thenearshore | [closed]

Shepard was once 18, young and angry as she turned her eyes to the stars and never once did she look back down to Earth, the terra firma that conceived the whole of humanity. Now, she stands trapped on that Earth in a place that is still called Japan, straddling the line between human and divine, and she breathes in the life that surrounds her. It's a freshness, rare and unfiltered that she never thought about even when it was all she had to know. Together, with Yamato, she takes in the countryside where they arrived, full of trees that have yet to bud and hills that bleed with the early spring thaw. There are birds singing and insects buzzing. Earth could be awfully loud.

And waiting before them, amidst it all, is a large house, traditional and modest in style. There was little visible to convey their purpose here save for a thin cloud of smoking climbing skyward at the far end of the estate.

"We're here," she intones though it still doesn't tell him what here is, no more than it did when she caught up with him after school and told him they were going down to Earth although the luminosity of her voice may betray her intentions obliquely. She's spent a lot of their time together singularly focused on her own goals but he always followed her without complaint. So doing something like this, it just feels right. Just like leaving. And coming home. After all, that's precisely what she needed him for.

Edited 2016-05-26 23:43 (UTC)

True to his nature thus far, Yamato hadn't asked any questions when she'd ordered him to come with her. A prayer, perhaps, or a simple shopping trip--wherever they're going and whatever they're doing there, disclosing the details is entirely her prerogative.

Other shinki would demand more from their god, he knows. He's learned a lot recently, especially about the mindset other shinki and gods have about each other. But anything other than what they have is unfathomable to him. He's happy, and as far as he knows, Shepard is happy with him. That's really all that matters.

He looks at the house with polite interest, tilting his head just slightly. "Are we going inside?" He asks, assuming they're here to meet someone. Whoever sent the prayer, maybe? It's unlikely that anyone else would be able to see them, so it makes sense in his mind.

"Yeah," she answers promptly though she doesn't move right away. It isn't just nature's symphony that keeps her riveted in place but a weird feeling as well. She's no stranger to the anxiety that preludes a difficult fight or those life and death missions, but something like this, something innocuous and mundane? It leaves her feeling a little restless that she can't make sense of it.

But anxiety is best channeled into action so she nods at him. "Come on."

Without waiting -- she knows he'll follow -- Shepard heads in through the gate and twoard the back where a kind of workshop is set up, the look and sound of which may be familiar to one of them.

Almost immediately she spots someone, a middle aged man at least a few years her senior and she calls out to him. No other way to get his attention even though there's no hiding their approach. "Kikuchi, right? We spoke the other day."

He looks up at her though not right at her, more like he's looking through her as though she were some kind of spectre (ha) until finally, she comes into focus and he blinks in surprise.

"Oh! Yes. Mórrígan-sama we've been expecting you... two." Finally his gaze slides over to observe Yamato as well. "You must be Yasusada."

Her expectations are right, of course; he trails after her without hesitation, content to crane his neck and take in everything about the area. It's pretty, he thinks, and quiet, calm in a way the heavens always seem to lack. It's the sort of calm that only those on the near shore are capable of--those with no true sense of eternity.

But any thoughts like those are jolted out of his at the sight, sound, feel, smell of the of the workshop they step into. Perking up like a child in a candy store, he doesn't quite bounce on the balls of his feet, but it's a near thing.

Is she here to get another sword? Maybe a tantou to match with him? Or maybe a naginata? It's not a gunsword, but it's not a sword-sword, so she might find it interesting--

--Huh? Oh, someone who can see them. The smith, probably, so Yamato offers a deep bow on pure instinct; the large sleeves of his haori falling forward to obscure his hands.

"Yamato no Kami Yasusada," he says, even though this man already knows his name, apparently. "It's nice to meet you, sensei."

Shepard may put on a casual face. She's just looking around at all the strange sights and new sounds. This isn't a world that means much to her. But she can appreciate something like it. Seeing Yamato practically effervescent with the buoyant energy he can barely contain dredges up her own memories of a young engineer barely out if basic and stalking the racks for the first time. The smell of gun oil and the vapor of a scorched heatsinks that are forever imprinted on her mind along with the feel of her first rifle fitted to her hands like it was an extension of her own limbs.

Yamato doesn't think much of her penchant for guns, her first love, but in them she wants to believe they manage to find common ground.

"Sensei? Just what do you think we're here for?" she teases lightly, paying more attention than she lets on even if she fails to catch the nuances of their exchange.

The man only smiles amicably, a skilled artisan proud to share his work with anyone that's interested. "I understand that you're looking for a sword."

Shepard gets that he's talking about swords of the native style, the very same that Yamato becomes in her hands. But she's missing even more. The word he uses. Shinken. A true sword. A modern blade with a near obsolete purpose. But one that could be resurrected through the care and attention of someone that really knew how to appreciate it.

