Scene #9337: All Fights Are Instructive

Owner	Pose
Hiromi	Long enough ago for preparations to have been made, a conversation occurred. If there is growth left in me, it will come through destruction. If there is testing to be done, I shall be the fire, and the world will step into me. Show me both. I am not the fire. I am the mountain. I am not the world. I am better. I am strength given flesh and spirit. I am the Archwolf. I've heard your wishes. The Archwolf speaks. And the mountain trembles. You say you are strength given flesh and spirit--good. Because I am weakness given reason. I am the crawl beneath the avalanche. The scream left over when the throat has gone dry. I am what still moves. If you are better, then prove it. Stand at my side or stand in my way. But mark this: I have buried men who barked louder than you. 'Barked.' Signs. Warnings. Those who bare their teeth wish for peace and distance. I -- welcome your challenge, your screams, your reason, what drives your claws to seek. 'At my side.' 'In my way.' Which, do you think, is the mountain? It's not Hiromi, herself, who sent out the invites, but instead, they're similar to those sent to invite challenger to the trials at Mount Featherman, being from 'Yoshinja' and the 'Maidens of the Archwolf.' The language isn't a common one, but the meaning is clear enough. There will be a safe place from which to observe a challenge. That's exactly what it is. The glass-walled airship is little more than its observation deck, with all necessary facilities below. It's typical Concord requisition, for those aware of such things, including the diversity of chair and table structures for handling peoples with different body arrangements -- like the few wolf-tailed miko who seem to be hosting the event, ushering people toward seats by the front wall or the array of fresh-cooked dishes. It's heavy on woodland-sourced foods, and light on baked sugar. Hisako is here, wearing her gauntlets on cords on her back, rather than her hands. She's the closest one to 'visibly armed.' Another was seen at Mount Featherman, a ponytailed brunette who called herself Sumi, though she's not arrived wearing a mask, this time. Both are only intermittently busy. Most of those in attendance aren't, however, people in the elite circuit. The rationale for the invitations isn't immediately clear, by sight. That's in keeping with the general terrain surrounding the Maw of Tyrants, a place of floating landmasses, from larger to smaller islands, with no shortage of ruins, nor of landmasses that simply lacked the combination of factors that would create a self-sustaining ecosystem. An island civilization might connect to others, figuratively or literally, to make up for its lack, but the place Hiromi has chosen to meet Igon is not one such. Perhaps it was, at one point, but this is a place in which all civilization met its end. They'd built up, when they could not build out, but now the skyscrapers lay on their sides, and what wilderness they preserved has turned to dust by some passing calamity. Even rot would find little to consume, though rust finds plenty, slowly working its way through the remains for what is likely to be years yet. Igon, for his part, is given the time and location, and expected to make his own way there. Once there, he can find Hiromi, the Archwolf, waiting, in one of the clearer portions of the island, where one can reach the soil without reaching through the cracks of concrete. The air is dry, the weather unpredictable, subject to the slow passing of islands by one another.
