"Tails, then."

[KidKrinkles 2044]

 

I never make these sorts of things.

 

Inside, paper lanterns glowed warmly. Simple instruments chimed and jangled somewhere in the air, their notes softened beneath the low murmur of gathered voices. Wooden platters of chocolate-glazed nuts and small cuts of cheese passed from hand to hand. It was peaceful. Victor’s own wedding had been to the point. His daughter, the Reverend Stefaniya, had officiated for him and Viktoria in a quiet ceremony, held after he had nearly lost his life in an ambush while trying to pilfer some altar to Gashadokuro, back when Marlon Pell had been his greatest concern. It had been fast, plain, and private. Neither he nor Viktoria had ever cared much for drawn-out ceremonies or parties. Most invitations bounced off him like arrows on a shield. He had even missed King Alexander of Balian’s wedding, and he had been meant to be the best man. It had not been intentional. He had been busy helping liberate Caladras from a voidal horror’s grip, then raising a pyre for his friend Dalrend. Weddings were not bad things. Victor did not begrudge them their joy. He had simply never been very good at reaching them.

 

And when he did, misery often followed in his shadow.

He moved quiet as his plate allowed, forcing smiles at unfamiliar faces. He had surely looked out of place, his Numenedain Ranger-Veteran's helmet resting beneath his arm, and against his hip. He almost didn't know what to do… it felt uncomfortable and he couldn't place exactly why. Months of hiding can make the tongue knotted; like he'd forgotten how to speak.

"Gramps!"

Across the way, the call found Victor, bright and unguarded. His head swiveled and he saw the lavender-lad in his wedding finery. He looked as one should on their wedding day: but that itself was a feat. Despite it all, Nickolai was managing to find happiness through the bleakness of it all. A husband-to-be. A father, a son, a family man. The bowie's face eased; after all, that was why he was here.

"Ye' look dapper." He offered, his right-hand gesturing towards him, with a finger lazily curled to an unfinished point. As he neared, Victor’s hand came up, his smile staying pinned to his face as he clasped Nickolai’s shoulder.  Nickolai's own hands came and patted at his plate with a laugh. "Might be te' first weddin' ah've actually made it te'."

"Well we're honored to have you here." His smile beamed, cheerfully. "Please, mingle, indulge. There's plenty to eat, and drink."

A great way to end up dead. I can't enjoy those sorts of luxuries out here.

"Mm. I'll grab a drink. Rare'a do, but, one won't 'urt." He'd say, a swirl of cigarette smoke swirling from the corner of his lip. It was a small lie: he had his vice already. 

He left Nickolai to his revelry: he wandered towards his great-grandson, Galian. His footsteps went unheard against the general liveliness of the reception. He eyed the familiar port-wine stain across the lad's face. He was enjoying some snacks, from a plate: presumably he was supposed to be offering them, not eating them.

"Ye' look sharp." He'd say to the boy, making his presence known. The lad jumped and spun to face his elder, "Intend te' outdress yer' pa?"

The child hurriedly finished the hors d’oeuvres on the plate. He ate quickly, greedily, or perhaps like he was hiding the evidence of his snacking? He quickly gulped, and wiped at his mouth, "... n…. N… n-no o-one… c… c…. Can outdress P-papaej." The bowie waited patiently while he spoke, before replying.

"Yer' given 'em a run for 'es money." A quiet snort from the man, who looked about some. He watched Nickolai drink in the day, a grin worn on his face, before he looked back at the boy. "Perhaps ye'll find yer' future bride 'ere?" A teasing tone, his lower lip puffing up.

The boy quietly listened to that, and offered out a hand. Some of the extra snacks he'd squirreled away: not yet eaten. Victor's hand came down, and plucked a small piece of cheese, and an almond with cocoa. He'd pop them in his mouth, chewing slowly.

"Bu… but all… all of them are t-twice my age, grandpaej Victor."

"Aye. Wasn't bein' serious." A warm smile to the lad. A thought crossed his mind, and his hand slipped into his sporran. "This wasn't ye, was e' lad?"

A plain note, in simple writing, it read: I miss you grandpa, can we hang out soon? 

