(( Thanks to the players for this scene. Always appreciated. Reposted to address "bug".))
The sun was setting, his steps were dry as he walked alongside the outer wall of the property. His eyes were fixed slightly upward, trying to discern if there was anyone at the top of the wall. If there were any hooks or signs of disturbance. These were the most vulnerable moments, where the length of his sword was drawn, a piece of moon gliding down by his leg as he gripped the handle. That night, there were no rebels. No robbers. No one attempting to take what was being guarded.
Upon his final round, the tip of his blade looped up through the air, tucking back into the sheath of his sword. His eyes turned towards the house, studying it and realizing how different it seemed since the Ronin had been hired. Was it an ominous disturbance? The man had a way of speaking, almost as boastful as a lord except he had the scars of a soldier. He had seen displaced Samurai before, but none had been so hazardous.
None had moved into his home. None had come to occupy the place he was with his family.
He wondered if he was being possessive. If he was worried or if it was a form of jealousy he couldn't quite understand. Aiko had a way of making people laugh, he had a way of being memorable while he he did as he was supposed to do by disappearing into the background, like a decoration in a room that no one was able to notice anymore.
Still, he could not yet pinpoint why Aiko was uncomfortable for him. His thoughts remained on that as he moved back towards the house, his left hand resting atop his blades. When he reached the porch he saw the other guard was there. They said nothing to each other, but nodded slowly, before he transitioned to going inside the house and his counterpart began his vigil of the home. He went inside to the kitchen to prepare his late dinner. Takara, if not in bed, was being coaxed to dreams by a handmaiden.
Takara noticed him. No matter how hard he tried to fade into the background, the little girl had mastered the art of searching the shadows. She could --did-- spot him every time. To the rest of the world, he might have been a silent shade, the all but invisible sentry, but to her he was a ray of light, a bright spot in the dark, a shiny prize that was hers for the winning.
The new man, though, he scared her. It was in the loud voice, the abrasive laugh. She didn't understand the stories that he told -- what few stories she had heard before she was caught observing him, but the exaggerated faces he made seemed fearsome in the candlelight, his teeth seeming to elongate as he threw his head back in a laugh that sounded like a roar.
He reminded her of nothing so much as the wild beasts in the stories in the handmaidens told her. There was one beast in particular that he most seemed to resemble, and there were two of them carved in marble sitting to either side of the front gates of her father's castle.
The new man reminded her of a Lion.
***
The Lion was already in the kitchen. He was leaning against the long counter, the deep baritone of his voice carried easily as he regaled two rapt kitchen servants with his stories.
Tag entered, a fellow bodyguard behind him. Once he had stepped into the kitchen he turned to the other, nodding shortly. His cohort broke away, stepping back inside the castle and towards other rooms. It was the changing of the guard and it happened with barely a whisper. The moment was swallowed, eaten by the riot of the lion's laugh.
His gaze kept low on the ground when he entered, stepping around them as best he could to go about preparing a dinner of rice, fish, and whatever vegetables were remaining. The two servants regarded him as everyone else did, he was a shadow they moved around but did not outright acknowledge. Their white faces were turned, like two half moons, to hear the rest of the story. The dark man wasn't meaning to eavesdrop, but the voice dominated the room, speaking over his thoughts.
The story he was telling at present was the kind people tended to like best, replete with the daring rescue of a helpless maiden and just enough mistakes to make himself seem humble, human. His eyes glinted with the kind of mirth that only came when something was funny after the fact, where it was only funny because you were still alive to talk about it.
As he spoke, he watched the changing of the guard, his dark eyes following the younger man who had just entered. All of the guards were interesting to him-- their silent selflessness, their pure devotion-- but of all the ones he'd met so far, this one was the most devout. People who were different drew his interest. "What about you?" he asked, lifting his voice a notch so that it would carry, seeking to draw the quiet shadow into conversation. "You who have served this family for so long. Surely you have stories to tell us."
He was also the only one that wasn't entirely Japanese. His half Caucasian heritage made him considerably taller than the others, his eyes were wider and his skin whiter than the rest. Those attributes were part of what had made him the better soldier.
"This is my first assignment. I don't have stories." He stated it, a dry fact that was like a blank page torn from an unused notebook. The page scooted, falling innocent and with an annoying, unmarked lifespan at the Soldier's foot.
His eyes had moved up when he responded, but were quick to drop back down.
