[It speaks to how monotonous a place like Beacon can be that he keeps showing up to these gatherings irregardless of whether he sees benefit in them or not. He wears his swords over armor, a precaution he's taken since the Lighthouse Keeper's return when he knows spirits are going to be amassing, but he's a little surprised by the numbers that actually trickle in from the forest.
Hadn't they spent a grim day butchering each other not along ago? And yet they come, cautious and contrite, like chastised children who know they've done wrong and are afraid of more punishment.
Their nervousness strikes an achingly familiar nerve. They'd lost control. Killed without meaning to. Raged in a state not unlike losing oneself to darkness. How he could not recognize that brand of uncertainty that comes with not knowing how you fit back into the flow of things? Or even if people will have you back, after what you'd done.
A thorny mix of guilt and empathy has him turning to the lone spirit that tentatively chirps at him where it busies itself with paper and a paint tray with some dried up old color chips. It gestures at the paper. An offer to join in? He shakes his head in a no, but watches a while as it rubs clawed fingers over colors and transfer them to the paper in a random configuration of dots. They are strange creatures, aren't they.
Before he can second guess--]
Here. You can do more with it, you know.
[What does M.K. know about art? Nothing. But he can take scrap paper and draw a curved line, using the pad of his index finger in a bit of paint like the spirit. Another curved line connects the two halves of a misshapen crescent moon.
Whether it's the recognizable shape or the advanced painting technique, the spirit trills in delight and applauds, scrabbling for more color to copy his movements. Then it looks at him with the clear, hopeful expectation for another demonstration. Oh, damn... What's simple that hits the sweet spot between his lack of drawing skill and the spirits' language barrier? After a moment's thought, switches to the color blue and begins a different shape.
By the time he's done, the spirit is back to enthusiastically drawing on its lantern paper. Reaching for a rag, he moves to wipe the evidence from his fingers before someone can see him and turns-- And stops, realizing he's too late on that count.]
➤ closed to Riku | 6th
Hadn't they spent a grim day butchering each other not along ago? And yet they come, cautious and contrite, like chastised children who know they've done wrong and are afraid of more punishment.
Their nervousness strikes an achingly familiar nerve. They'd lost control. Killed without meaning to. Raged in a state not unlike losing oneself to darkness. How he could not recognize that brand of uncertainty that comes with not knowing how you fit back into the flow of things? Or even if people will have you back, after what you'd done.
A thorny mix of guilt and empathy has him turning to the lone spirit that tentatively chirps at him where it busies itself with paper and a paint tray with some dried up old color chips. It gestures at the paper. An offer to join in? He shakes his head in a no, but watches a while as it rubs clawed fingers over colors and transfer them to the paper in a random configuration of dots. They are strange creatures, aren't they.
Before he can second guess--]
Here. You can do more with it, you know.
[What does M.K. know about art? Nothing. But he can take scrap paper and draw a curved line, using the pad of his index finger in a bit of paint like the spirit. Another curved line connects the two halves of a misshapen crescent moon.
Whether it's the recognizable shape or the advanced painting technique, the spirit trills in delight and applauds, scrabbling for more color to copy his movements. Then it looks at him with the clear, hopeful expectation for another demonstration. Oh, damn... What's simple that hits the sweet spot between his lack of drawing skill and the spirits' language barrier? After a moment's thought, switches to the color blue and begins a different shape.
By the time he's done, the spirit is back to enthusiastically drawing on its lantern paper. Reaching for a rag, he moves to wipe the evidence from his fingers before someone can see him and turns-- And stops, realizing he's too late on that count.]