It hurt more than Kazuha expected something like that. It wasn't the amicable partings of a wanderer he's used to— this stung like loss and left him feeling surprisingly lonely. It colored his mood for a melancholy night, a sadness clinging to him like dewdrops on blades of grass. Although his smiles and laughs try and shake it free, the remnants of it still linger.
He knows Scaramouche is there too, still avoiding him. He rarely catches sight of the immortal, though he can smell where he's been, seemingly everywhere where he is not. It's fairly clear the Balladeer does not wish to see him. Part of Kazuha wonders what he's done to receive such sudden coldness, especially on the night that might be a true farewell.
It's perhaps the reason why, when the other Inazuman suddenly teleports behind him and attempts to sneak off thinking that he'd not garnered the samurai's notice, that Kazuha's grip is so tight when he snatches the other man's wrist. It is fortunate he's quicker than the Harbinger, as if his movements were swift as the wind itself, and he pulls the other man forward closer to him as he turns. He's dressed in the outfit the other man purchased him, though the cloth now has the samurai's characteristic scent of campfire and ocean sea breeze.]
'How admirable! To see lightning and not think of transience.'
[The poetry rolls off his tongue easily. Kazuha smiles, though his eyes are narrowed in a predatory gaze, aggression hidden in his expression. Though there's a light flush to his cheeks and ears, as sign that he's been drinking this evening, everything about him screamed sharp sobriety.]
no subject
It hurt more than Kazuha expected something like that. It wasn't the amicable partings of a wanderer he's used to— this stung like loss and left him feeling surprisingly lonely. It colored his mood for a melancholy night, a sadness clinging to him like dewdrops on blades of grass. Although his smiles and laughs try and shake it free, the remnants of it still linger.
He knows Scaramouche is there too, still avoiding him. He rarely catches sight of the immortal, though he can smell where he's been, seemingly everywhere where he is not. It's fairly clear the Balladeer does not wish to see him. Part of Kazuha wonders what he's done to receive such sudden coldness, especially on the night that might be a true farewell.
It's perhaps the reason why, when the other Inazuman suddenly teleports behind him and attempts to sneak off thinking that he'd not garnered the samurai's notice, that Kazuha's grip is so tight when he snatches the other man's wrist. It is fortunate he's quicker than the Harbinger, as if his movements were swift as the wind itself, and he pulls the other man forward closer to him as he turns. He's dressed in the outfit the other man purchased him, though the cloth now has the samurai's characteristic scent of campfire and ocean sea breeze.]
'How admirable!
To see lightning and not think
of transience.'
[The poetry rolls off his tongue easily. Kazuha smiles, though his eyes are narrowed in a predatory gaze, aggression hidden in his expression. Though there's a light flush to his cheeks and ears, as sign that he's been drinking this evening, everything about him screamed sharp sobriety.]
Good evening, Scaramouche-san.