The boy stared back at the letter, plain faced, chewing slower still. "... I… c-can… write l-l-letters to you…?"

I bet it was Buge.

The bowie was blessed to have so many grandchildren, through one way or another. "A' course ye' can write te' me lad."

Nearby, there was a gentle tapping to break up the conversation and mingling that hung in the green canopied air. "Ah! It's about ready-- if the guests could gather at the base of the tree, for the ceremony, ja?"

"I wonder if they need a dramatic fog?" He spoke to himself, Victor's eye trailed down to the mist that swirled at his feet, and snorted to himself. At least he could still make himself laugh.

 

"They do." Corann spoke, his cane tapping as he formed the front of the semi-circle, near where vows would be exchanged, and the bride and groom displayed. Victor offered a smile to the man and bobbed his head then, chuckling as he spoke, "A' will be sure te' 'op around 'em, when t'ey come out."

 

"Perhaps I will make it rain sparkles from you, as you do so?" Corann added in his own dry tone.

 

A hush drew over the crowd:

 

“Before we begin ea just want to thank vy all for being here today. This day has been,.. A long time coming for eam and Solveig. Vyr presence to support us means more than words can express.”

 

As he spoke, from over a great branch came Solveig in her white gown. For a moment, Victor forgot to breathe.

She walked carefully beneath the glow of lanterns and stars, the dress catching what little light the Mother Grove offered and carrying it with her. Her hair had been curled and tended with loving hands, bright against the evening dark, and every step she took seemed measured not by fear, but by the weight of the moment. His mouth parted a touch, "Oh." The word was smaller than he meant, and, more reverent. He watched her as she moved to join her husband-to-be, and took his hand.

My own wedding was so quiet, it must be nervewracking. All these eyes on you. On all your love. There is a special bravery in being here.

Victor’s hand drifted idly to the cigarette at the corner of his mouth. He did not pull from it. For once, even that felt too loud. A smile hung on his face: love was about vows, and promises, and enduring hardship… and they'd done it. This was their prize.

A druid woman spoke up, offering a smile. A woven cord rested on her forearm; likely some Druii marriage rite. "Friends, family, circle members! We've gathered today to show our love and support for these two lovely people, in celebration of their marriage! I believe the couple has vows for each other?" Victor's ear twitched, as he heard a newcomer, though his eye focused forward.

“Solveig. We first met in a bank of all places. And that same day ea was taken by Drusco as a prisoner of war. In the face of that, besides just wanting to live, ea knew ea had to make it back to just see vy again.” His tail twitched with excited nerves. “Ea knew from our first conversation that ea had to get to know vy.. Vyr gentleness, vyr kindness, vyr everything. It was candle light to eam moth brain.”

"Vy gave eam a chance that most would simply niet have given based on eam appearance. Vy have encouraged eam, challenged eam, vy have always made sure to do better. Because vy believed ea could…” Nickolai's breath hitched as he cleared his throat again, trying to keep his emotions in control. “This is eam promise to vy Solveig.. Before the aspects, before our loved ones below the tree…nyie matter what befalls us. Should the hells rise up to swallow us, the void come for our minds, or even the spears of those who would see us apart - ea vow to vy that ea will never fall. Never leave vyr side. Niet just for eamself, or for our kids.. But for vy.”

The bowie's own hands folded before himself, resting atop his sporran.

"Victor."

A gauntleted hand was set atop his shoulder, his eye sliding to the fingers. They were the lamellar folds of a samurai's tekko. He knew the voice well. Hirano Jiro.

**** me… this is what I get for coming out of my hole and enjoying a wedding.

The voice found the seam in his plates like a knife. The bowie stayed focused, eye forward. His mind did wonder who, and how many were present. Was he caught by chance, or did they know he'd be here? This was the reason he wore his plate, and not his nice kilt. The sound of the vows drifted into the background, as he felt a steady rise of his heartbeat in his ears.

