A Note on the World of Vorlag
Here's a clear, concise explanation and comparison of Vorlag's perpetual twilight cycle:
The Ever-Shifting Hues of Vorlag's Perpetual Twilight
Simple Explanation:
Vorlag is a world without a sun. There's never true daylight or total night—instead, the sky is always in some stage of twilight, like the moments just before sunrise or after sunset. This twilight shifts in a predictable cycle, which the people use to tell time, much like a 24-hour day on Earth.
The sky's colors are mostly somber: purples, grays, and muted reds, giving everything a moody, oppressive feel. The cycle includes:
Waxing Twilight (Morning): The sky brightens from deep purples and blacks to lighter lavenders and silvers—a slow sunrise that never becomes full daylight.
High Twilight (Midday): The brightest part, but still gloomy—like an overcast day with cold, diffuse light.
Waning Twilight (Evening): The light fades, and dramatic colors return—deep violets and blood-rose streaks, like a long, intense sunset.
Deep Twilight (Night): The darkest phase—almost black, with charcoal grays and indigos, but never fully pitch-black.
People in Vorlag live by this "color clock," scheduling their lives by the sky's hue instead of hours.
Comparison: Like a Polar Day on Repeat
Imagine the endless twilight of Earth's Arctic or Antarctic regions, where the sun lingers at the horizon, creating long, colorful sunrises and sunsets. Now, imagine that's the entire day, every day, everywhere in Vorlag.
On Earth, this is a rare, seasonal event.
In Vorlag, it's the permanent daily cycle: a slow, beautiful, ever-shifting twilight followed by a deep, cloudy night, repeating endlessly.
In short:
Vorlag's world is a never-ending, moody twilight, with life dictated by the shifting colors of the sky—not by the sun.
The Perpetual Twilight Under a Bruised and Indifferent Sky
In Vorlag, the sky is a canvas of perpetual twilight—an eternal, bruised, and indifferent expanse that dictates the rhythm of life in the absence of true day or night. This twilight is not static; it breathes through a continuous cycle of four distinct periods, each divided into three subtle phases. The light and color shift with a somber palette, reflecting the world's uneasy balance between shadow and illumination.
Waxing Twilight (Dawn's Awakening) This period signals the slow resurgence of light, a gradual stirring from the deepest shadows.
First Phase: The Stirring Dark
The cycle begins as Deep Twilight reluctantly yields. The sky is a near-black canvas, awash with the deepest indigos and bruised purples, like old contusions. Accents of charcoal gray cling to the horizon, heavy and unmoving.
Second Phase: The Pale Ascent
A subtle shift occurs. The oppressive dark begins to lift, the purples softening into shades of muted lavender and dusty mauve. The first, spectral hints of corpse-pale rose touch the edges of the bruised clouds—a fleeting suggestion of warmth that never truly arrives.
Third Phase: The Threshold of Light
As Waxing Twilight prepares to transition, the lavenders become lighter, almost translucent. The ghostly rose diffuses into a widespread, ethereal blush against a backdrop of silver-tinged grays, the indifference of the sky momentarily touched by a fragile luminescence.
High Twilight (Afternoon's Zenith)
This is the brightest point in Vorlag's cycle, though it remains a diffuse, shadowed illumination, never achieving the clarity of a true sunlit day. Visibility is at its peak, yet the world remains veiled.
First Phase: The Luminous Veil
The pale rose and silver hues from Waxing Twilight solidify, becoming more defined. A hint of muted, tarnished gold threads through the silver-grays, casting the world in a stark, clear light.
Second Phase: The Apex of Gloom
At its brightest, the sky is a vast expanse of luminous, pearlescent silver-gray, sometimes shot through with veins of washed-out lavender. It's a brilliance that feels cold, distant, and still tinged with the underlying bruise of the sky.
Third Phase: The Gentle Decline
The intensity begins to wane. The luminous silvers gather a more pronounced ash-gray tone, and any fleeting hints of pale rose or gold recede—a subtle preparation for the coming descent.
Waning Twilight (Evening's Embrace)
Light begins its steady retreat; shadows lengthen and deepen, and the sky takes on more somber, melancholic tones.
First Phase: The Fading Glow
The muted hues of High Twilight deepen. Pale lavenders and roses transform into richer violets and somber blues. The grays become heavier, tinged with a deep, bruised purple as the light perceptibly weakens.
