Post by Tomie Magahara on Sept 5, 2016 8:03:34 GMT -5
Nagging.
The sensation has been nagging ever since the Shinigami girl had told her about these so-called Zanpakutō and the secrets they hide inside. Could her parasol, the one she had constructed with her own magic oh so many years ago truly be one of those?
She wants to doubt it, but even now, as she is tossing and turning on her futon, hair let loose and with minimal clothing, she can't get it out of her mind. The gears are churning with a deep-seated frenzy, back and forth and over again, slowly driving her mad with the agony of her own thoughts. Because how could she have made a tool which only a Shinigami possesses? She certainly is not someone who would take up that sort of black mantle to perpetuate their corrupt regime. It has to be something else, like a magical tool of sorts unique to her and her alone.
But logic dictates otherwise. The odds that she is unique, are absolutely minuscule. She knows that.
People would have experienced similar situations to this many times before, they must have. She is not an anomaly. She is not Red. Hideaki's existence more or less proved this. Since the two of them are walking about, there must be more; they can't be the one bimillennials walking about in Soul Society. She had never really been stuck with the perception that this was the case, but proof has definitely helped push her away from the stray thought that she may be the oldest.
In short, there are people out there, some who might even be older than her. Some who might possess knowledge, memories and perceptions similar to her. Some who also possess an seething ember of bitter resentment like her own.
She does not know what to feel in regards of these thoughts.
But judging by what Hideaki said... The thing inside the swords is not supposed to act like the 'thing' does. Even when thinking about it, she places mental emphasis around its very being; for what is it? What can she call it now that it has entered the territory of unknown? She ceased thinking of it as a house kami ever since her fellow senior inadvertently cast doubt upon its visage. From that encounter, she has just thought of it as a creature with ill-defined borders centering around its existence.
She pries her eyes open, gazing up towards the ceiling, expecting to see the gnarled cretin hang over her, as it usually does. Instead, all she sees is the wooden roof laid out in neat detail. It seems like the corpse monster isn't particularly interested in plaguing her with its presence tonight.
As a matter of fact, it has been most quiet lately. It hasn't bothered to jump out to scare her, ooze through the walls or floor, hang over her when she's busy or sit behind guests. It has mostly hung out in corners lately, far away from her. Had it noticed her doubt? Her change in demeanor? There doesn't seem to be any other explanation.
Pulling the covers aside, the raven-haired woman slowly rises from the bedding, she peers through the window. Darkness hasn't yet completely settled yet, she notes, as the skies still contain a faint tint of purple around the moon, which is otherwise in its full phase, round and bleak. Its light pours into the middle of her room, right at the mess of a table and the cushions dotted around it.
If she had felt like it, tonight would have been a perfect occasion for going into the woods to practice her spellcraft. Even the least superstitious villagers are mostly unwilling to traverse the landscape covered in moonlight. Few come to her tea house, and most of them before dark, a majority intending to stay the night. So she is usually free to do as she pleases on these occasions, which certainly is not only convenient, but also liberating.
Tonight, though, Tomie only wants to spend time inside.
The reason behind her decision is quite simple: she doesn't feel like using magic. She hasn't actively desired it for the past few days. When she had tried to exercise even the most basic spell, something had felt off; the spells themselves usually worked well enough and did not seem to possess diminished quality of any sort, but something just didn't feel right.
Although her room is in close proximity to the counter in the foyer, she hears little to no noise emanating from the room next door. Perhaps Mai has decided to close down the shop and take a nap, or is with a customer of her own. She won't blame her, regardless. The girl is hard-working in her opinion, and deserves the occasional treat in the form of self-permitted rest.
Rest is not something Tomie can permit herself now, not when she feels this jittery electricity run through her body. Her feet, while usually obedient, itch with incessant bugs crawling across them. Her hands tremble as if chilly; her shoulders are hitched up, tenser than even a busy day. This is no mood for good sleep.
A line from a song pops up in her mind, seemingly out of the blue. "Will these voices echoing in my head bring me good sleep?" She hums the piece in her mind, trying to distract herself from the world's current focal point.
For in the dimly lit room, the purple contraption resting against a partly closed drawer beckons. She is positive there is actual light, physical light, lavender light, emanating from it. It is not a happy light nor is it a bright one; it shines with the dimness of a street light on the verge of death. Like a malformed heart, it pulsates with irregularity, shine palpitating.
Shuffling through the bed sheets, the linen-clad woman reaches out for the pommel of the massive handle, but her hand stops mere centimeters away. There is a chill to the aura surrounding the lacquered wood that makes the minuscule hairs on her arm stand to an end. Does she truly want to know? Does she want a concrete answer about this thing's existence? Will it even work?
Fingernails clack against the thick pommel at the base, gripping it with the tips of the fingers, then gradually adjusting her grip. The material is not cold to the touch, yet she finds herself shivering. A swirl churns in her abdomen, sucking up most of the warmth in her body. Her feet shuffle back and forth, teetering on the verge of losing control. She hasn't felt this sort of unease before. But she knows there's no turning back.
With a gentle pulling motion, the slender hand unsheathes the blade from the disguised scabbard, exposing the socket for the dagger-like weapon within the cylinder of the parasol's trunk. The metal twinkles in the moonlight, deflecting it with its edge, as she holds it up in front of her. The amount of times she has unveiled the parasol's true nature in front of company that isn't Fuuyuko can be counted on one hand. It is still as sharp as the day she had first got it, having only been used to carve letters and filet fish a few times; it has not yet tasted human blood.
It is, by all means, a pure blade without any other purpose than to deter drunkards and threaten highway robbers that she has never even encountered.
Then why does it feel so tainted?
Cautiously, she sets it across her lap, ensuring that there's no chance of pricking herself on the edge, letting the pommel rest across her right knee. This is how Hideaki described how to perform the action, no?
Once again, she hesitates, but this time due to uncertainty regarding what to do. How would she place her arms? Contorting them into a variety of different shapes and positions, she eventually settles on having one on the blade and one on the handle.
Now what?
Is she supposed to just sit like this and stare in front of her? At the closet? It feels strange to do so, dissonant in the sense that the sight causes everyday memories to bleed into the ethereal moonlight atmosphere; the last things she wants to think about are the duties and must-do's of tomorrow.
So she promptly closes her eyes, wallowing in the red beneath her eyelids.
Once more, the same question pops into her mind, more out of uncertainty than impatience. Is she supposed to sit still until the creeping creature receives her call? It seems strange and pointless. Following a heavy sigh, she inhales troves of air to refill her lungs. How are these creatures even supposed to contact one like this? Maybe most spirits possess a voice, an ability to communicate through a second entity within one's head, making them relatively easy to identify. The thing doesn't speak; it has neither eyes nor mouth, nose nor ears. It has always greeted her requests, be it mental or verbal, with silence.
Breathe in.
While it has never properly instilled fear in her, occasional hanging over her when she is waking up notwithstanding, it has always brought a sense of unease to the situations it had invaded.
Breathe out.
She simply cannot make up her mind now. Does she truly want to know?
Breathe in.
By accident, or perhaps curiosity, she sneaks a peek with one eye, ripping the sticky folds keeping them shut apart. Everything is so much brighter than she had expected; the moonlight hadn't been this intense when she closed her eyes. The luminosity sears her eyeball, so she closes it shut as a result of the stimuli.
A pungent scent of charcoal wafts through her nostrils, teasing them with a hint of earthen spice. She doesn't leave the incenses and ink sticks in her personal quarters, they are far too disruptive for that. Where does it come from? Has one of the employees brought it into her room while during this strange ritual? How could she not notice?
It's quiet.
Too quiet.
Even the vague murmurs and the cicadas of the night are deaf; not even the wind tickles the windows's corners.
She opens the same eye again, this time bringing her palm above it, to shelter it slightly. It's not as bright as she initially had thought. The grey just seems to be the way compared to the dunkel shade her eyelids provide.
But her room isn't grey. It has never been grey.
Her other eye soon follows the lead, defying the discomfort to sate curiosity.
This definitely isn't her room. Surrounding her are wispy clouds of soft textures, grey against a skyscape dyed vivid cerulean. One passes through her, parting in two before reuniting in front of her. Frantically turning around, Tomie attempts to orientate herself. Only more sky follows her gaze, as far as she can see, clouds dotting the atmosphere. Where even is this place?
