Pirate Goro Akechi (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spectralcorsair) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
personavelvetroomdr2025-01-21 11:02 pm
spectralcorsair) wrote in personavelvetroomdr2025-01-21 11:02 pm
Entry tags:
The Hollow (Locked to Capkira)
TW: eye injury, self-loathing.
Akechi's shaking fingers reached over to his face- feeling the distinct leather against the pad of his fingers when they made their way to his left eye. Concealed away from the rest of the world, the wound remained hollow as he gulped down. It was audible enough, more so than the storm brewing in his pysche as he considered the man before him. Igor. Grinning ear to ear as he's lead adrift by a myriad of words that remained partially recognizable to downright nonsensical.
"Why Akechi-san?" The man would continue- amusement in each syllable. "Surely the concept of demons and shadows shouldn't be as surprising to you of all people."
The weight of his weathered glove laid heavy in his pocket.
This is...where he passed to? In a room doned in blue with a mysterious feminine voice drawing him, like a siren pulling a poor pirate to his fate?
What utter nonsense.
"I have had enough of your bullshit," he answers crisply as he gets up, fists clenching. "Some master you are," he grumbles and has half the urge to tear apart this plush sofa yet all he can really do is look on ahead. Keep moving forward. He's alive in the sense where every breath feels like an anamoly. Keep moving forward. A contradiction. He wants to rip apart his eye patch and see himself in the mirror, just to prove to himself once more that a man like him will never find refuge in someone's loving embrace, someone's bosom or in someone's heart. That he's doomed to his own devices, doomed to remain a piece of a ship that he pranced around like the bastard he is.
His fingers jitter as he pulls himself together and crosses his arms to his chest, staring ahead at the large conspiracy board mounted at the side. A single carmine eye drifts over the details. He sees names, most of them being him. Or Akira. What...? His eye narrow down on a certain line.
They seem like matched sets. Like white and black pieces on a chessboard in some respects.
Maybe this is hell.
For the first time in a while, everything simply flies over his head; denying any semblance of logic that he desperately craved for. A way to catch himself before everything falls apart.
๐๐ ๐ฎ๐ผ๐ฝ๐ฎ๐ฎ๐ถ๐ฎ๐ญ ๐ฏ๐ฎ๐ต๐ต๐ธ๐ ๐๐พ๐ป๐พ๐ผ๐พ๐ผ ๐ช๐ท๐ญ ๐๐ถ๐ช๐ถ๐ฒ๐๐ช๐ผ,
๐๐ช๐ฟ๐ฒ๐ท๐ฐ ๐ฐ๐ฒ๐ฟ๐ฎ๐ท ๐ฝ๐ฑ๐ฎ ๐ผ๐พ๐ซ๐ณ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ฝ ๐ธ๐ฏ ๐ช ๐ฌ๐ธ๐ญ๐ฎ๐ท๐ช๐ถ๐ฎ ๐ญ๐พ๐ฎ ๐ฝ๐ฑ๐ธ๐พ๐ฐ๐ฑ๐ฝ, ๐ ๐ซ๐ฎ๐ต๐ฒ๐ฎ๐ฟ๐ฎ ๐ฝ๐ฑ๐ฎ ๐ถ๐ธ๐ผ๐ฝ ๐ฎ๐๐น๐ฎ๐ญ๐ฒ๐ฎ๐ท๐ฝ ๐ธ๐ท๐ฎ ๐ฏ๐ธ๐ป ๐ถ๐ฎ ๐๐ธ๐พ๐ต๐ญ ๐ซ๐ฎ "๐๐ช๐น๐ฝ๐ช๐ฒ๐ท." ๐๐ธ๐๐ฎ๐ฟ๐ฎ๐ป, ๐ผ๐ฑ๐ธ๐พ๐ต๐ญ ๐ช๐ท๐ ๐ธ๐ฏ ๐๐ธ๐พ ๐ฏ๐ฎ๐ฎ๐ต ๐ญ๐ฒ๐ฏ๐ฏ๐ฎ๐ป๐ฎ๐ท๐ฝ๐ต๐, ๐'๐ต๐ต ๐ญ๐ฎ๐ฏ๐ฎ๐ป ๐ฝ๐ธ ๐๐ธ๐พ๐ป ๐ฌ๐ธ๐ต๐ต๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ฝ๐ฒ๐ฟ๐ฎ ๐ณ๐พ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ฎ๐ท๐ฝ ๐ช๐ท๐ญ ๐ช๐ท๐ผ๐๐ฎ๐ป ๐ฝ๐ธ ๐๐ฑ๐ช๐ฝ๐ฎ๐ฟ๐ฎ๐ป ๐ฝ๐ฑ๐ฎ ๐ฐ๐ป๐ธ๐พ๐น ๐ญ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ฒ๐ญ๐ฎ๐ผ.
