Chapter Three: "Okuda"
(In which there is blood.)
Up close, she saw every shade.
It streaked in numerous veins down the length of his blade, thick and the most vibrant of greens within the wooded domain. Beyond him, the alpha laid dead, a huddled mass of scales and departed power. The blood pooled around its behemothic head, seeping into the ground like it surged towards the forest's infinite heart far below.
And it seeped from him.
A shallow gash ran across a cheekbone, marking his flesh with a sliver of red. This close, she saw every physical facet of him: sun-tinted skin and low eyebrows and angular cheekbones, with a nose that looked more severe than fissinus fangs. His lips had disappeared into a thin line. He was nothing more than serrated angles.
He glared at her, the narrowing of his eyes making their natural slant all the wider. The outward edges of his eyes tapered upward, which lessened the sharpness of his face with surprisingly long lashes. She lingered on the crease between his eyebrows, a line that seemed permanent from the glower that had no disappeared once since the moment she first saw him.
The red of his blood, however, did not possess the same brightness and depth and profusion of life as the red of his eyes. They were nearly the same shade, but, with his gaze locked onto her, she saw how his power was aflame within his irises, brightening like a kindled fire near his pupils with each heartbeat, then gone the moment between.
And saw that something very feral lived within them, like he was the wild creature that belonged to the forest, not her.
His chest heaved, grasping the hilt of his blade with a hard, calloused hand. A long slit on the cloth that covered his arm revealed the skin below, the taut muscle that was compacted together, smooth but rigid in a way that prickled her fingertips to reach out and touch him.
Instead, she closed her eyes.
This was a mistake.
She sensed him move before she felt him, the most infinitesimal of movement that sent the tip of his blade into the tender skin of her throat. When she opened her eyes, she discovered that his body was beginning to quiver, tense with readiness. But there was something else, something more, and realized it was fear. Not wariness, not suspicion, but a minute glimmer of fear that conflicted with the incensed red in his eyes.
And he spoke.
"What are you?"
And she understood.
His voice reminded her of the forest's isolated mountain: all sharp ridges and solidity and hardness, something unmoving, both very high and very deep from the passing of time, something amassed together with layer upon layer of stony detachment. Something so unlike the fiery red. Her skin crawled.
Then she froze.
She had understood his words. She had understood his words like she had understood the red-haired creature's and the leader's shout when he had made his initial attack. A moment passed, blood pounding in her ears and behind her eyes and in her chest, conflicted and confused not only because she had comprehended his words like she had known his language all her life, but perplexed by what his words meant.
What was she?
They were strangers, but was she not like them? They were creatures with limbs like her own, arms and legs, fingers and scars, soft skin and calloused hands, hair that fell from their heads, eyes that peered at the forest's inherent beauty and danger. They were strange, but they were now—somehow—more familiar to her than the trees that surrounded them.
Her thoughts halted. Her breath hitched.
They were strange.
They were familiar.
His glare narrowed, the lids of his eyes masking more of the red as his face tightened, and she offhandedly noticed that his nostrils were flaring. He growled deep within his throat, truly another wild creature, and the muscles holding the weight of his blade began to quiver, not with fatigue, but rage. The red brightened like a conflagration.
Again, he made the smallest of movements, this time furthering the tip of the blade into the hollow of her throat. It pierced through the surface, but she did not flinch, nor did she break contact of the red-hot ire of his glare.
Something shook within herself, something raw and bridling, but something within its own control. Her grip on the bo staff lessened, her own muscles beginning to quiver. When she took a deep breath, reigning in the power of her spirit that was still rampant with adrenaline and instinct, she withdrew the staff from his own throat.
As a result, he pressed harder, and the sting of the blade rung into her body.
The blade tipped further, allowing a tiny bud of pure silver blood to emerge. She watched him instantaneously still, muscles locked, blade immobile, eyes fastened onto the unsuspecting strangeness of her blood. Surprise widened, if only for a moment, his eyes.
His jaw visibly clenched together, tendons popping.
Then, as a rivulet of her blood, thick and vividly silver, slid down the length of his blade, it happened.