Only then does she notice the sensation: her feet aren't being supported by anything. They are dangling in the air, as is her entire body, as a matter of fact. But she's not falling. She stays in place, held by some unknown force against the whims of gravity.
Against all odds, she's flying.
A thick haze rests deep below, covering what appears to be a cityscape. This is what she briefly manages to glimpse before turning her attention forwards. She's not afraid of heights, not at all, but being this far up in the air with no forewarning causes her intestines to clump together into a vortex, compressing her abdomen with the spontaneity of the situation. There seems to be something else down there too, but she doesn't want to catch a proper look until she has solid ground under her feet.
Awkwardly paddling her long legs in the air, pushing her with silken-covered arms, as if swimming, she tries to move forwards, but remains where she appeared. "How?" The words reverberate, akin to the echoes of a cave, once she speaks in frustration. Trailing the skies with her eyes, which is still repeating what she said, she attempts to discern the process of aerial locomotion. Her limbs seem to be doing no good.
Then, as she leans forwards, her body moves, if only slightly, before she leans backwards, surprised. So this is how it works.
Back and forth she leans for a while, halting and accelerating until she feels comfortable enough to move around in circles before she pursues some exploration. As she's piloting through the clouds, feeling the draft tug at her loose pajama robes and unbound hair, the morbid temptation to look down manifests again. What is down there is something familiar. She knows it. The stolen glance had been too brief for her to properly assess what she had seen and why it is nostalgic.
So she peers down again, into the mist. It lies thick above what's beneath, but still perfectly reflects the view, which she has a hard time believing is there. For veiled under layers of haze is the bustling and narrow streets of her former home, the upper districts, visible from a bird's perspective. Tomie recognizes every street, every corner, even some of the houses of her former neighbors. Marisa, old man Yamanaka, the Yumisaki household. Memories wash over her as the muscles around her mouth forces the usually frowning face to become a gentle smile.
How she missed those times. They were so simple compared to the present, or even more recent events. The world seemed stagnant, moving to the beat of a quiet drum and the rustling of grass. Lazy days filled with the occasional cooking of meals or plucking of produce.
As swiftly as the smile had manifested, the cheeks sink back into position, lips become placid pillows. The boredom hits her in the face like a falling brick wall, for simple doesn't always--seldom actually--in her experience, equate to happiness. Or in her case, contentedness.
Speaking of falling. Has she dropped? That more or less immobile cloud had been right next to her just a few seconds ago. Now it is situated a couple of meters above her. However, gradually, as she stares up, she moves closer and closer, regaining altitude. So that's how you move up and down, then. Perhaps she's really getting the hang of this particular manner of locomotion. But it seems as if looking down while flying is nothing short of impossible, and she really wants to enjoy the view below. It seems like a far way down, and who knows if she would even be able to come up here again if she descends?
Once more, the pronounced aroma of ink, mixed with ash, burrows into her nostrils. Where is it coming from? As she turns around, she notices tiny blackened crisps floating by, defying gravity like herself. Her eyes trail them until they become more numerous and finally, unite as the source: a massive lump of what appears to be coal hovering in the air. Firmly planted on top of it is a gnarled tree, devoid of leaves and as dark as the island it's planted on. Long roots dangle on the bottom, perforating the hideous rock. It seems like this is the only location nearby. Beggars can't be choosers.
Slowly and with as much poise as she can muster with this freshly acquired skill, the witch maneuvers towards the isle and adjusts her altitude accordingly. Soon, she hovers above it, white linens fluttering as she prepares for landing.
It's not as solid as it had looked. Her feet burrow into the surface, causing grey debris to rise, enveloping her as the air ceases to tug at her. The hem of her robe is drenched in soot, turning grey within seconds of arriving, in spite of her efforts to keep it above the ground. In fact, all of her clothing is in danger of being besmirched by this filthy material, as it rises up into a plume, obscuring her sight. The tree is only a faint silhouette behind the the curtain of smoke. She covers her mouth with a sleeved hand in an attempt to block out the debris, breathing through it with squinted eyes, as if that will help.
From behind the silhouette of the blackened, gnarled tree, something moves, a blur in the windless space, a stick figure of imposing stature. She tries to follow it with her eyes as it circles the ink storm surrounding her, but soon its shadow melts into the ash's color. Is there some kind of bird living far up here? It doesn't make sense. They're so far up, there should be nothing here. Especially not this rock or this tree.
The dust starts to settle and soon, the world becomes visible again. Her pristine sheets, which had been white prior to this dust-filled shebang, are now dyed a light shade of grey-green. She is also facing the opposite direction now, having turned around in the confused debacle of the ashen storm. Fingers frantically run across her skin, but her tips come off as pristine as they have ever been. This is strange, she realizes, noting only the difference in her attire; this place--no, this world--simply isn't dictated by logic whatsoever! Whoever, or whatever, rules this place, cannot possess a grasp of the fundamental way reality folds.
Where even is this? She has been too preoccupied with orientating herself to even properly consider where she currently is. Is the blade somehow involved in this transportation? This all seems really shifty. Could it be some sort elaborate illusion?
A sound emerges from behind her, rhythmic drumming against what sounds like wood; it is coming from the proximity of the tree, not many meters away from her. A shiver runs down her spine, causing her to shudder as her mouth slides agape, pupils shrinking in anticipation. She is not alone. Is it the avian figure she saw earlier that is making noise? As she swallows a lump of dry spit, she hesitates, uncertain whether she wants to turn around or not. What if she doesn't like what she sees? Finger burrow into soft palms as the drumming grows ever more incessant.
She has to turn around. Having her back turned in an unknown location is just an invitation for an ambush, or if this is someone with no hostile intents, just rude. If it's an animal, who knows what it might do too?
So she spins, with deliberate inertia, turning on her heel, feeling the grains beneath her feet grind as her long hair dances madly to the beat of the music. The monotony of the repeated motion is then broken as talons drag across the rough fabric, creating rasping noises as the appendage is dragged down the trunk of the tree, growing in speed until it finally lets go.
The creature, the thing, stands before her, hands hanging by the sides of their body, contorted into twisted claws. Its head droops, soppy hair covering most of the face. Only the white forehead and the blank space where the eyes should have been are partially visible. The white cloak is still pristine, unlike her own, with only the edges of the lower hem tattered and discolored. Her fingers still twitch, as if unaccustomed to any sort of movement. Tomie is far away from the monstrous being, but she can still hear the joints pop and crackle as the mummified appendages bend into shapes human hands shouldn't be able to.
That is when something peculiar strikes her: the creature is making sounds. On all prior occasions, it had been absolutely silent, even when it looked like it should be making ample noise.
The thing even looks different. Like it's actually here, able to interact with its surroundings and not a mere figment of her imagination.
It never occurred to her that she would actually ever get the chance to face this cretin; it seems that as if one wants to pray to the kami, one has to visit their shrines. And what an odd shrine this is.
It still stands before her, bluish hands twisting and turning, as she contemplates, pondering upon what to say. The thought hadn't dawned on her earlier, but now that it did, she grits her teeth and her shoulders tense up. Perhaps it's malicious; its intents never seemed pure back when it was just a specter with no influence. Yet, it has so far not expressed any interest in harming her, though, which makes her believe it is more chaotic than outright despicable.
"It's you." With these quaint words, she breaks the silence, maintaining a resolute voice even in the face of this potential adversary. She raises her head, trying to look it in the face as if it could meet her gaze back.
It doesn't respond.
Not even an ounce of surprise manifests on her marbled facade, maintaining her determined gaze and graceful gait, even with these sullied clothes and unraveled hair. Of course it doesn't respond. It had never even expressed the ability to communicate earlier, so why should it now?
"Right. You cannot speak," the disappointed condescension pours through her pipes as she smiles with exasperation. It probably can't even hear her.
One hand ceases the repeated snapping and is hoisted into the air with blinding speed, resting in front of its deformed face. Following its movement is dust from the ground, drawn like a spiral column into the air. With seemingly incarnate delicacy, the crooked index finger weaves through the air, particles following its trail, forming symbols in its wake. As she examines the individual gatherings of dark material, Tomie's eyes widen in realization.
