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Oak in the Storm. Fri Jan 04, 2019 8:18 pm
Takao
S-rank
 |
Dark clouds loomed overhead, threatening the Fire Country with a coming storm. Droplets of rain fell sparsely, urging sensible folk to shelter before the downpour came. The diverse landscape of Hi no Kuni rolled by, changing from forest to field to farmland in what felt like mere seconds, or perhaps it was his roaming thoughts born from boredom that gave time such monotonous passage. Supporting his head in his hand against the window, Takao's black eyes watched paltry drops of rain hit the glass and roll away. He sucked in a breath and rested his head against the train window, closing his eyes, allowing his mind to wander. It was not unusual to be summoned to the de jure Capital of the Fire Country, Akagahara, at the behest of the Fire Daimyō. His frequent dealings with the man made trips to and from the village more like a commute than an occasion. Beginning with routine shinobi guard duty during a security threat, his relationship with the Daimyō had progressed from bodyguard to something akin to a political acquaintance. They both had minds for the game of thrones, although the Daimyō's experience was considerably more refined than Takao's. He had no place in the world of politics. He was a soldier, drilled and trained for the art of combat. He was not refined and learned in the way that one playing the game was expected to be. Takao didn’t want that to be his place in the world, parading around in the costume of somebody that was expected to know more than he did, pretending to be cut from the same cloth of men who waged their wars with words. More than that, he was outclassed in this endeavour. The Daimyō was a well-spoken and educated individual that spoke circles around him when they had these diplomatic discussions. Inadequacy had been a common theme in his life, especially as of late, and he hardly needed another source to draw from. The train slowed to a stop and his eyes opened, feasting upon the grand scenery of Akagahara. The bright buildings contrasted against the dark sky, like a bright beacon to guide the lost home in the coming storm. He and several other passengers rose from their seats and departed from the locomotive. The wisest of them hurried for their destinations in preparation for the rain. Takao walked leisurely, slower than he should have but dreading whatever conversation the Daimyō wished to have enough to draw his progress to a snail’s crawl. Eventually, against his want, the palace of the Fire Daimyō laid before him, metal gates whining open at his approach and permitting entry. Swallowing his breath in a futile attempt to steel his nerves, he stepped forward, his gaze washing over the exquisite, flawless architecture of a place he did not belong in. Climbing the dozen of so flights of stairs lead him to the grand doors of the Daimyō’s palace, which parted by the effort of the guardsmen, who waved him inward. Best not keep him waiting, Takao resolved, stepping through the doors and into the foyer. The main room was, decidedly, the most grandiose, with ceilings higher than he could jump, coloured glass ceilings casting technicolour light downward when the sun was shining, massive pillars at either of his flank, and beautiful marble tiles that seemed to stretch on forever. Paintings, artwork, stands of armour, and other artistic choices of refined taste filled the otherwise empty room, displaying the Daimyō’s interest in fashion and history. The office of the Daimyō was his destination and he knew the way well enough. His heavy footsteps sounded like echoing thunder as he made his way through the foyer and into one of countless hallways, mentally remarking that the layout of the palace was more like a maze than a home, before five minutes or so of walking lead him to a tall, ornate door, decorated with gold and silver. His hand rose, knuckles toward the door, ready to knock, but a muffled voice from within brought him to pause. “Come in,” The voice said. Recognizing the voice as the Daimyō, Takao opened the door and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. His eyes feasted upon the magnificent office. A wall several times taller than he sat in the background, filling the entirety of the wall with bookcases and books that went from floor to ceiling, all neatly organized. In contrast to the ornate marble tilework that made up the flooring of the foyer and hallway, the office was lined with decorative, deep crimson carpeting, and large windows let the dull cloudy light flood the room. Drapes of identical crimson red decorated the windows, and golden tie-backs decorated the curtains. Seated in the middle of the large room, facing the door, was a heavy, ornate, dark wooden desk, and a man seated behind it. Regal in appearance, the man’s white hair and piercing sanguine gaze immediately identified him as Ōmono Madoka, the Fire Daimyō. “Please, come sit.” Ōmono stood and gestured toward the chair, his hand outstretched to Takao, who approached and met his hand for a firm, brief shake. “I heard your footsteps,” The man said, his hand retreating back to his person when their gesture of greeting concluded, seating himself bef “You’ve quite the clamorous gait. Ironic, isn’t it, that a shinobi whose core purpose lays in his ability to be stealthy be... such the... opposite?” He mused lightheartedly. “Well… Things are a bit different now, we’re not in the old days anymore.” Takao replied, his face pulling into a forced, lopsided smile. “Yes, yes, everything-- and everyone-- must change and adapt eventually…” Steepling his hands, the Daimyō’s scrutinizing gaze fell upon Takao. The manner in which they dressed contrasted as much as the colour of