Description: Vince, sitting alone in the shrine, isn't expecting to be bothered while he heals. But the old monk Sokaku's cooking fire seems too much to resist, and Vince finds himself with not only ample food to eat, but a strong lesson into the summoners' arts!
Strolheim's first round is steadily approaching. Vince, unable to keep himself out of trouble, had to go and attempt to stop a crime. Didn't go well for him, perhaps, but this is he blames on the very odd occurance he experienced in that time.
The strange feeling of adrenaline...
The winds raging around him...
The sudden conjuration of a complete tornado.
It's very strange. Vince has harnessed the winds to complement Rose Dansant, but the winds had never before... enraptured him to such a degree. In a way, it's both exhilorating and frightening. Ultimately, though, Vince is confused and concerned - concerned that the winds may very well be consuming him in full. He is, after all, the only swordsman of Rose Dansant to draw upon the winds.
The young noble has been taking it easy to be careful with his still-healing body, ribs excessively sore. Today, he's retreated to the abandoned shrine in the forest surrounding Southtown, seated on his knees in the center of the structure and facing the long row of steps leading up. His hands are folded upon his lap, eyes shut, and breathing visibly deep through faintly parted lips. The air is chilly with the occasional gusts of wind to whip through the area and make the leaves sing their chorus. Just outside the damaged shrine, a lone black pony grazes on the grass with a generous length of rope securing it to a tree not far.
Resting atop the shrine is an avian creature, surveying the clearing vigilently. It bears smoky gray feathers and opaque eyes of onyx. Though the avian can be identified as a hawk of some kind, there is a certain ethereal quality about it - something distinctly alien from the purely physical world.
At first glance, the old man is strange.
At second, he's unusual.
At third, he's downright weird.
Homespun woven monk's robes, a huge straw hat covering almost all of his face, and a tall staff with six rings jingling together as he walks are the first things to jump out on anyone who might be watching the monk. Tied sandals thump against the ground evenly as he makes his way through the forest, strung fish and fruits - and some sort of animal, probably a rabbit - dangling from the staff in a makeshift carrycase. He'd had a good hunt today, and it was time to start cooking.
Slung under his other arm is a mass of wood, ready for kindling. The old man sits down outside the shrine and stamps his staff on the ground, setting the wood down as he sets up an impromptu spit to roast his findings on.
He noticed the bird, of course - he was quite attentive to such movements of the unnatural world - but he was unwilling to banish the creature until he knew what it was. It could've been an alarm system for a powerful owner, and besides, one way or another, someone would come investigate when they smelled the delicious food.
Calmly, Sokaku says a prayer as he lights the fire, and begins rotating the succulent feast over the pit. But his eyes remain on the shrine and the bird...just in case it moved.
The sweet, delicious smoke wafts into the shrine, unmistakably the smell of someone cooking something wonderful and filling the air within like a sacrificial offering being set ablaze. Fish, rabbit-meat, and fruit mingle into one perfect odor, and Sokaku, too, inhales, his dark nostrils accepting the black smoke contentedly.
Yes, it was a bountiful find today.
The avian regards the interloper in silence for several seconds before its otherworldly feathers ruffle. The beak opens, and it expells a shrill falcon-esque cry, the sound lone in the generally silent forest. Otherwise, the creature makes no move on way or the other - only the eyes follow the newcomer's movements keenly.
The black pony stamps its hooves against the grass at Sokaku, but not in any threatening manner. It lets out a small, whuffled whinnie, most likely just entertained by the sight of someone else being present. The steed is, by appearances, quite tame.
Eventually, the scent of cooking and the sounds of a crackling fire draws Vince's attention. His young face twitches at first from his hypnotic reverie, and a single icy blue eye opens inquisitively. Given a couple seconds, and Vince raises to his full height to begin walking down the steps. It doesn't take more than three steps to spot the monk, and he freezes in place, half-stepped.
"Hail," comes the soft, silky smooth voice of the French noble, laced in just a hint of a Parisian accent. "..Who might you be?"
Sokaku removes the first of the kabobs from the spit, holding it up to the sky. He doesn't answer the boy immediately, inhaling the rich scent. Finally, the old monk takes a bite, tearing flesh and cooked fruit in a swift, practiced motion. He chews for a bit, swallows, and tilts his head in the boy's direction.
"A man," he answers, his deep voice seeming to still all the stamping of hooves and everpresent forest sounds one generally hears in the wild. "That is what is important. And who are you, boy, who can call ravens from nothingness?"
He takes another bite of the kabob. "I had not thought such skill persisted in this faithless, soulless age." The old man heaves a sigh and rips another piece off between his strong teeth.
