Post by Itsuki Hasegawa on Oct 24, 2022 14:45:36 GMT -5
-Opening-
Discord Username (include nicknames): AdamProject#0012 / Itsuki Hasegawa
Password 1: Kitai's Debt
Password 2: Sanctus Teamwork
Type: Prodigy Version 2
Affiliation: None.
Rank: None.
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-Basic Information-
Name: Itsuki Hasegawa
Real Age/Age of Appearance: 24
Birthday (Month/Day): 10th January
Blood Type: O-
RP Sample (Optional):
Sample A.
{Spoiler}Summer breeze carrying the salt of the sea grazed his cheek, a slow and lingering caress of the wind brushing by. Vague focus smeared the edges of vision as strangely dull light framed the envelope of warmth about him. Perfume carrying a nostalgic fragrance about the woman in a black dress sat opposite him clung to his senses. Her barely-past-shoulder-length hair had been ensnared by the wind, concealing her face. Petty jealousy clutched his heart, reaching out to brush aside the gusts' grip. His face burned beneath the Odaiba midday sun.
Sun's first waking blade of it's rising gaze struck firm through misaligned curtains, falling upon Itsuki's face and obliterating sleep in a decisive blow, a yielding groan of defeat forced from the waking survivor. Violet unveiled, hazy gaze rued the dream razed, vague recollections of colours and sounds, fading details falling away to dregs of sleep coiled about the stirring awareness and the body it nestled in. Habit takes over and before long a mint-tasting froth and all else nearby are concluded. Comforting cotton, coloured cloth soothing against the cold as the half-dozenth sigh emerges, acknowledgement of some little failure finally escaped the still sleep-addled cogs turning in the waking mind. He plucked free errant lint from the dark navy of his formal pants, vaguely brushing free squint-perceived dust on his black leather shoes with a jangling of the single buckle on each.
"Thirty minutes..." Wandered weary words. Thumbing brightness with the composed elegence of a drunk elephant the man's face yielded momentary creases succumbing to a snicker against his own anticipated accident. Having narrowly avoided his alarms and with it the opportunity to enjoy idle moments in the sunrise, a way to calm nerves and attend work in a somewhat competent state. Prescription pills and a flask of tea sufficed, eyes brief falling upon an empty pet carrier amidst departure, heart catching as reflexive thoughts drifted across the sleeping cat adorning a locked phone background too far away from home. Distract faded and his breath caught, turning around to sleepily jog a spike into his heart rate, snatching up the worn fabric of a long since time-worn charm. An ink-stained mess of blue and gold, the trinket returned to its home tucked away in a pocket clutched close to his heart. Locks clicked, active thoughts faded and footfalls upon stone steps tip-tapped away the feeling of daily medicine as the faintest beads of light peeled free and faded from the resonance with his fullbring.
Disappearing down into the depth of the underground, dust and lint dusted free as good fortune deigned to smile upon him already at this early juncture. Perhaps fervent family prayers and a simple request were all it had taken to sway the gods in all their divine providence and urge him neatly through the crowd, flowing through empty spaces closing and opening between the bustling shoulder-to-shoulder dance of suit after suit. Expecting to be crammed tight, a sardine in a tin, pleasant surprise delivered a sparsely populated train car to the man clad in a burst of colour amidst so much charcoal grey and all black accoutrement. Fortune, it seemed, favoured him with an elderly sort clutching a newspaper against his cane, seated near a gaggle of frantically texting students clad in badge-emblazoned blazers. Seizing stability to stand beneath a handle drooping overhead despite seats open, the dull strain in his body yearned to stand after time spent bound by bed and adorned in hospital robes. No, the soft sway upon the rails suited him just fine, spare hand plucking free some pocket-sized book from an untold hiding place amongst the fabrics of his clothes, as dog-eared and time-aged as when he had first purchased it. Delicately parting pages with a practised motion of his thumb the young man's mind drifted. Perhaps in some few weeks he would see his grandparents again, waiting to receive-- Ah, they'd most likely scold him for not doing as he should have with the trinket armouring his breast in secret, a thought that render a bittersweet smile upon his face. Shaking his head mildly against such nostalgia his mind mellowed. Perception and world turned inwards to soak up a story of a time known only to him through words far more engaging than the endless scripture of his childhood, rhythmic sounds of the clack of the track and the rigorous schedule of the tannoyed announcements fading to little more than a dim aftertaste in his senses. Time wended on, jogging along the tracks as ill-concealed amazement and amusement stirred his features against some character or another's antics. Brief rises overground and along the gaps in overpass offered the only nudge to Itsuki's awareness, a brief bright white gaze and smattering sheets of rain.
The silent alarm of an internal clock jolted his awareness awake, the familiar call of a woman's voice echoing out through the tinny reception of a faulty speaker neglected. Musing upon it as the reason for so few passengers in this train car in particular the young man alighted. Skittering forth at a brisk pace the flow through the spaces between clustered bodies bumping into one another resumed, striding out and up into the pale veil of the late-morning sun and the bracingly cool air. The first chilling breath to fill his lungs felt as if it ran throughout his very being, he had somehow escaped noticing in the brief dart from his apartment to the station quite how refreshing it was to be out in the open again. Subtle buzzing vibrations signalling well wishes from his relatives clamoured for a scant moment of attention, the flicker of a thumb and attention upon the screen conjuring a smile more sincere, pace steadying to little more than a firm stride. Itsuki arced his back with popping clicks at a disappointingly shallow angle, another by-product of his recent extended stay in the hospitality of one Doctor Kojima. Still, relief ran through him alongside a minor note of disgruntlement at his own lack of preparedness against the cowl of grey cloaking morning skies with their peerless, eyeless scowl threatening to burst their banks and leave him as sodden as the train.
A set of bells chimed, casting memory and instinct back to some familiar yet forgotten. Turning reflexively against his pace only the taken-aback expression of an elderly businessman defogging tortoiseshell rimmed lenses hastily making his way around the peculiar commuter greeted him. Unusual eyes searched and pried beneath a brow furrowed softly against the sound. A trick of the mind in the shape of his beloved Fuwa's bell-laden collar perhaps. It had definitely been a smaller bell, nothing so grand as church or as electronic as an advert from a speaker. Shaking himself loose of the feeling as his eyes made their final pass the smooth red silk of a tie and a pair of black gloves were liberated from his waistline pockets. Habitual dull grumble emerged as he snaked it beneath his collar while folded gloves hung beneath furled pinkie, tied loose beneath an open topmost button to allow him to breathe, Itsuki had always found them far too restrictive when presented the most proper formal way. Passing a car parked into an alleyway as the well-fitted material found purchase about his fingers a familiar stone black staircase adorned in fanciful metal railing greeted his descent, the dull hum of the all-day neon sign above portraying the red against-black depiction of the cafe-bar "Club Jezebel" and it's jade-eyed mascot, an auburn haired silhouetted outline of an individual of biblical depiction the owner had fallen in love with clutching the very name of the place to her bosom. He always did find himself pondering how he felt about that sign, strolling past windows barely peeking high enough to drink deep the light of the street as the rain began to pitter-patter upon the wine-red canopy overhead.
Pushing open the varnished rosewood door by the large brass bar occupying most of it either side in place of a door handle, his mind metamorphosed from all that was himself to a more secluded selection as the attending host for the day. Halting as the loud ticking of a wall-fitted antique clock atop the smoky-voiced ambience of some quiet, jazzy record poured out across the place, Itsuki's smile persisted as the familiar lemon-driven scent of enzyme-rich cleaning fluids met his nose, watching the dust in the air of the room move to the rhythm of discreetly fitted ceiling vents stealthily working away. The bar itself was something slightly different from an older alehouse or pub, shaped by the owner as much as the clientele. Double herringbone patterned hardwood floors terminated in black baseboard and crown moulding lined subdued white walls decorated in evenly spaced artworks framed, each depicting a captured image of the human form in artistic styles either nouveau or deco fitted in simple rosewood-coloured plastic frames and spaced evenly beneath the just-dim-enough ceiling lights about the edge of the room. The polished oak topped bar itself stands to the right of the room upon an extended wine-red masonry curb platform reaching out to support eight circular, low backed, black, swivel bar stools with another brass bar as foot rail along the customer-facing length. The worktop of the wide but shallow u-shaped bar was devoid of bar rail moulding and the body of any panelling, shelves and facade a red so dark as to appear black. Floor-to-ceiling uniform shelves of all manner of neatly arranged bottles of colourful spirits, liquors and liquers at and above eye level with glassware below composed the wall-dominating backbar, light cast upon it from lights fitted in the overbar, a uniform dark colour to the body of the underbar. Fitted in the underside of the overbar three more gentler lights lingered to illuminate the bartopupon which a serving tray held a home for two cocktail shakers. More common or popular ingredients set out in clusters by association to their back-shelf cousins in order to wordlessly affirm the trends of the public and the tastes of the regulars were known here. In the middle of the room two square tables sat above the knee level of their attending white counter stools deisgned as a backless reflection of their black bar stool family, arranged so two customers could face each other per table. Hugging the far side of the room beneath the three smaller pictures of which each was a depiction of the bar's location at varying times in history clung a smaller white square coffee table below knee level with two low-backed white leather armchairs for company. Mentally noting in his mind the toilets off to the right of the entrance through which he had entered and to the far side of the bar and to the right of the white armchairs, the dull red door leading to the VIP room. To the right of the VIP room the door to the kitchens existed, it being where Mr Watanabe himself spent most of his time by virtue of the office through the other side of it unless either his son or Itsuk were in attendance of the bar. This in a fashion had been his second home since he had come to Tokyo for university as a means at first to support spending habits and as his conditioned worsened a tenuous if resolute link to the normal life he strived to live.
So romanced was he by returning to this place and the feeling of normalcy such a thing gave him that he had faltered at the final hurdle of recollection -- the bar's unseen first obstacle. Missing the step down to the lowered floor an ankle faltered him into a stumble forward, hand thrust out before him to prevent a nastier fall sending book and charm both tumbling free from his pockets with a fluttering of pages and soft impact to the ground.