๐จ๐ธ๐พ๐ป ๐ฌ๐ธ๐ต๐ต๐ฎ๐ช๐ฐ๐พ๐ฎ,
๐๐ช๐น๐ฝ๐ช๐ฒ๐ท ๐๐พ๐ป๐พ๐ผ๐พ
Captain Kurusu.
That handwriting is unmistakable of course. Even if this were some imposter or an unruly creature from another eldritch world- only his captain would don the very mask as others see fit.
"Perhaps your poor blacksmith may still need an apprentice."
"You can ask him. Mr. Iwai's forge is on the north side of the city, just off of Central Street."
"Which city?"
He looks ahead- staring at the five doors. Mikage-cho, Sumaru, Tatsumi Port Island, Inaba... places that didn't matter to him right now except for one.
Tokyo.
Untouchable.
That's what the sign said in a shade of green that stood out in its...stylish band of words outlined in blacks and whites. Almost as bright as a patch of grass when sunlight fell but then again- it shouldn't be so surprising. He just saw people moving in quick motions inside a large box riddled with dots, like some sort of puppet show with an invisble curtain drawn on them. He would have stayed behind to take it all in if he could.
But that didn't matter.
A heavy breath broke from his lips as he felt it all rushing in. Excitement? Anguish? Guilt? Relief? โall of them twisting in his chest like knives. The agony of it all making him blink almost too wide, a single pupil constricting as his hands feel too bare. His heart pounded, each beat reminding him he was aliveโbut barely.
He doesn't have to be here.
But its a place to start from.
He reached for the door, a tremor running through his fingers as they grasped the handle. This was it. No turning back.
Akechi's shaking fingers reached over to his face- feeling the distinct leather against the pad of his fingers when they made their way to his left eye. Concealed away from the rest of the world, the wound remained hollow as he gulped down. It was audible enough, more so than the storm brewing in his pysche as he considered the man before him. Igor. Grinning ear to ear as he's lead adrift by a myriad of words that remained partially recognizable to downright nonsensical.
"Why Akechi-san?" The man would continue- amusement in each syllable. "Surely the concept of demons and shadows shouldn't be as surprising to you of all people."
The weight of his weathered glove laid heavy in his pocket.
This is...where he passed to? In a room doned in blue with a mysterious feminine voice drawing him, like a siren pulling a poor pirate to his fate?
What utter nonsense.
"I have had enough of your bullshit," he answers crisply as he gets up, fists clenching. "Some master you are," he grumbles and has half the urge to tear apart this plush sofa yet all he can really do is look on ahead. Keep moving forward. He's alive in the sense where every breath feels like an anamoly. Keep moving forward. A contradiction. He wants to rip apart his eye patch and see himself in the mirror, just to prove to himself once more that a man like him will never find refuge in someone's loving embrace, someone's bosom or in someone's heart. That he's doomed to his own devices, doomed to remain a piece of a ship that he pranced around like the bastard he is.
His fingers jitter as he pulls himself together and crosses his arms to his chest, staring ahead at the large conspiracy board mounted at the side. A single carmine eye drifts over the details. He sees names, most of them being him. Or Akira. What...? His eye narrow down on a certain line.
Maybe this is hell.
