middaeg | [OPEN] bite & arbeit

Wolf, personally, has very little interest in reading. Even that he knows how is something of an outlier, considering how martial his upbringing was, but in general it is a luxury of time spent in stillness and silence that he cannot really afford. And yet, he comes to the bookstore anyway. He isn't certain why, or perhaps he just doesn't want to admit the truth of the matter — that the rows of bookshelves remind him of the similar room in the castle, where he would find Lord Kuro surrounded by a loose halo of books, pouring through them to try to find information to aid in his quest.

The turnskin stands out. Even if he has left his more noticeable weaponry behind today, he is a severe man with a brusque presence. He walks the shelves, surveying the spines of the books but never picking any out. He isn't even certain what he would decide to read, if the impulse struck him. Your mid-thirties is an odd time to suddenly have free time and freedom enough to decide if you have interests or hobbies or not.

He can feel the eyes following him. It's like a prickling at the back of his neck, one born both of shinobi tutoring and turnskin instincts. Wolf doesn't react immediately, continuing along his way until he decides that it is no accident. He turns his dark gaze towards the sensation, locking onto the boy sitting near the entrance to the shop. He doesn't flinch away, and they hold one another's gazes for a long moment. The boy then lowers the book and, after a beat, gives him a small wave.

Wolf is still for a long moment, and then his shoulders move up and down in a sigh. He approaches.

His eyes flick down toward the book, noticing that it's about, well, turnskins. His wolfish ears flatten a bit, and his eyes go back to the boy's. He frowns. "Do you have any questions?"

Ah. He's coming over. Seemingly unmoved by the awkward moment of staring they had shared, he stands up once the stranger approaches him, only to find that the stranger is shorter than him. He's much older too; now that Makoto can see his face up close, he realizes he's at least thirty years old.

"Sorry for staring," he says, trying to address his apparent annoyance from the beginning. The man gives off an overall intimidating vibe. Makoto's poker face doesn't break, but he quietly hopes he hasn't just instigated a fight on his first day of work here. "I guess you could say that I do. I'm a mirrorbound, and I only got here a few weeks ago. You're the first turnskin I've talked to, to be honest."

Several years over thirty, and with the overall roughness to him, it's fairly apparent that all of those years had also not treated him well. But Wolf has a calm air to him, even if it is a stark and severe one. He eyes the boy with shinobi wariness and canine curiosity. If he notices that the young man is a bit taller than him, well, he doesn't show it. The fact that he is a short man is not news to him; the only time it really registers is when it registers to other people, and he can see it for just a moment in their expression.

Wolf doesn't respond verbally to the apology; he just kind of makes a gruff sound to wave the words off. He isn't offended — he is just straight-forward, and thinking that if the boy had something he wanted to say, he might as well say it.

The shinobi nods. Another disparate soul come wandering through the mirrors, then? Too new to tell what he would turn out to be, though by now he would know if he has been blessed with magical prowess or cursed with a monster's mien. Wolf might ask later, if it comes up, but it's not really his business. Just as his own affliction isn't really Makoto's, but... he has become accustomed to shouldering others' curiosity.

"You may ask." Wolf reaches out and takes the book on turnskins that the boy had been holding previously. He flicks through the pages, holding the book in a hand which, upon closer inspection, is a rather macabre prosthetic. He glances back up to Makoto. "Though what you find in this book might prove better to you."

He only says this, knowing that the book understands what he is and how he will change far better than he does at this given moment, even having gone through several months of transformation.

Wolf might not be wondering too long about what Makoto has been afflicted with, depending on what knowledge he'd gained about vampires so far. Makoto's red eyes and pale skin are the strongest hint, and as they talk, he might catch a glimpse of his half-grown fangs behind his upper lip.

Whatever Makoto might have wanted to ask first, the sight of the man's odd prosthetic arm grabs his full attention immediately. He hadn't noticed that earlier, when he was staring at him from across the store. It seems to be made out of nothing more than wood and metal, but at the same time, it's far more advanced than any modern medical technology he's aware of.

So, naturally, he assumes it must be a magic-infused invention of this city. "What does the palm of your hand look like?" he asks carefully, adding "Is it true you have pads on your fingers?" He wonders if the question might lead to more information about how he lost his arm. Did he get in a fight with another turnskin? Get it caught in a trap while transformed?

That might be overestimating how much time Wolf had invested over the last few months in learning more about the various types of magic and monsters that made this world their home. It wasn't as stringent as willful ignorance, but for a while he had avoided it as if in denial, and then it had simply not been immediately relevant to him. But, if it was mentioned he was a vampire, he would probably nod, understanding. That's about the level of offhandedness Wolf has with this whole business.

