phoenixes
ash seeketh embers.
♚ ғʟᴇᴄᴛᴇʀᴇ sɪ ɴᴇǫᴜᴇᴏ sᴜᴘᴇʀᴏs♚
♚ᴀᴄʜᴇʀᴏɴᴛᴀ ᴍᴏᴠᴇʙᴏ♚
♚ᴀᴄʜᴇʀᴏɴᴛᴀ ᴍᴏᴠᴇʙᴏ♚
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phoenixes
ash seeketh embers.
Celebration on Drongar is a relatively rare event.
The rundown cantina is no stranger to the regular bouts of rowdiness exhibited at every possible chance by the battalion. Drongar is situated firmly at the end of the world, and there is little else to do when you have a crate of contraband alcohol and a nagging desire to forget. The entire affair is always loud and messy, controlled just enough that General Nevra could extend them the grace of pretending not to see.
Tonight is different. A breakthrough in intel found them a half abandoned seppie base a day’s march to the east. Not much, but everyone quickly learns that control of Drongar is less a war and more of a complicated game of back and forths. The commander had immediately clicked his tongue and sent them off. Half abandoned is twice as useful. Half abandoned is still an edge.
It’s quick and efficient, a testament to the rising frustrations in the ranks. They clear out the base before razing it to the ground, the only remnant a small, carefully wrapped data packet; yanked out in a hurry amid a shower of blaster bolts. The data turns out to be worth more than they had lost thrice over.
And so there is celebration- there is music. But most importantly, there is drinking.
The air is charged with exhilaration and full of laughter, both impossible to block out. Drinks litter the beaten surfaces, elbows scrape on metal, and the blare of Top 40 Galactica only barely manages to make itself heard over the din. The cantina is small, too small, and the party extends out to the other parts of base, the energy almost impossible to ignore.
Phoenix is at the centre of the festivities, seated on the edge of the cantina bar. There is a fresh glimmer in his eye as he raises a half empty glass into the air, splashing this way and that, before proclaiming it half full and downing what remained. Captain Iris is nearby, close enough that he suffers the brunt of the spill, but all it does is draw a laugh out of him. It’s a loud, exuberant sound, large enough that it drowns out Phoenix’s fresh fit of drunken giggles. Even the commander is seated with them, managing to crack a small smile- they are close, the three of them, and share a table easily.
Bodies flit in and out, and small groups are formed. Scarecrow takes his leave with a new, fresh-eyed civilian who has not heard nearly enough to know to stay away. Their resident ‘scientist’ stays long enough for half a drink before disappearing. Rooster shares a table and a plate with their new, emerald-haired pilot, going far enough as to offer her a smile. In and out. Most don’t leave alone.
Valor finds himself seated alongside Phantom, even as neither of them are meant to be partaking tonight. The other is on a mix of stims, the result of a particularly nasty fight with a seppie droid. It’s a comfortable silence, and it allows him to keep an eye on the batch of shinies chattering by the wall. Contraband is a quick way to end up face down in the mud.
It is then that Valor notes them, engrossed in discussion at a table in the corner of the cantina. A civilian, by the way they carry themselves. In truth, civvies had always blended together for him- he did not have nearly enough time to ever offer more than a polite nod. He allows himself to stare for little more than half a second, but it is done. They turn their head and look right at him.
He frowns, heat growing on his cheeks. Phantom, ever watchful, immediately notices.
“Something wrong?”
Valor can barely hear it over the music, but the other gives him a questioning look. It is not like him to get distracted- even less so to have it be visible. He presses his mouth into a hard line, the warmth on his face thankfully receding. A brief glance is all Phantom needs, however, his eyes following Valor’s previous line of sight, before letting out a sound that sounds awfully close to a scoff. “Feel free to indulge, Sergeant. I can keep watch.”
It is all he can do to stop himself from sputtering, even as Phantom gives him an expectant look. The very idea, to put it simply, is deeply inappropriate. “You’re not serious.”
“It’ll be you, or someone else. Best get on it, Valor. It’s getting late.”
Phantom enjoys making people squirm. It’s something of a hobby- and not one Valor is fond of. His body tenses and his frown deepens, prompting the other to laugh under his breath. Still, there is a sharp truth, there.It is with half a mind to leave that he makes his way over to them.