Instantly, Yamato's mouth is open again, ready to tell her all about swordsmiths and honorifics and Commander-kun you have to be polite to the masters-- but thankfully the comment distracts him, and the careful choice of words isn't lost on him. Yamato smiles, and for once, it isn't a ghost pulling the corners of his mouth up just so. It's excitement and contentment working together in his heart, and as much as he loves being wielded in his vessel form, Yamato doesn't think he's ever felt more comfortable than he does in this place.

Life thrums in each piece of elegant steel adorning the walls, and it feels so natural that Yamato doesn't even think to question it. But there's fear here, too. Creation and destruction living side by side, and each piece of metal had to come from somewhere, something that once was, just like the swords here are.

But it's a question as much as it isn't and Yamato turns back to his god, head tilted just slightly. "Did you want something for practice, Commander-kun?"

Because she may not be Okita Souji, but a weapon and a warrior know how to fit together. It wouldn't surprise him if she wants a real challenge when they spar, and not once does he stop to think this might not be for her.

He still doesn't get it but isn't that just like him? She's used to loyalty from her comrades, demands it even, and the standard she expects certainly ranks higher that most. But Yamato is the rare, maybe even dangerous sort that prioritizes her above all else, himself included. Shepard can't say it isn't appreciated but it also means the onus is on her to look out for him.

She looks around at the fine work that surrounds them. This world was still new to her but that didn't mean it wasn't capable of leaving an impression after only a short time together. Such mastery was timeless, transcending form and function to be understood by any with the eye for it.

"I doubt anything here could measure up to you." That's right. She's pretty spoiled isn't she? A wooden sword was good enough for her when it wasn't her shinki she was wielding. She wasn't so reckless that she needed the thrill of live steel to take it seriously.

The smith seems to have gone temporarily deaf and mute as she speaks of their relationship but his attention fades back in like a radio struggling to maintain the channel as Shepard finally spells it out for him. "It's a gift so just take it already."

The compliment makes Yamato laughs quietly, though he's clearly pleased. If he wasn't confident in his skill, he wouldn't trust himself to protect her, and the very idea of that is unacceptable. There's always room for improvement--it's why he practices diligently, every single day--but overall? ...Well, he's not going to deny it.

The explanation, though, that catches him off guard. He blinks, eyes widening comically when her words sink in. A gift? A sword? Just for him?

It takes him a few tries, a few rounds of opening and closing his mouth before he finally remembers how to speak. "For me? I... thank you, Commander-kun. I'll work harder from now on." Is he blushing? Maybe a little, but he bows so low that she hopefully won't be able to spot it. It's a happy sort of embarrassed, at least.

"Anything?" He asks, when he straightens up again, eyes wandering over the blades around them with awe. His focus automatically shifts to the uchigatana swords, but he doesn't make for them immediately.

They've been together for what? Over a month now? They live together in a way that can't even compete with her crew mates on the Normandy, close quartered with no escape. But perhaps that's why she's drawn him at home, with no one else around to really confide in.

As such they've come to know each other, preferences and nuances alike. And what she sees now is a kind of quiet elation that is new to her, along with a restrained excitement that she doesn't often see outside their practice. She smiles, softly. This was definitely the right thing to do.

"Of course," she laughs, stepping forward to give his hair a ruffle though not so hard to mess it up completely. "Whatever you want."

Her eyes follow his, and she's not surprised to see where it lands. They've been together long enough for her to know exactly what size sword makes for the right fit in hand at least. "I tried to pick one out but then I thought about what you said. They have a spirit right? So only you'll know feels best."

Yamato's hair is practically its own living entity; how it doesn't poof up and carry him off like a balloon is a mystery for the ages. But no matter how ridiculous he looks, there's a reverence on his face that speaks of soul-deep familiarity. She's right--as much as he'd like to insist that anything she chose for him would be perfect, this is a little different. Besides, he hasn't lied to her yet. Every sparkly-eyed compliment has come from a genuine place in his heart, and he isn't about to change that now.

So with a quick bow to the master, he shuffles over to the uchigatanas, swords that just about match him in size and weight. He reaches out towards one, then hesitates, withdrawing his hand. He wraps his fingers around another, brow furrowed in thought for a long minute, before he pulls away from that one too. It's hard to tell exactly what he's looking for, or listening to, but eventually, he comes to rest on one of the newest. Just barely 70 centimeters, a solid curve with those ripples of masterful creation in the blade--it's a beautiful sword, one far too young to have ever known a human master. Its steel is fresh and bloodless, and this knowledge settles into him so naturally, he doesn't even think to question it.

"This one," he says carefully, reluctant to jump into any decisions, despite Shepard's reassurances. "It's new, isn't it?"

Shepard watches him carefully, thinking maybe she can learn something in this moment. But though each of them look unique in their own way the differences seem superficial, not something that would make ones sword superior to another. Something like age and wear as slight as the one that mars these blades doesn't make itself apparently to such an untrained eye. She's simply out of her league.

