. Rurouni Kenshin is the rightful property of Nobuhiro Watsuki, Shueisha, Shonen Jump, Viz, Sony Studios, Fuji TV, Studio Gallop, Studio Deen, and ADV. This disclaimer also covers all the other copyrighted materials that are far too many to mention here. Don't sue me please, I'm very poor.

***

Chapter 57: Living Sin (Part 9)

***

Back at Kitaoimisaki Park...

Usui Uonuma shook his head. The newbie member of the New Ten Swords, Kuronue, was outwitted by the legendary demon fox Youko Kurama as well.

If you wanted something done right, do it yourself.

Amidst the burned shadows and silhouettes that were once Kuronue stood Usui, his previously broken Tinbe practically whole now.

With it now capable of withstanding the heat and impact of multiple Jaou-En-Satsu Kokuryuha (Dragons of Darkness Flames) from Jaganshi (Evil Eye User) Hiei, the black serpentine flames were unable to affect the turtle shell one way or another.

But Uonuma knew that Jaganshi Hiei had one more ace up his sleeve. The Chojin's spies had briefed him about the fire demon and his ability to absorb the power of the fiery dragon beings unto himself.

As expected, Hiei boosted his speed and power tremendously by absorbing the flame dragons of the Kokuryuha right into his body, his youki (demon energy) rising to astonishing levels. To S-Level and beyond.

Under the old Reikai rules, Hiei's presence there would've been considered outright illegal. A demon that powerful shouldn't be in the Ningenkai (Human World).

A demon that powerful was on par with one of the Chojin's Ten Swords.

'So this demon's name is Hiei, huh?' thought the blind man, waxing nostalgic. That was also the name of the mountain where the old Juppon Gatana (Ten Swords) stronghold was.

What a curious demon. He had the speed of Souiro "Heaven Sword" Seta and the strength (or even firepower) of Makoto Shishio.

If Usui could conquer this strong demon, then he'd get one more step closer to standing as equals with the Youkiri (Demon-Slayer) Tenro.

To sit at the right hand of an unborn god. To be able to challenge an unborn god and become one himself.

Nah, perhaps that last one was still a bridge too far for him. But this, defeating the fire demon, wasn't.

The dragons roared and gnawed against the Tinbe but like a mountain standing above the earth with a crown of clouds, it wouldn't yield.

His Tinbe then reformed completely, but there was a gap the size of a sword slash right on its upper top left corner.

That was where Hiei focused his attack, sticking the tip of his Jaou-En-Satsu Ken (Sword of Darkness Flame) right into it, forcing its way in.

Hiei learned a lot from Kurama's little trick earlier with the Demon World Moss. This time around, the jaganshi found a weak point before the shield was able to fully heal or reconstitute itself.

Hiei's aura of youki and black flames flared to life, increasing the pressure on that one little crack, like a pressure cooker about to burst.

More cracks appeared on the shield as the pressure built up further and further. It reached the boiling point and then went beyond it. Through this one weakness, Hiei was able to focus his demonic energies and bust through.

The Tinbe cracked apart in twain and then into a million pieces, and from there Hiei released all of the Dragons of Darkness Flame unto Usui's hapless form.

However, that was actually a ruse.

The blind swordsman and spearman had actually activated a second illusion from Jine Udo's Jagan as Hiei attacked with the full power of the Kokuryuha inside of him, knowing full well that his Tinbe wasn't complete yet.

However, by making Hiei dream that he had broken the false Tinbe, this bought Usui enough time to completely manifest his real Tinbe with the small crack or gap finally filled in.

It was this shield that stopped the Dragons of Darkness Flame cold.

Usui baited Hiei into wasting his one shot at him and it worked. Hook, line, and sinker.

Every last one of the flame dragons crashed uselessly against the reinforced and complete Tinbe, like the waves of the ocean crashing against the sea wall or dam. The tides turned but the wall remained unperturbed.

Hiei's Jagan was now his...!

However, as Uonuma began his counter Rochin stab with the intension of pinning both Hiei and Kurama into the nearest wall like twin butterflies, something felt amiss.

His body then literally fell apart into tiny pieces of meat cubes, red mist spraying all around him.

Usui was able to seal the crack on his Tinbe, but the gap of time he needed to do his counterstrike was all Hiei required to strike back.

In that fraction of a fraction of a second, the super-powered fire demon slashed at him at the rate of a hundred times per second. Or more.

Before Usui could block one strike with his shield. Or counter with a thrown spear to the heart or face.  Or even activate Jine's Jagan at the last second and create another illusion to fool Hiei with.

Moving faster than his sensitive hearing could detect. Or predict.

Moving faster than his mind could fathom.

Moving faster than sound itself.

***

About a hundred years ago, around the 1870s, inside Shishio's hidden fortress within Mount Hiei...

From out of the blue, Usui Uonuma asked Makoto Shishio a simple question.

"Between the Ten Ken (Heaven Sword) and myself, who is more powerful?" he had asked out of whimsy. "Who would win in a fight?"

Shishio chuckled, swirling the wine inside his wineglass as he considered Uonuma's unusual query. He decided to humor his former hitokiri (manslayer) rival.

"You can keep up with Sou-kun's speed up until he uses the Shun Ten Satsu (Instant Heaven Kill), which is him using both battoujutsu (sword-drawing techniques) and the Shukuchi (Reduced Earth) at the same time. If you're able to disable him before that, then you will win."

"Shun Ten Satsu, huh?" repeated Usui. "Why do you think that?"

Makoto drunk his drink in one shot and then gave the glass back to his courtesan and lover, Yumi Komagata.

"It's simple. You can counter anything you can hear, smell, sense, and react to, right? Sou-kun's Shun Ten Satsu is faster than sound. Your Shingan won't even hear him coming."

***

Back in 1993, at Mount Kannon...

Kenshin Himura sighed as he trudged on foot back to Mt. Kannon within the Hidaka Mountain Range of Hokkaido.

He had Kazuma Kuwabara place him near the mountain care of the trusty Jigen Tou (Dimension Sword).

Like in the case of the battle at Mount Kamui, Mount Kannon was outside of Okushiri.

Kenshin had absorbed enough spirit energy from all the Reikai Tantei (Spirit Detectives) earlier to manifest himself and his spiritual body on his own, without being wielded by any of them.

Although he was kind of curious what sort of powers would manifest if his sword were held by the likes of Yahiko Myojin, Natsuki Shinkai, Likka Ikumi, or Daiji Matsudaira.

Perhaps another time, they'd find out.

Most of the energy he soaked up came from Yusuke Urameshi, in fact. It should last him until the rest of the battle.

The fact that Yusuke's reiki was that immense was both reassuring and worrying.

Reassuring in that they had the big guns against the Shin Juppon Gatana (New Ten Swords) this time around. Worrying in that he wasn't sure if it was Rando's Kugai (World of Suffering) curse or Urameshi's own developing powers that led him to have this surplus of energy.

Without all those multiple seals that held back his power, Yusuke might still suffer from power incontinence. He might still be unable to control his full immeasurable strength.

Regardless, Himura had other concerns to deal with. He was busy taking care of this Chinese warrior earlier, who wounded him in battle that made it difficult for him to save Hajime Saito from Feng Xinhai's schemes and Toguro Ani's attempt at possession.

A Chinese warrior that ended up related to him and his dark past after all.

The stranger with white hair and crazed eyes that Kenshin fought was no stranger to him after all. He remembered who the man was.

The man's name was Enishi Yukishiro, all grown up. The younger brother of Kenshin's ex-wife, Tomoe.

Since Tomoe was Kenshin's ex-wife, that made Enishi his brother-in-law. A brother-in-law with a century-old grudge regarding Kenshin's (accidental) murder of Tomoe Himura (nee Yukishiro).

"...Tell me, Battousai. Is my sister smiling down on you from heaven?" so said Tomoe's brother, Enishi.

Enishi had somehow ended up in the Heisei Era and got himself mixed up in Kenshin's current affairs. Himura could've almost sworn that his brother-in-law had died back in the Bakumatsu.

The younger brother of Tomoe was one of many unsettled debts Kenshin left when he died fighting against Makoto Shishio back at Mount Hiei.

In their first meeting in a hundred years, Enishi even gave Kenshin the same wound that ultimately killed Tomoe.

Meanwhile, as Himura neared where he previously defeated the martial artist, the cross-shaped scar on his cheek flared with a twinge of pain. No, actually the cuts felt as painful and fresh to him as the first time they were made.

The scar somehow ached even more than the much deeper laceration on his chest that still hadn't fully healed.

Like a paper cut that microscopically tore through skin and thousands of nerve endings like a jagged handsaw.

As though Enishi's very presence had reactivated Tomoe's curse on him. The curse of the cross-shaped scar.

***

At the helipad of the Okushiri Military Base...

"Get the HELL out of THERE! Sadojima Houji!" beckoned Yahiko as he sheathed his sakabatou while Botan herself swooped down from above then behind him.

He further chided, "That strike wasn't enough to take you down, right? No, you still have the Chojin's powers inside you, you dirty rat. Of course that wasn't enough!"

"You're being too loud, Yahiko! You're bothering the military people!" was what Botan resisted herself from saying, inwardly reminding the Kaoru inside her, 'He's supposed to be loud, you silly goose! The Chojin and his forces are invading Okushiri, remember? If not Hokkaido altogether!'

The aforementioned military base had long ago been put on high alert ever since supernatural beings started attacking different parts of the island at once.

Many of their deployed teams didn't return to the base hours after deployment.

"Stand aside, kid!" one of the soldiers said, who in Yahiko's eyes should've looked more shocked at seeing the seeming U.F.O. land in the middle of their base. "Civilians aren't allowed in here. This is now official military business!"

Another private attempted to grab hold of Myojin, only for him to slip his grasp. The teenaged version of Yahiko willed his ghostly self to become incorporeal.

The Jieitai or JSDF (Japanese Self-Defense Forces) then surrounded what was left of Daiji's solidified reiatsu structure, their guns cocked and ready to go.

What remained of Matsudaira's seal broke apart like a hatching egg.

And from there came forth the Onmyouji (Occult Priest) in all his glory, wearing a mix of a business suit with an occultist robe serving as his overcoat. The true right-hand man of the Overfiend.

With purple glowing eyes and a miasmic aura that flowed all over his body like thick black and crimson smoke from a smoldering flame, Houji spoke in askance.

"Why do you want to fight me, Myojin Yahiko? Do you bear a grudge against me? Do you hate me from the bottom of your heart?"

Yahiko was taken aback by the question. "W-What...?"

"Right now, you have no such hate in your heart," said Houji the Onmyouji. "You're fighting out of a sense of duty to your friends. To your idol, Himura Battousai. Otherwise, you'd have no such quarrel against me."

Or perhaps Sadojima was merely acting as the representative speaker to one other person.

Perhaps Myojin was actually talking to the Chojin (Overfiend) himself. The mastermind behind all these resurrected baddies from the Meiji Era to the Heisei Era.

Just who the hell was the Chojin anyway? Was he Makoto Shishio? Or someone else entirely?

The Onmyouji's ghoulish shikigami (familiars) with their tattered robes and sharp scythes flew at the gathered soldiers, who fired at them to no avail.

"STOP!" screamed both Yahiko and Botan at the familiars prior to the massacre that was about to take place.

None of the military men stood a chance against these supernatural beings.

***

Back in Hokkaido, far away from Okushiri, at the foot of Mt. Kannon...

Kenshin witnessed Enishi's strength firsthand.

The Chinese warrior had become so powerful he drove Himura Battousai himself from the forests of Okushiri all the way to a whole separate mountain range in Hokkaido, miles away from the island.

By pure willpower and hatred, Enishi grew strong enough to give pause to even the powered-up version of Battousai that had his own magical Demon Sword.

The Overfiend had indeed prepared for every last contingency. He was every bit as cunning as Youko Kurama himself.

Earlier, Kenshin's chest actually got hit by Enishi Yukishiro's ultimate attack, the Kofuku Zetsu Tou Sei or Kofuku Zettousei (Crouching Tiger Severing Sword Rush), as a counter to the Amakakeru Ryu no Hirameki (Heavens Gliding Dragon Flash).

Kenshin was also distracted by the fact that Tomoe's brother managed to find him a century later to enact his rightful revenge. His Jinchu.

That was why he was defeated by a technique Enishi must've trained over and over again to counter all sorts of battoujutsu strikes, including the ultimate one devised for the Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu.

Luckily, instead of doing the follow-up strike that would've also missed, Kenshin had the foresight to do a more powerful version of the Dou Ryu Sen on the ground that was enhanced by the vortex created by the succession technique.

This last-minute creative counter was what initially buried Enishi right into the heart of Mt. Kannon.

Regardless, Kenshin arrived back at his earlier starting point.

By Himura's estimation, only he or maybe Yusuke could take Yukishiro out one-on-one. Enishi should not be allowed to join forces with the rest of the Shin Ju.

***

Yahiko manifested his neutralizing reiki and kenki all over the military base with a sparkling blue and yellow light that blended together and formed a green glow. This then warded off the raggedy evil spirits that served as the Onmyouji's shikigami.

It was his own form of spirit pressure. His spirit energy interacted with his swordsman presence in a way that sealed or canceled out the spiritual power of his opponents.

Botan, in turn, flickered back and forth between her original shinigami (death goddess) form and Kaoru Kamiya's form as she saved the soldiers from being reaped by Houji's soul reapers by using her floating boat oar like a bokken (wooden sword) or naginata (glaive).

The two Kamiya Kasshin Ryu practitioners made short work of the familiars before they could take one life of the JSDF military corps.

"Please evacuate from here. You're no match against them," explained Botan to one of the soldiers before swatting multiple weakened shikigami away with her weaponized boat paddle.

One of Myojin's shikigami-dissipating swings swiped mere inches away from Houji's face, creating a thin cut over the bridge of his nose.

"Swinging a sword mindlessly at someone out of hatred is just violence. Kenshin taught me that," said Yahiko. "My duty as the Son of Tokyo Samurai is to defeat you. That is all. I'll even stake my life on it."

Sadojima smirked. "So be it. Samurai-san."

From behind Houji teleported the ever-reliable Gatekeeper Itsuki.

Yahiko turned towards the blue-haired shinigami and told her, "Quick, call Boke (Moron) and tell him to come here right now."

"Boke...?" trailed off Botan.

