#fuujinya

but chocobos… are pretty big…?

THE FAMILIAR CLASH AND CLANG OF SWORDS has been a lost audio upon his ears, for whilst he does indeed share a house full of his fellows some are without their blades, others have grown to take on various other tasks and he, himself, was given only a wooden replica of the sword of his namesake. it felt rather like losing one’s arm, he supposes, as he isn’t sure what that feeling is entirely like but understands at least that the sword is due to be an extension of one’s self as opposed to an object without feeling. what a strange thing it is to be without your arm, without the very thing which makes you who you are which so usually clasps itself to your side. 

mitsutada seeks distraction. he seeks something capable of keeping his mind and body as sharp as the tip of his blade whilst removing himself from the presence of memories he can do no good by lingering upon. it is a lonely sort of goal, one he ventures upon alone late in the evening as the sky shades itself a dusty grey and most of the city’s inhabitants are commuting home for the night. but mitsutada jogs his way to the local sparring quarters, some wooden construct built in the japanese aesthetic yet feels western with its carpeted hallway and english signposts. quite to the sword’s tastes, he muses.

feet slipping into his geta, arms sliding into the more suitable attire for his training, mitsutada eventually stands tall garbed in his own still rather elegant clothing, dark blue hues decorated with gold to match the bright accent of his single exposed eye. the building is empty, save for the lingering student still tying up the knots of their trainers and the janitor whose eyes are downcast as the tachi walks by. a lonesome evening, perhaps. or not. he slides open the door to the largest room the dojo holds and within its centre a man wields his blade towards the open, garden doors. the setting sun paints him vivid orange; fire within his pale hair as it whips about akin to a beaten flame. the man himself stands just as fearsome.and for a moment mitsutada merely observes, all before he can take the silence no longer.

“Alright, alright. Don’t you think that’s enough for one day?”

Misunderstandings happen, but this kid seemed pretty determined to be proven he was in the right. That voice of his carried, even in a place like this-- which prompts Marco to rest one hand on the younger’s head in an attempt to draw his attention (or at least his ire, in this case).

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             ▐ ► Richly colored eyes widened for a moment in surprise at the statement before becoming lidded, and something akin to a thundering, purring growl rumbled deep in Saphira’s chest. Although the youngling before her might not know it, the sentence uttered sent a deep sense of peace suffusing through her entire body. It was a common worry for her, and always had been, that she was the last female of her race. And even after the revelation the Rock of Kuthian and the Vault of Souls had left, some part of her still harbored her doubts. The dragons were no longer doomed, and she was no longer expected to mother her race, but a chip of uncertainty had stayed with her nonetheless. It was made worse by the fact that she and her Rider had had to leave Alagaësia to seek out a proper place to raise the young dragons and Dragon Riders to come, expected to lead them and usher the age-old order into a new glory. It surprised her how such a simple gathering of words from a stranger could soothe her heart so, and Saphira’s hum deepened.