Description: Target: Direction. Obstacle: Deciphering the undecipherable; expanding the mysteries. Summary: Taking a chance in a rare moment of trust, Ayame decides that the aftermath of the Southtown disaster is the right time to follow up on her last encounter with the last of the Ryouhara, Seishirou. In the tranquil dark a gift is provided and an offer extended as Ayame continues to explore her place in the world.
When last they danced, Ayame had no idea who the mysterious young man was. Suffering from amnesia, the girl's mind was a view through a narrow window where all she could see was the prior couple of months and no further. Robbed of her lifespan of experiences, misconceptions, prejudices, and personality flaws, she was still the same girl... only not so hidden behind the wall of personalities she had constructed to get by in life.
In a moment of her vulnerability while trapped on the wretched prison island, the Ryouhara scion had, by way of blade and pure flame, seared his way through the amoral mask that Ayame had always worn. And in that time, provoked from the girl a fiery passion for life, for pursuit of something greater than herself, for an appreciation for just what it means to call another a teammate. By the time the girl made her way back to shore and returned to Southtown, she was a different person. She had aspirations; a more concrete vision of the person she could be. What she could amount to and what it could mean to actually matter to another...
Most importantly of all, she knew she no longer wanted to be controlled. Casting of the cloak of craven cowardice wasn't easy. She had always served as the minion of others. Someone to do their dirty work... to be a tool in the hand of someone more powerful, more influencial. That she had seized upon a vision of herself as something more than a toady was not met with abject approval by those who she had served before.
Marise put the girl's resolve to the test. Return to working for her and all would be forgiven, or so the Devil's lying tongue had said. Ayame almost broke then; almost decided that she preferred surrendering her self-control to the creature's whims rather than face whatever nine hells of agony the fel abomination would dream up to punish her for her treachery. But Seishirou had shown her a higher way. A way that demanded severe costs in blood, tears, and misery. A way that was not compatible with the life Marise wanted to take her back to.
And so Ayame fought. Not just in combat but in spirit, as if the very essence of her being rebelled at the idea of being controlled by another again. She risked it all, knowing full well the chi vampire would kill her if she fell. But she triumphed. She didn't simply defeat the monster. She rose /above/ the demon. In taking that stand, Ayame's had taken the first step toward her new life.
A couple months later, war arrived in the streets of Southtown. Deciding to both take a stand against the occupation as well as possibly earn herself some money, she allied herself with the Syndicate. Ingratiating herself early on as a very capable recon scout, the street savy rogue had put her skills to use in reporting back intel, running critical messages around town, and occasionally sticking her neck out for a bit of action of the more violent sort.
When the Syndicate fell to the combined efforts of the invasion, Ayame was there at ground zero, the very symbol of Geese Howard's power crashing down all around her as she simply tried to keep on doing the one thing she was best at: survive.
Peace started to roll across the city. Many Syndicate strongholds were busted as Geese's hold over law enforcement waned, but Ayame wasn't at any of those. She had slipped away. As the very tower of Howard industries was reduced to a pile of rubble and the reckless teen was hurled free of the structure, Ayame vanished into the allyways and had lain low ever since, severing all ties with the Syndicate. In a sense she was drifting. She had some ideas about what it was she wanted to be doing but wasn't sure how to accomplish them.
'I was a scientist once,' she had told Seishirou.
In return, he spoke to her of a shrine near the lake not far from Gedo. A black bell. Eight rings. That was her instructions.
She isn't entirely sure what she expects to happen. She comes under the cover of nightfall. The jinja is quiet but the property is well lite by the ambient glow cast by distant city lights. Ring the bell. Then what? Ayame wonders. A secret passage? A bomb? Is there a ninja just sitting under the jinja stairs waiting for someone to come ring the right bell the right number of times so that he can deliver a message?
The girl moves across the property with steps made quiet not by effort but by the patience of her pace. Shrines. They used to disgust her. A structural reminder of the person her parents wanted to be: a miko of great renown. A slayer of demons, a blessor of people, a sayer of prayers, a woshipper of the gods. A staff maiden the likes of which her family hadn't seen for generations.
That was a different life. One she... would not ever see, she was certain. But jinjas held no revulsion for her now. She had bridged the gap in her memories to the lessons of her youth and had somehow come to accept that while she had rejected that life, she need no longer treat it with reproach.
"Eight," she muses as she approaches the black bell. One beyond seven, the number of 'Completion'. To some religions, eight is the number of the 'new beginning' or the start of a new cycle. Circumcisions, baptisms, and countless other references emphasize the importance of eight. "Fitting," Ayame hehs as she lifts her hand and takes hold of a rope affixed to the bell. "A new beginning."
She begins to ring the heavy bell, leaving a long delay between each ring to allow the sound to resonate then diminish before the next carol of sound echoed across the quiet shrine. One... two... three...
The deep resonant toll is kin to the heartbeat of the world. It was a lucky number, an optimistic number of some significance, the eight rings that broke the air in a clarion call to the Gods. After all, that was the bargain, wasn't it? When you ring the bells of the shrine, you are waking the kami of the shrine so that your prayers may be heard. Of course, the tolling of a bell will startle and ward off evil spirits.
It is no surprise then that Seishirou at one point developed a ninkou specifically to kill Marise with bells as its ward. He even tested it on Sakura, once upon a time... He never heard someone scream quite that loudly. Not that the old and beautiful hellion will ever know until Seishirou takes enough of a mind against her to use it, but it remains to be said... symbols do have meaning.
The eight tugs of the bell are of no particular significance to Ryouhara or his host of spies and ninja; it was a poeticism at best. The vice of theatricality is one of Ryouhara's worst. In truth, things are simple when they shouldn't be, complex all other times. You see, while it would be amusing and entirely possible for Ryouhara to have bidden a shinobi to sit in silent prayer all this time to wait for Ayame's call, it would be pointless.
Enter the strength of Ninkougakujutsu.
Eight tolls for the kami.
But the warmth of the hand for Ryouhara.
The number of tolls matters precious little more than the amount of time Ayame's hand is fixed on that silken rope. As she pulls, her exertion begins to generate 'chi.' In enough amounts that seals can recognize it. You see, children can ring the bell happily all day, but only a fighter--someone disciplined and strong--could awaken the sealwork running the length of the boards beneath her feet. Though it mattered not whether eight tolls were rung or thirteen, Seishirou's calculations are rarely incorrect.
On the very moment of the eighth toll, the familiar pop of mainland rocketry sounds at the top of the shrine, and blackbirds sprout, seeming to leap unbidden from every tile fully formed, flying into the night sky. Only a fast eye would be able to tell the truth; they were tucked underneath the roofing shingles. They were never truly birds; only black paper folded just right... their escape into the sky is soundless but for the vague rustle of origami on the wind.
The symbol of the Ryouhara burns in bright green on the ground.
Then Seishirou appears.
As always--perhaps even moreso than always--he seems a ghost, appearing between eyeblinks as if trained to wait until that instant to make his move. Was it always his knowledge that Ayame would come here at this exact time? Has he been watching her? Personally? Waiting? Or is it just pure reaction--he moves fast, but it woudl seem almost unreal that he could leap across time and space that quickly. ...Hnph. What is the true extent of Ryouhara's calculations? The ghost steps forward, and his haori seems to cast a glow off all its own in the moonlight.
