Happy Life
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Arriving at the coordinates, Miko wandered through them for a long time in search of a suitable spot, and secondly—enjoying a moment of peaceful nature, the first such opportunity that had presented itself in the last couple of weeks.
Only upon reaching a state of primal serenity did she realize that lately she had been walking to the noisy, dusty, stifling city every morning as if going to work. This was not at all the life a priestess of the Yanagi Temple should lead—nor, in fact, should anyone. By trading communion with nature for modern civilization, man had, of course, gained useful things such as the protection of stone walls, a variety of goods and services, certain comforts, and conditionally fulfilled social obligations—fulfilled, however, not out of conscience or justice, but primarily under the threat of punishment from the society's supervisory and executive bodies. But at the same time, he acquired a vast number of mental and physical ailments, chronic fatigue, and a surge in crime, not to mention that he repeatedly shortened his life by existing in a limited, littered space, feeding on processed food of unknown origin.
What does the human soul long for in such a paradigm of existence? Like Bazhena—to earn as many pennies as possible by any means while it is still possible, in order to acquire a larger and flashier house, dress in expensive clothes and jewelry, and wear them to even more expensive processed-food restaurants, repeating the cycle until its natural conclusion? Like Victor Loss or Elliot Ironboot—to strive at any cost, sacrificing health, personal life, and even clarity of mind, to climb the social ladder of this very society, hoping to find some other answer there, applying their innate talents to moderate it, stewing in its own juices? Like Belyana Ravenstein or Zhenya Kripov—to detach themselves from these suffocating frames, but not step beyond them, only further restricting their world by burying themselves headfirst in some task? Like Jingo Mei or Draco Mellis—to find their sublime ideal and exert every effort toward its realization, refusing to let themselves sink into mundane ugliness, ascending to that very barely tangible, slightly higher level of perception and happiness? But unfortunately, even those two could essentially be called parasites. Not in a derogatory sense, but only in that their lives were dedicated to rummaging in and devouring the tissues of that same civilization-human paradigm, without receding into any clear, tangible absolute.
"To some extent, I too could be called a parasite of this sort, or even a scavenger who gets involved when the little animals encounter some trouble," Ayano thought, and she felt saddened... or would have, had she been prone to self-flagellation.
To such a barb from anyone, including herself, she could only raise an eyebrow in bewilderment, and nothing more. The views of the Nihonites are true because they are correct, and the principles of Yanagi lie in the same vector as the immutable truths of the universe, beyond the reach of vulgar, limited deconstruction.
Having finished this long but necessary procedure of reflection, Ayano gains +1 to spirit.
Taking a deep breath of fresh air, she finds herself in a spacious open glade in the middle of a forest massif, at the far end of which a cyclopean plane tree spreads out in all directions, sharply contrasting with the rest of the arboreal composition. How did it get here? Stale scholars would surely devise some unconfirmed theory, but for a sane person, it was as clear as day that this was none other than the emperor of the forest, its king, god, and protector—not having "absorbed" the essences of the local Kami, which would be absurd, but embodying through its form their presence within this place, offering it to man for contemplation and reverence. It is here that the honden will be built, and on the rest of the glade—the remaining complex, fortunately, its size allows not a single tree to be damaged during this process—which shall not be done by any negligent worker, under vigilant supervision and fear of the severest punishments.
Kneeling by the rootstock of the giant tree, clapping twice and folding her palms in a prayerful gesture with her eyes closed, Ayano spends some time in meditation, tuning herself to a single wave with the local spiritual entities, asking for patronage and offering them gratitude for the opportunity to worship.
Opening her eyes, she continues to sit for a while, enjoying mental emptiness in its most pleasant sense, then performs a deep bow before the "emperor"—during which her forehead completely touches the soil.
Finally, having settled this "matter," she rises to her feet, takes out her gohei and kagura suzu, and performs a ritual dance, chanting norito for the repose of two dozen souls destroyed by Victor Loss—may the Kamisama-tachi take them under their gentle care and help them pass with dignity into the afterlife, casting off the chains of earthly existence.