 

"Mm?" The bowie hummed in reply, his eye sliding off of the hand that placed itself on his shoulder to the ceremony.   "I need you to come with me, the Admiral requests your presence. And I would strongly prefer to not interrupt a beautiful wedding for state business."   Victor’s jaw shifted once around the cigarette. "T'en don't." He'd say flatly, his eye unmoving from the couple. Jiro's hand remained firm.   "I would prefer this, but will do what I must." He intoned. A warning. "The more civil this conversation, the more productive and peaceful it can be. You risk nothing, I know you've got jars ready to catch you, when you fall."   The cigarette smoke curled thin from Victor’s lip. A slow breath followed it. "We're Civil, Jiro." He'd assure, flat-toned as ever. "Te' Admiral wants me for Idunia's sake. Dead here, dead t'ere." A slight shrug.   Too many folk nearby. He doesn't have a weapon drawn. I think. Can't risk anyone here getting hurt for my sake.   "Actually, we want you for our sake. We have issues to go over, more related to our business than Idunia. Truthfully, I know nothing of your issue with Idunia. This is a separate matter."   … I believe that.   “T'at sounds worse, frankly.” His voice lowered further, his eye sliding a touch to the right without granting Jiro the whole of his face. “Ah'vae nae clue what Kurai-Kuni wants wit' me.”    "Ma, frankly, at worst we cut off your head. At best, you tell the Admiral what he wants to know, and we let you head off with a bow and all go in peace. All-in-all, it depends upon cooperation. I would not lie to you, I am samurai."   His expression didn't change, though his brow made the smallest twitch.   Now I don't believe you. I've seen your name in some dark books.   "It is about the Seisho."   "Ah… t'at makes some sense." The man said. A faint shift… not surprise, but recognition. "Frankly t'ough, ah'm watchin' te' ceremony. Ye' can kill me 'ere if ye' wish. Its as ye' say t'ough: Ah'll pop back up." His voice eased. Almost a conversation. Death was not a strange topic, but not one he feared. "Ye'll simply ruin'a beautiful ceremony. Te' Admiral can write te' me if t'ey've questions. But Seisho Ehiba is dead."   A pause, in the conversation. The silence that followed had teeth. His eye returned back to the couple in earnest.   "If t'at is your decision: as an aside, I do not fault ye' or take it personal."   “It's not about Ehiba. Ano- It's about Miyu. And I wouldn't kill you to get you to come in for questions, ma- very counter-productive.”   His lips pressed thin against his cigarette.   Ah, another vow came to bite me in my ass.   “A' would not answer questions t'at endanger Miyu.” He'd hum, more than he spoke, almost tired. “Ah, I'm sure you've your ways. But ah've mine too.”   “Then it is what it is. I ask you to consider who you will endanger if I am made to do this as I am commanded. Let's do this in Yorumachi, where the children won't see.” He bid as a final suggestion. He didn't have a blade drawn, though he plainly put his knife on the table. “If it's gotta' happen one way or the other, let's be civil enemies.” He clicked his tongue.   “Let te' ceremony finish, at least.” He'd grumble, and flick his head forward towards the pair.   “I can agree to that. We'll leave after the reception begins, no reason to endanger civilians over the problems of the immortal. Which… I wasn't sure of, arigatogozaimasu for confirming that.”   That revelation goes both ways: I would've guessed you know how to make new vessels. I wonder if you are one?   “Ye' study alchemy for'a 'undred years, ye' learn te' tricks. Everyun' around long enough presumes t'at." He replied, his voice dry like parchment. Then, quieter: "Ah've nae intention'a dyin' before I free myself from Orsathiael. Once t'at is done; a' can rot.”   “There might be a solution for you.”   “Ah've my own solution. Just need time. Only sad thing is, this'll get in te' way'a me killin' Argelion if'a lose.” He'd mutter. The trouble with Idunia.   “Ma, frankly - we are vengeful, Miyu is frankly… Secondary. You can yet talk your way out of this, the Admiral's anger is elsewhere.”   His brain sparked with fire, for a brief moment, though the heat dissipated as the words reached his tongue,   “Ye' are offerin' me a rope at ano'ers expense. T'at is not my way.”   “Information of other sorts is a viable trade off. I know she's wearing a new face, cowering among the druii of the enclave. You can't really tell us anything I don't already know.”   The words landed coldly along his back, his shoulders tensing some. Jiro wasn't wrong. That was the worry. The old knight said nothing for a moment. He let the ceremony fill the silence for him. Let the vows speak where he would not.    “Largely he doesn't know about the methods, I could just deliver a head. I operate by ano… a gentleman's agreement of this sort of thing.”    “… We can talk in te' Yorumachi. I abhore violence any'ow. If we can make an agreement: Ah'd prefer it. If not, t'en it is what it is.”   “I would prefer a conversation, truthfully.”

