( it turns out that the world ends with neither a whimper or a bang, but with little more than a dull recognition. makoto lets it go without much care or thought. he had never had any attachment or affection for the world of humans or the world of demons — they were both prisons in their own ways, though their bars were different and the jailors wore different skins. really, oblivion had always been the easiest answer for the questions he posed to himself. the only regret he can feel clinging to himself is that he hadn’t been able to accomplish it, in the end — that he hadn’t been able to watch the twist in J’s face as he realized he’d finally surpassed him, how it would feel to finally tear him to pieces, figuratively and literally.

dwelling upon this pulls him into the dark, cast to the far-flung rim of everything and nothing at all. memories and remorse form psychic building blocks about him: a huge, opulent Roccoco palace, now forlorn in its echoing emptiness. it falls into dark and disrepair, followed by a once-rowdy tavern in the slums of Hell, a once-bustling brothel where demons pursued perverse pleasures, a once-orderly village that was a territory for mercantile werewolves — all forming as if from sand and smoke before being blotted out again. he doesn’t care about any of them, nor any of the demons he might have expected to have found there. only a yawning feeling of unfulfillment that opens up in his chest and threatens to swallow him whole.

oddly enough, he can sense that he’s not alone. is someone else here on the edges of despair, locked in the same conflict he is? if they are, he only has one question to ask: ) What is it that you left behind, unfinished?

( he can conjure the briefest images of anywhere he’s been — a schoolroom now, a house full of so-called “family” who had done nothing but revile him — but he can’t seem to muster up an image of him. arcing horns, flowing hair, angelic wings… fury boils in the pit of makoto’s gut. J denies him even now. )

( as soon as he arrives at the light of the end of the tunnel, makoto’s eyes fly wide. there is nothing but broad-open expanse spread out in front of him, a drop-off into emptiness so sheer that he feels his stomach twist and churn as his attention is gravitationally pulled down towards the raging river far below. his breath catches in his throat, heart hammering as his head swims with vertigo. slowly, he forces his eyes upwards to see thin switchback path up the clifface — and that it wasn’t empty, instead hosting a small group of dark-clad soldiers slowly marching down his way.

his expression falls, though largely into one of irritation. lovely.

he weighs his options. he could try to escape, but, try as he might, he can’t seem to draw his wings (and even if he could, he’s still fledgling enough with them that he might just plummet to the bottom of the canyon regardless). he could wait to accept whatever the soldiers might do to him — it’s not as though he could fight back, even if he didn’t feel as weak as a newborn foal. or he could jump. his thoughts linger on that longer than they might have in other minds; they were thoughts not too dissimilar from the ones he had had when he had summoned a demon in his bedroom, years ago. but, no. the hell he had called home might have fallen apart into nothing, but that didn’t mean everyone else had. if J were still alive (there’s no question in his mind he is), he still had purpose to fulfill before he tossed himself willingly into oblivion. there would be no destruction for that demon than one by makoto’s own hand —

so he waits for the soldiers, greeting them with a broad smile. ) Good afternoon, gentlemen. The path you traveled to get here was long and harrowing – might I ask what you intend to do? ( silence, then, gruffly: “we are here to collect you. your soul will be claimed.” again, makoto’s smile falls a degree in annoyance. ah, what else is new? he sighs long-sufferingly, looking up the long, narrow path before gesturing frankly to his still-disrobed body. ) Well, do you at least have anything to wear before trudging—

( and that’s when one of the Achamites literally throws one of the white gowns into his face, effectively shutting him up.

fellow firebrand, unfortunately here you are after the end of your world, trudging up this switchback path guarded on all sides by intimidating black-clad soldiers and alongside a strange young man who… has once or twice tried to convince one of them to physically help him along their way. the second time he asked one of them, he received a whip lashing around his neck for the trouble — he flinches back at it, raising a hand to grasp at where it had wrapped several times around just beneath a thickly-stitched seam that seemingly attached his head to the rest of his body. he becomes more amenable, but only just to the warriors. instead, he turns his attention to you, looking at you with sidelong curiosity, the pale irses of his eyes stark against red sclera. ) You would think they would be more gracious, assuming they want to deliver us and our souls in tact.

( this earns him another small tug from the whip, nearly throwing him off-balance. )

( makoto is not the type to bewail his brand new form of captivity — not for long, anyway. whenever faced with a stark change in surroundings and scenario, he would allow himself just a moment of despair before throwing himself into whatever all-encompassing goal came next. before, it had been learning about demons and hell, then learning about J and his history — now, he tries to learn more about where they are and what the hell is going on.

so after a time of extensive pouting in the carts on the way here, he splits his time between strategically loitering where he can overhear some of the more loose-lipped guards and searching the ruins all of the strangers had been corralled in. he can’t make any sense of them or whatever details might have once been carved into them, but he is greedy for knowledge that might be useful later; he mentally files away whatever he finds even remotely interesting.

at some point in their holding pattern in these days of captivity, he addresses you. it could be that he was assigned a bedroll nearby you and he asks just before bed, or as you are gathered around a fire, eating whatever rations you’re given, or even just as you get your bearings or interminably wait. a young man with long, black hair that falls wildly about his face and odd eyes — somehow, the calculated smoothness of his voice is slightly more unnerving. )

What first comes to your mind if I tell you that “a ritual is being prepared”?

( for anything else not prepared above! makoto will be biting and clawing his way out of a crystal chrysalis in the firebrand shrine. if you have any questions or wish to plot anything out, please feel free to PM me! )