The thing is writing.
These are actual symbols she can decipher and understand, symbols she is all too familiar with personally. The finger stops, dropping down along with the surplus sand. A full word rests in front of her now.
"Hello". This is what the symbols say: quaint, but ultimately polite.
Tomie looks from the creature to the writing and back again, then repeats the process. Its rather sloppy by her standards, connecting the lower and upper parts of the "ko" Hiragana, but it's still readable.
It is talking to her. The thing is talking to her. She has so many question for the thing regarding, well, everything that revolves around its existence. They start to pile up in her mind, stacked in a constantly shifting order of priority. Perhaps a casual conversation starter will get a more fluid interaction with this... Thing. "After all these years, you only now unveil that you can communicate?" Her voice is hoarse, and the dry air isn't doing it any favors. She swallows repeatedly to moisturize her throat.
Once more, the finger weaves through the air, forming two simple symbols. "はい"
Well, that was surprisingly smooth. Should she harp more on that tangent? It doesn't seem particularly productive. She moves on. "Who are you?"
The two symbols fade, become swirling dust, as the hand taps the air again, leaving two new to replace the old ones. "お主"
Wait, huh? "What?" She couldn't have heard right.
Yet, she finds that the creature repeats itself, writing the same symbols over again in the ashes of old. "お主"
Is it taunting her? "You're just some... Thing."
Swift symbol, three strokes. "女"
"What?" She repeats, trying to decipher what the creature is saying. This seems entirely unrelated to the question she had posed earlier. Does it aim to confuse her now?
The same symbol crops up, with thicker edges, as for emphasis. "女"
So this thing insists on being a woman. If that's the case, then she at least has a proper pronoun. It makes sense, though, given the garb she's wearing and the contours of the body, along with the long hair and nails; this makes a very feminine impression. However, with no face and the burial rites utilized these days in mind, Tomie has come to see it as an androgynous amalgamation of the spirits of the dead, face forever lost just like the deceased's identity, forcefully abolished.
This creature does seem to possess the ability to communicate with minimal sophistication and limits its usage of both Kanji and Hiragana to very basic terms, so far only using them to express single words. The one abstract question she had posed can't be said to have been met with particularly positive reception, so perhaps something more concrete will yield some helpful answers. "Where are we?" Out of all the questions she can ask now, this is by far one of the easiest ones to answer, not to mention it can potentially help her orientate.
Mechanically, the creature lifts her finger and swings it through the air, ash following the branch-like appendage and forming cohesive text. The Kanji look even worse than the Hiragana, sloppy and without proper curves. It irks her, but not beyond slightly lowering her eyebrows in disapproval. "心の中" reads in front of her.
This makes no sense. "Inside... The heart?" Even a concrete question such as this has only yielded an absolutely absurd response from this ghoulish female in front of her. This cuckoo seems to thrive off of whatever sort of shenanigans she is committing, confounding her with cryptic answers and tomfoolery. But the letters before her, while aggravating, causes something else to stir within her. Thoughts churn, based on suggestions put forth by a hibernal soldier. "Inside the heart" could mean so much depending on who this heart belongs to. It--She, might as well use the right pronoun, could refer to Tomie's heart, the elongated corpse's own, the heart of the world, the heart of Soul Society, the list goes on.
But the invasive thoughts bloom, with paranoia as fertilizer, leading her to lean towards one of the alternatives.
And she does not like it.
After a considerable delay, consisting of the creature hovering about, gawking at her with its eyeless face, fabric flowing as the hair still clings to the body, unyielding in its amorphous state, it drags its finger through some of the dust in the air and writes a succinct: "はい"
At this point, it is anything but unexpected to receive one-liners from the creature. Her hopes are low, and her resentment growing. If she can't even receive proper answers for sophisticated questions, then she might as well be uncouth towards it. "What are you?" The question is almost spat out, her foot turning to the left, burrowing deeper into the ashen soil, dragging it with her toes. If this thing can't help her, then she might as well bid it adieu and start searching for any sort of clues on her own.
Multiple fingers now weave through the air, faster than before, with a livid tempo, forming complex symbols and even a sentence at a rate which should not be humanly possible. As they draw and claw, the ink coagulates in the air, becoming thick and bold, appearing before her on a tablet of nothing. She reads them consecutively, eyebrows rising as she deciphers the individual symbols cluttered about. "痛み、苦しみ、死、血、恐怖、疲れている剣、毒、お主" Her lips part as she reaches the last line. Again the same symbols it has already repeated twice, this time even written in thicker ash for emphasis.
It's even the same pronoun I refer to this creature as. Her dainty hands ball into fists, thin sinew appearing on the back of the hand due to the strain. This is ridiculous. What this thing appears to be indicating and hinting towards is inconceivable with how reality is, how it should be. There's no way, there simply is no way a cretin such as this could even remotely be a part of--A part of--
"What do you call yourself?" She shouts at the creature, limbs quivering, lips flaring and hair swinging to the rhythm of the breeze. It feels as if her nails are nearly tearing through the skin in her palms as she squeezes them even tighter together, as her voice reverberates through the world, echoing in rebellion to the laws of physics. They are not in an enclosed space, not within her heart; they can't be, she refuses to acknowledge the possibility.
Seconds pass, tens of them, as she gazes at the quiet being before her, still surrounded by the eerie writing from earlier, bobbing up and down in the air in even tempo. It's not reacting. It's not doing anything to even remotely signify that it has understood her question and intends to answer it with its blasé remarks. She could just as well turn around and leave it be, let it wallow in its own misery without even feeling sorry. It has been nothing short of a hindrance ever since she decided to land on this inconceivably stupid rock to survey the are--
Like phantom blurs, the hands rearrange the symbols, mix them all into a thick jumbled mess in front of her, separating piece from piece, dragging lines and scribbles into symbols, which become gradually more coherent as the clutter turns to ash and sink to the haven of blackened dust beneath.
The powdery flakes of dust settles, accompanied by no sound whatsoever, revealing a set of five symbols before her, oozing over and spilling like liquid.
Reading it makes her back run cold, fine hairs raising all over her back, cascading through her arms, standing on end as the message sinks in. The spirit hasn't reacted this harshly to anything she had asked prior. It's a rather drastic change in behavior, poignant and secretive. "The taboo question".
She really doesn't like being asked her name, then.
Should she apologize? Excuse herself? Befuddled, she merely looks around the vicinity of the spirit, trying to discern what the creature is feeling. Once again, she is stumped. Judging by the little she can see through the text, the creature is unfazed. But how could she know? How could she truly know? It has no face, no body language, merely an eerie disposition and a hunched back.
Like glass, the text shatters before them, violently and with an audible shatter. The fragments disperse through the air, floating like sparks from a bonfire, testament of time having passed. Then, all pieces, blackened and minuscule, dart back towards the creature, gathering in its gnarled hand in an elongated shape. They sparkle and glitter with a toxic luster, unpleasantly bright, before assuming solid form. Glinting in the light and grasped by the root-like appendage is a sword; not just any sword, but a sword strangely similar to her own. No, as a matter of fact, it is her sword. The round pommel and the thick wooden handle are both unmistakable. This is the same sword she had put in her lap before sitting down to meditate, the same sword that had mysteriously disappeared when she opened her eyes to examine her surroundings.
The same sword that likely houses this malicious kami standing before her, if Hideaki Nanami is to be believed.
But more dire than that: she has brought out a sword after presenting a cryptic threat. Lack of ability to analyze facial features aside, Tomie can still read the atmosphere that surrounds them and she does not like she she sees. Whether the thing only utilizes the blade as a display of threat or actually intends to use it against her is unclear, but she won't put the latter past it. If only I had the blade. Then the situation would be as uneasy.
However, she does have something the spirit lacks: magic. With her spells, she can potentially keep herself out of the spirit's reach. The sword is more akin to a dagger than your run-of-the-mill katana, so the range should not be too much of an issue.
But without any sound of warning, the spirit stretches forwards, extending her body in a manner that can only be described as serpentine. Her torso stretches like a snail extending from its shell, arms lagging behind as the fabric drags forwards without tearing, sword held along the sides, bottom hem still floating above the ash.