The cantina is still full enough that no one notices him shuffle through the tables, and when he is close enough, he hears them speak.
“Enjoying the party, Sergeant?”
Their voice is pleasant- a welcome break from the loud chatter that’s occupied the background since their return, and it is then the Valor decides that he would let himself have this. “It’s hard not to,” he replies easily enough, offering a shrug. “It’s not often that we all get to let loose like this.”
They give him a smile, and he finds that he likes the way it looks even more than he likes their voice. “You’re letting loose?”
Valor speaks before he can stop himself. “If you’ll let me.” It’s brash and untoward, but he is too far in to turn back now. They give him a curious look and a tilt of the head, as if considering something; but when they reply, it is not unkind.
“And if I said yes?”
“I’d ask you what you’re doing after this.” His pulse is picking up, despite his best efforts to not devolve into a mess of nerves. It’s difficult, to say the least.
“I was planning on just going back to my quarters-“ They start, words chosen carefully. “But I think that’s open to changes.”
The rundown cantina is no stranger to the regular bouts of rowdiness exhibited at every possible chance by the battalion. Drongar is situated firmly at the end of the world, and there is little else to do when you have a crate of contraband alcohol and a nagging desire to forget. The entire affair is always loud and messy, controlled just enough that General Nevra could extend them the grace of pretending not to see.
Tonight is different. A breakthrough in intel found them a half abandoned seppie base a day’s march to the east. Not much, but everyone quickly learns that control of Drongar is less a war and more of a complicated game of back and forths. The commander had immediately clicked his tongue and sent them off. Half abandoned is twice as useful. Half abandoned is still an edge.
It’s quick and efficient, a testament to the rising frustrations in the ranks. They clear out the base before razing it to the ground, the only remnant a small, carefully wrapped data packet; yanked out in a hurry amid a shower of blaster bolts. The data turns out to be worth more than they had lost thrice over.
And so there is celebration- there is music. But most importantly, there is drinking.
The air is charged with exhilaration and full of laughter, both impossible to block out. Drinks litter the beaten surfaces, elbows scrape on metal, and the blare of Top 40 Galactica only barely manages to make itself heard over the din. The cantina is small, too small, and the party extends out to the other parts of base, the energy almost impossible to ignore.
Phoenix is at the centre of the festivities, seated on the edge of the cantina bar. There is a fresh glimmer in his eye as he raises a half empty glass into the air, splashing this way and that, before proclaiming it half full and downing what remained. Captain Iris is nearby, close enough that he suffers the brunt of the spill, but all it does is draw a laugh out of him. It’s a loud, exuberant sound, large enough that it drowns out Phoenix’s fresh fit of drunken giggles. Even the commander is seated with them, managing to crack a small smile- they are close, the three of them, and share a table easily.
Bodies flit in and out, and small groups are formed. Scarecrow takes his leave with a new, fresh-eyed civilian who has not heard nearly enough to know to stay away. Their resident ‘scientist’ stays long enough for half a drink before disappearing. Rooster shares a table and a plate with their new, emerald-haired pilot, going far enough as to offer her a smile. In and out. Most don’t leave alone.
Valor finds himself seated alongside Phantom, even as neither of them are meant to be partaking tonight. The other is on a mix of stims, the result of a particularly nasty fight with a seppie droid. It’s a comfortable silence, and it allows him to keep an eye on the batch of shinies chattering by the wall. Contraband is a quick way to end up face down in the mud.
It is then that Valor notes them, engrossed in discussion at a table in the corner of the cantina. A civilian, by the way they carry themselves. In truth, civvies had always blended together for him- he did not have nearly enough time to ever offer more than a polite nod. He allows himself to stare for little more than half a second, but it is done. They turn their head and look right at him.
He frowns, heat growing on his cheeks. Phantom, ever watchful, immediately notices.
“Something wrong?”
Valor can barely hear it over the music, but the other gives him a questioning look. It is not like him to get distracted- even less so to have it be visible. He presses his mouth into a hard line, the warmth on his face thankfully receding. A brief glance is all Phantom needs, however, his eyes following Valor’s previous line of sight, before letting out a sound that sounds awfully close to a scoff. “Feel free to indulge, Sergeant. I can keep watch.”