Second Phase: The Bleeding Sky
Colors intensify in their darkness. The sky is streaked with stormy grays, deep indigos, and shades of blood-rose that bleed into the bruising purples—a dramatic and foreboding spectacle.
Third Phase: The Approach of Nightfall
The last vestiges of brighter light are extinguished. The dominant colors are now dark violets, charcoal grays, and the deepest midnight blues—a solemn prelude to the cycle's darkest point.
Deep Twilight (Nightfall's Reign)
This is the darkest period, where ambient light is minimal and the world is cloaked in profound shadows. Visibility is significantly reduced, and a subtle coolness permeates the air.
First Phase: The Shrouding Dark
The sky is almost entirely consumed by darkness. Hues of obsidian black, black-purples, and the darkest charcoal grays dominate, with only the faintest undertones of deep indigo distinguishing it from utter blackness.
Second Phase: The Heart of Shadows
This is the nadir of the light cycle. The sky is a near-uniform black, so profound it feels tangible. Any lingering hints of color are swallowed, leaving only the oppressive weight of the indifferent, bruised heavens.
Third Phase: The Promise of Return
As Deep Twilight nears its end, an almost undetectable shift occurs. The deepest blacks soften slightly to the darkest charcoals or ink-blue indigos—a subtle stirring that hints at the inevitable return of Waxing Twilight and the continuation of the endless cycle.
In Vorlag, time is measured not by the sun, but by the ever-shifting bruises and blushes of the sky—a world forever caught between shadow and the memory of light.
Kinichi Kimiko grew up in Akamura, the Village of Red Dawn, a settlement of demon slayers nestled deep within the Shadow-Wood. It was a treacherous expanse of ancient forest known for its growing dangers, all beneath a perpetually bruised and indifferent sky.
At five years old, Kimiko was a whirlwind of life, a stark contrast to the bruised sky she lived under. Her hair, a shock of straight, black bangs, was often messy from playing slayer in the woods. Her face was still round with the softness of childhood, and her eyes, a warm, dark brown, held a bright, ceaseless curiosity. Dressed in a simple, worn child's kimono in the faded red of her village, she was a picture of innocence, her only adornment the occasional smudge of dirt on her cheek and the determined set of her jaw as she swung her red toy katana at imaginary foes.
She was inspired by the strength and skill of her parents, Akio and Houko, and her older brother, Shio, who together with three others formed one of the village's most respected elite squads. Even at the young age of five, she dreamt of following in their footsteps, the weight of a red toy katana, the color of her village, feeling heavy and important in her small hands as she mimicked their swift, deadly forms.
The demon slayers were a vital, albeit mercenary, force, hired to act as assassins against powerful or numerous demons. Their services came at a price, necessary to fund their operations and sustain their way of life. Payment was always upfront, a strict policy to ensure resources for perilous missions. Villages facing demonic threats relied on them, but those who couldn't afford the fee, or underestimated the danger requiring further compensation, found themselves without aid in the future.
As a Waning Twilight began to bleed shades of deep violet and bruised purple across the sky, casting long shadows, a critical mission arrived: a powerful, human-shaped demon threatened the emperor at the Imperial Palace at the Miyako Basin. Humanoid demons were cunning, unpredictable foes, possessing intellect and speech beyond mere power, and such a high-value target warranted the village's best.
The elite team of six—Kimiko's parents, her elder brother, and their three comrades—were dispatched. Anticipating a potential trap, they packed extra supplies – weapons, poisons, filter masks, and medicine.
Unbeknownst to them, a determined Kimiko, told to hide as a training exercise, had stowed away under a blanket in the supply wagon. Her attempt backfired spectacularly. She emerged just as they reached the palace gates, drawing gasps of shock and dismay from the slayers. A tense murmur rippled through the ranks. "Who will stay with her?" someone muttered. "We don't have time for this!" another whispered fiercely. But before they could decide, the palace gates opened.
The humanoid demon stood alone, a sinister grin fixed on his face. With a chillingly polite gesture, he swept an arm towards the entrance, a silent invitation that dripped with anticipated victory. Then, their shock turned to horror. Demons of various forms materialized from seemingly nowhere, surrounding the slayers. A colossal ogre emerged from the nearby forest, club in hand.
