[Kyodai Utsuwa]

Utsuwa's bare feet had taken them far from the cloister where they had ended and began. But paths had a habit of winding back on themselves, and, after involving themselves in the heresies of the so-called Chūnin Exam, they felt a need to rededicate and recenter. Though they had been careful to break no laws, being surrounded by so much heresy and blasphemy made them feel tainted.

Nothing prayer, fasting, and the scouring of flesh could not cure.

The closer they got to the Country of Law, the more people recognized the symbol worn proudly around their neck. Most simply gave them a wide berth, but their tengai-gasa had a few new holes from cast stones. Some settlements had clearly had a visit from an Inquisitor. It caused no anguish for Utsuwa. Even if their suffering steeled their hearts against Jashin, they did, indeed, suffer.

And suffering would drive all to Jashin in the end.

Their wandering eventually brought them to a settlement only a few days away from the main temple, Utsuwa heralding their arrival with a joyfully sung hymn.

"Bitter thoughts became thy ev'ry waking breath; save the nights thy hollow dreams reveal'd the sweet release of death," Another song, not of worship, but directed towards the tormented, the unbeliever. Jashin had no need of stumbling, inadequate praise. "Within thy mind thou played a symphony of self; yet thy soul, it bleedeth an honest song: thou hath, but this, naught left."

The sight of a grimy, anonymous, and diminutive Jashinist wandering into a town, singing a sweet song of suffering and loss caused most to turn away and avoid the cleric. Nothing good came of entangling oneself with the affairs of the cult of pain.

"Thou wilt find it in the veil of night, where solitude be born; in the emptiness of thy broken flesh, at the mercy of His thorns!"

[Kyodai Yuriko]

切り刻んでこの体 / 痛みなんて理解らない

Here in the Land of Laws, treading on the soil so close to the resting place of Jashin the Merciful, where even the air seemed to hang heavy with His presence… People didn’t seem to like Him very much. Amongst the common folk Yuriko encountered on the road to the mortuary temple, there had been a thick tension whenever they got a good look at his necklace.

Fight, flight, freeze, fawn… There was so much variety in how they reacted to that simple triangle and circle. The last village Yuriko had stuck his head into tried to bite it off: hurled abuse from the safety of their houses, shook their pitchforks and fists in his face. It had been a while since he’d so thoroughly played his role as an Inquisitor; there were no great warriors among them, but the numbers gave him enough of a challenge.

The unbelievers more willing to learn were left to writhe on the ground, to make their own pilgrimage. The ones who were not were left as food for the Lord and the carrion.

This place was much more calmer in their discomfort. Perhaps the bloodstains and torn fabric helped remind them that they could not truly hurt him. Whatever their (many, many) reasons were for leaving him alone, it meant the wanderer had a nice spot to rest, and think about finding a river to clean up in…

Until the haunting notes of a fellow traveler make their way down-road.

Slumped against a tree trunk as he was, Yuriko might have looked like a particularly unbothered corpse were it not for the gum he was blowing, a vibrant green to contrast with the deep red he was bleeding.

"Not bad. You considered gettin’ a shakuhachi?” The bubble pops. "Oh, I guess you can’t sing and play at the same time, though.”

Kyodai Utsuwa

生憎ね　妄想は / 誰にだって懐くのよ

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[Kyodai Utsuwa]

The song of praise and admonishment was cut short as Utsuwa was directly addressed by a wounded man. No - a wounded brother.

Unless the symbol worn around his neck was damnable treachery, he had, at long last, reunited with one of their siblings.

Not that they knew his name.

"These hands mine art bound to ply other instruments, I afear." The short and ragged-looking priest crossed the distance between them rapidly, their steps light and almost playful. "The needle. The thread. The scalpel. The quill . The brush. The scourge. The vein, artery, and tendon. Most any tool to spread and further perfect the teachings of Jashin-sama."

Hands like theirs were not meant to make music. Let their voice offer succor and soothing. Their hands should bring pain.

Utsuwa leaned close, their wide red eyes visible through the battered wicker basket over their head. "Art thy wounds in need of mending, o brother mine?" Their face nearly pressed against the open and visible wound, drinking in the sight of blood spilled in their god's name. Always a joyous thing to behold.

A shame they could not witness the unbelievers writhe in agony.

"Wer't thy labors fruitful? How many fold didst thou repay the suff'ring inflicted 'pon thy body?"

[Kyodai Yuriko]

切り刻んでこの体 / 痛みなんて理解らない

"Right. Fair enough— h-hey…” Yuriko blinked, then flinched, as his vision was suddenly taken up by that weathered tengai-gasa. Something in those masked eyes of their made him feel like a fish, seconds away from being gutted. Short, a basket hat, and a way of talking that gave him a headache… he’d heard scraps of gossip about a sibling like that. Well, His embrace was open to all kinds of people, and meeting new kinds of people was good for the soul, or something like that.

Even if the look in their eye made him feel a little like a fish ready to be gutted.

"How many fold didst… oh. Uh… Lots. Of folds. A handful dead, a handful broken… With any luck, the ones who can’ll make their way over to Him.” Which did of course mean that there was every chance the survivors would not do that. But surely seeing the great violence of the world, and the great mercy of Jashin, would be enough to sway them? It had been enough for Yuriko, after all. In a manner of speaking.

"Don’t think most of ‘em managed to cut too deep, ‘cept for a few lucky hits.” Slipping his arms out of his sleeves, he motioned to the patchwork of injuries he’d earned: shallow pricks and bites that had stretched out further; a gash on his bicep that exposed muscle and bone; and three holes in his stomach where a pitchfork had impaled him, still cheerfully spurting out like a fountain.

"Be nice if I didn’t have to wash too much blood out, so if you wanna work your music, I won’t say no.” The Inquisitor’s clothes were, of course, already soaked with lethal amounts of blood.

Kyodai Utsuwa

生憎ね　妄想は / 誰にだって懐くのよ

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MADE BY MIZO

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