Solitary. That was always how Chikage preferred to be; without Amagiri present to insist upon action (or lack thereof), without the Princess to nag him about the virtues of being a gentleman, without the grating voices of those he ‘served under’ (for now, anyway) giving him ludicrous orders, merely because he was not human. Times of peace were few and far between, but their presence eased Chikage’s burden of duty and debt. Thankful (as much as he could be), is how he found himself when he reached these brief times of respite. Travelling--the distance never mattered--is what he did. An easy pastime, so long as he didn’t come face to face with particularly pesky humans. But one couldn’t always get what they wanted. As much as Chikage rather loathed that fact.
The sounds he heard in the distance weren’t that of a sword, nor of a rifle--the most apparent new western addition to a weaponry arsenal--but instead of something much more primal, in a sense. The rattling of a bow string; the sound of the fired arrow cutting through air, it was rather nostalgic. He’d hardly been alive enough years to consider nostalgia, but too few for the recognition not to exist at the very least. He steps quietly; a skill honed through many decades of practice, as he approaches where the sound it coming from, and ponders the greatest way to make his entrance. And what better a way than showing off, and perhaps giving the poor soul a fright? Amusing. Certainly.
He moves faster than even a trained eye may see--unless perhaps they squint--and steps into the path of the arrow. He duly notes the array that have already pierced the bark of the tree as the next is caught almost graciously between his fingers. The force of the sudden halt causes a small gust of wind to tousle his hair--golden locks shifting with the breeze, before falling perfectly back into place. His crimson eyes settle on a pair a few shades more fuchsia than his own, and yet the moment he looks at them he notices something of a fire in them. A woman; but the fire in her eyes carried the ferocity of a dragon’s breath. .
Intimidation. A feeling the demon had scarce experienced. It was brief, but it was there. His tactic of approach had to change--swiftly. He didn’t approach at all; rooted to the spot, not out of fear however, as all his attention and thoughts were gathering upon the girl’s small frame and somehow trying to understand this feeling. Such power and strength didn’t belong to a human, but the scent was one he could never forget. Exactly that: Human. As if to snap himself back to reality, he crushes the arrow he’s still holding between his fingers with the palm of his hand. The thin wood splitting with a crunch into two, encourages a grin. “Nice aim. Not quite enough force.”