"Itsuki..." Trailed the deep, gruff tone of a middle-aged man's life-long smoke beleaguered voice. "...You're not planning on having another trip to the hospital so soon are ya? You've only just gotten back to work."
"Not if I can help it, Mr Watanabe." Came slight cheek presented through a more serious tone. His expression remained straight-laced save the slight curling of the corners of his lips as he leant low to scoop up his personal belongings, righting himself steadily before the watchful eye of the man recently minted into his forty-second year. This man, the manager of the bar was not one for nonsense. Somewhat portly for his age the gently tanned man maintains a degree of musculature to counterbalance his extra weight. A seemingly perpetually furrowed brow sits as the crown to a perfectly shaved clean head, bushy black eyebrows the lone hair on his face. Deep wrinkles burrow along the lines in his cheeks beneath brown eyes, relaxed yet firmly attentive. His lips often sat in a smirking smile set in place to coax customers in despite the upper half of his expression. Perhaps the frame of chubby, mildly draping cheeks and a mild double-chin served to soften him to some or endear him to others. Regardless of occasion Watanabe always seemed to be clad in a full black suit with a tie of red fastened with a jade pin against the grey black button-up beneath his blazer. Now he came to think of it, Itsuki supposed it showed the embrace he envisioned his bar to have him in.
"Good, I knew you wouldn't let me down. That book you've got there, that's about that swordsman, ain't it?" Drawled the deep, coarse growl of the middle aged man. Thumbing open a black matchbook emblazoned with the red stylised font reading 'Jezebel' and snatching one free to strike to life, he gently coaxed a thin cigar to life, illuminating the deep set lines of his face and unerring gaze. The first wispy plume of smoke came.
"It is." Came Itsuki's response shaped in a reflection of that stern stoicism, unmoving from his righted position. "I tried the philosophy book by him you recommended about him for me while I was away, it was a little dense for me." A gruff sound of acknowledgement rasped out.
"It can be tricky, bein' young and tryin' to grasp something from back when. I don't blame ya for findin' it hard". Mr Watanabe's cigar smouldered bright as his worker found a smile in the face of those words. Making his way to his post with an exaggerated sigh the bartender's ill-concealed glee shone through while he knelt down, examining the stocks in the underbar and refamiliarising himself with the eact positions of this, that and the next thing.
"I'll be sure to keep that in mind when I next go to the shrine." Lilted the bemused bartender's strike back, brow quirked as their eyes met once more. The older of the pair chortled more loose smoke into the air, pinching his cigar delicately free so as not to lose it in his joviality. Raising it in cheers with a mild nod to the keen retort the manager soon returned it to his lip for the next brief puff.
"Mm... When did ya learn to get so smart? It's a good thing I pay you to tend the bar and not deal with our more sensitive customers." Watanabe's face furrowed deeper briefly, the faint sound of a deeper drag burning through his cigarillo. "The Yoshida party is here until the late evening slot, they want an early start and something extra. Pass me the ki no bi and daiginjo." Itsuki plucked the gin and sake from the room temperature section of the underbar to set down with a practised quiet upon one of the black serving trays ferreted away on unseen shelves, soon seized from the bartop with a grumble of approval from Watanabe before disappearing back into the soundproofed back room.
Rubber seals on the door sounded off as it slid neatly back into the frame. The priest-turned-bartender's gaze drew back to the empty room before him, only the slow-growing rays of light falling through arched windows opposite keeping his company as silence settled. Allowing attended minutes to pass him by unmarked should someone approach with only the vaguest internal clock grasping for the feeling of ten or fifteen minutes to entertain the scant chance of an early customer, Itsuki pondered. Odaiba beach, that dream. It was right there in the light, dust dancing across the floor as if sun-soaked sand and sea. Why had it come to him now, a sign, a gift? Blinking free of nostalgia-bathed reverie his book emerged upon the highest unseen shelf, weighing the anchor of his mind deep enough into the text with his attention only flit away should shadows break the light crossing the staircase outside into the bar.
Uninterrupted minutes faded into undisturbed hours, midday waned and his shift wended on. It was something of a luxury being given open-til-close on the quietest days, favour afforded by his circumstances. As his grasp of time slipped away the sun found a lower perch reclined in the clouds and the first footsteps upon stone since his own in the morning came. Two sets of steps and two voices intertwined, a man and a woman younger, closer to his own age. Finally clasping pages back together and secreting them away, the bartender finished a glass of water set out in the idling time and prepared to receive his first customers of the dwindling day.
"I don't know what he wanted," Sang the loud frustrations of the woman's voice. "Most clients would understand I have better things to do than redraft their project all day! Don't they understand I'm a freelancer, I have a dozen other things to work on?" Bemoaned she clad in full grey business wear, having opted for pants over a pencil skirt and black flats with a white blouse beneath her blazer, black hair arranged in a mild over-length bob. Behind her a man Itsuki knew to be some ten years his own senior. Silver ring-laden hand held open the door with arm outstretched above her by emblem of their height difference and some shadow of courtesy, a plain silver chain bracelet jangling as he released the brass bar.
"Yes, consider your first drink a formal apology or something like that." Breathed the man in a tone etched from boredom with a chisel of idle monotonous agony. The woman let out some sound of elation, rubbing her hands together in early wakes of excitement with a clack of rainbow beads lining her wrists.
"Get me out of the project meetings for a week and I might actually forgive you!" Came her animated response as the two drew closer, her fair complexioned features illuminated more clearly with green eyes a-gleam behind rounded black frames with the prospect of free booze. "I'll have--"
"A bloody mary, my oldest business associate swears by them to soothe their mood." Interrupted the older man. Light brunette hair held slicked back roughly, stray strands cast loose between brow and hairline across the left of his face. Brown eyed gaze decorated in sleepless bags looked out with some similarity to the unerring watch of Mr Watanabe if not for the smoother, calmer expression that betrayed a soul deadened by work hours. His own suit was a clean white with matching tie against black formal shirt beneath.
"Mr Aoki, Miss Tamura, welcome back to Club Jezebel-- ...Mr Aoki, please understand there is no smoking in this bar." Offered Itsuki in his best formal yet welcoming voice. It was a clean tone only mildly displaced by his familiarity with these regulars and the sudden request of a cocktail all too easy to make a mistake with the balance of. Haruto Aoki, clad in white, snagged the cigarette from his mouth and tucked it back into the foil of the half-empty packet in his other hand before slipping it into the inside pocket of his blazer.
"You'll have to forgive me, it must have simply slipped my memory. Remind me, doesn't your boss smoke?" Inquired the businessman, a hand finding the counter while his fellow contractor-regular fought with her blazer and over-shoulder bag, designed like some patchwork doll smattered with zippers into this pocket and that.
"And only customers who purchase time in the VIP room may smoke," Answered the bartender, ingredients being plucked and gathered from all manner of corners of the underbar fridges and backbar stock. "The same room which is presently booked and you have the misfortune of not being in." Haruto gave a vague sound of acknowledgement, taking a seat now that Ryoko had managed to find her own. Leafing over a discreet recipe card to confirm all preparations correctly made, the motions began. Dispensing a ring of celery salt about a small black plate branded 'Jezebel' in the centre, Itsuki swiftly smeared the rim of a pint glass with a segment of lemon before inverting the glass into the circle and rolling the edge about the lip to coat the rim. Ice upon glass clinked pleasingly, filled three quarters of the way and set aside. Now came the actual challenge. Inhaling a steadying breath with measurements in mind, focus reigned supreme. A wedge of lemon and lime into the glisteningly clean shaker separated, two unces vodka and tomato, two teaspoons of horseradish, 2 dashes each tabasco and worcestershire, a pinch of each black pepper and paprika. Swiftly now, the shaker concluded with ice and a mote of celery salts closed back up and affixed with a gentle rhythm to shake it to. This too was a thing of delicacy to avoid disrupting the equilibrium inside. Top secured and lid removed, the rich red mixture strained steadily into the glass until only dregs remained. Garnished with a stick of celery, a sprig of parsely packed tight with an olive suspended by toothpick pierced through a lime wedge, the drink was at last presented upon its small plate to the weary customer seated facing him.
"Just keeping you on your toes since I would hate to see your talents go to waste, Itsuki, thank you." Came something approaching amusement from the exhausted 9-5er as he slid it along to a delighted Ryoko. Atop her complaints through the cocktail being sipped through a straw she had procured from a bartop box, Haruto continued. "A jellyfish, if you would be so kind." Tapping the money he had slipped onto the bartop the ever-faithful bartender nodded and flipped back through the quick cards. Mild disappointment crept through him against this one being the sole drink Haruto seemed to imbibe every time he walked through the door as his warm up. Ah, there it was. Cream upon white sambuca upon blue curaçao upon vodka in a highball glass stacked with ice, all floated across the back of a spoon to keep them as separate as possible. Stirred ever so gently it all enmeshed save the main body of blue, 'tentacles' trailing behind it amidst the white to form the jellyfish. Exact payment registered away, Haruto took the first sip of his drink. A heavy sigh followed as shoulders slacked, sleepless eyes coming to restful close. Small, soft satisfaction welled up inside Itsuki at the two falling into appreciative enjoyment of their drinks, it seemed that he had not entirely lost his grasp of mixing drinks to at least a basic level in his two months away. By chance his eyes drifted to meet Ryoko's only for her to offer up a wink atop a straw-pierced smile, the bartender suddenly vividly aware he was the youngest in the building as cheeks burned, dusted pink. A noisy swallow and sigh of appreciation came from the smallest one in the room, straw set free.
"We were wondering when you might come back." She said, her voice honeyed with playfulness and trimmed free of the stress of complaints. "It's never quite the same when Little Watanabe tends the bar, he's too young." Judging by the elicited rumble of agreement through his next mouthful of jellyfish Haruto was in agreement. Itsuki's smiled grew.
"You're very kind, I hear he tries very hard. I have to admit I did find myself wishing I was here on more than one occasion, rather than stuck there. I can't complain though, I was well taken care of and I had some books." Came his reply. Silence hung for a moment as perhaps the room collectively sensed the opportunity to discuss the end point of his condition or so one young man's anxious mind may lead him to believe.
