[The Harbinger blinks, lowering his cup as his eyes follow the leaf that flutters around him, kicking up the scarf he doesn’t need, but was insisted he take. He casts the man next to him a glare, though it’s one of minor irritation rather than actual anger.]
Kazuha.
[It’s a warning, not particularly stern, but Kazuha is trying his patience. He has no issue with the samurai playing with his powers, though to bother him is something else entirely. Scaramouche huffs, smoothing down the scarf as though the wind was wild enough to have truly moved it about.
Despite his more sour demeanour an almost knowing hum is given in response. Yearning for something enough to be willing to wander in search of it he can understand. To find a place of belonging he imagines is something the samurai will find eventually, behind all that wanderlust was sentimentality after all.]
Belonging? No, I suppose not.
[His attention wanders, taking in all the greenery surrounding the shops as they continue down the path, the reds of the maples, and he wonders just what the two of them must look like to the other people about the park. Kazuha practically adorned in maples, stars in his hair, meaning that he likely has maples in his already, and without his hat they would be out on full display.
It should be clear to everyone why they’ve come to this particular park, he imagines, as he drinks more of his tea.
Scaramouche doesn’t bother speak up again until a very peculiar building catches his eye — an insect museum. The bugs he’s seen in Nippon have been different to those he’s familiar with from Inazuma, and while they aren’t his favourite thing in the world, he does find them interesting enough that the sight stops him in his tracks — free hand reaching out to grab hold of Kazuha’s sleeve. The man was a vagrant like him, certainly he had no issue with bugs.]
no subject
Kazuha.
[It’s a warning, not particularly stern, but Kazuha is trying his patience. He has no issue with the samurai playing with his powers, though to bother him is something else entirely. Scaramouche huffs, smoothing down the scarf as though the wind was wild enough to have truly moved it about.
Despite his more sour demeanour an almost knowing hum is given in response. Yearning for something enough to be willing to wander in search of it he can understand. To find a place of belonging he imagines is something the samurai will find eventually, behind all that wanderlust was sentimentality after all.]
Belonging? No, I suppose not.
[His attention wanders, taking in all the greenery surrounding the shops as they continue down the path, the reds of the maples, and he wonders just what the two of them must look like to the other people about the park. Kazuha practically adorned in maples, stars in his hair, meaning that he likely has maples in his already, and without his hat they would be out on full display.
It should be clear to everyone why they’ve come to this particular park, he imagines, as he drinks more of his tea.
Scaramouche doesn’t bother speak up again until a very peculiar building catches his eye — an insect museum. The bugs he’s seen in Nippon have been different to those he’s familiar with from Inazuma, and while they aren’t his favourite thing in the world, he does find them interesting enough that the sight stops him in his tracks — free hand reaching out to grab hold of Kazuha’s sleeve. The man was a vagrant like him, certainly he had no issue with bugs.]
I’ve changed my mind on making detours.