◈"When the low, heavy sky weighs like a lid On the spirit aching for the light And when, embracing the horizon, It pours on us a black day which is sadder than any night." ◈

@ Q U I E T V I G I L

ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ- Dreamed by Zach ≫ SELECTIVE 18+ ONLY / carrd

[cont.]

...The silence stretches on for far longer than Toge actually anticipated it to, fingers tk-tk-tking against the cheap plastic handle of the ladle. Most people usually have some sort of input to provide by now— even if that input is just a simple 'no' or 'what?'. Having someone opt to just stand there and blink at him is new.

But— well— if nothing else, Toge has always been good at watching. The little uncertain flicker of the stranger's eyes, as close to the stovetop and the meal as she was willing to approach as is. Maybe just gesturing and shrugging in the general direction of the pot wasn't as clear as he'd thought it would be— too much time around Panda, maybe.

"Tsuna—" The word catches on his tongue by reflex, minute degrees of cursed energy crackling through along the edge of his teeth. A useless, inconsequential pair of syllables— ones that smell of fish market, mild and somewhat sweet; a touch buttery, even. It's easy to forget that those words are shared only between his closest peers, what with how little he properly interacts with anyone foreign to the shorthand code, or without a classmate as a buffer. Spitting out ingredients like they mean something to the general populace is only going to lend itself to more confusion. Definitely too much Panda exposure.

The sanpeijiru being kept warm on the burner is effectively finished as is, disregarding his wait on the rice cooker. Taking a scant moment to readjust the childish cat-themed apron tied about his front, he pulls out a second bowl to fill up. Toge is the only one out of his year to not be out on a mission at the moment in respect to the bedrest he's currently ignoring— in that regard, not even considering the absence of his peers, the huge pot he's slowly been upgraded to over his stay seems... a bit overkill. He hopes they get back to the site before he has to take it off the stove— reheated food just isn't as good, soup or not.

It was far from the first time Ginko has escorted someone else through the Uro passageways for one reason or another. Those deep, winding tunnels through the layers of the world are treacherous, but not without their uses— the Uro mushi's method of hiding from unenclosed spaces can bridge the span of japan in its entirety, if only the right path were to be found through the twisted spaces.

…However, it was the first time he's had someone run off from him. Perhaps he should have kept a closer watch on his tag-along; he'd noticed the wound-up energy in the soles of the other man's step, bouncing and dragging in equal measure down the precarious angles of the pathway, but had erroneously mistaken it to be a simple desire to get out of the tunnels… not to trap himself further in.

"Hey— come back!" Ginko's shout echoed in time with the beat of his temporary companion's footsteps as they left the staked path with a yell, disappearing around the corner in a flash of blue and black. Callused fingers curled around the thin metal chain that marked the route to their destination, a sudden trepidation having gripped him.

Damnit, damnit, damnit.

Ginko, for the first time in a very, very long time, had strayed from the path. He chased the sound of footsteps through winding turns and deep drops, chambers playing with the sound and distorting it with every breath and echoing pulse. It was nearly impossible to tell where the other man had gone after a few sharp twists, and the further he went from the charted area, the worse both of their odds became—

His eye had caught a stream of light shining down from the corner of the passageway in the middle of his marching thoughts, glinting in the corner of his mind. There shouldn't be other passways open from the inside this close to the main path, but— if they had gone anywhere...

The tiny crack of an exit he had come across almost looked too small for him to squeeze through, at the time. His shoulders still ache from the contorting and twisting he had to do to work his way out of the passageway, the edges of his medicine box scuffed by black packed dirt and stone that still stubbornly lingers beneath his fingertips.

The world Ginko resurfaces to in pursuit of the other man is… utterly alien by all definitions. Tall buildings that gleam in the hot, humid sun, a thin copse of trees that struggle to blot out the roar of— of something beyond, passing people and blurred shapes in cuts of cloth that ring remarkably similar to his own. The area he's in is enclosed by astoundingly expensive-looking wrought black iron and fields of stone, all carefully maintained from the encroaching vegetation. And more importantly…

His charge is nowhere in sight. There are some people milling about the area, and a scant handful of baffled stares weigh heavy on the back of his head. Surely someone here would have noticed? Ginko pauses for a moment to try and wrest some of the black dirt from his person, deep scuffs dug into the weave. It looks like he's just dragged himself out of one of the graves— which, uncomfortably, may not be too unapt a description, judging by the shape of the tree roots he'd wormed his way out of. They seem to have grown up and over top of something not too dissimilar in relative size to the odd engraved stones that litter the small enclosed field, which upon closer inspection certainly appear to indicate some sort of final resting place, albeit not in a... style he's seen before.

"…Hey, you," It only takes him a moment to narrow down the closest bystander— an individual with straw-like hair and something metal catching light from the bridge of their face. (They're hardly like anyone he's ever seen before, foreign in every sense of the notion— where is he?)

"—Have you seen a man about this tall," Ginko gestures about level with his eye, a new unlit cigarette dangling from his offhand as he catches his breath— "long brown hair, blue kataginu..?"

The blizzard howls and batters at the bow of Ginko's head, weighed down upon his back in waves of nail-sized hail. He presses onward, down the mountain path where the mushi shift and congregate in unnatural twisting shapes, patterned out like fractals on the horizon of his eye.

Something odd has been growing at the foothills of a nearby village so small it doesn't have a name— something unfathomably large, the ground itself bowing in under the pressure. There have been reports of the land itself moving steadily forwards towards an unknown center, talk of waves of all kinds of mushi drifting along in thick, winding rivers northward. Even the ones in his medicine box have been attempting to escape, the drawers all locked tight to keep them secured in place.