Upon completion of all tasks, she goes to Carneol.
Only upon reaching a state of primal serenity did she realize that lately she had been walking to the noisy, dusty, stifling city every morning as if going to work. This was not at all the life a priestess of the Yanagi Temple should lead—nor, in fact, should anyone. By trading communion with nature for modern civilization, man had, of course, gained useful things such as the protection of stone walls, a variety of goods and services, certain comforts, and conditionally fulfilled social obligations—fulfilled, however, not out of conscience or justice, but primarily under the threat of punishment from the society's supervisory and executive bodies. But at the same time, he acquired a vast number of mental and physical ailments, chronic fatigue, and a surge in crime, not to mention that he repeatedly shortened his life by existing in a limited, littered space, feeding on processed food of unknown origin.
What does the human soul long for in such a paradigm of existence? Like Bazhena—to earn as many pennies as possible by any means while it is still possible, in order to acquire a larger and flashier house, dress in expensive clothes and jewelry, and wear them to even more expensive processed-food restaurants, repeating the cycle until its natural conclusion? Like Victor Loss or Elliot Ironboot—to strive at any cost, sacrificing health, personal life, and even clarity of mind, to climb the social ladder of this very society, hoping to find some other answer there, applying their innate talents to moderate it, stewing in its own juices? Like Belyana Ravenstein or Zhenya Kripov—to detach themselves from these suffocating frames, but not step beyond them, only further restricting their world by burying themselves headfirst in some task? Like Jingo Mei or Draco Mellis—to find their sublime ideal and exert every effort toward its realization, refusing to let themselves sink into mundane ugliness, ascending to that very barely tangible, slightly higher level of perception and happiness? But unfortunately, even those two could essentially be called parasites. Not in a derogatory sense, but only in that their lives were dedicated to rummaging in and devouring the tissues of that same civilization-human paradigm, without receding into any clear, tangible absolute.
"To some extent, I too could be called a parasite of this sort, or even a scavenger who gets involved when the little animals encounter some trouble," Ayano thought, and she felt saddened... or would have, had she been prone to self-flagellation.
To such a barb from anyone, including herself, she could only raise an eyebrow in bewilderment, and nothing more. The views of the Nihonites are true because they are correct, and the principles of Yanagi lie in the same vector as the immutable truths of the universe, beyond the reach of vulgar, limited deconstruction.
Having finished this long but necessary procedure of reflection, Ayano gains +1 to spirit.
Taking a deep breath of fresh air, she finds herself in a spacious open glade in the middle of a forest massif, at the far end of which a cyclopean plane tree spreads out in all directions, sharply contrasting with the rest of the arboreal composition. How did it get here? Stale scholars would surely devise some unconfirmed theory, but for a sane person, it was as clear as day that this was none other than the emperor of the forest, its king, god, and protector—not having "absorbed" the essences of the local Kami, which would be absurd, but embodying through its form their presence within this place, offering it to man for contemplation and reverence. It is here that the honden will be built, and on the rest of the glade—the remaining complex, fortunately, its size allows not a single tree to be damaged during this process—which shall not be done by any negligent worker, under vigilant supervision and fear of the severest punishments.
Kneeling by the rootstock of the giant tree, clapping twice and folding her palms in a prayerful gesture with her eyes closed, Ayano spends some time in meditation, tuning herself to a single wave with the local spiritual entities, asking for patronage and offering them gratitude for the opportunity to worship.
Opening her eyes, she continues to sit for a while, enjoying mental emptiness in its most pleasant sense, then performs a deep bow before the "emperor"—during which her forehead completely touches the soil.
Finally, having settled this "matter," she rises to her feet, takes out her gohei and kagura suzu, and performs a ritual dance, chanting norito for the repose of two dozen souls destroyed by Victor Loss—may the Kamisama-tachi take them under their gentle care and help them pass with dignity into the afterlife, casting off the chains of earthly existence.
Upon completion of all tasks, she goes to Carneol.
My sword, my trusted ally, unphased by my aspect.
