Lilaput

It unsettled you, how easily the jujutsu sorcerer could slither his way into people’s good graces. Couldn’t those people see the malice and hatred just under his skin? Didn’t they see it in the darkness of those amethyst eyes?

Shaking your head lightly, you abandon that train of thought. There was no use in thinking about it too hard anyways. It wasn’t your problem.

Instead you take in the quiet intricacies of the temple around you.

Along the hallway you walk a rug stretches out both in front of and behind you. It’s yellow trim a stark contrast to the royal purple of the rug itself. It’s impeccably clean and it looks plush and soft. A quiet, impulsive thought crosses your mind to crouch down and see if it’s as soft as it looks, but you’re quick to dismiss it.

Columns placed every few feet apart break up the monotony of the rice paper walls. Meticulously carved and beautifully intricate floral patterns, unique to every column, go mostly unnoticed by everyday passersby.

A calming lavender and sandalwood smell still lingers in the air from the incenses that are burned throughout the temple. Combined with the warm glowing light of lanterns overhead, it creates a misleadingly homey feel for such a soulless place.

Finally your attention drifts slyly to the man next to you. Most of his raven black hair cascades down his back, except for what’s been thrown up into a small, loose bun on the back of his head. It looks soft to the touch, and again there’s a fleeting thought to reach out and run your fingers through it, to see if it’s as soft as you imagine it is. And again you dismiss the thought as quickly as it can form.

Ethereal grace painted his every movement. A stride usually driven and purposeful has calmed to match your own. Hands hidden away within the long sleeves of an elegant robe make a perfect picture of serenity.

Your inspection of the curse user is cut short when you watch his lips split into an impish grin, as narrow, eminent purple eyes catch your own. Your stomach drops, and you jerk your head down, finding a sudden, desperate, interest in your own shoes. A humming chuckle from Geto makes your ears burn with embarrassment.

So much for being discreet.

As you make your way further into the temple—now explicitly ignoring the man you accompany—you catch sight of some of Getos worshippers. They’re exiting what you assume is their living quarters. If you were devote—or if you had enough money— you were allowed to stay in the temple and take care of your beloved deity’s shrine. A cunning ploy for free labor disguised as a holy rite of passage. How else were you supposed to keep such an extravagant place so clean?

What did these people think would happen if they were permitted to stay in the temple? That they would magically be healed of whatever affliction they had?

Even if Geto could dispel any curses lurking around a person that didn’t mean that all their troubles would just vanish.

You can’t help the chuckle that ekes past your lips at the irony of his position.

The tall sorcerer leans forward slightly and you see him looking at you out of the corner of your eye. One of his eyebrows is quirked up at you and his Buddhist-like smile spreads a little wider, giving way to something more mischievous.

“Is something funny?”

You shake your head and wave off his question. “Oh, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

You doubt he’d appreciate the humor you found in his situation. A proud sorcerer made to tend to the needs of the very beings he’s disgusted by. Even if it was a means to an end you knew it had to make his blood boil to even think about granting another non-sorcerers wishes.

No you definitely couldn’t tell him that.

“You never tell me anything you’re thinking.” Getos voice is whiny and his playful expression has melted into a pout at your dismissal.

“I hadn’t thought my conversational skills were adept enough to warrant your divine company.” You can’t help the mocking lilt of your statement as you eye the man next to you, completely nonplussed by his behavior.