Ginko hadn't even intended to investigate on his own at first— this is something beyond him as an individual, he'd have to be a foolhardy idiot to jump into a situation no other mushi-shi even has record of.

...But ever since his initial visit to the nearby village, every turn he takes places him back on the path towards the epicenter. 

It's a simple matter to tell as much when the rattling in his box shifts, an ever-present pressure against his back. None of the tricks he's learned over his years as a mushi-shi seem to hold weight in the face of this world-bending phenomenon— he can't even stop, the ground groaning and sighing beneath his feet as it shudders in a slow rolling motion, taking him with it. If he lingers too long the snow itself will eat him alive long before any stray mushi could have the chance.

There's nothing to do but continue.

Like the mushi flowing in rivulets by his feet, he's being drawn towards something, a vast weight laid upon the edge of the sky. He can hardly say as to whether it's been hours or mere moments when he finally lays an eye on what looks to be the epicenter of the sinking land, the sun hidden from the world by the cover of the raging snowstorm. 

There are mushi.

Hundreds of thousands of mushi, reaching down into the pit of the earth in a twisting, winding spire, small and large gathered alike. There is no discernment of species or of proclivity from where he stands upon the snowbank, just a pure wash of writhing life. It's almost serene in its beauty for just the stolen breath of a moment.

The wave of mushi almost seems to explode outwards the moment he shifts his footing, lashing arcs out into the snow with the whipcrack of thunder and light.

Ginko takes a reflexive step backwards as the writhing form of the tower shatters, and begins to fall— the mushi swarming beneath his shoe flex downward into that pressing void between the current and the gone, a brilliant cast of darkness radiating out into the world. It's there until it simply isn't anymore... and it takes him with it in its departure.

In those final few moments, his last scattered thoughts all echo the same sentiment... finally falling prey to the world is a lot more blue than he thought it would be. 

Deep, vivid shades of cobalt and rust, the rush of shapeless forms in the dim. It sears through the seams in his memories, a wash of color that never seems to end. There's a trickle of light that seems to drip and flow from every direction, pure kouki wound in tangled recursive nets. Unnatural, and—

and...

Time drips down old weathered pipes, a slow marching tok... tok... tok... the sound weathered and red in the corners of his aching mind.

And, as such things come to be, a slow understanding finds him. 

He is not dead, nor caught within the twisting flow of foreign mushi. A few flutter over his knuckles, twisting in the eye of the darkness in rounding spires, but it's nothing in light of that clustered flow of before.

There's an acerbic scent that hangs in the air so thickly as to be dizzying, an indiscernible filth chewing its way up beneath his fingernails. The stagnant air burns in his chest with every stuttering breath, hot against the back of his throat. His eye has long since stopped adjusting to levels of light; either he can see, or he cannot, and the dark lines of the room that initially greet him are as much as he's allotted. Everything is patterned in vague outlines and black-deep silhouettes, unusual refuse scattered in clumps across a gray stone floor. Stacks of broken yellowed buckets and teetering old shelves box him in, something oily and tacky seeping into the shoulder of his coat.

His body aches with the story of a hard fall when he finally catches his breath for long enough to pull himself to his feet, bones clicking under the stress. It feels like he can't get any air, wherever he is— pinning the snow-laden scarf around his neck up over his nose helps somewhat, but it can't quite hide his eyes from the sting in the tepid room.

At least he still has his medicine box. The mushi inside lay quiet at long last, his back buzzing in the quiet aftermath of their frantic movement. 

Where is he...? There's a small nest of mushi here, but not of any one particular species, nor in telling enough numbers for a hint towards geographical location— in fact, plenty of them shouldn't even be somewhere this naturally dark.

Akuzikura in particular. 

It's a small, feeble species with a proclivity for catching the earliest morning light, causing localized dark points in the sky— enough of them in the area, and the sun will seem as though it's coming hours late, the darkness expanding in relative proportion. He's seen them emerge from the dirt before, thin white legs peeking out in wait of those early rays of light, but never before dawn's herald. And yet, here he is— and here it is, moving forward with a dogged determination that its three strand-like limbs don't seem to match. It is slow but unerring in its path, a small bright spot burning holes in the edges of his vision. 

If it knows the closest point to its next meal...

With only the mushi's light to guide Ginko's path he forges onward through the small dark space, the shuffling echo of his footsteps rebounding against the stone walls. 

One foot in front of the other. 

It turns out to not be a very far distance to walk as he and his small trail of tag-alongs hit upon the base of a musty stairwell, the steps slippery with excess moisture and time. Had he been anyone else, the darkness would have been utterly impossible to navigate; It's hard to see perfectly, even for himself— the feeling of wood at the end is utterly unmistakable however, thin splinters catching along the pads of his heavy winter gloves. 

He's quick to find two cold metal handles, but all progress comes to a grinding halt from there. The door won't budge— for himself or the mushi trailing by his shoulders in twisting patterns, curling loops around his wrists. Ginko watches as the Akuzikura attempts to pull itself through the slats of the cellar door, unable to find enough purchase to squirm its way outside. It isn't great news for his own prospects— and with the outside blocked off, it seems to finally be taking an interest in him.

Ginko knows better than to light up in an unknown enclosed space— there's certainly something that's heavy and foul in the air that he can't identify— but it isn't ideal.

"Hey! Is anybody out there?" He politely knocks to begin with, lightly testing against the boards. The sound reverberates through the space, catching on the smooth stone walls.

No answer.

"HEY!" Ginko slams his fist against the sealed door several degrees louder this time, the old wood creaking under the force. There must be something on top of it— he can hear it rattling against something hard, a solid, unyielding pressure.