His gaze is different today than it was before, more solemn, calling to mind the boy holding the lantern to light the way. But when he looks at Ayame, his gaze punches through her like a spear all the same. As if in that very instant, he could digest everything Ayame had ever done since last they met.
"....Ayame," he addresses her by name, "finally revealing yourself."
It's not a question.
It's an act of faith perhaps. The instructions seem strange, bewildering, as oft times were the orders from old. 'Hold your hands high to bestow your armies with strength.' 'Rub clay in your eyes to cure blindness.' 'Break apart the bread and fish and feed thousands.' Acts of faith, moments of contrition. Not something Ayame has spent a lot of time doing in her life. She wasn't like her pious parents so often on her knees offering prayers to altars, kami, and trees.
But not every act of faith is religious in nature, and not every fallen miko is beyond redemption. The chi sparks to life, coiling out along the ground at her feet as Ayame pulls the cord again and again. Even as it ignites she continues to ring the bell, watching the infused mechanism transpire with an eye of appreciation for such finite precision chi use.
The shingles come to life and black forms take to the moonlit night in a blur of ebony motion. She glances all around her, taking in the sights and sounds with a hint of a smile at her lips. Always a mystery, that one. She had regained her memories since their last encounter. She knew more of the story of Seishirou. The things Elle Belmounte had told her about the Jinchuu from first hand experiences a couple years back to news stories about something amiss in China in more recent history. But remembering what she had once learned didn't make her less interested in meeting him again. If anything, it piqued her curiosity further. She had to try. And if following up from their exchange in the cold of Alcatraz requirse her to pull a cord to ring a bell for no other reason than that's what she as told, then she'll do so.
It becomes clear - the why and how - as the bell tolls and the chi seals react. She glances to the side, then down to her feet to identify the Emerald Seal of the Ryouhara. By the time she looks up again, she has company. Her sharp, brown eyes peer back at him, her mouth a tight lipped, neutral expression.
He speaks her name. So he remembers her. Regardless of whatever it is he's been keeping busy with during the war, he remembers her. Word of the Ryouhara was mostly scarce during the siege. But... Ayame has heard some things. Something about a half-panda/half-tank hybrid too incredible to believed. But the topic of mass hysteria amongst the troops is one best saved for another time.
"Got held up by a war," she replies with a half shrug. "But I didn't forget." She glances to the side, eyes coming to rest on the bell proper. What does she expect? She doesn't really know. She's wandering, in a sense, trying to find the next thing along her path of life. Somehow she has it in her mind that this place may hold a clue as to what that might even be.
Eyes shift back to the haori-clad young man, her expression shifting to one a bit more serious. "I want more." He had said she liked to push her luck. /That/ possible vice hasn't changed in the slightest it would seem.
"Shhhhh..."
The spectre holds up two fingers to silence Ayame and quiet her spirit. He is a remarkable calming entity when he wants to be, his voice lowing to a simple hush. The sound reverberates on the air at least a full second longer than it seems it should have. The young man hushes Ayame only moments after she speaks, his glance looking out to the far horizon, favoring it over the generous sidelong glance he gives the young jack, her excuse as accepted as it is utterly ignored.
"Still noisy," he chides.
Though she was hardly loud, at least she was to the point, mn? There was some part of that the shinobi can respect and understand, but only after a moment passes, only after he is absolutely sure that he has the young woman's attention does he move for the direction of his gaze, to the railing at the side of the shrine's deck, his step wistful.
He moves as before, as he has always, like a ghost. Soundless. But it seems a different thing today; the silks he wears are not bound by the breeze, instead shifting to their own unearthly whim. Here, the warm summer has surrendered to the cool night, gentle on the skin, but bringing no succor to the scion. After all, aren't these things beyond him? The favors of nature do not love a boy who does not exist. He scans the horizon briefly, before shaking his head.
"What you want, as you know, requires sacrifice. That's something the events of the last few months have only begun to teach you about. To have everything..." the boy smirks, referencing their last meeting, "...there's a lot that will be done before that can be achieved."
"But for the moment.. that isn't important."
It isn't? A sleeve shifts as the shinobi turns, showing Ayame only the faintest glimpses of the chain that dangles at his neck, the silver bladed symbol of the steel leaf suspended from it. A bauble, an idea Ryouhara invoked that brought some number of the teachers and students from his original village underneath his fold. Part of the bargain he struck for his clan's freedom from the umbrella of the Academy. He changes the subject. "... I'd like to tell you about something, while we wait."
Aged battens don't even creak as the weight of his tabi settles on it.
Appearing to shift his weight to the fence entirely, his sleeves bind together, revealing his hands as he folds his arms. "Once, I ran a tournament that caught the world's imagination. Few who entered that tournament were quite the same leaving it. The proleteriat, we referred to them as. Those competing in my Jinchuu, that is. A recompense far beyond what had ever been offered before to anyone of that strength was offered to those men and women as the prize for completing that ordeal I had built for them. We crowned a champion there, and most moved on with their lives. .... But I still was not satisfied."
He breathes outward, eyes hooding in an eerily calculated blink. "Many of them squandered the gift I had given to them. They were changed, but they did not--and still do not--realize yet the power that they held. Though I held hope that these people would seize the day, it occured to me that perhaps... I had not done enough. Perhaps I had allowed my desire for vengeance to corrupt my judgment."
"After that.. I formed an organization."
It all seems a little..unreal.
She blinks, quiet as he hushes, her expression hinting at a certain bristling in reaction at first. It feels too much like being directed with regard to trivial, unimportant matters. Taking orders in tactical combat is something she understands and respects. Being chided otherwise? Well, the girl has a lot of things to get used to. The reaction passes quickly, either because she masks it better, or, more likely, his comment about her being too noisy seems to amuse her - a fact reflected by a sparkle in her eyes.
Thinking back, she did kind of talk her way right into a fight with him. He /can/ be provoked. A fact she reminds herself even now. If she wants something out of this exchange of words in the quiet of the shrine, then she will have to give a little. Or perhaps a lot, if his words of sacrifice are to be taken literally. She follows his gaze to the horizon but dismisses it as lacking anything of importance, focusing instead back on him. He's why she's here. Not the city out there. The city can burn or not. She'll find a way to survive.
Passing breeze toys with her hair slightly and she idly lifts a hand to brush some of it back over her shoulder. A hesitant nod is her response to his mention of sacrifice. How does he know? How does he know of what she has endured? Of her battle of life or death with the Devil of Koga. Of her harrowing experience trapped in a collapsing ballroom with two maniacs with interest in her? Of her confrontation with Saint and the memories he helped her regain; of her conflicted feelings with the masochistic priest and his obsesion with her. Does he speak of all those things as if he knows? Or does he see it in her eyes? Is her mask wearing thin after these trials? It has been stressing to keep it in place. At times it feels like it is slipping... and people are beginning to see the girl beneath. And that scares her.
