once upon a dream

[Goblin King]

The rain was soon to stop, yet knowing this didn’t have him waiting behind cover for the clearer skies. He was found where he always was on these odd, misty noons when he appeared, a shrine of discarded trinkets and dampened candles silhouetted by the monster that was he. A great shape blotting out the trees that ringed the mountain path behind him, greenery brushing the tips of feathers that protruded haphazardly from his large, hulking form and straining to meet even the head of his bloodied beak.

The red of his mask was not fresh, not today, but he could still taste this last procurement; it was the candelabra he rotated between fine-tipped fingers, examining each curve and ligature that made up its golden form. An unblinking blue gaze didn’t move in a beat from his examination, almost twinkling if any emotion could show through his sight alone. He was transfixed in the way of a man admiring a god, as many admired him, and he observed a moment longer before lifting it up towards that heavy beak.

The slightest adjustments to his posture rumbled through the ground and shook birds from the woods, rain from his pack, and what was left when the dust settled was him with the candelabra held to his ear and his head tilted as if to listen on its secrets. The adornment dangled between two digits as thin and sharp as scythes, but how careful was he to make each movement gentle and grasp it with the finest display of will. His eyes no longer followed the object but swerved around, wildly, disconnected from each other and glancing off to all directions. He let out the softest of ‘ohs’, shaking loose dirt and feathers to join them, and then placed the fixture down near the shrine once again. The mist seemed to close in when he opened his maw to speak, then billow out as each word finished.

“And what have you come to bargain with, little creature…?”

[Goro Tachibana]

Pale blue eyes peered through the wet bamboo stalks from beneath a tree just large enough to shield him from the rain. His uniform was damp, as the downpour had caught him unawares, but the cool fabric clinging to his body was soothing and helped him focus. The little motions of animals and falling leaves slipped his gaze, it was a bigger form he was hunting. Death Trader they called it. A hulking monster of feathers and leather, weighed down by a veritable mountain of junk. The stand-out feature, Goro saw in the report, was the red mask. Hollow were known to have mask markings, but a complete coating of crimson was unheard of. Data was limited as to the cause of the tint, but the eggheads could study it once the thing was dead.

The mask of professionalism broke and Goro inhaled, only to tilt his head back and exhale a low growl. It had only been weeks since his sentencing and they were already acting as if none of it had ever happened. Goro didn't know if he should be grateful or insulted, watching them inspect each and every one of his achievements and offering congratulations as they tossed them into the waste bin. His crime, as loathe as he was to think it, was grounds for a banishment at best. Taking the demotion on the chin was his only choice if he wanted the chance to claw his way back up, but he didn't have to like it, especially not since it required him to be surrounded by slovenly savages. 

Just thinking about it made his shoulder ache, and he stepped out into the dying drizzle to continue the search and take his mind off it. His sandals sunk into the mud and resisted each footstep with a disgusting squelch. The Hollow was smart. With bamboo and trees to hide it's form, and mud to slow its enemies, it could sit in the area relatively safely while Shinigami were forced to march on foot to see beneath the tree canopy. Of course they had eyes in the sky just in case. A small squad from the 12th, with a retinue of 11th should the beast engage. Their purpose was purely recon, as the creature had a peculiar habit of bartering with mortals that the higher ups wanted to observe, though Goro didn't see the point. It was never anything of value, and the beast was as likely to accept an offering as eat the "customer." Better to cave its head in and be done with it.

A fluttering of birds squawking into the sky caught his attention, and he lifted his face to the sun and followed their ascent from the point of origin. A few bursts of information were relayed into his ear by one of his squadmates, and he had everything he needed to close in. Sliding through thickets of bamboo, Goro surged through the brush, the wind streaming black hair in his wake with every leap and bound. It only took him a few moments to reach the perimeter, a guesswork circle that he had to stay out of lest the enemy catch scent of his reiatsu.

Mist had descended from the mountains peak, rolling down the slopes like children tumbling, and collecting at the foot in swirling and heaving piles of exhausted rest. Goro did as he was told and waited for the experts. He could see it in the distance, a great grey blob, still and looming in the white spray as if it were just another statue beneath the sacred shrine gates. Goro began to question if what he was looking at was what they had come here to find, but a slight movement from the monster gave him his answer. Long thin arms ending in sharp knife-like fingers that stretched out, each digit a spear.

