HUNT / HAUNT.

                The swordsman stands still, silently reverent of the Taker that now stands before him. Those that come to know the Taker and to meet them only meet them once, and now Yone stood before them as his first meeting, but he could not follow them into the next life. It pained him, truthfully, it left his chest feeling hollow with a heavy ache sitting like a black hole in his stomach while the luminescent eye of the azakana was blind in their presence and its mask burned his skin underneath it. He could feel the wretch of the creature within him, apart of him, it knew its sins and even now wanted to slink away from the every watchful, omnipresent eyes of death. 

              His hands raise to catch the pale colored apple that the Taker tosses to him before they speak once more, his attention still transfixed upon them. Yone feels it would be dishonorable to turn his gaze from them, lest he be giving the impression that he could not look upon his own fate or the sins that hung around his neck like a noose. It was only right he look upon them in an unabashed admittance and acceptance of his crimes ( though they may not be truly his own ).

                A gracious bow follows the Taker’s proposition, the hand that clasped the ashen colored apple folded over folded over his stomach while his long hair fell forward over his shoulders. When he rises to his full height once more, his voice comes in a quiet, calm answer. 

                “I am honored and grateful that you would allow me this chance,” he says, still holding his gaze directly towards the Taker. The apple remains in his palm, held gently clasped in long, thin fingers. 

                The air here tastes strange to Yone, heavier and like he could smell iron in everything around him. It was nothing like his home, where nature and magic captivated the land, while this one had tall buildings of metal reaching to the heavens in the distance. The Hunt lead him many places it would seem, though, pulling him down the path of an azakana that brewed like a storm, devouring a feast of sorrow. He followed the stream to it, until he found himself here, among the unknown, but ever persistent to rid the world of the things that were bred among humanity’s despair. 

                It took some time still, Yone lurking in the night to move freely, while staying hidden during the day. He had enough awareness to know he would look more than out of place in these lands in the daylight. He learned that two cities were the heart of this place, one across a bay from the other, though Yone was not entirely sure of their names just yet. It was an after thought, anyhow, as his hunt always took priority. 

                When the moon hung overhead, only half full in a crescent shape, Yone was perched in a tree, one crimson eye and one luminescent blue staring down at the fresh tracks. Through his mortal eye he saw the figure of a cloaked man encased in metal, hiding behind a mask, the same as many mortals do. Through the eye of the azakana, he saw that it was dragging itself across the ground in his wake, its body like rolling waves of tar with red tears streaming from its black, empty eyes, its mouth hanging open in a silent sob. Yone held his hand outward as the mask at his hip dissolved to form his blade. With a silent swiftness, he dropped from the overhanging branch and rose from his feet with his arms and blades crossed before him. 

                There was only one eye of judgement Yone feared when he found himself pulled back to the physical realm, and that was the Eye of Twilight. What would Shen think of him now? Shen was a man he had known in life, who he had taken comfort and solace in, who Yone had found himself quietly in love with into their adulthood. Would Shen see him as something not meant to be in this world? Would his duty demand he expel his soul? Could he stand to look at him, to look at the abomination he had become? 

                All those fears and more melted away as soon as the soft light of Shen’s eyes met his own, his worry slipping away from him as easily as water washing over a smooth stone. Shen’s gentle, warm voice greeted his, and it nearly makes Yone melt, leaves him aching to press into the other man, to hold him, feel him, remind himself that he is indeed alive and breathing, that Shen is not some fragment of his wishes and hopes tormenting his lonely heart. His gentle, warm hand comes to rest on his shoulder and yes, this is real, this is not a dream meant to pull his old pining love to the surface. 

                Yone’s hands raise to frame both sides of Shen’s face, his cool, nimble hands gently cupping his strong jaw with his bandaged thumbs softly stroking the skin of his cheeks. The weight of this moment settles firmly but lovingly around him, the full realization of this being reality nearly has Yone pushed to tears, but he swallows the impulse down, even when he hears Shen call him his love. Oh, how those words make his heart tremble in his chest. 

                the unique circumstances of yone’s existence, however, makes him unnatural. nothing like him is supposed to exist. it is this reason why yone quite literally cannot pass into the spirit realm, which makes him immortal to some degree. 

                yone still goes through the physical act of dying, enduring all the agony, pain, the pull of the soul into the spirit realm, but the spirit realm quite literally rejects his soul because of the unnatural amalgamation of mortal and azakana. that effectively forces yone back to his body after some measure of time ( it is difficult to predict when he will return to his body ). it is no less painful when he returns to it, either, often times enduring the agony of his body physically mending itself ( his recovery speed is quicker, but he still endures it nonetheless ). all of this means that yone has fallen out of the cycle of life and death.

                Yone traveled from the shores of his beloved homeland in the shadows of a great sail ship, slipping into them like he wore an inky shroud, laying in wait as he followed the wisps and trails of a growing azakana. It was not uncommon azakana formed outside of Ionia, but Yone had only resided on the island before his death and after his return, partially because it was he had never traveled outside of it, but also because the number of azakana had begun to flood their lands. He dread the prospect of an azakana slipping from their shores into other lands with the intent to sink its claws into the world, to breed despair, to culminate its own strength into an even more dangerous being. 

                He followed the trail of one that was latching furiously onto different people, inciting flashes of white hot anger, flaring in bursts of red and ash until it found another forest fire to ignite within another person’s heart. The unpredictable nature made it hard to follow, unfortunately, but that did not detour Yone’s determination. 

                When he came to the sandy shores of what he came to learn was a place called Shurima, the swordsman resumed his hunt. In the dead of night he would follow the trailing ashy smoke that lingered over the earth, he could see the wide, deep steps of red left by the forming demon through his window into the spirit realm, and he followed relentlessly. He would not let such a thing soil this land, not after seeing what became of his own. There was too much optimism here, too much joy, hope; it was opalescent and golden in the bodies of the people walking through this lands. They were eager to step into the new day, to greet their future, and what a beautiful thing that was— and that needed to be protected.