Igon	Igon strides across the powdered dust of dead gardens, boots grinding forgotten soil into finer ash. Ruined towers lie around him like toppled idols, their rusted ribs pointing skyward in mute accusation, but he does not look up. His eyes stay on the thin path of earth Hiromi has chosenan island spine scraped clean of mercy. The wind flits through broken windows above, keening in hollow bars, yet even that song cannot drown the pulse behind his ribs. It throbs ember-red, ember-red, ember-red, the rhythm of a forge too stubborn to cool. He finds the Archwolf standing where cracked pavement finally yields to barren ground. The air between them hums, sharp and dry, as if both their hungers have already stripped it of moisture. Igon stops three paces short, planting his harpoon haft in the dust. Sparks jump from its scorched point like tiny fugitives seeking refuge. He drags one ragged breath, tasting iron and old thunder, then lets it spill out in a low laugh. "You called yourself mountain," he says, voice rough as pumice. "And invited me to climb. Good. A summit means little without ruin at its peak." He spreads one scarred hand, indicating the toppled skyline behind. "Look how the world kneeled for you already. Let it witness the last stone that thinks it stands." He circles to the left. His pace is slow, deliberate. Boots tracing a crescent in the grit. "I am the fire that swallowed its own smoke. I am the blade that sharpened itself on swallowed screams. You wanted both growth and testing. I bring them married, bound by iron vows." His free hand flexes, knuckles popping like kindling. Dust devils spin between them, stirred by islands drifting overhead. Igon tilts his head, listening to the faint rasp of Hiromis breath, reading stance, weight, the hush before storms. "Show me the gnashing teeth that make worlds flinch. Or stand silent and let the harpoon translate your fear." He snaps the weapon up, bowstring already drawn, barbed bolt glowing ember-red where it seats. For a heartbeat the ruined city holds its breath. A single shard of window glass, high above, breaks loose and tinkles down in slow arcs. Igons eye tracks its fall, then fixes once more on Hiromi. "The mountain trembles," he whispers, "and the fire answers." There is no clean, fluid motion of a master. Only muscle memory etched by sleepless vigil and scars that hum when a targets will falters. His body registers wind shear, island drift, even the metallic tang of rust swirling in the air, as notes in a war dirge guiding his aim. The moment his fingers let go, the world narrows to a molten line between his pulse and the bolts tip, vision edges flaring ember-red; he feels the shaft shudder through bow-limbs, feels the recoil hammer through bone, tastes copper on his tongue, instinct sharpening everything into one bright, vicious certainty: the harpoon is not leaving him, the instrument of violence is extending his very spirit, every throb of hatred sluicing into the bowstring a split-second before it snaps.
Hiromi	Hiromi watches, even while Igon prepares his strike. It would be easy to lose oneself in the sight, and to forget everything around it. Even without smoke, without fog, the ruins feel less real in her presence, a faded background matching that instinctive understanding of their importance, even when she calls out to it. He speaks of growth and testing. "Will you grow?" Her voice is different, in person. The quality of it is difficult to place until a little later. "There's no growth without life, no life without motion. Death is stillness. But not all growth is right. Will you grow wrong? Have you?" It's quieter than one would think, for how easy it is to hear. Nothing of the conversation is lost, even on that watching observation deck. He speaks of fire. "Too little warmed this place. It knelt, futile, yet earth remembers..." She is struck true, unflinching, in the motion of raising up to her full height. Just where Igon had aimed, it lands, and penetrates -- less deeply than it would stone. Hiromi grasps the shaft to pull it free, blood spilling. Only now does her voice raise, and only does it become clear just how she speaks. Only some of it's in the form of words. The rest is sound and motion, but the understanding is taken directly and back-interpreted as something more ordinary. It's only when that interpretation is stretched past its limits that it becomes so clear that it was something else. I am Hiromi. The same as had been spoken on Mount Featherman -- but Igon had not been there. The experience of understanding a single sound as fully encompassing and precisely describing a being therefore remains novel, until that moment. It is as if every piece of a string of titles had been overlaid at once, finding in a name the intersection of the Final Hunter, the Empress of Wolves, the Terrible and Beautiful Tyrant, the Archwolf. There could be another Archwolf, at some other point in history, perhaps, but there can only be one of Hiromi, taking the span of history as a whole. The earth does tremble, when she takes a step, in a way that feels as if it should be from a titan's weight, though that must be impossible. When she leaps, and her foot strikes -- a strike one could not expect to survive -- when she strikes soil again, stone and dirt scatter, not in a crater, but in a radial explosion of spikes, ashen soil living enough to obey this command.
