unspoken;

starter for @sonosilens

The world outside of Mt. Suzuka was as vast as it was strange, but that was a lesson Otakemaru had already learned. Even the demon tribes that made their homes on the other mountains surrounding the capital were far different than his own sea-born family. However, there still ran a vein of familiarity beneath the wooden structures, the pavilions, the red-painted torii, and other such monuments, which Suzuka Gozen had brought to their island from her time spent on the mainland. Here though… it was a different world entirely, and from a low wall near a greenspace in the city, Otakemaru marveled at the sky-high buildings that surrounded him. Lights glowed from them as if by magic, and instead of wood, their sides were solid and smooth like some sort of stone. Likely they made a formidable defense against attack - most importantly, fire - and for a long while he contemplated how they might be reconstructed with the materials he knew on Mt. Suzuka. As if he would be able to return home…

If this realm was the underworld, it was nothing like he had expected it to be. For one, he had not caught even a glimpse of the Sanzu River, across which he was certain he would be led to hell. He didn’t believe that Enma would have any reason to pardon his senseless war, and an eternity of suffering was one he thought he was due. But he hadn’t received… anything like that. The ruler of the realm had instead housed him, and offered him a strange, pliant card. Gold eyes dropped away from the streak of pale blue that snaked between the buildings overhead to examine the gift he still held. With clawed fingertip, he plucked the corner and watched it flicker, no closer to understanding its purpose. Then he let his hand come back to the edge of the stone wall, desperate for the sensation of something familiar beneath his palm again. A sigh slipped from his lips and he lifted his gaze skyward again to think.

His ears perked. On the breeze came a bewitching melody that drew his attention away from his contemplation. It was a sound unlike any he had heard before. Though Suzuka Gozen enjoyed her trinkets, and collected instruments just as she hoarded everything else she discovered at sea. Even so, there was a quality to this one that was absent from the strings that collected dust in the treasury on Mt. Suzuka, and Otakemaru searched earnestly for the source.

There, a short distance away. The dark horns that curled out from the sides of his head, and the tone of his scaly skin were somewhat reminiscent of a Sealander. The shred of familiarity was perhaps what held Otakemaru’s gaze so firmly, and he watched the solo performance for a short while from his perch on the wall. He felt like a timid child again, waiting for Suzuka Gozen to take him by the hand and lead him to where the others of their growing family gathered, before he had earned their esteem and friendship as the Young Master of the mountain. But Suzuka Gozen wasn’t here to make his introductions for him. And neither were his friends who had contributed so much to the confidence he had developed.

He couldn’t let that stop him. Resolutely, his feet hit the grassy earth and carried him to the musician as his song reached its end. By now, his shoulders had squared, his chin had raised, and a lopsided smile had slipped across his lips. This was strange. He hadn’t done this in so long, but he wasn’t about to show it. Alongside the echoes of the instrument’s final notes, Otakemaru offered his applause.

“I was listening from over there.” He gestured over his shoulder to the low wall on which he had just been sitting. “I’ve never heard an instrument like yours before.” Gold eyes swept back again, and his smirk belied the trepidation that clawed at him beneath. “What’s it called?”

Maraqai was no stranger to homesickness, but the feeling was more intense than he had ever known before. mayhap it was because he knew, deep down, that returning home from this location was nigh impossible. this was a place like no other, foreign in ways he couldn’t quite articulate. he was no stranger to foreign, either; often did he travel to far lands, partaking in new cultures and meeting people of all shapes and sizes. there was always the promise of home, though. he would always make it back to the steppe, feel the plush grass under his feet, savor the comforting bustle of his market tribe. he even misses the gales that carried in sand from the nearby desert. he’d almost give anything to be brushing sand from his hair right now, surrounded by family and friends.

the best he could do was try and replicate just a little piece of home. it would never be the same, of course, but he would try. the easiest way to do that was to find a nice patch of grass, settle down in it, close his eyes, and play his dear instrument. he’d make a proper set up eventually, but for now he was content with sitting on the plain earth, legs crossed, instrument seated in his lap. the morin khuur, a two stringed instrument native to his people. for its lack of strings, it certainly did not lack versatility or personality. capable of playing the most melancholy, bewitching of melodies to the most uplifting and joyous, Maraqai could have people weeping one minute and dancing the next.

today, he did not think he had an audience, so he poured his emotions into his song. this one had no lyrics and never would (he certainly could not speak them into existence, after all), but the sorrowful melody he drew from the strings did the talking for him. if he had not been the one playing, he suspects he might have shed a few tears. so focused, Maraqai hadn’t noticed anyone approach until their applause sounded in front of him.

nodding his head towards them in a mockery of a bow, his eyes follow the strangers gesture before returning to him. while he had not expected company, he had taken to carrying a small pad of paper and writing utensil with him. writing was not his strong suit, but it made communicating outside of his community much easier. after setting the instrument aside, Maraqai taps his lips, then his throat, and shakes his head, letting him know that he did not speak. he smiles slightly and begins to write on his paper, worrying his lip between his teeth as he did so.

@sonosilens​

Taking a deep breath Raphtalia held her hands out in front of her and began “Decipher the laws of nature and conceal me in a haze!” After that quiet. Nothing happened and she simply stood there, a heavy sigh then left her lips as she slouched slightly. “It seems my abilities actually have been suppressed…” Raphtalia set her…inflatable…sword against a tree and thought for a moment. “There is one i still haven’t tried…” And with that she walked back to her spot in the clearing and once again took up her pose, going over the chant in her head as she stood there for a moment or two. She thought she was in a nice quiet place to test the boundries of this world, but so far she only came upon dead ends and road blocks, even for a level sixty-eight. 

