The tattered man blinked, his thick pea-green cloak shrouding his hands only so for as long as he could keep his habitually busy hands still. Ropy fingers shaking with the chill despite their gloves pushed the brim of his sedge hat upward. Sorimachi's startlingly white array of teeth stretched onward radiantly.
"Ah! Fine, fine, well met! 'Tis the charming son himself, eh?"Â
The groundskeeper suddenly dipped to shake Chachanji's hands, gloves covered in a thin layer of soil. His bubbling, merry voice and the jerkiness of the man's stoop alarmed Virara, who Chachanji could see at the other side of Sorimachi reaching into her coat, largely upon reflex. Her expression, round face pink with the frost and gaze unerringly placid, betrayed the reflexive, thoughtless ease through which her trained body acted. Thought was not part of the equation.Â
"The Coordinator, he's told me about 'er y'see. Li'l lady of astute sense from the settlements near Silvertear. Askin' about, gathering this and that notification. Husband has a tremendous, charmin' beard, but ain't famous for that, oh no. Might make a fine coordinator herself methinks. Ah... an employee shouldn't be indiscreet... Ah, well..."
Sorimachi chuckled sheepishly, running his glove across a chin which carried scars as innumerable as the stubble upon his skin. Surely he'd not sustained those hideous injuries shaving? His thin, almond-shaped eyes carried the glint of an unexpected light in the manor ahead, upon the first floor, dim and spectral.Â
"When the Coordinator knows a person, he -knows- them. Naught but their innermost thoughts, nay, even that, rest under his fingers, his quill. So y'see, Young Master, ye already be invited, lad. Dare I say, ye be upon the visitor's ledger right this minute!"Â
The man's voice wavered. It was there for merely a split second, but his jovial warbling grew brackish and still. Virara raised her chin curiously to meet Sorimachi's gaze, but the man seemed intent on not speaking with her needlessly, perhaps in respect for her love of silence. And yet his tall, broad back seemed a size smaller in that instant.
"Coordinator Kuze... ye do as he wishes. Even if ye don't."
Sorimachi noted confusingly.
"Factor might I be, but so long as my boot is soilin' his manor grounds, I'm naught but a gardener. Just felt it was only square I took it a bit more literally than the others, seein' as it is my hobby t' begin wit'."
They were nearly upon the doorstep of the manor, a broad path of dark tiles ahead. It almost seemed as though they had declined in color and luster the closer the trio got to the residence, as if a creeping rot festered ahead. But in truth, the light was growing dim and the clouds thickened above. The coastal fog gave way to the first stilettos of frigid rain, and Sorimachi ushered them insistently under the overhanging manor coach gate, yawning open lazily before them with no sign of recent use. The tiled roadway featured long, graying masonry platforms so immaculate it was hard to imagine chocobo-drawn cart ever traveled upon it, despite its arch being more than enough to accommodate its lifting balloons. Above the same out of place Abanian griffin glowered disapprovingly upon all guests. Or perhaps he was displeased at being so ungraciously fused with the patchwork aesthetic of the building's heretical exterior.Â
Sorimachi cast aside his thick cloak, tossing it with an old friend's levity to Virara. He wouldn't need it inside. His workman's clothes barely concealed a powerful build, ropy muscles honed from ages of backbreaking fieldwork. Dark green hues in all of his clothes easily soaked up the earthen dyes of his profession, but he seemed to keep the threadbare uniform in good condition, a reflection of his pride. Removing his gardening gloves and buckling them at his side, Sorimachi bowed deeply in a surprisingly graceful, almost genteel motion. With the same curling of the fingers he ushered Chachanji onward towards the dark cherry-wood manor door, inviting the boy in as if it were simply his own modest farm hut-but not Virara.
"... Hm?"
The girl's forward march was abruptly halted at the raising of Sorimachi's newly-ungloved hand. His gaze settled down upon her, as his fingers plucked the sedge hat from his head. His eye was almost watery with an apologetic, pitying cast, but it had all the glimmer of a cold, cut stone. It was not unlike Virara's own stare.
"Beg your pardon, miss, but the Coordinator ain't acceptin' visitors."
Virara's teeth ground furiously behind her tightening lips. Had she not endeavored to overcome her own terse mind, worked her fingers to the bone to get the calligraphy correct? She'd exchanged so many drafts from table to wastebin waiting for the one perfect copy that would get the merchant recluse's attention, tapped Edda's training and expertise, as much for the reassurance that he might pay her some attention as for the penmanship of a true lady. Virara's fingers, worn rough by her training as much as Sorimachi's, closed upon themselves in bitter chagrin. The penmanship of a true lady. A polite tongue. They were all insurmountable walls, challenges that could not be pulverized through repetition and effort. Yet that was all Virara had. Where was her answer?
"Even Chagenji. Even Chagenji is lured here. I am lured here. Yet he will not permit me. He aims to shame me. In parts equal to my desire for his knowledge, Kuze mocks me!"
Sorimachi was welcoming to Chachanji. But he looked upon Virara as if she were a mangy stray. The cloak was a shield against shame, not the wind, the same way an old man might humor a wild dog with his dinner scraps if it whined piteously enough. There was no malice there, but neither was there any recognition of a Spoken.
"I..."
Lowering her gaze to the tiles that permitted no scratches, Virara's firm, small shoulders sunk, and she could only bite her lip, words imprisoned behind her impermeable face.Â
"Why? What does he know about me? About Tsuchigumo?"
