The white walker stood, eyes focused ahead. He did not need to enter the cave to know what lay within, the smell of decay betraying the presence of the skinwalker within. Although, this was not one of his hunts, and he did not intend to kill this purewalker. Quite the contrary, he intended to raise him.
Skinwalkers were not made to be fathers, and he was no exception. The relationship with this child was not one of love. Genichiro was not his son, but his weapon. He was a sword Ashura wished to forge and sharpen.
That crafty weasel, Kiyoraka Ashi, changed him. All of his efforts in perfecting his craft would be lost upon his inevitable death. He and his work would be erased, and his story would end. He may be remembered in legend, but the threat would be diminished.
Ashura wanted to be more than a memory, more than a scar on the face of the world.
The weasel told him that she would live on in her children, and her bloodline is what would continue her legacy. That was sound enough logic, but the perpetuation of his blood was not enough to suit his desires.
He wanted his life's work to continue. He was starting to understand that mastery was a futile endeavor, one that could be strived for but never be achieved - certainly not in one lifetime. But what about infinite lifetimes? He could pass his knowledge down to an apprentice, and, once that apprentice surpassed him, they could take on their own. Thus, the work he began would endure and evolve.
There would always be a master swordsman roaming these lands. He would never truly die.
However, this plan depended entirely on the success of his apprentice, who appeared to struggle with basic instructions. Though he was an accomplished hunter, Genichiro failed to maintain their home. The discontent was evident in his scowl, which the black walker failed to notice due to his deep slumber. Indeed, Ashura walked very quietly, though Genichiro should have been able to detect his approach.
He glowered down at the black kitsune at his feet, and huffed. It was not a fault of detection, but inertia. Swiftly and forcefully, he struck Genichiro's back, and the kit yelped. He was still very young, and pain was accompanied by shock. That would diminish with time, yet Ashura still wrinkled his nose. "Get up," he growled, lifting his head and finally examining the cave. It was littered with remains, many of which had been killed for sport rather than for food.
How could he have sired such a filthy creature?
"I hope you ate your fill. You won't have another bite until this place has been cleaned." After that, he would force Genichiro to resume his daily training regiment, which had surely been neglected in Ashura's absence.
It would be a long while until Genichiro ate and slept again.
Skinwalkers were not made to be fathers, and he was no exception. The relationship with this child was not one of love. Genichiro was not his son, but his weapon. He was a sword Ashura wished to forge and sharpen.
That crafty weasel, Kiyoraka Ashi, changed him. All of his efforts in perfecting his craft would be lost upon his inevitable death. He and his work would be erased, and his story would end. He may be remembered in legend, but the threat would be diminished.
Ashura wanted to be more than a memory, more than a scar on the face of the world.
The weasel told him that she would live on in her children, and her bloodline is what would continue her legacy. That was sound enough logic, but the perpetuation of his blood was not enough to suit his desires.
He wanted his life's work to continue. He was starting to understand that mastery was a futile endeavor, one that could be strived for but never be achieved - certainly not in one lifetime. But what about infinite lifetimes? He could pass his knowledge down to an apprentice, and, once that apprentice surpassed him, they could take on their own. Thus, the work he began would endure and evolve.
There would always be a master swordsman roaming these lands. He would never truly die.
However, this plan depended entirely on the success of his apprentice, who appeared to struggle with basic instructions. Though he was an accomplished hunter, Genichiro failed to maintain their home. The discontent was evident in his scowl, which the black walker failed to notice due to his deep slumber. Indeed, Ashura walked very quietly, though Genichiro should have been able to detect his approach.
He glowered down at the black kitsune at his feet, and huffed. It was not a fault of detection, but inertia. Swiftly and forcefully, he struck Genichiro's back, and the kit yelped. He was still very young, and pain was accompanied by shock. That would diminish with time, yet Ashura still wrinkled his nose. "Get up," he growled, lifting his head and finally examining the cave. It was littered with remains, many of which had been killed for sport rather than for food.
How could he have sired such a filthy creature?
"I hope you ate your fill. You won't have another bite until this place has been cleaned." After that, he would force Genichiro to resume his daily training regiment, which had surely been neglected in Ashura's absence.
It would be a long while until Genichiro ate and slept again.
► Word Count | 487 ◄