"Equipment malfunction. Eleventh recruit: non-lethal engagement."

It took a moment for Goro to process the command and his failure to respond resulted in the order being repeated in a sterner tone. 

"I don't know what that fucking means." He hissed under his breath, patting himself down to ensure everything he needed was there should he need to defend himself. There was no response, the order had been given and he had to obey. 

A burst of reiatsu launched him inside the engagement zone, and with his fingers firmly wrapped around the hilt of his zanpakuto he stepped carefully into the mist. The towering figure loomed ever higher with every step, until eventually Goro spied the red beak pierce the veil. It shifted again, and he gave a start, placing his sheathed blade between himself and the giant; if the creature moved another inch he'd draw it and kill the damn thing before it had a chance to strike first.

But it didn't move. It spoke.

Again, Goro was nonplussed. He'd never spoken with a Hollow before, and despite the encouragement from his superiors ringing in his ears he wasn't sure what to say.

"Nothing," he said, body wound like a spring ready to jump. "At least, nothing I'm aware that you'd want." Sweat began to bead at his hairline. He was too close. He needed to let the creature know that attacking wasn't within it's best interests.

"Though if there's something you seek, perhaps I, or one of my companions, might possess it."

[EXP: 5][Total: 5]

[Goblin King]

His view cleared to the little toy soldier and his little toy sword, both spied in the same moment where a different eye surveyed either. He could imagine there was more - weren't there always more, when they wandered this close? - but there was something about this little one ... this fragile, jittery creature, who seemed so out of place within the broken veil of the mountain's mists. He had no idea what he was approaching; the King atop his hoard of gilted trash, ringed by baubles and knacks as if they were a faerie’s circle.

It was a slow, rumbling chortle that met the boy-thing’s nervous response. He reminded King of not a squirrel but the fox too scared to chase it, urged out its den and split from the kin it hunted with, unable to climb the trees its prey taunted from. King mused he wasn’t much of a squirrel himself -- if the Shinigami wished to hunt him, it would take more than the fangs he carried to return with a prize. His gaze synchronized on the lone figure before him.

“Oho, little Shinigami … You choose your words both carefully and correct. A man will always own something of value and worth to trade: I could help you find what it is.” From his own position, towering above, he knew better than to goad the boy-thing. Sudden movements would startle him to lash out with those untrained claws, and the last thing King desired at this moment was his sanctuary perverted. He would not fight this close to the shrine. He would let the Shinigami’s body break on his long before he’d lift a hand. It was a rare occurrence for either party to be pressed thus, in his experience ...

Instead the slow timbre of his voice led his head to follow it, beak cocking in at an agonizingly slow place to rest on its side and leave its point to single out the soldier. Every word he spoke lacked mockery or intent of any effect but conversation, picking each letter with a gravity left to those in worship. “Did you bring many parties to trade today, little Shinigami? I prefer to do my meetings in private… too much discourse… Agreement on the parity of goods and information is complicated greatly by a group…” A puff of air through the end of his mask, leaving a ring of mist that would expand and dissipate before he next spoke.

“Unless your trade was your kin,” The peak of another eye on the haggler’s forehead, a lid not yet fully conceived with only a gleam of blue, "but I have no use for the bodies. No… you wished to see? My collection, is it?” He moved only his eyes to glance down at the array of household objects around him, his predisposition for as little activity as possible making the goal of not startling the boy-thing easier in practice. He would hate to see him scamper away so soon. “I have brokered with your kin on occasion. Do you wish to know of my brethren? No other would tread upon this mountain’s grounds. This is mine. You know this.”

A sharp flick of his eyes to center, bore into the boy’s own. “I seek. I always seek. I am always seeking. But you do not know of them. Another day will pass, and we will still not know.”

[Goro Tachibana]

The independence of the creatures eyeballs disturbed him, as if there were a collective of entities hidden behind the mask ready to cast off their charade and overwhelm the Shinigami that had willingly delivered himself to the slaughter. One, he noted, was fixated on his Zanpakuto, and though it was possible the creature intended to suggest it as a commodity, Goro chose to see it as wariness to bolster his courage. The beast knew he was a threat, so they were at least on level ground.