He references their last encounter with a smirk and Ayame grins back as if she hadn't an ounce of shame in her ambitions. But her expression fades when he says it isn't important. What is then? Her eyes catch the sparkle of moonlight against the silver chain. He speaks of telling her about something, but the second clause catches her attention, reflected with a slight arcing of an eyebrow. Wait? Wait for what precisely?
But she doesn't protest. She's curious. And once her curiosity is engaged, she's cooperative up to a point. He shifts to the deck and rail. She stays put by the bell, arms folded over her chest as she leans back, resting her upper back against the aged frame that supports the old carillon, a slight rustle of metel accompanying her motion. Must be the chains dangling about her neck. And then Seishirou begins to speak, holding Ayame's rapt attention. The tournament. Jinchuu, she thinks in her mind, but doesn't interrupt. After all, he must know that she'd be aware of the event. But what he is about to impart is something one wouldn't get simply by watching the news, what videos were broadcast at the time of the event. No. He is about to speak to the matter previously discussed only in rumors the girl had heard. Wisps of ideas bantered around by those who could scarcely understand the depth of meaning the tournament was to have held.
It feels like being promised forbidden knowledge - intelligence and data others lack - and she relishes it.
No nod is offered as he speaks to indicate that she's listening. He would see as much in her eyes. The gesture would be simply superfluous motion. What lives had it changed? What lives hadn't? Didn't he see it as evidence that the masses won't be changed? The proleteriat? The common people? Maybe they don't change. /Can't/ change. She cuts off the thought in her mind. She has changed, hasn't she?
Her eyes narrow as he speaks of the squandering of a gift; a waste of potential, a failure to realize that which had been given. A soft exhale escapes her lips. And then he mentions it - an organization. A means to do more? For whom? The same people that didn't understand their power last time? "Why?" she asks the single worded question. There's an edge of doubt to her voice. As if she's challenging the idea that he could ever do enough to change this proleteriat of which he speaks. She opens her mouth, a knowing look in her eyes as if she was about to add more... But the words never come, the girl closing her mouth, lips curling into a smile. Not so noisy now... and to a certain degree, she thinks she can answer that question for himself, her thoughts recalling to mind the words they traded last time. Sacrifice. It seems to be both the fuel and the currency by which he operates. She knows that by now.
It is true. What the boy speaks on is knowledge that hasn't been shared with anyone still in the reach of the light, hasn't been spoken of beyond a whisper in years. The truth was, Jinchuu's mission to change the minds fo the world was only part of its function. The rest of it was to settle the vital accounts that Seishirou had inherited from his brother, the last leader of the clan, in his grisly death. Namely, the bondage of his clan to the Academy, and the circumstances surrounding Arinori's death. The name of 'Ryouhara' needed to be freed from its bonds so that he could do what he deemed needed to be done. After all this, Hiretsu would, at the very least, be proud.
But Seishirou was never satisfied.
The truth was, Jinchuu was consigned to only being the first step since before its conception. As Seishirou refined his understanding of people, so did his plans.
The ghost is quiet for a time. He doesn't seem to respond directly to Ayame's line of questioning, only having given her the slightest of glances as she riled underneath his admonition. It is a straight-faced expression he takes, albeit one with a hidden smile, a dagger of dark humor concealed in his robes. But he eventually he speaks. And when he speaks, it may clarify. The warmth of the summer twilight seems to bloom in the silence.
"People of strong personality as well as skill are needed to advance the state of things. People who understand what they need in life. It is my belief that with a common goal, a few can do a great thing. That is why I will try again. This time, it won't be so haphazard. This time, it'll be pure. You see... people can be coerced by an idea, if the idea is strong enough. If you believe in it enough, pay enough for it to become real, anything is possible."
Seishirou looks up, watching a shadow pass in front of the moon.
He turns towards Ayame, arms slipping to his sides, sleeves ensconcing hands.
"I think it's enough to say, that's the way of things."
And then Ryouhara lands in the dust ten feet from Ayame.
The shockwave of his landing sends a plume into the air about him. It's a hard and rough thing unbefitting of a shinobi but truly encapsulating of the sheer velocity from which Seishirou dropped from the sky. The force is enough to disrupt the Ryouhara image sealed into the floorboards, the chi matrix that encapsulated the otherwise image-perfect copy of Seishirou flickering briefly. Ayame might understand it in only moments. It had no presence. The kawarimi was not speaking with her. It was speaking to her. Reading her chi state to determine what she was currently doing, and responding appropriately from a pre-determined list of responses. It explains things to her while waiting for its creator to notice the signal cast into the night sky, so that upon his arrival.. he simply doesn't have to.
In that end, the copy meant it when it spoke of unimportance.
Seishirou has already calculated what would be said at the beginning, long ago. What will be said after that is of vast more importance; as is the coat Seishirou wears, dusting off his white silks with obvious disdain as, in a single step, he moves to the position flanking the copy, which kneels obediently beside him. "....So, having paid that way," Seishirou seamlessly continues, "then you are entitled to something more."
He looks dead at the girl, as if expecting a response.
"Don't you think so?"
When Jinchuu transpired, Ayame was but an unknown street rogue, recently evicted from one lousy studio flat after another. That was then. That was before everything began. Before Elle, before Blackjack, before Marise, before the kidnapping spree that brought her into the crosshairs of the Guardian Kings and Rugal's wayward son. Before her memory-shattering encounter with Saint and subsequent recovery. Before the war. A lot can change in so little time as Seishirou's plans have marched steadily on.
The long haired girl pushes off of the aging framework to stand upright again, her arms unfolding so that her left rests propped at her waist, her right hand lifting up to toy with a delicate looking chain hanging around her neck. She continues to listen, quiet for once, saying nothing even as he lifts his chin to look into the night sky. A hint of motion has the girl looking up as well, eyes narrowed. What was that? Seishirou speaks again and she snaps her eyes to him, "What is-" she begins to ask only to be cut off as another shows up and Ayame literally jumps to the side, hand going to her belt, fingers open, ready to draw.
Eyes lock on Seishirou. Then shift back to Seishirou in time to see him flicker from the disruption of the new arrival. Her mind puts it together in an instant. An illusion of energy given form? To that level of precision? The girl lowers her hand, no longer looking as if ready to attack, her hand returning to her hip again. "Heh." she exhales, relaxing slightly.
Not a word spoken by that copy has been forgotten. Nor does she miss Seishirou's words upon arriving. "I do." she declares unflinchingly. She's always considered herself entitled. It's just that what she thought herself entitled /to/ has shifted over time. "Of course /I/ do." The emphasis is clear. She's paid a price, she's earned something. But she doesn't think the same applies universally. What of the rest out there?
"If... if the way of things is how you-... well," she nods toward the railing, "That described... how do you /find/ people of strong personality and skill? The kind of people you're looking for? They have to be able but they also need to be willing to accept this vision you have and I guarentee that isn't going to be an easy sell." The girl sighs, shaking her head, hand coming up to rest her fingers lightly at her temple. "Sometimes I believe you think too highly of people..."
Her voice fades out, her mouth curling into a grin. She know she doesn't like it when she talks but that knowledge only seems to amuse her. "Well, I'm sure you have a plan." She waves her other hand at the elaborate chi matrix put in place long before this meeting. "This isn't for nothing."