This was no mere threat; it was a meticulously planned ambush. The emperor was already dead. This demon had orchestrated a trap, luring Akamura's elite slayers here to be eradicated, clearing the path for his plan to kill and consume humanity. His grin widened slightly, a flicker of arrogance in his eyes, confident his horde and the ogre would sufficiently weaken the legendary slayers.
But fate, as it often does, introduced chaos. As the ogre's club smashed into the wagon, splintered wood exploding outwards, Shio instinctively grabbed Kimiko. They barrel-rolled to safety, landing hard on the ground. Terrified, the world a confusing blur of roars and screams, Kimiko struggled in her brother's grasp, wanting only to scramble away, to run and hide from the terrifying sounds and the smell of blood.
In that desperate moment, a demon with a halberd appeared behind them. Kimiko saw a flash of steel, heard her brother's sharp cry. He fell, his body collapsing onto hers, pinning her beneath him. Through a gap under his arm, she watched, wide-eyed and frozen, as the other demon slayers were quickly overwhelmed, cut down in a brutal, swift assault. She saw her parents, Akio and Houko, make a desperate attempt to reach her, a fleeting moment of hope before they too were caught and killed just yards away.
Kimiko's presence had shattered the slayers' focus. The moments spent in shocked debate at the gate, the instinctive shifts to shield her during the initial attack, the fractured ranks as some prioritized defense over offense – these tiny hesitations, this unexpected disarray caused by a five-year-old child, had been expertly exploited. It allowed Daisuke, the humanoid demon, to claim a swift, almost effortless victory against the most formidable threat to his plans.
Helpless and heartbroken, trapped beneath her brother's body amidst the carnage, Kimiko could only cry. A shadow fell over her. The humanoid demon, Daisuke, approached and picked her up. Holding the small, weeping child, he looked at her with his cruel smile.
"Daisuke is my name, little one," he murmured softly. "And I must... thank you. You've provided me with a most glorious opportunity." He held his left hand over her forehead, focusing his power. He spared her life not out of mercy, but for a chilling purpose: surveillance. He needed to keep a watchful gaze on the surviving demon slayers.
A searing, cold pain, unlike anything she had ever felt, briefly consumed Kimiko. When it subsided, a stark, inky black sigil marked her skin: a single, sharp vertical line like a raven's beak, with four slender, feathered shapes arching upward from either side. "May the Raven's Gaze watch over you," he whispered with a sinister laugh before twisting her neck just enough to render her unconscious.
When Kimiko next awoke, it was to the muted light filtering through the shoji screens of Elder Tanaka's house. A dull ache throbbed in her head and her neck was stiff. Drawn by the sound of hushed, urgent voices, she made her way towards the shoji and peered through a small tear in the paper, just in earshot of a fateful discussion.
She saw him then, the elder, his back partially to her. His wispy white hair was pulled into a severe topknot, and the dark red haori he wore seemed to swallow the dim light. As he turned, his profile was all sharp angles, his face a web of deep lines.
"She must be executed," Elder Tanaka's voice was sharp, cutting through the somber tones of the others. He faced the room, and Kimiko saw his eyes for a moment—small, dark, and missing any hint of warmth. "The mark on her forehead, the change in her eyes to that unnatural burgundy – these are the signs of a demon. Even the ravens, ill omens, now gather in her presence."
A wave of vengeful agreement rippled through some of the gathered slayers, their voices raw with grief for their fallen comrades. "She brought this upon us! Our families, our best warriors, gone!"
Others dissented, their voices laced with unease. "She is but a child, Tanaka. She knew nothing of what would transpire."
"A child, perhaps," another voice countered, "but a cursed one. What if the demon returns for her? For us?"
The debate raged, a storm of fear, grief, and practicality. Some argued for mercy, suggesting she be allowed to live but to forge her own path, her fate her own. Eventually, a grim consensus was reached, the weight of it settling heavy in the village.
Elder Tanaka's voice, cold and final, sealed her fate. "She will not be executed. But she is no longer one of us. She is an outcast. If she is to survive, it will be on her own accord. If she is to die, then that is her fate. Akamura will offer her no aid."
A murmur of assent, tinged with relief and lingering fear, confirmed the decision. Kimiko, a five-year-old orphaned girl, who had only ever known the life of a slayer's child, was now utterly alone.