The silver, just a tiny drop, cumulated. It thickened and grew, a swell of silver that began to rapidly swathe over every inch of the metal blade. And it amassed in energy, pure and silent and rippling with power, tangibly felt in her fingertips and in the pinprick of her wound; her throat pounded. She watched as her life essence became its own creature, a will of its own as it covered the entirety of his weapon.
The silver then seeped into the blade, much like the alpha fissinus' blood had seeped into the forest.
And, abruptly, the blade burst into a great, blinding white glow. He did not move, eyes watching when the brightness did not abate, and she was surprised at his fortitude, his grip on the hilt not once wavering.
The eruption of light had lasted for all of a moment, but with its strange white light, a colossal swell of energy had also ruptured forth. It struck silently, like a tremor of lightning that jolted from the base of her throat.
Then, it vanished.
In the distance, in her periphery, she saw the battle between the strangers and the rock monsters had halted, stunned by the radiating glow.
His glare snapped back onto her, pressing the blade further into her neck until rivulet after rivulet of silver descended onto his blade. The red of his eyes brightened, the glimmer of alarm more prevailing than the heated anger. For a mere moment, she saw his chest shudder as he exhaled.
"Answer me, creature," he growled, clenching his fist. "Speak."
She opened her mouth, no longer feeling the pain of the blade, no longer feeling her spirit energy revolving within her core; something felt...strange within her, a calmness that circled around itself, a calmness that felt pressured, like the familiar calmness before a storm raged above the forest.
She opened her mouth, but movement behind him caught her attention.
It happened within the space between heartbeats, but it was long enough.
The rock chief rose from behind his shoulder, struggling to stand upright, but moving more smoothly than his hulk of a body should allow. Its glittering black eyes stared at her like malicious beetles, contorting its pebbled lips into a grin that revealed notches between its teeth; blood, an azure blue like the sky far above the treetops, dribbled out of the chief's gaping maw.
Its head was colossal and round, a sentient boulder, but it abruptly swung back, making a grating and victorious shout as it did. Before she could move, before he could react, the rock chief thrust his arm forward, centering all his brute strength into its attack.
Consequently, three long and razor-sharp gems pierced through his chest, the blunted tip of the club having been slammed into his back. He stumbled forward from the impact, red eyes open wide with surprise, and she scarcely moved in time before his blade impaled her straight through the throat.
He fell, his blade fell, both lying inert on the forest floor.
And there was red.
Like the alpha, it spilled from the deep punctures in his back, pooling from each cavity onto the forest's undergrowth in streams of crimson. It gushed, red, red, red. She stood, just as unmoving as he, watching life seep into the forest.
She watched the red, eyes locked, until it was the only thing she saw.
It was the only thing she saw when she slowly moved her head, body beginning to tremble with the same ire that was within his sweltering eyes just moments before, until she locked her gaze with the chieftan. The red pulsated in her vision, tingeing the corners until it enveloped her entire line of sight. She felt the blaze. She felt the fire that was in his eyes, creasing his brow, moving through his blade as he had wielded it with masterful precision. The red was more than strength or power, but it was immense, quaking like an inferno within her chest, searing in her fingertips, sweltering beneath her skin.
This red, this bloodlust, was unlike anything she had ever experienced.
It was not instinct. Nor was it familiar, nor strange.
It simply was.
She clenched her fists, the bo staff long since disappearing back into energy, and she stepped to fully face the rock chief. Her feet were parted, ready, her head tilted down as she leveled her eyes, the red, onto him. Her teeth gnashed together, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring like the wild fissinus of the forest.
The rock chief met her gaze, chuckling deep within its chest. It swung its club, the jewels glittering dangerously, and blood, his blood, so red and deep and thick, coated the spikes.
It charged.
And the red vanished.
Instead, it seeped into her energy, awakening it like a new sort kindling, fanning it like flames that would burn and burn and burn. Each pounding step that the chief took, the more her energy amassed, grew, blazed into a sweltering new aura. It shook within her, quaking her insides until it hurt to breathe, the power and fire beginning to fuse together until it was more than an inferno, it was a firestorm that would burn all.
She closed her eyes, letting it consume her.
