Voices fill silence. Scars fill skin. Writings fill paper. Memories fill mind.
A room with nobody in it.
A perfect place to plan a murder isn't it?
A dark room, seemingly underground, diffident whether night or day reigned above. A simple abode, devoid of much life, say, for a resting telephrog and whatever lurked in the shadows. But there was someone here. A man. A boy? The Stage Director was a bit of an enigma, even to himself.
Shoof.
A small candle kindled in the corner, chasing away … something, as the shadows scattered desperately away. The warm amber light from the candle flickered as he neared, sitting himself at a table. It was bare, except for shiny golden ink, saved inside an elegant glass vessel. Beside it, a decrepit collection of papers, and then a magnificent quill, white so pure it seemed a shame even to touch it.
Nevertheless, the quill found itself trapped in his fluid grasp as he dipped the tip into the golden ink. He watched a single drop of the metallic gold sheen drip off the tip, deplaning on the surface of the desk, layer of glass above wood, now stained with gold. The dripping gold reminded him of the blood of magic, the golden patina that proved magical ties in someone's blood.
He began to inscribe the words of the gods unto the paper. However, hesitance held his arm back. He knew this wasn't what aiming for. It felt like instead of writing, he was just slathered meaningless symbols onto a paper.
As he began to furnish the words of the gods onto the paper, he sunk deeper into his thoughts. This was no facile task. Perhaps this was all just a futile endeavour, and what he was trying to do would never work. Either way, the quill made contact with the page. However, the symbols that appeared on the paper in the wake of his write were not scribed in the common language. Strange symbols awakened in the golden ink's path, glowing for a slight moment.
Of course, this was to be expected. No normal letters and symbols would be able to make a story of this kind of importance, yet he also questioned the value of these symbols, wondering if it would be enough. He could only attempt to replicate the Will.
The Key to the veracity of the heavens would take much longer to make.
____________
Kurai was the second of the two original Primordial Gods that had created the land of Ansenkuu. She and her sister, Mira, were the Primordial Sisters, the ones who had breathed life into Ansenkuu, their ravishing symphony. They resided in a field of delicate, chiffony white flowers that spread endlessly across the vast fields.
The celeste cerulean tips seemed to be touched by the brilliance of heaven, and as refined and unalloyed as the gods who reside amongst them. An anomaly to the endless sights of flowers were the trees, the same pure white that gave some shade from a shining "sun". It was warm, with just a slight zephyr running through the air. Bright, but not so much that she needed shade.
Kurai's urbane kitsune ears sat atop her head, curving from the sides of her skull up atop her purple-black hair that flew over her face in slightly choppy, side-swept bangs. The rest of her hair cascaded down her back with an underlight of lighter purples. She wore a long and flowing naga-bakama, the silk and cloth mostly white. It held gold and red cloth within the many layers and folds. In addition, she wore an orderly pair of okobo on her feet.
Beside her, lying down on her back, was another god. She was wearing a kososode, albeit a nicer one, with a skin-tight black underlayer. In her hand she spun around a smoking pipe, watching it glint and glimmer with her gold eyes. Torra, the one kitsune who had ever caught a Primordial God's eye. When the Honaq Seeds, the same "seeds" that had given the Primordial Sisters their powers, had birthed the flowers in the field they lay in, Torra had consumed one of these.
Torra… Torra and her fluffy white ears atop her head, Torra with her short cut, messy white-grey hair that almost blended in with the flowers it rested beside. Like a white hime cut, had all the long hair been haphazardly chopped off, leaving a hacked-off cut from the back.
"The sun feels perfect today," Torra sighed deeply, extending her hand towards the sky, pretending to brush against the sun. "Kurai?"
"Yes?" Kurai purred, scanning her beloved's face.
Torra sat up, perching behind Kurai and her drawn-out locks of hair.
"I'm going to braid your hair," Torra declared lovingly. "You'll have to do something with it instead of having it all loose every day. Here." She reached gently toward the nearest black-and-purple lock.
