June 2nd, 2020
Hanyuu stares at the wide-eyed figure lying on the futon that she sits before, legs crossed and as intangible as a wisp, with pursed lips and a furrowed brow. Rika is as enthusiastic and chatty as any child her age, a mere slip of a girl of seven, and she wants to know, know so much, about Hanyuu, about where Hanyuu is from, why no one else can see or hear the fretful lilac-haired girl that nipped at her heels.
Some of those answers, Hanyuu can give, and does, without deceit.
Others she gives, but dissembles, a little, masking their true and bloody connotations. Such a tiny child, with stars in her eyes, should not hear of the men and women ripped bloodily apart on Hanyuu's altar, should not know that it was a ritual that even now Rika's revered father mimics as he dances the offering dance in the shrine.
Still more she tries to give, but there is only so much a child can comprehend.
The last few she keeps quiet and close to her heart, and does not speak of, no matter how much the tiny shrine maiden begs and pleads.
That is, however, a very small number, and most of her answers are awkward things that she can only try to voice and explain. Rika is mortal and she is not, Hanyuu has senses that Rika does not, has experiences that the adorable small miko cannot comprehend. Japanese is too clumsy and too thick on her tongue to try and explain, words falling short, and Rika simply does not have the senses to understand the concepts and thoughts Hanyuu could otherwise force upon her mind. It would be like explaining the sensation of winged flight to a snail, swimming to a desert jackal; Rika simply does not have the organs, the faculties, the ability, as a human, to understand the otherworldly knowledge Hanyuu has.
So Hanyuu merely sighs, and begins to attempt to explain her home once again.
11.35 AM, USA Central Time