One of the Lion's audience members spoke with a smile, "That is the prostitute's son, he is half Dutch." The man smiled like his chuckling was more innocent than it was. He was smiling in the way someone did when they believed that they had something valuable.
"Half Dutch?" Now that kindled his interest. Aiko was tall, broad shouldered for his kinsmen, but the young guard was taller, his shoulders that much more broad. So this was the secret of his unusual appearance, then, not just of different blood but new blood, blood of the western world.
He took a step towards the young guard, his attention focused there despite the man who clearly wanted credit for the discovery beside him. "Do you know stories of the New World, then?"
The Lion spoke in a way that made him believe that blood could write books. That there should have been a story in his mouth, a piece of paper he could pull out from under his tongue and fold into a crane. It was odd, the sort of shame that eased up his back and circled his neck. He had never thought of wanting to have a story to say, of the enjoyable way it felt to have his tongue jump against the roof of his mouth as all eyes waited for his lips.
The space felt long, but there was no interruption. There was only the small crowd of them, watching his lips and the way they weren't dancing. He swallowed, "No. I was born here." His voice was a solid as any other Japanese man, it was the Dutch that was lacking, forgotten somewhere in the brain of a two year-old boy.
"Mm, that's a pity," the Ronin looked genuinely disappointed, even sorry for the man who knew nothing of fully half his heritage. The frown that marred his brow smoothed back into an encouraging smile. "No matter, then. Perhaps you'll have stories to tell us soon." There wasn't a trace of mockery in his tone, no indication that he thought less of the guard for his lack of experience. He was young, after all, and likely hadn't seen much of the world outside his upbringing. Which did not appear to include the Dutch mother. To the others, he said, "I have stories of the Dutch," in a knowing tone that was enhanced by the playful jump of his eyebrows.
All eyes that had been on Mamoru now turned back to Aiko, and he treated them to a preposterous story involving a daring getaway. As he spoke, however, his eyes frequently returned to the guard as he went about getting his meal together.
He was a good guard, he listened, he melted into the shadows of Aiko's voice. The moments that the man's eyes defined him from the backdrop of their surroundings was unnerving, and he did his best not to show how unsettled he was. The Ronin must not have known the proper etiquette with how to address him.
Guards like him were shadows to their flames, not meant for rain or substance.
The sun was setting, his steps were dry as he walked alongside the outer wall of the property. His eyes were fixed slightly upward, trying to discern if there was anyone at the top of the wall. If there were any hooks or signs of disturbance. These were the most vulnerable moments, where the length of his sword was drawn, a piece of moon gliding down by his leg as he gripped the handle. That night, there were no rebels. No robbers. No one attempting to take what was being guarded.
Upon his final round, the tip of his blade looped up through the air, tucking back into the sheath of his sword. His eyes turned towards the house, studying it and realizing how different it seemed since the Ronin had been hired. Was it an ominous disturbance? The man had a way of speaking, almost as boastful as a lord except he had the scars of a soldier. He had seen displaced Samurai before, but none had been so hazardous.
None had moved into his home. None had come to occupy the place he was with his family.
He wondered if he was being possessive. If he was worried or if it was a form of jealousy he couldn't quite understand. Aiko had a way of making people laugh, he had a way of being memorable while he he did as he was supposed to do by disappearing into the background, like a decoration in a room that no one was able to notice anymore.
Still, he could not yet pinpoint why Aiko was uncomfortable for him. His thoughts remained on that as he moved back towards the house, his left hand resting atop his blades. When he reached the porch he saw the other guard was there. They said nothing to each other, but nodded slowly, before he transitioned to going inside the house and his counterpart began his vigil of the home. He went inside to the kitchen to prepare his late dinner. Takara, if not in bed, was being coaxed to dreams by a handmaiden.
Takara noticed him. No matter how hard he tried to fade into the background, the little girl had mastered the art of searching the shadows. She could --did-- spot him every time. To the rest of the world, he might have been a silent shade, the all but invisible sentry, but to her he was a ray of light, a bright spot in the dark, a shiny prize that was hers for the winning.
The new man, though, he scared her. It was in the loud voice, the abrasive laugh. She didn't understand the stories that he told -- what few stories she had heard before she was caught observing him, but the exaggerated faces he made seemed fearsome in the candlelight, his teeth seeming to elongate as he threw his head back in a laugh that sounded like a roar.