"KUWABARA! Kuwabara Kazuma! We need him here now! If he needs healing, heal him up as well! He and his space sword are the only ones who can take on that green-haired yoga guy and his goddamn portals!"

"All right! I'll call him! Jeez," said Botan, who turned on her communicator.

"Language, Yahiko!" reprimanded the Kaoru inside her in turn.

Afterwards, Itsuki summoned a multitude of warp gates, this time rectangular and doorway-shaped instead of circular and hole-shaped.

Inside each dimensional door was either the corpse (as well as ashes) or unconscious body of the many different Shin Juppon Gatana members.

It was through these gates that the Occult Priest blasted his purple beams of negative energy. Before, they served as destructive pillars of neon plasma. Now, they were probably used to give the killed or otherwise heavily injured Shin Ju another lease on life.

"Oh no," said Botan. "Not again. He's not going to revive all the New Ten again, is he? Jeez, we just defeated those goons! Learn how to stay down and give up!"

The shining eyes of Houji the Onmyouji then dimmed and faded away, replaced with his actual normal eyes.

"Ah, you returned. The snotty little brat. How does it feel to go back to zero after all the effort you've spent killing the Shin Ju? Like Sisyphus and his rock, right?"

The boisterous nature of the Chojin's conduit had returned. Houji was seemingly awakened from his brief slumber earlier, when he actually sounded "cool" and "aloof" for a hot minute.

"Hey," said Yahiko. "What happened to you earlier? You weren't the one talking, were you?"

Houji raised an eyebrow at that. "What do you mean?"

"Don't play dumb. It was the Chojin who talked to us back then, right?" asked Myojin. "Tell it to me straight: The Chojin is Shishio Makoto, isn't he? Of course, he is! Who else would start a war against the Spirit World with a team called the New Ten Swords? No one but him!"

The necromancer chuckled. "That's a... secret."

With a grunt, the samurai teen jumped and attacked the Chojin's right-hand man with a downward slash from the Jodan-no-Kamae (Fire Stance), which was then blocked by Houji's scythe.

They crossed blades, their different energies clashing against each other as arcs of lightning ripped through everywhere like light-filled cracks that broke through reality itself.

Houji's lack of formal training with his weapon was rendered moot due to his seemingly oceanic flow of negative energy that gave his simple block the weight of the world. Or at least the huge water pressure of the ocean depths.

However, regardless, the beams of purple plasma emanating from the dark priest flickered and wavered as it interacted with the reiatsu of Yahiko.

"That's it! You can do it, Yahiko!" said the Kaoru within Botan. "Show them why I consider you the number one pupil of the Kamiya Kasshin School!"

"Can you really do it, boy?" asked Houji, smirking. "Can you seal away the overflowing, overwhelming power of the Chojin himself? The Living Sin?"

The dimensional doors leading to the Shin Ju were then shut down. Or rather, slashed shut.

Gatekeeper Itsuki chuckled, his slashed eye that doubled as a dimensional portal opening. "He's here."

Sure enough, in one of the doors, the jaki beam was slashed in twain, the negative energy cut down by the spiritual might of the Jigen Tou.

It was from this door that Kazuma Kuwabara emerged, the transparent ghost of a recovering Sanosuke Sagara beside hiim.

"You called, Jo-chan (Missy)?" said Sano.

"YOSHA! (HELL YEAH!) Let's get this party started, samurai boy!" shouted Kazuma, the rambunctious teenager with bleached orange hair similarly styled like his best friend Yusuke Urameshi's hair.

***

And so there he was. Buried deep underneath Mt. Kannon itself like Son Goku the Monkey King from the literary masterpiece, "Journey to the West".

The rumbling inside the grumbling mountain roared deeper and harder. Like it was about to explode and turn into a volcano.

"...BATTOUSAI!" screamed Tomoe Yukishiro's little brother Enishi from underneath Kannon Mountain, spewing hot fire along with the brimstone and magma he was surrounded in.

His spectacles had long ago been lost or burned to smoke and ash by molten rock. The rest of his outfit remained intact though, probably protected by his body's significant aura.

Yukishiro crawled out of the hot magma pits of hell, or at least the otherwise dormant mountain in an explosion of fire, smoke, molten rock, and lava flow that scarred and burned the surrounding forest.

The singes and burns on Enishi's (literally) piping hot body, however, started healing right before Kenshin's eyes.

Not quite at the level of instantaneous regeneration as the Elder Toguro, but quick enough to survive a trip down a volcano and live to tell the tale. Still too quick compared to a normal mortal though.

Besides which, he wasn't supposed to only be burned from the fires of a river of magma anyway. It must've taken thousands of degrees of heat to even leave him slightly scalded at all.

His humongous amount of spirit energy kept him from suffering life-threatening injury. The same way Hiei or Yusuke would've survived such a predicament.

The red-hot blade of the Chinese-styled warrior didn't quite reach its melting point but it cooled down from the sheer blast of miasmic spirit energy from him.

If allowed to run rampant like the rest of the Ten Swords, Yukishiro could very well murder every last one of them. The Reikai Tantei, the Kenshingumi, and the Oniwabanshu.

All of them could die. This high-level martial artist could do what at least 8 of the 10 Shin Ju couldn't. He was a one-man army. He was like their Hajime Saito. A true wild card of sorts.

Kenshin foresaw it all through the Youtou Shinnoken.

The last thing Yahiko and the rest of the Reikai Senshi (Spirit World Warriors) needed right now while battling the Onmyouji and the Chojin's wealth of negative energy was a spanner in the works like Enishi.

***

The powers of most of the reincarnations or ghosts from the Meiji Era—most of Kenshin's comrades—were a result of how their spirit energy interacted with their swordsman energy or fighting spirit, creating what was known as reiatsu.

With Daiji Matsudaira (Aoshi Shinomori's reincarnation), it was the Quest-Class manifestation of objects and materials from his spirit energy.

With Natsuki Shinkai (Yutaro Tsukayama's reincarnation), it was the ability to manipulate kinetic momentum or acceleration, usually in the form of reflection or deflection.

With Likka Ikumi (Misao Makimachi's reincarnation), it was her skill to manifest her thoughts into reality, creating visual mirages or even holographic illusions seen by all.

With Sanosuke Sagara's soul, it was his pure fighting spirit that allowed his ghost to approach Regent-Class regeneration abilities, stamina, and pure brute force that allowed him to affect the physical plain like a rampaging poltergeist.

With Kaoru Kamiya's soul, it was a mix between Botan's soul reaper powers and Kaoru's past swordsmanship skills that allowed them to heal, boost, replenish, bind, manipulate, or otherwise enhance the spirit energy within them or of those around them.

With Kenshin Himura's soul, he became one with the Demon Sword, a demon-slaying blade that could arguably injure or kill a god. His own reiki, kenki, and reiatsu interacted with anyone who wielded his blade in ways that raised their very power levels.

Finally, with Yahiko Myojin's soul, his unique brand of spirit energy interacted with other spirit energy (whether it was human or demonic) in a way that suppressed or neutralized them into nothingness.

Yahiko's unique powers worked like how an acid and a base reacted quantitatively with each other when mixed until the acidity of the acid disappeared. Or how Hiei's Jaou-En-Satsu Kokuryuha was cancelled out by Shinobu Sensui's polar opposite power of Sei Kou Ki (Saint Light Ki).

Their reiatsu was different from the reiki and youki used by Yusuke Urameshi and their comrades due to the use of other forms of reiki within the Meiji Era reincarnations and the use of classic shinigami warrior techniques among the revived spirits.

Reiatsu was more comparable to something like Sensui's Saint Light Ki or Yusuke mixing his reiki and youki together to form something approaching Sei Kou Ki instead of either pure reiki or youki. Even jaki.

It was through these souls—these seeds of hope—that Koenma Daio intended to defeat the Chojin and his unnatural powers that defied death and the natural order of the Spirit World.

***

Kurama's board full of chess pieces were in their proper places, which kept the Chojin in check. They were practically on the verge of a checkmate, even.

The pawns were positioned to divide and conquer the Shin Juppon Gatana, with each Reikai Senshi paired up to their appropriate members.

Their source of power, Houji, had his borrowed negative energy suppressed by Yahiko. Their means of transportation, Itsuki, got sealed off by the Reikai's own Kuwabara and his Dimensional Sword.

Botan was there to heal and replenish reiki as well as assist Myojin tactics-wise care of Kaoru. Sanosuke himself was gradually recovering his spirit energy and fighting spirit for good measure as "Jo-chan" or the shinigami she fused with nursed his flickering body back to health.

Kuwabara regained his second wind even, which allowed him to not only create portals but to close or destroy them with his twin Dimension Swords.

This kept the annoying Gatekeeper from transporting jaki to the injured/dead Shin Ju or even getting the recovered members to help Houji out.

Even with his use of Sensui's seven personalities and the new powers it brought him, Kazuma kept him at bay.

As for the shikigami that served as the Onmyouji's infantry, Sanosuke punched them out with the "FUTAE NO KIWAMI! (DUAL EXTREME!)" while riding shotgun on Botan's oar.  

So why did Myojin feel like something was amiss? Like he had a bad feeling about everything? Like something terrible was about to happen?

A new enemy descended from an unseen sky portal that Kuwabara noticed, slashed apart, and closed too late.

"Huh!?" was Yahiko's reaction to the new arrival. This distracted him even as he ended up on the verge of disarming the untrained Houji. "Who is that? Is it another replacement Shin Ju?"

Kuwabara said, "We've already confirmed that Toguro Ani and Kuronue replaced Suzaku and Udo Jine! It's not one of the New Ten! Must be one of the Dai Shin Kan instead!"

Sanosuke's jaw dropped. "No way...!" which made Botan and Kaoru ask in unison, "Who is that supposed to be, Sano?"

Kazuma jumped into action, intending to slash a portal and kick the newcomer into it, only for his Jigen Tou's energy to start unraveling before his eyes.

The woman in courtesan clothes smiled as she floated down using her umbrella as a parachute (like goddamn Mary Poppins, Botan realized), crimson energy emanating from her pale white skin.

"Ah, it's all coming together now." Houji cackled. "Welcome back, Komagata Yumi. Get rid of these insects for me, if you would please."  

And so Makoto Shishio's personal courtesan and lover arrived, dressed in her classic Meiji Era garb but this time there was a hole in her chest where her heart used to be.

The very place where Shishio stabbed her in order to do a surprise attack on Battousai Himura.

Also, she had long fangs inside her mouth.

"Inner Blood Turmoil," Yumi said as she sapped Kuwabara of all his spirit energy using the Kyuuketsuki Kakuto Ryu (Vampire Martial Arts) that Rando stole from her.

"SHIT! Now even Shishio's girlfriend has superpowers too?!" said Sanosuke, remembering the woman whom he did a bridal carry with as they traversed Shishio's Mt. Hiei stronghold.

"...BLOOD WIND!" she screamed, releasing a red energy-sapping tornado at the Reikai Senshi.

***

Originally, Kenshin was barely able to defeat Enishi and get back in time and save Sanosuke Sagara, Kazuma Kuwabara, and Hajime Saito from the nefarious machinations of Karasu, Feng Xinhai, Usui Uonuma, and Gatekeeper Itsuki at Mt. Kamui.

But now that his detour was over, he had to get back to his original business.

He had to. Or else Enishi would undo everything they'd done so far to suppress the New Ten Swords from conquering the island of Okushiri as well as Hokkaido.

"Sessha (This one) wonders why even though I thought I'd never met you before, you seemed to know everything about me de gozaru (that you did)."

"'Sessha'? 'De gozaru'?" Enishi repeated the words with a snarl and a dismissive snort. "Are you kidding me, Battousai? Why is the most fearsome hitokiri of the Bakumatsu acting like a gentle fool with flowery samurai language? Enough of your lies!"

"This one never thought to see you again after a hundred years. I was sure you were already dead," confessed Kenshin.

"I did die. But I live again. Reincarnated in a new era," said Enishi. "I willed this weak new body I was reborn into to become even stronger than I already was before you died in the hands of Shishio Makoto."

'So he survived the Bakumatsu after all,' thought Kenshin, who believed that Enishi had died of starvation as a little boy in the ensuing revolution.

"Now I will enact the revenge that I was robbed of a hundred years ago! If you've been dispensing Tenchu (Heavenly Retribution) in your time as a hitokiri, then this is Jinchu (Earthly Retribution) for all your sins! Prepare yourself, Battousai! ZETSUGI...!"  

From there, he didn't even give Himura the chance to breathe or any breathing room as he attacked, attacked, an attacked some more.

Tomoe's little brother had grown ridiculously strong. As though he'd been training the last hundred years for this one moment. Empowered purely by hate.

However, one way or another, Kenshin was able to contain Yukishiro's growing threat long enough to assist Saito's rescue or allow the Kenshingumi to go through their mission of taking out Houji.

Himura figured out how his Wattoujutsu (a mixture of Japanese swordsmanship and Chinese kung fu) worked after only seeing a couple of techniques from it.

The Demon Sword's blade then shone with an ethereal light before Kenshin's form changed altogether.

From a 30-year-old man, his body returned to his more youthful 15- to-16-year-old self.

The form he had before he developed the cross-shaped scars. When he was still known as the Hitokiri Battousai. This way, he could engage Enishi the same way he did against any other opponent.

Free of bias. Free of shame or guilt.

"SHUUGEKI TOU SEI! (KICKING SWORD RUSH!)"

This technique of Enishí's involved hitting his opponent from below then kicking the blunt side of his sword at the last second to maximize damage.

Thusly, Kenshin answered the technique back with his own, "SOU RYU SEN! (TWIN DRAGON FLASH!)"

"KAISHI TOU SEI! (BAYONET SWORD RUSH!)"

As for the Bayonet Sword Rush, it was a follow-up whirling counterattack or riposte involving Enishi putting the hilt of his sword against his opponent's sword to add momentum to his pivoting swing.

However, Kenshin had a similar counterstrike technique like that as well in the form of "RYU KAN SEN! (DRAGON WRAP FLASH!)"

"SHO HA TOU SEI! (PALM BREAK SWORD RUSH!)"

From the Jodan Stance, Enishi swept his sword starting from over his head down to the ground. Afterwards, he then placed the palm of his hand on the sword's blunt side to push it forward at full force.

The answer to this move that resembled the Dragon Hammer Flash was the "RYU SHO SEN! (RISING DRAGON FLASH!)", which was the natural Ryu Tsui Sen counter that doubled as a two-handed sword block wherein the sword was held by its handle and tip with either hand.

