KINSLAYER.

this is an independent & highly selective blog from the jrpg/moba known as Onmyoji. i’ve been around for a hot minute but don’t let that stop you, please ! i’m compliant to the game but have divergent headcanons of my own. if you wish to RP with me, please follow me at my multi @numinousdread​ and request onikiri so i can get us started !

rules.

lore pages.

𝐀 𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐃𝐘,   the remembrance of darkened days long since passed and the cold regret for having broken the laws of the stars when solely haunting memories could be salvaged from the noxious embrace of the dark   ⸻   An eternal echo reverberating in the depth of her scarred heart,   ad infinitum.   Her capricious whims carry her far away from the legendary land that is eternally both the welcoming hearth and the lonely prison,   the flourishing garden of spring and the sepulchral graveyard of bygone hopes   ;   some would say that her valiant heart has turned jittery,   and maybe she would even agree with them. 

The flurries of wind carry the scent of spilled ichor and Kinnara hesitates not before pirouetting onto her heels,   abandoning the beaten path to chase the unique purpose of finding the one who might be in dire need of her aid,   of her songs.   It is amidst the viridian trees and the lively bushes that she finds him:   blood at his feet,   blood on his hands,   blood across the expanse of his weapon.   A theatrical wave of dainty hands and in her ever - welcoming embrace,   the celestial instrument materializes   ;   tip of fingers dances against its halcyon strings,   playing a soothing melody of rejuvenation and protection.   Not once,   does her honey - sweet smile falter and only once the deepest bruises have been properly tended to,   the Maestra of Tunes finally speaks.   ❝   Better   ?   ❞

@numinousdread​  +  onikiri.     ♡

    𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒. And even now, reforged, pulse singing with the blood of demons, guilt still finds its way to gnaw at his bones. Recently the pain has been unbearable , the re-realization of his history with that man -- the Minamoto no Yorimitsu -- had hurried along his own regrowth. Great black horns spiraled from his white hair one day when once they were small and his hair had been the color of obsidian. His arms had grown next, then his legs, and with every limb filling out the form of a young man, the aches became even more grave. He had run from that place into the forests when it became unbearable, only for demons and spirits alike to seek out vengeance or simply prey upon him like a wounded animal. But with the soft hum of a blade against grass, nothing quickly remained of these foolish demons who dared cross him. For a while, Onikiri thought the blood would soothe ...

He only ended up feeling more like a monster. How could he dare think an outburst would make him more powerful? That somehow that person would not mock his poor judgement? The path to glory is paved with blood, but did the path of strength need to be, too?

That is how this celestial finds him, half hunched over the ground and watching the blood drip from his blade. He feels grief, hatred, madness beginning to boil over from his very mind to the grip of his sword until the first few melodic notes of her pipa met his ears. “  aaah....  ”

Onikiri grips his head, but lets the sigh of relief tumble out. The thoughts that plagued his mind in another battle settle, until only his own voice comes to him with a much missed clarity, allowing Onikiri to lift his red eyes upon her heavenly visage.

        𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇, 𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 what was once a delicate, effeminate face. But Onikiri’s youth felt like two lifetimes now, reforged by betrayal and sacrifice. His glowing red eyes flitted to the tails idly swishing behind the mononoke and recognized this creature to be the same sort of spirit as that Tamamo no Mae. He didn’t seem like an immediate threat, nor like a crony of that being. He huffed with derision still, somehow even making that look dainty despite the caked on blood on his yukata and swords hanging low on his waist.

        “  i’m surprised that you managed to slip away from the prying eyes so quickly;  however,  i must warn you that there are spirits equally as nosy here as well.   ”

             //   @onislay      ❤ ‘d     for a starter !! 

         A LOOK AS SHARP AS KNIVES was shot towards the owner of that voice, only upon recognition for his defenses to be lowered - the chords of Onikiri’s back relaxing, shoulders returning their guilty weight, blades lowered at his sides. ❝  I have no further business with them .  ❞ A lie. ❝  And you are one ? You didn’t even ask my name . Or simply don’t care .  ❞

It was short-lived, bittersweet, where for the briefest of moments, the demon had existed in a state of total abandon from his corporeal form, barely contained. He could have let his body fall forward and tumble down the cliffside with no concern for how it may or may not float, intending to take grievous injury upon the rocks for that brief reprieve of total tranquility rather than face Ibaraki again. 

The floating arm at his side had flexed, convulsed, and shuddered in alarm, sensing its true master’s steps drawing closer -- and the coil of guilt in his stomach grounded Onikiri to the spot. His white, ghastly form dissipated to one almost human-like, with raven black hair and scars over his eyes. 

❝  You’ve come .  ❞ He paused at the jingle of a bell behind him, and turned around to see it latched upon the other demon’s ankle. Onikiri bowed, knowing he should grovel instead. ❝  Ibaraki.  ❞

                    “   say what you will, it will do nothing to change the image that many of us already have of the both of you.   ”     —–  laughter rumbles in his throat like his own warning call, amusement derived from their already tactless exchanges; even in his furs and clay-stained robes, he feels the need to stake his claim.     “   is that so? even when his head bit back?   ”

         THE STING OF HIS INSULT prompts Onikiri to touch his scarred eye, the one given from the blood of two powerful oni. Part of him feels he deserves this mockery, the other half wanting to war violently against the cross he’s been given to bear. Instead of acting out like he wishes to, despite the twitching of his sword arm and the lust for blood, he stands there in silence with his hand over one eye and gazing with the other...