PARADISE

❛ pull up the ladder when the flood comes throw enough rope until the legs have swung seven new ways that you can eat your young ❜

# cryopathiic ˚✧┊ ┊ ┊ a roleplaying blog for UPPER TWO of the TWELVE KIZUKI. not spoiler free. canon & headcanon based — leaning on the anime portrayal. dark content ( 18+ )— no minors !! sculpted by Billye ( they/them, 29, gmt +2 )

dash only. discord available upon request.

Prismatic eyes tracked the substance's descent; a thick knot over the stripe cutting across Akaza's jugular, then disappearing behind his clavicle. Where a lesser oni would have instantaneously begun to rot from the inside out, Upper Three threw back the poison as though it was a glass of fresh marechi bloodwine and his body hardly seemed to flinch from the sensation. That left the twisted hierophant satisfied, his tone growing more playful for every minute Akaza entertained tonight's truce. His own emptied cup has left him seemingly untouched; in fact, Dōma seemed more interested in observing the third moon's reactions, his gaze tracking a pink, poison-stained tongue over pale lips.

He was used to far lesser oni sitting at the other end of this table; Lower Moons he wanted to vex for no particular reason, a quivering Hantengu or Gyokko's mouths hesitantly lapping at the stuff. The conniving prophet has tried them all; except this one. And Akaza... oh, he was not like the others.

❝ Does it make you feel safer around me to talk mean like that? It wouldn't hurt to try and be friendly, you know~ ❞ He reaches for the arrangement of small ornamented bottles to pick up a particularly fluorescent vial. The wisteria extract stirs with a rich purple colour. Dōma's patronizing comes in a sickly sweet tone. ❝ Rank aside, we are still comrades, after all. Those numbers never meant much to me anyway~ ❞ He giggles lightly. An easy thing to admit for one on the winning side. ( Dōma had that nasty habit of framing the current hierarchy as though him never challenging Upper One was a matter of kind temperament and not pure survivalism. )

His thumb nail popped open the cup and deft fingers worked diligently to pour the acidic liquid into the hookah. He tipped the entire thing into it; a hit that was sure to buzz even an Upper Moon such as himself. It bubbled and brewed in the brazen pipes and a rancid stench filled the air from the flower's corrosive properties. It was the kind of smell that would have any sane demon running a mile a minute from this place.

So, Upper Two's cackle of amused disbelief was genuine when Akaza demanded to sample the thing, instead.

❝ Oh my; someone is eager to open that bottle tonight, huh~ I wonder if there's something on your mind you'd prefer to forget for a while... ❞ Ironically enough, there was a thinly veiled excitement in his motions as he tenderly pinched the nozzle and held it out for the other to take. Steam was oozing from the embellished mouthpiece. Dōma did not bother shifting from his comfortable cross-legged seat, expectantly looking up at his companion with empty eyes. Akaza's reflection was perfectly encapsulated in the abundance of colours swirling within them. It was the kind of gaze one could easily lose themselves into, especially under the influence of the hallucinogenic poison that was oozing from the pipe.

In spite of his flawless memory, Dōma was not keen on reminiscing. It seemed to him like yet another pointless habit born of human sentimentality - he had little to learn from revisiting the past, after all. However, he had caught himself revisiting the blood battle with Upper Three more than once; letting his eyes slip shut when his mind replayed every fragment of lethally executed kata. What he was obsessed with would be the fond memory of a particular moment when the fan's gilded edge had harvested fresh blood from the third moon. He could remember every detail. The way it smoothly sliced through his marks like a knife gliding through soft tofu; the pungent taste of the splatter on his own cheek; the wide, fragmented eyes on Akaza and the faintest hiss through his bare teeth. And most of all, the cataclysmic outburst of rage that followed, as Dōma licking his blade clean had only added insult to injury.

There was a quality to Akaza's indignation that day that spoke of a certain humanity in him.

That was why his taste had lingered on Dōma's tongue; tickling him. He wanted to chase after the moment when he felt his own heart beating for once. Alas, Akaza, for as easy as he was to poke and prod at, was also a highly disclipined demon and a smart cookie. Dōma had to look for a middle ground if he wanted to get something out of him at this point.

Hence their current predicament.

The Dewing Room was a secluded area in the temple outbacks. A heavy door with intricate lotus patterns carved onto its wood opens to a moist sanctuary. Water trickles down the walls, fed by unseen channels carved into the stone — silent veins of the mountain's underground springs. The continuous flow would feed into a shallow water dam that encircled the raised central platform, the source of dense steam filling the air as the entire thing was built atop a hot spring.