“Nicky,” she tried to begin, then was forced to pause, catching her breath as tears of joy fell freely down her cheeks. “My Nicky,” she repeated, regarding her husband-to-be with a shining smile. “. . . What can I say about you in front of all our friends that they don't already know? . . . Back when we had only just met, I always called you ‘my hero.’ You are that. Ever since I met you that day, I could already tell . . . You're impossibly brave, steadfast, always ready to stand up for others, no matter the cost.” The gathered crowd stayed quiet for her. Even the little sounds of the Grove seemed to soften: the shuffle of feet, the faint clink of platters, the breath held between one vow and the next. “But our friends already know that. You're talented too, always ready to freely give of those talents to others. Your skill with music — always ready to serenade your friends. Your smithing talents — always glad to make a weapon for any who needs one. Your skill with art — always brightening whatever room you're in just by putting up one of your paintings. But they already know that too . . .” Solveig paused for a moment, reaching out, even preemptively, to take Nicky's hand in hers. “Why do you do all these things? Why pour so much of yourself out to others that you hardly have any left for yourself? Well, it's simple. It's something personal that I have gotten to see much better than anyone else ever has. You simply refuse to stop loving.” The words settled gently beneath the boughs. “It's remarkable, really, that someone with more reason than anyone in the world to turn his back on the world and become self-centered should be the most selfless man I've ever met. It's why I've loved you from the beginning, and it's why I make this vow to you now. Because, now that I've seen how you treat friends, acquaintances, even complete strangers, I can know for a fact that you will not stop loving your family, no matter what the cost. So my vow to you, Nicky, is simple. I will love you as you have loved me until the end of time. I promise to strive to show you the same kindness, love, and honor that I have been so privileged to receive from you. Til death do us part . . . And beyond.” The officiant's hands shifted slightly, lifting the silver and white cord from her forearm. “Nickolai and Solveig, I ask that you both look into each other's eyes.” She reached forward, resting the cord over their hands. “Will you honor and respect one another, promising to never break that honor?” Nickolai took Solveig's hands and smiled brightly. “We will.” His tail couldn't stop wagging, the goofball. Solveig wiped at her eyes with her free hand, allowing the moment of pouring out her heart to settle, the worst of the nerves behind her. She returned Nicky's bright smile. “We will.” “Will you share in each other's pain and seek to ease it?” She lifted one end of the cord, wrapping it over Nickolai's hand and wrist as her words echoed in the air. “Indeed we will.” He echoed the same answer, looking down at the cord beginning to bind their hands. “We will,” Solveig promised. “Will you share the burdens of each other, so that your spirits may grow together in this union?” She began to wrap the other end over Solveig's hand and wrist, just like she had done moments before. The silver and white crossed softly over them, making visible what had already been true. “We will.” Nickolai looked up into Solveig's eyes. “We will,” Solveig said without hesitation, the vows only the natural extension of what she had already vowed to her husband. “Will you share in each other's laughter and look for the brightness in life as well as the positives in each other?” She shifted the ends of the cord, slipping them into each of their hands. A warm smile grew across her lips as she did so. “Only reason we've survived so long,” Solveig couldn't help but add with a smile. “We will.” Nickolai grinned, looking down at the cords that now bound their hands together. “We will.” The cords were tied over their hands, binding them. “Nickolai and Solveig, as your hands are bound together now, so are your lives and spirits joined in this union of love and trust. Above you are the stars and below you is the earth. Like the stars, your love should be a constant source of light, and like the earth, a firm foundation from which you can grow.” The Grove seemed made for such words: stars above, roots below, and family gathered between them. “You may kiss the bride.” Nickolai swept Solveig off her feet and kissed her. He smiled, now the happiest man alive. Solveig was suddenly reminded of the first time she told Nicky to kiss her, and he missed her cheek and got the side of her head instead. As Amethyst's words became a dull buzz in her ears, she focused in on Nicky to make sure he didn't miss this time. All concerns in this regard were swept away as Solveig herself was swept off her feet, flinging her arms around Nicky to kiss him in return. For a moment, Solveig is so lost in Nicky's eyes that she nearly forgets to look over at all their clapping friends. As she finds her feet again, however, she looks out over the crowd, tears again spilling down her cheeks. As with that quiet moment when she was unsure if she would ever see her beloved again, she resolves to ingrain this memory in her mind as long as she lives. Taking Nicky's hand, she looks to him, ready to join the crowd.

