▶ graceless.
Obscurity dubs itself the word of the early evening, though Yamamoto has - been trying, prowling pace deft but languid - to shake it off (to redefine the hours) since the sun's light first began to stutter.
He's said it before, and he'll say it again: a worthy batter, a talented player, relies on their eyes as a matter of fact, focusing on environmental machinations and piecing them apart, like silk under an imperious tailor's inspection. Maybe there's an eloquent word for the ability, but Yamamoto knows it just as a feeling, easy to dredge up from the bottom of his heart and let bloom, a sensation that stops things (fists, baseballs) midair and takes their arcs apart. That lets him see the swing of a sword in the whiteness of a knuckle, tendons straining with killing power, and freeze it exactly where it will stop a second's fraction later, bowed by the curve of his own blade. And Yamamoto would never confess as much - but he feels vaguely uneasy about his ability to see like that now, even if he's left Kintoki at home - replaced it with a harmless candy apple.
A tautness jolts his bones even as the castle (lit to resemble one massive jack-o'-lantern) rises above, dazzling. The boy's glance up reveals clouds playing shadow puppets with the warp of buildings. There's a muted rumble of quicksilver, of burnished copper shiver, across brick and ivory beam that in itself seems a little twisted. Darkness shores up against the feet of passerby - and, if it can, if they happen to stray from the comforting beam of watchful path lights, swallows them almost whole from sight with ease.
Under Yamamoto’s rumpled costume collar a muscle twitches and skitters, before he blinks, turns - is released, a hand rubbing his neck unconsciously as he wonders: was that someone turning the corner or another trick of the light? Had there been a mouth attached to that brief, murmuring chuckle, or to the bark of (he doesn't know that he'd call it) fear he hears, passing the last few food stalls?
Yamamoto releases a soft laugh of his own, a breathy exorcism. Sure, the dungeons are quite close, but lots of things are said to be haunted that simply: aren't.
"Must have been my imagination - "
- but the shoulder he jostles ("Ah!!") definitely isn't.
And the apple, barely three bites in, now caramelized to another person's front? Well, that throws up Yamamoto's hands immediately, the same old gesture he's always used to deflect conflict, coupled with an equally defusing, if contrite, amiable huff. Okay, I know how this looks, says his posture, chin tipped to meet the other's eyes.
"I, uh, haha," a great start to an apology - "I'm really sorry, wow!"
archiduxs