It is a shame Ayame couldn't pay any mind to that event with her own eyes. Even Ryouhara himself was changed over the course; before the tournament, Seishirou was just a boy living in a hole in the ground, obsessively collecting data and serving as an agent and unwitting student of a school whose name would never be remembered. Of the four academy nin who initially were sent into Southtown, Seishirou is the only one remaining active, but only on his own terms. It's been a long time since he's last seen Nemura, and .. hnph. They say Tora went back home to teach.
Seishirou, on the other hand, simply ceased to exist.
The shinobi--the real one, that is. Or at least, presumably the real one--studies Ayame and that relaxing grip at her belt. It would seem premature, until one considers that the time between his initial landing and his alighting before the rogue would barely shade the time it would take to frown. He can move as quickly as he needs to, in any circumstance.
There is a reason he moved as if accustomed to flying.
He never bothers to waste words explaining. Her ability to understand what's happening is impressive, but expected. Did he not fight her in much the same way on that island some time ago? His eyes hood in a single blink seeming too slow not to be planned. You see, he shares the mannerisms of the boy kneeled at his feet almost exactly. The difference being this; he wants you to feel him. Every breath the shinobi draws is an imposition on the pressure in the air. Heat, and pressure, despite the relaxed sway in his back. He moves as a ghost, but when he stands, he stands for everything. That is the truth of it.
"I find them by looking."
It seems simple, the way he puts it. His lazy glance holds interest of Ayame's belt for long moments, but his next eyeblink sees him meeting the strawberry blonde's gaze levelly. "For over five years, I have combed this city and the world, looking for people I could respect in the ways of the new world that is being created. I've found many who have shown promise, nascent minds who are willing to make their way the fire that lights the path." He looks at Ayame for a moment quizzically, a perplexed owl. It's almost comedic to see the normally grave Ryouhara fix Ayame in such a way, as if she had said the most curious thing in the world to him. But the ice that cuts into his words is deadly practical.
"You're either ready for it, or you're not. I don't need to sell that."
It is as he said. He's strong, and the world will recognize his truth. He's never seen it as convincing people of his way. He's seen it as people convincing him that their way is enough to meet his. Another blink transits his sharp glance away from Ayame to the copy at his side. He ruminates on her words only a moment or two. What he says is plain. The way he says it, it is hardly meant as a compliment. "After all.. isn't it enough that I think highly of you?"
His eyes still fixed on his copy as if contemplating things outside the scope of the conversation, he absently adds, "I have an offer to make to you. But before that, your luck;" With index and center fingers meeting, he gestures towards Ayame, pointing without even looking.
"Defend yourself."
He did have a plan. But it's the only warning she'll receive. The copy attacks in an instant, a blade leaving the compound sheath at its back and seeking Ayame's throat in a flash of light as it launches from its seiza position with one strong leap. The copy moves fast enough that the scintillating ring of its weapon leaving its sheath reaches Ayame's ears at about the same time its blade would reach her throat. It is a copy of Seishirou in most of the important ways, including armament.
Composed of energy, that sword sings like steel all the same.
COMBATSYS: Ayame has started a fight here.
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Ayame 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Seishirou has joined the fight here.
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Ayame 0/-------/-------|=------\-------\0 Seishirou
COMBATSYS: Ayame blocks Seishirou's Medium Strike.
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Ayame 0/-------/------=|=------\-------\0 Seishirou
"Che," comes Ayame's response to his declaration that he finds the people he needs to by looking for them. But she doesn't otherwise interrupt as he elaborates. Her expression is ever skeptical; a cynic at heart, it takes effort to give anyone the benefit a chance at proving her impressions wrong. You say you've been looking for five years? That from the billions canvasing the planet, he had found those that possessed a convincing amount of skill and coupled with that a mind open to the vision he preaches? Prove it.
He declares that the search is simple enough in nature; either those analyized are ready for the world being created or they aren't. Ayame's mouth twists into a flicker of a smirk, the girl shaking her head slightly, ready to speak but holding her tounge until he poses his question. "Perhaps." she answers without hesitation. But there's an edge to the declaration, as if the word implied there was more to be considered - a catch.
He speaks of an offer and one eyebrow arcs ever so slightly. She's interested. But before they go further, her luck and the pushing of it becomes the subject of utmost importance. The warning is just enough. She doesn't know, when he speaks it, from what angle the attack is to come. She has her suspicions of the likely vectors - but she doesn't know the extent to which he had prepared the location. She may very well need to defend herself from any angle - no, /all/ angles.
The movement on her part as if a blur, her left hand slipping down, drawning from a pouch her beloved staff, drawing it and bringing it up, knowing that it serves as her best defense of all against attacks from unexpected directions. She hasn't even the time to act any further when the copy leaps. /There/. Ayame twists to the side, bringing the six inch collapsed weapon up with her left hand to the path of the blade. It almost isn't enough as the two metal weapons collide and she retreats with a spring backward to surrender ground to the force of the swing, a hairline thin slit of blood visible at the side of her neck - so close was the razor's edge before deflected and avoided.
Her expression has shifted but she doesn't look afraid or confused, her teeth grit, her eyes narrowed with a certain predatory analysis. "Perhaps." she repeats as the ringing sound of the collision resonates throughout the empty shrine. Again the word seems to leave room for doubt or question. "After all," she moves her thumb over the surface of the titanium in her grip. A small spark of chi at a location known only to her and it becomes living metal, surging out in both directions, expanding twelve-fold over its original length to a six foot long polearm held across her at an angle. "Some might say..."
She twirls the weapon into an angle at her side. "To earn the respect of a malcontent isn't praiseworthy at all." She wouldn't accuse him of trying to kill her. Of trying to ambush her unawares. After all, he did give her warning in the space of a split second before the attack. "Some might say - one who aims to create a new world over the protests of those not found worthy makes that one a terrorist."
She turns, stepping forward into the motion, bringing her staff up and over her head, before ending up with it held in both hands at her side, one arm forward, the other back, the girl assuming a proper ready stance with the long reaching weapon. "But," her mouth curls into that smirk again as sharp, attentive eyes take in her surroundings with an increased awareness. "I've never really cared what others say, have I."
Her fingers slip along the smooth surface of the polished metal with an almost caressing touch as they slide into position to give her balanced control over the weapon for defense and offense, "I'm interested in this offer."
COMBATSYS: Ayame calculates her next move.
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Ayame 0/-------/------=|=------\-------\0 Seishirou
"Oh.."
She's gotten his attention.
Hands slide through silk with the kind of slow disposition that would have induced a chill in anyone else, but the insensible boy seems no more moved than ever. Unsleeving his arms, his hands are still sheathed in wool as he shoulders the drape of his white haori, leaving his sleeves to sway gently in the warm summernight's breeze. All while Ayame fights for her throat with his duplicate.
"What a nice defense."
The copy moves blindingly fast, its blade dragging against Ayame's stick with the waspy rake of steel on steel as it whips the razor length away. The emulated steel shines just the same in the light as it twirls it in one hand behind itself, turning the blade into a reverse hand grip. Ryouhara himself is either capable of creating copies that don't require mnemonic commands to act or is adept to the point where it doesn't matter, because he speaks all the same. His voice doesn't lose one octave to effort; "People will say whatever they please. It's a trivial thing to condemn, requiring no mind at all. Even children do it. Sacrifice is the only method of proof worth anything in such a demanding world."
