Orochimaru is not himself. Gone, is his coldness, his calculating gaze, his deadly aura. He laughs instead. His eyes are free and warm if only for the moment.
Wind whips Orochimaru's long hair around and ruffles his robes. His obi is like a dead weight around his waist. He brings his fingers down and thinks of cutting it off. Despite feeling freer than he has in an age, he remains practical. Instead, Orochimaru grips the stick tight between his legs and lets go.
It is Orochimaru's first time truly soaring and he wishes it could go on forever.