Hirano's hand slipped from his shoulder, long enough for his hands to come together rhythmically. "Congratulations." Though Victor was quiet, head tilting downwards. His eye crossed over Galian, to his side, who was staring a hole through the man. He wasn't clapping either. Some form of shock.

Even when trying to spare those around violence and chaos, a wayward blade grazes the innocent.

"Right. Let's go."

 

The pair quietly made their way to the front of the Grove. The familiar hinges of the doors creaked open, latch after latch, lock after lock, until the cool, damp air of the surrounding swamp struck Victor like a damp grave blanket. Behind them, the wedding did not stop; he did not want it to.  The air smelled of decaying roots and budding growth. Still water held up lily pads and croaking observers, while mosquitoes and cicadas filled the dark with their thin, needling chorus. The dirt path took the weight of Victor’s plate poorly, each step pressing a shallow print into the sod.  There was another cheer from inside. A Kha passed the pair wordlessly, slipping into the Grove as though crossing from one world into another. Warmth swallowed them. Music followed. Then the door settled, and the swamp had Victor again.

Yorumachi… Why is that so familiar?

A long, long time ago, before Gashadokuro laid siege to the Flower Festival, Camulos had frequented Kurai-Kuni’s home. He had picked up the Oyashi tongue and, in time, given Victor a book on the subject to study. Victor snorted under his breath as he remembered his old mentor, Danzen, telling him, Do not offend my tongue with your words. The language had become an unused blade for him; rusted.

"What is uh…" "Yorumachi?" He'd ask, his voice low as they walked along the dirt path, armor leaving impressions in the sod. 

"Capital." Hirano answered, his footsteps easing. He could sense the apprehension from him.

Victor's movement halted, a root springing from his heel and entrenching itself along the path. His head bobbed once, slow and grim. "Ah'd prefer we talk 'ere. T'at would be te' equivalent of me walkin' into'a 'ornets nest."

Hirano shook his head some, “Ma, we treat our enemies as honored guests. I give you my word, we're not just going to jump you and murder you. You will be given the opportunity to speak and defend yourself.”

At the end of the day, I am simply not Oyoshi.

He wasn't one of them, at the end of the day. Excommunicated besides. Just a foreign old ghost, in old armor; a fool who disgraced his master, and turned his back upon the white flame. Mercy, honor, grace, anything they might afford would be done the Oyashi way. He'd be shown the door as his head rolled from his shoulders.

“If nothing else, I operate by a gentleman's agreement. If worst comes to worst, our conflict is at an end.” He clicked his tongue. “I am samurai, I am speaking as an official of the state.”

The man had figured as much. That was the trouble with honorable men in uniform. Their word could be true, and never really their word.

"Per'aps ye' might try talkin' as'a cigarette enthusiast t'en." The man suggested, the humor buried in the growing tension between them. The man's hand dropped, resting on the pommel of his warpick, a thumb brushing upon it.

“Then I'll speak as such." Jiro's tone relaxed, though he stood up straighter. Taller. Like some old dragon unfolding its wings. "I have oaths, and a duty. I gotta' bring you to Yorumachi - but I can guarantee your fair treatment and that we're not ruthless dogs who will subject you to torture. It is unbecoming of a samurai." 

