The barest huff at his lefthand side is enough to pause such troublesome thoughts. "Aki, no." Spoken just as quiet, but firm, he turns tired eyes onto the the source of his dog's disgruntlement. "Sorry, he doesn't bite." Ah, but maybe it'd be better to stay on the edge of caution instead of being overtly friendly.

         A BARKING CANINE, one that causes him to clench momentarily. His heart pounds rapidly against his chest, wincing, almost as if in pain. The strange sensation, a fragment of the past where one life snarled at hounds, it rushes in then dissipates. The tight purse of his lips softens, dimpled && slightly aged as he chuckles.

    “Hello there, aren’t you friendly?” He appears like a wraith. Without the faintest detection except for an odd scent of sharp mint, ice, like the living being that stood there, was otherworldly && not of this century. With a tilt of his head, the strange lilt reaches forward, though his smile never vanishes; instead it widens. “It’s okay, he might have smelled my own dog” a clever lie, but explaining a child of the shadows surrounded with hell hounds was difficult now, wasn’t it? Satoru won’t elaborate, he won’t dare utter anything, he’s curious.

        Neon flickers briefly from his gaze then dims, stormy hued && designer sunglasses, a soft pat is given. In all black with expensive taste, gold that oozes from elongated fingers, he’s ethereal, he radiates raw power, he’s not real but tangible to the touch. “My son would adore you! He’s always been so partial to animals” the word rolls effortlessly off his tongue, ha, how odd to think of his ward’s sour face of all times. Then, he looks upwards, back straightening && for a split second; he appears taller than the universe itself. Energy that converges, it flows through his fingertips while he brushes it away, handsome man, strange man, what are you?

  COOL AIR FLOWS THROUGH HIS LUNGS, for a brief moment, it’s reminiscent of home. Where the ice flows && he feels at ease, there are no thoughts, the distant memories are beginning to fade. From the blood on pale skin, the sea salt brining his lungs, sunlight radiantly dancing - days lost in translation. He moves with fluidity && ease, appendages that are bird-like, and in the midst of it, there is a joy unlike any other. He maneuvers himself, up right, laughing bright && brilliantly, this sensation it’s all too familiar bubbling in the depths of his stomach, freedom like no other. Where the useless ramblings of business men, his manager, the chides of the Gojo Clan, vanish. Whimsical && youthful, he recalls the applaus, the distant thunder of those who marvel over the prodigal son. It’s sudden, quick, the ice snapping as he manages to land with precision.

   The tip of gleaming blades && the exhale that leaves his glossy lips, “Ah, little sore” he murmurs reaching to touch the base of his ankle - it’s fine, it won’t snap, he assures himself this a thousand times, even if it does, he’ll mend. From the corner of his eyes he can see another, one that is burning into his depth, the stern look that makes him snort. You’re worrying, he wants to echo but holds his tongue, another jump - a precise landing, he wants to do it until his legs cave && knees buckle. A sharp turn as the frost is cut in half, his long form in sudden view, elbows resting on the rink’s edge as his nose wrinkles.

       “You didn’t like it?” Gōjo Satoru, a man of bravado && arrogance, fueled his determination as nothing could bind him to the whims of others. Hoisting himself up, he sits, slender legs that cross as a hand is perched underneath his chin. “My ankle feels tight still, not too bad, but hey! If anything happens we can runaway to Greece again” his tongue juts out, juvenile && boyish. A wicked glimmer that suddenly sparks in his azure eyes, pouting momentarily as he leans closer, uttering a soft whisper that only they may hear it.

         It should be noted that like most, I’ll choose to divert from the whole Yuuta becoming a representative && head of the Gojo Clan. Solely on the basis after Satoru’s death, the Six Eyes ceases to exist, it essentially dies with him. Though a part of his physical anatomy as it is indicated there are psychobiological mechanisms that go into it during his autopsy, the curse is apart of him, hence, it will end with the last heritor being the sixth. There is no successor, attendant, representative, or whatever who will speak for the Gojo Clan - they withdraw understanding their role in jushiki society has now come to an end. Proceeding onwards, the Gojo Clan continues with attending to the dead && remaining in their native homeland, once more, isolating themselves from the rest as without their anchor they are nothing.