Then like a rubber band, the creature's entire body launching forwards, towards her, a cannonball corpse. Metal glints as she swings the blade in front of her body, aiming to harm.
Relying on nothing but instinct alone, the woman crouches and cowers, shielding her face from the impact. It strikes her headfirst and she is pushed back, hitting the ground due to the force striking her. Eyes dart open, but are greeted by a cloud of black smog surrounding her, inhibiting any ability to orientate herself. As she tries to get up, her left arm falters and the triceps stings. It gives in, causing her to collapse even further down, receiving a mouthful of dust in the process. Amongst the black, there are unmistakable trails of red, most of which seems to stem from her arm, the one that's stinging.
Turning over to support her body with the other arm, Tomie raises the arm, causing the billowing sleeve to descend. There is a horizontal cut across the otherwise flawless skin with blood creeping down her arm towards her armpit. It had hit her. It had actually hit her. But it's not a deep wound. It had grazed her with the edge as she ducked, she presumes, so this it will not impair her ability to function too much.
Yet, she still feels a rush, an almost invigorating sensation run through her body as she tries to get up from the soot, compensating for the pain she is put through. The sharp pain is still burrowing into her skin when she straightens her arm, pumping out slowly coagulating blood in protest, but it won't defer her.
The creature has wounded her and she won't suffer further humiliation at its hands.
She surveys the skies through the parting dust, inhaling the scent of charred fats and sterile ash while trying to pinpoint the corpse spirit's exact location. Her massive silhouette contrasts the background so much Tomie has no issues pinpointing her location; she's above her, slightly to the west. Up in the air, where she is currently hovering, garment fluttering, it looks even more humongous, the altitude amplifying her stature.
It seems to be immobile again, merely surveying the area, as if awaiting any sort of reaction. It had gotten the jump on her earlier and she had let it come close. This time, next time, it will be different.
She raises her hand, carving through the debris, and points it at her designated target. For hurting her like that, the creature has to pay. "Kodō: Mūken Tsuisōshaku!" With this calamitous shout, Tomie swings her hands in the shape of an X, awaiting the long tendrils of highly pressurized air following the tips of her fingers to slash the dust and clouds, eventually reaching the hideous creature and laying waste to its very visage.
But nothing happens.
There are no fiber-thin threads sawing through the atmosphere like barbed wire as she had expected. The dust in front of her rains towards the ground with the same idle tempo as that which surrounds her.
This is most odd.
Her magic has never failed her before. Perhaps it has been unyielding in the past, in addition to having learned the different disciplines of Godō at different points, but never has it outright refused to manifest. Does this have something to do with their current location? Is it somehow restricting her abilities?
She doesn't have any more time to think; the creature has swooped down, blade held high, glinting in the light, as it dives towards her location.
She can't risk trying to use another spell now. If it fails, the collateral damage could be catastrophic.
With as much grace her stiffened and lanky body can afford--that is to say, not much--she jinks to the side, arm aching as she rolls through the dirt and she catches a glimpse of the blade piercing the spot where she had been standing, dragging through the dirt as the apparition flies past.
There is ash in her mouth, invading her nose and there might even be some in her eye, she suspects, as it is briefly irritated. The rough texture on her lips and on her tongue gradually becomes more moist and fragmented, still bitter, as it settles. Frantically, she tries to spit it out as she keeps rolling, but immediately loses concentration when the solid ground under her disappears.
Off the island, the ashen woman falls, into the air, carried by the current as the suction in her stomach drags her down, brought on by the sudden change in atmosphere.
Her robe and hair dances around her as she falls face up towards whatever lies below her. Up there, near the island, the figure is moving again, darting back and forth, then in circles, not acknowledging her sudden disappearance.
Moving her legs and shifting the focal point of her weight, robe inverting its shape, exposing her lower body, Tomie tries to halt her sudden descent. She can fly here, after all! The draft is immense, causing even her taut skin to flap and flicker, but gradually decreases as she regains control of her own locomotion. The lower portion of the robe descends once more and the jet-black hair nestles on her back as she glares up at the blue skies haunted by a demented monstrosity.
"Kadō: Kashō!" She tries again, this time expecting flames to emerge and propel her into the skies back up again.
Once again, nothing happens.
While the disappointment within herself seethes, there is also a sense of relief washing over her; at the very least she waited with doing this until she was out of harm's way. Things could have become rather nasty if she had put her faith in her abilities.
She knows better than that. Few things deserve her faith and her abilities are not among them.
All of this puts her in a notably sticky situation, since the absence of magic means her abilities to utilize any sort of offense against the creature is virtually nil. All she can do now is run from it.
If only... If only she had what it has. If only she had her sword with her. Then she will be able to do something instead of nothing. Because crows don't flee like rats do. Crows remember, get away and let the grudge do its job.
Then they hack the perpetrator's corpse to pieces and feast.
This corpse is already ripe for the picking, with its insolence and petty mannerisms. She has to end her--it, she has to end it. Without talons, however, a crow is crippled and only has wings, which can be crippled if she does not how to use them well enough.
If only she had talons.
The other raptor has started descending upon her, ceasing its endless circling, once more aiming the baleful dagger at her. It simply will not give up.
If she keeps dodging, it will eventually hit her. Then it will only be a matter of time until she is at its mercy. She can't have any of that.
If only I too could have a weapon to match hers.
There is something in her left hand, weightless, but of solid shape. She glances over. In it, inexplicably rests the blade. The same blade she has for the first time in her life coveted, rests within her grasp, clunky with its thick handle and shiny pommel. Has it been there all along? Did she fail to notice? Regardless, there is no time to ponder now. The right hand joins in on the grip, stinging accompanying it as she tugs tightly around the handle. It is still familiar enough to be mistaken for a beloved parasol.
She raises it horizontally above her head, bracing for impact.
It falls upon her like a shooting star, metal rattling against metal as the two forces clash, shoving the witch towards the abyss. For a corpse with withered sinews and shrunken muscle, it possesses notable strength, amplified by the descent. Her own blade nearly touches her forehead, but she resists, arms straining in effort to push it back as she feels blood pour out of the gash. The sound of grinding perforates her ears as she grits her teeth and forces her blade away from her face, towards the creature, heart palpitating furiously in the back of her throat.
It won't win. It can't win.
A bestial sneer, unlike anything the witch has ever uttered, emerges from the trenches of her vocal cords as the blade successfully repels the creature, causing it to fall back. Having used too much force in the swing, she stumbles forwards, nearly resuming plummeting. Making sure to compose herself swiftly, she also strokes the hair away from her face as she adjusts her body, blade defiantly held out in front now, tip pointed directly at her opponent, who has made no effort to close the distance between them.
The deja vu settles in as the white fiend again rests.
Eight million and one thoughts besiege her as she tries to analyze its behavior, or lack thereof. What is it doing? Is it scheming? Is it planning something? Resting? Outpsyching her? Unnerving her? What is it doing? With the teeth on display, the firm skin aiding in a reptilian facade, eyes searing, she adjusts her grip on the blade and holds it sideways. She has no knowledge of using blades outside of the kitchen and swordplay seems so different from the noble art of cooking; instinct is all she has to rely on today.
Then it starts to shake. Up and down its shoulders contract, as the blade quivers in its resolute clutches. The blank area where the face should have been still yields no truths. One hand lets go, nails rasping against the wooden stem before dancing through the air and gathering the little dust around them.
The symbols are faded, the sparse ash providing only a minimum of ink to work with, leaving crumbling symbols behind. Then the same hand perforates the text, parting the words as a single bony finger accusingly points at her.
She looks down, down on her clothes, her sleeves, her feet. The bare skin is as immaculate as ever, shining with pale ivory. In stark contrast with this, her previously white robes have been dyed ink-black by the soot, seemingly of a solid hue too. Her eyes trail over to the blade then.
It is goading her. It's painfully obvious that she--it, it's always an it regardless of what it insists on being called--wants her to lose her composure and recklessly assault her. She won't fall for it, she can't fall for it.
But anger swirls, and pride aches.
"I am not like them." With bated breath, heavy restraint and then some huffing, she lets the creature know the truth before darting in and swinging the blade sideways with intent of marring its midsection.
