Thanks Isn't Good Enough (O)
Dec 5, 2015 11:03:45 GMT -7
Post by Moon on Dec 5, 2015 11:03:45 GMT -7
"Thanks."
The word sounded petty as it came out, but he didn't regret it. It was hard to say in his native Necril, required combining slang for 'the feeling of oblivion' and 'having more flesh than one can eat', but with whispers instead of the traditional roaring. A kirigakure genin sat in a dark red cloaking with his headband concealed, muscles tense, absentmindedly fingering the kunai or shuriken or exploding tags, the pouch of goo, the many tricks and trinkets of his daily life, counting them, trying to take comfort from their presence. Out here, far from the mainlands, each other scoop of dense off-green was ancient, each building an old temple or commune holding in secrets. Not much different from the village itself. Stuffy and packed with lies.
I am....packed with lies too. he thought. Ōm's deadish eyes were closed but at the thought of his own deception they opened, and he took in his environment fully. Noted a sound. Another's approach.
"Foolish."
He'd forgotten himself, let his guard down. In the confusion of getting here, leaving behind the gates and traveling by a corkscrew path of ships and graveyard landmass-chains, he'd been practically praying, but overestimated the difficulty of others getting to the ritual chamber. It mattered little; there were of course priests and other ritual maker's wandering the labyrinth of his clan's comatose Godling. They could come. They could also give thanks or blood or madness, as was their right.
The strange rock cavity where he sat looked much like an open church courtyard, though it was underground, and held several iron slabs sporadically placed in its 100 meter span, a pretty standard creepy-ceremony ornateness. Ōm was crouched at the center of a hastily arranged altar, 5 meters in total size, a square box that a strand of hair, a torn sandal, and a bowl of dead skin glued to a plate sat on, completely still. Scent. The sound of footsteps. Unnatural gusts of wind. A feeling gathered and told his instinct that someone approaches, but he tried to ignore it.
If he just sat here, and thought, things would work themselves out, he was sure.