"CHOU TEN TOU SEI! (UP-AND-DOWN SWORD RUSH!)"

This was Wattoujutsu's version of the Ryu Sho Sen. It allowed Enishi to leap upwards using his sword as his pole vault then attack from the air by pulling his sword towards him by its hilt cord immediately after jumping.

Kenshin drew out the fearsome technique with a feinted Ryu Tsui Sen only to do the "RYU KAN SEN ARASHI! (DRAGON WRAP FLASH STORM!) at the last second, the multi-hit forward somersault sword strikes catching Yukishiro off-guard.

"Ugh!" Enishi landed bad on his ankle, his knees buckling from the force of the centrifugal strikes, the chainsaw-like windmill of strikes drawing a fine mist and squall of blood. "Damn you, Battousai...!"

Kenshin cut Enishi's cursing short with a jarring punch to his jaw.

Battousai Himura had a Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu answer to every one of the white-haired young man's Wattoujutsu techniques. He took advantage of Enishi's barrage of hateful, unfocused strikes with clinical precision.

The fact that Himura didn't realize who exactly he was fighting against until the last second helped him figure out the proper counters to Enishi's Wattoujutsu early on and even bury him right inside the Kamui Mountain itself. Albeit temporarily.

Kenshin imagined he'd have a harder time with the kung fu master swordsman were he distracted by his guilt for killing Tomoe and knowing Enishi's identity from the start.

"Is that all you've got, Battousai?" demanded the scuffed-up, bleeding-from-the-mouth Enishi, who spat away blood as his veins—no, his very nerves themselves—hypertrophied or thickened enough to become visible underneath his skin with vascular density.

This was his Kyokei Myaku (Nerves of Insanity) in action.

***

It was bedlam at the Military Base of Okushiri.

Ten things were happening at once, and barely anyone could keep up.

More soldiers were deployed to rescue the fallen and suppress the invaders.

They waged war against the Onmyouji's shikigami, even though many of them couldn't even see the grim reaper familiars.

They had to use their special thermal goggles to detect and shoot the enemy, but neither bullets nor grenades worked on them.

Botan had more luck dissipating the strange creatures into the ether, but that was because it was part of her job description as a soul reaper.

She did double duty in casting her healing and reiki-replenishing spells on Yahiko, Sanosuke, and Kuwabara while at the same time defeating her share of scythe-wielding reapers created from wayward earthbound spirits infected with the Chojin's jaki.

Also, the bodies were really hitting the floor now. Not due to the Kenshingumi (they were basically all ghosts) or their Reikai Tantei comrade falling into a dead faint.

It was because the vampire (or perhaps succubus) Yumi bit the necks and absorbed the blood of all the nearest JSDF soldiers to power her Kyuuketsuki Kakuto Ryu.

As for Gatekeeper Itsuki, he and Kuwabara were having a portal contest of sorts. He kept making portals while Kazuma kept slicing them apart.

Regardless, it took much longer for Yahiko to seal the power of the Chojin, the borrowed ocean of jaki overflowing with immense pressure from within gleeful Sadojima.

"TSUI GAMI...!? (HAMMER OF GOD...!?)"

Myojin's attempt at the sword-breaking, jaki-neutralizing Hammer of God was thwarted with a simple yet shuddering one-handed scythe swipe that belied Houji's actual physical strength.

"So you intend to beat me at this level of strength?" asked a smug Sadojima before releasing a pillar of jaki that made Yahiko kneel before him, as though bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Yahiko felt like he had plunged deep underwater, drowning in negative energy as the oceanic water pressure increased further and further the deeper he went.

Myojin grunted, grit his teeth, and rose up against the harsh and dense waves of pure jaki that bore down on him in waves, his green aura of reiatsu resisting the crushing force of the Overfiend's distant yet overbearing presence.

Like a black sun whose dark rays and heat reached the earth all the way from space despite being millions of miles away.

It was a tug of war between the Chojin's power boosts and Yahiko's neutralization skill.

Thanks to Botan and Kaoru, the ghost of Sanosuke had healed up and reenergized himself with reiki enough to summon his signature Zanbatou (Horse-Chopping Sword) again at long last.

He had more bandages than usual, half of which were spirit seals from Botan that kept his ectoplasm from escaping his ghostly form.

"ZANBATOU ATE! (ZANBATOU DISTANCE HIT!)"

Sanosuke's Zanbatou Ate, based on Anji Yukyuzan's Tou Ate (Bladed Distance Hit), created a landslide aimed at Houji, who shielded himself with his shikigami ghouls.

"ZANKUU ZANBATOU ATE! (ZANBATOU VACUUM DISTANCE HIT!) "

As for his Zankuu Zanbatou Ate, Sanosuke aimed it at the ensuing Blood Wind air funnel that the courtesan in revealing clothing fired off at him.

The last thing Sano expected was to use that 12-foot longsword against Shishio's lover, the non-fighter known as Yumi.

***

Enishi did a low split-legged crouch, only to charge with an onslaught of strikes instead of doing another Zettousei when he saw Kenshin sink his stance low in kind instead of taking his bait and attacking with the Hirameki.

"SENRAN TOU SEI! (WAR SWORD RUSH!)"

"RYU SOU SEN! (DRAGON NEST FLASH!)"

Sparks flew everywhere as though they were in a steel mill or foundry as they parried and attacked each other with impunity, their swords crossing and chipping at their edges.

Blood and ectoplasm stained the ground soon afterward from both combatants.

Enishi moved faster than Kenshin could react. Like an unswattable fly. Or perhaps a whole swarm of flies. Locusts. Bees. Wasps, even. A plague of wasps. His twitch muscles able to react to attacks or counterattacks by lightning-fast reflexes.

It was like dealing with Soujiro Seta's Shukuchi all over again. Himura couldn't even predict Enishi's strikes by reading his sakki (bloodlust) because he was exuding hatred and killer instinct at all times. At every waking moment.

Like the polar opposite of the Heaven Sword. It was no different to deal with someone who lacked bloodlust compared to someone who always exuded bloodlust. There was no sudden spike of killer instinct you could use to read an opponent's moves.

This forced Kenshin to take the initiative and jump high into the air in order to become the aggressor for a change, even if only to draw out a counterstrike that he could then counter.

"RYU TSUI SEN! (DRAGON HAMMER FLASH!)"

Yukishiro countered by also leaping vertically before Kenshin could drop him with the Dragon Hammer Flash. Afterwards, at the point where his jump force was equal to Earth's gravity, he jumped even further, thus essentially doing a double jump or what was known to basketball players as an airwalk.

"SHIKKU TOU SEI! (SLASHER SWORD RUSH!)"

Kenshin's youtou (demon sword) and Enishi's watou (Chinese-style katana) clashed hard against each other, their impactful vibrations strong enough to shatter steel. However, their mystical swords forged from spirit energy and the life force of their very souls both held true.

However, Battousai or no Battousai, the scarless Kenshin realized he had to take Yukishiro out before his own feelings of despair, depression, shame, and remorse got the better of him.

For even now, he felt like he deserved to get hit by every last strike from Enishi for the sin of accidentally killing his ex-wife in an attempt to rescue her from her kidnapper.

"KUZU RYU SEN! (NINE-HEADED DRAGON FLASH!)"

"UGH!"

Like water crushing rock over time, the constant barrage of counters from earlier finally took its toll on Enishi, leading to several lapses of attention that the Battousai took advantage of to great effect.

Kenshin's persistence paid off, with that last multi-hit attack finally landing on his nerve-filled brother-in-law.

He then prepared to do a supersonic noutoujutsu (sword-sheathing technique). The same one he used to disable the super sensitive hearing of Usui Uonuma's Shingan.

"RYU MEI...! (DRAGON CRY...!)"

Kenshin stopped short of doing his high-pitched sheathing technique when he saw a familiar young woman with jet-black hair, doe eyes, a white kimono, and purple shawl appear out of the half-burnt forest.

She brought with her a nostalgic, heartbreaking scent.

"T-Tomoe...?!" stuttered Kenshin before Enishi's Watou ended up stabbing him right in his chest, on the same wound made by the Zettousei that got him earlier.

The pair of scars on his left cheek reappeared. Bleeding with fresh blood (or, in his case, ectoplasm).

***

Back at the Okushiri Military Base...

The Blood Wind dissipated from the strength of Sanosuke's vacuum slash, but Yumi herself blocked the wind pressure with her open, glowing-red umbrella serving as her shield.

Ah, yes. The Blood Wind.

The double-edged, energy-sapping red tornado created from the heat of the spirit energy it stole and the coldness of an injured body that was losing blood.

However, this woman somehow managed to do Blood Winds without the need to be injured. Or perhaps the hole in her chest served as her injury?

Sagara originally thought it was one of Rando's ultimate moves, only to remember something about him stealing techniques. So this energy-sapping technique was actually her move, wasn't it?

Regardless, what was a desperation move for Rando was a normal move for her. It all made sense now. Or at least that part did.

"How the hell did you get superpowers too, lady?" Sano demanded to Yumi. "You even went so far as to change yourself into a vampire! You really are something else!"

"Stop acting so friendly around me, you boorish lout," said Komagata to Sagara with half-lidded eyes, parrying his probing zanbatou stab from more than 12 feet away with her closed umbrella that doubled as her sword. "You should've stayed as a ghost in the Spirit World. You'll regret crossing paths with us again after a hundred years, Sagara Sanosuke."

Sano left his cumbersome giant sword behind, charged unimpeded, and backhanded the woman. "Nothing personal, Neechan. We can't let you or your psycho boyfriend run amok again in this era either."

"...Bastard! You dare hit a lady?! Youki Duantoutai! (Spirit Guillotine!)" Yumi reeled from the slap that caught her by surprise but then kept Sanosuke at bay with the Spirit Guillotines.

"...Son of a bitch! Rando stole that move from you too?!" said Yahiko before breaking the paper-thin waves of demon energy with "Men (Head)" strikes from the Fire Stance and flying skyward with the God in Heaven technique.

"Not exactly," Yumi chatted with a nonchalant smirk. "I stole some of Rando's moves myself in exchange for the moves he stole from me. Tit-for-tat."

As for Sanosuke, his follow-up attempt at chopping Komagata in half with his 12-foot sword led to it getting blasted full of huge holes care of Itsuki. This made the zanbatou look like a macroscopic slice of grey Swiss cheese.

The scattershot blasts responsible for Sano's predicament originated from a gun attached to Itsuki's right arm. It shot out miniature black holes the size of pinholes but had event horizons the size of bowling balls or bigger. They ate up any type of matter nearest them.

It was a (literal) handgun with black holes as its bullets that the Gatekeeper developed through the help of Shinobu Sensui's Kazuya personality.

Itsuki's Black Hole Gun also ate up chunks of Sano's ghostly flesh whole.

"GUUAAAHH!"

The Gatekeeper had taken advantage of Sanosuke's moment of hesitation in killing Yumi. Sano remembered mid-swing how she had originally died by Shishio's hand and then had her corpse burn along with his in a sudden unintended funeral pyre.

Meanwhile, as the flying Myojin attacked Yumi from above, Botan attacked from below. She flew on her oar mere inches from the ground before getting off her ride and using her forward momentum to smash her paddle right into the vampire. She then let the more athletic Kaoru inside her do the rest.

Using jaki and youki together, the succubus imbued her foldable fan and her closed umbrella with enough blood-red energy to stop the oar cold with a cross-block. She then unfurled her umbrella in time to also prevent Yahiko's Ryu Tsui Sen from hitting her noggin.

From this close proximity, she then used her Inner Blood Turmoil to absorb her attackers' spirit energy unto herself, sapping the two of their reiki and making their souls flicker and fade.

Neither the living nor the dead were safe from this vampire queen.

***

"GOU TSUI TOU SEI! (FALLING BLADE SWORD RUSH!)" screamed Enishi after impaling the distracted Kenshin in the chest.

The Falling Blade Sword Rush allowed the white-haired martial artist to pin Battousai at last, lifting him high up and over his head with his sword and upper-body strength.

"At last. At long last. You're going to die, Battousai! You scum! You criminal! You took away everything from me! Now I will return the favor and take away everything from you! This is my Jinchu!"

The Guardian of the Youtou Shinnoken grunted and coughed, his eyes unable to tear themselves away at the visage and silhouette of his ex-wife Tomoe Yukishiro.

Red tears streamed down his cheeks and bloodstained scar.

"T-Tomoe? I-Is that really you?" he mumbled in disbelief, as though not even noticing Enishi's watou inside of him.

He was no longer Hitokiri Battousai (Battousai the Manslayer). Instead, he transformed back to Rurouni Kenshin (Kenshin the Vagabond).

"Tomoe" then told Enishi with an old man's deep voice, "My apologies. This is the best help I can give you for now. That damn Okashira stole all of the jaki that the Chojin gave me and sealed me and my precious Iwanbos away with it, turning the energy into solidified reiatsu."

"You did splendidly, Gein," said Enishi, who smiled for once. He couldn't face the reanimated corpse of his elder sister eye-to-eye, though. "Now please take that puppet away. I don't want you to soil my sister's memory with it."

Kenshin went pale. He'd been duped by one of Gein's puppets. However, his trickery paid off. He didn't feel like hurting Tomoe's little brother any longer.

"Did you know what I went through to get to this moment, Battousai? As an orphaned boy, I ate human flesh in the battlefield to survive. I was adopted by a rich couple, only for me to kill them because I hated how happy they were. I ended up becoming an arms dealer using their wealth for good measure. I then found out you already died, which sapped me of my will to live. Only to be reborn in this era after I found out you became the Demon Sword's guardian."

Enishi dragged Kenshin's bloody (or ectoplasmic) body all over the forest at the foot of Mt. Kannon, savoring the moment before pulling his sword out and stomping on the Battousai's bleeding wound for good measure.

"I'm not sure whether I should wield your damn sword myself or just destroy you along with that sword. Oh well. It doesn't matter. You could die a thousand deaths and it won't bring back my sister. Even after I died, I couldn't find her anymore. I've lost her forever. All that's left is to make you feel the despair I felt when you stole her away from me."

***

Back at the Okushiri Military Base...

Chaos continued. Fires broke out everywhere.  The wind howled like wolves to the moon. The base crumbled and turned into shambles. It was Hell on Earth.

Hell in Hokkaido.

