༻༺ what was he doing? a fair question, one he couldn’t quite make an answer for. they had met before — at different times, with varied lucidity. ionia as a whole , as the land itself revolted against his presence , the innate magic of it recognizing the darkness of the mist. usually he would heed nature, lest it draw more attention to himself than he desired, but for now it was ignored.
he remembers most clearly the ronin && the kindness shown , despite everything . perhaps it is the draw of such kindness being afford again that has him here, and yet hesitation holds him back. he was, afterall, still the ruined king. no matter what state of mind , how clear or how confused he was, he remained to be a force of evil , a villain . with that knowledge, he ought to simply keep to his own , spare himself && the living the strife of his presence. but he doesn’t. mist lingers && creeps , masquerading himself from the wanderer.
for what reason remains to be decided, but in the least he is pleased to see he yet persists. it is far easier to trail behind when night falls, shadowing with just enough distance so as to not be too upfront. this game of follow the leader ends when the other man seems to settle for the night , && the wraith’s mist curls overhead amidst sparse branches, providing the ruined king with a place to remain until he ultimately was driven by something to move again.
𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙸𝚂 some sort of irony in it, a man like him followed by a force so malevolent as the mist. the old ladies of his village would be screaming and squawking like the cowardly birds they embodied if they were to see him now: we always knew that boy was trouble, we always knew that boy was cursed. the thought prompts a ghost of a SMILE to twitch onto his features as he warms his hands by the fire. maybe they were right, maybe not; but he will not let the thought eat at him anymore.
the unluckiness and poor treatment of him thereof in those days was what spawned his kindness to the ruined king, of all people. to commit such gruesome deeds in the wake of your misery, your grief ― yasuo understands, far better than he perhaps liked to admit. the people he had wronged would not let the ronin forget the blood of his past, just as the world would not let viego forget HIS.
he had often wondered if their paths would cross again. his gaze finds the mist curling about in the trees, and he cannot help but feel pleased to behold such a thing.
❝ … is that you, viego ?? ❞ yasuo calls with a hint of laughter in his voice, arms resting ‘pon his knees. he moves to pat the space beside him on the ground in what he hopes is a friendly gesture. ❝ you don’t have to hide, my friend. come, sit with me a while. ❞
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