[ Maybe if it had just been a walk through the grounds on their own, or if Yuta had stopped at a different shrine to make an offering, the storm god would have remained dormant. Gion-jinja is the home of Gozu-tennō in his mind, warding off pestilence and disease, not slaying serpents and saving a girl from the fate that befell her sisters. Yet he'd said as much himself, that a man becomes a Heroic Spirit for his deeds in life or for the tales he leaves behind after, and that a Divine Spirit gets built up from the start by human worship and legend. In the summer, he'd come here alone and unsupported, looking for power to fix a wound from Muramasa's myth.
The last thought that Muramasa has before the Divine Spirit tugs command over himself out from under him, is that the bell is clearly machine-cast. Even without the rusting hinge and the decaying ropes, its clatter would leave a sour taste in his mouth and an itch in his fingers to cast a proper one. It's the last thing he thinks of, right before the sea breeze whisks him away.
In front of Yuta, Muramasa stands, stormy eyed and sturdy, the wind whipping at his sukajan and yanking a tired paper lantern above the stage behind him from its ties, sending the yellowing paper into the slush with a wet, spinless plop. If his presence in Inari had been just a bit of wind and a shifting demeanour, here... it is almost palpable. There is something electric to it, like the moment before he activates his circuits and calls a sword into being, spreading outward with the wind. ]
That's a brazen wish for a boy, eh? [ His eyes flit from Yuta's face to the delicate blossoms growing from porcelain and he grins, all of Muramasa's resigned stoicism from the walk gone with the smith. ] But since it's you, I'll have to accept.
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The last thought that Muramasa has before the Divine Spirit tugs command over himself out from under him, is that the bell is clearly machine-cast. Even without the rusting hinge and the decaying ropes, its clatter would leave a sour taste in his mouth and an itch in his fingers to cast a proper one. It's the last thing he thinks of, right before the sea breeze whisks him away.
In front of Yuta, Muramasa stands, stormy eyed and sturdy, the wind whipping at his sukajan and yanking a tired paper lantern above the stage behind him from its ties, sending the yellowing paper into the slush with a wet, spinless plop. If his presence in Inari had been just a bit of wind and a shifting demeanour, here... it is almost palpable. There is something electric to it, like the moment before he activates his circuits and calls a sword into being, spreading outward with the wind. ]
That's a brazen wish for a boy, eh? [ His eyes flit from Yuta's face to the delicate blossoms growing from porcelain and he grins, all of Muramasa's resigned stoicism from the walk gone with the smith. ] But since it's you, I'll have to accept.