[center][color=mediumorchid][b]Sakamoto Isami[/b][/color] [hr][hr][/center] [indent][sup][color=mediumorchid][b]Location: Uragiri Clan Compound [Koi Breeding Pond] | Time: 9AM [9:12] Interaction: Team 7 Uragiri Sakana -- [@Odin] Kajiya Tatsuya -- [@RaijinSlayer], Shinjo Tsubasa -- [@McHaggis], [/b][/color][/sup][/indent] “Before you go…” Suisen’s voice had reached for him, across the bleak and dreary of the dim hall, as it often did. Only today an anxiety tinted the feverish boredom, the drifting melancholy. For a brief moment, it made Isami forget to wonder, made him forget to think to himself: [i]when is he going to stop? Will he ever stop?[/i] When those thoughts did indeed surface, Isami fought to suppress them, admonishing whatever part of him was brash enough, irresponsible enough to muster up such insolence. He turned, ever the dutiful son, to face his father. The backdrop of the archaic hall, the black folds of Suisen’s haori blurred as Isami’s eyes honed in on his outstretched hand. It was quaking. “The Chukabocho…” Father was pointing, Isami knew, pointing at the scrolls upon his person, one of which held the second of the family’s ancestral weapons. He was pointing, and yet each of his fingers remained outstretched, refusing to give way, to fold, to [i]obey[/i]. “The grip is…” Suisen laughed, tone like bitter-melon, at the juxtaposition of it. ‘The grip’, his own trembling hand. His was the blackest humor, Isami knew, and it helped him be reminded of his plight everywhere he looked. Isami interrupted, unwilling to bear the self-imposed cruelty of his jibes. “[color=mediumorchid]The grip’s tricky, I know. The trick is to loosen the wrists. To [i]give[/i].[/color]” [hr] His new teammate’s beckoning, taking Isami away from his father, had been a prayer and a blessing in one, sent down from the rains. Tsubasa’s mere [i]being[/i] too, had been a welcome distraction for his troubled mind. Isami had become accustomed to looking down when speaking to others his age, and the change was… interesting, perhaps even welcome. More notably: had she always been a girl? How had he not known this? Had he been so absorbed in his own affairs? Those were the disquieting thoughts that carried Isami on the path towards the Kajiya forge. The stifling heat of the forge entrance, and the thought of melting within the forge proper, were thoughts that congealed with the rest. The Kajiya were swordsmiths and sealing specialists in antiquity, Isami recalled, which meant that the two sons had a strange amount in common. It was unlikely, he concluded, that such details failed to inform their arrangement. “[color=mediumorchid]Yeah, I just might,[/color]” Isami found himself compelled, by the satisfying crack of the blacksmith’s neck, to stretch the length of his back, “[color=mediumorchid]Elderly folk [i]know everything[/i]; let’s ask around.[/color]” He could already feel the vivid, pounding headache resounding between his temples, just remembering the Sakamoto elders drilling stories of legacy along the walls of his skull. [hr] Isami had found their initial task liberating, acknowledging its almost childlike novelty; a scavenger hunt, flanked by new ‘friends’. The pessimist in him expected to be given recompense for the relative ease of the task, paid back with trials and tribulations, each one vastly more horrific than the last. As if accepting the expectation as reality, he steeled himself, expression as rigid as Tsubasa’s own. He allowed himself to soften upon seeing her smile of vague reassurance, meeting their new sensei with an awkward gait, as if desperately attempting to keep his spine perfectly upright. Vague recognition dotted Isami’s mind as he glimpsed upon their sensei’s eyes, linking them to the stories of the ‘Uragiri’ they had learned bits and pieces of during their hunt. He was [i]young[/i], too, to what must have been the point of unfathomably so, considering his rank. A prodigy perhaps, who did as strange prodigious folk did; played with fish and asked strange questions. Isami bristled at Sakana’s wording - [i]you swing around weapons[/i] - and questioned why the phrasing caused him such distress. His family would doubtlessly retort in the most excruciating of ways, delving ad nauseam into their [i]artform[/i], their craft, honed by time. He shared no such sensibilities yet… He composed himself, and offered his own answer, intoned in the most lifeless, sterile of ways, “[color=mediumorchid]To bring honor and glory to one’s village and clan, to take on their burden and provide for their legacy.[/color]” Even he had to give pause, wondering if their eccentric sensei would accept the platitudes, “[color=mediumorchid]... and, and provide victory, of course.[/color]” Already, he could feel doubt and shame, and braced himself for mockery and admonishment. What instead followed was the doubtlessly-soon-to-be-fabled debacle regarding Tatsuya and the Slippery Scroll. Somehow, it made Isami [i]like[/i] the boy better, as if thankful for the reprieve from his own feelings. He knew better than to offer the situation a word, but if he could, it would have been: [i]thank you[/i]. The thought of the transpirings warmed him, and he barely even registered the matter of the Grass.