It was a victory of sorts, but Chachanji felt a bit stymied on the internal celebration at the various minute expressions and other minor displays of emotion that he noted on the groundskeeper. He was nothing if not an empathic sort, so any happiness that would've been wrought at his success was tempered by the gnawing confusion caused by the Hyur's behavior. Virara's actions only further helped to drain at whatever fledgling confidence the smith had girded himself with in his little stubborn tirade.
"W-well, yeah," he managed weakly after Sorimachi's pair of statements, rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly. All that resolve that had flared so brightly before had faded into the shadows once more. "I mean... 'm me. Can't be anyone other'n me, I 'spose..."
Those last words rung sharply in the little Dunesfolk's own ears as the groundskeeper fished out the keys and worked the lock open. The words of the Void Monk and that strange woman came back to him in trickles of memory, as if lazily pouring out like a miasma from the slowly opening door. He said he could only be himself, but he was all but engulfed in the realm of individuals who hid behind masks. Or were personified by their masks - he had yet to fully grasp what they were really going on about.
It was in these brief moments of clarity that Chachanji found himself wondering if he had gotten himself swept up in something that was far beyond his ken. He was certainly not the brightest of the Gegenji children, and yet here he was at the gateway of this great manor because he had espoused his beliefs in a manner no less stubborn than his father had when he drove Gogonji and - ultimately Chachanji himself - away. And, to many, weren't his own ideals almost as crazy as those that had nearly driven his brother into the heart of Garlemald?
After all, at his side - the reason he had come this far and was entrenched this deep in this strange matters - was someone who had been raised only to kill. Someone who he had trained alongside with but a little and yet was fully cognizant, if a bit unwilling to admit to himself that she could, that she had a power and skill that could end the youngest Gegenji's life in an instant should she wish it. And yet he had been all but stubbornly insistent in turning her away from that path her Master had set her upon - steadfastly believing that she could be "better," be "more than that." As if his own childish views on the world were infallible and sacrosanct, despite all the claims (and perhaps even cold hard evidence) to the contrary.
And here he was again because he bucked against what might be common sense and again refused to let someone - in this case the apparent embodiment of the mythological dirt spider of Doman fairy tales - be considered nothing more than a tool. The very beast that had ensnared his current companion and wracked her with fear and paranoia for moons afterward, this was the one he sought to save despite all that it had already done. Stubbornly oblivious to the fact that, as cyclical as his foolishness might be, his dumb luck might not hold this time around.
And yet Chachanji couldn't, he wouldn't tear himself away from this path. He was here because he felt he needed to be - that he had to be. Not for himself - or at least that was what he told himself - but for that now marked-for-death spider that no one wanted. For the Plainsfolk girl whose dreams had been tainted by that very same creature. And so he plodded forever forward in his own bumbling, stumbling, stubbornly childish way. And now he was crossing this threshold - both figuratively and literally - deeper into the shadows of a realm that may ultimately be beyond his own understanding.
And ultimately his downfall.
The little Dunesfolk's thoughts - perhaps a bit poetic in how they had ultimately turned inward and self-reflective, much like his companion's - were interrupted by the thunderous noise of the door closing behind them. So suddenly torn from his thoughts by the suddenness of it, he lurched a bit in surprise and subsequently sought to awkwardly recompose himself as the light burning of embarrassment in his cheeks tussled with the incessant, biting cold of the locale.
"A-ah, r-right right, a'course," he stammered out with a nod that came perhaps a bit too hasty, an obvious attempt to quickly segue away from that embarrassing moment of surprise. "Right b'hind ya."
Perhaps to further try to distract himself from the invasive sensation of his burning cheeks, or to keep those darker musings from bubbling up from the recesses of his mind again, Chachanji's attentions flitted to the sparse decorations of the hall. His violet eyes flickered from sconce to sconce, traced the curves of the wall as it arced upwards into the high ceiling, and idly drew mental pictures among the stone architecture based on how the flickering light danced across them.
This flowed nicely into taking in the sudden flood of stimuli as they entered the main hall - his Dunesfolk eyes not even flinching at the brighter light source, simply continuing to roam until Sorimachi's words brought his attentions to the figure in repose before them. Perhaps reacting simply on instinct, or a desire to not further cause any issues, the little Lalafell mimicked the Hyur's bow but a half-beat after the groundskeeper had done it. Which then, upon noticing Virara's far more resplendent option, segued awkwardly into a more traditional Doman kowtow of his own.