A short time later, Elder Tanaka addressed the remaining villagers. "It is no longer safe for us here," he announced, his gaze sweeping over their worn faces. "The demon who attacked the Imperial Palace, the one who marked this child, knows of our hidden village. He has decimated our finest. We must move. Akamura will find a new home, far from this cursed ground."
The searing pain on her forehead, where the smiling demon had touched her, still throbbed when Kimiko finally drifted into an uneasy, exhausted sleep in the corner of Elder Tanaka's home, the hushed, grim voices from the main room a terrifying lullaby.
She awoke to the eerie quiet of a village hollowed out by grief and fear. The next cycle's Waning Twilight was already casting its somber hues of deep violet and bruised purple across the land, the light filtering weakly through the shoji screen. The earlier, frantic murmurs of the villagers were gone. A heavy silence pressed in, broken only by the distant caw of a raven.
In the branches of a tree visible through a tear in the paper screen, a lone raven landed, its head cocked. Soon, more joined it, a dark, watchful congregation drawn by an unseen force, their numbers subtly growing in her proximity as a knot of dread tightened in her stomach.
Frightened by the gathering omens, she whispered at the paper screen, a tiny, powerless command. "Go away... shoo..." The image of the smiling demon's cruel gaze remained burned into her young mind.
The image of the smiling demon's cruel gaze remained burned into her young mind. Picked up, spoken to with chilling politeness, then the confusion of waking in the elder's house, the overheard words of her banishment – it all swirled in a painful haze. Why was she here? Where was Shio? Where were Mama and Papa?
Driven by a desperate unease, she pushed herself up. Her small legs, still unsteady from the trauma and the disorienting mark, carried her through the empty house and out into the village square.
It was deserted.
Kimiko saw the faint, muddy tracks leading away from the village, weaving through the trunks of the Shadow-Wood, already indistinct. They hadn't just left her behind in their initial escape from the palace; they had made a conscious decision, after discussion, after judgment, to truly abandon her here. Their fear, their blame, had propelled them forward, their faces likely grim with loss as they sought the perceived safety of a new, unknown place. The snippets of conversation she'd overheard last night now echoed with chilling finality. They were gone. And they had knowingly left her.
Panic, sharp and raw, clawed at her throat. Every instinct screamed to scramble back towards the familiar, to cry for the parents she could no longer see. But a deeper, newer instinct, born in the bloody chaos of the ambush and the cold knot of fear at being left behind, asserted itself.
Her tear-filled eyes lifted from the muddy tracks to the sky, where the flock of ravens circled patiently. They were the only ones who had stayed. The only ones watching. The sight of them, these dark omens that the villagers had whispered about, filled her with a burst of desperate, frustrated rage. She scooped up a small stone, her tiny hand trembling, and threw it uselessly in their direction.
"Go away!" she cried, her voice cracking with grief and fury. "Leave me alone!" The birds scattered for a moment before reforming their silent, circling vigil, indifferent to her command.
If she wanted to survive—truly survive, not just for a moment, but to face the daunting stretch of cycles ahead—she had to keep up. She had to follow the receding shapes, even if they offered no comfort or aid.
She heard snippets of their hushed, fearful voices – blaming the demons, mourning the dead. She couldn't fully grasp the weight of the words, the accusations that would later define her, but she understood the movement. They were leaving. And they were leaving her.
Panic, sharp and raw, clawed at her throat. Every instinct screamed to scramble back towards the familiar, to cry for the parents she could no longer see. But a deeper, newer instinct, born in the bloody chaos of the ambush and the cold knot of fear at being left behind, asserted itself.
If she wanted to survive – truly survive, not just for a moment, but to face the daunting stretch of cycles ahead – she had to keep up. She had to follow the receding shapes, even if they offered no comfort or aid. Her small legs, still unsteady from the trauma, forced themselves into a tired shuffle, navigating roots and fallen leaves, the unfamiliar dampness seeping into her thin kimono, keeping the disappearing group just barely in sight amidst the dense trees of the Shadow-Wood.
The forty cycles that followed were a relentless, solitary education in the brutal pragmatism of Vorlag's wilderness. Each full cycle of the perpetual twilight, from Waxing to Deep and back again, brought new challenges she had to face alone. There were no weapons for a five-year-old, no kind voice to offer guidance, no effortless acquisition of food. Hunger became a constant, gnawing companion, a dull ache that sometimes flared into a sharp, desperate pang. Her world shrank to the immediate needs of her body and the relentless need to keep moving through the forest.
