Stiva had been raised to be a gift his whole life.
At this point, years later, he doesn't even question it anymore. He's not even that mad about it anymore either. He's learned that there's power to be had even when he's on his knees, neck bent, eyes hardened.
He was a tengu, the son of their region's sojobo, who had held the peace amongst the mountain townsfolk for decades. Their kind had flourished here, partially due to the fact that they served as faithful guardians and close confidants to the kyubi, a powerful clan of zenko gods. It was their tradition, a contract in fact, to select a member of their own every hundred years to personally bond to the reigning first born of the foxes. It was an agreement that had been in place a long time ago, back before humans had their greed and their steel, back when the beasts were a large as the pines are now.
So as soon as he could speak, and as soon as his magic started to flow through his veins, Stiva started learning all manner of arts and courtesies. His tongue was taught how to please (in more ways than one) and so were his hands (...in more ways than one). He could sing poetry, dance, play the shamisen and koto, and fight just as well (his black arrows never missed. And he always aimed for the throat. Otherwise, as his father would say, it's a waste of the art).
He was perfect.
Why the kyubi had chosen to settle here is a mystery but by doing so, they had rejuvenated this once dying land, turning its sour earth into blooming tilling ground abundant with rice and wheat and vegetables, its muddy waters running clear and silvery with fresh fish and iron. The humans had been astonished. Shrines were built, myths were concocted, tributes made. It was all very good entertainment at the end of the day.
Maybe foxes did have hearts after all.
He comes into the room like a flash of lightening, with all the grace and violence of such terrible light. His wings - there were four of them, the cause of a mutation that some see as an omen and others, a blessing - flutter and stretch behind him, granting every one of his motions a breath of lightness and grace.
He lifts his signature red mask by its long beak up over the dark wave of his hair and bows. "You called?" he say, voice pitched low with respect but still sharp around the edges, as if he were grinding the sounds out against his back teeth. He never could hide that, even if he tried his best to smooth it over with a terse smile.
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At this point, years later, he doesn't even question it anymore. He's not even that mad about it anymore either. He's learned that there's power to be had even when he's on his knees, neck bent, eyes hardened.
He was a tengu, the son of their region's sojobo, who had held the peace amongst the mountain townsfolk for decades. Their kind had flourished here, partially due to the fact that they served as faithful guardians and close confidants to the kyubi, a powerful clan of zenko gods. It was their tradition, a contract in fact, to select a member of their own every hundred years to personally bond to the reigning first born of the foxes. It was an agreement that had been in place a long time ago, back before humans had their greed and their steel, back when the beasts were a large as the pines are now.
So as soon as he could speak, and as soon as his magic started to flow through his veins, Stiva started learning all manner of arts and courtesies. His tongue was taught how to please (in more ways than one) and so were his hands (...in more ways than one). He could sing poetry, dance, play the shamisen and koto, and fight just as well (his black arrows never missed. And he always aimed for the throat. Otherwise, as his father would say, it's a waste of the art).
He was perfect.
Why the kyubi had chosen to settle here is a mystery but by doing so, they had rejuvenated this once dying land, turning its sour earth into blooming tilling ground abundant with rice and wheat and vegetables, its muddy waters running clear and silvery with fresh fish and iron. The humans had been astonished. Shrines were built, myths were concocted, tributes made. It was all very good entertainment at the end of the day.
Maybe foxes did have hearts after all.
He comes into the room like a flash of lightening, with all the grace and violence of such terrible light. His wings - there were four of them, the cause of a mutation that some see as an omen and others, a blessing - flutter and stretch behind him, granting every one of his motions a breath of lightness and grace.
He lifts his signature red mask by its long beak up over the dark wave of his hair and bows. "You called?" he say, voice pitched low with respect but still sharp around the edges, as if he were grinding the sounds out against his back teeth. He never could hide that, even if he tried his best to smooth it over with a terse smile.