She felt the red, the fire, and her own spirit energy boiling just beneath her skin. She felt it beginning to glow, much like the silver blood had on the blade. The energy of the forest rushed to her, seeping into her flesh, illuminating it until the power within nearly ruptured her into pieces.
When she opened her eyes, they were nothing but orbs of pure white.
The rock chief halted, a shriek of fear escaping its jagged lips, and turned to pivot on his heels.
And she let the power and energy that ran rampant within her, the fire, the essence of the forest, burst forth. As the wave of spirit energy erupted, she quickly dove over him, pressing her elbows and knees into the earth, covering his body with her own.
The energy quaked and rumbled and howled, a thousand times more thunderous than the alpha's roar, and enveloped everything into a blinding bright sphere of light, pure and utterly white. The energy thundered, hungry and powerful and enfolding upon everything that it touched. There was no escape.
And there was no control.
What she could manipulate with her aura, she had locked onto the remaining rock monsters, each strand of energy quaking like white hot fire, and seared them into ash. It took her breath away, the devastation of the power, how ultimate the energy was.
At the apex of the attack, however, she heard a shriek—strange, familiar—like that of massive bird, one that was burning and raining its own destruction down, one that knew the white energy, the red. She heard it trill one last time, a piercing shriek that resounded into her bones. And then…
Nothing.
Slowly, the energy began to dissipate. Everything remained in white light, but aftershocks rolled through the forest, uprooting trees that could no longer remained tethered to the ground. She wondered to what extent the attack had done to her home, but refrained from attempting to penetrate through the white glow, instead opting to press her body harder against his; every instinct within her told her to protect.
And then the white light began to fade.
The dust began to settle.
She blinked her eyes, looking around at the devastation in the forest clearing. And it was cleared. The clearing that had once been full of flora, carpeted in undergrowth, blossoming in green and with vigor, was now completely cratered into the earth. Instead of the foliage she had clutched, there was dirt in her hands. Various mounds of black dirt littered the clearing, evidence of the rock monsters—and the fissinus, sadly—were now nothing more than ash. The trees that had been uprooted from the initial wave of the attack had been thrown back, having crashed into other trees, leaving a wide radius of destruction.
In the distance, she could hear the last of the shock-waves echoing into an end.
In the clearing, the world was no longer green.
But everything was once again silent. It was a heavy silence, one full of death and emptiness. She breathed deeply, heavily, fatigue spreading throughout her entire body, the pain from the sticky wound on her back beginning to thrum. The spirit energy within her was very faint, quiet, a murmur from being nearly spent entirely. And she grieved, deeply and with all she had, at the pain she had caused the forest.
She sighed, burying her face into the mound of cloth before her. Then she stiffened as the scent of blood and sweat and wind and of something very strange and not familiar at all filled her nose. Her heart pounded rapidly in her chest, adrenaline making another round as she sat upright. A ringing filled her ears.
There was red on the strip of cloth that covered her, having soaked entirely through, sticking to her flesh.
Blood.
His blood.
She bit her lip, unsure of what to do, afraid to move him, afraid to see the red ire having clouded over like the alpha fissinus. Instinct, however, once again reared its head, coursing hotly in her veins and diminishing the fatigue, and forced her to carefully roll him over to see the extent of damage he had acquired.
He was deathly still. Fear and panic and apprehension all struck a jolt deep inside her, stinging her eyes, and each breath she took was a heavy thrum, a wanting to do something, needing to do something to rekindle his life. She clutched the dark fabric of his shirt, smoothing it out, careful not to breech the gaping wounds in his chest.
And then sorrow—such an unexpected, strange emotion—overtook her, slow and settling like the dust within the clearing.
His body was unmoving beneath her. There was even a strange tranquility to his expression, like he had not departed in pain. His eyes were closed making him look much less severe, less angular. Handsome, she thought, though she did not know the meaning.
But then she reached out, unable to quell the sorrow, and touched his face.
And he moved.
He moved like a shock was coursing through his system, abruptly beginning to shift beneath her as he took deep breath after deep breath. His eyes opened, and they looked at his surroundings deliriously for a moment, the red holding more alarm than fire. But when they caught her gaze, they became aflame, immediately returning to the heated glare she had become almost familiar with.