Komagata's Inner Blood Turmoil created her own version of reiatsu—her youki mixed with the Kenshingumi's reiki, the blood of the soldiers she fed on, and the Chojin's jaki—before releasing that pent-up energy towards Yahiko in the form of the "BLOOD FIRE WAVE!" projectile.

However, thinking fast on her feet, Botan purified the surplus of jaki around them then used it to replenish the reiki she and Myojin lost from being in contact with Yumi.

'Wow. She's doing the thing! The same thing Urameshi did when he got hold of the Meikai's crystal ball thingy,' thought Kuwabara. 'She's purifying jaki into reiki!'

Again, Botan used spirit bandages that doubled as spiritual energy seals, acting more like a priestess than Hinageshi the Shrine Maiden or Houji the Onmyouji.

"Nice one, Tanuki-chan!" said Yahiko. "I mean, thank you, Botan."

Botan smiled at the samurai boy. "You're welcome. Now go get 'em."

'This woman is seriously getting on my nerves,' thought Yumi while eyeing the ferry-girl whose astral body housed two souls instead of just one.

A rejuvenated Myojin then did the sword-breaking "TSUI GAMI!" to neutralize the Blood Fire Wave and the pinhole-sized black holes that Itsuki's sneaky Kazuya personality shot right into his heart and head with the Black Hole Gun.

The samurai kid kept moving forward, practically swimming in the thick of "it", with "it" being the Chojin's ocean of jaki.

Meanwhile, Houji frowned, his arms crossed. 'This goddamn brat! For Chojin's sake, he sure is persistent.'

He thought that the Chojin allowing him more access to his boundless negative energy—enough jaki to, quite frankly, revive the long-dead kingdom of Meikai (Nether World)—was sufficient to neutralize the neutralizer.

However, Houji's jaki output remained relatively low and it even started dwindling.

Like opening your water main at full capacity yet still ending up with less water than you expected when filling up your bathtub. Defying the very will of the Overfiend himself.

'The boy is starting to get better control of his neutralization powers, isn't he?' the Onmyouji thought, tapping his scythe's handle to the ground impatiently.

To Yumi and Itsuki, he only had one command. "Kill him."

Yumi then made it rain blood like the Battousai would back in the Bakumatsu.

A literal rain of blood poured down on them, but each droplet contained razor-sharp scalpels. A bloody rain that cut you apart in order to induce a thicker bloodbath afterwards. It pelted the ground like suppressive fire from a machine gun.

She aptly named the technique, "Bloody Rain."

It was the bloodsucker's way of creating the energy-absorbing Blood Wind without having to sacrifice all the plasma that she had already drained from her other victims.

"I don't know who you are, lady, but you leave that boy alone!" said Kuwabara, who finally had time to intervene.

***

Meanwhile, elsewhere on the island...

Yusuke Urameshi had actually been in a punching match with Toguro Ototo all this time.

Right in the middle of Okushiri Island, in fact. Along the Tsurikake River.

Instead of playing with the percentages of his power, the Younger Toguro instead went all out from the start, displaying 100% of his full strength.

'His B-Level strength,' was Yusuke's unsaid sentiment. He recalled how easily he manhandled the A-Level Rando earlier now that he wasn't faced with any distractions or dirty tactics.

So dealing with Toguro should be a cakewalk now, right?

In kind, Urameshi himself released his first pair of Spirit Cuffs. Just like the good ol' days, they ended up in a slugfest that turned the peaceful river into roiling rapids from the shockwaves of their punches.

"You've struggled in every encounter you've faced with the Chojin's forces so far yet won every time," said the Younger Toguro. "Why is that?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, man," said Yusuke before blasting the gigantic hulking grey behemoth before him with the "SHOT GUN!" technique, bombarding him with the purest of reiki bullets.

The vascular and muscular Toguro pressed on, healing the missing pieces of his flesh instantly like his older brother would.

An impressive feat a power level or two ago. To Yusuke, it had somehow become old hat. Any S-Level worth their salt should be able to regenerate fast enough as long as they had an abundance of spirit or demon energy inside them.

"I took on Rando, Souther (Xinhai), Suzaku, the blind guy (Usui), and the rest of the Chojin's New Ten Swords fair and square. All I'm doing now is killing time and keeping you from ruining Kurama's plans to take your new gang out. Right until your big bad boss, the Chojin, shows up."

Toguro's eyes narrowed behind his shades. 'His reiki is... overflowing. It almost reminds me of the Chojin's own jaki. Immeasurable.'

Yusuke dodged the Shi Dan (Finger Flip Bullets) by reflex even though he had a feeling he could survive direct hits from Toguro's unnaturally strong finger flicks at this point in time.

It was a B-Level against an S-Level (albeit one who was holding his strength back), after all.

The Shi Dan were even more powerful than the strongest human punches, capable of blasting through concrete, but against Urameshi's wealth of spirit energy, he doubted that they'd even penetrate his skin.

Even with his powers sealed, he teetered from being a high A-Level to a low S-Level.  

'Are you hiding your present power level, Toguro? Is your 100% form not your full power?' Urameshi thought.

There was just no way that the likes of Rando, Xinhai, Usui, Saito, or Suzaku would end up stronger than the Toguro Ototo himself.

Then again, while it took Toguro 50 years to reach B-Level, it took only 10 years for Sensui to reach S-Level. Meanwhile, it took less than 3 years for Yusuke to surpass them both and take on a centuries-old S-Level archdemon, Yomi, to the brink of defeat.

To Toguro, Urameshi asked, "What happened to you deciding to stay in Hell for 100 million years to atone for all the crimes you've committed? Were you plucked from Hell by the Chojin and forced to work for him? Answer me, Toguro!"

"...We're not so different, you and I."

"OH, COME ON! Not this tired cliché again!" the teenaged living warhead told off the demonized human strongman in between bone-crushing punches.

He didn't want to hear such things from someone much weaker than him.

***

The veiny (actually nervy) Enishi got talkative all of a sudden, Kenshin realized.

His life story was as unfortunate as the vagabond expected. Maybe even more so. So he even killed a family after he was given a new lease in life? How much of a monster had he become?

This was a lot for Himura to take in. He could barely breathe right now; much less digest Yukishiro's words.

Meanwhile, Enishi snarled in remembrance of the things he'd been through. The people he killed. The opportunities of happiness he turned his back on in favor of a century-old grudge.

The innocents he murdered in order to harden his heart enough to take on a monster like the Battousai. When he died, he resisted the reincarnation cycle for so long, hoping against hope he'd find Himura's soul in the afterlife and drag him to Hell along with him, torturing him for a million years.

However, his chance had finally arrived only a few decades ago. He reentered the reincarnation cycle and avoided becoming an insect or a slug, getting instead the body of a Chinese boy with his memories of the past as a Japanese man intact somehow.

He then trained his body in martial arts, went to prison more than a few times, became a career criminal, and climbed the ranks of organized Chinese crime known as The Triad (what the Shanghai Arms Dealers eventually developed into a hundred years down the line).

In fact, until a few couple of years ago, Enishi occupied the position of Dragon Head that his protégé, Feng Xinhai, currently had. He had a Chinese name himself, but he long ago abandoned that identity in order to completely become Enishi Yukishiro.

He dedicated himself into becoming what he was in his past life and more.

It was because the Chojin himself reawakened his soul's past memories for the purpose of taking down Kenshin Himura.

Under the guidance of the Chojin and his reformed Shin Juppon Gatana, he even learned how to use his spiritual powers on top of reviving the lost martial arts of Wattoujutsu. He studied the Japanese language.

He began slaying demons himself by helping fund technology that linked the Demon World to the Human World with the money he made by being the Triad Dragon Head.

And now, while serving under Tenro the Demon-Slayer's Yakuza Family as one of his enforcers, he finally crossed paths with the man who stole his happiness a hundred years ago.

His revenge, his Jinchu, was literally a hundred years in the making.

"I will kill you now and then the rest of your friends afterwards. I'll break apart the Demon Sword or steal it for myself. Become its new master. From there, in the Spirit World, I will also hunt your ghost and kill you again until all memory of you is erased. Suffer like I did. Suffer for eternity, Battousai!"

Something stirred inside Kenshin when he heard those words. It was one thing for Enishi to swear to kill him. However, what did the rest of his comrades have to do with his revenge? Was he really going to kill the Kenshingumi or even the Reikai Tantei and the Oniwabanshu all in the name of his Jinchu?

Just as Enishi prepared to finish Himura off, a shinigami flew between them like a bolt from the blue.

The woman who sported a black kimono and raven hair zeroed in not on Enishi and Kenshin but instead on the Tomoe puppet of the Puppet Master.

'Ah, I remember her,' thought the Guardian of the Demon Sword. He met that death goddess before while assisting the training of Sanosuke and Yahiko when they first arrived in the Human World.

From his limited interactions with the shinigami, Kenshin surmised that she mainly did research work for Koenma Daio, not unlike the child inspector Sayaka.

'Ayame, was it? She's the shinigami that Kurama assigned to the Southeast Quadrant of Okushiri. Did she follow us all the way here?'

***

Yusuke wanted to end the fight with Toguro using one gigaton punch or one Chou Rei-Gan (Mega Spirit Gun), but he held back. Kept his cool.

He wanted to bet on a "maybe".  As in, "Maybe Toguro is holding back and is about to show me something more amazing than 100% of his power".

Otherwise, Urameshi would've already blasted Toguro back to Hell where he belonged and had a 100 million year sentence to serve. From there, the teenager would've waited for the Chojin or someone to arrive and force him use 100% of his power instead.

Finishing this fight early presented too much of a risk. Like eating an unripe fruit or something. Besides which, if Yusuke went all out, he'd wipe out several mountain ranges and riverbanks off of the map.

But maybe he was risking hundreds of thousands of lives over his own selfish whims.

'Fine. I'll push a little harder, then.'

The ensuing "REI-KOU-DAN! (SPIRIT WAVE BULLET!)" that fissured the surrounding ground and threatened to break the world in half was mostly absorbed by Younger Toguro's beefy body.

Toguro's 100% form before might instead be his 000.1% now. Maybe he'd been training all this time in Hell. Training from Hell.

Or maybe this was all wishful thinking on Urameshi's part now that he had outgrown his boogeyman from his past.

Yusuke put his hip into his last punch, manhandling the "ultimate" form of Toguro that earlier on threw him around like a rag doll the first time they fought.

"You want to rise to your greatest potential, but unfortunately you've already been there and done that and more. You've become too powerful," Toguro said after fixing his twisted neck that had his head staring straight behind him.

"You're not somehow begging for mercy, are you?" asked Yusuke as he hit another bone-crushing uppercut to Toguro's jaw.

"...Nothing challenges you anymore, but you don't want to sever your attachment to this world of weaklings."

Toguro flexed and did a full-powered tackling punch with enough force to move or even obliterate mountains. Alas, this version of Yusuke ate mountains for breakfast ever since achieving S-Level during his fight against Sensui.

This was nothing to him. Drop a building on him, and he'd wonder if it was raining.

He hated to think in such a way, but to him fighting Toguro now was akin to fighting Kuwabara. It didn't help that the behemoth fought straightforwardly and without trickery, unlike Xinhai and Rando.

"You honestly sound pathetic now, Toguro. What happened to you? Keiko can hit harder than that. Put your hips into it!"

But nothing major really happened to Toguro after dying back in the Ankoku Bujutsukai (Dark Martial Arts Tournament). It was Urameshi who had changed.

Any of the current roster of Roku Youkai (Six Demons) could take him on and turn him into roadkill, to be honest.

Toguro's form doubled or even tripled in size. He was now doing his "100% of 100%" technique that had him stake his very soul's life force in order to unleash his fullest potential.

However, his fullest potential ended up just B-Plus in the end. Not even at A-Level.

'Quit messing around and go 1,000% power or something already, Toguro!' Yusuke inwardly begged. But that never happened. He kept dealing with a Toguro who could barely make him flinch.

"In order to continue to live the lie you call your life, you're someone strong pretending to be weak so you could fit in with the rest of the weaklings."

"Stop yammering! I'm more impressed with your big mouth than any of your punches!"

Yusuke did his signature finger gun pose and focused his ocean of reiki at a single point of his index finger, gathering all that limitless energy into one concentrated shot.

"Great fighters refuse to lose, but you refuse to win just to get back that feeling and exhilaration of conquering something greater than you. So what do you do now that you're in a world where nothing is greater than you?"

"Jeez. Shut up already."

Yusuke sighed. If Toguro really was going to unleash a new superpower on him, he would've done so by now. Meanwhile, he himself hadn't even worked up a sweat.

Was this some sort of long-con, "Sun Tzu's Art of War" deal? Was Toguro hiding his power level like he always had, using only a small percentage of his potential? Or was this indeed his limits after his defeat in the Dark Tournament?

"Maybe you're right. Maybe I have been a little careless in my fights lately. However, in the end, I kept winning anyway. So who cares? It's my curse, I know. REI-GAN!"

***

Back at the foot of Mt. Kannon...

Ayame the Shinigami grabbed hold of the corpse puppet of Gein and cut off its spiritual connection with the mad scientist using her reaper powers.

She then said to Enishi, "There's no way your sister is smiling down on you in heaven! Not while you're doing something as terrible as this, stalking Himura-san for decades! A whole century!"

Enishi scowled at the impudent ferry-girl. How dare she say such things to him.

"What do you know? How can you possibly know the pain I've been through? The pain that my sister and her fiancé suffered from? You're nothing but a stranger! You have nothing to do with me!"

Kenshin tried standing up, but Enishi kicked his chest wound and pinned him down with a foot stomp. "And as for you, stay down! I'm not done with you yet!"

Yukishiro was about to punch Koenma's ferry-girl away when she chanted an incantation that led to the body double of his sister Tomoe to frown at him and cry tears of blood.

"Don't you hear it? Don't you hear the cries of despair of your dearly departed sister Tomoe from a hundred years ago? The last thing she wants to see is you suffering or making everyone suffer along with you!"

Enishi shook and shuddered before he himself screamed in anguish, screaming until his throat became ragged. Clutching his chest at that baleful look that rocked him to his very core.

"Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up, SHUT UP! Enough of your lies, Reikai! I don't believe any of them for a second!

However, he couldn't for the life of him kill even a puppet of his sister. Any young woman who reminded him of his sister, he couldn't bring himself to kill.

He damn well tried to though, his hatred rising. His cognitive dissonance assuring him these were all lies. That his sister had wanted to kill Battousai all along to avenge her fiancé's death.