Eyes that seem to carry a holy line of brightness behind dark discs; Ayame would recognize the source if she were paying attention: His dusky yellow eyes, concealed by eye ninkou. The real eyes beneath everything; just one of many proofs. Those bright-lined eyes seem to follow the trail of that expanding weapon as Ayame brings it to full length and spins it forward until it levels on the copy in one instant. The copy seems to be held at bay for only that moment.
"During the Bakumatsu era of the Japan whose ground you stand on, many onmitsu and ronin risked everything to see the imperial court rise to power once again. Today, that court's descendent is the only man in the entire world who is still called Emperor."
Seishirou steps forward with one pitching motion, as if to will his copy forward. You see, while it is correct that he could have prepared this shrine in any number of ways, that is only important in a select few numbers of cases. But beyond those eyes is the simpler truth; he misses very little. Think, then, what for such a man searching even a time like five years means. Think of how many men, women, even children he has relentlessly catalogued, studied. Think of how many fighting styles he might be familiar with by now, how many ideas, goals and possibilities has he absorbed?
Think, then, how much Ayame is contributing to that well of knowledge even now.
It's a juxtaposition; while Ayame hints, he is plain.
"You see.. history itself is written by bleeding hands."
He knows her words are measured to tease at hidden meanings; in dealing with the small rogue, Seishirou is aware that there are very few details she is truly unaware of. Even now, she waits for the exact moment to strike, a moment that Seishirou himself contemplates. He looks down slightly, a single blink betraying the wandering of his thought. What he says next is not any great unyielding truth for him, nor is it an open challenge. No, his voice is far subtler than that. Thoughtful. It would seem that Ayame provokes him only just enough to make an soft invitation. After all, there was a man long ago named Drake...
"If anyone should think I am a malcontent, a terrorist... let them come before me and prove it."
He smiles faintly, satisfied as Ayame admits her curiousity.
"As for you... that comes in due time."
The copy whirls into motion, bearing down on Ayame with intense speed. Now that it moves when Seishirou finishes speaking, it's easy to see that it waits for Seishirou to finish speaking. It seems not to fear her weapon in the slightest. To the contrary; it seems to invite it. That blade whips forward with alacrity, forming a sailing forward reverse-handed slash coming down on Ayame from shoulder to hip. But it's a move that exposes his back for an instant as he leans into the effort, aiming--not to hit Ayame, but batter the length of her staff to the side in the beginning of a blistering offensive.
It won't end there. A second attack from the reverse grip--a true aimed stroke--comes when the copy braces its hand on the pommel of its straightblade, leaning forward and the form of that second attack is just a straight stab to Ayame's right shoulder. But--
That wasn't the real target though. As it moves, the copy shifts commitment from target to target, not actually attacking Ayame, she might notice, but trying to force her to act. Loosening the grip on its blade almost immediately to compensate for a possible battering deflection that might throw it off or simply to leave the sword in whatever sucking wound it inflicts, the copy simply continues rolling forward into its true attack.
Dealing with the weapon itself will do nothing. If not stopped, the copy simply launches off from one leg into a punishing cannon knee to the slender curve of Ayame's jawline.
COMBATSYS: Ayame counters Light Kick from Seishirou with The Sunrise Of Broken Dreams.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////////////// ]
Ayame 0/-------/-----==|===----\-------\0 Seishirou
Ayame smiles faintly at the observation of her defense. She's proud of it but she also expected it. The staff in her hands - Anathema - moves as if but an extention of her limbs so natural is her control over it. Of certain she has other accoutrements, sharp and otherwise. The last of the Ryouhara has been introduced to them before. But the staff that her delicate looking fingers slip over is more than the rest of all her tools of battle combined. It is the pinnacle of her engineering and the perfect medium for augmenting her precision level chi.
And right now, Anathema is at the ready; its polished surface reflecting a glint of the moon above as Ayame puts her trust in the weapon. She can't relax. The tickle of sticky blood on her neck and the sting of a narrow cut are warnings enough that her full attention is required. Her eyes study Seishirou actively before settling on his copy. The collision of weapons was real. There was nothing illusionary about the ring of metal on metal. How is he making such an illusion? She had, oft times, considered it possible to make images with chi focused in an ultra-precise manner. But a steel blade? Her mind races at the possibilities. Is this science beyond hers? Is that what he commands?
Trivial, he says, to condemn. The quitter will decry it as not being worth the effort. The sloth will whine about the energy wasted. The malingerer will claim to lack the health or strength but offer fairweather promises to help when their 'circumstances improve.' It's easy. The skirt clad girl has oft times spoken such words to beguile, distract, or disuade so the power of apathy is something she is well aware of and, in light of his dismisal of such mundane responses, she almost feels a hidden tinge of shame. /Almost/.
Thus is the power of sacrifice. Once one has bled and suffered for a cause, none can accuse them of shirking difficulties. Their dedication is beyond question, beyond doubt. Sacrifice elevates an action above reproach or dismisal. Suddenly she understands and the realization is reflected by the almost hidden glimmer in her eyes. Sacrifice /is/ the ultimate proof. It is the proof of sincerity that cannot be disputed by the banal words of the charlatan and hypocrite. That... doesn't make it any easier though.
She almost glances at the ground as he speaks of the bloody history of the sacred land but she can't take her eyes off him. To do so is to invite attack and right now the girl is putting all of her focus into preventing just that. He steps forward and Ayame slips backward half a step, her mind constantly recalulating the spaces involved and the speed at which she will have to react. "Is it?" she asks. History, that is. Gone is her edge of sarcasm for the time being. "What of the kings and nobles, safe behind their walls and buttresses? History is eager to tell the tale of the shoguns of the old ways but says nothing of the nameless ronin who fell in the streets to bring about their stories." Her mouth curls at the corner but she isn't smirking as if the grave facts of the world as she's seen it seem depressing in contrast to the vision he speaks of. "You are not to become one of the forgotten." She remembers well the importance his clan name held. "But to fight in the trenches is to risk never seeing this new world come forth. There is a reason the leaders, great and horrible alike, lurked in the safety of their keeps and forts..."
She's quiet until he finishes speaking again. "Mn," the young weapons mistress muses, expression thoughtful before her smile returns, the mask perhaps returned to its proper place. "I can wait a little longer." she allows, though her tone suggests that she could wait as long as needed. His mention of an offer has the girl hooked. But not so enraptured that her reflexes are slowed. She wouldn't allow for that. She knows he wouldn't either.
The copy bears down on her weapon without hesitation and Ayame's reflexes are tested to the utmost. The swing meant to send her weapon to the side connects cleanly but by the time the moment of impact takes place, she has already shifted her footing to account for it, keeping the lateral movement of the weapon to a minimum. The jab toward her shoulder is in tight, keeping her from twisting one end or the other of the long staff into its path. The center must suffice, and it is against the very center of the shaft that the sharp blade jams as the girl surrenders a step in the process, engaging in a very deadly yet beautiful staff dance, a trace of the manner in which she was trained as a child shining through as it oft times has when she has been pressed the hardest.