The sensation has been nagging ever since the Shinigami girl had told her about these so-called Zanpakutō and the secrets they hide inside. Could her parasol, the one she had constructed with her own magic oh so many years ago truly be one of those?
She wants to doubt it, but even now, as she is tossing and turning on her futon, hair let loose and with minimal clothing, she can't get it out of her mind. The gears are churning with a deep-seated frenzy, back and forth and over again, slowly driving her mad with the agony of her own thoughts. Because how could she have made a tool which only a Shinigami possesses? She certainly is not someone who would take up that sort of black mantle to perpetuate their corrupt regime. It has to be something else, like a magical tool of sorts unique to her and her alone.
But logic dictates otherwise. The odds that she is unique, are absolutely minuscule. She knows that.
People would have experienced similar situations to this many times before, they must have. She is not an anomaly. She is not Red. Hideaki's existence more or less proved this. Since the two of them are walking about, there must be more; they can't be the one bimillennials walking about in Soul Society. She had never really been stuck with the perception that this was the case, but proof has definitely helped push her away from the stray thought that she may be the oldest.
In short, there are people out there, some who might even be older than her. Some who might possess knowledge, memories and perceptions similar to her. Some who also possess an seething ember of bitter resentment like her own.
She does not know what to feel in regards of these thoughts.
But judging by what Hideaki said... The thing inside the swords is not supposed to act like the 'thing' does. Even when thinking about it, she places mental emphasis around its very being; for what is it? What can she call it now that it has entered the territory of unknown? She ceased thinking of it as a house kami ever since her fellow senior inadvertently cast doubt upon its visage. From that encounter, she has just thought of it as a creature with ill-defined borders centering around its existence.
She pries her eyes open, gazing up towards the ceiling, expecting to see the gnarled cretin hang over her, as it usually does. Instead, all she sees is the wooden roof laid out in neat detail. It seems like the corpse monster isn't particularly interested in plaguing her with its presence tonight.
As a matter of fact, it has been most quiet lately. It hasn't bothered to jump out to scare her, ooze through the walls or floor, hang over her when she's busy or sit behind guests. It has mostly hung out in corners lately, far away from her. Had it noticed her doubt? Her change in demeanor? There doesn't seem to be any other explanation.
Pulling the covers aside, the raven-haired woman slowly rises from the bedding, she peers through the window. Darkness hasn't yet completely settled yet, she notes, as the skies still contain a faint tint of purple around the moon, which is otherwise in its full phase, round and bleak. Its light pours into the middle of her room, right at the mess of a table and the cushions dotted around it.
If she had felt like it, tonight would have been a perfect occasion for going into the woods to practice her spellcraft. Even the least superstitious villagers are mostly unwilling to traverse the landscape covered in moonlight. Few come to her tea house, and most of them before dark, a majority intending to stay the night. So she is usually free to do as she pleases on these occasions, which certainly is not only convenient, but also liberating.
Tonight, though, Tomie only wants to spend time inside.
The reason behind her decision is quite simple: she doesn't feel like using magic. She hasn't actively desired it for the past few days. When she had tried to exercise even the most basic spell, something had felt off; the spells themselves usually worked well enough and did not seem to possess diminished quality of any sort, but something just didn't feel right.
Although her room is in close proximity to the counter in the foyer, she hears little to no noise emanating from the room next door. Perhaps Mai has decided to close down the shop and take a nap, or is with a customer of her own. She won't blame her, regardless. The girl is hard-working in her opinion, and deserves the occasional treat in the form of self-permitted rest.
Rest is not something Tomie can permit herself now, not when she feels this jittery electricity run through her body. Her feet, while usually obedient, itch with incessant bugs crawling across them. Her hands tremble as if chilly; her shoulders are hitched up, tenser than even a busy day. This is no mood for good sleep.
A line from a song pops up in her mind, seemingly out of the blue. "Will these voices echoing in my head bring me good sleep?" She hums the piece in her mind, trying to distract herself from the world's current focal point.
For in the dimly lit room, the purple contraption resting against a partly closed drawer beckons. She is positive there is actual light, physical light, lavender light, emanating from it. It is not a happy light nor is it a bright one; it shines with the dimness of a street light on the verge of death. Like a malformed heart, it pulsates with irregularity, shine palpitating.
Shuffling through the bed sheets, the linen-clad woman reaches out for the pommel of the massive handle, but her hand stops mere centimeters away. There is a chill to the aura surrounding the lacquered wood that makes the minuscule hairs on her arm stand to an end. Does she truly want to know? Does she want a concrete answer about this thing's existence? Will it even work?
Fingernails clack against the thick pommel at the base, gripping it with the tips of the fingers, then gradually adjusting her grip. The material is not cold to the touch, yet she finds herself shivering. A swirl churns in her abdomen, sucking up most of the warmth in her body. Her feet shuffle back and forth, teetering on the verge of losing control. She hasn't felt this sort of unease before. But she knows there's no turning back.
With a gentle pulling motion, the slender hand unsheathes the blade from the disguised scabbard, exposing the socket for the dagger-like weapon within the cylinder of the parasol's trunk. The metal twinkles in the moonlight, deflecting it with its edge, as she holds it up in front of her. The amount of times she has unveiled the parasol's true nature in front of company that isn't Fuuyuko can be counted on one hand. It is still as sharp as the day she had first got it, having only been used to carve letters and filet fish a few times; it has not yet tasted human blood.
It is, by all means, a pure blade without any other purpose than to deter drunkards and threaten highway robbers that she has never even encountered.
Then why does it feel so tainted?
Cautiously, she sets it across her lap, ensuring that there's no chance of pricking herself on the edge, letting the pommel rest across her right knee. This is how Hideaki described how to perform the action, no?
Once again, she hesitates, but this time due to uncertainty regarding what to do. How would she place her arms? Contorting them into a variety of different shapes and positions, she eventually settles on having one on the blade and one on the handle.
Now what?
Is she supposed to just sit like this and stare in front of her? At the closet? It feels strange to do so, dissonant in the sense that the sight causes everyday memories to bleed into the ethereal moonlight atmosphere; the last things she wants to think about are the duties and must-do's of tomorrow.
So she promptly closes her eyes, wallowing in the red beneath her eyelids.
Once more, the same question pops into her mind, more out of uncertainty than impatience. Is she supposed to sit still until the creeping creature receives her call? It seems strange and pointless. Following a heavy sigh, she inhales troves of air to refill her lungs. How are these creatures even supposed to contact one like this? Maybe most spirits possess a voice, an ability to communicate through a second entity within one's head, making them relatively easy to identify. The thing doesn't speak; it has neither eyes nor mouth, nose nor ears. It has always greeted her requests, be it mental or verbal, with silence.
Breathe in.
While it has never properly instilled fear in her, occasional hanging over her when she is waking up notwithstanding, it has always brought a sense of unease to the situations it had invaded.
Breathe out.
She simply cannot make up her mind now. Does she truly want to know?
Breathe in.
By accident, or perhaps curiosity, she sneaks a peek with one eye, ripping the sticky folds keeping them shut apart. Everything is so much brighter than she had expected; the moonlight hadn't been this intense when she closed her eyes. The luminosity sears her eyeball, so she closes it shut as a result of the stimuli.
A pungent scent of charcoal wafts through her nostrils, teasing them with a hint of earthen spice. She doesn't leave the incenses and ink sticks in her personal quarters, they are far too disruptive for that. Where does it come from? Has one of the employees brought it into her room while during this strange ritual? How could she not notice?
It's quiet.
Too quiet.
Even the vague murmurs and the cicadas of the night are deaf; not even the wind tickles the windows's corners.
She opens the same eye again, this time bringing her palm above it, to shelter it slightly. It's not as bright as she initially had thought. The grey just seems to be the way compared to the dunkel shade her eyelids provide.
But her room isn't grey. It has never been grey.
Her other eye soon follows the lead, defying the discomfort to sate curiosity.
This definitely isn't her room. Surrounding her are wispy clouds of soft textures, grey against a skyscape dyed vivid cerulean. One passes through her, parting in two before reuniting in front of her. Frantically turning around, Tomie attempts to orientate herself. Only more sky follows her gaze, as far as she can see, clouds dotting the atmosphere. Where even is this place?
