There are... calmer waters to swim in, Osamu ventured curiously. Unless this is your preference.

He'd noticed the strange figure at a distance, unable to recognize the steel and slate of his coat as one from their group. It was peculiar that the wolf should linger so close to the edge with such a longing expression, and a small part of him wondered if this was either a depressive episode of some kind or a cry for help.

Either way, he wasn't keen on fishing out the man's broken body after the fact.

Have you come by formal invitation, or did you chance past the scent-markers of our borders? Osamu asked, equally serious with intent as he was to distract the stranger's attention away from making a leap they would both regret. The Fujiwara clan has returned to this place with the intent to claim it.

The waves crashed noisily below, seafoam turning up in their wake and Osamu edged a little bit closer to Makara.

Just in case.

The casual, almost lackadaisical way in which the stranger responded to his query was even more concerning. Not worried? All Osamu could envision was having to carefully take the long, perilous path all the way down toward the rocky sea, hurriedly scraping wolf remains off the side of the cliff-face as he stuttered his way through an explanation for the Empress.

A swim is... nice, yes, he said slowly. But the odds of cracking something vital and important to me against a rock falling from this point are not promising.

He looked like he swam. Something about the smooth, tapered musculature of his shoulders and strong forelimbs spoke of a wolf well-accustomed to water, so maybe this truly was something of a thrill for the man. Strange hobby all the same, though. Osamu did not care for aquatics; his expertise lay solely on the firm, solid earth. The last few times he'd had to swim against fretful currents he nearly drowned.

Too many legs to coordinate.

Makara. An interesting name; a foreign name, much like the strange word he'd used to refer to Izumi's title of Empress. Whatever language that was, he'd never heard it before.

If the Empress bid you stay, then I have no qualms with your presence, Osamu returned stoically, still trying to understand what this Makara wanted to do with the wolves of Fujiwara - with the way he kept eyeballing the sea nearby, was it simply because they were beachfront property?

What is your place of origin? That word you used earlier - it is unknown to me.

The raised eyebrow accompanied by soft laughter gave him pause.

Makara tried to explain the finer nuances of diving, but all Osamu could hear was 'smaller' followed shortly by the even more dreadful word of 'beginner'. He frowned deeply, the crease between his brows set like carved stone. Sure, the Samurai was getting on in years, perhaps a little long in the tooth and sporting a few more grey hairs than he remembered, but that didn't mean he was fragile. He was still just as capable as any strapping young man, and he observed Makara's waving tail as a sign of mockery.

Beginner divers.

Where Makara relaxed, Osamu tensed.


I am able to dive as well as anyone, he said with stubborn bravado, punctuated by a snort. It just seems needlessly foolish.

(The only contact with water he'd ever had thus far was the occasional doggy-paddle to cross over to Queen's Rest and back, as well as one or two refreshing dips in a hot springs.)

It did, however, give him pause the way Makara glanced down toward his paws - Osamu knew the gesture well, having once had hands, and now only dimly remembered the feel of a sword's hilt pressing into his palms. He wondered if the wolf had once possessed another shape as he, but chose not to push.

To his surprise, apparently there were more Makaras as well.

Osamu grimaced.

How many... Makaras are there? he asked. Ah, only because you are the first I have met.

'How did one protect the sea? It's water. It's right there. The sea,' he thought, 'if anything, is a cruel mistress with whims that cannot be discerned by any creature living or dead. A murdering, drowning, terrible ocean full of salt and fish and shit.'

The strange wolf tried to explain some of his language, although Osamu retained little; he found himself distracted by the pounding of the waves below and wondered what a beginner diver's grotto looked like by comparison. Not that he needed it.

He didn't need it.

Makara even offered -

I will swim with you.

- and Osamu declined.

Right here.

As his legs turned to stone, Osamu hoped that the Makara would choose to go first.

It would be a shame if he was suddenly summoned elsewhere.

When the waterlogged wolf couldn't hear it.

It was becoming alarmingly clear that the Makara had been compromised by these rocky cliff-dives. There could be no other explanation for his insanity aside from banging his head against stone on a past descent, presumably at speed, and likely more than once.

How confident the Makara sounded. Osamu himself believed in many things; above all else his state of mortality.

The Miracle of Christmas indeed.

Frowning at his touch, the Samurai remained stoic during their exchange and continued to only half-listen to whatever nonsense was pouring out of the strange man's mouth.

And then there was a moment of supreme silence.

Makara seemed to be counting down, and Osamu wondered how he'd ended up here.

There was a great shout -

- And the wolf was gone over the edge and smiling like a lunatic.

Osamu waited to hear the crunch of bone against rock, but heard only a distant splash as Makara (hopefully) hit the water without incident. He sighed.

I am going to die.

He lifted his eyes to the heavens and prayed in a general sense, hoping that some god, somewhere would hear his plea and come up with a plausible excuse for him to abandon the pursuit.

Naught answered.

Osamu rolled his shoulders, took a great, bracing breath, and flew over the edge with all the athleticism he could muster. There was a loud rush of wind as he stared unblinking down toward the sea, his face an expression bordering on ferocious as he dared death to claim him before his time.

He hit the water hard, but remained unbroken; something felt a little strange as he did, however, and while it was not quite so rigid as stone it was definitely... solid.

Osamu surfaced, sputtering and mercifully alive.

Makara? he called.