And then the deadly image takes to the air, twisting in with a leading knee intent on plowing into her jaw. Her left hand releases its hold on her staff as her right hand twists it in a blur of motion into position, only for her left hand to re-take its hold on the staff at an angle better prepared to respond to the incoming force.
The collision is swift but her defenses are sure. At his angle she can't strike to harm but rather ducks low, sliding beneath the feet of the image, her staff twirling up over her head and then swinging out behind her to land a square, clean hit in the upper back of her aggressor so quickly that perhaps the image has yet to alight upon the ground again and will have to recover from the impact. Ayame is already sliding to a stop, her feet kicking up dust visible in the moonlight before twisting around, her staff moving with her with that perpetual grace so often hidden behind her ruffian nature. Her eyes stray over the Seishirou that arrived from the sky and the one that has been engaging her in combat. "This is an interesting game." She sounds sincere. "But it is difficult to measure the design." Her mouth adopts that knowing smiles of hers again.
It would have been a mistake had she felt shame.
Had she shown weakness for only a moment..
Dismissing those who haven't paid the same, suffered the same as beneath his notice is the natural way of things for Ryouhara, handling them not as servants or enemies but as pliant witnesses. That is the fate for those who hitched breath in history's presence, proving themselves banal and unimportant. But it will not fit what he holds in his eye when he cautiously observes the little rogue. Even someone with eyes like Seishirou's cannot divine the sudden realization in Ayame's mind. But he can listen. And that much--..well.
In an instant, the affair is decided.
The blade hits the ground, twirling on the fittings of its hilt across the wooden floorboards. It twirls lazily, crackling with dark light before it winks out of existence.
It is defeated simply. Seishirou's body is frozen in mid-air, the boy's eyes still frozen in shock as the end of Ayame's staff trails light from where he was struck. The blow seemed to be all that was necessary. Once its wingers are touched, a butterfly will never take to the sky again. Silks made of light and ideals wring through the air in slow motion as the boy--the copy--simply disappears into motes of red light before ever hitting the ground.
"Hnf. Do you really think me someone to be remembered...?"
He puts to question even Ayame's view of him. Ever practical, the young man's limbs sway as he leans back thoughtfully. But there is acid in his voice. Slowly, a thumb runs the length of his jawline before he minds a small gesture with index and middle finger meeting in the air as if to stir it. One would think him eloquent with his hands, until the milky white light trailing from the end of Ayame's staff begins to react to that gesture.
Seeming impatient with the idea, Ryouhara continues. "It's like I said. Sacrifice is the only proof. Rulers are just figures that true men believed in. The hand that writes history seldom writes its own name in those pages."
The air seems to warp around the end of Anathema, the white light crawling in ever more complex patterns across the end of it, winding into familiar shapes for anyone who has ever taken a close look at one of Ryouhara's obscene 'ninkou' before. Channels, routes, seals, kanji. That boy--the illusion that Ayame fought--was only a vector for achieving a connection to Ayame's staff, allowing Seishirou's ninkou creation jutsu to take hold. Sear the right channels into the staff, imbue with enough of the remaining ambient chi...
His voice gains an odd timbre. They aren't the flowery prose and declarations of Igniz, of Vega, hardly that, no. He steps forward, closing the space between Ayame and himself as if he held no particular care for her staff. "Those men who sacrifice everything are the ones with the greatest sway over history." You see. It is possible for ambition to drip from one's voice. It is something beyond a goal for him. It is a dream. "Did you think your name was not a price to be paid in itself? That is the last thing you can give. Become a ghost."
His eyes flash. After all, according to him, he doesn't exist, right? That's the point of it. Seishirou's intent was never to be a ruler. Never a ruler, never a leader of the new age. Just a soldier. Just a hand and the will of a family long dead. That's all. Hand spreading, Seishirou's index finger curls as he matches his hand shape to the matrix being imposed in the open air, the length of his arm breaching just beyond the silks of his robe. It grew beyond the point where he could rely on the automation of his own jutsu to handle it for him, after all. "It is the nature of shinobi to bleed and die for a 'principle,' and then to disappear, no one ever having known you existed.."
"The best games are imperceptible like that.." If Ayame doesn't put a stop to him directly, he's going to finalize the modification with the closing of his hand, the entire staff singing, the upper end sizzling with the intense heat he just levelled on it. In the end...
"...I will leave infamy to the figureheads."
To simply sum it up as having dispelled the illusion would be to vastly understate what had transpired in the exchange. The copy was not simply an illusion and Ayame's victory over it was more than just 'dispelling' it by sheer force of will. Skill, grace, speed, and a 'oneness' with the staff she handles as if she was born holding it bring her out on top in the exchange of alacrity beyond description.
The force of her blow hadn't been her strongest. Escape and positioning was a greater priority in that instant. But in this case it proves to be enough even as she is proving acceptable it would seem. Eyes stray toward the lost blade before it flickers from existence, then go back to land on the dispersion of the very chi that held the image together. There's an analystical look to her expression. She's fascinated by the precision manipulation she was given a demonstration of.
"For a while at least," she replies, right hand slipping free of her weapon to tap the side of her head near her temple, disturbing a lock of her orange-golden hair. "After all, I never forget anything." So there's at least one that would remember. "Also, there are those that experienced Jinchuu. Not the ones that were just /there/. Not even everyone who fought. I mean the few that saw a glimpse of what it was for and left changed."
The girl shrugs with just her right shoulder, her left hand occupied with keeping her staff at just the angle she wants it to be, leaving no opening in her defense to be exploited. She doesn't know what's next after all. "They'll never forget. It can't be helped."
It's then that his hands move in a way that becomes of paramount importance to the staff wielder. She had shifted her focus from the energy trailing from the end of her weapon as risidual energy that would fade on its own. But as the chi shifts, Ayame grips her weapon tightly with both hands again, eyes fixed on the energy being woven at the end. To the side, Seishirou's words of sacrifice and the bleeding hands that grasp history's pen. She hears the words, recording them as anything else she ever sees or listens to, but reflection upon them would have to wait.
Patterns form, beyond her comprehension yet. Shaping energy so precisely as to be able to paint even complex kanji or express elaborate equations is within her capacity. But this is something else entirely. Her mouth opens, her expression a mixture of curiosity and abject concern. What is he /doing/? The energy spent on the copy becomes one with her staff, the air around the end of it shimmering as the complexities of the concentrated chi increase.
The last of the Ryouhara approaches her and she sees the motion beyond the blur that is all space beyond her staff, her eyes fixated on the energy being seared into it. Should she stop it? /Can/ she? He speaks again and this time she hears him more clearly. The sacrifice of a name, of fame, of being a legend. All pieces to be laid down in the pursuit of true ambition. "I laid down my name years ago," the girl murmurs, her mind now racing to pursue two tracks, part of it occupied to thinking back to her departure from home as a young teen.
She shouldn't stop him, she concludes. If his intent were hostile, he wouldn't have done something that requires so much time. No, a ghost attacks in an instant, no slower. "Then..." she asks, her voice on autopilot, "...what is the reward for that nameless shinobi...? Why does he do it?" She sounds mystified at thought. "Why are you doing it?"
