Tut tut, looks like. . .

Inaba had always found rain to be a quaint and amusing experience. The way raindrops would tinkle on Thunderpeak’s metal roof as he cleaned scrolls for the Curators or how Etro's Daughters would run from the first sign of a drizzle, their silk gowns clinging to clammy skin. Something to be enjoyed through the window of your apartment as you drank steaming coffee spiced with cinnamon. But not here. The entire Country was blanketed by a dark curtain of clouds that never relented to Sunshine. Rain fell so heavily that Inaba could barely see three meters in any direction.

You’ve grown soft, old man.

Fingers swept a black twist of sopping forelock from his eyes as he crossed a sidestreet. Inaba clenched his teeth together to stop them from chattering, and gripped the lapels of his jacket in a single fist hoping to keep underclothes dry. A pointless gesture, he was already soaked to the bone. The coat salesman in Kumo had told him it was waterproof, no need for an umbrella.

“Fucking shyster,” He muttered.

Lilac eyes shifted to the luminescence of red-banded neon light, ‘Eat Here’ the sign read. Still gripping the lapels of his jacket, Inaba hunched forward fighting off the cold shakes as he walked under the Diner’s pavilion. His breath was a cold mist in the air, his hair a splayed canopy over purple eyes, and his posture was that of a shrunken old man. He pulled his jacket off with the awkward difficulty of a child, breathing a sigh of relief as he did so, then patted at the rivulets running down its glossy length. The act reminded him of how his mother would hang and beat the dust out of old rugs in their home.

A bell rang beside him as the diner’s door opened up to warm air and the sizzle of eggs being cooked. Two foreigners came walking through the doorway–easily distinguishable by their dress and the cadence of their speech. The first was a man near his age with an umbrella in hand and the other was a woman nearly a decade younger.

“Beautiful country isn’t it, dear?” The man said unfurling the umbrella,

“Yes quite, but does it ever stop raining?”

“Yes but–how dreadful!”

“What are they doing, dear?”

The leather of his jacket snapped as he shook raindrops from it, and wiped a final gliding palm against its material. Inaba turned his attention to what had caught the couple's attention, fingers pushing back the hair that hid his eyes.

Two official-looking soldiers in steel plate armor marched past them, dragging between them a bloodied young man with a blackened left eye. The insignia on their sash was a yellow Heron. Inaba raised a curious brow at the scene, probing his memory for anything regarding that symbol. Of all that time he spent here during his youth, he could not recall any such Heraldry.

Better not to get involved; this was not his place after all. Inaba put his coat back on and entered the diner.

“Golden Heron bastards,” A man was saying as Inaba entered, “Bloody bully boys if you ask me,” Another chimed in.

A small group had formed at the window to watch the soldiers outside. They turned almost all in unison, glancing at Inaba. He winced at them, shifting boney shoulders as he retrieved a newspaper from a stand. Their attention quickly turned back to the scene outside. Inaba took a seat at the bar, slipping out of his wet jacket, and ordering a coffee with soup. Wet fingers smudged black ink across the Rain Gazette headlines as he looked through the classifieds.

“They’re not so bad,” An elderly gentleman at the bar was saying, “cleaned up the streets if you ask me.”

“No one asked you,” One of the onlookers responded,

“If any of you had half a brain you’d enlist, mercenary companies pay,”

“Plenty of fighting, fucking, and coin. But they’re a band of foreign dogs,” Another responded,

“Well, they’re under the Daimyo’s commission. It’s a shame we can’t raise the numbers from our own population to. . .”

“Yes and back in the good old days you could, is that what you’re getting at?”

The elderly man gave a sour grunt in reply.

Inaba’s skin prickled from the damp cold that clung to him. He straightened his posture, tilting his eyes from the newspaper to gaze sidelong at the cook. As if his glare could expedite the process of warming up his tomato soup. The cook, unfazed by Inaba's glare, continued to stir the soup slowly, taking care to ensure that it was heated evenly. Inaba let out a sigh and turned his attention back to the newspaper, trying to distract himself from the chill that seemed to seep into his bones. He couldn't help but feel a little annoyed at having to wait for his soup to warm up.

He flipped through the office spaces for rent in the classified section, looking for the cheapest furnished room available. As he scanned through the listings, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment. The prices were higher than he had hoped, and many of the rooms were in less than desirable locations. Just as he was about to give up and put the paper down, a small ad caught his eye.

“Soups up,” The cook called,

Inaba folded the newspaper and set it aside, his attention now fully on the steaming bowl of soup in front of him. He picked up his spoon and took a tentative sip, savoring the rich, tomatoey flavor. The warmth of the soup spread through his body, chasing away the chill. He smiled in satisfaction, continuing to spoon greedy mouthfuls away. Small trickles of soup ran down the corners of his mouth as he shielded the bowl with an outstretched arm. The cook chuckled at him. Inaba raised his eyes, mouth gorged with soup,

“Wha?”

"I think this is the first time anyone has actually enjoyed Enbo's cooking" one of the servers said.

"Clearly he's a man of disguished taste," The cook replied,

[Exit]

WC 1017

Claims:

10 Stats to Vigor
1000 words towards learning Pressure Damage A-Rank

Approved