There was a thin mist hovering above the surface of the damn, blurring the edges of the platform. In the center sat a low, lacqured tea table with a delicate kettle kept warm by a coal brazier and an ornate incense burner that diffused a floral, slightly narcotic scent. Silken cushions in jewel tones were scattered in precise disarray, inviting in their arrangement. The whole thing was like a dream suspended in vapor.

Dōma's nails had been thoughtfully scraping the rim of his own emptied tea cup - a thick purple sludge sitting at the bottom. The game he was inviting Akaza to play along with was the closest thing to russian roulette he could devise as a demon — microdosing poison from the kettle pot and the hookah beside the table around one's worst enemy at the moment. Of course, to him, the high was worth the risk. Even if Akaza would find a window of opportunity, he was too confident that he could take him on. At the same time, offering that doubled as a way to entice him into giving the lotus priest what he wanted.

❝ Mm, maybe sometimes. ❞ Dōma finally concluded after a prolonged silence, and reached out to pour his company a cup even if he hadn't joined him on the cushions. His voice dropped as he spoke the rest, however; and somehow the suffocating temperature in that room almost seemed to drop with it.

❝ But, there is one thing about bottles... ❞ The prophet muses, polychrome eyes invested on stirring a small, embalmed object into his tea ( an azure eyeball ) He tapped the spoon dry on the edge before bringing it to his tongue for a sultry lap; not much unlike that day. ❝ A bottle’s silence is only borrowed time. Cork a storm for too long; and the glass forgets how to hold. ❞ With that he placed the spoon aside; through the mist, prismatic eyes gleamed in Akaza's direction. Dōma's ethereal beauty was only elevated in this backdrop of mysticism. He seemed well aware, sitting back to let white gold locks trickle down his chest. His eyes crinkled with a sinister smirk.

Dōma's blood was powerful. It ran cold and thick in a shade of dark crimson and held a glimmering sheen when oxidized. It was nutrient-dense and smelled sickly sweet, like flowers on the verge of rotting. To any fellow demon, the smell was almost hypnotic. It was renowned for its potency, that allowed Upper Two to freeze over an entire village without depleting its capacity. It carried the virility of Dōma's youth and the crystalline quality of his otherworldly beauty.

Naturally, any progeny born from this stuff may as well have been breastfed on steroids.

As such, it was no surprise that when Daki first showed up in the Lord Founder's Audience Chamber, the monks present had to avert their gaze to the floor. Her beauty was almost insufferable to the follower girls in the temple; an impossible standard for them to match. From the silky quality of her hair to her thick luscious lashes and bright eyes — the demoness was immune to imperfection. And Dōma took credit for that; for the elegance in her motions and her voluptuous frame that was brought straight out of mundane fantasy.

Monk Yuzui helped arrange the unconscious women before the Founder's seat, all the while avoiding Daki's penetrating glare like the plague. He was one of the few loyal acolytes that had made it into his forties, well aware of the temple's secret and in accordance with Dōma's nature. Yuzui was loyal, fed on the promise of eventually being turned into a demon by Dōma as well. As such, the demons could speak freely in his presence.

❝ Ah, my dearest little lotus, look at you! All grown up and pretty~ ❞ Dōma cooed from his plush throne, peering over without shifting from his cross-legged seat. He only unfolded his long legs after Yuzui had returned to his corner, and his towering shadow was cast over the poor human while he gracefully descended the steps. Making his way to the demoness, he immediately reached out to bristle his knuckles over her cheek and cup her face to tilt her chin up. Dōma's frigid touch was a stark juxtaposition to the warmth his seraphic features emulated when he smiled down at her.

❝ Such gorgeous eyes you have. You've taken after me, it seems~ And your hair is so soft... ❞ He giggled while twirling one of her curls around his finger; but it was not a joke. Dōma still believed that both her and Gyutaro owed him big time for feeding them that powerful stuff; even if he had never explicitly admitted it. After he had goaded over his progeny enough, he took a step back and reluctantly looked over the bodies with a thoughtful hum. He seemed unsure.

❝ Mm, I don't know about this... these girls look like they're in rigor mortis. Their pulse is faint and their bodies have been unconscious for some time. They must have lost their will to live already. Besides, I would feel more comfortable if I knew a bit about them first, you know? It tastes better this way. ❞ Every blasphemous word, Dōma spoke with an air of a benevolent humanitarian. His eyes browsed over the bodies with a profound melancholy; before snapping back to his jubilant self a second later.