The icy blues follow the path of the kabob for several seconds, then observes the very casual eating.
Until he's suddenly regarded. "Wh-what?," Vince asks. Simultaneous to this apparent confusion, the falcon completely dissipates in a seeping flow of energy. The young swordsman glances about himself, then re-sets his gaze on Sokaku. "Are.. you referring to the falcon I employ in combat?," he asks. "I assume you've seen me work..."
Vince resumes his trek down the steps, cautiously nearing the shady man.
He rips another hunk of meat away, finishing the stick and setting it into the fire. "Your work is sloppy," he says, jabbing his staff in the falcon's former direction. The rings of the staff jingle together like bells in eventide. "Or your concentration is lacking. You have the talent, but you are a product of your age, aren't you, boy? Your empty age."
The old monk lifts another stick from the spit, holding it up to check it again. He glances at Vince again. "But you do not burn with sin," he continues, "So perhaps your only flaw is your birth period." The old man stamps the ground with his staff, and a little monkey riding a cloud soars out, miniature nyoi-bo and diadem adorning its tiny shape. It flies up to one of the trees, knocking an apple down with its staff, then disappears; Sokaku snags the apple out of the air and tosses it at the young Frenchman. "Eat." He says simply, digging into his kabob without further explanation.
"I.. wha-..," stammers Vince helplessly. "I don't believe I'm sloppy..." The protest is, however, weak in lieu of the recent events. He proceeds to the ground floor, and a frown touches to his lips. "I've often thought that very thing..."
when the monkey suddenly appears, Vince faulters back a step in surprise, eyes widened. The apple, however, catches his attention in time for him to react, snatching it from the air before it collides with him. The fruit is given a skeptical look, then Sokaku... then Vince takes a very tentative bite from it.
Sokaku has no ill intentions towards the boy - it's simply an apple, no more, though a particularly ripe and delicious specimen. Perhaps the old man was more observative than his enormous hat would make him seem.
"Sit," he commands, finishing off the second kabob. He holds up another to the forest, as though trying to determine some unseen pattern about it, then sets it back on the spit for more rotation.
"Knowing your skill is a strength, boy," the monk says, his voice resonating around the forest, "Do you truly believe your work is not sloppy?"
Boots slowly draw the swordsman up to the firepit, and Vince starts to speak - only he hesitates. The next thing to be said is 'Sit'. And 'sit' Vince does, immediately, without question nor realizing he's doing as bid. The noble rests on his knees for a second or two, then blinks at himself. Now, why is he being so compliant?
"It is neither the LaRose way, nor acceptable for Rose Dansant to be sloppy," Vince replies quietly. "It is our way to excell with magnificence and grace."
Sokaku scoffs. "Then your way is excellently and magnificently sloppy," he notes, handing one of the kabobs off to the boy. "You see the wind, but you don't feel it. You call the form, but you do not call the soul. Without the soul, without the faith, without the feeling, your creations are mere toys to be dispatched in a gentle breeze." As if in time with the old monk's words, a breeze kicks up, wafting the smoke in Vince's face and rustling the leaves quite beautifully. Sokaku rattles his staff a bit, the rings jingling once more in time with the winds.
"Do you hear it, child? The song the world is singing?" The monk raises the staff into the air, accentuating his point. "Beyond the wind and the the trees, the flow of the world's pulse, beating with your heart. Listen."
The chiding gets a more annoyed look from Vince, smooth features scrunching in irritability. "Non, non, I-" The explanation cuts him off, and he falls silent.
The wind is noted, as is the jingling of chimes.
He doesn't speak. Vince simply remains silent, listening to the wind, swallowing his pride for the moment in favor of attempting to glean something. For as bruised as his pride and patriotism for the LaRose family may be, he's in a state of desperation, in a sense.
Sokaku points at the kabob now resting in Vince's hands. It's probably quite appealing if the only thing he's eaten lately is that apple.
"Eat. Your strength must be regained, boy. You cannot learn on an empty stomach - if you can even learn at all." The old man gives a bit of a snort, though it might be a chuckle - it's quite hard to tell with this strange monk. "I suppose we shall see, will we not?"
"You are no sorceror, but your talent is there nonetheless. Tell me your name, and we will see if perhaps I can instill something within your empty spells."
It was eliminating evil, of a sort - Sokaku well knows the path sorcerors and summoners walk, calling darkness to themselves and wielding it for their own purposes. To allow this boy, becoming a man, to stumble his way down such a dangerous path alone was to commit a grievous sin, and Sokaku could not in good conscience allow such a thing. No, he would show the boy something - not of the sacred ways and spells he himself wielded, but perhaps some of the morality and soul of the sorcerous arts. That, he reasons, is more important than any style - the knowledge of how to use it.
