[center][img]https://txt-dynamic.static.1001fonts.net/txt/b3RmLjg4LjlhMTkxOS5WR2hsSUZOMGNtRnVaMlVnVDJ4a0lFMWhiZywsLjE,/sand-dunes.regular.png[/img][/center]

As the trainers all made their respective ways in Toran after Yugaku's gathering, and a thick blanket of inky blackness covered the sky, the stirrings of some ancient and inscrutable force progressed in frequency and intensity. The most magically apt in the city might notice a strange influx of magical energy that seemed to not fit in any of the categories of study formally recognised by the Mages' Guild, the spiritually aware might notice some ordinarily unseen tension straining against the fabric of the world, and the plain lucky might catch a deeper scent of rich, metallic blood in their noses that would give them pause for thought. Whatever people might notice, or not notice at all, something had people in Toran on edge--many of the new trainers would likely seek solace and refuge in the idea that it was just jitters from taking their first step outside of comfort and into adventure and seek to rationalise away what they felt or observed, just as they would be sure that their parents had done so before them, and theirs before them.

Night would not pass uneventfully. Those trainers who engaged in nocturnal activities beyond the purview of normal folk (perhaps foraging for herbs, or looking for nocturnal Natrelmon, or studying deeply tomes of powerful and forbidden magic) would feel the static of apprehension dancing upon the nape of their neck, and the cries of a wolf punctuated the otherwise eerie silence with bursts of frenetic energy. Something about the howling stirred the blood, and when Indolu gave way to Ielle come morn there would be reports of many more fights than usual breaking out in the streets and none of the trainers would have slept well at all. Even today that strange howling would vibrate in their skulls, exciting their blood with a restlessness that just wouldn't quite go away--at some point during the day each of them would be compelled to leave their hotels or inns and do [i]something[/i] to burn off some excess energy. Toran was a big city, there was no doubt of that, and some strange auspice would have them all meander their way towards a small square hidden away from the more open areas of the city by edifices of blackened stone.

The Trainers beginning their Rites were likely not familiar with all of Atren's various legends and myths and folklore regarding specific Natrelmon, but there were a couple of tales that practically everyone had heard: The Four and their lieutenants; Lancelot and Medraut and their search for the spectral dragon Albion; Yata-Garasu and their calamitous predilections towards ill-omen. It was the latter story that each of the trainers walking into the square would recall as more of the aforementioned creatures than they had ever seen before flocked together in a single place. Every arch, every corner, every lamppost had one of the fabled Yata-Garasu perched upon it, its three legs clamped tightly in place while its head twisted and turned curiously. 

Many of the trainers would never have gotten the chance to see a Yata-Garasu up close and personal, so this would be a good opportunity for them to study: they were notably at least three times the size of a normal crow (and crows were already fairly large), and laced within their ebon plumage were crackles of rusty red sparks of dull energy that seemed to flare up at the most random intervals with equally queer spikes of intensity. The beaks of the birds were much unlike ordinary beaks, curved in a shape that could only be described as a tomoe found in the heraldry of Sakura, but tapering not to a smooth and rounded edge but a wicked, gleaming point. Two beady black eyes peered out from the head, with a third directly above it, occluded by what appeared to be white mist, frantically darting back and forth in every which direction one could think of. It was the third eye that had truly given them their reputations as harbingers of ill-omen, said to be seeking calamitous paths that the future could take and directing events towards them wherever possible. Indeed, none had ever spoken of a Yata-Garasu and anything remotely approaching words of joy and happiness in the same sentence except perhaps ironically.

It was exceedingly odd, then, that maybe thirty of these extremely rare and ominous creatures had congregated at dawn in the city of Toran. Amidst them all, stood by a gently bubbling fountain, was an elderly man grasping an enormously oversized staff and teetering precariously to keep his grip upon it. The Yata-Garasu seemed especially drawn to it, and him, and they clambered across its many branches and a cacophonous clamour of squawks filled the air. The trainers who made their way there would find that he had already amassed quite a following--and seemed to explicitly be gathering them away from the hustle and bustle of the city in order to speak to them. 

"Yes, yes... I can teach you the ways of the old magic, before the times of the Four! A strange and powerful magic, afeared by all, yes yes... Has anyone seen my staff? I normally keep it right here..." the Old Man voiced loudly, in a somehow simultaneously sonorous and senile manner, as his free right hand patted over his belly. He seemed to be indicating that he normally kept his staff in his pants, but given that he was already holding it and that it was absolutely prodigious in size, that seemed to be quite the impossibility.

As the trainers settled into the square, he would be broken from his musings. The Old Man shouted and gesticulated wildly, beckoning them over to him, as he continued to go on about being able to teach them strange and potent magic. His claims would be easy to dismiss entirely if not for the veritable army of extremely rare Yata-Garasu that seemed to be at his beck and call.