SPARKS.

     IMPOSSIBLE AND POSSIBLE IS DEFINED BY DETERMINATION

a  selective,  low  activity  mostly  queue-based  blog  for  kai  higahara  forged  from  my  own  lore  which  draws  inspiration  from  taoism,  japanese  folklore  and  mythology.  this  character  aims  to  delve  into  the  realms  of  self  discovery  and  mysticism.  minors  dni. penned  by  dally  (  he/they/twenty8.  )

                    prompts.   metas ( wip ).  nsft call. mains call.

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Stiffness  marred  his  jaw,  a  tremor  drumming  in  his  fingertips  like  a  soft  pulse.  Doing  little  tweaks  here  and  there  on  his  chrome  ain't  rocket  science...  unless  you've  got  a  choom  with  more  mouth  than  sense.  Part  of  him  wonders  if  she'll  piss  off  if  he  tells  her  to  ——  yeah,  doubt  it.  Better  chance  of  maelstrom  turnin'  over  a  new  leaf  and  ditching  their  kit  for  priesthood.  Still  ...  having  her  around  ain't  all  bad.  Keeps  him  from  getting  too  fixated  on  things  that  don't  need  fixating  on.

Least,  that's  how  the  feeling  was  a  second  ago.  Muscles  coil,  twitch,  and  sputter  like  a  piece  of  old  tech  getting  a  jumpstart.  His  lips  thin  into  a  line,  and  he's  seeing  the  world  through  slits.  It's  white  hot  like  being  on  the  wrong  side  of  someone's  iron.  Tearing,  burning,  IRRITATING.  Whether  from  luck  or  skill,  grip  wanes  on  the  thin  rod  of  silver  he's  been  poking  around  in  his  cyberwear  with.  As  quick  as  the  feeling  it  provoked,  it's  gone  like  a  thief  in  the  night,  somewhere  between  stray  shells  and  spilled  booze.

Like  a  duet,  the  drumming  inside  his  skull  syncs  up  with  the  roar  of  the  radio  and  sounds  of  people  around  them.  Right,  a  block  party.  (  Not  his  idea,  of  course.  )  Just  turned  out  to  be  the  best  place  to  hide  from...  letting  his  trusty  mechanic  see  the  latest  damage.  Promising  not  a  scratch  before  a  gig  ——  not  his  finest  work.

❛  Ya  really  think  'm  the  type  to  be  the  life  of  the  party?  ❜  A  low  scoff  rings  from  his  throat,  dismissive.  Sliding  his  leg  off  the  bench  he  commandeered,  it  hit  the  ground  with  a  weighty  thud.  Bad  sign.  Still...  better  off  not  worrying  about  it.

Like  the  deft  stroke  of  an  artist's  pen,  the  corners  of  his  mouth  drift  down;  then  it's  normalcy  again.  As  fleeting  as  a  shooting  star  tears  across  the  night,  leaving  only  its  story  behind.  Still,  a  crease  sits  between  brows  even  as  the  lackadaisical  demeanor  returns.  Equal  parts  a  failure  to  remove  it  and  a  clear  lack  of  intent  to  do  so.  One  thing  he's  come  to  appreciate  with  Illy  ...  it's  candor.  Not  fearing  when  the  blade  might  find  his throat,  not  gritting  his teeth  for  when  the  shoe  drops.  No,  if  it's  coming,  he'll  know.  Gives  plenty  of  time  to  prepare,  at  least.   

Still,  it's  hard  to  ignore  the  coppery  twinge  staining  along  his  tongue.  Warm  and  wet.  Even  with  teeth  flecked  in  scarlet,  it's  not  preventing  them  from  drawing  their  real  blade  —  wit.

❛  ain't  kickin'  ass  in  tights  more  yer  shtick?  ❜  Kick  might've  been  a  poor  choice  of  words;  aching  pain  nestles  around  his  stomach,  and  he's  almost  sure  there  are  boottreads  along  his  insides.  Well  earned  even  if  that  didn't  make  them  any  less  painful.  From  where  the  dirt  becomes  the  backdrop  to  his  portrait,  he  notes  it's  not  a  terrible  place  to  rest.  That  heavy,  deadened  sensation  numbing  his  limbs  at  ease  at  rest.