A third presence made itself known. Nothing stirred from without, but from within Goro felt Nisekunshi ready to defend him. A swell of indignation replaced the fear, spreading a heat that coiled around his neck and gripped his ears, and Nisekunshi faded. The last time Goro's Zanpakuto interfered it resulted in a court-martial and a Division transfer. He wouldn't let his own sword ruin things again. He could feel the cold unapproving stare of the silver armor, icy blue eyes sharp and piercing, but now wasn't the time for an argument; he had enough back-up waiting above to descend at a moments notice. But did he trust them? The thought was half his, half Nisekunshi's.

Like the grinding of stone the Hollow spoke with a voice that snapped vines and shook loose moss, commending him for his wary conduct. Then, slowly, the antediluvian creature moved. Goro moved in kind, shifting feet, and arms, and posture, keeping every part of his body in code with what he'd learned in the academy. Radio chatter filled his ear, none of it requiring his focus, simply comments on his conduct and discussion about how to proceed. There were procedures for this kind of encounter, but it was rare enough that remembering them required significant head scratching. They couldn't hear the Hollow, but they could hear Goro, and he had to relay information to them without returning any to the enemy.

"We're a military unit, comprising multiple direct combat troops." He lied. "Revealing their positions would put us on equal footing, so they've agreed to stay out of things unless provoked." That part at least was the truth. 

"You're negotiating with me, and what I say goes, so they won't be bartering tokens." The sureness of his own voice eased his anxiety. Goro resisted the urge to mimic the creature in glancing over the junk that surrounded it, one lapse in attention was all it took for a Shinigami to die in the line of duty. He did, however, lower his zanpakuto, though his grip remained ready to lash the blade from its housing. He did his best to ignore the comment about trading his allies, though his mind couldn't help but wonder if Shinigami had made similar deals with the beast in the past, and whether his squadmates would do for him what he was doing for them.

"I want to know more about your collection, like what holds the most value, and what use somebody would have for..." He paused to fight the urge to look. "Any of this. Then we can see about making trades and finding what it is you want in return." The radio chatter was ecstatic, so he knew he was doing something right.

[EXP: 5][Total: 10]

[Goblin King]

King's demeanor when he spoke was slow, the age and wisdom of a whale that had crossed all oceans to have long learned he was simply too large to handle each concern of each little fish that swam alongside. He, however, had a higher capacity for discussion than your average whale, and chose to find interest in the bubbles that rose to ask for his help. Insofar as the trade was fair, a conversation for a conversation was often acumen. This is why he regarded the Shinigami with a sense of tired pity, uninterested in playing too deeply into the game of his pawnship but observant enough to recognize the board when the first move was made.

If they had truly come with a combat retinue the toy soldier was meant as the bait, an excuse, and that didn't help the Mountain King in the least: they weren't coming to trade with him, and he had no use for something that would squeak and mewl if squoze. If this visit served a different purpose - reconnaissance, perhaps - they would both find nothing new and serve only to waste his time, while still leaving the tinman to the mercy of a beast they saw as lacking it. He found either distasteful, but the current situation now not entirely without merit.

Case in point, the false bravado of the boy-thing with his little stick to swing around. King had sticks too, yes, and he could clutch one within wiry fingers to play at swordsmanship if a test of strength was the boy's hope -- but it wasn't. He had no goal. He had no wish, save maybe not to have the attention of each eye zeroed in on his single point. There was amusement in this, as well. He liked these ones. They held the most precious secrets to trade within their closely-guarded exteriors, as the best-kept sentiments were the most valuable in nature. You don’t put something without great worth behind a vault.

“I gain nothing from provocation. There is no fighting upon the ground of my shrine, and there are no spoils for you to take that you could not earn now. Come, let us see what there is to trade.” He hummed to the Shinigami as he began to move, each action he took multiplied in magnitude equal to his size for the speed it would take to complete. His arm would lift to extend claws the length of the other’s body, tracing gently over his aggregation of objects. Each one was handled with so much care it appeared the Hollow would tremble his grasp before he’d apply more pressure.

