Oh Glory

He walked on confidently, leading the rather odd ball and impromptu pairing down the short path towards the ramen shop the man had mentally selected. While it was not an overly extravagant or excessively expensive experience, the shop was rather well known around the village and served a mean bowl of spicy crab ramen, this particular dish being the one selected by the blue haired leader. The two ordered and ate, passing some of the time in amiable silence, brief pepperings of conversation sprinkled about their dining, passing the time dithering about this or that or another thing. While perhaps a bit lacking in substance or particularly riveting topics, the food more than made up for the short bouts of speech, at least for the time being.

Kirite looked into the bowl when it first arrived, peering into its depths as the long, irregular chunks of crab meet floated about among the soup and noodles, tiny flecks of peppery spices mingling freely with anything they so chose. One particular noodle, perhaps flavored a bit too strongly or cooked for a hair too long, floated about, longer than the rest and noticeably darker, a deep, powerful tendril floating lazily amongst the sea of pale foods. Vibrant blue eyes tracked the thing as it went, watching the predatory motions of it as the blue haired viewer fell into a kind of trance, only for a brief moment or two, but a powerful trance like state nonetheless. He saw, he saw everything so clearly there for the briefest of moments in that bowl of soup, his chopsticks held only a fraction of an inch from the tense, energized surface of the meal, taught and rife with power and purpose and meaning created from the singular moment of utter intensity on the man’s part.

The noodles moved purposefully, coalescing into a larger being, a kind of frilled body taking a lose form at first before drawing together more and more, the definition of the fibrous foods ever increasing as they knotted closer and closer together. A mantle formed, ringed with a rather delicate fin surrounding the whole of the body, save the very bottom, a large hole in the otherwise perfectly formed figure from which a massive collection of tentacles expanded, their forms crafted from the intertwining of a huge amount of noodles. These long tendrils of starchy muscle stood in rather stark contrast to those conventionally envisioned by a man drowning, hallucinating of the frigid embrace of the Ocean and Her humble Servants. These were not long, did not go on and on and on into an infinite expanse of blackness, but rather were of a shorter variety, stouter and fatter and much more akin to a thousand chubby fingers of a human hand, were the appendage held up to one’s mouth, palm facing out and fingers multiplied one hundred fold.

And there, there in that bowl filled with fish flesh and tendrils, rife with spices, and filled to the brim with an endless amount of possibility, the man saw himself, saw his body, and felt his legs. He knew, knew in that one moment, that this was a sign sent from Deep Below and, in that infinitely tiny and endless second of hesitation, he became acutely aware of the four teal orbs embedded into the flesh of his legs, one on the top of each foot and another in the thigh just above his kneecaps. He felt a familiar quake, a spray of black mist, freezing and comfortingly warm all at once, and heard the shrill silence of the Beast. He knew his gift for what it was, felt the madness of the power flowing through him, and, after the pause of time elapsed, promptly dug into his dish, savoring the flavor of the randomly scattered noodles and crab flesh that floated freely about the bowl once more, devoid of shape and form and intention and purpose.

The other man spoke as they finally finished up their meals, revealing a bit of information of himself and presenting an option for further question, though not without a stipulation of his own. The blue haired man smirked inwardly, mildly pleased and impressed with this man. Sure, he was proving brazen and perhaps even the slightest bit careless, but he knew to never give up his personal information for free and Kirite appreciated his style and foresight. Naturally he would proceed to question the other some more, if only for a short while longer. He responded to the man’s exposition first and his question second.

“Orphans all around then, as it were.” He paused a moment, confessing that he, too, had never known his parents. “And I believe I have omitted this my friend and I do apologize. My surname is Sencha.” A small smile appeared on his face, he feeling the tiniest of embarrassments for having not told the other man something so simple as his surname. “As for what I’d like to know, well I’d be happy hearing anything that you would be comfortable telling me of course, though I must ask, what exactly do you do Mr. Warren?” He paused once more, a smirk ghosting across his visage. “And of course, I’m more than happy to reciprocate the favor.”



877 | 2055