Once upon a time, in a land not so far away...
You wake to the feeling of being watched. Of a set of unfamiliar eyes, of warm breath on the back of your neck. A jolt back to the land of the living, and it's gone. No matter how quick you are, how sneaky, the source of the disruption has long since disappeared, so you have no choice but to try and ignore it. To continue on with your day and try to set that moment of strangeness aside.
You eat, drink, speak with others. Perhaps you explore a little. Whatever it is you choose to do for the day, that feeling from the morning won't return. And by the time the sun sets and the moon glows brightly above, you've likely set those moments of strangeness aside. It's not like it's anything new, after all.
It's the same again for the next few days. No better, no worse. Something best ignored, right?
A speck of blood on the doorframe. That wasn't there before, was it?
A snap of twigs in the distance. A crunch of leaves.
Claw marks gouged deeply into the door.
Into the wall above your bed.
Scraps of red fabric, turned darker with blood. Pieces of fur. Of flesh.
Do you run and hide? Do you fight? Whatever you choose, it's definitely time to make sure your body parts aren't scattered next...
...what a horribly big mouth you have.
--------------------
Since first waking up on the island, characters have been stuck with that feeling of being watched. It isn't a constant. Isn't more than a few seconds at a time, dotted throughout the day. Investigation has never turned up much, and there's never been any sightings of the cause of it all.
Until now.
Throughout the first half of the week, characters will find themselves suffering from that feeling of being watched on a far more constant basis. Rather than it being a one-off, few seconds occurrence each day, that feeling will last for minutes at a time, and on multiple occasions.
However, it isn't until the fifth day that they'll start stumbling across physical signs of their monitoring. There are claw marks on doors. Spots of blood on the paths outside. A crack of twigs in the forests, or the imprint of bloodied paws in the snow.
Ten days in and those signs start finding their way indoors. Wet footprints, tinged with red. Claw marks in the walls, the floor. Torn sheets and the smell of wet...something. Whatever it is that's been watching you, its finally decided to come and say hello.
Two weeks in and characters will begin to have sightings of the creature, its fur dark and its eyes a glowing yellow. At times it looks like a wolf, prowling in the distance. At other times, it's walking on its hind legs, almost human were it not for the muzzle full of gleaming sharp teeth. Get too close, and it slips away like a shadow, gone between one blink and the next. It decides when to reach out to characters, not the other way round.
It's after characters finally get a good look at the creature that it starts leaving...gifts. Characters will start to find familiar items from their home worlds amidst the mess. The remains of a childhood pet, perhaps. Photographs of loved ones, faces torn almost beyond recognition. It's only once it delivers its final gift that the creature retreats to the trees again: a blood-splattered item of clothing that clearly belongs to the person the character misses the most at the time, alive or dead.
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ʀʏᴏ ᴀsᴜᴋᴀ >> ᴅᴇᴠɪʟᴍᴀɴ (ᴏᴠᴀ/ᴍᴀɴɢᴀ)
ʙ. ᴀɴᴅ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ɴᴏᴡ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ
ᴄ. ɪᴛ's ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴇᴀsʏ
ᴅ. sᴏ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ꜰᴀʟʟs, ᴍʏ ʟᴏɴᴇʟʏ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ᴄᴀʟʟs
C
So here he is.
He didn't expect-- that. The bloodstained glasses. He's got good eyes, unfortunately good, so he can tell that's what they are, even in the low light. Lance feels suddenly wrong-footed, offkilter. He's not sure what to say, there are a dozen questions buzzing around his head, but none of them seems like the right thing to start with.
... So he doesn't. He stands, and waits, fingers nervously dancing over the makeshift quiver and the ends of his arrows, to the end of his bow slung over his back. Makeshift. Bamboo. He's still learning, but he is learning - as much as he still wishes he had a rifle. He lingers, not sure what to say, what to expect Ryo to say. When he does speak up, Lance jolts just slightly, like he got lost chasing after trains of thought. ]
Hey. Uh. [ A smoke? ....... It seems so outlandish it takes him a moment. ] Not really. I wanted to ask if you wanna come with us tomorrow, we're going hunting. [ Addendum, he's suddenly not sure if Ryo is familiar with the "we" he means here, ] Me and Keith.
But... did something happen?
no subject
There's often isn't these days, the hands on the clock ticking toward increasing uncertainties. Ryo hadn't much to spare, much to consider beyond what was next, who was next — if he was next, his father's hunting knife kept just beneath his pillow.
So, what was the use in dredging up what had gone past? What was the use in recounting any unsettling distance, paranoia staining dark the white bones that kept it all inside his chest? Maybe once Ryo would have regarded Lance as someone who was innocuous, who had no real interest in him as much he had no real interest in him. Perhaps he would have given him more than a cursory glance, a family name to term him by when crossing paths.