Each breath exhaled resonated with the mists to fan out then recant on his next inhalation, the deliberateness of his breathing slowing this process. “Ohoho, little Shinigami… so it is your word to take? If you wish to be the leader, then the leader is what you shall be. The contract is thus: you are to be the sole representative of your party for the course of our trade. No others will be privy to our dealings. Confidentiality is key in business."

That great mask lifted from its incline, peering away from picking out his favorite baubles to stare the boy-thing down. The mists seemed to press in. A single finger caught the loop of a keyring, one silver piece dangling from the object as it was raised. “Do we have a deal?”

[Goro Tachibana]

Goro knew better than to trust a Hollow, especially when it claimed there was no benefit in confrontation. Damn thing may as well have said it wasn't hungry. A creeping heat began to overshadow the fear as Goro realized that the beast looked down on him, fed him lies because it thought him gullible and naive. Which meant it had a purpose for lying. A trap of some sort, or at the very least it wanted to remove as many of Goro's advantages as it could before it struck. Was that what this salesmans charade was for, to lure victims into a false sense of security?

"No." Goro said simply. The chatter in his ear continued with a more aggressive tone and he knew he'd gone against his teams wishes, but he wouldn't let a Hollow of all things get the better of him. "You're trying to turn this into something it's not, so let me explain the situation."

Straightening out, the Shinigami leveled his glare right on the many swirling eyeballs of Death Trader.

"You're outnumbered, and as long as my allies have the element of surprise you're outgunned. You might be able to reach me by the time they get here, but even without me they'll kill you. So you don't have a leg to stand on at the negotiating table." Madness made him step forward, his need to prove himself overstepping his sense of self-preservation. Once he was close enough he could make out what made the mask so red. Blood. Dried, cracked, and chipped in places where boney white shone through. The urge to flee swirled contradictory emotions within his stomach, flight desperately wrangling with fight.

Pride won out.

"So you'll get no promises besides this: I'm here to trade your continued existence for whatever you deem to be of equal value."

The radio went silent.

[EXP: 5][Total: 15]

[Goblin King]

"You act in poor faith, little soldier." A third eye opened. A fourth followed. They were stacking atop each other, each bringing to bear the whole of their field upon the tinman. No feathers rustled; nothing else moved, not from the Goblin King and his silent tomb of objects. His countenance was as stony and immutable as the Mountain he was named for, spiraling above and off into the mists until it appeared to be the only thing that could escape. "You bring violence into my shrine. You taint these proceedings with hatred you carry in your heart as justification for your lack of decorum." The sigh of air pushed from the open maw of his cracking beak in the course of his declaration conducted the mists as if he carried their baton, the rain - all at once - seeming to slow to the same beat of King's voided heart. "I can hear your soul, Bijou. You are scratched and chipped the same as any item I have seen handled without care. Careless are the hands that have touched and traded you. I hear your soul, Shinigami. This is not the only home you bring violence to."

That tremendous yet gentle hand of knives recanted its offering, the deal having been removed from the table and the keyring replaced among the hoard. He regarded it. Even and sure. "The man with the key had his own secrets. His soul held it tight: but the key wanted to speak. The silver bullet that was to be his undoing. He told not his spouse of the box he kept, and the drab, earnest chain for the key she gifted to him became the bearer of this burden. They were with him always. He kept this cash hidden away within his domicile, locked tight from prying eyes or prying hands. He did this for years, deep in the bowels of their poverty. Every cent he earned, every possession he pawned, it went to the box with just this inconsequential little key as its warden. He worked so late. He ate so little. His partner thought him wasting away, uncaring for her or their marriage. Proposing himself to another. She grew to resent him for this, every hole dug by his secret filled with her own illusions of reality. I cannot speak to how it ate away at her -- the key only knew of the man, and the man did not last through the wrath of who he had scorned."

"He had been storing his heart away in this box, trusting the key to be his anchor. He wanted to buy her the ring of her dreams. He wanted more than his life to make her happy and took every effort to stay unweathered in this attempt. His embarrassment and shame for their circumstances kept him from speaking up, and soon too much time had passed without a return on his investment. Every year the price of her dream went up, and so to did the distance he had to cover increase. If he had just told her, he may have had to face the reality of his shame or deal with the rejection of a hand not yet with a gift to offer: but she would have known. He would still live on. And this key would not be all that remains of their tale."