Igon	Stone and ash crash outward, splitting in every direction from her impact, the land itself conscripted into her dominion. The weight of her, physical and otherwise, makes lesser beings fall to their knees. Hes breathing, but the rhythm is wrong. Not hurried, slowed. Deliberately. Willfully. Like a man choking a fire inside his lungs until it hardens into coal. "Yes," he says, and the voice doesnt match the shape of his mouth. "Ive grown wrong. Because you cannot grow right, Hiromi. Not under those skies, or in those bones." A heartbeat passes. The second comes slower. "And I will keep growing wrong until the world can no longer hold me." There shall be no moment of awe for the Archwolf in this moment. Awe is what comes later, in the war-song. After survival, after memory has the time to rot into reverence. What Igon feels now is not reverence so much as clarity. The blow lands, and his bones take inventory. It is the kind of pain that rearranges, that teaches. Something in his frame groans under the force. Not yet. Not yet, damn you. The dust hasn't settled when he forces air through his lungs, lets it rattle against his ribs and voice both. He does not collapse. That, too, is a kind of offering. No roar, no howl, no melodrama. Just glorious certainty, loud in its restraint. His hand doesnt tremble, even as the guard that saved him drops away like shattered bark. There's blood on his mouth now, and he doesnt wipe it clean. A slow, deliberate, careful pace back. No dash, no wildness. There is nothing in him to waste. If this is a monument, let it fall with teeth in its throat. "You assert yourself the only Hiromi. I believe you. I hope you're right. I dont want to waste my hate on a lesser version." His fingers close around the next blow. like someone re-wrapping a wound. "How I admire the beauty of your violence," he admits. Thats all he gives her before the next blow begins to rise.
Hiromi	"Some have been like me, in little ways. More will be like me, some day. This, the duty to all right-growing." Hiromi's wound is bloody, but already covering itself. Not as quickly as comes the next, which digs deeper for that she advances into it, the way her body shifts to the side in the last moment, as if her skin angled to deflect like steel plating, subtle. Rather than tossed aside, the next blow is 'returned,' with a quickening pace leading, after precisely three steps, into a toss of the harpoon directly back at Igon. It is not quite in the same shape as when it was fired. A supernatural influence lingers from when it touches Hiromi's clawed fingers, lasting until a second or two after its impact, lending a durability to survive the crating -- naturally, this time -- impact with which it will land. If not deflected in any way, another building behind its target will slowly crumble, then swiftly colapse, scattering its dust in waves. Igon spoke of his own growth, and now Hiromi answers. "The wrong-growing must be torn away, cut and burned, so they can heal." This 'must' carries the sense of 'duty,' but also 'inevitability, distant.' Her strength is monstrous, and that means her ability to propel herself forward, kicking against suddenly vertical slabs of ground behind her, is likewise. Her reach is finite, visible, but the strength of her grip is far more dangerous. Having named himself 'wrong,' it should be unsurprising that she'll show no hesitation in ripping Igon's arms off if her fingers do close on him. It's not quite pruning a plant, but she can make the two acts similar. She shows no pain, and makes no noise without purpose, though she certainly lives and breathes. Sudden light through the clouds on her bright teeth, something like a smile, is what amounts to the clearest expression of emotion, but these are in flashes as she moves.
White	White, without a strong connection to either participant in the spectacle-duel, hasn't quite made it clear why she is showing up. She didn't ask for details, or particularly intend to root for one side or the other, so it might seem a bit strange when she seems to manifest out of thin air upon the observation deck in her usual comfy dress in a brief blink of violet light, then quietly walks over to peruse the provided food. With her eyes shut, if anyone still buys the 'blind girl' presentation then it might seem like she's literally following her nose, looking for something gently-sweet and worthy of being slowly hamster-nibbled throughout the afternoon. Once she has her treat, she follows the guidance given toward a seat, settles in and considers the event. She remembers being suggested to meet Hiromi not long after she was accepted into the Concord, and remembers some instances of either Hiromi or Igon speaking, but not to each other. Yet the fight is already underway below, and she imagines at least to some extent that she might learn something about either one of them from the display. Something practical, or something personal, either way is fine; after all, she can stand to improve from both. Admittedly though, seeing the first blows exchanged enflames her nerves a little bit. She's no stranger to this type of fight between heavy-hitters, but typically it isn't quite so... Direct. Even as an immortal herself, she's never been happy to needlessly be injured or feel pain, so it's difficult to emphathize with whatever it is the two are trying to accomplish in this voluntary exchange. This, too, is something she hopes to glean.