Kurai leaned back onto Torra's thighs, closing her eyes and letting Torra's dainty gloved fingers weave through her hair. Torra worked in silence, turning the long, elegant hair into a slightly shorter, more elegant braid. A thick one, woven with the occasional strand of light purple mixed into the fray of black.
As Torra wove Kurai's hair, her golden eyes surveyed the fields of white Honaq flowers. Or perhaps what colour they would turn with a Primordial's blood … gold? Her eyes looked grey now as her thoughts leaned towards her sadistic side. Perhaps a shiny red, or maybe even black. It occurred to her, a "secondly" Primordial God, that perhaps the blood of Immortals was different, specifically Primordials. Torra continued to braid the thick, dark hair.
"Kurai, have you ever seen a play?" she asked, gently waking the God from her rest.
"No … what's that?"
Torra smiled, happy to explain something she had found interesting during her time visiting the kitsune that roamed Ansenkuu, "It's like a story, but a performance. They use their magic and do all kinds of things with them. They all have little jobs and in the end tell a story. Of course, the actors don't actually have to go through an ordeal that the story goes through, but it's like reading. I always had a soft spot for all the interesting kitsune inventions … have you?"
Kurai laughed at the idea. The lesser versions of the Primordial Kitsune were so interesting. "I suppose we'll have to visit one of these plays, shall we. Perhaps on a date. I will explore Ansenkuu perhaps. I spend much too much time in the Realm of Purity, so fresh air will do me some good. I spend too much time writing things by myself."
Shoof.
The two gods looked up as a door opened up with a few floating steps, and a leg - no, another god, slowly stepped out, waving their arm to close the door behind them.* Mira gently stepped onto the dark foliage beneath their feet, the elegantly detailed golden boots careful as not to harm the Honaqs beneath their soles.
Mira's long platinum-blonde hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall. She had side-swept bangs and side parts that curtained her face.
Her pale skin was covered with a series of golden ornaments, necklaces and sometimes random golden trinkets that almost made her glow. Golden…almost horns, metal sleek and resting just in front of her elegant kitsune ears. The only exception to this was the light and wispy blues that accompanied the trinkets.
However, the white dress made way for something else. Large golden shoulderpads, battle-ready boots, golden armbands, with a browband circlet around her forehead. At her waist, next to a golden belt, lay a dormant sword, sheathless but protected.
Kurai sat up, loosening and undoing part of the braid. She smiled warmly with sisterly affection, opposite of Mira's usual cold glare at seemingly nothing. Torra stood up, leaning on a tree while silently conversing with Mira. She smiled at the God as Mira's glare deepend.
Sometimes, Torra enveloped herself into theatre. The Realms were just her stage. Everything around her was a prop. She could imagine it all…She slowly blinked, reimagining everything around her to be a stage…
A spotlight shone over her head, as her actor stood up and walked towards 'Mira'. Nine fox-like tails float on the ground, some of them fake. Because a normal kitsune would never reach the power of a god.
'Torra' walks towards 'Mira' , the lights dim slightly as 'Torra' extends her arm and smiles. Her kososode brushes the dark grass and bright flowers,.
Perhaps she could have paused time at that moment. Maybe it wouldn't have been too late. It looked like … an exchange.
"You thick-headed bastard. "
Torra's eyes flew open. What?
The spotlight dimmed from their place above 'Torra' as 'Mira' yanked the longsword out of her chest, and Torra fell to the ground, gold-red blood spilling from her mouth as her hand clawed at the gash in her chest.
Torra tried to breathe, but it felt like the only thing she could do was cough up blood. She tried to open her eyes only to a blurry fog as she turned to look at her assailant. Her senses, dulled and scrambled, barely picked up Kurai's scream. This–this wasn't part of the script.