"Ah! Fine, fine, well met! 'Tis the charming son himself, eh?"Â
The groundskeeper suddenly dipped to shake Chachanji's hands, gloves covered in a thin layer of soil. His bubbling, merry voice and the jerkiness of the man's stoop alarmed Virara, who Chachanji could see at the other side of Sorimachi reaching into her coat, largely upon reflex. Her expression, round face pink with the frost and gaze unerringly placid, betrayed the reflexive, thoughtless ease through which her trained body acted. Thought was not part of the equation.Â
"The Coordinator, he's told me about 'er y'see. Li'l lady of astute sense from the settlements near Silvertear. Askin' about, gathering this and that notification. Husband has a tremendous, charmin' beard, but ain't famous for that, oh no. Might make a fine coordinator herself methinks. Ah... an employee shouldn't be indiscreet... Ah, well..."
Sorimachi chuckled sheepishly, running his glove across a chin which carried scars as innumerable as the stubble upon his skin. Surely he'd not sustained those hideous injuries shaving? His thin, almond-shaped eyes carried the glint of an unexpected light in the manor ahead, upon the first floor, dim and spectral.Â
"When the Coordinator knows a person, he -knows- them. Naught but their innermost thoughts, nay, even that, rest under his fingers, his quill. So y'see, Young Master, ye already be invited, lad. Dare I say, ye be upon the visitor's ledger right this minute!"Â
The man's voice wavered. It was there for merely a split second, but his jovial warbling grew brackish and still. Virara raised her chin curiously to meet Sorimachi's gaze, but the man seemed intent on not speaking with her needlessly, perhaps in respect for her love of silence. And yet his tall, broad back seemed a size smaller in that instant.
"Coordinator Kuze... ye do as he wishes. Even if ye don't."
Sorimachi noted confusingly.
"Factor might I be, but so long as my boot is soilin' his manor grounds, I'm naught but a gardener. Just felt it was only square I took it a bit more literally than the others, seein' as it is my hobby t' begin wit'."
They were nearly upon the doorstep of the manor, a broad path of dark tiles ahead. It almost seemed as though they had declined in color and luster the closer the trio got to the residence, as if a creeping rot festered ahead. But in truth, the light was growing dim and the clouds thickened above. The coastal fog gave way to the first stilettos of frigid rain, and Sorimachi ushered them insistently under the overhanging manor coach gate, yawning open lazily before them with no sign of recent use. The tiled roadway featured long, graying masonry platforms so immaculate it was hard to imagine chocobo-drawn cart ever traveled upon it, despite its arch being more than enough to accommodate its lifting balloons. Above the same out of place Abanian griffin glowered disapprovingly upon all guests. Or perhaps he was displeased at being so ungraciously fused with the patchwork aesthetic of the building's heretical exterior.Â
Sorimachi cast aside his thick cloak, tossing it with an old friend's levity to Virara. He wouldn't need it inside. His workman's clothes barely concealed a powerful build, ropy muscles honed from ages of backbreaking fieldwork. Dark green hues in all of his clothes easily soaked up the earthen dyes of his profession, but he seemed to keep the threadbare uniform in good condition, a reflection of his pride. Removing his gardening gloves and buckling them at his side, Sorimachi bowed deeply in a surprisingly graceful, almost genteel motion. With the same curling of the fingers he ushered Chachanji onward towards the dark cherry-wood manor door, inviting the boy in as if it were simply his own modest farm hut-but not Virara.
"... Hm?"
The girl's forward march was abruptly halted at the raising of Sorimachi's newly-ungloved hand. His gaze settled down upon her, as his fingers plucked the sedge hat from his head. His eye was almost watery with an apologetic, pitying cast, but it had all the glimmer of a cold, cut stone. It was not unlike Virara's own stare.
"Beg your pardon, miss, but the Coordinator ain't acceptin' visitors."
Virara's teeth ground furiously behind her tightening lips. Had she not endeavored to overcome her own terse mind, worked her fingers to the bone to get the calligraphy correct? She'd exchanged so many drafts from table to wastebin waiting for the one perfect copy that would get the merchant recluse's attention, tapped Edda's training and expertise, as much for the reassurance that he might pay her some attention as for the penmanship of a true lady. Virara's fingers, worn rough by her training as much as Sorimachi's, closed upon themselves in bitter chagrin. The penmanship of a true lady. A polite tongue. They were all insurmountable walls, challenges that could not be pulverized through repetition and effort. Yet that was all Virara had. Where was her answer?
"Even Chagenji. Even Chagenji is lured here. I am lured here. Yet he will not permit me. He aims to shame me. In parts equal to my desire for his knowledge, Kuze mocks me!"
Sorimachi was welcoming to Chachanji. But he looked upon Virara as if she were a mangy stray. The cloak was a shield against shame, not the wind, the same way an old man might humor a wild dog with his dinner scraps if it whined piteously enough. There was no malice there, but neither was there any recognition of a Spoken.
"I..."
Lowering her gaze to the tiles that permitted no scratches, Virara's firm, small shoulders sunk, and she could only bite her lip, words imprisoned behind her impermeable face.Â
"Why? What does he know about me? About Tsuchigumo?"
ã€Œè’¼æ°—ç ²ã€ã‚’使ã‚ã–ã‚‹ã‚’å¾—ãªã„!
AV by Kura-Ou
Wiki (Last updated 01/16)
My Balmung profile.
AV by Kura-Ou
Wiki (Last updated 01/16)
My Balmung profile.