❝ But! — I have an idea. Since you came all this way, why don't you stay and catch up with me? Even though I'm always putting in a good word for you to Master, you guys barely visit anymore... ❞ He wasn't going to give Daki the time to decide, already having made up his mind as he gestured towards his monk. ❝ We can feed these girls to Gyokko, instead. Yuzui-sama, fetch the pot, please. ❞

The bulky man obeyed humbly and dragged his robes across the room to grab an elaborately decorated porcelain vase from a shelf. Dōma was making some space on the cushions for Daki to join him around the hookah while rambling excitedly.

He knows not if it is a dream, the afterlife, or a vision. If the gods finally deigned him worthy of such, he would find it laughable. But somehow, he knows exactly where to go. Stepping over the corpses of women, some half devoured and others picked clean., his feet carry him to the architect of this horror.

Douma sees a mirror, distorted and bloodied, the ghost of a life he did not live. A chill that rattles his bones, as if he stood in the presence of a god of death itself.

( How stupid. It was just a pretender.)

Prismatic eyes scan the room, taking in every inch of its gaudy decor.

❝ I don’t know how you can stand this kind of thing… ❞

The Chamber of Deliverance was a cavernous room in the more cryptic parts of the temple. Its floors gleam with polished wood, smooth as glass, though faint scratches mar the surface in patterns best left unexamined. Heavy curtains dampen the outside noise, a womb-like quiet disturbed only by the faint rustling of movement. The air is thicker with incense here, though it does so little to cover up the putrid stench of death and the metallic aftertaste of blood sits heavy at the back of one's throat. Beautiful patterns of unfolding lotus leaves and engraved vines creeping up the walls serve as a lacquer over the horrors unfolding in that room at the heart of the temple's secret. Followers come here only when called to receive that ultimate blessing — the gateway to eternal peace, they call it.

Behind that heavy curtain lies a cushioned throne, embroidered silks adorning it as a place of honor. It was here where Dōma would once receive confessions as a child; the very beginning of his life as a bodhisattva. But now, those holy fabrics bared stains of red and an arrangement of bones and hair strands was decorating it.

Lying on his back atop the soiled cushioning, the demon was holding up a slightly fractured grey skull. It was smaller in size, perhaps belonging to a woman, once. Even when stripped down to bare bone, the structure spoke of a delicate, humble beauty. The priest's expression had been blank while gazing over the various ridges and curves of it, a pointy claw faintly caressing its cheekbone with the same affection one would offer a lover's cheek. So enamoured he was with that skull, that Dōma didn't notice the slippery intruder until he was snapped out of his trance by the familiar voice.

He threw his head back into a mattress of his own hair to spot him; polychromatic eyes rekindled to spark after the realization. It looked and sounded like him — but it could not be him, could it? That decoy was scrunching up his nose at the stench in a way Dōma never would. ... Or maybe he would, if he had been human still. A life that never was.

What an amusing thought~

Suddenly, Dōma becomes more animated, prudently placing the skull by his side. Stuffed and hazy, the demon lazily rolled over on his tummy, dragging along that waterfall of birch oak white. A coy smile stretched on his features; similar to the mirror that stood in front of him, yet so drastically altered by the progenitor's blood. His smile pooled into his cheeks, revealing pearly fangs and tight, dark lips. His gaze held a maniacal gleam that challenged the other's serenity, long and sharp claws grew from his pale hands where the vascularity was most prominent. He lifted one of them to comb through his ruffled mane as he spoke, picking a small phalange bone out of his hair with a lighthearted giggle.

❝ Ah, the task can be overbearing at times - but someone has to offer a solution to these hopeless humans... They struggle so hard to make something worthwhile of their futile existence; and I offer them an escape from that struggle... ❞ He wears a sympathetic pout while prismatic eyes traverse over the scattered remains decorating the once holy chamber. But when his gaze returns to the other, something sinister creeps into Dōma's tone. A dark sense of knowing; unfazed by the presence of his own self before him, as though the implication that this is an alter from a life he could have had left him completely unbothered. His conviction over his own past choices was just that absolute, unshaken.

❝ It's not very polite of you to lie in my face like that, though. Because you do know. ❞ His grin broadens, form shifting atop the cushion. He rests his chin in his palm, but the cutesy antics only make his words more eerie.