"Books, hm?" Breathed the eldest in the room, tugging his white tie loose. "I have to wonder what a bartender like yourself would read, I'm sure it can't be all drinking manuals and recipe books."
"Actually, I was given all sorts of material. Manga, novella and dense philosophical texts. I suppose it's a natural result of being the youngest." Pleasant yet diminutive, a smile broke through the calm that had replaced boredom across the liaison's face.
"Really? I rather thought philosophy suited a former geko. Tell me, did you ever become a full-fledged priest or did you choose to study something else at university?" The sing-song self-assured tone danced out, smoothly arcing around him.
"How did you hear about that? I don't recall telling you two anything about my life before I came to Tokyo." Yielded the higher-pitched tone of the flummoxed man. Memory fizzled and sparked beneath a sea of flashing neurons delving deep, it didn't tend to sit well when those two worlds of his life crossed over. Ryoko and Haruto had only been coming here for a barely six months and he had taken care not to discuss it with the prior regulars either. She had such a wide grin decorating her face. Did Mr Watanabe tell them? His reference had been the head priest of the shrine back home. But what if--
"I must have heard it around the bar somewhere. I do my best to keep informed about the latest goings-on." Lanced the distracting answer into Itsuki's thoughts. Glazed eyes focused again on Ryoko. If he had found out about this did he know about what had happened to that woman, about how she looked and how closely Ryoko resembled her? His heart thundered in his ears.
"I've always wondered if being a geki comes with believing in spirits," Pried Haruto with an enthusiastic 'ooo!' of reinforced inquiry of the artist. "Do you find yourself to be of that persuasion, seeing spirits and serving as their bridge?" Persevered those sounds flavoured like delight. Itsuki's mind found the images of spirits burned deep, chained by their chests to powers unseen.
"I suppose believing in things like that does come with the territory, yes." Tension gripping his throat began to ease as courage rallied against bad memories. "I do believe." Affirmation soothed him. It occurred to him this was the first time he had said it out loud. Haruto nodded.
"I believe you." Came a clear, earnest tone from the woman staring now off into space. "My mum told me as a child I would often go on about voices, friends she couldn't see. The playpark I used to visit, we'd often go late before sunset because of her work. I was telling her that some child there was playing with me when nobody was even there. She thought it was some imaginary friend until I described him to her. She stopped taking me there when it turned out he matched the description of a kid killed in a drunk driving accident nearby." Pushing up a smile against the quiet her gaze turned down into her drink as she perched the black star back upon her lips.
"You're fortunate it was a friendly spirit, I believe the scripture and stories speak of entities far more malicious than humble playmates, isn't that right, Itsuki?" Offered Haruto. His smile had waned with face in part concealed by a slow and steady downing of the last of his beverage. Shapes and shadows stirred in Itsuki's mind, tempting hazy things in the distance to surface.
"It is lucky, yes. Some would call it a small blessing from the gods that you had the good fortune of a benevolent playmate." Slipped free the rhythms of speech and blunt hints at something divine he had practised so well. "Another drink, Haruto?" Prompted the bartender, the queried raising a hand in refusal.
"No, thank you. I think it's time I exorcise my work week." As he rose Ryoko's empty glass met the counter with a thud, half-chewed celery spiralling briefly about the glass. The odd image pulled him further into the present as the karaoke struck up in the hands of that white suited lightweight, conversation shifting to a mix of hand motions and louder but more occasional words. A tap of her glass to refill her drink; a loud yet polite inquiry framed with a shadow puppet imitation of a bird about how he felt about being free from bed rest; motioning to the VIP lounge and tracing a tear with a choice word to suggest his boss had missed him. Only some immature cartoon facsimile of the boss loudly bemoaning his absence through ill-concealed tears and statements about poor work ethic populated his mind. Fortune favoured him again, offering well restrained amusement and successfully stifled laughter. At her third drink he found himself devoid of thought. Their back and forth over songs no younger than ten years old had eased then tension between his shoulders. Unconsciously a portion of professional, entertaining façade had been washed away in the face of this woman. Unidentifiable feelings, pure and colourless crashed and flowed about the vessel of his soul whilst leaving it unstained by thought. Rubber seals brushed open as a coarse voice reached out to him for the first time in hours, firmly lidding that vessel once more.
"Itsuki..." Trailed the tired voice of a man who had spent some ten hours in the VIP room. "...Party's over. Take your break and then clean up the private lounge. You can go home after that." Dismissing himself politely from the bar with a polite muttering and nod to the lone customer still dwelling at it, she offered him a wave as he strode past his boss and his disbelieving expression levelled at the enthusiastic karaoke addict. Nodding to his manager, he left the familiar sphere of pleasant company and sensation that eluded definition and headed through the kitchen, pressing out through the exit to the unlit foot of the stairs leading to the alleyway.
A breath of cold night air stimulating his senses, coaxing a teeth-chattering utterance as a shiver travelled his spine. The fleeting reaction to the cold faded as he took his usual place reclined against the painted black wall of the exit. It was late enough now that a handful of stars could be seen above, piercing the light pollution. He could only hear a faint breeze out here, the rest of the world reduced to muffled distant sounds. At last he was alone. Over the lip of his mind spilled in the gently swelling sea of those colourless feelings as his mind wandered. Ryoko really did look just like his ex, how long had it been now? His brow furrowed deep as a faint grimace set in.
It was around this time of year, the wind's chill betrayed it. They had all huddled close about a campfire out in the open to see the sky, stars much clearer that night in the countryside. Her hands had been so cold despite the nervous fidgeting of her fingers entwined with his own, nervously biting her lower lip on the edge of his gaze. Blood ran warm through his fingers, tinnitus reached a fever pitch. The memories were playing out of order. Upturned eyes became blind as what was once colourless found a stain of black, swirling up from the crevices and cracks in the vessel of his heart. After all, how could he cast himself back to this place without being grasped by it? A shape like a human body exploded outwards, colour-stained white mask hanging broken and bloodied in the air. Offal in its breath, clawed hands. Dread and discomfort assailed his spine, creeping down. Was that what awaited him at the end? He'd taken the news of his impending death as close to stride as possible with therapy to support him. Scripture and teachings had told him what came next but that unknowable thing, it had taken--
A small bell chimed. Itsuki released a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, his heart pounded in protest. Opaque, she was opaque. A girl that must have been all of seven or eight was waving to him from the top of the stairs, golden bells affixed by red ribbon jangling about her wrist. Her hair was long, down past her shoulders, black and straight. She seemed to be wearing a kimono of sorts, blue and white. Itsuki blinked free the last his dwelling, waving in return to her. She smiled. Before he could ask her name the boss called again. Reflex took over and he turned to call back that he was coming only to find her gone as he prepared to inquire. Well, at least she had snapped him out of it. Making his way back in he supposed this had to be the dozenth or so spirit he'd seen this past month, something which the dark corners of his mind whispered was indicative of his approaching end.
Watanabe had taken up position at the bar, pencilling away in a small pocketbook. Ryoko on the other hand had taken to nursing her phone and a pot of still steamingly warm tea. Even the cups and teapots here we black with red branding, Itsuki had never even seen one before. Maybe they had been bought while he was away, mused the bartender. The lack of music and passionate singing exposed Haruto's absence, he never stuck around once he was finished with the karaoke. A brief glance around affirmed as much. A look from Watanabe urged him on, Itsuki hastily passing by with a smile, sideways stare upon Ryoko again with a quiet pondering of if she would meet his gaze to no avail.
Beyond the sounds of rubber around the dark red wooden door lay a coughing fit as damp, smoky air hit his face in a wave of uncomfortable warmth. Heaving up a cough against the cloying air, Itsuki squinted against the veil to make out the room hoping his memory still matched it. Opposite a wall dominated by a screen consuming it's width and half of its height lay a low, broad and sturdy table. Upon it uniform glasses stood empty, cans crushed and left leaking their dregs, ashtrays stacked and painted with dabs of ash spilling over. Amongst them he spies tell-tale cigar stubs standing out in crumpled and spent cigarettes, brow quirking brief before slipping in. The door behind him fit near-seamlessly into the white walls, completing a repeat of that silhouette logo outside with no hint of colour save black. A U-shaped unit of armless red leather couches sits opposite the screen, sweat and ale spilled over them. An errant tie seems to have escaped, haphazardly flung to hang over the back of the leather. A karaoke machine lay off to the side, affixed to the wall with microphones and remote hastily returned. The crowning jewel was by far three champagne bottles and attending buckets tucked beneath the table swimming with ash and one overturned. They were lucky the floors in here were wooden too. With a quick jab at the temperature and ventilation control on the wall behind the centre couch the vent shaft in the middle of the ceiling sprung to life, working hard to unclog the air. Staring at the identical door opposite the one he had come in from for special guest access from the side entrance he felt a fleeting moment of spite against the mess they'd left him. Still, he supposed through a sigh, at least he was getting paid.
Scrubbing, bagging and binning consumed the next half hour of his life. Again the forceful lemon-fresh scent of cleaner consumed the room, a comparative relief from the smoke and damp ale. Discarding gloves into the fresh-lined small plastic bin and tucking it back under the table with his foot, Itsuki poked his head back out of the VIP room.
"All done, Mr Watanabe. I'll be heading home now." He said with a voice softly strained by a long work day.
"Thanks for ya hard work, I'll see you in a couple of days, Itsuki." Breathed the rough-hewn response. Looking about the parlour he found all of the customers he recognised had vacated, only older associates more keen to be served by his boss than himself with names unknown to him in place at the bar. A small wave and nod marked the last of his departure, trudging back up stone stairs into the bustling night's open air once more. Plucking his phone from his pocket he leafed through the pleasant messages accrued from family, flicking through to call them with a feeling of accomplishment at returning to normalcy even if it had been framed in old, unpleasant memories being coaxed out. His thumb reached for the inviting green call button and then...
...A bell chimed. Itsuki looked up expectantly. His whole body seized up and stopped.