That the rumor of how Battousai pledged to not kill ever since he killed Enishi's sister was just a rumor.

That Enishi hadn't wasted his multiple chances at a new lease on life for nothing.

He slashed the Tomoe corpse puppet apart with the Sho Ha Tou Sei, his own tears flowing down as he did so. Nauseated by the act, he moved away and puked soon after.

Even though she wasn't the real Tomoe.

'I have to do this. I have to destroy all their lies!'

He had waited for so long and come so far. In the end, it should still matter, right? If it didn't matter then what was the point of all this?

It was all Battousai's fault. He was the one who ruined his life. He was the one who forced him to suffer like this. Everything was perfect until he came along.

Even in the afterlife, Himura haunted him.

"Himura Battousai must die! Suffer! Die a thousand deaths! A million deaths! I won't rest until he has suffered as much as I have and MORE!"

Yukishiro prepared to do his ultimate attack on Kenshin, only for Ayame to get in his way.

This looked mighty familiar.

He hesitated for a whole second in cleaving the shinigami in half. Here was another woman the same age as his sister. Everywhere he looked, such maidens like her kept reminding him of what he had lost.

A second was an eternity in a fight, though.

Kenshin rose up and blocked Enishi's ensuing sword strike even though, unbeknownst to him, his brother-in-law intended to miss Ayame by a mile anyway.

Himura's heart swelled at doing so. Here and now, the vagabond was able to do the sword block that he failed to do against Shishio.

Had he done the same block against his hitokiri successor, would he have survived their mutually assured destruction? Had he not given up back then and decided to fight on, would he have been able to come back to Tokyo with the rest of the Kenshingumi? With Miss Kaoru?

Kenshin really wished he had fought on instead of giving up and dying along with Shishio. That he did.

"...I will fight to the end to protect those I hold dear! That is my truth!"

Himura's resolve in defeating Enishi finally hardened after wavering for so long, his cross-shaped scar seemingly glowing with a red bioluminescent light.

The crouching tiger faced off against the unhidden dragon one more time.

"KOFUKU ZETTOUSEI! (CROUCHING TIGER SEVERING SWORD RUSH!)"

"AMAKAKERU RYU NO HIRAMEKI! (HEAVENS GLIDING DRAGON FLASH!)"

Last time, the tiger was able to cut deep wounds into the flying serpent even though it was driven deep underground by sharp dragon claws.

Would the tiger finish what it had started? Or would the dragon have something hidden behind its upward flight into the heavens?

***

Kazuma attempted to create a portal to serve as a shield over Yahiko, only for Itsuki to seal that portal with Kazuya's Black Hole Gun, the twin rips in space-time canceling each other out.

However, Kuwabara expected the maneuver and teleported right in front of Itsuki in order to slash apart the firearm at pointblank range with the Jigen Tou.

"Motherfucker...!" shouted the foul-mouthed Kazuya possessing Itsuki's body, grasping his damaged handgun.

Itsuki then awoke Sensui's George personality in order to gain access to a hyperdimensional gun vault filled with Tommy guns, pistols, Desert Eagles, mini guns, shotguns, AK-47 rifles, machine guns, grenade launchers, and bazookas.

He had actually restocked his gun collection by stealing many of the armaments and ammunition available in the very military base they were invading right then and there. Knowing full well that ordinary guns were more useful against living, flesh-and-blood beings like Kuwabara versus the solidified souls of shinigami and ghosts from the past.

In retrospect, this made Houji's efforts to shoot Yahiko, a ghost, with a gun moot. However, Itsuki at least had a backup plan.

"I'll kill you all!" said Hitoshi. "I will purify the Human World by getting rid of all the humans!" His shtick was that he wished for human extinction.

However, before he could use one magazine or clip from his guns, he got pummeled to submission by a revived Sanosuke Sagara.

Botan had healed up the wounds of Sano's ghost yet again with purified jaki turned into reiki. He then got the jump on the green-haired youkai through brute strength instead of fancy teleportation techniques.

'Her again?' thought Houji, noticing how Battousai's woman served the same function as he did with the rest of the Shin Ju. 'That Reikai shinigami is making this mission of ours needlessly difficult.'

Furthermore, every attempt Itsuki made to get away from Sagara was blocked by Kuwabara, who himself punched the demon back into portals of his own that redirected him towards Sano's waiting fists and "FUTAE NO KIWAMI!"

"All right, enough of this!" declared Yumi, who shifted from targeting Yahiko to focusing her Spirit Guillotines and Blood Fire Waves at the Kamiya Kasshin Ryu kendoist turned shinigami Botan/Kaoru Kamiya.

Kaoru assisted Botan in deploying evasive maneuvers against the succubus, with her using the reiki-imbued boat paddle to bat and parry away the projectiles headed towards her before flying away from the bloodsucker.

She then ended up blocking the scythe of the unskilled but jaki-empowered Houji, which kept her from taking flight and escaping. "Keep still like a good girl."

Finally, a black hole appeared where her chest used to be. It was actually a dimensional rift that sucked the ferry-girl's ghostly flesh and ectoplasm away.

Gatekeeper Itsuki then closed the portal that mortally wounded Botan/Kaoru with a wave of his hand.

The ferry-girl's jaw opened, clenched, and froze at a silent scream, her red eyes rolling upwards until only her eye whites were visible.

"KAORUUU! BOTAAAAAN! NOOOO!" said Yahiko with an anguished, bloodcurdling shriek of his own.

Itsuki's mouth curved upwards in curiosity. 'What will you do now, Samurai-san? Is this enough to break you into pieces like what happened to my dearest Shinobu (Sensui) when he saw the Black Chapter Tapes?'

***

Back at the foot of Mt. Kannon...

As Enishi Yukishiro's heart wavered, Kenshin Himura's resolve hardened. Tempered by his will to protect those around him.

The Kofuku Zetsu Tou Sei should've countered the Heavens Gliding Dragon Flash by avoiding the first slash completely and countering the second slash with a well-time riposte, unfazed or even aided by the void created by the first slash.

The Zettousei was seemingly designed to break apart or deconstruct the Hirameki, as demonstrated earlier by Kenshin barely surviving it the first time it was used.

It should've halved the effectiveness of the second slash, but by Kenshin drawing the sword low and removing the ground-based leverage of his crouch, Enishi stood no chance.

Kenshin's much faster and stronger Heavens Gliding Dragon Flash hit low to weaken Enishi's strong crouch then hit high with the multiplied centrifugal force of the follow-up second strike of his ougi, the Crouching Tiger Severing Sword Rush buckling under pressure.

Enishi's counter was ultimately overpowered by the much stronger and better applied succession technique.

However, like before, even after his counter was countered by a more experienced, worldlier version of Battousai guarding a powerful demonic sword, he still kept standing.

Sure, Yukishiro shook like a leaf and heaved belabored breaths because his double-edged, hypertrophied Nerves of Insanity multiplied his pain to the point where an ordinary man would've blacked out in a dead faint.

But he wouldn't go down. He refused to go down. He'd rather die than go down.

Whether he was thrown into magma inside a mountain or cut down to oblivion with the Legendary Youtou Shinnoken (Demon Sword: The True Blade), his willpower continued to defy fate and destiny itself.

He braced himself for Battousai to deliver the finishing blow, relying on his twitch reflexes and his thick pulsating nerves that were practically on fire at this point to launch another counter.

Instead, Kenshin told him, "You didn't really mean to raise your sword at Miss Ayame, did you? Cutting down the fake Tomoe puppet to you was like ripping your heart out."

He spat, "What of it, Battousai?! That's just a puppet I tore apart, not my real sister! My sister that you killed!"

"It doesn't matter if the puppet was fake or not. Ripping her apart hurt you at your core. The pain you felt is real."

"DAMN YOU TO HELL! Push me any further, and I'll do the same to the shinigami!"

Himura replied, "Even though you've murdered others because you couldn't stand how happy they were, you hesitated in killing Ayame-dono. She reminded you too much of Tomoe to go through with it, didn't she?"

"DON'T YOU DARE SAY HER NAME, BASTARD! Her murderer has no right to do so!"

"...In the end, what stopped you was your sister. So I ask you the same question you asked me. Is your sister smiling down on you from heaven?"

Delirious, he started having visions.

Visions of his sister taking care of him when he was sick with the flu, sleeping at his bedside. Cooking for him. Taking care of him. Serving as the only family and mother figure that he ever knew.

His revenge against Kenshin was all he had left. All that mattered. His only reason for being, since Battousai robbed him of the original reason for his being. Without this one goal, he'd be nothing.

He could do anything as long as his sister was smiling back at him.

He closed his eyes. All he could see—the face he claimed was a lie made by the Spirit World—was his sister frowning at him with sad eyes full of pity.

The things he'd ignored earlier that bothered him also started making sense.

Why his sister threw herself in between Battousai and the leader of the Yaminobu.

Why his sister stayed with Battousai for so long and even became his wife (being a deep cover agent wasn't enough to explain that away).

Why Battousai vowed never to kill after "easily" killing so many people for such a long time.

'He did that because he felt guilty after killing my sister! And everyone around him! He's a criminal who's celebrated as a hero because he killed during a war when it's 'legal' to do so!'

He opened his eyes. The image of his unhappy, melancholic sister coalesced into Shinigami Ayame's face while bearing the same grim expression with her mouth.

He fell to his knees and broke down bawling. A broken man.

It wasn't the strike from a mystical demonic blade or the most powerful technique of a ghostly guardian from the Bakumatsu that brought him down to his knees.

No. It was him realizing his sister's disapproval of his Jinchu that unraveled his single-minded determination to kill Kenshin and/or make him suffer for an eternity and a day.

Only sheer willpower kept Enishi standing. So when Kenshin broke even that, he had nothing left.

His will to fight went away. All that was left was anguish, despair, and hopelessness.

"Neesan... Neesan...! (Big sis... Big sis...!)"

What was he supposed to do now?

***

To Be Continued...

The main event is about to start, and it's a doozy. Tenro will finally make his appearance to complete the Okushiri Arc!

Ciao, Abdiel

[serararku]

Sun Above, Sand Below

<Theme>

A dozen corpses lay sprawled in the searing heat. If S’rarku Nuhn has his way, a dozen more will join them.

“YAAARGH!” S’rarku bellowed with a voice that rolled across the sands like thunder. The flash of light from the tip of his glaive and the fight was over as quickly as it began; the terrified Miqo'te Tia saw the glint of his demise and tasted the bite of the Nunh’s thrust, tearing through leather, flesh, and bone alike. He let out a short-lived shriek before the glaive reemerged through his back, spilling his blood onto the sand. S’rarku gripped the shaft of his mighty weapon before spinning it in his hands, splitting his foe in twain from chest to collar. “HAHAHA! Another weak pathetic fool! Another offering to Azeyma!” The old man threw his head back and laughed again, twirling his glaive until the blade was clean again. “Who dares challenge me?! Who’s next to offer their bodies to the Warden?!”

All seventeen wifes watched in the shade of their tents, along with his twenty daughters and three sons. S’yuun, his favorite wife, simply looked on in disgust: bored, inattentive, and unimpressed. “How much longer must we endure this dreadful heat? S’rarku?! Hurry up and defeat the rest of those Tia so we can go to the hot springs!”

Her husband turned to face his wives with the biggest grin on his face. “Soon, my lovelies! Let me cleave just a few more and we’ll all go together! I promise!” S’rarku was a monster in Miqo'te skin once, unmatched in strength and absolutely fearless. But now he was old, with a crown of silver hair, and an undying lust to relive his glory days. Young Tia, desperate for breeding rights, travel from all over Eorzea to challenge ‘an old Nunh with one foot in the grave already’; but once they find the Zu Tribe, the folly of their greed often takes a heavy - and permanent - toll. “YAAAGH! AGAIN!”

Another Tia rushed forward for his best chance at living a life surrounded by his own wives and children. S’rarku leapt high into the air with a single bound, blinding his challenger when his fearful gaze brushed against the glaring sun. He caught sight of the Nunh's shadow dashing across his face, before he saw the familiar glint of the tip of that terrifying glaive.

His wives turned away in disgust while doing their best to cover the many eyes of their children, but S’era looked on, awestruck and nauseous. She watched her father gore and gut the Tia like the prize after a day's hunt, spilling his organs out into the sand with a wet flop; it sounded like an overturned barrel of fish being emptied onto a pier. The young Miqo'te woman covered her mouth but not her eyes, refusing to look away from such a gruesome execution. S’rarku tossed the now inside-out body away before pointing his glaive toward the others. “A death more painful and gruesome awaits the next one! And the next one! And the next one! HAHAHAHA!” Many aspiring challengers wisely decided to live today and fight tomorrow. S’rarku balanced his glaive on his shoulder and watched the cowards turn to flee, knowing his daughters would remain unsullied, and his wives would remain his. One by one their courage failed them. One by one they abandoned their hopes and dreams to return to their tribes empty handed, or try their luck challenging other Nunhs elsewhere.

All but one. The last Tia remaining stood there in silence with a concentrated look in his burning orange eyes. It wasn't until S'rarku was finished laughing at the vanishing cowards did he notice him. "YOU THERE!" He bellowed again, pointing a finger at the Tia. "Look around and bear witness to the fate of all who seek my daughters and wives! Will you not flee while you still breathe?!"

Despite his calm and focused demeanor, the Tia's tail flicked and twitched about in eager anticipation. "My name is U'tage Tia! I have watched you slaughter Tia stronger, faster, and braver than I, but I have something none of them possessed!"

Intrigued, S'rarku sneered before asking, "And what might that be?!"

"Patience!" U'tage pulled himself free of his jerkin and dropped it into the sand. His body was well toned, yet he was still a fraction of the brawn of his opponent. Even worse, he had no scars of any kind - the telltale signs of an inexperienced Miqo'te. The moment his jerkin came off, the interest and curiosity of the women in attendance collectively died off. "I've studied your movement, learned your techniques, and observed your strengths and weaknesses! I'm going to defeat you right here in front of your family. Then I'm going to pleasure your wives. Then I'm going to fill your daughters with my seed. What do you think about that?" S'rarku threw his head back and belly-laughed, far harder and louder than he had all day. Yet his wives remained silent, knowing that laugh all too well; it was forced, and he was furious. With nothing else left to be said, U’tage grabbed the hilt of the blade fastened to his lower back, and waited.

