#CONTENT WARNING;; “𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓰𝓪𝓹.”

[quietvigil]

[Starter for @gamblingrimsley]

The blizzard howls and batters at the bow of Ginko's head, weighed down upon his back in waves of nail-sized hail. He presses onward, down the mountain path where the mushi shift and congregate in unnatural twisting shapes, patterned out like fractals on the horizon of his eye.

Something odd has been growing at the foothills of a nearby village so small it doesn't have a name— something unfathomably large, the ground itself bowing in under the pressure. There have been reports of the land itself moving steadily forwards towards an unknown center, talk of waves of all kinds of mushi drifting along in thick, winding rivers northward. Even the ones in his medicine box have been attempting to escape, the drawers all locked tight to keep them secured in place.

Ginko hadn't even intended to investigate on his own at first— this is something beyond him as an individual, he'd have to be a foolhardy idiot to jump into a situation no other mushi-shi even has record of.

...But ever since his initial visit to the nearby village, every turn he takes places him back on the path towards the epicenter. 

It's a simple matter to tell as much when the rattling in his box shifts, an ever-present pressure against his back. None of the tricks he's learned over his years as a mushi-shi seem to hold weight in the face of this world-bending phenomenon— he can't even stop, the ground groaning and sighing beneath his feet as it shudders in a slow rolling motion, taking him with it. If he lingers too long the snow itself will eat him alive long before any stray mushi could have the chance.

There's nothing to do but continue.

Like the mushi flowing in rivulets by his feet, he's being drawn towards something, a vast weight laid upon the edge of the sky. He can hardly say as to whether it's been hours or mere moments when he finally lays an eye on what looks to be the epicenter of the sinking land, the sun hidden from the world by the cover of the raging snowstorm. 

There are mushi.

Hundreds of thousands of mushi, reaching down into the pit of the earth in a twisting, winding spire, small and large gathered alike. There is no discernment of species or of proclivity from where he stands upon the snowbank, just a pure wash of writhing life. It's almost serene in its beauty for just the stolen breath of a moment.

The wave of mushi almost seems to explode outwards the moment he shifts his footing, lashing arcs out into the snow with the whipcrack of thunder and light.

Ginko takes a reflexive step backwards as the writhing form of the tower shatters, and begins to fall— the mushi swarming beneath his shoe flex downward into that pressing void between the current and the gone, a brilliant cast of darkness radiating out into the world. It's there until it simply isn't anymore... and it takes him with it in its departure.

In those final few moments, his last scattered thoughts all echo the same sentiment... finally falling prey to the world is a lot more blue than he thought it would be. 

Deep, vivid shades of cobalt and rust, the rush of shapeless forms in the dim. It sears through the seams in his memories, a wash of color that never seems to end. There's a trickle of light that seems to drip and flow from every direction, pure kouki wound in tangled recursive nets. Unnatural, and—

and...

Time drips down old weathered pipes, a slow marching tok... tok... tok... the sound weathered and red in the corners of his aching mind.

And, as such things come to be, a slow understanding finds him. 

He is not dead, nor caught within the twisting flow of foreign mushi. A few flutter over his knuckles, twisting in the eye of the darkness in rounding spires, but it's nothing in light of that clustered flow of before.

There's an acerbic scent that hangs in the air so thickly as to be dizzying, an indiscernible filth chewing its way up beneath his fingernails. The stagnant air burns in his chest with every stuttering breath, hot against the back of his throat. His eye has long since stopped adjusting to levels of light; either he can see, or he cannot, and the dark lines of the room that initially greet him are as much as he's allotted. Everything is patterned in vague outlines and black-deep silhouettes, unusual refuse scattered in clumps across a gray stone floor. Stacks of broken yellowed buckets and teetering old shelves box him in, something oily and tacky seeping into the shoulder of his coat.

His body aches with the story of a hard fall when he finally catches his breath for long enough to pull himself to his feet, bones clicking under the stress. It feels like he can't get any air, wherever he is— pinning the snow-laden scarf around his neck up over his nose helps somewhat, but it can't quite hide his eyes from the sting in the tepid room.

At least he still has his medicine box. The mushi inside lay quiet at long last, his back buzzing in the quiet aftermath of their frantic movement. 

Where is he...? There's a small nest of mushi here, but not of any one particular species, nor in telling enough numbers for a hint towards geographical location— in fact, plenty of them shouldn't even be somewhere this naturally dark.

Akuzikura in particular. 

It's a small, feeble species with a proclivity for catching the earliest morning light, causing localized dark points in the sky— enough of them in the area, and the sun will seem as though it's coming hours late, the darkness expanding in relative proportion. He's seen them emerge from the dirt before, thin white legs peeking out in wait of those early rays of light, but never before dawn's herald. And yet, here he is— and here it is, moving forward with a dogged determination that its three strand-like limbs don't seem to match. It is slow but unerring in its path, a small bright spot burning holes in the edges of his vision. 

If it knows the closest point to its next meal...

With only the mushi's light to guide Ginko's path he forges onward through the small dark space, the shuffling echo of his footsteps rebounding against the stone walls. 

One foot in front of the other. 

It turns out to not be a very far distance to walk as he and his small trail of tag-alongs hit upon the base of a musty stairwell, the steps slippery with excess moisture and time. Had he been anyone else, the darkness would have been utterly impossible to navigate; It's hard to see perfectly, even for himself— the feeling of wood at the end is utterly unmistakable however, thin splinters catching along the pads of his heavy winter gloves. 

He's quick to find two cold metal handles, but all progress comes to a grinding halt from there. The door won't budge— for himself or the mushi trailing by his shoulders in twisting patterns, curling loops around his wrists. Ginko watches as the Akuzikura attempts to pull itself through the slats of the cellar door, unable to find enough purchase to squirm its way outside. It isn't great news for his own prospects— and with the outside blocked off, it seems to finally be taking an interest in him.

Ginko knows better than to light up in an unknown enclosed space— there's certainly something that's heavy and foul in the air that he can't identify— but it isn't ideal.

"Hey! Is anybody out there?" He politely knocks to begin with, lightly testing against the boards. The sound reverberates through the space, catching on the smooth stone walls.

No answer.

"HEY!" Ginko slams his fist against the sealed door several degrees louder this time, the old wood creaking under the force. There must be something on top of it— he can hear it rattling against something hard, a solid, unyielding pressure.

Well, shit.