A shape like a human burst outwards crowned in a white mask loomed, coiled clutched close to the sheer glass exterior of the building opposite the bar. Fortune's coin flipped and landed lucky. The creature moved on. It was there as his white knuckled grip upon the charm eased that Itsuki decided he would have to find somewhere to try and coax out the faded memory of lightning leaping from his fingers. It was a good thing he had time off the next day.
Sun's first waking blade of it's rising gaze struck firm through misaligned curtains, falling upon Itsuki's face and obliterating sleep in a decisive blow, a yielding groan of defeat forced from the waking survivor. Violet unveiled, hazy gaze rued the dream razed, vague recollections of colours and sounds, fading details falling away to dregs of sleep coiled about the stirring awareness and the body it nestled in. Habit takes over and before long a mint-tasting froth and all else nearby are concluded. Comforting cotton, coloured cloth soothing against the cold as the half-dozenth sigh emerges, acknowledgement of some little failure finally escaped the still sleep-addled cogs turning in the waking mind. He plucked free errant lint from the dark navy of his formal pants, vaguely brushing free squint-perceived dust on his black leather shoes with a jangling of the single buckle on each.
"Thirty minutes..." Wandered weary words. Thumbing brightness with the composed elegence of a drunk elephant the man's face yielded momentary creases succumbing to a snicker against his own anticipated accident. Having narrowly avoided his alarms and with it the opportunity to enjoy idle moments in the sunrise, a way to calm nerves and attend work in a somewhat competent state. Prescription pills and a flask of tea sufficed, eyes brief falling upon an empty pet carrier amidst departure, heart catching as reflexive thoughts drifted across the sleeping cat adorning a locked phone background too far away from home. Distract faded and his breath caught, turning around to sleepily jog a spike into his heart rate, snatching up the worn fabric of a long since time-worn charm. An ink-stained mess of blue and gold, the trinket returned to its home tucked away in a pocket clutched close to his heart. Locks clicked, active thoughts faded and footfalls upon stone steps tip-tapped away the feeling of daily medicine as the faintest beads of light peeled free and faded from the resonance with his fullbring.
Disappearing down into the depth of the underground, dust and lint dusted free as good fortune deigned to smile upon him already at this early juncture. Perhaps fervent family prayers and a simple request were all it had taken to sway the gods in all their divine providence and urge him neatly through the crowd, flowing through empty spaces closing and opening between the bustling shoulder-to-shoulder dance of suit after suit. Expecting to be crammed tight, a sardine in a tin, pleasant surprise delivered a sparsely populated train car to the man clad in a burst of colour amidst so much charcoal grey and all black accoutrement. Fortune, it seemed, favoured him with an elderly sort clutching a newspaper against his cane, seated near a gaggle of frantically texting students clad in badge-emblazoned blazers. Seizing stability to stand beneath a handle drooping overhead despite seats open, the dull strain in his body yearned to stand after time spent bound by bed and adorned in hospital robes. No, the soft sway upon the rails suited him just fine, spare hand plucking free some pocket-sized book from an untold hiding place amongst the fabrics of his clothes, as dog-eared and time-aged as when he had first purchased it. Delicately parting pages with a practised motion of his thumb the young man's mind drifted. Perhaps in some few weeks he would see his grandparents again, waiting to receive-- Ah, they'd most likely scold him for not doing as he should have with the trinket armouring his breast in secret, a thought that render a bittersweet smile upon his face. Shaking his head mildly against such nostalgia his mind mellowed. Perception and world turned inwards to soak up a story of a time known only to him through words far more engaging than the endless scripture of his childhood, rhythmic sounds of the clack of the track and the rigorous schedule of the tannoyed announcements fading to little more than a dim aftertaste in his senses. Time wended on, jogging along the tracks as ill-concealed amazement and amusement stirred his features against some character or another's antics. Brief rises overground and along the gaps in overpass offered the only nudge to Itsuki's awareness, a brief bright white gaze and smattering sheets of rain.
The silent alarm of an internal clock jolted his awareness awake, the familiar call of a woman's voice echoing out through the tinny reception of a faulty speaker neglected. Musing upon it as the reason for so few passengers in this train car in particular the young man alighted. Skittering forth at a brisk pace the flow through the spaces between clustered bodies bumping into one another resumed, striding out and up into the pale veil of the late-morning sun and the bracingly cool air. The first chilling breath to fill his lungs felt as if it ran throughout his very being, he had somehow escaped noticing in the brief dart from his apartment to the station quite how refreshing it was to be out in the open again. Subtle buzzing vibrations signalling well wishes from his relatives clamoured for a scant moment of attention, the flicker of a thumb and attention upon the screen conjuring a smile more sincere, pace steadying to little more than a firm stride. Itsuki arced his back with popping clicks at a disappointingly shallow angle, another by-product of his recent extended stay in the hospitality of one Doctor Kojima. Still, relief ran through him alongside a minor note of disgruntlement at his own lack of preparedness against the cowl of grey cloaking morning skies with their peerless, eyeless scowl threatening to burst their banks and leave him as sodden as the train.
A set of bells chimed, casting memory and instinct back to some familiar yet forgotten. Turning reflexively against his pace only the taken-aback expression of an elderly businessman defogging tortoiseshell rimmed lenses hastily making his way around the peculiar commuter greeted him. Unusual eyes searched and pried beneath a brow furrowed softly against the sound. A trick of the mind in the shape of his beloved Fuwa's bell-laden collar perhaps. It had definitely been a smaller bell, nothing so grand as church or as electronic as an advert from a speaker. Shaking himself loose of the feeling as his eyes made their final pass the smooth red silk of a tie and a pair of black gloves were liberated from his waistline pockets. Habitual dull grumble emerged as he snaked it beneath his collar while folded gloves hung beneath furled pinkie, tied loose beneath an open topmost button to allow him to breathe, Itsuki had always found them far too restrictive when presented the most proper formal way. Passing a car parked into an alleyway as the well-fitted material found purchase about his fingers a familiar stone black staircase adorned in fanciful metal railing greeted his descent, the dull hum of the all-day neon sign above portraying the red against-black depiction of the cafe-bar "Club Jezebel" and it's jade-eyed mascot, an auburn haired silhouetted outline of an individual of biblical depiction the owner had fallen in love with clutching the very name of the place to her bosom. He always did find himself pondering how he felt about that sign, strolling past windows barely peeking high enough to drink deep the light of the street as the rain began to pitter-patter upon the wine-red canopy overhead.
Pushing open the varnished rosewood door by the large brass bar occupying most of it either side in place of a door handle, his mind metamorphosed from all that was himself to a more secluded selection as the attending host for the day. Halting as the loud ticking of a wall-fitted antique clock atop the smoky-voiced ambience of some quiet, jazzy record poured out across the place, Itsuki's smile persisted as the familiar lemon-driven scent of enzyme-rich cleaning fluids met his nose, watching the dust in the air of the room move to the rhythm of discreetly fitted ceiling vents stealthily working away. The bar itself was something slightly different from an older alehouse or pub, shaped by the owner as much as the clientele. Double herringbone patterned hardwood floors terminated in black baseboard and crown moulding lined subdued white walls decorated in evenly spaced artworks framed, each depicting a captured image of the human form in artistic styles either nouveau or deco fitted in simple rosewood-coloured plastic frames and spaced evenly beneath the just-dim-enough ceiling lights about the edge of the room. The polished oak topped bar itself stands to the right of the room upon an extended wine-red masonry curb platform reaching out to support eight circular, low backed, black, swivel bar stools with another brass bar as foot rail along the customer-facing length. The worktop of the wide but shallow u-shaped bar was devoid of bar rail moulding and the body of any panelling, shelves and facade a red so dark as to appear black. Floor-to-ceiling uniform shelves of all manner of neatly arranged bottles of colourful spirits, liquors and liquers at and above eye level with glassware below composed the wall-dominating backbar, light cast upon it from lights fitted in the overbar, a uniform dark colour to the body of the underbar. Fitted in the underside of the overbar three more gentler lights lingered to illuminate the bartopupon which a serving tray held a home for two cocktail shakers. More common or popular ingredients set out in clusters by association to their back-shelf cousins in order to wordlessly affirm the trends of the public and the tastes of the regulars were known here. In the middle of the room two square tables sat above the knee level of their attending white counter stools deisgned as a backless reflection of their black bar stool family, arranged so two customers could face each other per table. Hugging the far side of the room beneath the three smaller pictures of which each was a depiction of the bar's location at varying times in history clung a smaller white square coffee table below knee level with two low-backed white leather armchairs for company. Mentally noting in his mind the toilets off to the right of the entrance through which he had entered and to the far side of the bar and to the right of the white armchairs, the dull red door leading to the VIP room. To the right of the VIP room the door to the kitchens existed, it being where Mr Watanabe himself spent most of his time by virtue of the office through the other side of it unless either his son or Itsuk were in attendance of the bar. This in a fashion had been his second home since he had come to Tokyo for university as a means at first to support spending habits and as his conditioned worsened a tenuous if resolute link to the normal life he strived to live.
So romanced was he by returning to this place and the feeling of normalcy such a thing gave him that he had faltered at the final hurdle of recollection -- the bar's unseen first obstacle. Missing the step down to the lowered floor an ankle faltered him into a stumble forward, hand thrust out before him to prevent a nastier fall sending book and charm both tumbling free from his pockets with a fluttering of pages and soft impact to the ground.
"Itsuki..." Trailed the deep, gruff tone of a middle-aged man's life-long smoke beleaguered voice. "...You're not planning on having another trip to the hospital so soon are ya? You've only just gotten back to work."