He closes his hand, completing the seal, and the matrix of chi becomes one with the end of her staff. There are symbols left engraved in the polished titanium. Symbols so fine as to be almost as imperceptible as th enature of this game Seishirou has played with the young bandit. The brown-eyed girl studies them - thin lines made visible by the silver light of the moon - and in that moment begins to understand.
Ayame takes in a breath, holding her staff in front of her, sitting atop her palms such that it rests horizontally across her. Eyes study the engraved end before looking to the other end of her staff. A knowing smile curls at the edge of her mouth as she closes her hands over it and begins to focus.
His imbuement has augmented the weapon's innate chi channeling properties, allowing her to do more with it than even before. She used to be limited to focusing energy at one end or the other, or encasing the weapon in a thin sheen of chi. But with this, the girl realizese, she could produce chi blades from both ends at once... facilitating the opportunity to transform the polearm into a double-ended spear, lance, scythe, or any number of other uses her creative mind could come up with... With practice of course.
"W-what for?" she asks in quiet awe. "What do you want in return?" She looks uncertain. "Or is this, like so much else you do, without explanation or obvious reward?" There's a very fine, teasing edge to her voice, as if making light of that aspect of him she finds the most inscrutable.
COMBATSYS: Seishirou has left the fight here.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Ayame 0/-------/-----==|
COMBATSYS: Ayame has ended the fight here.
'Ninkougakujutsu.' First conceptualized by the engineering genius Ikou Ryouhara before the restoration, it is the ability to create and control a chi matrix and instill it in a physical form. The unification of the sciences of ninjutsu and crafting results in the creation of a 'ninkou.' Of all the clans during that period, the Ryouhara stood among the most advanced at this art. Of all of the remaining shinobi in the world, Seishirou Ryouhara and his direct apprentice Riko Koganei are the only ones left capable of reproducing Ikou's legacy, his miracles.
And a part of that legacy has been instilled into the engineered staff 'Anathema.'
"For awhile," he agrees, without grudge. Their prior battle was something of an observational opportunity for the shinobi; allowing the engineer to understand the attributes of the weapon to the exact definitions required to create the technique he imbued into the Ryouhara Copy he sealed into this shrine shortly after. "But History will forget me, and God willing, it will not even recall enough to damn the names of the fools and tyrants that exist today. This world needs greater heroes than that.."
The Ryouhara shinobi sighs wearily, as if at that one moment, the sheer amount of work that needed to be time rested to full weight on his shoulders, turning away with the winding of silk through the air. His arms, his body shaded beneath the white silk of that coat of his as if there was nothing at all to him. "There is no reward in sacrifice," he finally states. "There is only an achieveable goal. If the goal is rewarding for you...hmnf." He shakes his head, pausing for a moment. What is his reward... it would be the first time he's ever been asked that question, but the thought of 'himself' as a person as opposed to an idea, a meaning, a /force/.. "I..."
It truly mystifies him.
"...I have a duty to fulfill. That's all."
But he's done with the idle chatter. "I told you," he interrupts, eager to move on as Ayame stares in wonder at what he can create. Turned away from Ayame, she can see clearly the clan emblem on his back, and the compound sheath he slings low off his waist to avoid interfering with his movement. "You like pushing your luck, to press beyond what we find acceptable, safe." The metre of his voice suggests everything else that he fails to. That is, the true question is, why not? "What's important is, if you're good enough to use the jutsu I've embedded in your weapon. And what you're going to use it for."
He turns on his heel. With the whip of a hand, the right sleeve of his haori fills with his hand, which he uses to gesture harshly at the floor at his side, a cutting motion. The throwing of the gauntlet. "After all.. someone who believes in absolutism, of uncompromising victory free of corruption would be put at odds with my ideology. Such a way offers no middle ground." He reminds her of what she said to him at Alcatraz, the idea of an uncompromising will that makes its goals reality without ever having to bleed at all. Their disagreement, as it were. But Seishirou seems to expect the idea to remain, judging from the white edged smile that he flashes Ayame for just a moment as he opens that hand, raising it. In it, a silver ring, with a familiar seal emblazoned across the side. Not his familial crest, but one bearing the sigil of the rising sun over the mountain. Judgment. 'Jinchuu.'
"Tell me. What would such a person give to have one wish..? A favor bestowed from beyond the reach of the modern world. Backed by the immeasurable force that exists in that darkness beyond. A desire. An act. A boon. Anything they required...to make a dream reality."
He says it simply, as if discussing tea.
"I have a job for you."
With the newly installed chi matrix, there's one thing Ayame decides to test first and foremost. Will it still collapse? Gripping her staff with her right hand, her left thumb touches to a part near the center known only to her. A spark of chi between thumb and staff - the energy bent to her own signiture - is all it takes to conduct the test. A hiss that sounds something akin to the release of air or the systematic adjustment of a hydraulics system accompanies the metallic staff collapsing down to a far smaller size in the girl's grip. Ayame smiles faintly, convinced that the augmentation by Seishirou will not conflict with her own manipulations of the weapon but, in fact, will simply enhance them. She would stammer out sincere gratitude if she was the grateful sort. Besides, she sure this 'gift' comes with a catch. Though she's certainly interested in hearing it out.
The girl bows her head, slipping the collapesd form of Anathema into its pouch affixed to one of her multiple belts, listening as Seishirou speaks, only to glance up as he mentions the need for greater heroes than this generation seems to suffer under. "Heh," she grunts, having been in close proximity to more of the tyrants and titans of the world than she'd even want to recount. Her reckless dive into the world of fighting has been an... interesting one, frought with the challenges of facing people capable of dismanatling her even at her best with nary an effort.
To his sigh, she makes no sound. She's not a very empathetic sort, but she's not blind either. Most people she reads like a book. Him? He's more like a crossword puzzle with only a quarter of the clues to go along with it. But she can tell his burdens weigh upon him. He answers her direct question with equal forthrightness which does surprise her a little. Sacrifice its own reward? The words of insanity.
She sees the look in his eyes. He hasn't even given her question any thought before. It doesn't even matter. He does... what he does because he has to. "I see," she says, her tone neutral, non-judgemental. She's not seen anyone like him before. He's either insane, broken in the head, or a genius operating on a level no one else can comprehend. Maybe both, Ayame muses to herself, deciding that sounds like the best explanation.
But he doesn't want to explore the subject further, and the strawberry-blonde has had her curiosity sated for the time being. He turns away, showing the girl his clan-emblazoned back, and Ayame studies it while paying heed to his words. He begs the question as to whether she'll be good enough to use the jutsus he implanted in her signiture weapon and Ayame glances down at the pouch at her side. She'll master it. She must. "I can use it," she declares with confidence acting purely on faith that she's smart enough to without actually knowing that she will be able to...
She meets his thin smile with a hint of a smirk, knowing full well to what he refers but in a moment her eyes are drawn to his hand where a ring rests. It's at his question that her expression changes though. What would one give for a wish? Her eyes widen slightly, her mind filled of all the things she would wish for without thinking of what the costs associated with such could possibly be... for a moment, at least.