He said nothing at this point, letting Virara take the lead as that faint feeling of being in over his head gnawed at his gut once more. Remaining still and silent as he quietly sought to find where his own awkwardly-shaped piece fit in the grand puzzle that was the events unfolding around them. If it fit at all.
"W-well, yeah," he managed weakly after Sorimachi's pair of statements, rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly. All that resolve that had flared so brightly before had faded into the shadows once more. "I mean... 'm me. Can't be anyone other'n me, I 'spose..."
Those last words rung sharply in the little Dunesfolk's own ears as the groundskeeper fished out the keys and worked the lock open. The words of the Void Monk and that strange woman came back to him in trickles of memory, as if lazily pouring out like a miasma from the slowly opening door. He said he could only be himself, but he was all but engulfed in the realm of individuals who hid behind masks. Or were personified by their masks - he had yet to fully grasp what they were really going on about.
It was in these brief moments of clarity that Chachanji found himself wondering if he had gotten himself swept up in something that was far beyond his ken. He was certainly not the brightest of the Gegenji children, and yet here he was at the gateway of this great manor because he had espoused his beliefs in a manner no less stubborn than his father had when he drove Gogonji and - ultimately Chachanji himself - away. And, to many, weren't his own ideals almost as crazy as those that had nearly driven his brother into the heart of Garlemald?
After all, at his side - the reason he had come this far and was entrenched this deep in this strange matters - was someone who had been raised only to kill. Someone who he had trained alongside with but a little and yet was fully cognizant, if a bit unwilling to admit to himself that she could, that she had a power and skill that could end the youngest Gegenji's life in an instant should she wish it. And yet he had been all but stubbornly insistent in turning her away from that path her Master had set her upon - steadfastly believing that she could be "better," be "more than that." As if his own childish views on the world were infallible and sacrosanct, despite all the claims (and perhaps even cold hard evidence) to the contrary.
And here he was again because he bucked against what might be common sense and again refused to let someone - in this case the apparent embodiment of the mythological dirt spider of Doman fairy tales - be considered nothing more than a tool. The very beast that had ensnared his current companion and wracked her with fear and paranoia for moons afterward, this was the one he sought to save despite all that it had already done. Stubbornly oblivious to the fact that, as cyclical as his foolishness might be, his dumb luck might not hold this time around.
And yet Chachanji couldn't, he wouldn't tear himself away from this path. He was here because he felt he needed to be - that he had to be. Not for himself - or at least that was what he told himself - but for that now marked-for-death spider that no one wanted. For the Plainsfolk girl whose dreams had been tainted by that very same creature. And so he plodded forever forward in his own bumbling, stumbling, stubbornly childish way. And now he was crossing this threshold - both figuratively and literally - deeper into the shadows of a realm that may ultimately be beyond his own understanding.
And ultimately his downfall.
The little Dunesfolk's thoughts - perhaps a bit poetic in how they had ultimately turned inward and self-reflective, much like his companion's - were interrupted by the thunderous noise of the door closing behind them. So suddenly torn from his thoughts by the suddenness of it, he lurched a bit in surprise and subsequently sought to awkwardly recompose himself as the light burning of embarrassment in his cheeks tussled with the incessant, biting cold of the locale.
"A-ah, r-right right, a'course," he stammered out with a nod that came perhaps a bit too hasty, an obvious attempt to quickly segue away from that embarrassing moment of surprise. "Right b'hind ya."
Perhaps to further try to distract himself from the invasive sensation of his burning cheeks, or to keep those darker musings from bubbling up from the recesses of his mind again, Chachanji's attentions flitted to the sparse decorations of the hall. His violet eyes flickered from sconce to sconce, traced the curves of the wall as it arced upwards into the high ceiling, and idly drew mental pictures among the stone architecture based on how the flickering light danced across them.
This flowed nicely into taking in the sudden flood of stimuli as they entered the main hall - his Dunesfolk eyes not even flinching at the brighter light source, simply continuing to roam until Sorimachi's words brought his attentions to the figure in repose before them. Perhaps reacting simply on instinct, or a desire to not further cause any issues, the little Lalafell mimicked the Hyur's bow but a half-beat after the groundskeeper had done it. Which then, upon noticing Virara's far more resplendent option, segued awkwardly into a more traditional Doman kowtow of his own.
He said nothing at this point, letting Virara take the lead as that faint feeling of being in over his head gnawed at his gut once more. Remaining still and silent as he quietly sought to find where his own awkwardly-shaped piece fit in the grand puzzle that was the events unfolding around them. If it fit at all.
~