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The idea of allowing the girl to forget about him passed his mind for a brief second. Toukutaro was all about not having to deal with an angry girl—and especially not an angry one that could have sicced an even more angry Avris on his tail—but today was not a night to be a coward, especially not when he owed the girl a favor. He took a deep intake of breath and fixed the hat atop his head, stepping from behind the dumpster into the alleyway with the fox mask still in place. The soft sound of his clearing throat echoed like a rock that had been dropped down an empty well, hitting everything in its path before it settled itself upon the bottom. Toukutarou fingered the lost buttons on his jacket and closed it with a fist as he stared through the mask, his bright, crystalline blue eyes seeing past her shadow even to the seeming stalkers down that corner. They stood out like a sore thumb... or, rather, one of them did, fancying himself as a shadow in that outrageous cloak he wore. The other guy had been leering up until then, or so Touku thought.

“I owe you a debt, yeah?” He muttered, then made his voice carry a bit more weight behind it. No use seeming uneager now, “Those boys woulda caught me and I'd have had to rough them up. No good could have come of that.” His proud foot forward, as usual. His soft blue eyes kept passing by her to the odd-dressed man attempting to hide around the corner with his even more conspicuous partner. Now that he was thinking about it, though, wasn't she the helper from Poco's shop? The little orphan girl he picked up back when.. Who else could she be with those pretty sapphire lockes?

The black of his polished boots was cuffed from the run, his legs slightly apart to give him a strong stance. He was every bit as tall as his father—and as tall as he'd ever be at his age, though he refused to admit it. His family was short, and all Touku ever wanted to be was big and burly. The white of his skin showed at the collar of his navy duster where the buttons had been ripped off. The ivory mask was of expensive make—a mark of his mother's, and worth a hefty sum where her artwork was still cycling the town. It wasn't beyond reason to think someone of his inconvenient timing and questionable looks might be responsible for relieving it unlawfully from a local merchant.

Dust rose around the figure that walked down the unpaved path of Masule. A kimono’s light fabric wrapped tightly around its being, pulled taught around the throat by slender digits—this shadow in the distance appeared to be cold. Shivers erupted from its feet to its head, making the shoulders jerk to-and-fro. What a poor beast, out in the cold of dusk. It had been days since the little thing last saw a village, and the smell wafting from the town—especially the Beggar’s Roost—had made the wanderer head toward the humble houses. Sandaled feet stopped short from the entrance, golden eyes scanning the lazy place and its pedestrians. How nice it must be to live somewhere, thought the Youkai, his hands falling away from the neck of his kimono. People spoke warmly to each other, others bickered over a foul trade—but for the most part the atmosphere was calming to the man. A breath left his lush lips, eyelids closing over his peering orbs momentarily. Too bad he would have to devour them—but that could wait until he had himself a good sleep and a shower.

Dirt had delved into his crevices, and he did not like the feeling of being dirty. That damned desert he just crossed held no life, and those he did fall upon had such little to live for; death was sour tasting. Voices rose and fell around the man as he carried on into the village, his hands moving back and forth slowly at his sides. His hips popped from the left and to the right, much like his female counterpart—and if one did not know his gender, he may be mistaken. Few people paid him any mind though; a few males gawked at him as he walked by, enticed by his movement and smell of lavender. It was odd how a man would react once they found way lay between his thighs, and then it would be good night for the lusty dog. Men were the easiest of creatures to fool, to envelope in his grasp and play like a fiddle—and they would lose their soul for their sin.

Tan skin took on an orange glow in the fading light, casting the man into a golden statuette. His figure was flawless, his movements fluid and alluring. But if they only knew what he was and from where he had come. In the fading light no one would notice that each digit held a fingernail that could gut a man; no one would notice the flecks of hair erupting from his ears. He was a Youkai, and if people did not take the time to notice, well that was their fault. For now, though, he was looking for some food, hot water, and a bed. As much as he would like to believe he was above all others, he was still alive. Weariness still came upon him like the waves of an ocean, and at some point he would have to sleep. Thought of a bed and food made the man’s eyes droop behind the bouncing locks of lavender, a yawn escaping his thick lipped mouth. Thick, pointed canines caught the light and gave a twinkle.