Every thicket, every patch of undergrowth, became a desperate larder. When her sharp young eyes spotted color among the leaves, a flash of red, blue, or purple, she would dart towards it, snatching handfuls of whatever she found, clutching them tightly in her small hands since her kimono offered no place to store them. Juicy red mulberries were a rare, sweet delight, bursting on her tongue and providing a fleeting burst of energy. Tiny wild strawberries, hidden close to the ground, felt like finding forgotten treasures, their scent faint but inviting. Blueberries, when she was lucky enough to stumble upon a bush, offered a soft, familiar sweetness. She'd stuff them into her mouth, not savoring, but consuming, a desperate race against the emptiness.
But not every find was a kindness. Once, she found clusters of bright red elderberries. They looked so appealing, like tiny jewels. She ate a handful, the taste vaguely unsettling, but hunger was a powerful persuader. Later, the gripping stomach cramps and wave of nausea left her weak and trembling amongst the trees, dry-heaving until her small body ached. A harsh lesson in the hidden dangers of the seemingly benign. She learned to be wary, though the lessons were slow and paid for in pain and sickness. Thorny bushes sometimes offered small, seedy thistle berries, their taste bland but offering a little substance. Bayberries were similarly disappointing, waxy and not particularly flavorful, but at least they didn't make her immediately sick.
Nuts were harder to come by in the dense woods. Squirrels and other creatures were faster, more adept scavengers. Occasionally, she'd find a fallen chestnut, its smooth shell promising more sustenance than berries, but cracking it open with her small, weak hands was a monumental task, often leaving her frustrated and empty-handed. Acorns were more plentiful, scattered under oak trees, their scent earthy, but eating them raw left a bitter, dry coating on her tongue and did little to ease her hunger, sometimes even making her stomach hurt with a dull ache. She even tried the small, hard wild crab apples, biting into their sour flesh with a grimace, finding little relief.
Seeds, too, became a target. She'd gather whatever she could find near the ground – tiny perilla seeds, wild or cultivated if the path went near abandoned plots, their flavor mild and oily. Pumpkin seeds, found near discarded refuse, were tempting, but eating them raw proved difficult and uncomfortable, their hard casings unyielding to her teeth.
There were cycles, stretches of the journey through the wilderness, where the world offered nothing she recognized as food, safe or unsafe. Desperation led her to chew on grass, its fibrous blades doing nothing to nourish, or pluck leaves from low branches, hoping against reason for some hidden sustenance. It was a meager, degrading existence, a constant reminder of her vulnerability and utter aloneness. The dull, persistent ache of near-starvation became a familiar sensation.
When the villagers ahead finally stopped for their own well-deserved rest amidst the trees, building crackling fires that sent hesitant sparks into the Deep Twilight, Kimiko saw it as her window.
Huddled around one of the larger fires, a group of the other slayers who had traveled from Akamura nursed their wounds and their bitterness.
"Six of them," a slayer named Kaito spat, his knuckles white around a whetstone he was dragging uselessly over a clean blade. "The best we had. An entire elite squad, gone because that child's sentimentality got them killed."
Another, a woman named Rina, glanced nervously into the dark canopy above. "It's more than just the girl," she murmured, her voice low and tight. "Have you not noticed the birds? Ravens. A dozen of them have been shadowing us since the palace. It's a foul omen."
Kaito scoffed, though he didn't look up from his knife. "I don't care about omens. I care that Akio's squad is dead, and that thing still draws breath. Now she trails us like a stray dog, bringing that demon's gaze with her."
"Tanaka made the decision," Rina said, her voice flat. "She is an outcast. Let the forest have her. She is no longer our concern."
While they settled into their bitter rest, Kimiko, ignorant of their specific words but acutely aware of the wall of hatred separating her from their fires, pushed herself to explore further into the surrounding woods. Driven by the fear that tomorrow would bring even less, she'd gather every last berry, every overlooked nut, her small hands moving quickly before the deep twilight descended.