Another deep breath before her voice would ring out in slightly. “I, The sword of the Shield Hero, ask of the. Decipher the laws of nature and Illuminate the darkness surrounding my path! Give me, First light!” And with that a ball of small light appeared in her hands and slowly rose into the air and with a blinding flash(only if nearby) the area around was revealed with even brighter light than was just shining on it. “Huh…So first light actually works, but my camouflage magic doesn’t my abilities really are sealed away…So that makes me wonder…how am i supposed to regain them if I even can…I wish Mast Naofumi was here he would probably have some idea of what to do….all of this waiting around is really…boring.”

while certainly no stranger to those with abilities, Maraqai himself did not have many and often did not attempt to learn more. he had practical abilities, yes, like knowing how to shoot an arrow at a moving target, how to sell items to curious merchants and buyers alike, and how to find his way around simply by looking at the land. he kept most magical abilities to those who wanted to learn them and had the capacity to keep up with them. with only a few minor healing spells under his belt back home (and only one here), he was oft amazed at some of the things others could do. everyone’s powers seemed to be sealed in some way in this place, but it wouldn’t stop him from admiring what they could do.

swish, swish, swish. the inky brush of the miqo’te’s tail flicks back and forth as the girl herself stands frozen. her eyes are wide, pupils blown out till all the red iris seems swallowed by captivated black. a miqo’te is nothing like a common housecat, of course. even someone like ishta would be offended if anyone made the comparison.

but even the most mature and refined miqo’te couldn’t possibly resist the all saints wake decoration that’s caught her eye–a collection of fake spiders, dangling from strings tied to a stall’s awning. basic public decency is the only thing keeping her from leaping at the things in front of god and everyone.

this would all be fine if not for the fact that her attention being entirely focused on a bunch of plastic arachnids means she doesn’t notice the towering auri until he lifts his hand to say hello. the terror that seizes her is immediate and powerful. her ears go back flat and her tail puffs out like a thundercloud. there’s a show of fangs, and an extremely catlike hiss that she’ll deny later.

aaaand then she sees the smile on his face and suddenly everything is okay again.

“oh, jeez, hi! um–hi! how long have you been there? you’re okay, right? did i scare you too? oh, goodness.” ishta reaches up to manually tweak her ears upright, an embarrassed blush spreading across her face. “hi! welcome! are you new? i am! i’ve only been here for, um… just a few days!”

qestir, meet motormouth.

ah...attempt to not scare her: failed. though, he supposed appearing next to anyone in such a deep focus would result in a similar reaction. while not as animated a reaction as her, Maraqai jumps slightly and blinks rapidly in surprise. acute fear melts back into a worried friendliness, brows knit together as he processes all of the words slung in his direction.

he’s never truly wished he could speak, he can’t deny it would be helpful in some situations, such as this one. traveling with his beliefs was always a bit of a challenge. what if he encountered someone who did not know about his tribe and their ways? sure, he could communicate that he was mute, but that was the extent of it. mayhap he should practice writing more.

he had been raised to live off of the land available to him and trade with others for anything he could not find himself. to grow up in the only trade hub for malms and malms was to learn the way of trade itself, even if Maraqai had taken a turn somewhere along the way and ended up peddling...unorthodox wares. while most merchants in town sold food, drink, or jewelry, Maraqai sold whatever pretty thing he could get his hands on. pebbles from the streams just outside his tribe’s border, little trinkets hand woven from the grass beneath his feet, little vials of sand from the nearby desert.

as such, the colorful rocks near the flowerbeds in the park he’d stumbled upon appealed to him greatly. he crouched near them, occasionally pocketing one when the color and pattern stood out to him. before long, he had a handful of small stones, along with some flowers that had already dropped from their stems. only did he pause when he felt eyes upon him.

to say he already missed home was an understatement.

Maraqai often got homesick, as a traveler who loved their birthplace often did, but there had always been the option of returning. no matter how far away he was, the Auri man knew that home was either a long trek or ship ride away. he could always count on the people in his world knowing about his kind, as well, or even about his tribe; no such luck here (so far) and he was beginning to sense that his lack of speech was going to cause confusion.

familiarity is what he craved, as he sat in the grass in the park and willed his mind to believe it was the plush grass of the Steppe. legs crossed, he placed his morin khuur in his lap and began to play the two-stringed instrument. eyes closed, Maraqai thought along to the lyrics he knew but would never be able to personally share. when next he opened his eyes, his playing faltered and came to a stop when he realized he had an audience. this was nothing strange to him, as he oft played for large crowds, let alone just one person, but this was a new and foreign place, so he regards the stranger with a friendly caution.

every cell within Maraqai’s body seems to buzz with nervousness. brows furrowed, light eyes dart to and fro, taking in the sights, the sounds, the smells of a new, foreign land. had he made the conscious decision to travel here? he cannot quite remember. all he knows is that he’d had an audience with someone and heard words (some of which he did not even know the meaning of) that he wasn’t all too inclined to believe.

now, as he paced the streets, tail swinging behind him slightly faster than it’s normal rhythmic swaying, he prayed for something, anything familiar. he so desperately wanted to calm down, needed to--

“...?”

there, a slight ways away... was that a miqo’te? although rare upon the Steppe, Maraqai had encountered many on his travels, and the tell-tale ears, tail, and facial markings all but confirmed it. relief began to wash over him for a moment, before he realized he now needed to approach without spooking them.

( hello-! rei here, back at it with a very new character that’s already near and dear to me. i have to work all day, unfortunately, but here’s a little rp ad for later! simply like for a starter of varying length or hit me up and we can plot!

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