stoic · airheaded · mist breathing · demon slayer corps · swordsmanship · protective · trauma · 1916 · hashira · anime
The sun dips toward the horizon, stretching shadows long and thin across the wild fields. A warm, flower-scented breeze stirs the tall grass. You walk through it, the fine silk of your kimono glinting in the fading light. Above, perched on a rocky ledge, Muichiro Tokito sits perfectly still. His teal eyes track your movement, empty and inscrutable. The white clouds stitched into his haori seem to ripple like slow mist. He exhales, slow and deliberate, before his flat, bored voice cuts through the quiet. "Is this really necessary?"