 

"If I gotta' kill you," The man said, voice dropping low, "your head is coming off clean." The swamp droned on around them. The man's brow creased plainly on his face. "Or I make you drink Juliet's and your dead body will satisfy things.” A laugh erupted from within the Grove, a sting through the air. "But we are speaking on if, and not when."

 

“Mm. See: Ye' said ye' were not te' ruthless dogs ye' presume'a think ye' are. T'en ye' said ye'd force'a juliet down my throat.” He'd blink, arms crossing over his chest.

 

When he had learned the art, Galathol had made it seem Juliet's Potion was a tactical decision. When the flesh became infirm. When muscle slacked and health failed. It was never something he wished to try, or experience. Even a blade was less cruel.

 

“I never said I wouldn't kill you if I'm ordered to ," Jiro answered. "Ma, It's my job. But I never said I'd force it down your throat, you can just drink it.” 

 

“Makin' me drink'a Juliet is force.” He'd snort. It wasn't funny. “If ye've questions, ask 'em. But a' dun' t'ink goin' to te' capital te' be held at potion-point lest'a sentence'a friend to death is somethin' a' can live wit'.” 

 

His hand rose to the strap of his helmet, unclipping it from where it rested against him. There was no flourish or glamor, he simply lifted it, settled it over his head, and let the old shape of himself return. “A' suspect ye' might beat me." His eye was swallowed by the shadow of his veteran's helmet.

 

"I do not think ye'd beat me quick enough… te' first thunderclap'a boomsteel rings out: and t'is aint'a un-on-un anymore. I disappear."

 

“The druids aren't going to come to your aid, ma- I know more than you know regarding this. They're not eager to invoke samurai ire right now. I will if I must, but I'd prefer not to.” He clicked his tongue, moving to lay his hand against the saya on his side, thumb pressed against the Tsuba.

 

"T'ere's more t'en Druii 'ere." He'd hum, thoughtfully. At least a couple of his Knightly brothers were within. His left-arm crossed over his shoulder, and his right affixed the misting shield of Rokdora into its familiar place. His right-hand then tugged his squire's warpick free: black, heavy, and ugly with volatite. The swamplight gleamed from its explosive point.

 

In the background, a feminine voice began to sing, indistinctly. Something soft, and weightless.

"Ask yourself this, Victor." Jiro's tongue clicked, his hand held firm on his tsuba. "You can disappear right now. No one inside has to die. One act of selflessness, and we both save our people. I have my vow, I cannot back away from it." There was a heavy slosh, and a clang, as a thick bottle met the thin brush between them. A deadly concoction resting on the ground.

His helmet tilted down to it, loosely holding the warpick in his grip. "You're suggestin'a die so ye' can take my 'ead back, while'a go to a new body." 

He had already made quite a few… stronger than he was now. He could wear a new face, and be at the peak of his form. But his soul would still be ensnared. Presumably, his curse would follow him, too… only a matter of time before his hands turn black, and Orsathiael's fog finds him as his ever-companion too. A new body was a lease. Not owned. He'd be found once again.

"Dead is dead, ma. My orders are to handle this cleanly. This is clean enough for me." One man's poison is another person's soap.

"... why not let me go get'a double's head. Give that to ye?" He'd ask, negotiating lives not yet lived. "... ordinarily, I would have no reservations with dying. But I too ah've an oath te' fulfill. Take Argelion's white flame."

“You can't.” He clicked his tongue. “Only a templar can take it and you're bound to Orsathiel. This doesn't hurt your goal at all, ma- delays it, but doesn't eliminate it.”

“Only a Templar can take it.” He'd echo. “Again. Ah've not been idle for decades.”

Jiro's teeth pressed together, and he hissed. Not as though he bore some treachery, but as though he were delivering a poor diagnosis. “Machiman doesn't give his blessing out to those who have given themselves to other kami. Until you break Orsathiel's grasp, your goal isn't feasible. Ma- I couldn't take it with Janisama's.”