Then she lifts her hand and rests it in her hair on the right side of her head, mind digesting what the price on such a gift could be. Such a person... would they give up everything? Is there any price that would be too high? She wonders, quietly, what unfathomable cost would be too much? He snaps her mind back to focusing on him when he speaks of her directly. "It's only fair," the girl replies, smirking slightly again. He did bestow a mighty gift to her.
She shifts her eyes to the ring in his hand once more, "You're going to do it all over again, aren't you." A tenacious one, this guy.
"Do you..."
It isn't a question.
The boy seems to be lost in a thought. They are burdens he is fated--and all too glad, he believes--to shoulder. The others of his clan were largely merely attempting to stall the reaper; finding a meaning in their life amidst the tragedy of a curse that no one could hear, touch, taste or see. Finding their lovers, bearing children early, as subconscious protection against it. Entrusting things, they told themselves, to the next generation and accepting their fate honorably and peacefully. Entrusting matters to his wife and sons, his father died only eight years older than Seishirou is now, his older brother two years younger. Seishirou could sire a child of his own, and continue on as the Ryouhara always have. Scrabbling for the meaningless purchase of one more generation..
To be complacent with his family's lot in life was never his way.
So instead of fleeing the reaper, Seishirou embraces it, leashes it, uses it as his own. But there is that price...when you leash a reaper, you are always close to death. He cannot think of anything less important than the goals he wants to achieve. And in achieving those goals, any cost is justifiable. Up to and including his identity, his own life, any evidence that he ever existed...he'll scrub it clean if he has to, as long as that ideal is realized. World revolution--that is the gift he is going to offer in filial tribute.
But even as the words cross his lips, his expression hardens, deadly heat forming behind his eyes as whatever weight he bears on his shoulders dissipates. He betrays his own ideal as much as he does his thoughts by letting them free. To even allow it to come to question is a thought that, as he considers it, makes him bristle--noticeably. The idea of throwing it all away, that grievous price, is nothing to him. Cheap, in the face of what he wants to achieve. Still, the fawn is adorable, in a fashion, the methods in which she questions him.
"Such an insatiable curiosity. If you use that much, you might impress me yet with the toy I've given."
From the curious tilt of his smirk only a moment later, he seems to be deciding whether to be amused or annoyed that Ayame takes the time to test his modifications. To see if they've damaged her staff in any way. She finds his alteration to her liking. As expected. Still. The heat behind his eyes is given purpose as he appraises her. And to this end, he is at least Ayame's equal in reading the tumult of the mind. But when he reads, it is not the simple flipping of pages. There is tangible weight in the air as he examines, a palpable calculation dwelling in that labyrinthine mind of his. Costs surround everything about him; as well they should. But what is the limit?
But the decision, when it comes, is simple.
Ryouhara begins to explain, in plain words.
"I will," he acknowledges. "That conflict was a light on the planet that even Amaterasu could see, even Buddha." He flicks the ring into the air, rolling it over twice in a lazy arc in the air. It catches the moonlight just so, before he catches it by the edge inbetween a thumb and two fingers. "And that was only a prelude to what me and mine will achieve on the next stage." A setup. Elements of that first tournament so long ago were even now contributing to the setup of the second.
"... don't be mistaken." He is eager to dispense with any illusion in her head. An illusion he almost seems to reference directly. "The ninkougakujutsu I've given you is paid for. Faith is price in itself." After all. It's accurate to think that Ryouhara could have set this shrine up in any way he pleased. Blades and clones are not the only weapons he can create. And it's already been proven that Ryouhara is not the sort of 'thing' you want to be on the bad side of. In that, simply venturing beyond the reach of the light is enough to count as an act of bravery. "Yet, in the end.."
He smirks.
"...just a trinket compared to the full weight of the clan's favor."
He turns his hand as if to drop the ring on the ground.
"I'm sure even someone like you would understand the consequence of being grouped in with the conspirators. Perhaps even better than most." That reference, at least, is hardly mysterious. After all, wasn't it she who made a deal with a Devil...? In the end, the shinobi sets the ring gently on the railing. "A simple wish, but with that cost attached... can you," he teases darkly, his voice ripe with implication, "walk with us in the night for a little while longer?"
He seems eager to explain no further.
But then, isn't the unknown half the point?
Seishirou moves past Ayame, his scent twisting in the air as he passes.
Then he descends the shrine steps.
And begins to walk away.
He questions her ability to see - a vague, equivocal comment made to break the silence and avoid the intensity of his love of sacrifice and Ayame says nothing, her expression neutral, neither confirming or denying the question. He goes on to speak of her curiosity and Ayame shrugs, hands raised, the girl grinning faintly. "I have to know things. Need to figure them out." Most things are not a challenge to discover. Motivations, for example. Many people wear their motivations on their shoulder - power, money, fame, lust, friendship... the reasons why they do the things they do are plain to see to an observer like Ayame. Seishirou is not like them. But she's learning more each time. What his drive is. What makes him annoyed. And, little by little, a comprehension of what his goals are about. "Toy huh," she muses out loud, giving the word selection some thought. "Fun for me, perhaps, but I don't think it will be for others..." His gift, that is. Few in the world are interested in the wayward rogue gaining in strength or abilities. Few are interested in her succeeding in anything at all. In that, she can relate to the young man who is so oft decried a terrorist.
Out to spread terror? Or shake people from the stupor of idiocy and complaceny in which they have steeped themselves all these years? He may hope to be forgotten, but if his goals are realized, how could the world not see him as a hero? A revolutionary? "Heh," Ayame exhales as she contemplates the incongruity of it all.
But it doesn't matter. The future ahead will put all of it to the test. Let it play out how it might. Ayame needs to know how this affects her here and now. He says the matrix imbued into her staff was paid for by her faith in taking the chance in coming here. An interesting arrangement and not one she is going to argue with. Somehow, she doesn't feel like she's gotten it for free anyway. She has to think about costs on a new level now. Everything can't be reduced to the value of a coin. Especially matters such as these.
"Guilt by association has never bothered me," she notes. How many has she allied herself with now whenever the wheel turned and circumstances changed? Blackjack, the Devil of Koga, Shihong, the Syndicate, and now this? What exactly /is/ this? He teases her with his withholding of information, as if knowing full well the kind of curiosity that twists insatiably in the teen's active, sharp mind.
The ring is left on the rail and the last of the Ryouhara turns to walk down the steps, leaving Ayame behind with her changed staff and a symbol frozen in circular form. A delicate hand slips out, taking hold of the ring, Seishirou's final question lingering in the air. Holding it up in front of her, she looks through the hole of it toward the stairs and the departing figure. She wants to chase him down, ask more of him, have him explain in further detail. But as a smile curls at the corner of her lips, she suspects she's gotten all she'll get out of him for now. The next step? That will come in due time.
"I suppose I can," she whispers, lowering her hand to her side, gripping the ring. "I wonder," she continues, taking a step back toward the bell that she rang to put the night's activities in motion, "How it will all end for someone like him..." She glances at the old shrine, visions of the family shrine she was supposed to inherit had she followed the path destined from birth flashing through her mind. "...and someone like me." Destiny can be a fickle thing.
Log created on 22:54:37 06/28/2009 by Ayame, and last modified on 12:19:04 05/31/2012.