She leapt off him, settling instead at his side, careful now not to touch him.
He was, after all, another wild thing.
He struggled upright, clutching at his chest, gnashing his teeth in pain. Then he blanched, gasping, his face contorting as the blood left him frighteningly pale. When he clenched his teeth together, body quivering as he fought the agony of his wounds, she saw that his quick movement had opened them further; blood dripped onto his lap, onto the forest floor, trailing towards her.
Instinct shrieked at her again—help him!—and she did not take a moment to ponder it.
Swiftly, she reached out and touched his shoulder. He jerked away from her touch with a growl and peered at her through incensed, agony-ridden eyes. The tendons in his jaw were popping; each muscle she could see in his body was tensed as he fought to move, fought to fight. He even attempted to speak through his clenched teeth, but succumbed to silence when another wave of pain visibly racked his body.
He was bleeding out too fast, too much.
She reached out again, but he did not regard her touch this time; too focused on the pain and the blood that was coating his clenched fists. When she moved to kneel before him, however, his glare met her gaze, narrowing with such hate she almost recoiled. The heat that came off him was astounding, like the rays of sunlight that sometimes penetrated the forest's foliage, but a thousand times more intense.
And he watched her. Watched her, observing and analyzing, glare focusing in on her face and each facet of her feature, as though if he turned his mind elsewhere from the pain, it wouldn't be so excruciating.
But he bridled when she picked up his blade. She disregarded the curiosity that bloomed within her over the object, knowing now wasn't the time to indulge her whims. Instead, she took it carefully in her grasp mid-blade, keeping the hilt always in contact with the earth. Guiding the tip towards her left palm, she sliced herself down the center. Her blood seeped through the cut, not like the crimson seeping out of him, nor the crimson that stained her front, but once again the bright silver.
He watched her, eyes narrowing, as the silver blood pooled in her palm.
When she inched closer to him, holding out her hand, he retaliated by grasping her wrist with a shaking hand, keeping her at a distance. His teeth gritted in pain, but his grip tightened, eyes dangerous and deathly red and locked onto her face.
She returned his gaze, and nothing more.
A moment passed, and then another.
Then another.
Each moment calmness settled over her, enveloping the fire the same way the white hot energy had enveloped over the forest clearing. This time, however, as each moment passed the calmness grew more and more serene, more cooling, like a light rain that aided the forest's growth. The calm serenity flourished within the moments until, little by little, his grasp loosened and the heat in his eyes was a little less sweltering.
Then, before he could respond, she pressed her palm to his chest. She squeezed into each wound, watching as the silver and the crimson mixed, swirling together, splattering her arm and his chest, until one wouldn't know whose blood was whose.
He hissed with pain, too much in agony to move and push her away.
But the calmness never abated, with each second that passed, with each drop of silver that went into his wounds, the more his body relaxed. Soon, his muscles were no longer quivering under the duress of pain, the extra heat that it had brewed in his eyes vanished, and his hands uncurled from their bloodless fists. He began to breathe evenly.
When she withdrew her hand, his wounds fully healed, she peered up to meet his gaze.
Now, there was a moment of stillness. Not silence. Not calmness. Instinct still rushed through her veins, thumping in her eardrums, something so much hotter than adrenaline or rage. She breathed quietly, if a little heavily, through her nostrils.
There was still a glare in his red eyes, but, now, it had lessened.
With effort, even though his skin looked fresh and anew, he moved as though the muscles around his healed wounds ached, and he slowly reached out to her. He raised a trembling hand towards her face, his expression almost apprehensive, (cautious, she decided) his brows still low and foreboding, but the line of his lips was set with determination.
His glare had almost softened completely.
She felt his fingertips, calloused and rough, skim across her cheek, and almost shuddered at the sensation. But then, abruptly, the glare returned, and the red rekindled its flame.
Before she had time to stumble back in alarm, his face hardened, seizing her chin and squeezing hard. With the other he quickly snatched his blade. In one swift movement, he raised the blunt end and rammed it against the crown of her head.
And everything went black.
— — —
"Uh, guys, why is there a half-naked, wild chick lying unconscious on Hiei's lap?"