It wasn't the question that he anticipated, and there's a faint arching of a scarred brow that gives that away. But he answers by holding out his flesh-and-bone hand, turning it palm-up. Though the fur has spread down his arm towards it, it hasn't yet fully transformed into what Makoto asked of.

"Not yet," is the real answer he gives. He suspects it will happen. "But during the full moon, yes." Among many other things.

He turns the page, scanning over a passage which seems to be discussing turnskin pack instinct. "Anything else?"

Makoto studies his hand for a quiet moment. Despite not knowing this man, he feels slightly disappointed that he doesn't have any adorable doggie beans on his fingers... but he keeps that to himself.

Wait - 'not yet'? Makoto glances back up to the stranger. "Does that mean you're a Mirrorbound too, then? I thought you were a native."

Because of that strange arm. Makoto looks down at it, feeling more emboldened to ask what he'd wanted to know a moment earlier. "You didn't lose your arm in... I don't know. A fight with another turnskin or something, then?"

Yes, he can imagine it's not nearly as fun or as exciting as if his hand resembled more closely an animal's. They were "cute" in that way, weren't they? Wolf just thinks it would make holding a sword more cumbersome, so he's not exactly looking forward to that change.

Oh, but perhaps Lord Kuro would have found it endearing, if not amusingly ironic, given the manner of his transformation and the given designation he had lived with for these past twenty years.

Wolf looks surprised - or, rather, he looks as impassive as ever, but his ears perk a bit, so it gives him away. He emits a single, gruff laugh, and he shakes his head. "I am Mirrorbound, yes." He felt he stood out so much when he first arrived here; spending all these months transforming into this bestial shape has helped him blend in, he supposes, even if it doesn't help how he mentally perceives himself among crowds. "But I have been here for some time."

The shinobi blinks; without thinking he clenches the hand of the prosthetic into a fist, and then relaxes it. "Fighting, yes, but not here, and not with another Monster." Though perhaps Genichiro was a monster, but in another way. A man who had willingly traded his humanity in the blind pursuit of power. He pitied the man, who had shared such a similar background as him. "I lost it before I arrived through the mirror. The same is true for obtaining this." He opens the prosthetic hand, palm up, to point it out.

To his amazement, the prosthetic hand moves with eerily similarity to a real hand - just as fluidly, just as nimbly. It's far more advanced than anything in Tokyo circa 2009. It might even be moving more smoothly and naturally than Aegis' hands could.

"Wow." Whether he's amazed by the story or by the arm may not be clear, but he lifts a hand like he wants to touch it. "Does it have feeling, too? What's it made out of?"

He's forgotten whatever else he wanted to ask about turnskins, at least for now.

The shinobi prosthetic was a marvel of invention — in Makoto's time and in Wolf's as well, though they were separated by several hundred years. He couldn't possibly begin to explain how it worked. He's surprised it still does, as all magic of their own worlds didn't seem to follow them here. Dougen must have figured out some kind of natural magic that, combined with his ingenuity, allowed it to work like this. Regardless, Wolf does not question it. It is a useful tool, and he is grateful that it was given to him.

Wolf grows a little tense as the boy lifts a hand, as if to touch it. Not worried that he would cause any harm, but more that it didn't seem... couth. It is a weapon of war, stained time and time again with blood, though Wolf had wiped away that and oiled it, as the Sculptor had instructed.

He breathes another sigh through his nose, lifting up his arm and baring the prosthetic. It's easier to observe than to explain. There are parts of it constructed from metal and wood, certainly, and the spindle of twine which connected to the grappling hook. Cloth is wrapped around the hand, of which the digits seem to be made of — carved stone, perhaps? It's hard to tell. But the whole thing is built around what is very clearly human bone: the radius bone of the arm, to be exact.

"It is an object. I have no feeling through it." Besides the occasional sensation of phantom limb, but it comes less and less now.

Uncouth, yes, but Makoto is too fascinated - and just bold enough - not to at least implicitly request to touch it. At the unspoken invitation, he touches the back of the hand with the tips of his fingers, carefully at first, but then with enough pressure to feel the metal and wood beneath the cloth. The longer he studies it, the more details he notices - including that dried, preserved bone at its core.

It's a good thing Fuuka isn't here. The soft-spoken tech junkie would probably be nerding out over this arm. Not that Makoto isn't above a bit of nerding out on his own.

"It's amazing," he says as he removes his hand and looks back to the man, smiling. "You're like... a cyborg. You know, part man, part machine? Or maybe, part turnskin, part machine." His friendliness conveys that he means it as a compliment. "What happens to it when you turn?"

If the boy is not repulsed, Wolf will not refuse him if he wishes to touch the device. It has bore far worse treatment than such a thing, so he is in no danger of causing harm to it. It is far more likely that the deadly contraption might cause harm to him, but Wolf is keeping a keen eye on him.