It is all he can do to stop himself from sputtering, even as Phantom gives him an expectant look. The very idea, to put it simply, is deeply inappropriate. “You’re not serious.”
“It’ll be you, or someone else. Best get on it, Valor. It’s getting late.”
Phantom enjoys making people squirm. It’s something of a hobby- and not one Valor is fond of. His body tenses and his frown deepens, prompting the other to laugh under his breath. Still, there is a sharp truth, there.It is with half a mind to leave that he makes his way over to them.
The cantina is still full enough that no one notices him shuffle through the tables, and when he is close enough, he hears them speak.
“Enjoying the party, Sergeant?”
Their voice is pleasant- a welcome break from the loud chatter that’s occupied the background since their return, and it is then the Valor decides that he would let himself have this. “It’s hard not to,” he replies easily enough, offering a shrug. “It’s not often that we all get to let loose like this.”
They give him a smile, and he finds that he likes the way it looks even more than he likes their voice. “You’re letting loose?”
Valor speaks before he can stop himself. “If you’ll let me.” It’s brash and untoward, but he is too far in to turn back now. They give him a curious look and a tilt of the head, as if considering something; but when they reply, it is not unkind.
“And if I said yes?”
“I’d ask you what you’re doing after this.” His pulse is picking up, despite his best efforts to not devolve into a mess of nerves. It’s difficult, to say the least.
“I was planning on just going back to my quarters-“ They start, words chosen carefully. “But I think that’s open to changes.”
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phoenixes
ash seeketh embers.
『 x 』 For all intents and purposes, Fox is not a patient man.
It is, at the end of the day, a glaring personal flaw- and well aware of it he is, even as he tries to force a grimace down. It doesn’t matter, not with the scarlet plastoid covering his face, an object that has served as mask for as long as he had owned it.
Still, try as he might, Fox can’t bring himself to slide the assignment off to someone else. He stands there, staring at the golden banners hanging lavishly in the waiting room, their ornate patterns threatening to mock him. He is best of the best, and law demanded he do what he was bred for. Another could take his place, true, but they would not do as well, and it is the weight of duty that has shepherded him into the senate building and into new chains of his own choosing.
The senate is- complicated. The republic’s politics, even more so. They are built on history and prejudices foreign to him, even with his education, and the grasp he had on them was shaky at best. The war is simple- defeat the separatists. Kill droids. Do your duty. It is as black and white as Fox could force it to be, and force it he would- he does not have the luxury of philosophizing over the morality of what he does, and he does not wish for it.
In the republic senate, things are different. They would sit there and wax poetic of freedom and rights and laws, valiantly deciding the fate of an entire system. Offer aid, but not too much. Win the war- but not too well. Help the citizens, but not all of them. The senate had a thousand rules and one, almost all of them incoherent to anyone except the elites who wrote them, and he would oft watch the politicians dance around some invisible line that he neither understood nor cared for.
The entire affair made his head pound, frankly.
On the other hand, his current assignment is much more simple to understand. Threats, and the nature of dangerous people- those were things he was well acquainted with. He had no misgivings on the matter- in fact, he doubted he would end up as any more than a glorified body guard- but it was necessary, and he would do it, even as he examined the plush carpeting underneath the scarlet soles.
It is, at the end of the day, a glaring personal flaw- and well aware of it he is, even as he tries to force a grimace down. It doesn’t matter, not with the scarlet plastoid covering his face, an object that has served as mask for as long as he had owned it.
Still, try as he might, Fox can’t bring himself to slide the assignment off to someone else. He stands there, staring at the golden banners hanging lavishly in the waiting room, their ornate patterns threatening to mock him. He is best of the best, and law demanded he do what he was bred for. Another could take his place, true, but they would not do as well, and it is the weight of duty that has shepherded him into the senate building and into new chains of his own choosing.
The senate is- complicated. The republic’s politics, even more so. They are built on history and prejudices foreign to him, even with his education, and the grasp he had on them was shaky at best. The war is simple- defeat the separatists. Kill droids. Do your duty. It is as black and white as Fox could force it to be, and force it he would- he does not have the luxury of philosophizing over the morality of what he does, and he does not wish for it.