"Not if I can help it, Mr Watanabe." Came slight cheek presented through a more serious tone. His expression remained straight-laced save the slight curling of the corners of his lips as he leant low to scoop up his personal belongings, righting himself steadily before the watchful eye of the man recently minted into his forty-second year. This man, the manager of the bar was not one for nonsense. Somewhat portly for his age the gently tanned man maintains a degree of musculature to counterbalance his extra weight. A seemingly perpetually furrowed brow sits as the crown to a perfectly shaved clean head, bushy black eyebrows the lone hair on his face. Deep wrinkles burrow along the lines in his cheeks beneath brown eyes, relaxed yet firmly attentive. His lips often sat in a smirking smile set in place to coax customers in despite the upper half of his expression. Perhaps the frame of chubby, mildly draping cheeks and a mild double-chin served to soften him to some or endear him to others. Regardless of occasion Watanabe always seemed to be clad in a full black suit with a tie of red fastened with a jade pin against the grey black button-up beneath his blazer. Now he came to think of it, Itsuki supposed it showed the embrace he envisioned his bar to have him in.
"Good, I knew you wouldn't let me down. That book you've got there, that's about that swordsman, ain't it?" Drawled the deep, coarse growl of the middle aged man. Thumbing open a black matchbook emblazoned with the red stylised font reading 'Jezebel' and snatching one free to strike to life, he gently coaxed a thin cigar to life, illuminating the deep set lines of his face and unerring gaze. The first wispy plume of smoke came.
"It is." Came Itsuki's response shaped in a reflection of that stern stoicism, unmoving from his righted position. "I tried the philosophy book by him you recommended about him for me while I was away, it was a little dense for me." A gruff sound of acknowledgement rasped out.
"It can be tricky, bein' young and tryin' to grasp something from back when. I don't blame ya for findin' it hard". Mr Watanabe's cigar smouldered bright as his worker found a smile in the face of those words. Making his way to his post with an exaggerated sigh the bartender's ill-concealed glee shone through while he knelt down, examining the stocks in the underbar and refamiliarising himself with the eact positions of this, that and the next thing.
"I'll be sure to keep that in mind when I next go to the shrine." Lilted the bemused bartender's strike back, brow quirked as their eyes met once more. The older of the pair chortled more loose smoke into the air, pinching his cigar delicately free so as not to lose it in his joviality. Raising it in cheers with a mild nod to the keen retort the manager soon returned it to his lip for the next brief puff.
"Mm... When did ya learn to get so smart? It's a good thing I pay you to tend the bar and not deal with our more sensitive customers." Watanabe's face furrowed deeper briefly, the faint sound of a deeper drag burning through his cigarillo. "The Yoshida party is here until the late evening slot, they want an early start and something extra. Pass me the ki no bi and daiginjo." Itsuki plucked the gin and sake from the room temperature section of the underbar to set down with a practised quiet upon one of the black serving trays ferreted away on unseen shelves, soon seized from the bartop with a grumble of approval from Watanabe before disappearing back into the soundproofed back room.
Rubber seals on the door sounded off as it slid neatly back into the frame. The priest-turned-bartender's gaze drew back to the empty room before him, only the slow-growing rays of light falling through arched windows opposite keeping his company as silence settled. Allowing attended minutes to pass him by unmarked should someone approach with only the vaguest internal clock grasping for the feeling of ten or fifteen minutes to entertain the scant chance of an early customer, Itsuki pondered. Odaiba beach, that dream. It was right there in the light, dust dancing across the floor as if sun-soaked sand and sea. Why had it come to him now, a sign, a gift? Blinking free of nostalgia-bathed reverie his book emerged upon the highest unseen shelf, weighing the anchor of his mind deep enough into the text with his attention only flit away should shadows break the light crossing the staircase outside into the bar.
Uninterrupted minutes faded into undisturbed hours, midday waned and his shift wended on. It was something of a luxury being given open-til-close on the quietest days, favour afforded by his circumstances. As his grasp of time slipped away the sun found a lower perch reclined in the clouds and the first footsteps upon stone since his own in the morning came. Two sets of steps and two voices intertwined, a man and a woman younger, closer to his own age. Finally clasping pages back together and secreting them away, the bartender finished a glass of water set out in the idling time and prepared to receive his first customers of the dwindling day.
"I don't know what he wanted," Sang the loud frustrations of the woman's voice. "Most clients would understand I have better things to do than redraft their project all day! Don't they understand I'm a freelancer, I have a dozen other things to work on?" Bemoaned she clad in full grey business wear, having opted for pants over a pencil skirt and black flats with a white blouse beneath her blazer, black hair arranged in a mild over-length bob. Behind her a man Itsuki knew to be some ten years his own senior. Silver ring-laden hand held open the door with arm outstretched above her by emblem of their height difference and some shadow of courtesy, a plain silver chain bracelet jangling as he released the brass bar.
"Yes, consider your first drink a formal apology or something like that." Breathed the man in a tone etched from boredom with a chisel of idle monotonous agony. The woman let out some sound of elation, rubbing her hands together in early wakes of excitement with a clack of rainbow beads lining her wrists.
"Get me out of the project meetings for a week and I might actually forgive you!" Came her animated response as the two drew closer, her fair complexioned features illuminated more clearly with green eyes a-gleam behind rounded black frames with the prospect of free booze. "I'll have--"
"A bloody mary, my oldest business associate swears by them to soothe their mood." Interrupted the older man. Light brunette hair held slicked back roughly, stray strands cast loose between brow and hairline across the left of his face. Brown eyed gaze decorated in sleepless bags looked out with some similarity to the unerring watch of Mr Watanabe if not for the smoother, calmer expression that betrayed a soul deadened by work hours. His own suit was a clean white with matching tie against black formal shirt beneath.
"Mr Aoki, Miss Tamura, welcome back to Club Jezebel-- ...Mr Aoki, please understand there is no smoking in this bar." Offered Itsuki in his best formal yet welcoming voice. It was a clean tone only mildly displaced by his familiarity with these regulars and the sudden request of a cocktail all too easy to make a mistake with the balance of. Haruto Aoki, clad in white, snagged the cigarette from his mouth and tucked it back into the foil of the half-empty packet in his other hand before slipping it into the inside pocket of his blazer.
"You'll have to forgive me, it must have simply slipped my memory. Remind me, doesn't your boss smoke?" Inquired the businessman, a hand finding the counter while his fellow contractor-regular fought with her blazer and over-shoulder bag, designed like some patchwork doll smattered with zippers into this pocket and that.
"And only customers who purchase time in the VIP room may smoke," Answered the bartender, ingredients being plucked and gathered from all manner of corners of the underbar fridges and backbar stock. "The same room which is presently booked and you have the misfortune of not being in." Haruto gave a vague sound of acknowledgement, taking a seat now that Ryoko had managed to find her own. Leafing over a discreet recipe card to confirm all preparations correctly made, the motions began. Dispensing a ring of celery salt about a small black plate branded 'Jezebel' in the centre, Itsuki swiftly smeared the rim of a pint glass with a segment of lemon before inverting the glass into the circle and rolling the edge about the lip to coat the rim. Ice upon glass clinked pleasingly, filled three quarters of the way and set aside. Now came the actual challenge. Inhaling a steadying breath with measurements in mind, focus reigned supreme. A wedge of lemon and lime into the glisteningly clean shaker separated, two unces vodka and tomato, two teaspoons of horseradish, 2 dashes each tabasco and worcestershire, a pinch of each black pepper and paprika. Swiftly now, the shaker concluded with ice and a mote of celery salts closed back up and affixed with a gentle rhythm to shake it to. This too was a thing of delicacy to avoid disrupting the equilibrium inside. Top secured and lid removed, the rich red mixture strained steadily into the glass until only dregs remained. Garnished with a stick of celery, a sprig of parsely packed tight with an olive suspended by toothpick pierced through a lime wedge, the drink was at last presented upon its small plate to the weary customer seated facing him.
"Just keeping you on your toes since I would hate to see your talents go to waste, Itsuki, thank you." Came something approaching amusement from the exhausted 9-5er as he slid it along to a delighted Ryoko. Atop her complaints through the cocktail being sipped through a straw she had procured from a bartop box, Haruto continued. "A jellyfish, if you would be so kind." Tapping the money he had slipped onto the bartop the ever-faithful bartender nodded and flipped back through the quick cards. Mild disappointment crept through him against this one being the sole drink Haruto seemed to imbibe every time he walked through the door as his warm up. Ah, there it was. Cream upon white sambuca upon blue curaçao upon vodka in a highball glass stacked with ice, all floated across the back of a spoon to keep them as separate as possible. Stirred ever so gently it all enmeshed save the main body of blue, 'tentacles' trailing behind it amidst the white to form the jellyfish. Exact payment registered away, Haruto took the first sip of his drink. A heavy sigh followed as shoulders slacked, sleepless eyes coming to restful close. Small, soft satisfaction welled up inside Itsuki at the two falling into appreciative enjoyment of their drinks, it seemed that he had not entirely lost his grasp of mixing drinks to at least a basic level in his two months away. By chance his eyes drifted to meet Ryoko's only for her to offer up a wink atop a straw-pierced smile, the bartender suddenly vividly aware he was the youngest in the building as cheeks burned, dusted pink. A noisy swallow and sigh of appreciation came from the smallest one in the room, straw set free.
"We were wondering when you might come back." She said, her voice honeyed with playfulness and trimmed free of the stress of complaints. "It's never quite the same when Little Watanabe tends the bar, he's too young." Judging by the elicited rumble of agreement through his next mouthful of jellyfish Haruto was in agreement. Itsuki's smiled grew.
"You're very kind, I hear he tries very hard. I have to admit I did find myself wishing I was here on more than one occasion, rather than stuck there. I can't complain though, I was well taken care of and I had some books." Came his reply. Silence hung for a moment as perhaps the room collectively sensed the opportunity to discuss the end point of his condition or so one young man's anxious mind may lead him to believe.
"Books, hm?" Breathed the eldest in the room, tugging his white tie loose. "I have to wonder what a bartender like yourself would read, I'm sure it can't be all drinking manuals and recipe books."
"Actually, I was given all sorts of material. Manga, novella and dense philosophical texts. I suppose it's a natural result of being the youngest." Pleasant yet diminutive, a smile broke through the calm that had replaced boredom across the liaison's face.
"Really? I rather thought philosophy suited a former geko. Tell me, did you ever become a full-fledged priest or did you choose to study something else at university?" The sing-song self-assured tone danced out, smoothly arcing around him.