"That's correct. You have a good eye Yasusada-sama." The man nods instead, seemingly impressed, if not overtly so. Shepard herself had set lofty expectation in her descriptions of the shinki, ones a stranger and a master at that would have trouble believing until he witnesses it for himself. "We only finished in the last month and haven't even put it through its tests. Perhaps you would like to do the honors?"

The commander knows that look, that sound. The guy clearly wants to see the curiosity that is Yamato in action now. As for her, her smile widens slightly as her chest swells with pride. "Go ahead, if you want." Not that he needs her permission.

Edited 2016-06-30 09:58 (UTC)

It would be the same for him, were their situations reversed. Yamato would be happy to listen to her espouse the different virtues of her favorite weapon for hours, if she wanted to, no matter his personal feelings about them. But neutrality, and even open eagerness, can't match the wisdom of a masterful eye. Yamato is young for a sword spirit--someone like Mikazuki or Tsurumaru would surely be even better at understanding the blades around them.

But even then... he'd been earnest, that first lesson between them. Weapons have spirits, he truly believes that. And he would never dream of choosing a sword for her, no matter how much she asked him for advice. It would be like choosing a shinki for her, or a child to adopt. It's something that simply can't be done for another person, at least not in Yamato's mind.

He doesn't react to the compliment, though his hands close around the sword in question, lifting it from its stand with the utmost care. He doesn't need her permission, but he looks for it anyway, and he smiles at the encouragement. Taking it home without testing it himself would've been out of the question, and he can't deny he's eager. He has no way of knowing that the only sword testing he's been present for, of course, was the testing of his own blade, all those centuries ago.

"If you'll allow me to perform such a task," he says with another low bow, but the sword is already resting comfortably in his hand, ready for the challenge. Will it be bamboo, he wonders, or tatami? It could be something new, but with the traditional air of this place, he doubts it. Still, with Shepard and a master here to watch, he could he not be a little bit excited?

Edited (that was the wrong html tag) 2016-07-02 06:41 (UTC)

Perhaps it's ironic or maybe it just makes sense that Shepard herself was thinking of that very same moment, witnessed like a photo reel, chopped into fragmented pieces and and only now does it start to make sense.

A sword, wielded by men who look nothing like her shinki, but the blade itself is one she's held in her own hands. She's witnessed the conception, in the instance when the sword swings down and cleaves its way through one, two, three corpses. It's a grim scene, but efficient. One she can appreciate even as the epiphany leaves her in awe.

But it also begs a question. In 20XX she's certain dead bodies are no longer in vogue.

"Alright, I'm the novice here so I'll ask the stupid question." She address their master friend and he perks up immediately. "How does this work?"

She does it for her sake just as much as Yamato's anyway. Maybe it wasn't her style but that didn't mean she couldn't respect that it was his.

"It's called tameshigiri," the master says, leading the way outside. Yamato stays quiet for this; he'd absconded with some of the swordplay books in Elsa's library (Will he ever return them? A mystery), but he doesn't know how outdated they might be. Not only that, but it's easier to feign polite curiosity than it is to ponder the gaps in his own knowledge.

The testing ritual is, naturally, vital to the blade itself--swords that can't cut might be popular these days, but in the past, it was a fast ticket to the other side. Warriors needed to know just the right angles to take a life, and how fast their sword could swing. But more than the sword, the master explains, it tests the swordsman, allowing him to put his physical and mental attributes to the test. Anyone could swing a sharp object and eventually destroy their target. But fewer cuts and certain patterns set the masters apart from the novices and the artless. And most importantly, he adds, it matches the sword to the swordsman. A blade that sings in the hands of one warrior might be mute in the hands of another, after all. And just as the best warriors wouldn't settle for any old sword, the best masters wouldn't part with their dearest creations for money alone.

In the present, of course, it's mostly just a fun ritual. Even the master has no way of knowing they aren't just dedicated history fanatics. Yamato moves like a swordsman, like it's strange not having a blade at his side, and there's no denying he gives off an air of... something that isn't quite suited to the modern era. But then, who is a master of a dying art to judge?

Out in the back, several different targets are set up, in a variety of configurations. No dead bodies, thankfully--just the standard of tatami wrapped around bamboo. "To mirror the density of flesh and bone," the master tells Shepard, as Yamato takes his spot in front of the first target.

"Three cuts?" He confirms, but it's not really a question. Three cuts could mean any number of techniques, but it does confirm one thing--he's no beginner.

He waits for confirmation before he lifts the blade, and his eyes seem just a little brighter, a little more intense than usual. Just like when they train together, there's a deceptive lack of tension in his body, masking whatever movements he's planning. When he swings, it's fast and nigh effortless, and the pieces of the target tumble onto the ground like limbs.

And yet, Yamato's face doesn't light up. He doesn't turn to them, seeking praise or looking pleased with himself. There's a thoughtful expression on his face, brow furrowed as he looks down at his sword. Three strikes-- he'd been confident, and he'd done well, but there's something...

[closed]

may 19th;

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I hope you don't mind deciding how this goes lol I'm as clueless as her

haha nw!! we can trade off master-san