In the republic senate, things are different. They would sit there and wax poetic of freedom and rights and laws, valiantly deciding the fate of an entire system. Offer aid, but not too much. Win the war- but not too well. Help the citizens, but not all of them. The senate had a thousand rules and one, almost all of them incoherent to anyone except the elites who wrote them, and he would oft watch the politicians dance around some invisible line that he neither understood nor cared for.
The entire affair made his head pound, frankly.
On the other hand, his current assignment is much more simple to understand. Threats, and the nature of dangerous people- those were things he was well acquainted with. He had no misgivings on the matter- in fact, he doubted he would end up as any more than a glorified body guard- but it was necessary, and he would do it, even as he examined the plush carpeting underneath the scarlet soles.
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phoenixes
ash seeketh embers.
sɴɪᴘᴘᴇᴛ
『 x 』 The young lord is eager to please.
It is a small, subtle thing, buried underneath his fresh warrior’s armour and his decorum and every little thing the Ashina did to fashion themselves a proper clan.
He cannot continue that way, however- the path of a war lord is paved with a deep red-black and a thousand swords, not the yes-pleases of a samurai who is not quite a man. This, he knows to be an absolute truth. Lord Isshin did not become a legend by being agreeable.
Still, he is unable to shed the impulse- his nights flicker with images of a woman long dead, a nameless village bathed in red, and a time before he was Lord Genichiro of Clan Ashina.The burden of first son is placed upon him, a gift from the sword saint alongside yukimaru; both of which are nothing next to the life he was so graciously given. He is not an Ashina by blood, and it is only Lord Isshin’s grace that allowed him this chance at life.
The Ashina, as Genichiro knows them, are small but proud. That the great hero Isshin would take in an orphaned peasant as his heir was not missed by the other elite- a slight against their bloodlines and the ruin of a dozen alliances plotted in the estate’s moonlight or more, but the sword saint stands firm. He is Ashina as much as any of us, and Genichiro knows this has nothing to do with sentimentality. Only that the young lord understood the way of the Ashina. Victory, at any cost. Survival at any cost. But he knows well that this shadow will linger at his back, nobles and servants weaving tales of a boy who will not live to become a man. Rumors, he learns quickly, are twice as dangerous- he dons his armour and makes his way to the fountainhead palace.
The Okami are heretics, the nobles hiss, something not quite human and not quite divine. The peasantry sing songs of the warrior women who dance in the moonlight, only to pluck your eyes out with crackling arrows. Most beloved to them, the Lady Tomoe, her lacquered bow almost as dark as her hair, bold enough to give even the great lord Isshin pause. And so he seeks her out- he would learn. He would do what she asked. And maybe, by the end of it, he would find himself worthy of Ashina.
She finds him first. Tomoe of the Okami is somehow more human than he had expected, and beastly enough to make him hesitate. A mask, whiter than snow, and a presence that has something foul and shameful rise inside him. Leave.
Genichiro steadies himself, an act that uses up most of his valor, but the Okami is intrigued enough that she raises a hand to quiet him before he even speaks.
“Young lord,” She starts, and her voice is something between song and hiss. “What brings you to the palace?”
He allows himself to stand a respectable distance away, half deference, half distrust. The Okami are heretics, the nobles say, and Genichiro finds himself unwilling to test this truth.
“Lady Tomoe.” He is young, he sounds younger, the result of half a life spent at the compound. “By your grace- I would seek tutelage under you.”
The mask does not respond, and he wills himself to force down the telltale warmth on his cheeks. Stupid, a voice inside him snorts, giving him half a mind to turn back and live his days as a soft Ashina noble.
Then, an eternity later, she deigns to give him a reply.
“You are Lord Isshin’s grandson.” A lie, but Genichiro lets it pass. “The Sword Saint would be a better mentor than I, surely. We Okami are not…” Tomoe pauses, and when she speaks again, there is a mocking lilt in her words. “Our ways are not welcome among the Ashina, I am told.”
The shadow of a frown pulls at his face. An understandable question- harmless, even, but not one he had the answer to. His wish is unexplainable, even by him, and he finds himself struggling to piece the words together.
“Lord Isshin is…” He stops, trying to make sense of the stone that had lodged itself inside him ever since he was birthed anew. “ He is a legend. He is the hero of Ashina. I am…you must understand, my lady,” A plead, unbecoming of his stature, but Genichiro was not well bred for this. “Lord Isshin can be a savior. I must be more, if I am to be worth this name.”
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