Igon	Igon understands only one language of admiration, and Hiromi is speaking it fluently. The moment her claw-scarred fingers hurl his own harpoon back, glowing with a borrowed wrath that cracks a tower like rotted bone, his pulse leaps. This is not disdain. This is the purest form of acknowledgment: she has taken his offering, fed it her own, and returned it shrouded in her creed. He feels the air tremble as concrete avalanches behind him, and he laughs because the mountain has answered the fire. She says the wrong-growing must be torn away. To Igon that is almost tenderness. It means she sees worth beneath the rot, a core that can still be hammered true. Every rush, every clawed grab that threatens to shear his arms from their roots is a gardeners stroke-- violent, yes, but never careless! She will test whether his rage is straight enough to bear fruit. So he shouts across the dust-blurred distance, eyes alight: "Archwolf, your pruning blade is welcome! If you must rip, then rip deep, find the part of me still bowed to Bayle's shadow and cast it to the wind. But if your claws uncover iron, do not weep when it bites back!" And with that he drives forward, meeting the returned harpoon in mid-arc, catching the shaft barehanded though it sears his palms ember-red. He pivots, using the momentum she gifted to whirl the weapon overhead, then hurls it down like a falling star aimed square at the patch of soil she chose for their proving ground, an echo of her own creed: break the earth, see what grows. He tips his head back and roars, not words at first, but raw sound that rattles windowless towers into fresh cascades of rust. Then the howl finds shape, and the name erupts like slag: "O ACCURSED BAYLE! O TERROR INCARNATE! Do you smell it, Archwolf? Do you taste that iron on the air? He is here, not in flesh, but in the fear that dares creep between our blows. I will not let him watch from shadows! I will drag him howling into the open on the barbs of your judgment!" He hurls himself forward, boots scarring the dust, each stride exploding chalky clouds that glow in his furnace light. His voice tears out again, cracked but unstoppable, echoing off dead skyscrapers: "Bayle the Dread, witness the mountain you could never break! Witness the fire you failed to drown! I carve your name in every swing, every splinter, every drop of blood! And when the Archwolf tests me to my last bone, she will know the shape of the scourge meant for YOU!"
Hiromi	White could most easily tell by scent that a lot of the sugar present is in sauces, with some ambiguity whether they're meant to be poured or for dipping. Nobody will give her grief either way. Hisako, the much shorter and slightly fairer of the two previously mentioned miko, ends up moving toward her, then stopping on seeing her closed eyes, and then standing indecisively in awkward range as she tries to figure out a polite way to unobtrusively announce her presence. She can't just outright ask if White needs anything. That would, apparently, be rude. She, clearly, does not realize White can see her, or she wouldn't be hovering like that.
White	White is no snacktime slob, and she's plenty happy with a small portion of meat and a little biscuit or breadroll, very lightly drizzled with gravy or a thin sauce and carried away to her seat on a little plate. While initially it seems like White doesn't really notice Hisako and doesn't pause to acknowledge her, a few moments after she's sat down she'll notice the politely fussy woman paying particular attention to her and turn sideways in the seat to look back. It isn't fair to say she's staring, given her eyes are shut, but there's an awkward pause while White sits in silence for several seconds, trying to puzzle out what the situation is and what she's supposed to say at a time like this. Somehow, what comes out is the soft whisper of, "Are you... Okay?" Because, you see, she's forgotten her own ruse. Truly, to fool another one must first fool themself...