As the Waning Twilight shifted into Deep Twilight, its darkest and dimmest cycle, the air held a subtle coolness. It wasn't a biting cold, but a gentle dampness that seeped into her thin kimono, a subtle discomfort amplified by her constant exposure and exhaustion. She shivered, huddling in inadequate shelters she fashioned from found branches and salvaged leaves. Watching the distant glow of the villagers' fires sparked a desperate yearning for a more immediate, focused warmth. Mimicking what she'd seen, she began the painstaking process of gathering dry leaves, twigs, and larger wood, her small fingers fumbling with flint and stone until, after countless tries and tearful frustrations, a spark finally caught. The small, sputtering flames were a victory against the subtle coolness and the oppressive shadows of the forest. She would sit close, letting the meager heat warm her face and hands, the faint scent of woodsmoke a lonely comfort against the profound shadows of Deep Twilight. The fire was a source of warmth, a small, precious barrier against the persistent dampness and subtle chill, but it was just heat. The concept of cooking, of using the flames to make her scavenged finds more palatable or digestible, was beyond her knowledge.
Forty cycles of this solitary, brutal existence had honed her into something new. The journey was a blur of aching legs, gnawing hunger, and the constant threat of illness, all endured while wearing the pain of their abandonment like a heavy cloak.
When the villagers finally settled, their hammers on stone and timber ringing in the twilight, Kimiko, now a thin and scarred permanent fixture on their periphery, felt a cold resolve solidify within her. The hope of acceptance had withered over the long, difficult journey; the pain of their curses and the crushing burden of blame were now too deeply ingrained.
She no longer wanted their fires or their company. The silence from Akamura, her former home, was absolute, and the raw instinct for survival, sharpened by the wilderness and their cruelty, was now her only guide.
Deliberately, she chose a spot far from their wary eyes and, with hands that had long forgotten the feel of a toy katana, began cobbling together a small, rudimentary shelter from the branches and scraps the forest offered.
She was on her own. The real work was about to begin.
Survival in the shadow of their new village demanded constant vigilance and resourcefulness. Forced to scavenge for every necessity, she quickly learned to haunt the edges of their activity, particularly the communal discard pile. This heap of refuse – broken tools, worn-out clothing thick with the scent of others, discarded bones gnawed clean, and general detritus – became her primary resource. It was here, amongst the castoffs and the smells of lives she was excluded from, that she found discarded scraps of cloth and worn bandages that she could wrap around herself for warmth or rudimentary protection, pieces of broken pottery she could use to attempt to dig, and snapped branches that served as blunt, ineffective weapons. Most importantly, she discovered old, worn-out training weapons deemed useless by the adult slayers – chipped kunai with dulled edges, bent shuriken that wouldn't fly true, splintered staves, a wakizashi blade without a proper hilt, its steel still sharp, and a kusarigama chain with a damaged weight.
These forgotten discards, symbols of what she had lost, would become the unlikely foundation of her training and survival. With no teacher but necessity and no training ground but the unforgiving wilderness surrounding the village, she began a brutal process of trial and error. A splintered staff became a tool for poking and prodding, for testing the stability of her makeshift shelters, for swatting at bothersome insects. The wakizashi blade, clutched in her small hand, was initially clumsy and awkward to wield; attempts to chop wood left her hands stinging and the wood barely scratched. But she practiced swinging it, learning its weight and balance through repetition and bruised limbs. The kusarigama chain, despite its damaged weight, became a fascinating extension of her arm, something she could whip and snap, the feel of its movement a strange new language that promised reach.
As the cycles turned, and Kimiko grew from a five-year-old child into a six, then seven, and finally an eight-year-old, her needs evolved. The flimsy shelters of branches were inadequate against the persistent dampness of the deep twilight periods and the subtle, seeping chill that permeated the air. Her thin, scavenged coverings offered little warmth. She needed better materials, more substantial protection. This necessity pushed her beyond scavenging for discarded tools towards securing the "job" herself – acquiring resources directly from the environment, which meant learning to hunt and process hides.
Hunting was a brutal struggle marked by countless failures. Chasing after swift deer for their meat and hides was a frustrating exercise in futility; they were too fast, too alert, and she was too small, too slow, too easily seen. Her crude attempts with her salvaged weapons were laughably ineffective against such agile creatures. Much of what she did manage to acquire in those early days—squirrels or rabbits caught by chance or with crudely fashioned traps—was difficult to process, and the meager meat often went to waste as she couldn't consume it all before it spoiled in the perpetual twilight's subtle, unchanging warmth.