The King wheezed on his next inhale, the thinnest of air to enter in the wisps of the mist that drew into his beak. He breathed it out again on either side, pouring forth as if he had taken a smoke. "You will always find a way to understand something you do not know as long as the answers to your questions are convenient, and the shame and secrets you keep will forever be the undoing of not only your beliefs but the belief of others in you. New dirt can fill each hole that is dug. It is not just the tools you dig with that remember; you will, most of all."

"You have no business here, boy-thing. Return when you want to trade. Do not bloody my sanctuary with your shovel."

[Goro Tachibana]

Each and every one of the beasts eyes were trained on him, and a shudder of revulsion crept up his spine, the sensation of being watched by many feral deadly creatures returning uninvited. The fact that the thing could remain so still didn't do anything to ease Goros discomfort, it made the towering mass of feathers and leather difficult to read: an arm could shoot out and pierce him at any moment, a cero fire without the Hollow so much as blinking. 

Either he'd struck a nerve, or sparked some kind of demented Hollow inspiration, it was honestly hard to tell. Beginning it's cryptic diatribe with an insult to Goro's manners, though he thought himself practically nobility since all he'd done from the first moment was make sure King couldn't gain an advantage, the Hollow went on to describe Goro as, essentially, damaged goods. Empty words, just vague enough to trick a superstitious fool into believing them. The Shinigami had seen the false alarm reports of charlatan ghost whisperers, taking money from the gullible. How appropriate then that he was as incapable of seeing it within his enemyas he was within those that called themselves his allies. 

Goro listened to the story Death Trader told him, hoping to find something, anything that might be useful. But in the end it seemed just that, a story with a little silver key to ground it in reality. Were King not a great murdering animal he could almost see the creature filling the role of the village sage, warning children away from bad behaviour with ancestral tales. Were there baby Hollow in Hueco Mundo who needed such fairy tales?

"A sad story." He said dismissively. "Were my squad able to hear it I'm sure the researcher among them would tear it apart for some kind of meaning." Carefully, he removed his fingers from the hilt of his blade, tensed and ready to grab for it at a moments notice, and reached it into the folds of his Shihakusho. Not quite as slow as King, nor half so delicate, but still doing his best not to provoke. 

"I have, in fact, thought of a genuine trade." From his robes his fingers emerged with a small bottle wrapped in heavy fabric, emblazed with a thick black circle that contained a simple flower-like logo. Only Goro knew what was inside, a corrosive poison that ate away at the flesh and spread through the veins, but it was the bottle that held value.

"Based on that little tale, you're interested in stories. There's one behind this container, but I want something worth the effort of telling it to you. If you must take the container along with it, then so be it." He held the object by the string melded into the stopper, allowing the bottle itself to hang and sway, then he pulled it back up. Closing his fist around it, he wrapped the bottle back up in the cloth, confident that the material and the mud would keep it from cracking, and tossed it into the wet dirt at the Hollows feet.

"As a sign of good faith I'll even let you know what's inside it. An acidic toxin, deadly to all spiritual powerful beings, so don't go spilling it."

[EXP: 5][Total: 15]

[Goblin King]

He had almost forgotten the Shinigami was still there when he was done telling his story, the eyes still focused upon him dulled while the main set had slowly, tiredly drooped. They looked over his hoard of items, of the key he had just finished reading for the boy-thing who could never understand what it meant as long as he found himself, most of all, at the bottom of the holes he dug. Both of his arms hung as if exhausted from the little activity they had taken in this discussion, fingers splayed in such a way that they'd creak, protesting, if they moved. He paid no mind, dusted with rain, each thin digit serving as gutters for the rain to pool and disperse rivers into the dampened grass. Each bauble removed from his "pack" was carefully laid atop a blanket that would have been better suited for a picnic than a demon's trading of wares, protected entirely by the mountainous shape of his form hunched over them as if this is the way he had always been. As if he was here, unmoving, for eternity, and would still be found the same centuries after time had weathered away everything else.