Hiromi	There's a moment mutual recognition. As violent as the method is, as mad as either participant might be argued to be, Igon truly sees the optimistic motive behind the claws reaching to tear him to pieces. "You are cursed," she says, with as little judgment as a mirror finding a malady, "by that shadow." She sees this, now. "What is beneath? How much will be left?" It's asked with curiosity, as if it would be no issue to continue cutting until she finds it, whatever size Igon's core might be. Tenderness, of a kind. She'd said already the duty she feels she holds, and it's nothing new to say she's driven to fulfill it, and would find satisfaction in doing so, insofar as a storm is satisfied in rolling over the land. Her interest is more personal than a storm's, but the distinction becomes murkier when close to the violence. Those on the observation deck have a much easier time of it. Nothing grows from this broken earth, though something still might, someday, if allowed. The blast whips at every part of Hiromi it can, hair and fur, and here she raises one hand to swipe away at pellets of concrete that would have struck her eyes -- the first clearly defensive motion. It is likewise somewhat easier to see, from that far up, how the rubble strikes her differently than the stone and dirt, only the latter flowing away like water when she shifts her stance. Somewhat harder, still, for the dust cloud. Nearby, someone fiddles with remote, and the smart-glass wall filters out some of the obstruction for the audience. Igon advances, and Hiromi goes to meet him. "I smell the iron," she says, "and the failure." 'Trading blows' is possible, if not something often wise to attempt. A swordsman might die immediately, upon discovering that a strike of seemingly infinite strength has equal inertia, and thusly refuses to be deflected. What's worse is her relentless nature, even against an opponent who has, at least twice, drawn her blood. Her energy is a deep wellspring, leaving no fatigue in her rumbling voice, at least in what can be understood of it. "Were you forged as a weapon? Will you lose that purpose, if your claws are cut? Are you sharp in only one direction? Can you be?"
Hiromi	Someone certainly put a lot of effort into those sweet meats. Probably multiple someones. Hisako only avoids startling when addressed only because her posture gradually changes to 'alert' -- wolf-like ears rising, tail becoming very still -- upon being closed-eye-stared at, as she tries to figure out what kind of sensing is being done. She's very quiet, but not supernaturally so. 'Are you... Okay?' "Do I..." Very, very quietly, "smell odd?" If White's eyes aren't open, and Hisako wasn't noisy, the only possible answer remaining is that something was picked up by scent.
White	White would probably have blinked, were her eyes open. Yet another boon of the ruse of blindness! Instead, she remains unmoving in her slightly unnerving focus-of-facing, her expression stubbornly resistant to warping, positive or negative. Surely, that moment feels very different between the two of them, no matter how close they are. Her answer ends up being, "Probably not." after a lethal amount of unintended hesitation. She turns slightly away, stalling to think while carefully nibbling at her meaty treats, swallowing, and wiping her lips carefully before looking in Hisako's direction again. "If you are worried... I could... Offer a change of clothes." The best thing she can think of to justify that question is that Hisako has been working all day to prepare for this event! It'd just be cruel to leave her self-conscious! See? White can be nice too.
Igon	Igon's sudden burst laughter claws its way out of his throat like molten ore breaking crust. It rings against the hollow towers, drumming off skeleton-steel and salted wind. He tips his head back so the furnace-veins in his neck glow white and spits a crimson filament onto the parched soil. "Cursed? You think I am...cursed?! Aye, I am the anvil Bayle left in the world when his hammer grew bored! He tore me asunder and left me and all my fellows for dead. I scarcely survived, Hiromi, dying on a desolate burned wasteland! My limbs lay a bloody ruin as I clawed for life, surviving weeks as nature's plaything! What lies beneath?" He slams a fist against his chest. "Beneath is iron still screaming to remember his fire. Cut away the slag, Archwolf! Carve until your claws meet the core, and mind you do not crack the world when you strike it!" He takes one stalking step, then another, boots leaving ember footprints that smolder in dust. "Forged as a weapon? Yes! Tempered in the dragon hearts I consumed and quenched in the blood of better, wiser men was I. You ask if purpose dies when claws are severed! Purpose is the bone; claws are but the song it whistles in the wind. Shear them off and the marrow will grow barbs sharper yet. Break every edge I carry and watch me bloom into new fractals of my undying hatred!" Another step, and the harpoon rises, flaring down its length. One of his signature harpoons. The dust devil between them catches in the weapon's glow, swirling into a crimson halo around the tip. But instead of simply loading and launching the harpoon, he attempts to drive it into Hiromi's chest, rapture in his eyes. His voice drops to a thunderous whisper. "I will never give up my quest. Not until I feast upon his heart!"