"How did you hear about that? I don't recall telling you two anything about my life before I came to Tokyo." Yielded the higher-pitched tone of the flummoxed man. Memory fizzled and sparked beneath a sea of flashing neurons delving deep, it didn't tend to sit well when those two worlds of his life crossed over. Ryoko and Haruto had only been coming here for a barely six months and he had taken care not to discuss it with the prior regulars either. She had such a wide grin decorating her face. Did Mr Watanabe tell them? His reference had been the head priest of the shrine back home. But what if--
"I must have heard it around the bar somewhere. I do my best to keep informed about the latest goings-on." Lanced the distracting answer into Itsuki's thoughts. Glazed eyes focused again on Ryoko. If he had found out about this did he know about what had happened to that woman, about how she looked and how closely Ryoko resembled her? His heart thundered in his ears.
"I've always wondered if being a geki comes with believing in spirits," Pried Haruto with an enthusiastic 'ooo!' of reinforced inquiry of the artist. "Do you find yourself to be of that persuasion, seeing spirits and serving as their bridge?" Persevered those sounds flavoured like delight. Itsuki's mind found the images of spirits burned deep, chained by their chests to powers unseen.
"I suppose believing in things like that does come with the territory, yes." Tension gripping his throat began to ease as courage rallied against bad memories. "I do believe." Affirmation soothed him. It occurred to him this was the first time he had said it out loud. Haruto nodded.
"I believe you." Came a clear, earnest tone from the woman staring now off into space. "My mum told me as a child I would often go on about voices, friends she couldn't see. The playpark I used to visit, we'd often go late before sunset because of her work. I was telling her that some child there was playing with me when nobody was even there. She thought it was some imaginary friend until I described him to her. She stopped taking me there when it turned out he matched the description of a kid killed in a drunk driving accident nearby." Pushing up a smile against the quiet her gaze turned down into her drink as she perched the black star back upon her lips.
"You're fortunate it was a friendly spirit, I believe the scripture and stories speak of entities far more malicious than humble playmates, isn't that right, Itsuki?" Offered Haruto. His smile had waned with face in part concealed by a slow and steady downing of the last of his beverage. Shapes and shadows stirred in Itsuki's mind, tempting hazy things in the distance to surface.
"It is lucky, yes. Some would call it a small blessing from the gods that you had the good fortune of a benevolent playmate." Slipped free the rhythms of speech and blunt hints at something divine he had practised so well. "Another drink, Haruto?" Prompted the bartender, the queried raising a hand in refusal.
"No, thank you. I think it's time I exorcise my work week." As he rose Ryoko's empty glass met the counter with a thud, half-chewed celery spiralling briefly about the glass. The odd image pulled him further into the present as the karaoke struck up in the hands of that white suited lightweight, conversation shifting to a mix of hand motions and louder but more occasional words. A tap of her glass to refill her drink; a loud yet polite inquiry framed with a shadow puppet imitation of a bird about how he felt about being free from bed rest; motioning to the VIP lounge and tracing a tear with a choice word to suggest his boss had missed him. Only some immature cartoon facsimile of the boss loudly bemoaning his absence through ill-concealed tears and statements about poor work ethic populated his mind. Fortune favoured him again, offering well restrained amusement and successfully stifled laughter. At her third drink he found himself devoid of thought. Their back and forth over songs no younger than ten years old had eased then tension between his shoulders. Unconsciously a portion of professional, entertaining façade had been washed away in the face of this woman. Unidentifiable feelings, pure and colourless crashed and flowed about the vessel of his soul whilst leaving it unstained by thought. Rubber seals brushed open as a coarse voice reached out to him for the first time in hours, firmly lidding that vessel once more.
"Itsuki..." Trailed the tired voice of a man who had spent some ten hours in the VIP room. "...Party's over. Take your break and then clean up the private lounge. You can go home after that." Dismissing himself politely from the bar with a polite muttering and nod to the lone customer still dwelling at it, she offered him a wave as he strode past his boss and his disbelieving expression levelled at the enthusiastic karaoke addict. Nodding to his manager, he left the familiar sphere of pleasant company and sensation that eluded definition and headed through the kitchen, pressing out through the exit to the unlit foot of the stairs leading to the alleyway.
A breath of cold night air stimulating his senses, coaxing a teeth-chattering utterance as a shiver travelled his spine. The fleeting reaction to the cold faded as he took his usual place reclined against the painted black wall of the exit. It was late enough now that a handful of stars could be seen above, piercing the light pollution. He could only hear a faint breeze out here, the rest of the world reduced to muffled distant sounds. At last he was alone. Over the lip of his mind spilled in the gently swelling sea of those colourless feelings as his mind wandered. Ryoko really did look just like his ex, how long had it been now? His brow furrowed deep as a faint grimace set in.
It was around this time of year, the wind's chill betrayed it. They had all huddled close about a campfire out in the open to see the sky, stars much clearer that night in the countryside. Her hands had been so cold despite the nervous fidgeting of her fingers entwined with his own, nervously biting her lower lip on the edge of his gaze. Blood ran warm through his fingers, tinnitus reached a fever pitch. The memories were playing out of order. Upturned eyes became blind as what was once colourless found a stain of black, swirling up from the crevices and cracks in the vessel of his heart. After all, how could he cast himself back to this place without being grasped by it? A shape like a human body exploded outwards, colour-stained white mask hanging broken and bloodied in the air. Offal in its breath, clawed hands. Dread and discomfort assailed his spine, creeping down. Was that what awaited him at the end? He'd taken the news of his impending death as close to stride as possible with therapy to support him. Scripture and teachings had told him what came next but that unknowable thing, it had taken--
A small bell chimed. Itsuki released a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, his heart pounded in protest. Opaque, she was opaque. A girl that must have been all of seven or eight was waving to him from the top of the stairs, golden bells affixed by red ribbon jangling about her wrist. Her hair was long, down past her shoulders, black and straight. She seemed to be wearing a kimono of sorts, blue and white. Itsuki blinked free the last his dwelling, waving in return to her. She smiled. Before he could ask her name the boss called again. Reflex took over and he turned to call back that he was coming only to find her gone as he prepared to inquire. Well, at least she had snapped him out of it. Making his way back in he supposed this had to be the dozenth or so spirit he'd seen this past month, something which the dark corners of his mind whispered was indicative of his approaching end.
Watanabe had taken up position at the bar, pencilling away in a small pocketbook. Ryoko on the other hand had taken to nursing her phone and a pot of still steamingly warm tea. Even the cups and teapots here we black with red branding, Itsuki had never even seen one before. Maybe they had been bought while he was away, mused the bartender. The lack of music and passionate singing exposed Haruto's absence, he never stuck around once he was finished with the karaoke. A brief glance around affirmed as much. A look from Watanabe urged him on, Itsuki hastily passing by with a smile, sideways stare upon Ryoko again with a quiet pondering of if she would meet his gaze to no avail.
Beyond the sounds of rubber around the dark red wooden door lay a coughing fit as damp, smoky air hit his face in a wave of uncomfortable warmth. Heaving up a cough against the cloying air, Itsuki squinted against the veil to make out the room hoping his memory still matched it. Opposite a wall dominated by a screen consuming it's width and half of its height lay a low, broad and sturdy table. Upon it uniform glasses stood empty, cans crushed and left leaking their dregs, ashtrays stacked and painted with dabs of ash spilling over. Amongst them he spies tell-tale cigar stubs standing out in crumpled and spent cigarettes, brow quirking brief before slipping in. The door behind him fit near-seamlessly into the white walls, completing a repeat of that silhouette logo outside with no hint of colour save black. A U-shaped unit of armless red leather couches sits opposite the screen, sweat and ale spilled over them. An errant tie seems to have escaped, haphazardly flung to hang over the back of the leather. A karaoke machine lay off to the side, affixed to the wall with microphones and remote hastily returned. The crowning jewel was by far three champagne bottles and attending buckets tucked beneath the table swimming with ash and one overturned. They were lucky the floors in here were wooden too. With a quick jab at the temperature and ventilation control on the wall behind the centre couch the vent shaft in the middle of the ceiling sprung to life, working hard to unclog the air. Staring at the identical door opposite the one he had come in from for special guest access from the side entrance he felt a fleeting moment of spite against the mess they'd left him. Still, he supposed through a sigh, at least he was getting paid.
Scrubbing, bagging and binning consumed the next half hour of his life. Again the forceful lemon-fresh scent of cleaner consumed the room, a comparative relief from the smoke and damp ale. Discarding gloves into the fresh-lined small plastic bin and tucking it back under the table with his foot, Itsuki poked his head back out of the VIP room.
"All done, Mr Watanabe. I'll be heading home now." He said with a voice softly strained by a long work day.
"Thanks for ya hard work, I'll see you in a couple of days, Itsuki." Breathed the rough-hewn response. Looking about the parlour he found all of the customers he recognised had vacated, only older associates more keen to be served by his boss than himself with names unknown to him in place at the bar. A small wave and nod marked the last of his departure, trudging back up stone stairs into the bustling night's open air once more. Plucking his phone from his pocket he leafed through the pleasant messages accrued from family, flicking through to call them with a feeling of accomplishment at returning to normalcy even if it had been framed in old, unpleasant memories being coaxed out. His thumb reached for the inviting green call button and then...
...A bell chimed. Itsuki looked up expectantly. His whole body seized up and stopped.
A shape like a human burst outwards crowned in a white mask loomed, coiled clutched close to the sheer glass exterior of the building opposite the bar. Fortune's coin flipped and landed lucky. The creature moved on. It was there as his white knuckled grip upon the charm eased that Itsuki decided he would have to find somewhere to try and coax out the faded memory of lightning leaping from his fingers. It was a good thing he had time off the next day.
Sample B
{Spoiler}"Miserable weather." Commented a senior monk. Itsuki stirred from his meditative drift, seated amongst some quiet corner he'd believed ideal to hear the rain fall and winds whistle without being buffeted overmuch by either. Somehow even in the blanket of grey that had consumed the sky, somehow even further shielded by the roof that man's head managed to gleam and shine. This shrine wasn't like the one back home, far more visitors and conversational types resided amongst the staff.