He didn't catch the Shinigami's dismissal of the secrets he shared as much as he felt it in the bone of his mask, the water washing down his back, the all-seeing sightlessness of his unblinking blue. Even then, if possible, his features suggested amusement, the creases of his body lightly shaking and rumbling like a tree caught in the barest breeze. A single feather dislodged to be lifted away in the actual wind, disappearing into the mist after a pregnant moment of thought. He never blamed the sparrow for not thinking of the louse it ate. They were both no less animals. "Ah, so you do bring your cards to the table, little Shinigami. Let us see how you deal." Extraneous vision began to darken as his attention reconvened on the boy, only two eyes remaining by the time the bottle entered the trade.

He hummed a rumble that stopped just short of rattling the glass, gold and steel he tended to, one eye leaving to appraise Goro's offering. It whispered to him as they all did, eager to open themselves to a willing ear. It invigorated him so, even with only this taste, and his beak groaned open in approval. "You are not insensible in the end, Bijou. I can feel your heart in this offering. You do well to bring it to my shrine." Each drop of water that entered the package's sphere of influence seemed to divert just in time to not soak it through, while King busied his thoughts with a growing need to remove it from the dirt before its soul could mix with the mud. Alas, he was not so rude as to sample a good before a deal was struck. He would always play within the rules he writ. "I accept your terms. I will search my wares for something no lesser nor greater in value than your bottle. I am most eager for the story you, and it, will tell."

A grand limb had already begun its movement while he spoke, a picture formed in his mind enough to guide him through the excitable murmurs of the forgotten wishes he collected in his satchel. He had long enough between his actions to pose one more question. "Unless... there was an inquiry you carried in your soul's soul you wished answered instead? I have seen many and I have seen all, little soldier. I would be remiss not to offer my appraisal of your less material heart."

[Goro Tachibana]

Only two eyes were open now, and Goro wondered if the hulking brute used them as an intimidation tactic, because he found himself far more comfortable with just the main pair looking at him. They only moved when the bottle hit the mud and the Shinigami saw some kind of recognition in those swirling orbs. Hunger? Something like it, as it was the first time Goro had seen the mouth in the things mask open. He'd have to be sure to remember all these little details for the report if he was going to make it up to his superiors for bending the rules a little. 

The beast moved, and though Goro remained ready to defend himself, he began to feel more and more at ease the longer the interaction stretched on. A sheer refusal to slacken kept him from fully dropping his guard, but the barometer for attentiveness was shifting from fear to a simple determination not to let himself be taken advantage of. Slow enough in it's countenance, the Hollow asked him a question as it reached out, though the significance of its meaning escaped Goro once more. What was he even supposed to say to that? An inquiry within his souls soul? Less material heart? Sure, he had questions about the monsters habits, his stalking grounds, his reasons for doing this or that, but such rudimentary things didn't warrant such cryptic language.

"You just worry about the appraisal and the offer, I'll think about that if I don't like what I see." He said, in the end. With a sigh he had to take a moment to form the words in a way that the Hollow would be most pleased with, something grand and extravagant instead of the simple affair it was. Then, he reached into his ear, a symbolic gesture that cut the connection between him and his team.

"All right, pay attention, because I don't have much time to get this all out." He warned.

"Imagine if you will, a boy with dark hair and blue eyes, who's only hope of survival was to throw his lot in with a group that cared only for the profit he could make them. Long does the boy call this group home, learning all manner of unsavory things; chief among them being poisons of all colors and uses. Hunger is rare, so food is a scarce and valuable luxury, but the boy needs to eat and profits dwindle. Resented, the boy is moved like a piece on a game board, put in just the right place at just the right time, lied to at every turn, so that the law blames him, not just for his own crimes, but the crimes of the group as a whole." Goro's eyes grew dark and distant, still present and aware, but there was a disconnection between himself and his words, though he knew this was his story.

"Darkness is all the boy knows for a long time, and he contemplates eating the poison hidden on his person until the hunger makes him beg for food. Seeing his wasting form, the law gives the boy to the military, who feed him and clothe him and teach him. The military is the only father the boy ever knew. Still, the hunger in the boys belly persists, and he continues brewing his poisons. Decades pass and the boy is an officer, talented and trained and true, yet still there is a hunger and though the need for them is long past the boy continues brewing his poisons."