Hiromi	"Oh." Hisako is visibly relieved. Her tail wags once. Then, confusion sets in, and her head tilts, slowly but surely, to one side. That unclear response leaves her with no further guesses that make sense to her. "Um... miss White, are you able to see me? Even with your..." Her name and description must have been mentioned, as one of the people on the fairly short, if ever changing, list of active Concord partners, but that description might not have included too many particulars of behavior... if any.
White	White's head tilts back, the self-image within her mind recoiling dramatically while the physical presence of her body looks more as if someone had just pushed gently on her forehead. "Oh," she breathes, touching her own face for a moment with her fingertips before opening her eyes. "Yes." The backlit glint of pink and violet light around the border of her pupil- no, the clusters of pupils within either eye does not seem to reach far enough to reflect off of Hisako, but it still comes with a sort of passing warmth, like a hand looming a little too near to her face. White then tilts her head slightly, her hand making an indistinct motion like a half-completed expectant gesture. "... So you recognized me. That's good." she slowly murmur-muses, as if gently surprised. "I... Think I remember your voice. Nice to... Meet you."
Hiromi	Igon speaks of claws and purpose. "Good," Hiromi says, but, "Always. To Bayle, always. That curse," that experience, that suffering, that amalgam of malady, the meaning is clear, "pulls you to him." She ponders, silently, the vowed end of Igon's quest, but doesn't speak of it. There's no point in asking questions to which no one can know the answer. Hers is Strength, not Fate. "'Hatred.' The wronged. Justice. Weapons forged to kill what strikes the pack. I understand these." 'Even if you don't' is implied. "'What must be done.' I understand. Now, come, test your strength." And when Igon stabs at Hiromi's heart, she takes it. The harpoon plunges into and through her, scraping against and between bones. It's a herculean task, even without plunging the hard way through bone, but his weapon meets it in this moment. Hiromi's heart surely stops beating in that moment. It couldn't possibly do otherwise, with something clear through it like that. The intimidating presence wavers, like something was switched off in the sky -- and on again. Hiromi is not breathing when she reaches for Igon. The harpoon is stuck fast between layers of muscle. Her eyes are bright, and the black, steel-like claws that burst bloodlessly from her hands with unnerving, underskin motion, are sharp. This might be it, after all. To be fully within reach is, tactically, the worst possible situation, but if he wished to be pruned, that is at least somewhat like what threatens him in this moment. Certainly, she doesn't plan to kill him, but that depends on a very, very high assumption of what he'll surive.
Hiromi	Hisako bows, remaining relieved when White's eyes open. Whether that's because those were in the description, or because she has an affinity for strange women others might find frightening... is unclear. She's been serving as a Concord aide for a while, which could support either possibility. "Yes! I'm Hisako, a follower of the Archwolf. It's a pleasure to meet you, miss White! Oh, I'm sorry, I wanted to ask if you need anything, but am I distracting you? I think the challenge is nearly..." She turns to look toward the window just as another building collapses.
White	White is gently relieved herself that the Evil Eyes don't seem to cause any concern. She returns the introduction with a small bow of head and shoulders from her seat, then fixes her hair and tucks it back behind her ear on one side. "You are... Fine. I can see it." she answers as simply as she can, looking calm and unbothered as can be. Granted, that's not always a sign of anything for her... Though, White does think of a thing or two Hisako might help with. The trick is getting the phrasing right in her head, and while she opens her mouth again to speak, she closes it again with a slightly pensive purse of her lips. It takes her a little longer, but if Hisako is able to wait White slowly asks at her typical quiet volume, "... Is Miss Hiromi... A god of your world?" It looks, perhaps, like she means to elaborate further but can't quite find the words for what she wants to know; she's trying to form a comparative framework for how various worlds function and where their Elites come from, and that's a pretty complex thing to convey when you have to pause every three or four words.