Kuwabara panted heavily, momentarily pulled away from his grumblings, and even cocked his head to the side in bewilderment. The moment Kurama's protective barrier vanished, the trio had rushed over to Hiei's aid on the far outcropping of the forest clearing.
Taking the opportunity to race Yusuke in the process and deflate his much-coddled ego had sounded like a worthwhile endeavor. Losing didn't. His chest heaved as he nursed a stitch in his side, grumbling to himself when Yusuke shot him a smug grin.
Kurama smothered an amused smile, looking unfazed by their battle with the posse of crag demons.
The destruction of the clearing, however, sat ill with Kuwabara, who had initially looked around with stunned horror, flabbergasted by the sheer power of the attack. He blinked rapidly at the thought, still trying to clear his vision from the burst of black dots that had been a result of the blinding white light.
Now, however, his mouth was beginning to gape.
Hiei moved the girl in question from his lap, but to Kuwabara's immense surprise, he did so with much more carefulness than he thought the demon was ever capable of. Kuwabara, however, was not surprised when the shrimp utterly disregarded his existence.
"Watch it, Kuwabara," Yusuke muttered through the corner of his lips. "Or you'll start catching flies."
Kuwabara whacked him in the ribs. "Shut it, Urameshi."
But when Hiei had laid the girl down, lying amongst a soft mound of dirt, Kuwabara's mouth began to unceremoniously gape once more. He nudged Yusuke, causing him to hiss when Kuwabara touched the spot he had previously hit.
"Dude, look at her," he said, blinking owlishly.
"I am looking at her, moron," Yusuke responded, bristling. "And you'd best stop looking at her like that, or do I have to say the magic word?"
Kuwabara frowned. "What magic word?"
"Yukina."
"My beloved!"
"Yeah," Yusuke snickered. "That's what I thought."
Kuwabara glowered at the spirit detective, but returned his gaze towards the girl. She was stranger than anything else. Eye-catching? Yeah, he thought, but not in the beautiful, eye-catching sense that his red-eyed, warm-hearted ice demoness embodied. He grinned doltishly at the thought of Yukina, but stopped when movement from Hiei caught his attention again.
The fire demon had grabbed her arm, repositioning it across her stomach, as though he was ensuring her comfort although she was unconscious. Kuwabara's eyebrows spiked towards his hairline, looking from her to Hiei, back and forth, from one to the other, mild to severe with something akin to puzzlement because Hiei Jaganshi was the poster child of emotional constipation when it came to acts of kindness.
"Wait," Kuwabara blinked again. "Where did she come from?"
"She was following us from the very moment we stepped inside this forest, Kuwabara," Kurama said, eyes never leaving the girl. His brow was furrowed, and his tone held its own level of mystification, mind legions away.
This did not sit well with Kuwabara, and he shifted uncomfortably, his shoes digging into the dirt. "But I have the highest spirit awareness out of all of you guys, so how is it possible that I couldn't even feel her spirit energy?"
This time Hiei regarded him, peering up with contempt in his eyes. He scoffed. "It was a ruse, fool."
Kurama merely nodded, still analyzing the girl. "Yes, she was protecting herself. Hiei and I barely felt it—she must have made it too weak to detect. Not unless you tried, of course."
"But..." Kuwabara faltered. "Why would she do that?"
"You truly are an idiot, aren't you?" Hiei bit scathingly. "She was protecting herself. We are strangers in this forest, which happens to be her home. It's a miracle she did not try to protect it from us."
Before Kuwabara could respond, Kurama abruptly stepped forward, the color draining from his face, green eyes widening with disbelief. His hands were clenched together, forming bloodless fists. It was unsettling to see the fox demon's perpetual mask of composure begin to crack so unexpectedly, and so abruptly.
"A miracle, maybe. Strange, even more so," he said quietly, then, more urgency: "Hiei, push back her hair. I need to see her face."
Hiei did so running his fingertips across her forehead, leaving his hand in place to keep the strands from falling back into her eyes. Kuwabara gawked again, and even Yusuke's head cocked to the side with curiosity.