Only then does she notice the sensation: her feet aren't being supported by anything. They are dangling in the air, as is her entire body, as a matter of fact. But she's not falling. She stays in place, held by some unknown force against the whims of gravity.
Against all odds, she's flying.
A thick haze rests deep below, covering what appears to be a cityscape. This is what she briefly manages to glimpse before turning her attention forwards. She's not afraid of heights, not at all, but being this far up in the air with no forewarning causes her intestines to clump together into a vortex, compressing her abdomen with the spontaneity of the situation. There seems to be something else down there too, but she doesn't want to catch a proper look until she has solid ground under her feet.
Awkwardly paddling her long legs in the air, pushing her with silken-covered arms, as if swimming, she tries to move forwards, but remains where she appeared. "How?" The words reverberate, akin to the echoes of a cave, once she speaks in frustration. Trailing the skies with her eyes, which is still repeating what she said, she attempts to discern the process of aerial locomotion. Her limbs seem to be doing no good.
Then, as she leans forwards, her body moves, if only slightly, before she leans backwards, surprised. So this is how it works.
Back and forth she leans for a while, halting and accelerating until she feels comfortable enough to move around in circles before she pursues some exploration. As she's piloting through the clouds, feeling the draft tug at her loose pajama robes and unbound hair, the morbid temptation to look down manifests again. What is down there is something familiar. She knows it. The stolen glance had been too brief for her to properly assess what she had seen and why it is nostalgic.
So she peers down again, into the mist. It lies thick above what's beneath, but still perfectly reflects the view, which she has a hard time believing is there. For veiled under layers of haze is the bustling and narrow streets of her former home, the upper districts, visible from a bird's perspective. Tomie recognizes every street, every corner, even some of the houses of her former neighbors. Marisa, old man Yamanaka, the Yumisaki household. Memories wash over her as the muscles around her mouth forces the usually frowning face to become a gentle smile.
How she missed those times. They were so simple compared to the present, or even more recent events. The world seemed stagnant, moving to the beat of a quiet drum and the rustling of grass. Lazy days filled with the occasional cooking of meals or plucking of produce.
As swiftly as the smile had manifested, the cheeks sink back into position, lips become placid pillows. The boredom hits her in the face like a falling brick wall, for simple doesn't always--seldom actually--in her experience, equate to happiness. Or in her case, contentedness.
Speaking of falling. Has she dropped? That more or less immobile cloud had been right next to her just a few seconds ago. Now it is situated a couple of meters above her. However, gradually, as she stares up, she moves closer and closer, regaining altitude. So that's how you move up and down, then. Perhaps she's really getting the hang of this particular manner of locomotion. But it seems as if looking down while flying is nothing short of impossible, and she really wants to enjoy the view below. It seems like a far way down, and who knows if she would even be able to come up here again if she descends?
Once more, the pronounced aroma of ink, mixed with ash, burrows into her nostrils. Where is it coming from? As she turns around, she notices tiny blackened crisps floating by, defying gravity like herself. Her eyes trail them until they become more numerous and finally, unite as the source: a massive lump of what appears to be coal hovering in the air. Firmly planted on top of it is a gnarled tree, devoid of leaves and as dark as the island it's planted on. Long roots dangle on the bottom, perforating the hideous rock. It seems like this is the only location nearby. Beggars can't be choosers.
Slowly and with as much poise as she can muster with this freshly acquired skill, the witch maneuvers towards the isle and adjusts her altitude accordingly. Soon, she hovers above it, white linens fluttering as she prepares for landing.
It's not as solid as it had looked. Her feet burrow into the surface, causing grey debris to rise, enveloping her as the air ceases to tug at her. The hem of her robe is drenched in soot, turning grey within seconds of arriving, in spite of her efforts to keep it above the ground. In fact, all of her clothing is in danger of being besmirched by this filthy material, as it rises up into a plume, obscuring her sight. The tree is only a faint silhouette behind the the curtain of smoke. She covers her mouth with a sleeved hand in an attempt to block out the debris, breathing through it with squinted eyes, as if that will help.
From behind the silhouette of the blackened, gnarled tree, something moves, a blur in the windless space, a stick figure of imposing stature. She tries to follow it with her eyes as it circles the ink storm surrounding her, but soon its shadow melts into the ash's color. Is there some kind of bird living far up here? It doesn't make sense. They're so far up, there should be nothing here. Especially not this rock or this tree.
The dust starts to settle and soon, the world becomes visible again. Her pristine sheets, which had been white prior to this dust-filled shebang, are now dyed a light shade of grey-green. She is also facing the opposite direction now, having turned around in the confused debacle of the ashen storm. Fingers frantically run across her skin, but her tips come off as pristine as they have ever been. This is strange, she realizes, noting only the difference in her attire; this place--no, this world--simply isn't dictated by logic whatsoever! Whoever, or whatever, rules this place, cannot possess a grasp of the fundamental way reality folds.
Where even is this? She has been too preoccupied with orientating herself to even properly consider where she currently is. Is the blade somehow involved in this transportation? This all seems really shifty. Could it be some sort elaborate illusion?
A sound emerges from behind her, rhythmic drumming against what sounds like wood; it is coming from the proximity of the tree, not many meters away from her. A shiver runs down her spine, causing her to shudder as her mouth slides agape, pupils shrinking in anticipation. She is not alone. Is it the avian figure she saw earlier that is making noise? As she swallows a lump of dry spit, she hesitates, uncertain whether she wants to turn around or not. What if she doesn't like what she sees? Finger burrow into soft palms as the drumming grows ever more incessant.
She has to turn around. Having her back turned in an unknown location is just an invitation for an ambush, or if this is someone with no hostile intents, just rude. If it's an animal, who knows what it might do too?
So she spins, with deliberate inertia, turning on her heel, feeling the grains beneath her feet grind as her long hair dances madly to the beat of the music. The monotony of the repeated motion is then broken as talons drag across the rough fabric, creating rasping noises as the appendage is dragged down the trunk of the tree, growing in speed until it finally lets go.
The creature, the thing, stands before her, hands hanging by the sides of their body, contorted into twisted claws. Its head droops, soppy hair covering most of the face. Only the white forehead and the blank space where the eyes should have been are partially visible. The white cloak is still pristine, unlike her own, with only the edges of the lower hem tattered and discolored. Her fingers still twitch, as if unaccustomed to any sort of movement. Tomie is far away from the monstrous being, but she can still hear the joints pop and crackle as the mummified appendages bend into shapes human hands shouldn't be able to.
That is when something peculiar strikes her: the creature is making sounds. On all prior occasions, it had been absolutely silent, even when it looked like it should be making ample noise.
The thing even looks different. Like it's actually here, able to interact with its surroundings and not a mere figment of her imagination.
It never occurred to her that she would actually ever get the chance to face this cretin; it seems that as if one wants to pray to the kami, one has to visit their shrines. And what an odd shrine this is.
It still stands before her, bluish hands twisting and turning, as she contemplates, pondering upon what to say. The thought hadn't dawned on her earlier, but now that it did, she grits her teeth and her shoulders tense up. Perhaps it's malicious; its intents never seemed pure back when it was just a specter with no influence. Yet, it has so far not expressed any interest in harming her, though, which makes her believe it is more chaotic than outright despicable.
"It's you." With these quaint words, she breaks the silence, maintaining a resolute voice even in the face of this potential adversary. She raises her head, trying to look it in the face as if it could meet her gaze back.
It doesn't respond.
Not even an ounce of surprise manifests on her marbled facade, maintaining her determined gaze and graceful gait, even with these sullied clothes and unraveled hair. Of course it doesn't respond. It had never even expressed the ability to communicate earlier, so why should it now?
"Right. You cannot speak," the disappointed condescension pours through her pipes as she smiles with exasperation. It probably can't even hear her.
One hand ceases the repeated snapping and is hoisted into the air with blinding speed, resting in front of its deformed face. Following its movement is dust from the ground, drawn like a spiral column into the air. With seemingly incarnate delicacy, the crooked index finger weaves through the air, particles following its trail, forming symbols in its wake. As she examines the individual gatherings of dark material, Tomie's eyes widen in realization.
The thing is writing.