“Mom, looky!”

Before the man there stood a mother and child. The child’s wide brown eyes stared up at the Youkai, gleaming with wonder. The little girl had a single pigtail on one side of her head, kept in place by a red band. Her pale, oval face took in the night’s light as did her mother’s. But unlike her daughter, the mother’s face wore a mask of concern. She could not distinguish the man’s gender in the night, and his lavender hair was just so odd—it appeared to flow in a windless night. She grabbed at her daughter, but it was too late, the little girl was already stumbling toward the looming figure of the Youkai. “Looky at the hair, mommy!” cried the girl, her eyelids closing tightly over her auburn orbs. The man knelt down before the child, his elegant digits reaching out for her. She grabbed his thin index finger with her right hand and his pinky with her left, giggling as she did so.

“Hello dear,” he spoke, his velvet voice purring to the child’s ears. Her laughing stopped immediately and she stared into the man’s eyes. They were so beautiful. She couldn’t retreat her gaze from the golden lights that played within the hollows of his face; she was enticed. The man’s free hand came up and ruffled the girl’s brown hair, pulling the stub of a pigtail from its band. A smile broke out on his own face, and he titled his head to one side. “You ought to go back to your mother now, Little One.” Edged teeth flashed at the child, making her grip on his fingers loosen. Those brown eyes of an innocent child wavered for a moment, looking from the man to her mother, as if it were an impossible task to leave him.

The man stood, his fingers slipping idly out of the girls hands. This seemed to break the trance that the girl was in, and she headed for her mother, laughing wildly as she did so. “Mommy, mommy! Did you see the wolfy man? Wasn’t he pwetty?”

The young woman’s breath caught in her breast, and she turned to watch the man walk off. "Let’s go, Honey…"

God, that child had been a distraction, and now the man was hungrier then ever. He could have eaten those two—the mother and child—but he usually didn’t feast on the young. It wasn’t his style to take the life of a toddler, for he would rather have them live with the memory of their parents being devoured before them. A sadistic—yet oddly charming—smile played across his lips at the thought. Maybe I should have, he thought as he neared the Beggar’s Roost. The smell and sound coming from the pub were delightful, and he knew it would be a good night there. Maybe a few drunken men would find their way into his bed? Oh, that was always a possibility. The wooden door creaked on its hinges as he entered the bar, his mauve kisode catching the pale light of the room. Not many turned at his appearance, but a few of the drunkards did, their eyes scanning the petite body of the Youkai.

Golden eyes fell onto a half clothed man that stood before him, who would have appeared to be naked from a distance. Ah, the Youkai’s hips popped to-and-fro, his orbs taking on a smoky haze, this one seems interesting. He stopped and leaned against the bar, his slight chin resting in the palm of his hand, clawed digits caressing the side of his own tan face. “Hello,” he said in an effeminate voice, unlike the one he used to speak to the child. “Do you,” his eyes looked up and down the mountain of a man, “work here?”

A small figure sat huddled in one darkened corner of the Beggar's Roost. Silent, shrouded in a white cloak and hood, the figure was completely indistinguishable from a ghost, like the ones mothers told their young ones about when they should all be in bed. The comparison was so apt as to even deal with the figure's feet, which dangled a few inches above the ground, despite the fact that the chair being used was a rather low one.

The ghost had done her best to be inconspicuous, and was fervently hoping she would not be noticed. The friendly barkeep had come around earlier, followed shortly by his wife, but the small figure had spoken as little as possible, mostly ordering her drink for the purpose of keeping them away.

Taking her small, light mug in two pale hands, the ghostly figure brought the crockery to her lips, feeling with her tongue where it had been cracked and mended sometime in the past. One tiny sip, another, and the mug was back on the table, pale hands folded in the figure's lap. She knew she would need her wits about her this night.