their hair did. Takao wore the ensemble of a shinobi, fitted black underclothing hiding the vast number of scars that marred his skin, and what they couldn’t cover, black gloves did. The Daimyō, in stark contrast, wore comfortable fabrics, cultured in taste and style, befitting of a man of his stature. “I shan’t waste your time, Mister Kimura, as I know we are both busy people. I’ve called you here to discuss a matter of diplomacy,” Takao inhaled as Ōmono spoke and, as expected, it was indeed about some yet explained diplomatic matter, likely one he was grossly unprepared to discuss. “Regarding the annexation of our bordering minor countries.” Ōmono finished. It took a moment to process the information. He blinked, his head turned ever so slightly to the side, and his eyebrows knit close at his brow. “The-- the annexation?” “Yes, indeed, it is my intention to pursue a new endeavour to marry these minor countries into the Fire Country through diplomacy. Peaceful negotiations that will lead to a mutually beneficial merger. We share land borders with ten other countries, nine if you leave the Land of That out, and close enough sea borders with four islands. It is my intent to have all of these countries join the Fire Country.” Ōmono lowered his gaze to the table, where a map of the continent had been laid out, and red-tipped pins marked the aforementioned fourteen locations. He turned to face Takao, aged, unwavering crimson eyes boring into his core. "I will unite these lesser lands under one banner," Ōmono said. "The banner of the United Fire Countries." Takao paused again and swallowed, unsure what to make of this revelation of intentions. "United Fire Countries?" Takao asked. "I don't know-- this sounds like what Hastur is trying to do, doesn't it? I'm not so sure this is a good idea." "Nonsense," Ōmono replied. "Indeed, the... louche Raikage... seeks to find his place at the top through conquest and war. But when you build your throne upon the bodies left in the wake of conquest, you will sit upon your own just as you will sit upon your enemies. Tell me-- would you respect your leader, the Hokage, if his rise to power involved him stepping on the corpses of his own?” He asked, and Takao shook his head. Ōmono rose from his chair, briefly turning his back to Takao before resting a hand on the back of his large chair. “Strong as he may be, the King of an empty kingdom is no King at all. His people would waver, with time, and his rule would falter. A man must build his kingdom with a solid foundation, lest it crumble. Even now, his people are divided, the majority against him, plotting their revolution in the shadows of their own home." Slowly, he circled Takao on the chair and stopped at his flank, resting a hand on the back of his seat. "We are no longer warmongering barbarians vying for control of land like animals fighting over the scraps we hunger for. We are civilized creatures now, son. Time has taught us that our words, chosen judiciously, shall do more than the largest armies and the strongest men." His hand slipped from the chair to Takao's shoulder, whose gaze rose to meet Ōmono's. "I'm sure you recall the famous story of the Seventh's heroics, when the Leaf was reduced to rubble in an instant." For a moment the hand lingered, then retreated as Ōmono returned to his seat, placing the ornate wooden desk between them. "Pain's assault. But... the casualties were reversed when the Seventh confronted him." Takao answered. "Indeed, it was the words of the Seventh that saved the village that day, not his fists. The Raikage has offered us a very unique opportunity that we shan't eschew. His threats of war after centuries of peace have the minor countries scared, as well they should be. When the shinobi world wages war, it is the common folk who suffer the greatest losses. After all, seldom are these battles waged on home soil, as I'm sure you are well aware of." Takao's gaze faltered slightly in submission to the assumption. It was true and he knew it, anybody with a semblance of familiarity with history knew this fact. The story that the Daimyō referenced was a perfect example of such. When the Village Hidden in the Rain's land was ravaged by warfare that the Leaf took part in, years later, their retaliation nearly wiped the Leaf from the map. His hands tightened into fists on his thighs and his gaze rose back to Ōmono. "Such is the nature of warfare. There is no act more heinous that brings mankind as a whole closer to Naraka, yet an unavoidable facet of life. When we extend our hand to these minor countries and welcome them under our mantle, they will be granted the same expectation of protection that the Leaf extends to the Fire Country, and in return, their contributions to the United Fire Countries will bolster the Leaf's strength to new heights. This new threat of ours is merely the next obstacle for our great nation." Ōmono's hands joined in a steeple. His voice was smooth, each word spoken with professional articulation without so much as the slightest waver in timbre. Before Takao sat a man whose being was dedicated to the art of politics and speaking. His regality was truly humbling to the likes of a mere soldier, whose life-- in stark contrast-- was dedicated to the art of warfare and bloodshed. "The coming storm may rustle the leaves of the mighty Oak, but bow to the storm, the Oak shall not. We shall arise from the cinders of this conflict stronger than before." Drawing a slow breath in, Takao nodded. He had been silent, paying the man the respect of allowing him to speak without interruption, but found his place to speak now that silence befell them. "All right," He yielded. "Where do we start?" |
| TOTAL WC |
2,000 |
Hokage: 
Kazekage: 
Raikage: 
Tsuchikage: 
Mizukage: 