Wolves, however, presented a different challenge – and a different opportunity. They were a constant threat, their presence around the village perimeter a terrifying reality. Encounters with them were often games of survival. It was during these terrifying close calls that the Mark of the Raven's Gaze, the black sigil Daisuke had left, became a crucial, albeit disorienting, aid. The flashes of impending physical harm – a lunge, the snap of fangs, the tearing of flesh – were terrifying, but they gave her split-second warnings, allowing her to react, to dodge, to scramble away just in time. She learned not necessarily how to fight them head-on, but how to avoid their fatal attacks, how to survive the encounter. And she learned that their pelts, thick and warm, were invaluable. While their meat was secondary and, like the deer, often went to waste, the desire for their hides became a powerful motivator. One cycle, after bringing down a large wolf, she was preparing the meager meat she could carry. As she ate her small, raw portion, a lone raven landed on a branch nearby, its dark eye fixed on her. The others watched from a distance. For a long moment, she stared back, her loneliness a vast, aching canyon inside her. Then, with a flicker of movement, she tore off a tiny, sinewy piece and tossed it onto the dirt. The raven swooped down, snatched it, and returned to its perch. It was not a gesture of kindness, but a transaction against the crushing weight of her isolation. Through terrifying trial and error, surviving encounters guided by those crucial flashes, she learned how to bring down a wolf when cornered, how to make her clumsy strikes count in a moment of desperation, often using the terrain or salvaged tools to her advantage.
She learned to skin the animals she acquired, her small hands fumbling at first, gradually becoming more adept, the process messy and grim. Tanning the hides was another long process of trial and error, discovering which plants and processes worked through repeated failures and foul-smelling mistakes. Once, attempting to tan a particularly large deer hide, she mixed the solution incorrectly, resulting in a stiff, brittle mess that cracked and tore instead of becoming pliable. Another time, leaving a hide out to dry, it attracted scavengers and was ruined. Her first attempts at clothing were crude wolf-pelt coverings, simply wrapped and tied with sinew she painstakingly prepared. As she gained more skill, she fashioned rudimentary wolf-pelt skirts, offering a little more coverage and warmth.
Her initial success in acquiring more substantial food sources, like deer or wolves, led to another realization. Eating too much, too often, made her feel heavy and slow, dulling the very agility that had proven crucial for survival, especially when reacting to her foresight flashes. Through self-observation and pragmatic necessity, she trained herself to eat sparingly, consuming small meals and doing so primarily at the darker end of the twilight cycle, allowing her body to process the food while she rested and ensuring she remained lightweight and nimble during the active brighter periods. Her agility, honed by constant movement, scavenging, and dodging threats guided by the Mark, was quickly proving to be her greatest asset, a fluid grace born from necessity and brutal practice.
By the time she was eight years old, three years after being left behind, Kimiko had achieved a remarkable level of self-sufficiency. She had progressed from a child cowering in a makeshift branch shelter to a capable young survivor. She had successfully tanned deer hides, using them to construct a more robust, wind and damp-resistant shelter. The floor and bedding were layered with the warm, thick fur of the wolves she had learned to survive against and eventually, sometimes, overcome. Her small armory had grown, a collection of scavenged and now slightly modified tools and weapons she kept carefully maintained. She could reliably start a fire for warmth, find sustenance in the unforgiving environment, and, most importantly, navigate the dangers of the wilderness and its inhabitants, human or otherwise, relying on her burgeoning skills, her raw instinct, and the terrifying, life-saving whispers of her foresight. She was still an outcast, still alone, but she was surviving, learning, and adapting, forging herself in the crucible of abandonment and necessity.
Daisuke's mark, the Mark of the Raven's Gaze, continued its silent, unseen function, granting him his desired surveillance, allowing him glimpses through Kimiko's eyes and a sense of her location, keeping tabs on the surviving slayers and Kimiko herself. But the curse remained not absolute. Unseen and unknown to Daisuke, it also continued to imprint upon Kimiko a fragmented awareness linked to her constant, involuntary connection to his power – an awareness that, combined with her brutal self-training and her innate drive, was unknowingly shaping her into a force far more complex and dangerous than he could have anticipated.