Instead, he only tugs his collar closer with his free hand. It brushes, curls toward the cut of his cheekbones. It hides so much of him. ]
Ha, [ he breathes, after a time. He takes a long drag off his cigarette, flicks from it the thin film of ash. ] Nothing like that.
[ If he notes Lance's discomfort, he doesn't seem to pay mind to it. His eyes flit to quiver Lance consults, the repetitive movements meant to steady him. And still, even after, Ryo doesn't look at him. He looks beyond him, the curve of his shoulder like a level for the horizon line. He doesn't really want to go, but he knows Akira will want to. At the very least, he could ascertain the lay of the landscape and guarantee that Akira'll remain safe.
He takes another drag. ] We'll go, [ he says, words punctuated by thin wisps of grey smoke. ] I'm good at tracking.
[ He omits that he won't be the one to kill. He can't bring himself to do it. ]
wildcard
[A voice roars overhead, equal parts exuberant as it was threatening, though the latter is less intent and more from the simple volume one can achieve by yelling from a massive throat.
The accompanying meters-long wingspan casts a wide shadow, the preceding soar of a hawk calculating its dive for prey were it a hostile creature. However, instead of beginning the fall to sink claws into hair and flesh, the beast above simply grazes the treetops, a green and black blur attempting to get a glimpse of his target of interest below. Gusts of wind launch a brief shower of woody debris and clouds of loose pine needles to the forest floor as Akira finally makes his landing on the sheer edge of a broken boulder up ahead.
It had been a few days since his arrival on the island, and he had spent his time largely surveying the nearby land in devilman form. He was faster this way - and more insulated from whatever elements the change of climate brought with it. His flights were mostly hours of combing through the green of woodlands, counting the bald patches where abandoned cabins happened to be. It was watching the the clear crystal of the lake, tracing the snaking forms of streams and rivers, and eventually beginning to veer outwards to the heat and cold and humidity skirting in opposite directions.
He had seen signs of other inhabitants too, but none seized his attention quite like that familiar dot of blonde in the dark green of the woods. It was the moment he happily realized he wasn't alone.]
no subject
Not since he'd been deposited here, not since he'd woken up. The strap of the pack had long bitten into the meat of his shoulder even through his coat, but it had only served as a distraction. It had kept him grounded through his fatigue, his stomach filled only by the knowledge he'd kept. There wasn't much here, but there wasn't much anywhere. And besides, why would it matter without a solid plan? How could he trust to do more than that, when he could trust so little to begin with? He'd seen enough to know that he was not alone, but it was that fear of what he did know that kept him restless.
And, from what he could discern, his lack of knowledge was widespread. It was rampant. And Ryo, Ryo refused to be part of those who settled in when he had —
But, Ryo Asuka had always been a fickle thing. And his heart, too, had always possessed a singular target since the start of this all. And so, when he hears his name, there's no doubt that his plans have shifted.
He needn't think on it. ]
Akira!
[ It comes all at once, a sharp exhalation. The syllables break easy against his teeth like waves to a shore, familiar and well-worn. He knows that voice. He knows that form. He needn't even look up, but he does. He doesn't have a choice. For as long as he'd known Akira Fudo, Ryo'd known his attention had come to house itself against his skin. And now, it returns to where it lives.
And instinct — it's just as declarative. Already, he's pushing his way through the treeline. His feet have decided for themselves to find a way to his side, his eyes fixed on the breaks in the evergreen. The lay of decay that coats the forest floor does nothing at all deter and neither does the network of roots beneath. In a way, isn't just as suiting that that lack of grace never finds him? Isn't it just as suiting that even now, in this place that has nothing at all he can place realization in, Ryo can rest relief in him?
Human beings are not known for their speed. He can't keep up with the powerful press and push of wings. Forever bound by gravity, it was only a human's reason and endurance that kept them going this long. And without the former, for the moment, it's only that perseverance that pushes him on.
He runs on that alone, both literal and figurative.
When catches up, he stills before the outcrop — shakes the sharp scent of pine from his hair and opens up his posture, the heavy canvas of his coat settling back against him. He doesn't pause for long, before he's climbing his way up to where he is. He has to be sure. He needs to be. ]
no subject
The yellow of Akira's eyes manage to glow with very human relief as he sees Ryo follow him and emerge intact from the boreal forest. From his height in the sky, his friend had looked like a pale grain on the ground, and it was only vague resemblance and a twinge of gut feeling that got him to slow down and get a closer glimpse. Luckily, it looks like that instinct had been entirely right.
