The smell of wet grass still clings thick in the crisp northern air, a reminder of the heavy rain that had just passed a few hours ago. Under foot the soil is spongy and soft, the grass slick with moisture. The sun is setting, dipping dangerously close to the horizon of →
→ The kindling had gotten damp in the rain, despite his best efforts to insulate it in his pack, and anyway the firewood he had gathered was soggy as it is. Huddled next to what would be his campfire for the night, he tries once again to illicit a spark from his tinder →
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→ that would set the sorry pile of wood and straw ablaze - his temper, ironically, steadily flaring in the process. He had traveled far today to get out of the harsh snowy climes of the north, and is far too tired and exasperated to be tested by this godforsaken country's →
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→ climes once more before sunset. He growls, tossing the useless tinder over his shoulder into the tent behind him. He rubs a hand over his face in frustration, pushing some wet strands of hair out of his eyes. Tugging on his chin for a moment in thought; →
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→ the simple, thoughtless habit he often resorts to when his temper is frayed. After a moment he sighs, and clicks his fingers. Although the evening air is mostly still and quiet, the sound seems to echo farther than it should, but simultaneously sounds faint, as if heard →
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→ from a great distance away. Most curiously, it seems to resonate and distort some several seconds after the sound should rightly have faded; while it gradually peters out, the air in front of the campfire shimmers and warps, as if wrinkling as the seams. →
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→ Fire licks itself into existence and wreaths itself around immaterial limbs and giving form to the creature that came to be. As the conflagration wraps itself into a vaguely shape, floating a few inches off the ground, Hinato turns to retrieve his pack from the tent. →
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→ "Fire." He grunts, signaling to the campfire as the lion carries structure. He's halfway inside the tent before peeking over his shoulder, perceiving the manifested jutsu still hovering there, motionless. A distasteful exhale, rolling his eyes. "Rabendaa, fire." →
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→ He should never have given her — it — a name; he had once referred to it by name, a name that meant something to him. Now he'd never live it down. She — it — had grown increasingly obstinate, and he knows that soon he would have to whip it back in line. →
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→ But tonight, he can feel the beginnings of a cold settling in, he is tired and his bones ache and is in no mood for any of her — its — shit. As he hauls his pack out of the tent, he feels the all-too-welcome lick of the fire's heat beginning to warm his back. →
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→ Although he can't tell if it is staring at him — or even if it owns a gaze, in the conventional sense, he feels like it is regarding him with a look of mirth. In any case, it doesn't matter. He would deal with it later. The fire begins to flare quickly, as only chakra →
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→ could on such sodden kindling, and he begins to pluck some items from his bag, quickly setting up a little stove with a cooking pot and kettle suspended over the fire. Unnatural fire was not great for use with cooking, boiling or mixing, all things considered. →
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→ It pushes the boiling point too quickly, and tends to burn the ingredients slightly, and so lent a slightly smoky flavor or quality to the product, despite being completely smokeless fire, but on a night like this he would have to make do. →
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→ In between stirring the ladle, he finds his hand wandering to one of his pouches, and produces the item that had caused him so much intrigue lately — the little prism; its brownish-gold brass edges glimmering in the firelight. He tips it onto his finger, allowing it to →
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→ hover just above his fingertip, rotating gradually all the while. He is no closer now than he was before to answering the mystery of this little enigma - his contact in Iwagakure hadn't been able to offer any questions, and neither had the precocious shinobi whose life →
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→ he had saved on the southbound road. Had he considered it just a trinket, he wouldn't have given it a spare thought, and had been content to hold onto it as an interesting little keepsake, but he couldn't just let it sit. Never had he'd seen a folk item such as this, and →
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→ couldn't shake the feeling that it must do something. "What are you?" He murmurs into his cup of tea, staring intently into the little mote of light suspended inside. From the other side of the fire comes the faintest echo of a chuckling trill; he looks up to see her. →
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