"You sound quite happy about it, somehow?" Answered the junior in honest observation. The black robe clad fatman determined to capitalise his time since he had returned from Oxford chortled, jangling and jostling the prayer beads at hand as through a wide smile he gazed out across the sea of flowers and unrelenting line of torii gates stemming away from the main body of the shrine.
"Ah, there is the scent of the kami's mischief in the air, shinshoku." Trailed his jovial observation. Itsuki's stomach grumbled. It was his experience that some monks like this were prone to describing everything with flowery metaphor, it was basically a trick of the trade. That at least earned a smile, the junior pondering back on his own days spent in love with such language.
"Yes, I imagine it will rain a lot. Do you need me to fetch you an umbrella, sensei?" He offered up, eyes now fully open and turned away from the beacon of the baldhead. The monk shed hearty laughter, patting the seated of the pair on his shoulder with a shake of his head. Whatever his exterior, the wooden clatter of a set of juzu being hastily fumbled with wasn't to be mistaken.
"I think I'll retire into indoors in earnest, good luck, kannushi." Came closing reply, the rotund Itsuki sat, dumbfounded.
"Kannushi?" He mumbled. The old baldhead never called him that. Hell, half the time he was being called shinshoku in a tongue-in-cheek fashion.
The sky rumbled and the cloud came to life, a-glow with pale blue light. The heavens proverbially split open as the grey blanket wrung itself free of rain at last. Turning his gaze upwards from that veranda he'd perched under, it came to his attention that the clouds did in fact seem to be ... writhing. It was unnatural, the third thing already in as many minutes to leave him wondering what was going on. Another rumbling came, his spine shivered as something brushed against his soul. That spiritual third eye was forcibly awakened, a great wave crashing against the shores of his soul with a demand for his attention. This power was not unlike when he had first felt the candle of Professor Alexander's soul burning bright, except... different, somehow.
Before he could ponder much further a great droning reverberation sounded out, like some irksome entity waiting to peel back the sky drawing first breath. A hollow? No, this was something above the sky. With that a great dark scaled snout peered down, blue whiskers and red fur lining a slow slithering serpent peering down from the veil above. A dragon. The thing snorted a gout of cloudy mist free from its nostrils and the rain kicked up harder, a veritable deluge pelting Tokyo below much toe the shrieks of tourists fleeing the shrine. This this had to be at least some twenty foot long and as big as the main shrine itself. Well, this was new. Itsuki clutched the omamori in his pocket, was it hit job to deal with this? It felt closer to priest territory than shinigami.
A flash of thunder broke free of the blanket, the subsiding light leaving behind the crackling, shimmering shape of another creature. Another scaled thing, the quadruped's back was a brilliant mane of electric blue fron neck to tip of it's tail, yellow scales with black dots like armour running from beneath the great mass of wild fur down to elbows and knee joints where the same blue fur resided, mighty black claws like obsidian scraped along the tiles of the shrine's pathways as the wolf-faced thing prowled a small circle about the courtyard, gaze fixed up against the rain dragon. It howled out, lightning arcing from cloud to cloud about the pair of white eyes in the sky.
"Well, no rest for the wicked..." Itsuki mused, rising up in half-shock disbelief, half creaking discomfort. Having barely just recovered from his ordeal abroad it did seem like convenient timing for a spontaneous dragon manifestation. It was probably safe to assume due to the lack of screaming these too were entities of the spirit world. The charm in his hand shattered, fresh-forged reiatsu nails once more finding a home in his clavicle.
"You sound quite happy about it, somehow?" Answered the junior in honest observation. The black robe clad fatman determined to capitalise his time since he had returned from Oxford chortled, jangling and jostling the prayer beads at hand as through a wide smile he gazed out across the sea of flowers and unrelenting line of torii gates stemming away from the main body of the shrine.
"Ah, there is the scent of the kami's mischief in the air, shinshoku." Trailed his jovial observation. Itsuki's stomach grumbled. It was his experience that some monks like this were prone to describing everything with flowery metaphor, it was basically a trick of the trade. That at least earned a smile, the junior pondering back on his own days spent in love with such language.
"Yes, I imagine it will rain a lot. Do you need me to fetch you an umbrella, sensei?" He offered up, eyes now fully open and turned away from the beacon of the baldhead. The monk shed hearty laughter, patting the seated of the pair on his shoulder with a shake of his head. Whatever his exterior, the wooden clatter of a set of juzu being hastily fumbled with wasn't to be mistaken.
"I think I'll retire into indoors in earnest, good luck, kannushi." Came closing reply, the rotund Itsuki sat, dumbfounded.
"Kannushi?" He mumbled. The old baldhead never called him that. Hell, half the time he was being called shinshoku in a tongue-in-cheek fashion.
The sky rumbled and the cloud came to life, a-glow with pale blue light. The heavens proverbially split open as the grey blanket wrung itself free of rain at last. Turning his gaze upwards from that veranda he'd perched under, it came to his attention that the clouds did in fact seem to be ... writhing. It was unnatural, the third thing already in as many minutes to leave him wondering what was going on. Another rumbling came, his spine shivered as something brushed against his soul. That spiritual third eye was forcibly awakened, a great wave crashing against the shores of his soul with a demand for his attention. This power was not unlike when he had first felt the candle of Professor Alexander's soul burning bright, except... different, somehow.
Before he could ponder much further a great droning reverberation sounded out, like some irksome entity waiting to peel back the sky drawing first breath. A hollow? No, this was something above the sky. With that a great dark scaled snout peered down, blue whiskers and red fur lining a slow slithering serpent peering down from the veil above. A dragon. The thing snorted a gout of cloudy mist free from its nostrils and the rain kicked up harder, a veritable deluge pelting Tokyo below much toe the shrieks of tourists fleeing the shrine. This this had to be at least some twenty foot long and as big as the main shrine itself. Well, this was new. Itsuki clutched the omamori in his pocket, was it hit job to deal with this? It felt closer to priest territory than shinigami.
A flash of thunder broke free of the blanket, the subsiding light leaving behind the crackling, shimmering shape of another creature. Another scaled thing, the quadruped's back was a brilliant mane of electric blue fron neck to tip of it's tail, yellow scales with black dots like armour running from beneath the great mass of wild fur down to elbows and knee joints where the same blue fur resided, mighty black claws like obsidian scraped along the tiles of the shrine's pathways as the wolf-faced thing prowled a small circle about the courtyard, gaze fixed up against the rain dragon. It howled out, lightning arcing from cloud to cloud about the pair of white eyes in the sky.
"Well, no rest for the wicked..." Itsuki mused, rising up in half-shock disbelief, half creaking discomfort. Having barely just recovered from his ordeal abroad it did seem like convenient timing for a spontaneous dragon manifestation. It was probably safe to assume due to the lack of screaming these too were entities of the spirit world. The charm in his hand shattered, fresh-forged reiatsu nails once more finding a home in his clavicle.
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-Appearance-
(Seijuro Kamiyama from Sakura Wars)
Height/Weight: 5'9 or 175cm / 150lbs or 68kg
Physical Description:
Dark haired, pale skinned and violet-eyed, Itsuki's posture and body both are largely unmarred by stress, strain or scar. His clothes consist of a formal white shirt and red tie worn with the topmost button undone and a purple bodied, white peak-lapelled waistcoat also buttoned in white. His sleeves are often rolled back up to below the elbow and hands covered by black gloves. Dark navy formal pants are belted beneath the waistcoat in brown leather, black loafers buckled in silver blending beneath them.
(The katana and military strap/pouch/belt holster are not included. Perhaps in future.)
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-Personality-
Dislikes:
- Hollows, even if he doesn't know what they're called
- Sour tastes
- Exploitation by those in power
Likes:
- Mysticism
- Sweet flavours
- The freedom to express oneself without damage to others
Flaws:
- Existing within a religious system, he is prone to preconceptions being deep set
- Clinging to the traumatic events of his past have led him to pursue an obsessive path of revenge
- Owing to how he has been treated regarding the existence of the bear-faced hollow, he has become distrustful of mental health professionals.
Habits:
- Regular Shinto duties
- Kendo, when nobody is watching.
- Brush based art
Fears:
- Hollows
- His impending death
- Failing to find himself in the short month he has left
Goals:
- Find answers to what killed his ex.
- Find out how he survived the incident.
- Feel in contact with his "true self" before he passes
Alignment: True neutral.
Overall Personality: Raised to believe in the backing of his blood, Itsuki at his core has confidence built upon academic and social success. The sinews of his personality are woven from religious habit and familiarity resulting in an eagerness for honesty and a respect of those above him in contrast to the festering urge to rebel against an overdose of monotony owing to his unattended loneliness as a result of his spiritual awareness. This too has taught him to value truths experienced first hand, witnessed with his own eyes. Over the past five years the seriousness in his composure from strict parents has softened owing to ailing health, leading him to wield a careful compassion shaped like friendship to those before him and to hold ahis more serious side for matters of more personal significance. Aware of this contrast and emulatory habit in himself as a young adult his utmost effort is to strive for a definition of himself, leading to sometimes unpredictable behaviours in an effort to, 'feel it out'. He only hopes these ways differ from the flat immaturity of teenaged years.
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-Powers-
Fighting Style: Talk here about how your character fights against others. Explain any battle styles he/she knows, and explain special and unique quirks in a character's style. Give examples of how your character reacts to situations, and how he/she uses his/her powers in battle. At least 3 paragraphs required at minimum here. I swear , the hubris.
Itsuki achieved 2-dan in kendo but owing to his illness and travelling outside of the country for a period of time chose to pursue it no further. This does mean in melee he is, to anextent, capable with a hand and a half blade in a sportsman's style developed around fighting in hallways and other compact spaces. His dojo's specific style was centre around wielding the katana and wakizashi separately and making large, powerful cuts. Smaller cuts were not tolerated, hi sensei's sensei ever demanding each blow be drawn all the way up above the head before coming down. While giving more distance to travel and meaning lighter, gentler sword swings essentially never occur, the grander more powerful blows are performed much swifter without a loss in power due to the severe level of repetition. His sensei's sensei was known for enforcing 1000 cuts per day for those of age 16 or over.
