The world outside of Mt. Suzuka was as vast as it was strange, but that was a lesson Otakemaru had already learned. Even the demon tribes that made their homes on the other mountains surrounding the capital were far different than his own sea-born family. However, there still ran a vein of familiarity beneath the wooden structures, the pavilions, the red-painted torii, and other such monuments, which Suzuka Gozen had brought to their island from her time spent on the mainland. Here though… it was a different world entirely, and from a low wall near a greenspace in the city, Otakemaru marveled at the sky-high buildings that surrounded him. Lights glowed from them as if by magic, and instead of wood, their sides were solid and smooth like some sort of stone. Likely they made a formidable defense against attack - most importantly, fire - and for a long while he contemplated how they might be reconstructed with the materials he knew on Mt. Suzuka. As if he would be able to return home…
If this realm was the underworld, it was nothing like he had expected it to be. For one, he had not caught even a glimpse of the Sanzu River, across which he was certain he would be led to hell. He didn’t believe that Enma would have any reason to pardon his senseless war, and an eternity of suffering was one he thought he was due. But he hadn’t received… anything like that. The ruler of the realm had instead housed him, and offered him a strange, pliant card. Gold eyes dropped away from the streak of pale blue that snaked between the buildings overhead to examine the gift he still held. With clawed fingertip, he plucked the corner and watched it flicker, no closer to understanding its purpose. Then he let his hand come back to the edge of the stone wall, desperate for the sensation of something familiar beneath his palm again. A sigh slipped from his lips and he lifted his gaze skyward again to think.
His ears perked. On the breeze came a bewitching melody that drew his attention away from his contemplation. It was a sound unlike any he had heard before. Though Suzuka Gozen enjoyed her trinkets, and collected instruments just as she hoarded everything else she discovered at sea. Even so, there was a quality to this one that was absent from the strings that collected dust in the treasury on Mt. Suzuka, and Otakemaru searched earnestly for the source.
There, a short distance away. The dark horns that curled out from the sides of his head, and the tone of his scaly skin were somewhat reminiscent of a Sealander. The shred of familiarity was perhaps what held Otakemaru’s gaze so firmly, and he watched the solo performance for a short while from his perch on the wall. He felt like a timid child again, waiting for Suzuka Gozen to take him by the hand and lead him to where the others of their growing family gathered, before he had earned their esteem and friendship as the Young Master of the mountain. But Suzuka Gozen wasn’t here to make his introductions for him. And neither were his friends who had contributed so much to the confidence he had developed.
He couldn’t let that stop him. Resolutely, his feet hit the grassy earth and carried him to the musician as his song reached its end. By now, his shoulders had squared, his chin had raised, and a lopsided smile had slipped across his lips. This was strange. He hadn’t done this in so long, but he wasn’t about to show it. Alongside the echoes of the instrument’s final notes, Otakemaru offered his applause.
“I was listening from over there.” He gestured over his shoulder to the low wall on which he had just been sitting. “I’ve never heard an instrument like yours before.” Gold eyes swept back again, and his smirk belied the trepidation that clawed at him beneath. “What’s it called?”
Maraqai was no stranger to homesickness, but the feeling was more intense than he had ever known before. mayhap it was because he knew, deep down, that returning home from this location was nigh impossible. this was a place like no other, foreign in ways he couldn’t quite articulate. he was no stranger to foreign, either; often did he travel to far lands, partaking in new cultures and meeting people of all shapes and sizes. there was always the promise of home, though. he would always make it back to the steppe, feel the plush grass under his feet, savor the comforting bustle of his market tribe. he even misses the gales that carried in sand from the nearby desert. he’d almost give anything to be brushing sand from his hair right now, surrounded by family and friends.
the best he could do was try and replicate just a little piece of home. it would never be the same, of course, but he would try. the easiest way to do that was to find a nice patch of grass, settle down in it, close his eyes, and play his dear instrument. he’d make a proper set up eventually, but for now he was content with sitting on the plain earth, legs crossed, instrument seated in his lap. the morin khuur, a two stringed instrument native to his people. for its lack of strings, it certainly did not lack versatility or personality. capable of playing the most melancholy, bewitching of melodies to the most uplifting and joyous, Maraqai could have people weeping one minute and dancing the next.
today, he did not think he had an audience, so he poured his emotions into his song. this one had no lyrics and never would (he certainly could not speak them into existence, after all), but the sorrowful melody he drew from the strings did the talking for him. if he had not been the one playing, he suspects he might have shed a few tears. so focused, Maraqai hadn’t noticed anyone approach until their applause sounded in front of him.
nodding his head towards them in a mockery of a bow, his eyes follow the strangers gesture before returning to him. while he had not expected company, he had taken to carrying a small pad of paper and writing utensil with him. writing was not his strong suit, but it made communicating outside of his community much easier. after setting the instrument aside, Maraqai taps his lips, then his throat, and shakes his head, letting him know that he did not speak. he smiles slightly and begins to write on his paper, worrying his lip between his teeth as he did so.
morin khuur. traditional in my home. he holds the paper towards the stranger long enough for it to be read, then takes it back to write a bit more. i was just playing from the heart. it was a bit sad-- sorry. he shows him the paper again, and even though he just apologized, Maraqai laughs gently.
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