He didn't have to wait long - S'rarku soared across the sand with all his fury propelling him! Tha-thump. In a heartbeat the glaive was thrust toward his chest, striking little more than air. Tha-thump. It caught a few strands of fur from an ear when he ducked underneath. Tha-thump. A side step saved him from being cleaved in half. Tha-thump. It came down again, slashing the sand between his outstretched legs.

U'tage couldn't keep this up for much longer. Tha-thump! His body was screaming for rest. Tha-thump! But the heart pumped, and his limbs obeyed. Tha-thump! With each miss, the glaive came closer and closer! Tha-thump! Blood splashed across his chest when the razor edge cut through his skin! Tha-thump! He was out of time-! Tha-thump! One last surge of strength pulled his blade from its scabbard and clanged the fatal thrust away from his chest!

SHWIIIING! 

S'rarku and U'tage stood there under the pummeling heat of the desert sun, both covered in sweat and panting. The gilded scimitar gleamed and glimmered in the brilliant sunlight, captivating all who looked upon the golden blade; it was enough to even give S'rarku pause from his bloodlust. 

"Who did you kill to steal something like that?" He called out in between labored breaths.

U'tage spit into the sand before pointing the tip of his sword toward his foe. "All you need to worry about is how sharp it is. Have you caught your breath yet, old man, or do you need more time?" 

"You have a warrior's heart, I'll give you that much! Hahaha!" S'rarku swung his glaive around his body like it weighed nothing. "But I can see right through you, boy! Your legs ache! Your body falters! You pretend you're not exhausted even as you stand there, slick with your own blood! But for your effort, your death will be clean! You have earned that much!"

It was now or never. U'tage took the initiative this time and charged fast and low toward S'rarku with his scimitar out to his side. If he could just throw him off balance, or better yet- get behind him, victory would be his. But S'rarku had the strength and the reach; getting close enough for a killing blow would be no easy task.

S'era gasped at the song their blades sang when they met, a chorus of sharp rings and soft hums. Her heart fluttered as she watched this stranger dance with her father, their feet and tails whipping up sand and dust while they leapt through the air and twirled around each other. What was this feeling? This tingling in her stomach? This rising warmth between her legs? Her mother noticed her firstborn daughter’s labored breathing, and instantly knew it wasn’t from the searing desert heat. “Patience, kitten.” She smiled, rubbing S’era’s back. “These feelings mean you are a woman now… but not in the eyes of our tribe. You will have to wait until you are of proper age.”

Then suddenly, S'rarku swung his glaive down from above to split him from collar to waist, but he wasn't fast enough. U'tage moved like water, flowing around the blade to let it bite at the skin on his forearm. Then they stood there, almost hugging in a friendly embrace, before S'rarku coughed up blood, and his trembling hands released his glaive. With a sharp twist of his wrist, U’tage split his stomach open to spill his entrails onto the hot golden sand. 

S'rarku collapsed to one knee in shocked disbelief, cradling his innards in his trembling hands. Agony gripped him like the heat of the desert, and he knew no amount of healing would save him from this mortal injury; the fight was over, and so was he. Yet he was too proud to admit defeat. Too used to spilling the blood of his kin. Too accustomed to his life as a Nunh. S'rarku bellowed with all the fury he could muster, even as blood oozed from his mouth and his slick entrails slipped from his fingers. He rose to his feet with his waning strength, turned to face his foe, and charged; if he would not survive this day, then he swore on the Warden herself that he would take this Tia with him! 

S'era covered her mouth and gasped at how easily U'tage spun on his exhausted feet, how his blade hummed through the air, and how silent her father's beheading was. His lifeless body took one step without his head before crumbling into the sand, never to move again. “It… is done!” U’tage shouted in between labored gasps for air, his body slick with warm blood and cold sweat. He was one foot in the grave himself, with barely enough strength to spare; he staggered a few steps before the grip on his scimitar faltered, and it slid into the sand with a soft thunk. 

“Rise, kitten.” S’era’s mother softly commanded, taking her by the hand. One by one the widows of S’rarku and all of his children rose in silent solidarity at the death and replacement of their Nunh. “Show U’tage the respect he has earned.”

“Come forth, champion.” Elder S’huuna commanded. S’rarku’s children guided the ancient Miqo'te woman from the comfort of the shade to face the winner of this deadly duel. “You have succeeded where so many have failed… you have killed the great S’rarku.” She opened her useless glazed eyes when she spoke the defeated Nunh’s name one last time. “What is your name, stranger?”

“Ahh… U’tage Ti- no…” U’tage caught himself before he finished. “U’tage Nunh, Elder.”

“Still wrong.” S’huuna turned to the direction of her family. “This man is now S’tage Nunh, from this day, until a Tia defeats him! I feared Azeyma would take me before I saw our sect of the Zu Tribe receive a new Nunh, but the Warden herself has granted me the privilege of sending our fallen champion off to the afterlife!” She turned back to S’tage and smiled. “What do you want us to do now?”

“Bury the fallen Tia.” S’tage commanded, finally catching his breath. “They don’t deserve to be left for the carrion birds.” He ran a trembling hand across his chest, wincing from the gash S’rarku gave him as a parting gift; it was deeper than he realized. 

“And for the one you replaced?” She asked, hesitantly.

“Burn his corpse.” S’tage turned to look at his remains. He clapped his hands together and bowed. “Let him be devoured in flame so he may walk unburdened in the sunlight of Azeyma.” 

S’era began to trot over to the new Nunh, but her mother caught her by the shoulder. “Wait with your sisters. S’tage must be cleaned by me and his new wives.” The idea of her mother claiming the right of first wife was oddly infuriating.

“B-but I’m old enough to carry children! It’s not fair!” Her mother was already heading over to her new husband, along with the rest of S’era’s aunts. Left alone to keep her half-siblings from running out to poke and disrespect the bodies, she helplessly watched as S’tage was swarmed by the attention of other women.

Staring at him from this distance made her knees weak. His silver hair was beautiful, even with it stained red with blood. Behind his filthy face sat two orange eyes that burned like the sunset on the last day of the desert summer. S’era was so busy swooning over him from a distance, in fact, that she barely had time to notice her half siblings making kissy faces at her. She so desperately wanted to be his first wife, but she knew she couldn’t go against the wishes of her mother and aunts. 

“Let’s get you cleaned, healed, and rested.” Her mother smiled, taking S’tage by the hand. 

“You’ll need your strength for tonight.”

[sabraeal]

(don’t go) making something out of nothing

Prologue | i. the first woman he ever loved | ii. the first to make his heart race

Another piece of @infinitelystrangemachinex‘s run away birthday fic; many thanks again to @bubblesthemonsterartist and @claudeng80 for beta’ing this chapter!

iii. the hands molded to fit his own

“You know, Your Highness--”

“No.” Papers sprawl across the desk, covering every inch of wood, but yet it’s Zakura himself that makes the prince’s mouth pull thin. “I don’t. But I’m certain you’re about to tell me.”

His teeth flash at the back of the boy-king’s head. Well, man-prince now. He can’t help but wonder if it might be man-prince forever with the way he keeps pushing off any talk of a coronation. “I was just thinking.”

“Should I throw a parade?” The royal chin cants toward a shoulder by a hair, focus never wavering from his work. “Perhaps decree a national holiday to commemorate the occasion?”

“Ah.” Zakura slaps a hand to his chest, letting his back rattle the panes behind him. “So you mean to wound me with your fabled razor wit, Highness?”

“If I meant to wound you, it would not be with words.” A noble cheekbone rounds. “I never strike a man unarmed.”

“Death--” he punctuates the word with another smack, grinning at the prince’s grimace-- “death by a thousands cuts.”

“If you are quite finished--”

“Oh, Highness,” he gasps, “there is more life in me yet--”

“If you are quite finished,” the prince attempts, firmer this time, “I believe you were about to inflict an unwelcome opinion upon me.”

He hums, the precise pitch that makes the royal hairs stand on end. “Mm, but how can it be unwelcome if you just asked for it?”

Now that gets his attention. Izana turns, his expression a study in disinterest save for his eyes. Those spark, the same way they do on the piste. “Do you mean to tell me, or would you prefer to continue on in the lady’s part for this little reel?”

His mouth twitches, just slightly. Wouldn’t do to let on that he was having fun, after all. “I only meant to say, it’s been a while since you’ve been north.”

Izana turns sharply to his work, his back the most eloquent answer. “Mother has everything well in hand.”

“Of course she does,” Zakura scoffs, arms folding over his chest. “But she still asks for you to visit, doesn’t she?”

“She does.” His pen hardly hesitates as it crawls across the parchment. “For the solstice, mainly. The queen mother is quite sentimental.”

He grunts, frowning at the royal cowlick. Or he would be if there was one, the lucky bastard. “You got some reason not to?”

His Highness hesitates. Not in a way another man would see, oh no, but Zakura is too well versed in the subtle language of his silence. Every muscle of his back stiffens, pulling his already impossible posture closer toward perfection. The muscles of his hand spasms, the feather light grip on his pen tightening to a clench.

“Why do you care so much?” His tone is light, playful, but there’s a tightrope Izana walks beneath it, wavering between anger and worry. “Whoever will you kiss if there is not a woman for whom I have a tendresse to sweep off her feet?”

Zakura grins, feral. “Ah, you admit it-- you did fancy Gazeld.”

“I admit no such thing,” Izana informs him loftily. “I am merely referring to your perception of events, however erroneous.”

He arches his brows with as much skepticism as they can hold. “And even so, you’re not going to go.”

All the prince’s good humor evaporates, leaving only tension in the air. “It’s not the time. There’s things I can’t leave--” his breath catches, rattling in his chest-- “untended.”

Zakura hooks his hands behind his head with a grunt. “How long has it been since we took a holiday, Highness? Two years, three?”

“We just rode to Laxdo last summer.” His pen scratches harshly against the page. “Or have you forgotten, in your old age?”

“That was barely a day trip.” And no girls to kiss anywhere. “And we haven’t gotten out of this palace for more than a handful of days since...”

Since Lowen cleaved that Lido brat in twain. No matter how much the maids scrubbed the stone, they could never quite get the traitor out.

“As I said.” Izana’s tone dries to a crisp, like a leaf off the tree. “It’s not the time to keep the capital untended. And certainly not for some...holiday.”

“Funny,” he hums, watching the prince through the net of his lashes, “I don’t remember the palace needing this much grooming before.”

Knuckles crack; the prince’s grip chokes his pen. “Things are different, now.”

Zakura measures the scant inches between Izana’s shoulder and his ears. He’s lost this battle. “You know, if you don’t visit the queen soon, she’ll invent a reason.”

Izana huffs out a breath, shoulders easing to their usual horizon. “Is that so. Like an allergy?”

“Nah.” His mouth curls into the faintest grin. “Like a wife.”

A laugh bursts from the royal lips. A surprise to both of them. “My, then you really would have a reason to go north.”

Fate arrives under a familiar seal: a lone snowdrop inside the jeweled Wisteria star.

Zakura chucks his chin at the parchment, swaggering across the room. “From your mother?”

Izana hums, brows quizzically drawn. The Queen Regnant had already sent her usual missive this month, full of all the regular details-- early snows, sending servants out to sneak her some Scholar Street fare, her usual teas with her ladies. But for a second to arrive so soon on the heels of the last, well...

That last time that had happened, Arleon had been consigned to the stones of his ancestors. Shuffled from this mortal coil. Pushed up daisies, weather permitting.

The prince breaks the wax with a single sweep of his knife, unfolding the parchment, and stares.

“Well?” He shifts, weight balancing towards the balls of his feet; a useless reflex. Whatever threat that paper contains isn’t something he can fight with his fists. Though it might be cathartic to slice it into scraps. “Is everything all right?”

Izana hums again, this time at a far different pitch. “Yes,” he manages, fingers falling bonelessly to his side. “My mother has someone she would like me to meet.”

Wirant is just as he left it: cold as tits.

“Couldn’t you convince Her Majesty to brood regally somewhere warmer?” Zakura blows into his hands, breath misting the air as it plumes over his fingers. “Like Yuris. Yuris would be nice.”

Izana lifts a mild brow. “Perhaps, if they invented a history of political dissidence.”

“Ah!” He lifts his frozen hands skyward. “From your mouth to their ears.”

“Are you wishing strife upon Clarines?” the prince inquires. “That would be treason.”

Zakura grins. “Me? Never. Just saying that it might be nice to see beaches and bare skin when we go on holiday.”

“And miss your opportunity to kiss women?” His Highness is above such petty concerns as the cold, but he does shift, drawing his cloak more tightly over his shoulders. “Perish the thought.”

A laugh rumbles right up from the bottom of his toes. “See, Highness, the thing is-- I don’t need a reason to kiss them.”

Not so long ago-- three years, by his count, give or take a month or two-- that this very man had worn the motley of a fool so thoroughly and so well that his own court had whispered behind their hands as he passed, calling him a profligate dandy and worse, but now, oh now--

Now it’s Izana who glares at him, frown pulling taut across his face. It’s his mouth that opens, the scolding written clear in his eyes--

“Izana.”

Haruto, Queen Regnant, First of her Name stands upon the courtyard’s cobbles, as lovely and spry as the woman in his memory. Like the flower she’s made her crest, Zakura bends toward her sunlight.

“Your Majesty.” The words bound out of him before he can rein them in; heart careening about in his chest like a hound off the leash, refusing to heel. “You haven’t aged a day.”

Her hand is soft against his lips, and ah, it’d be nice if he could see her once without turning into the wet-eared boy he was when she first took him under her wing. “You’re too kind, Sir. As always.”

His Highness has earned every degree of his ice prince reputation, but in the presence of his mother, he thaws. Genuine feeling blossoms in his expression, like flowers in spring. “Mother. It is good to see you.”

Haruto tilts her head and returns his smile, warm, wide, and true. “It would be better if it was more often.”

Izana stiffens, jaw hanging just a tiny bit slack. Zakura muffles a cough into his hand. The prince might be known for his razor wit now, but the years hadn’t dulled the queen mum’s either.

“I...” He clears his throat, lowering his voice to its natural, lower tone. “You said there was someone you wished for me to meet, didn’t you?”

Haruto raises a single, elegant brow, and in it there is more polite derision than her own son could convey with both. “Yes. Although, I suppose you have already met...”

It’s rare that a detail escapes him, but despite her position two steps back from the queen, Zakura’s eyes had glanced right over the woman that steps forward. A pity; having a lady as handsome as this one to look at was a pleasure he rarely got to indulge in following around the royal arse. Tall without being intimidating, slender without being skinny, rounded in all the places a woman ought to be-- she’s a catch any red-blooded man would be happy to reel in.