She was a small thing, compact and wiry and in dire need of some ramen, Kuwabara thought, eyes lingering on how her skin clung too tightly to her ribs. The color of her skin reminded him of his mother's tea when it was milky, but scars littered her body, some old and silvered with age, others newer and still a healing pink.
Her clothing, however, did not leave much to the imagination, which made Kuwabara blush. A simple band of cloth covered her chest, clearly not out of prudishness, but it acted as a buffer for the gnarled, heart-like tree vine that she had wrapped across her chest—a vine that hooked around her neck to keep it in place, as though it was still alive and growing across her body. Below, she wore something reminiscent of a sarong. Loincloth, however, was what Kuwabara had initially thought, and grinned to himself as the Tarzan yell instantly echoed in his head.
The girl's hair was long, cut unevenly and was even starting to form thick coils of dreadlocks. Even more strangely: it was very white. Pure white, stark white, like the light from the bright burst of energy. Kuwabara blinked rapidly again, beginning to gawp.
On her face, now that it was uncovered, were markings. They too were white, which made them stand out in contrast against the shade of her skin. The markings were both simple but intricate, the result of a talented artist's hand, and the largest was below her right eye, curling around the curve of her cheekbone and ascending artfully towards her ear. The other marking, however, was a simple spiraled circle at the corner of her left eye, like an afterthought to the complexity of the other.
It was unlike anything Kuwabara had ever seen.
Kurama's breath hitched. "She's Okuda."
Kuwabara blinked again, ignoring how Hiei had immediately stiffened, withdrawing his hand from the girl's face. Yusuke raised a brow.
"A what-what?" Kuwabara asked, befuddled.
Kurama glanced towards him, and then back at the girl. Kuwabara followed his gaze, both lingering on the swath of blood covering her chest, but she breathed too easily for there to be anything truly wrong. Kuwabara noted the bright glimmer of silver on one of her palms.
"Okuda," Kurama repeated quietly, so quietly that Kuwabara had to strain himself to hear. Kurama shook his head, clearly disbelieving himself, and then stated so. "I don't know if I believe it, but it appears the myths are true."
Yusuke cleared his throat, his eyebrow still raised in question.
"Care to explain, Kurama?" he asked impatiently, crossing his arms over his chest. "You know, for those of us who didn't take Demonic Races 101 back in apparition high school."
Before Kurama could explain, however, Hiei scoffed. His eyes were bright and tapered with incredulity.
"You cannot be serious, Kurama," he derided, peering down only once at the girl, and only with his natural brand of scathing indifference. "This creature cannot possibly be one."
Kurama disregarded Hiei, turning to Kuwabara and Yusuke. He cleared his throat, obviously unsure of where to start. Hiei snorted, glaring off into the forest with a clenched jaw.
"The Okudas were an ancient race. Demon race. They very first, as it's said. There is lore about them still, but bound in dusty tomes that very few demons care to read," he smiled faintly. "Most of us are not very scholarly, but there are few who are, you see. These tomes are rare, very rare. So rare that many disregards them as the journals of a mad, rambling demon. Apparently, however, the Okudean myth is true."
"So," Yusuke hedged, feigning interest, though Kuwabara knew he was just as curious as he was, and glowered at him for trying to play it cool. "What's their story?"
Kurama's gaze fell back onto the girl.
"Their origin had once been legends, something that demons long ago believed was real. But it has been so long since anything about the Okuda was discovered that many have given up the pursuit in unearthing the truth of their extinction," he said, biting his lip momentarily, lost in thought. "Theirs being a dead language does not help the matter. Only a handful of relics, mainly those tomes in their dead script I mentioned before, prove the that they once roamed the Makai, or ruled it, as few have dared to believe. Unfortunately, these archaeological findings are too few, and too cryptic, that I'm afraid the Okuda are considered nothing more than demon mythology."
Yusuke tapped his foot. "You seem well informed on the subject."
Kurama smiled again. "As Yoko I spent many years trying to uncover Okudean artifacts, believing them to be the ultimate treasure."
"Did you find any?" Kuwabara asked.
"I have to remind you that many demons believe them myths, Kuwabara, and the number of unearthed relics linked to their history is staggeringly low," Kurama stated, then shrugged. "It was mainly a fruitless endeavor. No leads. No knowledge. Ultimately, no treasure."