These are actual symbols she can decipher and understand, symbols she is all too familiar with personally. The finger stops, dropping down along with the surplus sand. A full word rests in front of her now.
"こんにちは"
"Hello". This is what the symbols say: quaint, but ultimately polite.
Tomie looks from the creature to the writing and back again, then repeats the process. Its rather sloppy by her standards, connecting the lower and upper parts of the "ko" Hiragana, but it's still readable.
It is talking to her. The thing is talking to her. She has so many question for the thing regarding, well, everything that revolves around its existence. They start to pile up in her mind, stacked in a constantly shifting order of priority. Perhaps a casual conversation starter will get a more fluid interaction with this... Thing. "After all these years, you only now unveil that you can communicate?" Her voice is hoarse, and the dry air isn't doing it any favors. She swallows repeatedly to moisturize her throat.
Once more, the finger weaves through the air, forming two simple symbols. "はい"
Well, that was surprisingly smooth. Should she harp more on that tangent? It doesn't seem particularly productive. She moves on. "Who are you?"
The two symbols fade, become swirling dust, as the hand taps the air again, leaving two new to replace the old ones. "お主"
Wait, huh? "What?" She couldn't have heard right.
Yet, she finds that the creature repeats itself, writing the same symbols over again in the ashes of old. "お主"
Is it taunting her? "You're just some... Thing."
Swift symbol, three strokes. "女"
"What?" She repeats, trying to decipher what the creature is saying. This seems entirely unrelated to the question she had posed earlier. Does it aim to confuse her now?
The same symbol crops up, with thicker edges, as for emphasis. "女"
So this thing insists on being a woman. If that's the case, then she at least has a proper pronoun. It makes sense, though, given the garb she's wearing and the contours of the body, along with the long hair and nails; this makes a very feminine impression. However, with no face and the burial rites utilized these days in mind, Tomie has come to see it as an androgynous amalgamation of the spirits of the dead, face forever lost just like the deceased's identity, forcefully abolished.
This creature does seem to possess the ability to communicate with minimal sophistication and limits its usage of both Kanji and Hiragana to very basic terms, so far only using them to express single words. The one abstract question she had posed can't be said to have been met with particularly positive reception, so perhaps something more concrete will yield some helpful answers. "Where are we?" Out of all the questions she can ask now, this is by far one of the easiest ones to answer, not to mention it can potentially help her orientate.
Mechanically, the creature lifts her finger and swings it through the air, ash following the branch-like appendage and forming cohesive text. The Kanji look even worse than the Hiragana, sloppy and without proper curves. It irks her, but not beyond slightly lowering her eyebrows in disapproval. "心の中" reads in front of her.
This makes no sense. "Inside... The heart?" Even a concrete question such as this has only yielded an absolutely absurd response from this ghoulish female in front of her. This cuckoo seems to thrive off of whatever sort of shenanigans she is committing, confounding her with cryptic answers and tomfoolery. But the letters before her, while aggravating, causes something else to stir within her. Thoughts churn, based on suggestions put forth by a hibernal soldier. "Inside the heart" could mean so much depending on who this heart belongs to. It--She, might as well use the right pronoun, could refer to Tomie's heart, the elongated corpse's own, the heart of the world, the heart of Soul Society, the list goes on.
But the invasive thoughts bloom, with paranoia as fertilizer, leading her to lean towards one of the alternatives.
And she does not like it.
After a considerable delay, consisting of the creature hovering about, gawking at her with its eyeless face, fabric flowing as the hair still clings to the body, unyielding in its amorphous state, it drags its finger through some of the dust in the air and writes a succinct: "はい"
At this point, it is anything but unexpected to receive one-liners from the creature. Her hopes are low, and her resentment growing. If she can't even receive proper answers for sophisticated questions, then she might as well be uncouth towards it. "What are you?" The question is almost spat out, her foot turning to the left, burrowing deeper into the ashen soil, dragging it with her toes. If this thing can't help her, then she might as well bid it adieu and start searching for any sort of clues on her own.
Multiple fingers now weave through the air, faster than before, with a livid tempo, forming complex symbols and even a sentence at a rate which should not be humanly possible. As they draw and claw, the ink coagulates in the air, becoming thick and bold, appearing before her on a tablet of nothing. She reads them consecutively, eyebrows rising as she deciphers the individual symbols cluttered about. "痛み、苦しみ、死、血、恐怖、疲れている剣、毒、お主" Her lips part as she reaches the last line. Again the same symbols it has already repeated twice, this time even written in thicker ash for emphasis.
It's even the same pronoun I refer to this creature as. Her dainty hands ball into fists, thin sinew appearing on the back of the hand due to the strain. This is ridiculous. What this thing appears to be indicating and hinting towards is inconceivable with how reality is, how it should be. There's no way, there simply is no way a cretin such as this could even remotely be a part of--A part of--
"What do you call yourself?" She shouts at the creature, limbs quivering, lips flaring and hair swinging to the rhythm of the breeze. It feels as if her nails are nearly tearing through the skin in her palms as she squeezes them even tighter together, as her voice reverberates through the world, echoing in rebellion to the laws of physics. They are not in an enclosed space, not within her heart; they can't be, she refuses to acknowledge the possibility.
Seconds pass, tens of them, as she gazes at the quiet being before her, still surrounded by the eerie writing from earlier, bobbing up and down in the air in even tempo. It's not reacting. It's not doing anything to even remotely signify that it has understood her question and intends to answer it with its blasé remarks. She could just as well turn around and leave it be, let it wallow in its own misery without even feeling sorry. It has been nothing short of a hindrance ever since she decided to land on this inconceivably stupid rock to survey the are--
Like phantom blurs, the hands rearrange the symbols, mix them all into a thick jumbled mess in front of her, separating piece from piece, dragging lines and scribbles into symbols, which become gradually more coherent as the clutter turns to ash and sink to the haven of blackened dust beneath.
The powdery flakes of dust settles, accompanied by no sound whatsoever, revealing a set of five symbols before her, oozing over and spilling like liquid.
"禁忌の質問"
Reading it makes her back run cold, fine hairs raising all over her back, cascading through her arms, standing on end as the message sinks in. The spirit hasn't reacted this harshly to anything she had asked prior. It's a rather drastic change in behavior, poignant and secretive. "The taboo question".
She really doesn't like being asked her name, then.
Should she apologize? Excuse herself? Befuddled, she merely looks around the vicinity of the spirit, trying to discern what the creature is feeling. Once again, she is stumped. Judging by the little she can see through the text, the creature is unfazed. But how could she know? How could she truly know? It has no face, no body language, merely an eerie disposition and a hunched back.
Like glass, the text shatters before them, violently and with an audible shatter. The fragments disperse through the air, floating like sparks from a bonfire, testament of time having passed. Then, all pieces, blackened and minuscule, dart back towards the creature, gathering in its gnarled hand in an elongated shape. They sparkle and glitter with a toxic luster, unpleasantly bright, before assuming solid form. Glinting in the light and grasped by the root-like appendage is a sword; not just any sword, but a sword strangely similar to her own. No, as a matter of fact, it is her sword. The round pommel and the thick wooden handle are both unmistakable. This is the same sword she had put in her lap before sitting down to meditate, the same sword that had mysteriously disappeared when she opened her eyes to examine her surroundings.
The same sword that likely houses this malicious kami standing before her, if Hideaki Nanami is to be believed.
But more dire than that: she has brought out a sword after presenting a cryptic threat. Lack of ability to analyze facial features aside, Tomie can still read the atmosphere that surrounds them and she does not like she she sees. Whether the thing only utilizes the blade as a display of threat or actually intends to use it against her is unclear, but she won't put the latter past it. If only I had the blade. Then the situation would be as uneasy.
However, she does have something the spirit lacks: magic. With her spells, she can potentially keep herself out of the spirit's reach. The sword is more akin to a dagger than your run-of-the-mill katana, so the range should not be too much of an issue.
But without any sound of warning, the spirit stretches forwards, extending her body in a manner that can only be described as serpentine. Her torso stretches like a snail extending from its shell, arms lagging behind as the fabric drags forwards without tearing, sword held along the sides, bottom hem still floating above the ash.