She glared from her place on the bloody ground, trying to turn to get a look at Mira's back, still brandishing the bloody, glowing sword. The last thing she saw was Kurai's face turning pale before her body forced her mind to focus on different things, like staying alive.
Kurai had stood up, her eyes blurring with tears as she choked back a sob. She covered her mouth, trying to keep her stomach in place. Emotions racked her chest so hard, she couldn't even draw her magic. Her braid was almost completely undone, and her hair flowed, nearing the ground and paralleling Mira's bright hair.
She couldn't run from her sister. Kurai fought against herself, but she lost. She stayed there, just standing there with her hands clasped over her mouth with tears bubbling down her face as she sobbed and hiccuped. When had this happened? She had been talking about theatre with Torra, her hair was being braided. And now–
Mira embraced her sister, bloodying her dress, but embracing the tears that choked through her dress. Mira's gaze softened as she quieted her sister's sobs. Her gold eyes faded to its usual, somehow duller gold, losing the height of their power now that her sister was here.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, brushing back a lock of the black hair, "Leave in peace, my little sister."
'Kurai' slumped in her sister's arms, her gaze cold and lifeless as 'Mira' slid to the ground, still clutching her body. She gently brushed the black locks over her gentle eyes, plucking the white flowers and laying them onto her solemn face.
Mira gently reached into Kurai's long elegant yukata and pulled out a long scroll, opening it up for a minute to read. She crumpled the paper in her hand, watching the black scriptures turn gold before fading into ashes.
Mira stood up, dissolving her longsword into dust and reforming it at her side. She stood up, her dull grey eyes looking down. She walked towards Torra, who's breath was still ragged and bloody.
Mira stood over Torra for a moment. Her cold grey eyes glared down at Torra who's eyes had begun to glaze as blood dripped from her mouth. She couldn't even hold her head up. Static whispered at the edges of Torra's mind as she watched Mira turn away, casting her arm to the side and opening another door, turning around as darkness began gnawing at the sides of her vision.
Her back still turned, Mira checked behind her, watching as the light finally whispered away from the god's eyes, limp underneath the white-leafed Honaq Tree. She snapped her fingers, producing a circle of strange symbols behind her as she began to enter the portal-door. A seal, so no other being would know the tragedy of that day. The world would crumble either way.
A crime, a contract that held the gods together torn apart.
For a god, Mira was a piece of shit wasn't she?
****
The Director smiled at his handiwork, watching the last of the gold ink imbue itself into the paper and turn black. He read through it, once, twice, thrice more. The paper felt like dead weight in his hands, but it was progress he supposed. A script wasn't written in a day.
Writing was such a fickle thing. History was a fickle thing. Like shooting an arrow, but a single degree wrong in the angle, and it would be blown wayward. This wasn't even near a finished piece, but he had to try. It was his destiny he supposed. This was part of his story already written out in his fate.
He smiled at nothing in particular. Maybe someone would try to write a story for him the same way he'd tried to write this story. Oh well, he wasn't done writing this just yet. This script had a second, hidden act. But it wasn't ready to be written yet, much less performed. It would take many drafts, enough to build a card castle with. But perhaps it would come to him one day. He silently yearned for the day when he could release them like birds in the wind, letting the world know what it all took.
He abruptly turned as he heard a small chirp by his feet. He smiled again as the small pangolin-like creature commonly referred as 'Senzados' chirped once more, sticking out its long tongue and looking sideways at him. It held up a claw, revealing a rolled up note that The Director happily took, the senzados chirping one final time and then disappearing in a burst of speed.
He waved for the candle to emit more light, showering the rest of the unlit room in light that somehow seemed cold. He smiled almost sadly as he read the message, holding it behind him as the fire licked at the parchment greedily. He stood up, removing his fingers before the fire brushed against it.
Intermission was over, he supposed.
"Always the mourner, never the corpse…"
The Director smiled as the words left his mouth, and the fire went out in a puff of smoke, strangled by magic that was once its fuel.