Wolf truly hasn't given the prosthetic much thought. It is a mysterious relic, to be certain, and there was what the Sculptor had told him of it. But the mystery of its construction and history had not been his mission back in Ashina. He had been fortunate to have been given a prosthetic to lessen the loss of his arm, but certainly he would have gone to Lord Kuro's side, even if he had perfectly lived up to his moniker of "one-armed wolf."

The shinobi does nothing but lift one scarred eyebrow at the word, but Makoto has the forefront of thought enough to explain for him. He thinks over it for a moment, his mouth pressing itself into a thin line. He doesn't seem to agree, and he says as much: "It is a tool. I am no more machine than a man wielding a knife to cut food, or a man wielding a hammer to build something."

He knows the boy doesn't mean anything by it, but Wolf's self-conception of himself as even human is warped enough; he doesn't really like the additional thought of the prosthetic adding another modifier to him.

Wolf gives a low hmph, reaching up with his right hand to the metal cage-like lattice at the top of the prosthetic, where it binds to what remains of his left arm. He tugs at one of the metal bars, and it remains unyielding. "I must remove it. My body grows, but the prosthetic does not." The first time he'd shifted, he'd narrowly managed to unlatch and pull the thing off before it mangled and mutilated what part of his arm he still had left.

Is that how he sees it? Calling it a tool makes sense in its own way, too. It's just one part of him, and as he reveals a moment later, it can be removed. He doesn't need it to survive - like a pair of glasses, almost.

It's a bit sad for him to have to lose it when turned, though. Surely, the magic here could do something to help him with that... perhaps a witch could apply some sort of enlargement rune on it that only activates under the full moons. Henry, maybe? He's a witch, and he'd reanimated that severed dragon claw. There could be enough bone in this prosthetic for him to do the same.

While the boy wonders how he might solve the man's problems, as he had a tendency to do with interesting strangers, he continues to study the prosthetic. Eventually, he removes his hands and looks him in the eye again.

"...I work here part-time. When I'm not reading during my breaks." He gestures towards the racks of books. "I might have a book recommendation for you, if you're interested. Something that could help with when you turn. You'll have to find a witch afterwards, but it's not impossible."

If the man had been wondering whether Makoto is a witch, that should be enough of an answer.

It is certainly inconvenient. Wolf has grown to depend on the prosthetic a great deal, even though — as Makoto has already seen — he views it in a very particular way. When he had transformed and been without it, it had mostly been frustrating because he found himself trying to get around the city in the same way he usually does (the way a shinobi might), but without all of the ability that the prosthetic lent him.

Wolf thinks that if the boy were so interested in the device, he would probably be even more intrigued to see what else it could do. The grappling hook, and not to mention all of the tools... but a house of books was no place to demonstrate such a thing. Lord Kuro would have most likely gone sheet white if Wolf had accidentally activated the flame vent anywhere near the library in the castle...

He still finds it strange to accept unbidden kindness. He thinks the only person who had ever shown him such a thing, untangled with strings of personal designs or ambitions, had been Kuro himself. Selflessness is a strange and rare gift.

The turnskin shifts his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other in the face of it. He grumbles a bit before answering, "Whatever information you might be able to find... I would not turn it away."

It was about as good as you would get out of the stern, gruff man.

But, of course, that wouldn't be the end of it. "In return, I would owe you a similar kindness."

Makoto shrugs his shoulders and then nods in agreement. He doesn't want anything in return - he'd earnestly be content with helping him out. But he wouldn't turn down a favor from a turnskin with a strong back and steely demeanor, either.

Makoto leads him down one of the rows of books, the sound of people around the till fading behind layers and layers of paper. Eventually, he stops in a section labeled Transmutation and skims his finger along the spines until it stops and peels a book out from the row. The title stamped onto the black leather cover reads Alteration through Evocation: Enlargements and Shrinkenings.

"Bring this to a witch who specializes in transmutation, and they might be able to help," he says, holding it out to him. "I think there may be a way to get it to grow with you when you change."

It's good that Makoto doesn't refuse, because Wolf can be very insistent. Much of what he offers and accepts in this city is transactional — he feels the need to wipe the metaphorical slate clean, as the only aid he would give without expectation (or vice versa, with aid he might receive) would be to the lord he had sworn his services to. And he is not here. So Wolf has to alter the laws by which he lives his life, as the life he lives here is so drastically different from what he had been doing back in his own world.

He follows the boy to the specified bookshelf in the row of books, eyes scanning the nameplate and a handful of the titles. He takes the book when it is offered to him, reading the cover. It certainly seems like it would be able to help, though he would have to admit that a part of him is very wary of augmenting the prosthetic too far.

But it is not so different from crafting a new tool for it, is it not? And he and the Sculptor had done that several times over, throughout his mission.