For the first time in a while, everything simply flies over his head; denying any semblance of logic that he desperately craved for. A way to catch himself before everything falls apart.
๐๐ช๐ฟ๐ฒ๐ท๐ฐ ๐ฐ๐ฒ๐ฟ๐ฎ๐ท ๐ฝ๐ฑ๐ฎ ๐ผ๐พ๐ซ๐ณ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ฝ ๐ธ๐ฏ ๐ช ๐ฌ๐ธ๐ญ๐ฎ๐ท๐ช๐ถ๐ฎ ๐ญ๐พ๐ฎ ๐ฝ๐ฑ๐ธ๐พ๐ฐ๐ฑ๐ฝ, ๐ ๐ซ๐ฎ๐ต๐ฒ๐ฎ๐ฟ๐ฎ ๐ฝ๐ฑ๐ฎ ๐ถ๐ธ๐ผ๐ฝ ๐ฎ๐๐น๐ฎ๐ญ๐ฒ๐ฎ๐ท๐ฝ ๐ธ๐ท๐ฎ ๐ฏ๐ธ๐ป ๐ถ๐ฎ ๐๐ธ๐พ๐ต๐ญ ๐ซ๐ฎ "๐๐ช๐น๐ฝ๐ช๐ฒ๐ท." ๐๐ธ๐๐ฎ๐ฟ๐ฎ๐ป, ๐ผ๐ฑ๐ธ๐พ๐ต๐ญ ๐ช๐ท๐ ๐ธ๐ฏ ๐๐ธ๐พ ๐ฏ๐ฎ๐ฎ๐ต ๐ญ๐ฒ๐ฏ๐ฏ๐ฎ๐ป๐ฎ๐ท๐ฝ๐ต๐, ๐'๐ต๐ต ๐ญ๐ฎ๐ฏ๐ฎ๐ป ๐ฝ๐ธ ๐๐ธ๐พ๐ป ๐ฌ๐ธ๐ต๐ต๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ฝ๐ฒ๐ฟ๐ฎ ๐ณ๐พ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ฎ๐ท๐ฝ ๐ช๐ท๐ญ ๐ช๐ท๐ผ๐๐ฎ๐ป ๐ฝ๐ธ ๐๐ฑ๐ช๐ฝ๐ฎ๐ฟ๐ฎ๐ป ๐ฝ๐ฑ๐ฎ ๐ฐ๐ป๐ธ๐พ๐น ๐ญ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ฒ๐ญ๐ฎ๐ผ.
๐จ๐ธ๐พ๐ป ๐ฌ๐ธ๐ต๐ต๐ฎ๐ช๐ฐ๐พ๐ฎ,
๐๐ช๐น๐ฝ๐ช๐ฒ๐ท ๐๐พ๐ป๐พ๐ผ๐พ
Captain Kurusu.
That handwriting is unmistakable of course. Even if this were some imposter or an unruly creature from another eldritch world- only his captain would don the very mask as others see fit.
"Perhaps your poor blacksmith may still need an apprentice."
"You can ask him. Mr. Iwai's forge is on the north side of the city, just off of Central Street."
"Which city?"
He looks ahead- staring at the five doors. Mikage-cho, Sumaru, Tatsumi Port Island, Inaba... places that didn't matter to him right now except for one.
Tokyo.
That's what the sign said in a shade of green that stood out in its...stylish band of words outlined in blacks and whites. Almost as bright as a patch of grass when sunlight fell but then again- it shouldn't be so surprising. He just saw people moving in quick motions inside a large box riddled with dots, like some sort of puppet show with an invisble curtain drawn on them. He would have stayed behind to take it all in if he could.
But that didn't matter.
A heavy breath broke from his lips as he felt it all rushing in. Excitement? Anguish? Guilt? Relief? โall of them twisting in his chest like knives. The agony of it all making him blink almost too wide, a single pupil constricting as his hands feel too bare. His heart pounded, each beat reminding him he was aliveโbut barely.
He doesn't have to be here.
But its a place to start from.
He reached for the door, a tremor running through his fingers as they grasped the handle. This was it. No turning back.