Then like a rubber band, the creature's entire body launching forwards, towards her, a cannonball corpse. Metal glints as she swings the blade in front of her body, aiming to harm.
Relying on nothing but instinct alone, the woman crouches and cowers, shielding her face from the impact. It strikes her headfirst and she is pushed back, hitting the ground due to the force striking her. Eyes dart open, but are greeted by a cloud of black smog surrounding her, inhibiting any ability to orientate herself. As she tries to get up, her left arm falters and the triceps stings. It gives in, causing her to collapse even further down, receiving a mouthful of dust in the process. Amongst the black, there are unmistakable trails of red, most of which seems to stem from her arm, the one that's stinging.
Turning over to support her body with the other arm, Tomie raises the arm, causing the billowing sleeve to descend. There is a horizontal cut across the otherwise flawless skin with blood creeping down her arm towards her armpit. It had hit her. It had actually hit her. But it's not a deep wound. It had grazed her with the edge as she ducked, she presumes, so this it will not impair her ability to function too much.
Yet, she still feels a rush, an almost invigorating sensation run through her body as she tries to get up from the soot, compensating for the pain she is put through. The sharp pain is still burrowing into her skin when she straightens her arm, pumping out slowly coagulating blood in protest, but it won't defer her.
The creature has wounded her and she won't suffer further humiliation at its hands.
She surveys the skies through the parting dust, inhaling the scent of charred fats and sterile ash while trying to pinpoint the corpse spirit's exact location. Her massive silhouette contrasts the background so much Tomie has no issues pinpointing her location; she's above her, slightly to the west. Up in the air, where she is currently hovering, garment fluttering, it looks even more humongous, the altitude amplifying her stature.
It seems to be immobile again, merely surveying the area, as if awaiting any sort of reaction. It had gotten the jump on her earlier and she had let it come close. This time, next time, it will be different.
She raises her hand, carving through the debris, and points it at her designated target. For hurting her like that, the creature has to pay. "Kodō: Mūken Tsuisōshaku!" With this calamitous shout, Tomie swings her hands in the shape of an X, awaiting the long tendrils of highly pressurized air following the tips of her fingers to slash the dust and clouds, eventually reaching the hideous creature and laying waste to its very visage.
But nothing happens.
There are no fiber-thin threads sawing through the atmosphere like barbed wire as she had expected. The dust in front of her rains towards the ground with the same idle tempo as that which surrounds her.
This is most odd.
Her magic has never failed her before. Perhaps it has been unyielding in the past, in addition to having learned the different disciplines of Godō at different points, but never has it outright refused to manifest. Does this have something to do with their current location? Is it somehow restricting her abilities?
She doesn't have any more time to think; the creature has swooped down, blade held high, glinting in the light, as it dives towards her location.
She can't risk trying to use another spell now. If it fails, the collateral damage could be catastrophic.
With as much grace her stiffened and lanky body can afford--that is to say, not much--she jinks to the side, arm aching as she rolls through the dirt and she catches a glimpse of the blade piercing the spot where she had been standing, dragging through the dirt as the apparition flies past.
There is ash in her mouth, invading her nose and there might even be some in her eye, she suspects, as it is briefly irritated. The rough texture on her lips and on her tongue gradually becomes more moist and fragmented, still bitter, as it settles. Frantically, she tries to spit it out as she keeps rolling, but immediately loses concentration when the solid ground under her disappears.
Off the island, the ashen woman falls, into the air, carried by the current as the suction in her stomach drags her down, brought on by the sudden change in atmosphere.
Her robe and hair dances around her as she falls face up towards whatever lies below her. Up there, near the island, the figure is moving again, darting back and forth, then in circles, not acknowledging her sudden disappearance.
Moving her legs and shifting the focal point of her weight, robe inverting its shape, exposing her lower body, Tomie tries to halt her sudden descent. She can fly here, after all! The draft is immense, causing even her taut skin to flap and flicker, but gradually decreases as she regains control of her own locomotion. The lower portion of the robe descends once more and the jet-black hair nestles on her back as she glares up at the blue skies haunted by a demented monstrosity.
"Kadō: Kashō!" She tries again, this time expecting flames to emerge and propel her into the skies back up again.
Once again, nothing happens.
While the disappointment within herself seethes, there is also a sense of relief washing over her; at the very least she waited with doing this until she was out of harm's way. Things could have become rather nasty if she had put her faith in her abilities.
She knows better than that. Few things deserve her faith and her abilities are not among them.
All of this puts her in a notably sticky situation, since the absence of magic means her abilities to utilize any sort of offense against the creature is virtually nil. All she can do now is run from it.
If only... If only she had what it has. If only she had her sword with her. Then she will be able to do something instead of nothing. Because crows don't flee like rats do. Crows remember, get away and let the grudge do its job.
Then they hack the perpetrator's corpse to pieces and feast.
This corpse is already ripe for the picking, with its insolence and petty mannerisms. She has to end her--it, she has to end it. Without talons, however, a crow is crippled and only has wings, which can be crippled if she does not how to use them well enough.
If only she had talons.
The other raptor has started descending upon her, ceasing its endless circling, once more aiming the baleful dagger at her. It simply will not give up.
If she keeps dodging, it will eventually hit her. Then it will only be a matter of time until she is at its mercy. She can't have any of that.
If only I too could have a weapon to match hers.
There is something in her left hand, weightless, but of solid shape. She glances over. In it, inexplicably rests the blade. The same blade she has for the first time in her life coveted, rests within her grasp, clunky with its thick handle and shiny pommel. Has it been there all along? Did she fail to notice? Regardless, there is no time to ponder now. The right hand joins in on the grip, stinging accompanying it as she tugs tightly around the handle. It is still familiar enough to be mistaken for a beloved parasol.
She raises it horizontally above her head, bracing for impact.
It falls upon her like a shooting star, metal rattling against metal as the two forces clash, shoving the witch towards the abyss. For a corpse with withered sinews and shrunken muscle, it possesses notable strength, amplified by the descent. Her own blade nearly touches her forehead, but she resists, arms straining in effort to push it back as she feels blood pour out of the gash. The sound of grinding perforates her ears as she grits her teeth and forces her blade away from her face, towards the creature, heart palpitating furiously in the back of her throat.
It won't win. It can't win.
A bestial sneer, unlike anything the witch has ever uttered, emerges from the trenches of her vocal cords as the blade successfully repels the creature, causing it to fall back. Having used too much force in the swing, she stumbles forwards, nearly resuming plummeting. Making sure to compose herself swiftly, she also strokes the hair away from her face as she adjusts her body, blade defiantly held out in front now, tip pointed directly at her opponent, who has made no effort to close the distance between them.
The deja vu settles in as the white fiend again rests.
Eight million and one thoughts besiege her as she tries to analyze its behavior, or lack thereof. What is it doing? Is it scheming? Is it planning something? Resting? Outpsyching her? Unnerving her? What is it doing? With the teeth on display, the firm skin aiding in a reptilian facade, eyes searing, she adjusts her grip on the blade and holds it sideways. She has no knowledge of using blades outside of the kitchen and swordplay seems so different from the noble art of cooking; instinct is all she has to rely on today.
Then it starts to shake. Up and down its shoulders contract, as the blade quivers in its resolute clutches. The blank area where the face should have been still yields no truths. One hand lets go, nails rasping against the wooden stem before dancing through the air and gathering the little dust around them.
"死神みたい"
The symbols are faded, the sparse ash providing only a minimum of ink to work with, leaving crumbling symbols behind. Then the same hand perforates the text, parting the words as a single bony finger accusingly points at her.
She looks down, down on her clothes, her sleeves, her feet. The bare skin is as immaculate as ever, shining with pale ivory. In stark contrast with this, her previously white robes have been dyed ink-black by the soot, seemingly of a solid hue too. Her eyes trail over to the blade then.
It is goading her. It's painfully obvious that she--it, it's always an it regardless of what it insists on being called--wants her to lose her composure and recklessly assault her. She won't fall for it, she can't fall for it.
But anger swirls, and pride aches.
"I am not like them." With bated breath, heavy restraint and then some huffing, she lets the creature know the truth before darting in and swinging the blade sideways with intent of marring its midsection.
// 7172 / 7172 words