“I am aware'a t'is.” He'd retort. “Ah've put plenty'a t'ought inte' t'is. I will reclaim my soul, and be stripped'a te' chains t'at are pressed inte' my skin.” His hand clenched then, around the haft of that pick. An ambient fury that had stuck with him since he'd realized his folly.

“Then allow me to offer you the solution that may yet help us both without bloodshed.” His tongue clicked once more. “Convince another to take up your mantle with you, you will have the time - and a better chance as a new man.”

“You mean find'a champion te' strip Argelion?” 

“Hai. Save yourself, save others. You're a good person, you stand by your beliefs. So I give you this so you may decide what is more important in this moment: Vengeance, or justice. We both have boomsteel, we're going to get a lot of innocent people killed if we do this. I will not deny you your justice if you feel you must take it, mine is not the business of Machiman. Find your champion, if your cause is worthy you will.”

His head shook slightly, left-to-right. “I appreciate yer' appraisal, and valor. Personally, a' would not kill ye; nor would'a let t'ose 'ere kill ye. If we begin te' fight, t'ough: You might. My reservations will slip in t'at case. My pursuit is justice, not vengeance. And it is justice'a swore. Just as ye' swore yer' oaths.”

His warpick lowered a touch. His legs parted, his stance widening, as if any moment would be the first blow. “Te' best'a can do is offer ye'a klone's 'ead. But I will maintain my pursuit until it is taken from me, or it is done.”

Jiro’s hand did not move from the tsuba. He did not move at all. Only something unseen passed behind his face as he weighed the impasse. “When one is faced with a moral dilemma he chooses one and hopes for the best.” The Book of Five Slots. His hand moved from the tsuba: a coin pinched within it. 

"Call it. Both are of equal merit."

In the Old Faith, coins were not chance. They were arbitration. The will of Morighaen, Chief amongst the Three. Whatever face showed itself was holy. If he lost this coin flip, it would not be just defeat. It would be abandonment. Years of dedication to a faith the world had forgotten, for what? His gaess would mean nothing. His devotion, pointless. 

"Tails, then."

Ping!

The coin hung in the air longer than it should've. Victor felt a hard lump in his throat, and his grip on the warpick slacked further, almost dropping. He could not hear the celebration anymore: his eye focused entirely on the end-over-end rotation of the coin. He could only hear his own breath, until the coin struck the dirt. The ouroboros of Azdramoth's faithful. Tails.

The pair's heads were craned and focused downward at the coin between them. The raised edges of the coin glinted delicately in the light of fireflies and the moon. Jiro looked at Victor. It was hard to discern if there was relief, or venom, in his gaze, and his tone.

"You are banished from Kurai-Kuni, never to return and if I should see you upon these lands, I will take your head. No argument nor reason will dissuade me. Mata ne. Leave at once."

"So be it." He'd agree, and the man sighed, a weight off his throat.

A great cry broke the silence of the coin toss.

"DO VY BELIEVEEEEEEE IN LIFE AFTER LOVVEEEEEEEEE!" A shrill, drunken belt of a love ballad.

The ranger looked back towards Jiro, and lightly asked, "Might'a finish te' reception? Ye' won't see me again." A sheepish grin unseen in the helmet, the man beginning to unbuckle his shield, and return it to its resting place.

"Iie, do not push it. Farewell, Rorin-san."

Victor took a knee, and plucked the potion that threatened his life mere moments earlier from the ground. He'd offer it loosely back towards Jiro, the vial hanging between his pinched grip.

"Farewell, Jiro-san. Might we meet on better terms, one day."

Another laugh carried from the omen-groom, drunk on love, and drinks with friends.

"One day." The cigarette enthusiast replied. The mists of Orsathiael filled the void between them as they parted ways.

 

Spoiler

Thanks to @Tentoa for the phenomenal roleplay. I very much so enjoyed it. Thanks to @Chained_ and @JediMaestro for the wedding invitation. I'm glad they had a nice time, and I loved it in juxtaposition to Victor's experience.

 

[ChainedDragons 1374]

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Beautiful post <3

[DahStalker 3692]

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holy formatting 

 

[Adelemphii 1766]

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I was sad I missed the wedding, then when I heard Victor got got I was even more sad I missed it.