"What are you waiting for? You can eat and listen, can't you?"
Vince, with apple and kabob in hands, suddenly looks down to them. "Ah.. well.." He starts to lift the apple, then the kabob.. then opts for the apple again. The kabob can come afterwards. He can be patient about it. The apple is crunched a bit, and Vince chews whilest observing Sokaku.
After he finally swallows, the teen replies, "My name is Vince LaRose, of Nantes." ... "Et toi?"
"Sokaku," the old monk replies calmly, "But the name you may call me is 'sensei'."
He drums the staff against the ground. "The wind is not your tool, young Vince. That is the flaw of this modern day - the gods, the spirits, the ages are pushed aside for soulless metal towers and empty fists. That I must raise my son in this day and age..." He shakes his head, the enormous hat still casting a shadow and hiding the vast majority of his face. "But that is not what I will teach you."
"The wind is not your tool," he repeats, "You are the tool of the wind. You cannot force the wind anymore than you can prevent the waves from battering the sands." Sokaku brings his staff down to point at Vince.
"But you can guide it. You can feel its pulse, and redirect it gently along its proper course, so that it might aid you in its path." The old monk raises his staff, knocking another apple down into his own hands and taking a huge bite. "That is where you failed - you forced the falcon to appear, when you should have asked."
"The sorceror's path you walk is a dangerous one, boy. You have set your foot on a dangerous road, a road that many turn from in fear. The stories of devil conjurors and monster-hunters torn to shreds by their poorly-tamed allies are not fairy tales - they are stories of sorcerors who lost concentration and were punished by the backlash, or of sorcerors who grew too arrogant and harnessed forces they did not understand in brutal and blunt manners, repaid in kind." He heaves a sigh. "Many are the untrained and overachieving who stray from this path, but to fall, to overreach yourself...that means only one thing. Death."
"I.. I don't understand," Vince says with a small frown. The apple is lowered again, no longer having any type of appetite. "It's been a while since I used the falcon. And it's only something I crafted from chi..." Such is what he believes, anyway. Or how it started. Nevertheless, the falcon was a very present entity - at least until Vince seemed to be rattled. "They're not things with alien intelligence..."
"No, they have no intelligence but your own. But you draw on the soul of the world to call them, like all who walk the path of the summoner. Your 'chi' is not your own - you summon the soul of the planet itself, bending it to your will. No matter what you summon - whether falcon, tornado, storm, or demon - in truth, it belongs to the world, and you are simply borrowing it."
He gives another shake of his head and jabs his thick finger at the food in Vince's lap. "Eat. Wasting food is a grievous sin."
The monk shifts, taking the third kabob for himself, seeing as Vince probably won't eat it if he won't finish the apple. "Can you honestly tell me, boy, that you do not feel the soul of the world charging through you when you gather your strength? Can you truly say that you do not understand, or are you simply closing your eyes to what your heart knows is the truth?"
"Well-"
Vince's attention is directed back to the food in his hands. Guiltily, Vince looks back down at the apple and bites it again. Though after this bit is eaten, he lifts the kabob to try.. the fruit. The animal makes him leery. While it's true that he loves doing things the old-fashioned way, he still has the burden of refined tastes. But eventually, his attention turns to the animal giblet attached to the kabob. "I feel.. -something-.. past just myself, yes..," submits Vince quietly before biting at it.
Sokaku nods. "That," the old monk confirms, "Is the soul of the world, the soul that people no longer understand. To them, that soul, that 'chi', is nothing but a tool. Mankind chose to descend into sinfulness, taking the world for Himself, and pushing aside the old ways."
The old man uncrosses his legs, standing. He raises his hand, and the fire jumps from the spit to his hand, guided perhaps by the chi-spells Sokaku knew so very well. The monk tosses the fire down, and it disippates harmlessly into the earth.
"Practice your spells one hundred times, and when you can hear the wind's spirit each time, we will meet again, and perhaps I will make you a true disciple, Vince LaRose." No appellation - no 'young', no 'boy', no 'clumsy' or 'sloppy'. The old monk acknowledges him by his full name, giving the boy a stiff bow. "If your progress is strong, I will teach you to do far more than simple parlor tricks."
With that, Sokaku turns, pushing his hat down and clutching his staff tight. He starts walking, tied sandals against the earth, leaving Vince with the profound wisdom he had imparted and the extinguished bonfire-pit he had left. A few minutes later, and even the jingling of his staff has faded into the whistling of the wind through the leaves of the forest.
Log created on 22:14:11 11/07/2008 by Sokaku, and last modified on 01:03:37 11/08/2008.