&  the  view  ain't  bad,  either.  Tresses  of  ichor  framing  his  tormentor's  face.  Her  steel,  if  anything,  softer  when  one  knows  where  to  focus.  If  it  wasn't  for  the  bruising  around  his  intestines,  he'd  love  to  give  her  a  kiss  —  doubt  she'll  mind  the  blood  in  his  mouth,  taste  and  all.  Maybe  that's  what  makes  him  rise,  again,  again,  again.  Aches  and  pains  weren't  near  as  painful  as  being  pitiful.  Everything  blurs,  a  swirl  of  rocks  and  trees  smeared  with  gold.  (  It  takes  a  second,  but  it  stops  soon.  )

Fingers  curl  around  the  hilt  of  his  sword,  a  makeshift  of  lumber  and  cloth.  Static  courses  through  his  fingertips;  its  weight  is  that  of  an  old  friend,  even  if  it's  far  from  a  heartfelt  reunion.  It  brings  nausea  and  confusion,  all  jumbled  up  with  the  calm.  Seeing  her  makes  it  a  touch  easier  to  ignore  —  coupled  with  stubborn  grit.

Grinning  through  bruised  lips,  he  waves  her  closer.

BRONZE

leather books, cowboy hats, foxes, candle jars, sword hilts, cobblestone streets, hourglasses. your essence is bronze: you are a vivacious dreamer who embraces new experiences. your drive is indiscriminate and oftentimes over-indulgent; you take bets and are willing to cross lines. you are confident and unwavering in the face of obstacles -- but suggestible, and your attention is fickle. you are the thrill-seeker. you are the opportunist. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of coral, fire, crimson, and amber, who share your relentless energy. you are also drawn to the deep-thinking souls teal and moss, who will help you grow and see what ambitions are truly worth your time. however, you may struggle to get along with the opinionated personalities of amaranth and indigo who act above reproach.

kai vc delete

Somehow, Kai buries a laugh in a sigh, yet the airiness remains. Guess it beats focusing on the soft ache in his muscles as his set comes to an end. Mystical sorcery aside, hitting the gym isn't any less second nature to him. A bit of dull pain and sweat did wonders for easing his mind. Same could be said for... he'll file this under gym enthusiast bonding or something. Easy enough when they've been frequenting the same hangs -- not quite training partners, but more so the guy you lock eyes with while hitting a PR and getting the chin-jerk of respect. Casual, not affixed by labels. Better for him in case he'll have to tank it before it gets there.

"Double bros does have some bite to it, but ain't triple better than double? Ya got a standard for someone yer tryin' to be triple bros with... bro?" Bit foreign on the tongue, but, well, he doesn't hate it. Not that much, anyways.

When his hunt comes short of finding the cowardice he expects, bitterness nestles in his throat. It's dry and powdery like he'd been forced to swallow a lump of chalk. Deluded or not, Caio, to him at least, meant it, and that makes him uncomfortable. His world exists under the rules of survive and thrive. Being selfish with your life meant running a lot more than he tends to admit. It's something he prefers to avoid thinking about, yet it's the buzz of a gnat in his ear. ... Does that make his way of living cowardly?

A faint twinge of ozone lingers in the air, then fades. Beneath his shades, in the depths of his listless gaze, a sliver of blue glints. When their explanation concludes, he shrugs it off. The sensation doesn't go with. It'd be better for him if he could pick a fight, throw some shit, and yell, but... as much as he wants to, he doesn't. If there's one thing he does realize... he won't have to. Caio, like snow, would linger and melt away, inevitably, and all he'll have is the soft chill to remind him he'd been alive at all. Bummer. That's his lot in life.

"Makin' fun of me?" Making a point of jabbing his finger towards them, he snorts. "Words cut deep, man. Next time a monster comes stompin' yer monster chow, good sir."