He gives a slow nod, folding the book under his right arm. "You do not know any such witches, then?" He knows so little of magic. He supposes he could ask on the network, but... the last time he'd asked a question there, he'd realized how little he understood about how it worked. Since then, he'd mostly stayed away from it.

"No, sorry," Makoto says, shaking his head. "I only know a handful of witches in the first place. It shouldn't be too hard, though. You've got one of these, right?"

Makoto pulls out his pocket watch and holds it up to him. "You can put out a call for a witch. I'm sure someone can help or point you in the right direction."

But he's sensing some hesitation from him. Maybe he's - who knows, shy? It's not impossible. He seems sort of quiet.

"I still haven't asked your name," he says after realizing his rudeness. "My name is Makoto Yuuki."

Wolf doesn't seem to upset or surprised by the answer. It had been worth a shot. Truth be told, he only knew a handful of witches as well, and this doesn't seem to be the kind of magic that they would be very interested in. But there has to be someone in this city. He would just have to reach out to them.

His dark eyes calmly observe the pocket watch. He pauses a moment, then gives a curt nod. "Yes. I have used it before."

There is a notable pause.

"It did not go as I planned." Mostly because he hadn't known at all how it worked as a communicator, instead basically using it like a magic mirror one might pose any sort of vague question into. The people responding had been just as confused as he had been. But, for the most part, he knows better now. "But I will ask."

He's just a shinobi from Sengoku Period Japan who doesn't understand all of this newfangled instant communication technology, even if it's jammed into a magical watch.

For most people, asking their name is a simple and easy question. It's always strange to ask Wolf, because there's always a look on his face which makes you think this is not exactly an easy question for him. But that's because he doesn't have a name — he just uses what is easiest, even if it isn't strictly-speaking accurate. "Yuuki. You may call me Wolf." He gives a short, polite nod of the head. "Thank you for your help."

Wolf strikes Makoto as an unexpected name. He'd been assuming the man is Japanese, like him, considering how many other mirrorbound are Japanese. Also, that's... sort of an ironic name, isn't it? Between that and the hesitation, Makoto wonders if it could be an alias, although he's not sure why the man would feel the need to keep his real name from him.

"I can help you with your watch too, if you want." The lack of familiarity with what is essentially a cell phone is another sign that Wolf is different than Makoto had assumed. At any rate, he isn't alone in finding the pocketwatches foreign or hard to use. "You're welcome either way. My username is 'tatsuya,' if you ever wanna ask for help with something else. I don't mind."

That's because it's not a name; it is just more convenient to call a beast what it is than by nothing at all. But he's not wrong. It is a very ironic name, given the way that he had begun to transform once he arrived in this city. He doesn't think much of it; certainly there is no divine design to their designations? For the most part, it seems random. His random selection had just been more amusing than others.

It is not that Wolf's identity is secret -- he simply doesn't have one to give. A boy had once had a name, given to him by his parents. But they had been reaped by war, and the boy had been scavenged by an owl from the battlefield; he had taken him in as a cub, and he had left the boy he had been behind.

To illustrate his complete unfamiliarity with the device, Wolf's eyes are somewhat vacant, and he merely repeats, "'Username'..." before falling silent once more. It almost seems more trouble than it is worth. If he wishes to speak with someone, he will just find them. Why would he want to speak to strangers?

"I do not think that is necessary." Pause. "...But," he sighs through his nose. "If it is something I must do and I have a question, I will inquire of you."

"Yeah. It's the written name that comes up next to people's messages. You've seen those, right? One of them shows up next to your posts and replies too."

Makoto offers him a small smile, hoping to put him at ease. It's fine if he doesn't know how to use it or doesn't want to use it. Makoto is simply trying to help him out.

"I'm mostly away during the night instead of the day, but I'll answer you whenever I see that you've messaged me." Makoto gestures back towards the front of the store, where the sales clerk is.

"...I see."

He still seems awkward about it. Imagine your ancient grandfather fumbling around with his phone, trying to understand how instant messengers work. Now imagine that about twenty times worse, because Wolf is from a time well before even phones or telegraphs had entered the realm of communication technology. There's a reason why he typically just ignores the thing.

Well, he hadn't expected to do much more in the bookstore than wander the aisles and feel uncomfortably nostalgic, but Makoto has single-handedly salvaged this outing. He at the very least has something useful in hand. He nods, thinking he wouldn't mind at all when the young man responded to the messages.

"Thank you. You have been a great help. ...Should you require any aid or information, in the future, I would be happy to repay you."

He's big on that kind of thing. The only help he either gives or receives without thought of equalling the scales was that to Lord Kuro, and that was only because of the oath he had sworn.

Regardless, if there was nothing else to be discussed... the wolfish turnskin finally turns to make his way towards the counter, to purchase the book and then go on with his day.

[OPEN] bite & arbeit

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