That, of course, leaves out the ice prince. Izana stares, and it doesn’t take an expert in the royal expression to know: he doesn’t recognize this woman at all.

“It has been a long time, Your Majesty.” Her lips-- attractively full and pink as the petals they left behind in Wistal-- curl into a faintly self-deprecating smile. “Long enough that a reintroduction may be needed, I think.”

“Apparently,” Her Majesty murmurs, bemused. “I trust you remember that Duke Arleon had a daughter...?”

The prince might be above goggling, but Zakura sure as hell isn’t. This woman? Arleon’s little shadow of a girl?

Her head tilts, and from the depths of her hood, a long loop of rosy gold emerges. A nicer pelt than she’d sported years ago, when that mop had been a muddled strawberry-and-straw.

“Haki,” Izana says after far too long, a polite smile frozen onto his face. “A pleasure to see you again.”

Pearly teeth flash between those lips, gone before he’s even realized he’s glimpsed them. “Please, Your Highness,” she says, a hint of dryness in her tone. “The pleasure is all mine.”

The plan was to stay a week, two at most. Meet the girl, please Her Majesty, and leave long before the prince needed to dodge promises of kisses at midnight.

It’s been a month. No matter what protests His Highness makes, they aren’t lingering because of his mother.

“Arleon’s girl,” Zakura hums, the thick leather of his glove muting the feel of the hand beneath it. Haruto shifts on his arm, and he doesn’t need to look to see she’s pleased. “Quite a coup.”

“Ah, it is far too premature to say.” Her gaze pitches over the balustrade, to where the prince and his companion pace through the garden paths. It’s all snowed over now, a graveyard more than a garden, but the scenery hardly matters. “A trick is more apt a name. For now.”

“For now.” He squints, and in the glare of the sun, her hair takes on a vixenish gleam. “You’re sure that’s the right girl? I hardly recognize her, and you know I never forget a face.”

Haruto presses a pair of slender fingers to her lips. “She was a child when you saw her last. Faces change.”

These Wisterias never give away a thing, but Zakura knows when he’s being laughed at. “It wasn’t that long ago.”

“Three years. They change quickly at this age.” Her eyes slant up at him, her smile following suit. “That reminds me, sir. I have not had the chance to say that I am glad to see you two made peace.”

His shoulders round into a hunch. “I said as much in my letters.”

“A anyone can say anything in letters.” Her gaze lifts, fixing toward the horizon, her mouth canted in a rueful twist. “They may even pass for an entirely different man. I am happy to see your reports have not been embellished.”

“Your Majesty.” He gives her his wickedest grin. “I might exaggerate some things, but I’d never spin you a tall tale.”

Her lips twitch. These royals never like to give away a thing, but-- it’s a smile. At least, as much a one as she can give to an up-jumped, dirty-mouthed commoner, no matter what title he’d earned himself.

“That means more to me than you’ll even know, sir. Now--” she fixes him with her sternest glare-- “you’ll behave yourself tonight, won’t you?”

His palm presses flat to his chest; the effect is somewhat dampened by all the layers. “Your Majesty, whatever could you mean?”

“I think you full well know what I mean.” Her shapely brows raise in an insinuation it would take a dead man to miss. “My son would not thank me if I forbid you your fun, however...I would suggest you think wisely upon who you spend your midnight with.”

His grin stiffens like a corpse left too long in the drift. “Why, Your Majesty, am I not spending it with you?”

She laughs, a rough bark of a thing, not meant for a queen. “Oh, sir. I am far, far too old for midnights.”

Well, here’s the thing: he doesn’t mean to do it.

Izana may sit in his solar, half-dressed, still reading the days-old paper that arrived from Wistal as the sun set, but Zakura-- he’s far too low on the pecking order to arrive at a time later than prompt. Not early-- that’s for the eccentrics, like Forenzo, or the men far too eager to climb up the ladder-- but on time. He’s not a man to be announced, but one meant to be announced to. It’s a distinction he’s only just coming to understand, and one he’s already cultivated a deep dislike for.

So he’s there when Arleon’s girl is announced.

She really is a pretty little thing; taller than he remembers, but just the right height to simper prettily on a man’s breast. Not that she seems the kind, oh no; she holds herself with the same steel and silk that the queen does, alighting down the stairs with both heavenly grace and earthly presence. There’s nothing natural about how these nobles dance around each other, all manners and masks and lying out one side of their mouth, but Haki Arleon--

Well, Haki Arleon makes it look like it could be. Izana would have to be a fool to let her go.

Which he must be, considering how it’s only minutes away from midnight, and the prince hasn’t deigned to show himself. The girl’s too well-bred to show worry-- too many wrinkles, to risk it-- but her eyes keep darting to the stair, lingering on the grand entrance that never opens.

A young buck circles close, a shy smile curling his lips. His hair’s appropriately floppy too, the way the girls like it now-- but Haki demurs, chin ducking as he tries to make his bid. Zakura’s seen it a half dozen times at least now; a boy rolls the dice, and before he can get another word in, one of her ladies intercepts him with a smile and a dance. This young man is no different, a pretty doe bounding in to steer him away with a flutter of long eyelashes, but--

It’s her last. There’s no more to protect her from the advances of ambitious lordlings. After all, this thing between her and Izana is nothing more than an inclination. Wirant’s rumor mill may be just as vicious and twice as fast as the one in Wistal, but Haruto’s grasp on it is absolute-- and clearly, she does not want to spur on any but the most idle speculation.

Childhood friends reunited, a maid had told him this morning, straight-faced. Did he think a romance might kindle?

Zakura frowns, fingers drumming on the mantel. It certainly wasn’t going to if the royal ass didn’t drag itself down to this party.

At five minutes to midnight, wide eyes land on him, and he sees the question in them, plain as day. For all her lessons and regal grooming, she’s still a girl, barely bloomed, waiting for a boy to love her. Or make a fool of her.

He doesn’t mean to. He certainly doesn’t tell his feet to carry him across the floor, or to stop right in front of Arleon’s daughter. But they do, and he does, and he’s just going to have to live with that.

She really is just the right height for simpering. Pity she’s not the type.

“Sir Zakura.” Her head bows politely, the precise degree for a man of his station. He sees the way her hands tremble in her skirt, the hopeful glint in her eyes as she raises them to him. “Did you come here with your liege?”

Did I miss him? He hears the question plain as day.

“I came ahead.” It’s a tepid reply; one that snuffs out the spark in her eyes. “His Highness had...issues to take care of. He did tell me he planned to attend.”

Her mouth curves, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m sure.”

“Come now.” He puts on his slyest grin, the one so wicked that good girls like Haki Arleon can only smile and shake their head. Incorrigible, they said. As if nobles didn’t appreciate consistency of character above everything else. “You remember-- the prince never misses a Solstice, even if he does show up minutes to midnight.”

She hums, but oh, there it is, a tell-tale flush of pink over pale cheeks.

“Don’t tell me--” his brows give a salacious wiggle-- “that you were our fair prince’s solstice kiss? And on such an auspicious night.”

“No.” Her voice thrums with words unsaid. “He said he wouldn’t kiss anyone. Not when it is so easy for fires to be started and grow out of control.”

Zakura bites down on a sigh. Any other man would mean desire, using those words to parlay a night between the sheets, but His Highness--

His Highness was talking about gossip. Not that he could blame the kid; seventeen with a kingdom on his shoulders and a hundred debutantes willing to lift their skirts for a chance to be queen. Lady Haki hadn’t been old enough to attend the soiree itself, her presentation still months away yet, but Arleon had allowed it anyway.

A shame to have her miss it when her oldest friend is in attendance, he had said, ambition glittering in his eyes. They see each other so infrequently...

For all the good it did him; with full grown women throwing themselves at Izana’s feet, a girl barely old enough to be spotting sheets couldn’t have garnered more than a pat on the head.

Her hand raises, absently brushing at the smooth round of her cheek. Ah, so the idiot spared a brotherly peck for his childhood playmate. And now here she was, three years later, staring at the doors and wondering if she’d receive the same.

And his princeliness couldn’t spare her an evening to ease her nerves. Zakura’s hand clenches at his side. Wheels within wheels. Games within games. That’s how these nobles worked. The more that little prick changed, the more he stayed the same.

It’s seconds to midnight, and the horns sound, announcing that Prince Izana Wisteria, First of His Name, had finally deigned to grace them with his presence. He glides down the grand stair, enigmatic smile on his face, gaze skimming purposefully over the crowd, and, well--

Midnight chimes. Old habits die hard.

Her face is turned from him, drawn to the theatrics like a butterfly about to be crushed on the wheel, but his murmured, “Excuse me, my lady,” brings her attention back into his orbit, and that’s all he needs.

He crowds in, body pressing against hers, and she has all the time in the world to move away, every chance to balk, and she--

She rises onto her toes.

Her gasp is lost as their mouths meet, swallowed whole by the hunger of his own. Nails scrap along his scalp, pulling him closer, and he’s all too pleased to find her following his lead, letting her lips brush against his own in a way that would be tantalizing, if she’d known how.

With cheers pressing in around them, he pulls away, grinning as she settles on her heels. “Fair Solstice, my lady.”

“Fair Solstice,” she echoes. Her bowed lips curve as she glances past him. “I do hope it was worth it, sir.”

The court may call him half-wild, hardly tame, and he gives her a grin that proves it. “With a kiss like that, I don’t know how it wouldn’t be.”

Her laugh chimes like sleigh bells. “Oh, I didn’t mean that.”

She casts a pointed glance over his shoulder, and all he can do is follow it: first to His Highness, whose glare he expects-- it was half the point, after all-- but second--

Second is to Makiri’s, Arleon’s heir. And Haki’s older, much less good-humored brother.

“Ah.” Air hisses through his teeth. “Maybe I’ve made a...miscalculation.”

“I told you,” Her Majesty says, really yucking it up. “This little rivalry of yours would get you in trouble.”

“Yeah, well...” He grimaces as she shifts the ice over the swollen ridge of his jaw. “I always thought you meant it would be with the man himself, not someone who knew how to throw a punch.”

“If it’s a brawl you want,” drawls the lanky shadow darkening his doorway, “you may keep holding your breath until you choke on it. It’s far more amusing to watch you get pummeled by vengeful relations.”

He scowls, watching His Princeliness glide across the floor. “Coward.”

“And break my knuckles on your hard head?” His brows lift, amused. “Who would do all my paperwork?”

He nearly gets up right there, ready to see just how easily those delicate little cheekbones would break, but Her Majesty presses firmly on his shoulders. “Perhaps if you did not have such a penchant for kissing above your station, my son would not have so much entertainment.”

Izana blinks. “A penchant?”

The queen’s nails bite into the wool of his coat. “Ah, it’s quite late, isn’t it?” It’s a miracle she’s made it this long among the vipers, considering how every word trembles with guilt. “Or rather...early! I should really, ah...perform my ablutions. Before breakfast.”

The royal brow furrows, mouth taking a terrifyingly thoughtful bent. “Dawn is hours away, Mother.”

She stands, bobbling the rag into his hands. “Ah, well, you know. A woman’s toilette...”

The prince’s face is torn between suspicion and mortification; fortunately he’s young enough for the second to win out. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

Her Majesty has hardly left when those eyes turn on him, as blue as the night itself. “I was looking for you tonight.”

“Oh really?” It’s hard to keep a playful tone through a grimace, but Zakura likes to think he manages. “Can’t say I’ve ever done something like that before, but you’re pretty enough with your--”

“Not that.” Izana’s mouth twitches in a downward direction; a poor sign for his continued employment. “I wanted to talk to you of the future.”

A hard pit of dread lodges in his stomach. He’d finally kissed a girl too far. “Is that so?”

The prince draws himself to his full height, peering out the snow-limned windows. “It is. I have been thinking...”

He hesitates. Zakura stares. He’s known the boy too long to believe he could be bashful, but, well--

It sure looks like what this is. “I thought we might come north more often. For mother’s sake of course.”

He hardly knows his jaw’s dropped until it aches right back to the joint. “...Of course.”

“She seems lonely.” His lender shadow wavers at the window. “I thought I might provide her with more regular company.”

Zakura puts the ice right to his chin, if only to find something to do with himself. “So you’re serious then.”

Long fingers flex, knotting behind the royal back. “I...intend to be.“

“Well then.” He clears his throat. “I’m almost sorry I kissed her.”

Izana turns, arching one of those cultured brows. “Almost?”

“Well, in my professional opinion, someone’s been practicing with some stable boys.” The cloth slips from his fingers, ice skittering across the floor. “Fuck.”

In a moment the prince kneels before him, holding up a hand. “No, let me. You’ll only hurt yourself, and then my mother will think I’ve maimed you on purpose.”

“Now what would be the point of that,” Zakura drawls, “when I’m the only one who can tell you that she’s really worth her weight in gold.”

His Highness heaves a sigh, long fingers plucking chips off the floor and into the rag. “It’s not her dowry that interests me.”

“Treaties, then.” He gives the prince his best leer. “She’s worth reams of them.”

The ice burns even through the cloth, but it’s Izana’s eyes that make him twist. “Whatever will you do now that there’s no other woman you can kiss that will peeve me?”

He shrugs, hunching down over his knees. “I hear you have a brother, don’t you?”

[lunarosewood23]

Bad Summary Meme

Pinged on my side blog by @chysgoda, thanks for the tag!

Summarize your fics badly! I’ll do some of the ones from my Ao3 but if you wanna yeet me an ask to choose some of the ones on Tumblr or ones not listed here hmu! Will ping @inkblood-mistrieu, @stars-bleed-hearts-shine, @beetlebrownleaf, @aethernoise, @dragons-bones, @gunbun, and anyone else down to do this!

1: So Fated a Wartable Ships Them - Meet cute straight outta the stories. Resident adventurer getting treated like a princess by a knight in shining armor (and deep down she loves every second of it)

2: The Moon Rises Again - NOT TODAY DEATH!! (Or I say screw you to the death counter.)

3: Herald at the Cross' Road - Military commander shocks the crap out of the resident cook and mama bear with a letter from her daughter. She makes him food as thanks.

4: Friends in Low Places - Resident mama bear does what she does best and moms her daughter’s friends.

