[without his wares, who is he? what is he? his box, his clothes, his seals, the sword of exorcism, his scales, magazines, all the trinkets he had meticulously collected over time in order to ward off evil.
hm.
there is something beautiful about having to start over, forced to make the most of what little he has. bartering for mirrors with house owners willing to spare some, acquiring colorful clothes more fitting to his personality, asking for leftover dry paints, a hair tie or two: people were generous when unsettled.
heading inside a bar, he is here for another round of trading. he sets down cards he's painted with ink—of monstrous, shadow creatures with wide smiles and unblinking eyes; cats and fish and cranes; foreign characters denoting their names for his own amusement—onto a table.
and waits.
any approaching individual gets a raise of his blue eyes behind his messy hair, a smile encroaching on his otherwise unmoving face, fangs showing behind his lips. his words are measured and quiet.]
Would you — desire — a card reading?
B. THE TRAINING GROUNDS.
[he has done the best he could with what little he can find. where is the mysticism in this world? the spirits? the superstition? how dull that everyone should find themselves in the training grounds and just… training.
at the very least he seems to have recovered most of what makes him feel at ease. he sits by the entrance, atop an old carpet, like a forgotten ghost. there is a box beside him, empty, and a number of tchotchkes placed neatly on the carpet. his hands are covered in rings, the make-up on his face peculiar, his long ears decorated with found earrings. the items on the carpet range from decorated palm mirrors to what looks like candy, to a random turtle, just putzing about, some liquids, and a smaller, long box with paper wrapped haphazardly about it.
he leans forward as someone walks past.]
A moment of your time.
C. MESS HALL.
Oh!
[the exclamation is a sudden burst of concerned surprise. the man it has spilled forth from seems to notice he may have caught the turned heads of a few individuals, and so he puts a hand to his mouth, as if to assuage those gazes.
still, his eyes are fixed and looking worriedly at you—you who sit a bit away from him at a table in the mess hall, taking a sip of a cup.
he turns his gaze downward, the paint around his eyes and on his nose dulling his concern. his raised hand moves to his own cup, spilling it onto the table with clear intent.]
medicine seller | bakeneko/mononoke | the devil | free cities
[without his wares, who is he? what is he? his box, his clothes, his seals, the sword of exorcism, his scales, magazines, all the trinkets he had meticulously collected over time in order to ward off evil.
hm.
there is something beautiful about having to start over, forced to make the most of what little he has. bartering for mirrors with house owners willing to spare some, acquiring colorful clothes more fitting to his personality, asking for leftover dry paints, a hair tie or two: people were generous when unsettled.
heading inside a bar, he is here for another round of trading. he sets down cards he's painted with ink—of monstrous, shadow creatures with wide smiles and unblinking eyes; cats and fish and cranes; foreign characters denoting their names for his own amusement—onto a table.
and waits.
any approaching individual gets a raise of his blue eyes behind his messy hair, a smile encroaching on his otherwise unmoving face, fangs showing behind his lips. his words are measured and quiet.]
Would you — desire — a card reading?
B. THE TRAINING GROUNDS.
[he has done the best he could with what little he can find. where is the mysticism in this world? the spirits? the superstition? how dull that everyone should find themselves in the training grounds and just… training.
at the very least he seems to have recovered most of what makes him feel at ease. he sits by the entrance, atop an old carpet, like a forgotten ghost. there is a box beside him, empty, and a number of tchotchkes placed neatly on the carpet. his hands are covered in rings, the make-up on his face peculiar, his long ears decorated with found earrings. the items on the carpet range from decorated palm mirrors to what looks like candy, to a random turtle, just putzing about, some liquids, and a smaller, long box with paper wrapped haphazardly about it.
he leans forward as someone walks past.]
A moment of your time.
C. MESS HALL.
Oh!
[the exclamation is a sudden burst of concerned surprise. the man it has spilled forth from seems to notice he may have caught the turned heads of a few individuals, and so he puts a hand to his mouth, as if to assuage those gazes.
still, his eyes are fixed and looking worriedly at you—you who sit a bit away from him at a table in the mess hall, taking a sip of a cup.
he turns his gaze downward, the paint around his eyes and on his nose dulling his concern. his raised hand moves to his own cup, spilling it onto the table with clear intent.]
How — unfortunate.