Kuwabara glanced at the girl, who breathed deeply, looking like she had been born from the forest soil, wild but enchanted. "Then how do you know she's Okuda?"
Kurama was silent, remaining so for a long time. The forest's silence settled around them, his gaze locked onto the girl. Even Hiei's eyes flitted down toward her, fists clenching and unclenching, the tendons popping along his jawline when he looked angrily away. Kuwabara shifted uneasily, hating this forest more and more with its creepy shadows and dark, twisted trees that loomed like super-sized gargoyles in the distance.
Then, Kurama spoke.
"Because," he began, very quiet, very somber. "I once stole one of those tomes. I vainly tried to decipher it. I spent months attempting to, desiring nothing more than to understand their language, to track down their mounds of wealth and hidden treasure. In the end, however, I returned it to the demon that I had stolen it from."
Yusuke balked. "You? As Yoko Kurama? The Legendary Bandit? Why not sell the damn thing if no one could read it?"
Kurama chuckled lightly. "I never said I was pleasant about it, but returned it I did. And selling it would have been counterproductive towards my reason of returning the tome. You see, those months staring at the words I could not read, the markings that were so foreign and real and ancient, I became obsessed with the legends, thirsty for more knowledge."
"Oh?" Yusuke hedged.
"It was counterproductive, Yusuke, because the demon I had stolen the tome from was the only one alive to aid me in my venture. The demon regards herself as an Okudean linguistic extraordinaire, the only being in the three worlds who has dedicated their life to translating the language. And translate she did." Kurama then shrugged, "Or so she boasts."
"Hn," Hiei interrupted scornfully. "Answer the question, Kurama. Why do you believe she, of all things, is okuda?"
"Simple, Hiei: I have seen that marking on her face before. Not once, but dozens of times, hundreds. Dare I say thousands," he replied, peering at the white marking on her face, eyes bright with intrigue. "That marking had been etched onto the leather of the tome I had stolen, had been drawn uncountable times inside. Also, there is one—just one—mural depicting the Okuda race in a cavern close to my linguist friend's dwelling. The Okudas in the mural were white-haired like she, also bearing markings of their language on their faces. It is said that the markings depict a characteristic that the Okuda would then epitomize in their society."
"What does her marking mean?" Kuwabara asked, feeling the thrill of curiosity in his fingertips, his eyes following the swirling pathways and curves of her marking's design.
Hiei sneered. "Hn. What do you think the words dead language mean? That should make it glaringly obvious, fool."
"Hiei is correct, it is a dead language. In all my undertakings to do so, I never learned much about the it. Only one should be able to translate its meaning, one fluent enough to speak it."
"Okay," Yusuke began, joining in on peering down at the strange demon girl. He hesitated, eyes narrowing as he thought. "Okay, so, what exactly is an Okuda? What makes them so different from demons now?"
Kuwabara nodded in agreement, needling, "Yeah, what powers did they have?"
Kurama took another moment of silence. When he spoke, his eyes flitted towards theirs.
"Those who once knew," he said, "are long dead. Only theories remain, only those words in forgotten tomes. But it looks as though we may discover what they were firsthand."
The thought did not sit well with Kuwabara, who looked around at his friends with an amassment of discomfort.
"Well," he said, peering down at the girl. "What should we do with her?"
Kurama chuckled good-naturedly.
"We clearly can't leave her unconscious on the floor of a haunted forest, can we?" he queried, then sobered up quickly, adding: "If she truly is Okudean, then it is best we bring her to Koenma, or Genkai even. I will look into contacting Skata about the marking she bears."
— — —
Author's Note: So, I attempted to make the second half of this chapter less of an info-dump than my outline originally suggested. Hopefully—fingers crossed—I prevailed.
Also, I would love nothing more than to individually PM all of you who reviewed, faved, and/or alerted, just to thank you (in quite a lot of words, probably, because what I'm receiving is blowing—my—mind) for doing so. But I always feel bothersome when I do. Instead, I'm just going to sit here and give you all a collectively GARGANTUAN thank you. No, seriously. Thank you.