Hiromi	Hisako waits patiently. She could probably do this for awhile. White is so fortunate to have, specifically, Hisako here, and not any of, roughly, 90% of her sisters. She then takes a little while to answer, giving it some thought. "'God' is... a difficult word. The monks argue about that. Oh, they're polite about it!" As if that were the issue. "But... 'great spirit' doesn't mean the same thing on other worlds, does it? That's what makes it difficult." After a little bit, if not interrupted, she says, "She can hear anyone who prays to her. Anyone who's been to one of the temples."
Igon	Igon feels the world tilt as bone splits; the ember-red glow in his veins gutters to a dull forge-black. He does not retreat. He leans in, pushing the lodged harpoon deeper, until the haft thuds against Hiromis sternum like a final decree. Blood floods his throat, iron-sweet and scalding, yet he laughs, a raw, rattling croak that sprays crimson across her shoulder. "Good," he rasps. "Cut deep. Deeper. Let the mountain taste my blood." His legs go slack; claws hoist him clear of the ground, and for an instant he hangs like a ragged banner torn free by its own zeal. There is pain, and then there is the hush beyond pain, an echoing white chamber where heartbeat and breath forget their duties. Igon tumbles into that silence as Hiromis grip tears the life from his limbs. Vision tunnels. The dust-whorls fade. All that remains is a pinpoint ember behind his eyes, whispering Bayles name and the promise of return. He smiles with cracked lips, mouthing a vow no air can carry. The ember blinks out. Flesh slackens on shattered frame. Harpoon and hunter sag together in Hiromi's grasp, dead weight gone truly dead. But even cooling blood steams faintly, as if the forge inside simply waits for bellows and spark-- waiting for the weight that bears him back always, always back toward the nightmare of the multiverse.
Hiromi	There comes a point in the deadly carving when it ceases, the grip is gone, and there is only the body, the ember, and the weapon. All over, there is blood, though too little of it, on one side. Hiromi relaxes, grips the harpoon, and rips it free. More wounds on its way out. More blood. This, too, slows. Her flesh knits together, beneath the blood, showing only a faint scar where she'd been pierced. She has few of those, though more than none. The harpoon clatters on hard ground. Hiromi breathes, taking two tries of it, then kneels down, and waits. The show is over. If the afterward takes too long, she'll pick Igon up and take him elsewhere. Either way, chatter resumes atop the observation deck. Everyone there, it seems, had one reason or another to be interested in the fight, though some were definitely there just to see any fight. The range of philosophical bent is wide.
White	White nods a little, thinking that over for a thankfully briefer time before starting her response with a soft, perhaps-affirmative hum. "Close enough. I am... Technically a god too." she says, not sounding especially attached to it as a title, and winding back around shortly later to add, "But I don't hear prayers. Or maybe nobody prays to me." This, too, is something she's still forming her thoughts about. Her head turns away from Hisako at the moment of Igon's defeat, glancing sidelong toward him as he fades, seeing through glass or steel equally from the aerial vantage. "... I was... Invited to meet her before... By Miss Lilian." she recalls. It's a part of why she showed up today, too. Especially because- "It seemed dangerous if... She didn't like me. She seems... Like the Earth Dragons, from... Back home." She frowns slightly, but it feels like it's out of thoughtfulness, and the tone feels neither insulting nor praising.
Hiromi	"I haven't met a dragon," Hisako says, skipping over 'technically a god.' Dragons are somewhat rare in the current era, though they were once more common, and isn't that just the most common story. "But..." She spends a little while putting her words together again. "I don't think you have to worry about her being a danger to you, unless..." It is, of course, hard to find a polite way to ask, and she eventually just says, "Are you worried you'll... look like a... villain?"
White	White near-silently inhales, then exhales through her nose in what might be a sigh for a more vivacious personality. "... Maybe. I don't know." she admits softly, adjusting her hair again despite not having disturbed it much since the last time. "There are reasons... to think I am. Some are really stupid." Along with that blunt remark, though, is the implication that 'some aren't as stupid'. "I'm not good... At explaining myself. And I don't know... What she might 'see'. I was hoping..." She pauses again, steepling her fingertips over her plate of sauce-sweetened chicken. "To learn... Whether she 'sees' anything... About what is within a person. Because... If so, she may see... Something 'false', and that would be... Bad."