A young boy, still deep in the throes of adolescence, traipsed after his master. He had large wide set eyes which framed an especially pointed nose that seemed perpetually upturned. There was a smattering of light brown freckles across his ruddy cheeks. The boy ran his fingers through his short tousled hair, which just reached below his chin and became increasingly aggravated as he took in their dismal surroundings. He pursed his thin lips and debated on the sensibility of asking his master a question.
His master was a young man, dressed in a black kimono and equally black boots. He had long dark hair which easily reached his back and was tied at the nape of his neck with a white ribbon. From his regal posture and self-assured bearing, there was no doubt that this man had some sort of noble blood or privileged upbringing.
They had just arrived at the slums of Kunashiri. Kunashiri was considered to be the capital of the Western Province. It had been home to many powerful nobles during a power consolidation and maintained its military significance and economic influence on the surrounding area. It was close to the coast, sprawled across the western side of a mountain. The city gates, large wooden doors flanked by high watchtowers, opened at the base of the mountain and a singular main cobblestone path winded its way up the mountain to gradually more affluent areas.
The slums of Kunashiri were close to the city gates, not exactly the first thing a newcomer to the city would see, but not exactly tucked away in the corner either.
Last night's snowfall had blanketed everything in a drab gray-white color, including the unpaved roads. It made walking more inconvenient with the snow covered potholes and the melting snow slowly seeping into one's boots. The dirt streets were narrow, in some places only allowing even space for a single person to walk through. It seemed that the air was permanently cloudy here. A result of exhaust from primitive machinery, constant foot traffic and confined spaces. Spaced out along the streets were the typical slum inhabitants. Beggars and prostitutes, intermingled here and there with dirt-faced playing children tumbling in the snow.
The pair's garments were made of high quality silk instead of roughspun cloth common to the villagers, clearly marking them as members of the upper caste. But still they chose to traverse through the slums of Kunashiri instead of hiring a carriage straight to the summit. They carefully picked their way through the streets, taking in the city's most unfortunate.
The young boy did not like this at all. He raised a sleeve of his kimono up to the noise in a vain attempt to filter out the offensive odors of the neighborhood. "My Lord," he began in a whine. "What are we doing here? This place reeks, and we're going to be late to see Daiki Nao."
The master slid his dark brown eyes to his servant, a disapproving glance. One of his brows even managed a twitch, but for the most part he schooled his face into impassivity. "Daiki Nao can wait."
At the edge of an alleyway, a body was half cast in shadow and light. It was a woman, her hair was matted and plastered to her face by sweat and mud. She was slouched against a wall, her legs splayed out on the ground collecting snowfall - she must have been there for a long time. Her chin was tilted forward and her head seemed to rock back and forth as if she was sleeping.
"Is she dead?" the young boy asked, pressing the cloth of his kimono more firmly to his nose.
"No, she's still breathing," the man responded. And indeed she was. Her chest still rose and fell with shallow breaths.
The man cautiously reached out to grasp her chin in his hand. In one fluid motion, he tilted her head back - to get a better look at her face. The woman did not protest, her breathing still even and soft.
One glance at the woman's face and the young boy gasped, more from shock than fear itself.
Dark eyes stared back at them, they were wide open but unseeing. She did not blink. A glassy-like sheen had taken over her eye and a milky color was beginning to creep into her iris. Soft breaths passed through her parted lips, tinged purple and cracked in the cold weather. A fly buzzed by and landed on her cheek. She made no movement to swat the offending insect away.
The man let her head droop back to its former position and wiped his fingers on his kimono. He began moving away from the body, heading back to Kunashiri's main cobblestone path to fetch a carriage ride to the Daiki residence. "She's not dead yet. But she will be."
"What a horrible thing to have happened to her." The servant stayed a beat longer, considering the damned woman.
"It is only going to get worse. Let's go, Jaken."
"Yes, Lord Sesshomaru!"
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A/N: Sesshomaru disguised as a human! I wonder how things will turn out.