"The boy forges paper and bribes officials, until one day he finds himself standing before the group that sold his life, with permission from Father Military. With the poison still nestled against his chest, the boy destroys them with a power that had thus far eluded him. When Father Military finds out he's furious, but he still has love for the boy. In the darkness of incarceration once more the boy once again contemplates swallowing the poison, having brewed it all this time for just this occassion, but he can't do it. Newfound duty and purpose keep it from him. And so Father Military strips the boy of his ranks and titles and awards, and though the boy must start from the bottom, he is alive, he has his drive, and he has a purpose greater than himself. Still, he keeps brewing his poisons."

The shine returned to Goros eyes, and they flicked up to meet Kings. Queitly he lifted his fingers back up to his ear, there was no switch to flip nor speaker to pull, but the gesture itself signified the reconnection.

"Reconnected." He stated sharply. "Target disabled communication forcibly. Engagement remains passive. Just a trick."

Radio chatter commenced in a fury of admonishment and relief, but none accused him.

"Where were we?" He asked the Hollow. "Ah, yes--So what is it worth?"

[EXP: 5][Total: 20]

[Goblin King]

King was old. Not as old as the grand immortals that ruled over their planes, the Commander of this soldier’s rotting little Soul Society or the Fraud King of what once he might have recognized as Las Noches, but older than his spirit might betray. Older than the weathered lines of cracking bloodstains that lined his impassive mask, the everbright red stars composing the opened space of eyes paying due attention to the boy-thing. He was so much older than his body. Older than his soul, such was the way of his erosion. The passage of time affected individuals - the components of their being - on such a personal level that King’s countenance betrayed an ancientness that his years wandering couldn’t on their surface.

King was not oldest creature either would meet, but the moss that proliferated the man that the Goblin King had been - might have been or was once, would never be again -- the impressive vines that climbed the edges of the hole in his chest like an abandoned building, needing no nurturing but the passive influence of days passing -- it made him old. Older than this battle and older than the Shinigami, slight by time’s passage but a nearly insurmountable gulf in experience.

This was not “experience” based on the Shinigami not having “accomplished” as much as King, for King had claim to very little movement; social, metaphysical or otherwise. This was because King had long accepted this aging of his soul. This was because King had long since accepted how time had broken what he was down to a creature that was him in name alone. This is what made him older than Gorō Tachibana: he knew he had lost himself along the way, holding on so precisely to a shred of a memory of what made the King of the Mountain. The tinman hadn’t yet realized his heart was long stolen. How would he grow, not knowing it was lost? How was he to find it again?

It made King wise in the way all aged creatures considered themselves wise - for they have seen and they have felt the spectrum of what a creature could - and it was with this wisdom that he sat back and listened. It was with this wisdom that he judged. In all of his sagacity he weighed the weight of every sentiment that passed his delicate touch.

King could both see and feel the weight of anything’s soul, yet the taste of this memory brought with it a dissonance: in this case, it was as if he had bitten a fruit with an aftertaste that faded as quickly as it was bitter. He found the Shinigami’s bottle not too heavy to hold, but an odd weight as if it couldn’t sit within his palm in the first place. It was not light nor a burden. It almost felt as if it wasn’t quite there at all -- as if he picked it up and in that moment it stopped existing, ceasing to be when touched. As if it was scared to be observed.

King followed the Shinigami’s story, and the film that played out across the bottle’s surface was almost agreeable with the script. The problem was in King’s experience in reading these stories, and the edges of the film where it began to fray and crackle. This show had been recorded over. It was not wholly doctored - the basis of these events remained in Goro’s retelling - but edited, bits and bobbles moved or cut for a more palatable feature. The events within had been distasteful enough, after all, and the ends - that is, the finale of the toy soldier taking up his sword for the righteousness of his people - justified the means.

King could see. In the opening of a third, a fourth, and a fifth eye - in six, two rows of three that shrunk to a laser-thin point. King could see each word that had been synomized. King could see each thought that had been hushed. King could see each prompt leading its actors back on track. King could see everything the bottle had, beyond the pale of what the boy-thing didn’t - or couldn’t - want it to remember, and King breathed it out in a crackling sigh. The mist took on the same quality the bottle’s aura had for him, a ghost of a touch around the two. King listened while he read.

There was a trace of static in the air, hair standing on bristled ends, each time Goro spoke a line that deviated from the poison’s memory. A record scratching before continuing its tune.