He reminded her of nothing so much as the wild beasts in the stories in the handmaidens told her. There was one beast in particular that he most seemed to resemble, and there were two of them carved in marble sitting to either side of the front gates of her father's castle.
The new man reminded her of a Lion.
***
The Lion was already in the kitchen. He was leaning against the long counter, the deep baritone of his voice carried easily as he regaled two rapt kitchen servants with his stories.
Tag entered, a fellow bodyguard behind him. Once he had stepped into the kitchen he turned to the other, nodding shortly. His cohort broke away, stepping back inside the castle and towards other rooms. It was the changing of the guard and it happened with barely a whisper. The moment was swallowed, eaten by the riot of the lion's laugh.
His gaze kept low on the ground when he entered, stepping around them as best he could to go about preparing a dinner of rice, fish, and whatever vegetables were remaining. The two servants regarded him as everyone else did, he was a shadow they moved around but did not outright acknowledge. Their white faces were turned, like two half moons, to hear the rest of the story. The dark man wasn't meaning to eavesdrop, but the voice dominated the room, speaking over his thoughts.
The story he was telling at present was the kind people tended to like best, replete with the daring rescue of a helpless maiden and just enough mistakes to make himself seem humble, human. His eyes glinted with the kind of mirth that only came when something was funny after the fact, where it was only funny because you were still alive to talk about it.
As he spoke, he watched the changing of the guard, his dark eyes following the younger man who had just entered. All of the guards were interesting to him-- their silent selflessness, their pure devotion-- but of all the ones he'd met so far, this one was the most devout. People who were different drew his interest. "What about you?" he asked, lifting his voice a notch so that it would carry, seeking to draw the quiet shadow into conversation. "You who have served this family for so long. Surely you have stories to tell us."
He was also the only one that wasn't entirely Japanese. His half Caucasian heritage made him considerably taller than the others, his eyes were wider and his skin whiter than the rest. Those attributes were part of what had made him the better soldier.
"This is my first assignment. I don't have stories." He stated it, a dry fact that was like a blank page torn from an unused notebook. The page scooted, falling innocent and with an annoying, unmarked lifespan at the Soldier's foot.
His eyes had moved up when he responded, but were quick to drop back down.
One of the Lion's audience members spoke with a smile, "That is the prostitute's son, he is half Dutch." The man smiled like his chuckling was more innocent than it was. He was smiling in the way someone did when they believed that they had something valuable.
"Half Dutch?" Now that kindled his interest. Aiko was tall, broad shouldered for his kinsmen, but the young guard was taller, his shoulders that much more broad. So this was the secret of his unusual appearance, then, not just of different blood but new blood, blood of the western world.
He took a step towards the young guard, his attention focused there despite the man who clearly wanted credit for the discovery beside him. "Do you know stories of the New World, then?"
The Lion spoke in a way that made him believe that blood could write books. That there should have been a story in his mouth, a piece of paper he could pull out from under his tongue and fold into a crane. It was odd, the sort of shame that eased up his back and circled his neck. He had never thought of wanting to have a story to say, of the enjoyable way it felt to have his tongue jump against the roof of his mouth as all eyes waited for his lips.
The space felt long, but there was no interruption. There was only the small crowd of them, watching his lips and the way they weren't dancing. He swallowed, "No. I was born here." His voice was a solid as any other Japanese man, it was the Dutch that was lacking, forgotten somewhere in the brain of a two year-old boy.
"Mm, that's a pity," the Ronin looked genuinely disappointed, even sorry for the man who knew nothing of fully half his heritage. The frown that marred his brow smoothed back into an encouraging smile. "No matter, then. Perhaps you'll have stories to tell us soon." There wasn't a trace of mockery in his tone, no indication that he thought less of the guard for his lack of experience. He was young, after all, and likely hadn't seen much of the world outside his upbringing. Which did not appear to include the Dutch mother. To the others, he said, "I have stories of the Dutch," in a knowing tone that was enhanced by the playful jump of his eyebrows.
All eyes that had been on Mamoru now turned back to Aiko, and he treated them to a preposterous story involving a daring getaway. As he spoke, however, his eyes frequently returned to the guard as he went about getting his meal together.
He was a good guard, he listened, he melted into the shadows of Aiko's voice. The moments that the man's eyes defined him from the backdrop of their surroundings was unnerving, and he did his best not to show how unsettled he was. The Ronin must not have known the proper etiquette with how to address him.
Guards like him were shadows to their flames, not meant for rain or substance.