In his own excitement, he briefly forgets what several meters of stone means to someone unable to simply leap it in one bound. That is, he forgets until Ryo decides to climb up the rock face on his own with nothing but his hands and his tenacity. He is certain that Ryo could make it all the way to the top if he wanted. It hasn't been so long since their forays through the wilderness back home that he’d forgotten the unusual stamina. It had been Ryo helping him up the last sharp slopes of an exhaustive trek in those times before his possession, after all.
Akira, in kind, lowers a rough palm to save him the trouble. The clawed fingertips brush gently against the skin of Ryo’s hand, waiting to be gripped to allow him an easy hoist up to the top. Though, a little close attention to that large forearm would reveal small streaks of still-drying blood coating the base of his claws and clumping a little of the short, dense hair. Some of it remained on his lips and teeth, too. With the time that had passed and a land full of plentiful wildlife, it wouldn't be too hard to guess how it ended up there. It looks like being absent of human company for a few days left a devilman’s social graces a bit lower on their list of priorities.]
no subject
His hands find holds, his feet certain where they rest. The path gives itself to him, the topography of stone like the topography of home – it weaves, as those once long paths wove down to the sand, the salt, the ocean. Back then, they’d tethered themselves to each other. Back then, Ryo had placed his hand in his countless times, directing Akira this way and that. More to the left, he’d tell him above the sweep of the ocean. Do you feel that one?
He remembers the occasional topples, the collapsed heap of too long limbs. He remembers that Akira would still follow despite it all, but it had been only them. It’d had been only the long, humid hours on slow, summer evenings – school shirts quick to fold over the crest of their broadening shoulders, baring still pale flesh beneath. It’d been so long now since he’d seen that narrow alcove, had swum the warmer currents with Akira beside him. It’d been even longer since the scent of the sea would impart itself warm and damp against their sun-flushed skin, brush Akira somehow even more gentle, vivid.
But, Akira had always been that way: clear and sharp, a means of focusing all that Ryo no longer could touch. He was delineated, brilliant against the inconsistency of the human heart. He’d always been more than Ryo ever could permit, the shape of his vulnerabilities like the shape of his name on his tongue, the fall of his footsteps neat into his own. For all that Ryo guides, Ryo too follows. And follow he does.
He’d follow him anywhere, just as certainly as Akira does.
Against the sun, Akira’s wings are like the sleeping red of eyelids, the soft web between fingers and toes. He could trace all that blooms bright and vital beneath the leather of them, but there is nothing that comes, but this:
Ryo’s hand settles about a claw that reaches for him, his hand dwarfed by the enormity of what he is. What this body is. Akira, at the end of it all, is still the one he chose. He is still the one who wrests control from the demon that coils beneath the skin, present in the blood that dries upon the fur that brushes against him as Ryo allows himself to be pulled up.
He isn’t frightened. Of Akira, he never was.
His pulse hums. ]
There you are, [ he says, more breath than not. It isn’t for exertion, but rather the relief that feathers from him, that folds about the lines of his body like a flare. The rest can come later, once his cursory inspect confirms that Akira is together, whole. His eyes travel, without thinking. They touch upon the gore, assess and dismiss it as not Akira’s own in quick measure. His hand keeps hold of his claw, almost as if he’s forgotten.
And still, his lips tip up. ] You’ve kept yourself busy.
[ He tips his head up, eyes bright, the corners crinkling just enough to be perceptible. It’s more than he’d hoped for. It’s more than enough. ]
no subject
But aside from the stains of grass and dirt marked onto his clothes, it looks like he had nothing to worry about. He couldn't smell any blood, either - at least, none that belonged to Ryo's. There was just the beat of his eager heart, the relief in his breaths, and the glint of a real smile in his eyes. That was more than enough.]
Busy -
[What he was referring to doesn’t quite hit Akira until he notices the red smear on Ryo’s coat from his own hands. The claws retreat from him apologetically, a foaming wave reaching its crest too early and seeping quickly back to the ocean. Were it anyone else's eyes looking back at him, he may have felt a stronger sting of human insecurity at his frightening appearance.]
- I’ve been trying to find out where we are. None of this place looks familiar.
[His hands lift to his chest, where where something begins to shift unnaturally, driven by neither bone nor muscle. Over his sternum grows a mass, not much larger than the devilman's palm, stretching the hair and skin until it acquires a bare leathery texture and oblong shape. The stitching only engraves itself into recognizable, manmade patterns once the pack is mostly formed and nearly freed from the grasp of pliant, pulsing demon flesh. It falls into his hand in the same state as when he absorbed it, entirely dry and preserved inside him. Somehow.