*The boy is moved like a piece on a game board.*

Goro could say the line but not read between it. He couldn’t see what the poison, fresh and eager and experiencing its existence for the first time could -- he didn’t think to look for what a newborn catches from watching every new movement. The urchin was not just a toy for the betrayal of his family. Every action had purpose. A hand did not blindly guide. Perhaps he could not remember the faces that showed too often for strangers, invading like fungi around the home he had made. The bottle saw them reflected on its surface. It saw them again, and again, and again, up until the urchin was sold to his fate -- it was not a destiny wrought solely by the voices he knew.

*Darkness is all the boy knows for a long time.*

The prisoner did not realize just how long he had spent in that darkness, as if the darkness had been waiting specifically for him. The bottle had whispers that lingered on the cusp of its contents, a frothing mist of neglect, scattered when lightly shaken. The prisoner did not choose to remember - to accept, or verbalize - the depth of his loneliness, as he was not alone. He had begged and he had been answered, years passing, only to be answered again. He would not break. The bottle testified to this.

*Seeing his wasting form, the law gives the boy to the military.*

The darkness was satisfied. The prisoner was freed from the chains of his defiance for he spoke defiance no longer. His lesson had been learned and he had not succumbed to his weaker nature. Light glinted across the glass of the bottle’s surface, answering this satisfaction. The story was back on track. Everyone was in its right place, doing the job it was meant for, and the poison could wait for its own.

*When Father Military finds out he's furious, but he still has love for the boy.*

Was that fury or disappointment? Resentment? Acceptance? Satisfaction for what the shaded hand at his back had wrought? Was it the darkness that shaped its fingers, or the light that ringed its edges? Did it matter if he had passed or failed the light’s expectation? The soldier was just a machination within this playful darkness. That was the dissonance bubbling upon the poison. It could not win or lose. It served only to exist.

...but he can't do it. Newfound duty and purpose keep it from him...

Ah.

...he is alive...

...he has his drive...

...and he has a purpose greater than himself.

And thus the tinman waits in the forest, his axe raised, and he is doing right. He is just. He was here all along, and here he will always be, as this is what he was meant for, and who he always was. The tinman was always the tinman, for that is what is in front of you. The darkness waits, satisfied. The light watches, satisfied. They are both in the treetops, looking down, and the tinman’s axe does not drop. He is there. The rust sets in. He is there.

The forest is satisfied.

“Ah…” King makes his first noise since he began living the bottle’s years. The sound is heavy and slow, roiling instead of ringing from his open maw and taking with it the enclosing mists until the hint of sun peaks through the rain and the limbs of trees push through the edges of their enclosure. He takes on the burden of the object’s memories, and the weathering light in his eyes - dilated to their normal size, shutting one by one - seems to dull and age in the moment. Minutes pass before he speaks again.

“You have offered a treasure, little Shinigami. The gold is a fool’s, but the fool is not you. I understand they are too heavy for you to lift. Your hand, outreached, is enough.” The normal two eyes open slowly, measured, and they watch the boy without the weight they bore before. “I will not bring cruelty to this trade. I will not force you to see what your heart has. I find it… distasteful. This memory is not kind, and it would never bring them back to me.” Another heavy sigh, lacking the intonation of exhaustion: it was tired. It was so very old. “If you ever choose to remember, I can help you not forget.”

“In the matter of our dealing, I can offer that. I do not believe you will accept it. I do not know if you can. I offer another.” A hand pulled through the damp air, drying in motion, and plucked from the pile a charm. It was without a chain or clasp, no necklace or bracelet for it to hold onto, and the silver had been washed to a faded green copper over most of its surface. The shape, still, was unmistakable. A heart dangled precariously from the tip of King’s fingers, dwarfed until it was brought feet from Goro’s face. It seemed to sing, barely above a hum.

“You do not care for its story, and its story is not what will save you. You may consider its help. I believe the value is equal, a life for a life. What you have traded away and what you might find again. They both belong to you. It is not for me to decide.”

King cared little for the flesh and soul of the creature that stood across from him, its life meaningless save for the tales it offered, but its heart he handled with care. He offered one anew. A chance to reclaim it -- this was not something King could do for himself, thus with grave respect he gave the choice to someone else. He watched.

And he listened.