5: In Good Company - “No Haurchefant, you CAN’T go see your fiancee who’s trying to control her draconic inheritance. I realize you don’t care about you getting hurt but you know she’d destroy herself over it if she hurt you. Now come here and cuddle with us because the bags under your eyes are awful and Raven would be upset if you didn’t rest.” - Serella wrangling Haurchefant from bolting to Dravania.

6: A Choice Can Change Everything - Fate can fuck off. (Or Raven flips the middle finger at fate while guarding Edda with her life.)

7: Angelic Bliss - “FUCKING FINALLY” -Everyone who had to watch Raven and Haurchefant dance around each other and their feelings and just wanted them to kiss already.

8: Unwelcomed Guests - “By the Fury can’t I make out with my boyfriend in peace??”

9: Untapped Reality - “I just cleaved and utterly wrecked that sineater in twain even though I’ve never touched this weapon before what the fuck????”

10: Echos of the Past -  Hey have that time Haurchefant saw his unsundered self in an Echo vision but doesn’t quite know what the fuck just happened.

A bonus bad summary from something I’m working on but am really struggling with that’s also kinda sad: Parent finds out from her daughter that her adopted son has been tempered but stubbornly holds onto hope that he’ll come home.

[autumnslance]

((Originally begun as response to a prompt (that ended up another entirely), this got away from me and became it’s own thing. Since it’s a FFXIV Write 2020 freebie day, time to finally yeet this draft out after sitting on it too long. Also below the cut for those who prefer Tumblr.))

“We have time before these negotiations resume,” Merlwyb said. “I suggest we stretch our legs and clear our heads before meeting with the Emperor again, now we have a firmer strategy.” The others readily agreed.

Nanamo grabbed Alisaie’s attention about another matter, leaving Aeryn free to slip outside. She waved past the Alliance guards to go a short way down the path to a small, rocky clearing she had noticed earlier. Both forces’ camps sat on either side, but straight forward were the dark hills and valleys of Ghimlyt. Not the most calming or picturesque view she had ever beheld, but more open and empty than a tent full of politicians and soldiers.

The footfall of a man in heavy armor was unmistakable, and she looked back to see who had followed, blinking in surprise at an unaccompanied Emperor Varis, his guards left several yalms away. “I had hoped for a chance to speak privately,” he said.

Aeryn stood stiffly, watching him. “I wondered at your request for my presence. I’m not much for politics—my skills lie elsewhere.”

“I am well aware.” He tromped up alongside her, his own gaze looking over the landscape. “I wanted to take more of your measure, given our last meeting was cut short.”

Aeryn shrugged. She turned back to the scenery.

Varis frowned. “No accusation or rejoinders? Or have you learned the futility of such from your leaders?”

She disliked how he said that, but kept herself neutral. “There’s no point. We were both there.” Her Echo caught a whisper, as she remembered who else had been in Ok’Zundu that day. “But you weren’t there,” she added quietly. “When we faced Zurvan.”

It was his turn to stiffen and Aeryn almost found that impressive, given how rigid the man already was by nature. “I have heard the tale from my soldiers. But I would hear it from you, eikon slayer.”

“We fought back and forth across Azys Lla in the course of our research into the Warring Triad,” Aeryn began bluntly. “As we did, it became apparent that the failsafes the Allagans built into the facility had been purposely sabotaged from the beginning, to allow the imprisoned eikons their freedom. A plot of the goddess Sophia’s followers, hoping to rain her and Bahamut’s wrath both upon the old empire. That didn’t happen, and so they waited for four thousand years.”

“Until the Archbishop’s foolhardiness woke them, and drew our attentions to Azys Lla and its potential,” he said.

“Its nightmares,” she answered. “The creatures and machina remaining are twisted. Little good can come from what torments they inflicted on others.”

“Perhaps you are lacking imagination. A debate for another time,” Varis continued, almost hurriedly as she glowered up at him. “I wish to know about Zurvan, not the lesser creations of Allag.”

Aeryn grit her teeth and gazed out across the fields again. “The archons set wards to keep Garlean soldiers out of the facility. But the damage done by Sophia’s minions had been enough. Even only half-awake, the Demon’s power broke our wards.”

She looked to Varis again. “That’s when van Hydrus came to us. Our prior clashes had ended in stalemate and escape. That time, he asked for our aid. His soldiers were struggling to keep Zurvan’s minions from waking their master, despite the risk to their own minds—and when we arrived, many had been turned, fighting their own squad mates.”

 The floors slick with blood, the screaming sounds of those centaur-like beings, the guttural roar of the eikon itself as it half-woke, Regula’s weapon cleaved in twain…

“How did Regula die?” Varis asked when she was quiet for too long.

Aeryn took a moment to clear her throat. “There were...aether collectors, to feed Zurvan and grant him strength. We had to disable them. But only three of us could get close: myself, another Scion with the Echo, and a boy who also bears the Blessing—our expert on the Warring Triad.” She noted his ever-deepening frown but continued.

“The archons tended to the wounded, trying to get as many as possible away from the eikon. Krile and I fought our way through and broke our generators, but Unukalhai was hesitant. For all his knowledge and skill, he’s still a child. So the Legatus dove into the fray to protect the boy and destroy the generator. Which he did--But Zurvan had awoken enough to take a swing to defend his thralls. His sword broke Regula’s. And…” Aeryn stopped, realizing she was hugging herself as she remembered.

Before Varis could speak she continued, letting her arms drop to her sides. “His last words were that he believed the Echo to be the only true way to destroy eikons, and so judged Unukalhai’s life more valuable than his own. He...spoke of you, what you did for him, and how he gladly gave his all in service. And he bade us complete our mission, end Zurvan’s threat.” She met Varis’ cold, dark gaze. “So I did.”

They were silent for a long moment. “Thank you,” the emperor finally replied. “The reports said much the same.”

“You thought I would lie about what happened?”

“No. All reports name you an honest woman. As I said: I simply wished to hear it from you.”

“I...I am sorry. For...I wish things had turned out differently.”

“Perhaps next time you won’t take a child onto a battlefield.”

She frowned up at him. “Believe me; I didn’t want to. But we don’t have a choice. And you don’t know all the circumstances. Unukalhai’s no ordinary boy.”

“But he is a boy. Unused to battle, and so one of our best, my onl--” Varis paused, taking a breath to collect himself. “You wonder why we call you savages, when you justify such.”

Aeryn bristled. “You have no room to talk. The empire’s no stranger to child soldiers--but I suppose they don’t matter if they aren’t Garlean.” She bit her tongue before mentioning the Resonatorium.

His lips pulled back in a sort of grin. “There’s the anger I expected. Nor are you above the same tit-for-tat as your leaders after all.”

“We can spit facts at one another all day. It doesn’t change anything.” Aeryn clenched her fists to stop their trembling--and the urge to throw a punch. That would be a helluva thing to do at a negotiation. Her eyes snapped up to his again. “Or are you trying to goad me?”

“Hrmph. No,” he said emphatically, and she believed him. “But we should each return to our respective camps, and make preparations for said negotiations to continue.”

Aeryn took a shaky breath as she stepped back. She did not trust herself to speak--she had no conscious idea what to say--so merely nodded, not looking away from him.

After a long, awkward moment, he finally broke eye contact and turned, stalking back to his guards, armor clinking with each weighty step. Aeryn waited until he was out of sight before returning to the Alliance side.

Lyse was waiting for her near the large tent set up for the parley. “There you are!” She exclaimed, relieved. “Were you talking to Varis just now? Or was I imagining things?”

Aeryn shook her head. “Not imagining. He was asking about Regula van Hydrus, and the Warring Triad.”

“The legatus of the VIth Legion?” Lyse looked down. “Honestly, I’d forgotten; you ended up working with him in the end, right? He saved Unukalhai.”

“And I told the emperor so,” Aeryn admitted. “According to some of Regula’s soldiers, he was Varis’ friend.” She frowned, looking toward the Garlean lines. “Maybe his only one.”

“Don’t tell me you’re feeling sorry for ‘His Radiance’?”

Aeryn scoffed. “Hardly. More...understanding, I think. Or trying to. What would that do to a person; to have only one other that you could trust and rely on?”

“And then lose them?” Lyse finished. They exchanged concerned looks, before Lyse let out a deep breath. “I think that’s enough sympathizing with the devil for one day. Come on; the others are waiting.”

The Alliance representatives were stunned by Varis’ candor and zealous proclamations. Aeryn could barely hear the others' responses, thinking instead of Gaius Baelsar’s own impassioned speech as they had ridden the lift down to the Ultima Weapon.

He had called Eorzea a land riddled with falsehoods, lies propped up by weak leaders to placate a weaker populace. But if what Varis said about the first emperor--his own grandfather!--was true, if everything about the Imperial agenda was just another scheme of the Paragons...

Nanamo’s certain voice began to cut through the haze. Aeryn focused on the Sultana, her own surprise giving way to pride in the young ruler, how far she had come since their first meeting under the Sultantree.

“And you, Warrior of Light?” the Emperor demanded. “Would you refuse me as well?”

Aeryn felt everyone’s eyes turn her way. She wished they wouldn’t; the attention was as smothering as an Ul’dahn heatwave.

She met Varis’ gaze. “Your prize is a lie and your masters demons,” she said bluntly. “I’ll stop you and the Ascians--no matter what.”

He sneered. “I thought you had more sense. Don’t you see? Regula was right! The Echo is crucial not only to ridding the world of eikons, but in saving it entirely--returning it to its original, natural state. That is what the Ascians mean--and what they fear in you.”

Aeryn glared. “Regula died because he believed another’s life worth more than his own--his last words were of service, of stopping the eikons and their followers from causing a Calamity, not helping them bring more about! If you think after all we’ve struggled through and accomplished, that I would ever agree to mass murder, then you didn’t ‘take my measure’ at all. I’ll defend Eorzea--this entire world--from your madness with everything I have.”

It was more than she usually said at such meetings, and she felt her friends’ eyes on her even as she and Varis glared at one another.

“It would seem the Alliance is of one mind on this matter,” Nanamo said firmly.

The meeting ended as Aeryn had assumed--despite all hope--that it would. She kept her eyes on Varis until he had swept out to bring the Empire's hammer down upon Eorzea for their defiance.

She wished, once again, that events in Azys Lla had ended differently. Perhaps losing his singular friend had left Varis no one else to discuss matters with, had left him open to the Ascians’ manipulations and the wild idea that any scheme was worth it to defeat them at their own game.

Thinking back to the empty bodies currently in the Rising Stones’ infirmary, Aeryn could almost understand such desperation.

Almost.

She joined her comrades as they prepared for war.

[casualcatte]

RP Journal: 09/14/2020

Time has slipped through my fingers since last I penned an entry, hasn’t it?  Much of the time has gone into planning the expedition into Dusk Vigil that happened this evening. While I’d originally planned to take Sumiko along with us, she’d written to say she couldn’t make it, that Nan’to would be upset with her if she did. I’m no stranger to wanna-be father figures thinking they have the right to rule my life, so there was no harm done. To replace her, I enlisted the aid of new-found friend and comrade, V’ari Tia. Along with Edgard Beaumont, and Rae-Hann we were a formidable enough team to take on most anything.

(Courtesy cut for length...)

/Most/ anything. The expedition itself showed us signs of a monstrosity with a powerful connection to wind-aspected aether, as well as claws and a beak sharp enough to cleave a man in twain with but a single stroke. Evidence of the beast’s carnage lay deep within the bowels of the ruin, a pile of various severed body parts of both man and beast. It was revolting. By the time we got to the heart of the ruin, we were fairly convinced that this would be no trifling hunt. This would be dangerous.  This would be brutal.  This would be terrifying.

Once I laid eyes on the Saurotaun, none of that mattered. The haze of crimson that filled my vision as I looked at it peacefully sleeping is something I’ll never forget.  I could hear the blood pounding in my ears like the thunderous crash of waves against the cliffs of La Noscea.  After fifteen long years, there it was. The thing that killed my parents, killed their hunting party. Eight hunters’ lives all just snuffed out in the blink of an eye.  And I wanted nothing more than to kill it myself.

Were it not for the three of them, I would’ve gone to my death in a haze of rage and grief then and there. Ari with his earnest truth and subtle fear for the powerful aether surging around us. Rae-Hann with his reminder that I once pulled him from the same precipice, where what we wanted and what actually mattered diverged and all that was needed was a hand to show us to the correct path. Ardi who told me to /stick to the plan/ -- the same words I’d used to Tristane all those years ago. As much as I didn’t want to fail my parents, to turn tail and run when my ancient enemy was right before me, I wanted to fail these three steadfast, faithful friends even less.

/Stick to the plan./  With Ardi standing there between my quarry and I, all I could hear was my own voice screaming for Tristane to stick to the plan. Screams of fear and anger. The aching pain in my heart, like it was the alpha’s teeth and claws tearing through it. There was no way I could put Ardi through that.  None.

So, we left. It was a harrowing run to escape the beast’s lair as it screamed its fury and the wind whipped at us from all sides. Gods, I hate Coerthas and I hate the cold.  I hate it even more now. I will never understand people that enjoy it.  Give me a warm, autumnal forest or a sunny, white sand beach. 

Once we recovered, we adjourned to my cabin in Tailfeather. Ari promptly fell asleep on the rug by the bath, not that I blame him, it’s probably pretty warm there. Ardi made dinner and I talked about how I felt about all that had gone on. Rae-Hann eventually joined us, having diverted off to Ishgard to pick up a bottle of wine. An amusingly endearing gesture, pretty common for Rae-Hann when it comes to our friendship. So, the three of us drank wine, ate miqo’bobs, and just let me vent about my feelings and some of our thoughts and conjecture on what the Saurotaun is or could possibly be. Eventually, we came to the conclusion that we should just operate on what we know, rather than continue to ponder over what-ifs and maybes. Rae-Hann departed not long after.

During the course of that talk, Ardi said that /we/ would spend the next fifteen years hunting the Saurotaun if it happened to get away. We. As if he would just naturally spend the next fifteen years at my side, hunting a nightmare monstrosity with no other thought or concern for anything else. When I asked him about it, he even said as much: Why would I want to be anywhere else but by your side? I have to admit, it’s a wonderful feeling to have someone I know I can count on, someone I can trust with absolute certainty, and someone I know will be there no matter what happens.

We, too, went to bed, exhausted by the day’s events. Tomorrow, we would begin planning, researching, exploring our options. We wouldn’t go into this fight unprepared. We’d be ready and the next time I encountered the Saurotaun -- that beast would die.