Akira didn’t know how it worked, exactly, just that it was the first thing that came to mind when he became too large to properly wear it. The same way he knew Ghelmer’s name, or how to grow his wings, or to grab Sirene’s antenna with his own. ]
Someone left this.
no subject
He wasn't positive how he'd managed it. But, he knew that he had to. He knew that he did. And he knew, in the hours spent in pursuit, he'd somehow pulled the talons out from beneath the firm lay of his ribs and shoved the extremity over the lip of the steel beam that given him a vantage point to begin with. It was too heavy, he knows, for a human to typically lift. But, humans in their own right could be strong enough when given opportunity. And he was, more than once. From one day to the next, he'd grappled with what anxieties subsumed them. He held back their teeth and their claws, felt the acidic bite and the slow abrasion of inevitability as the world they'd come to know began to distort. For one who'd been so gentle, he'd splintered under the strain and the barbs of what remains is enough to fend most people off. It was an adaptation, in its own right. It was its own power, though illusory and cloaked.
But, as he does not fear Akira, Akira too does not fear him. No matter the way he arms himself against all beyond him, Akira finds his way through. He shoulders through the strongholds, uses the sensitivities that still exist within the skin to peel away the layers that surround him. Ryo takes a slow breath as Akira's curved nails skim, take from him one guard in part as Akira inspects him in the same way Ryo had inspected him. He's careful, precise. His wounds, much like Akira's own, had healed without indication of why or when. It is only that they had, leaving the residual cast of bandaging beneath his shirt to cover what once was there. ]
I was thinking the same thing, [ Ryo starts, after a moment. The bright in his tone dulls, like a frost pressed against dark windows. It smudges what is beneath, an odd ache that curls within his ribs like ivy. His hand retreats as Akira's does, finds a place to rest beneath the shoulder strap that cuts dull into his flesh, even above the coat. It's heavy with wild vegetables, fruits — a few other items, here and there. His gaze moves, for a moment, to what fans around them. There's forest as far he can see, a green sea of trees. Ryo sighs through his nose. ]
There's no way I traveled as far as you did, but there's nothing about what I've seen that looks geographically familiar.
[ He glances back. The manifestation of the pack, somehow, isn't surprising to him. He'd seen an action akin to this before, the reconstitution of muscle and sinew, the weight of Akira's arm in his hands. The recollected sensation of blood smeared across his palms strikes him, but he does not say a word. Akira is here and Akira is whole. He is uninjured and that is all that matters now, in a place they both do not know.
He turns the pack around to the front of his hip, demonstrative. He pushes aside the flap, blind, with one hand as he roots in. ]
I got one too.
[ Though, what he comes up with shouldn't be in most bags. It's a book, its binding bent and battered. The pages are dog-eared in ways that reflect something well-read, a singular and makeshift bookmark holding the place the owner stopped reading it. He extends it to him. ]
Here.
no subject
The thick keratin of claws retract back into their beds as the dense undercoat on his legs thin out until bare skin was all that was left underneath. Crouched on the ground, the monstrous mass of his limbs slim down to human proportions. The long tail, with all its tense and emotive curves and arrowhead tip, vanishes into his spine. Wing-like crests and thick antenna lose their shape, becoming a formless, writhing mane of hair absent of any effect of gravity. The shearing carnassials and fangs of his teeth lose their vicious sharpness - though a hint of them remains by the end.
Akira soon stands to his feet, bare as the day he was born, and wipes the still-present blood from his mouth. His eyes are obstructed by wisps of hair, falling chaotically over his face once they lose their supernatural viscosity. The yellow glow of the demon fades from his eyes until there is nothing but a familiar, warm umber staring back at Ryo, and a hand (mostly) wiped clean of his lunch reaching for the book.]
[Touching the worn paper edges with his fingers brought fond memories of being lost with Ryo in the curiosities of the Professor’s study. Despite his rougher appearance and even more physical methods nowadays, the human Fudo Akira once enjoyed diving through a library - whether they be at his school or in the dark corridors of the Asuka mansion. His room in the Makimura’s house was sparsely populated, save for small things like this copy of the Divine Comedy he'd taken a liking to, unaware of just how relevant Dante’s stories would be to his future.]
Why this, of all things…?
[Akira muses on the question as he picks it up out of Ryo’s hand, his own pack nearly empty in comparison. A quick flip of the pages uncovers the scent of old paper before the book is packed away.]
I have something for you too. Let’s trade.
[Akira offers his lighter bag in with the thing in question, taking notice of how Ryo’s strap sank sharply into his shoulder. Even with his friend’s uncanny endurance, Akira knew he’d have an easier time carting around something heavy on his own back. Ryo was still human, as far as he knew.]