In terms of spiritual world combat and his fullbring, Itsuki channels his geko roots and the earliest forms of mysticism. A melding of reiatsu and scripture, esoteric texts and occultism tempered and focus by extensively practiced faith as the son of a miko. This means that he wields a proto form of kido, bakudo, etc (mechanically functioning identically) under different guises and names than their typical wielders may be used to.
This leaves him inclined to more often than not pursure a ranged approach to combat, throwing up defences that occupy physicaly space with hazards to maintain or generate distance between himself or opponents. Beyond this, as a monk, outside of his quest for revenge his priority lies in the healing and sustenance of others. The end result is one of different priorities on the battlefield.
Main Fullbring Appearances:
The medium for his fullbring is that of a ragged, dirt and ink stained kanai anzen talisman. This one in particular is black, a depiction of a molten orange sunrise and inlaid gold text upon it. It is often kept hidden on his body though regrettably his knowledge of it as an impure object as a result of neglect and misuse has had a detrimental effect upon the implementation of his release. When triggered the physical medium of his fullbring disintegrates, reforming after it ends.
Three nails glowing smouldering hot as if fresh from the forge, rendered from reiatsu form pierce the left of his collarbone. Each nail acts as a conduit for his techniques. Though they offer no discomfort there is a mild weight to them. Itsuki himself perceives them to be a materialsation of mantra, sutra or kami, causing them to shift to match his perception once planted in place through subconscious manipulation of the reiatsu.
Main Fullbring Name: Grandparents' Omamori -> Axis Mundi -> Nenshō Juzu (Burning Prayer Beads)
Main Fullbring Level 1 Property: Effected by his perception. The basis is a charm from his childhood that was supposed to be burned to complete a ceremony. It wasn't and over the years has accumulated wear, tear and so on. This had lead to from his perception the concept of impurity in Shinto, kegare, infiltrating it. He disobeyed sacred rules and is paying the price.
It functions as a malleable medium that metamorphoses into various religious symbols and tools in reskins of abilities. Their default form is one of nails, symbolising axis mundi or the connection between heaven, earth and other realms. There are multiple, reflecting the crucifixion but because he is bordering on intending to sacrifice what life he has left for revenge as opposed to a more pure fashion, what should be clear, orange reiatsu is flecked with the black of corruption and impurity.
If he intends to purify something, it breaks into purifying salts. If he is to cast lightning from his hands, Raijin's taiko drum. Synchronising the state of two souls, it forms a shimenawa representing the boundary of both souls becoming as one and so on.
In practical terms, this applies a holy property.
Main Fullbring Level 2 Properties: Flattening his fullbring with a squeeze of his palm, Itsuki recites the Lotus Mantra, "Namu — Myōhō — Renge — Kyō".This breaks the medium down into reiatsu, rendering it malleable and lengthening out into a set of juzu, buddhist prayer beads. Clasping his hands together in prayer with beads tucked between thumbs and forefinger, the floating ring of beads glows with the same molten composure of the nails, threads and droplets dripping skyward only to fade as they break free. Thread and tassels of burning flame at the core of the beads blaze stark black in contrast. For offensive techniques the beads leap free of the thread and for defensive abilities the thread escapes, leaving floating beads behind. Where the nails once pierced his clavicle the same onyx flames leak from the holes left behind.
In practical terms, this exacerbates the impurity in the item. The result is that blood is expended with each technique to reduce the cost in reishi, worsening his condition with each cast. This is the origin of the burning exhaust streaming from his body.
As defensive techniques are woven from the cursed threads, defensive techniques are of an unholy, dark alignment.
Secondary Fullbring Appearances: N/A
Secondary Fullbring Properties: N/A
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-History-
Birthplace: Hiraizumi, Nishiiwai District, Iwate Prefecture
Current Residence: Apartment #104, Building 14108, Katsushika-ku, Tokyo
Memorable Figures:
- Mizuki Sato - Childhood parter-in-mischief, accompaniment abroad and lover. Passed away five years ago during the first year of their mutual degree at Oxford.
- Mr. Watanabe - Middle-aged owner and manager of Club Jezebel, a small bar in Tokyo with a karaoke stage.
"It can be tricky, bein' young and tryin' to grasp something from back when." - Dr. Kojima - Itsuki's doctor, paid for separately from the family doctor since he moved away. He is a year older than Itsuki and regarded as talented. He specialises in heart disease and associated syndromes.
- Ryoko Tamura - A regular at Jezebel. Resembles Itsuki's deceased girlfriend. She is three years older than Itsuki and works in the city as an artist.
"Don't they understand I'm a freelancer, I have a dozen other things to work on?" - Haruto Aoki - Early thirties eccentric regular at Jezebel. He has a devout love of karaoke and often bothers Itsuki to make him unusual drinks.
"Yes, consider your first drink a formal apology or something like that." - The bear-headed hollow - The first hollow Itsuki ever encountered. It preyed upon him and Mizuki for reasons unknown and ambushed them. Before passing out Itsuki managed to lance the creature with a bolt of Byakurai. It is unknown if this felled the beast or otherwise, only that he alone survived and the encounter was dismissed as a diseased bear that had roamed far out of their home territory.
History: Sole child to a travelling English businessman and a miko, Itsuki was raised to follow tradition. He found his visions of the deceased despite being part of an old-fashioned religious family dismissed, planting within him a seed of a separation buried deep. His life continued and his experiences remained relatively few as he moved up into school. While attending the shrine at which he served as a geki he trailed after the spirit of a miko resembling his mother leading to a traumatising first glimpse of a hollow. Confused, disoriented and afraid, the child fled. By some measure of luck it seems nothing came of it. The cloyingly traditional and conservative drives of his parents had kept his life otherwise stressless provided he followed their instruction, something he had no objections to as punishment and reprimand without violence had formed a healthy basis for their relationship.
Owing to his lingering anxiety and growing fear of the unexplicable shade his grandparents returned to him a talisman initially given upon his first visit to the temple at a month old before being taken back for safekeeping. This would form the root of his fullbring, a token with which he would alleviate his anxieties and troubles, clutching to a reassuring link between the world upon which he alone in his family gazed upon and the comfort of his relatives. Little did he understand at this young age was that the reason it had been returned to him was that they had come to suffer the bane hiding in their genetics. An inherited heart disease. Their time was nearing an end. Though the talisman was to be burned upon their death having fulfilled it's use, he instead opted for sentiment over tradition.
His traumatising experience coupled with grief spurred the isolation felt from his family into a typical, blooming rebellion as his age climbed and he transitioned up through schools. Smoking, drinking and occasionally skipping lessons embellished with rejection of his duties as geki. While his methods and engagement with vices enabled him to distance himself from and block out the memory, the passions of youth caused friction with his family. Understanding the desire to expand horizons and drink or even smoke as an old fashioned lot, they refused to let him relinquish his responsibilities. In exchange for maintaining a degree of his freedoms, a deal was reached to partially resume his duties as geki and return an emphasis to his studies. After all, what reason could there be for him to do so beyond teenaged hormones and aspirations in the eyes of such parents?
Life mended and the stability of family restored, he weathered tradition as taught despite the contradiction of the thing shaped like all the evil in a human burst free had placed in his mind. Questions about the truth of scripture, the name and purpose of that beast, the seeming absence of deific counterparts to it buzzed and writhed within. Time marched on and no answers came, distractions of exams and graduation falling upon him. Sweet summer and the break before university held him gently. Yet, a bitter morsel lay hidden beneath the perfect sunrise of his calmed mind. The same heart disease that struck his grandparents from this earth had arisen within him, leaving only a decline over a half decade ahead. Determined to conclude at least the path of education he had set out upon four of those years sank away living amongst vibrant city life. His fading soul cried out for evidence his intellect was real, that it had some degree of worth. If nothing else when he departed his family could be proud of that achievement.
All had not quite been as it seemed. As the opening year of university drew to a close the students pooled their money for a trip, framed by a beach and rich sunlight with their slowly ailing friend as a rallying banner. It was there in the quiet seclusion of the countryside a note from the past rang out and resonated, an inhuman cry reverberating behind his eyes and a vague form shaped like a burst shadow reaching out. Perhaps it had been drawn to what should have been easy prey or the smell of a fullbringer about to bloom, leaking spiritual energy. The next hour had been like a blur. The blood-curdling scream of a girl he had crept away with ground to a meaty pulp between the teeth of that horrid mask, a blow like a car driving him into the dirt.
The couple had tried to run, corralled deeper into the dark of the woods away from help. Clenching that talisman tightly, a diseased heart roared and his fullbring blossomed. Invigorated by mysterious power the priest reached out with an earnest wish for revenge, believing the strength in him to be divine intervention of some sort. Instinct answered as his virgin powers were christened with their first usage, lancing the masked shadow with a bolt of roaring white as consciousness slipped away. In the aftermath, the police had concluded from his story that an infected bear had attacked the couple and the flash witnessed had been nothing more than a hallucination induced by his wounds and blood loss. Alongside his academics the man had turned to pursuing the study of these mysterious nails, feeling out through impulse and rigorous recitation of mantra how it might be clumsily wielded.
Post-masters the ex-geki concluded a career would be fruitless in his short time left and he had no great art to offer the world. Itsuki had done what he had set out to do in terms of legacy, carrying in secret the assumption either masked shadow or stress would aggravate his condition enough to draw his end by now. Condemned to the oncoming terminal stages of the disease the man would still be able to set out and live some semblance of a life for a short time. Having given his family, patient rulers of his life, their wish fulfilled, he found himself a middle class child free to discover himself at last. Having ever looked outwards and upwards through either religion or to his side to logaze upon the conduct of his peers, Itsuki sought out a job as the part-time bartender of a small club. He felt it the best way to hear the stories of others of all walks of life and all ages, hoping through them he could enrich and glimpse his true self before death.
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