( when he'd returned to achamoth after their first time deployed to venera, hands stained metaphorically red by the first life he had taken personally and intimately, he had carried with him the begrudging understanding that he had only been capable of such a thing because he had found his victim very nearly dead to begin with. the dragoon had been a wounded falcon, grounded by myriad injuries and broken wings, and makoto had merely been the first lucky jackal to come across him. he didn't necessarily feel shame for it (regardless of what others might think of him because of the circumstances), but he did feel a gnawing sort of need begin to grow within him. in horos even more than in hell he understood his physical limitations. he had crumpled within an instant standing in defiance against the innocent entity, and even months later, facing off with it again after pouring blood, sweat, and tears into developing himself as a potential threat, he had still come up short in every regard. he hadn't been able to draw a single drop of blood — hell, he hadn't even been able to scuff one incandescent scale.that is what burns as an acidic shame in the pit of his stomach. that he could devote so much of himself to trying to overcome something, to make the slightest bit of impact, and that it would all come to naught simply because he was outmatched. the essence and substance of what he was simply couldn't compete.
has that truly changed now? when his head had first been reattached to the surprisingly plain and human body that J had acquired for him — the same that he used now — he had been told that any unique attribute or ability that he wanted, he would have to go and acquire for himself. nothing would be given to him. nothing would be taught. makoto had felt at the time that he had been promised one thing and presented another; he had allowed the demon's honeyed words of acceptance, belonging, and love sink into his ears and dull his instinctual despair, so it had been all the more wounding when he had found that hell was simply another crucible for him to be thrown into. he had two choices: to bend or to break. for the latter, he would have been one among thousands of other humans brought in to try to adapt to the way that demons lived; it would have been so easy. he would have been yet another disappointment to J, another life whose name was penciled in to the footnotes of his journal, and his search for a worthy successor would have continued. but for all of his lack of any intrinsic physical ability, makoto bore one preternatural ability, and that was vicious tenacity. he had refused to break. instead he had warped and changed into the first former human that could be fully considered a "demon," both in name and initial. he maneuvered hell's political landscape as good as any other dangerous upstart; he had manipulated datenshou to losing his brothel, he had taken kieran's wings.
it all went to prove one thing: the inherent danger of the demon known as "M" wasn't in what he was naturally and intrinsically. it was in what he was willing to take from others and use for himself.
so when he had survived the ordeal of accepting a mote of the Regent's essence into himself and was granted some use of their power, it had made sense to him. this is how he grows stronger. this has always been his method. whatever he is not given, he will take, perhaps to the point where he is indistinguishable from the young man he had once been — a ship of Theseus driven by that selfsame feeling of ruthless determination and fueled by a bitter and indignant desire for revenge.
for a single, fleeting moment today, he allows himself some feeling of satisfaction in that. in his long adversarial history with both estinien and the innocent entity, he has finally scored a victory by the merit of his own sacrifice and efforts, wounding the Sanctifier so deeply that it finally succumbed to its injuries enough that the Regent's trap might successfully be sprung. it's at least one victory, one instance in which he dedicated himself to something and saw the physicality of the successful results wrought in flesh and bone, that he can drink deep from. but he doesn't want to stop there, not even with his body battered, bruised, and near-broken. the moon of Firaseri urges him on, whispering to him that there is no shield, no wall, no defense that was insurmountable to him. if a path did not exist to his goal, he would simply have to break through and blaze one for himself. so as he wheels in the skies above achamoth, narrowly avoiding the cursory attacks from the dragons that now cloud it, he spies something of far more interest to himself down below on one of the rooftops:
the centaur, hayame.
he doesn't have much time to glean much from her, but from the sluggishness of her movements and her defeated mien, he believes that he spies a chance opportunity, and one that he doesn't want to overlook.
so if some baseline instinct of hayame's warns her to throw her attention once more towards the sky, she would find that one of the winged shadows has detached from the swarms above, bearing down on her with aggressive intent. clothing marred by drying, luminescent blood, hands burned raw by its caustic effect against him, makoto dives towards her now like a predatory hawk might towards its prey.
ah, but she wasn't to be so easily defeated, was she? after all, no proud jinba would fail to bare their teeth and relegate themself to the position of prey.)
no subject
has that truly changed now? when his head had first been reattached to the surprisingly plain and human body that J had acquired for him — the same that he used now — he had been told that any unique attribute or ability that he wanted, he would have to go and acquire for himself. nothing would be given to him. nothing would be taught. makoto had felt at the time that he had been promised one thing and presented another; he had allowed the demon's honeyed words of acceptance, belonging, and love sink into his ears and dull his instinctual despair, so it had been all the more wounding when he had found that hell was simply another crucible for him to be thrown into. he had two choices: to bend or to break. for the latter, he would have been one among thousands of other humans brought in to try to adapt to the way that demons lived; it would have been so easy. he would have been yet another disappointment to J, another life whose name was penciled in to the footnotes of his journal, and his search for a worthy successor would have continued. but for all of his lack of any intrinsic physical ability, makoto bore one preternatural ability, and that was vicious tenacity. he had refused to break. instead he had warped and changed into the first former human that could be fully considered a "demon," both in name and initial. he maneuvered hell's political landscape as good as any other dangerous upstart; he had manipulated datenshou to losing his brothel, he had taken kieran's wings.
it all went to prove one thing: the inherent danger of the demon known as "M" wasn't in what he was naturally and intrinsically. it was in what he was willing to take from others and use for himself.
so when he had survived the ordeal of accepting a mote of the Regent's essence into himself and was granted some use of their power, it had made sense to him. this is how he grows stronger. this has always been his method. whatever he is not given, he will take, perhaps to the point where he is indistinguishable from the young man he had once been — a ship of Theseus driven by that selfsame feeling of ruthless determination and fueled by a bitter and indignant desire for revenge.
for a single, fleeting moment today, he allows himself some feeling of satisfaction in that. in his long adversarial history with both estinien and the innocent entity, he has finally scored a victory by the merit of his own sacrifice and efforts, wounding the Sanctifier so deeply that it finally succumbed to its injuries enough that the Regent's trap might successfully be sprung. it's at least one victory, one instance in which he dedicated himself to something and saw the physicality of the successful results wrought in flesh and bone, that he can drink deep from. but he doesn't want to stop there, not even with his body battered, bruised, and near-broken. the moon of Firaseri urges him on, whispering to him that there is no shield, no wall, no defense that was insurmountable to him. if a path did not exist to his goal, he would simply have to break through and blaze one for himself. so as he wheels in the skies above achamoth, narrowly avoiding the cursory attacks from the dragons that now cloud it, he spies something of far more interest to himself down below on one of the rooftops:
the centaur, hayame.
he doesn't have much time to glean much from her, but from the sluggishness of her movements and her defeated mien, he believes that he spies a chance opportunity, and one that he doesn't want to overlook.
so if some baseline instinct of hayame's warns her to throw her attention once more towards the sky, she would find that one of the winged shadows has detached from the swarms above, bearing down on her with aggressive intent. clothing marred by drying, luminescent blood, hands burned raw by its caustic effect against him, makoto dives towards her now like a predatory hawk might towards its prey.
ah, but she wasn't to be so easily defeated, was she? after all, no proud jinba would fail to bare their teeth and relegate themself to the position of prey. )