The sleeves of the cloak were soft but worn, and slightly darkened with age and with the figure's constant habit of rubbing the thick cloth between her fingers. It seemed to be a nervous habit, nearly without conscious control. Without glancing up or letting her face show to the rest of the room, the figure could tell that a small commotion had arisen, as well as that there were more people streaming into the tavern each minute. I hate these nights... the ghost thought to herself, her hands clenching into fists, tightening around the cloth of her sleeves. I hate this place... I hate these people... The pale hands clapped to the figure's ears almost involuntarily, and she pressed her ears tightly shut, doing her best to block out the rising sound. I don't know how I'll make it this time...

A bulky shadow loomed over the cloaked figure: it was the barkeep again, apparently on his way to a back room of the tavern. "Excuse me," his deep voice rumbled softly, "but are you feeling all right?"

"Go away..." the ghost hissed, not giving any other indication that she had heard the man. Shrugging, Avris turned to leave, but not without a last look or two at the unusual patron. He got them sometimes, but they never failed to leave a bad taste in his mouth.

Before Touku could blink twice, he suddenly was being left with some packages. She wanted him to run her errands? That was her big request? He'd have complained, but she could have asked for much worse things—but it was a little mundane. He watched her scuttle off as he focused in on her stalker. Just a lech. I hope she's every bit as fiesty as she seemed. If I wanna run these all over town, I can't follow her and keep her safe or nothin'. Yeah, men and their egos. Or something. Toukutarou was no exception to the rule. His little crystal blue eyes scanned the packages and their addresses before he headed down the alleyway in the opposite direction. Step-two, if he wanted to make it to the Makean party without her ringing his neck.

The whole situation was kinda funny—the town hadn't seen so many strange visitors. Two in one day. Jeez, the Makeans just attracted some weird stuff. As Touku turned the next corner, he situated the boxes so he could reach up and remove the porcelain kitsune mask. With a quick glance around, he slid the boxes onto a nearby lid of a dumpster and slipped from his body the heavy trench coat, wrapping the mask in it and shoving both into a paper sack. A few seconds later, his hat followed, and he donned a tank top and went on about his way after picking up everything again. The light was fading out on the horizon, which meant the Makean party would start its shots off any minute now. People were still out and about at this hour, which was an oddity for the town except on these kinds of days. He could hear children crying, wanting to keep out and play, parents arguing softly with each other on whether or not they should just go home too or save themselves the risk of upsetting the Makean clan.

The young hanyou slid out of an alleyway in time to miss a key hearing, nearly running into a taller man who stared at him pointedly down the bridge of his nose. Colin... Those bright crystal blues glared up at the 6'2” man with his heavy mustache and his scowling brown eyes, “Heading somewheres, Mutt? No doubt you lifted those packages yer carryin' off some unsuspecting woman.” The condescending tone was more than an accusation, it was a promise to prove that it was the truth. No doubt, Toukutarou would catch hell from the man if he said otherwise.

“I'm running an errand. Excuse me.” The silver haired hanyou began to step around, but the large figure moved to stay in his way.

“.. To be sure, why don't you let me see 'em?” The man scowled, his beefy figure standing out in the middle of the road and tossing his looming shadow over Toukutarou as if it might suck away the life of him if it kept him out of the sun long enough. “Gonna cry, little half-breed welp? Jus' 'cuz the Makean boys liked yer father dun mean you're anything more than a tramp. You'll get old enough and you'll kill—the bloodthirsty side of ya won't hold back long. It's hard, right, being the worst part of both worlds—just a b*****d cub. You're sister's lucky—but you, Mutt. You're just getting older so you can murder. Just like yer daddy.” The man was leaning down, his heavy, noxious breath in Toukutarou's face as he stood his ground, one hand gripping the string handles of the paper bag until it dripped blood, “Don't think he was diff'rent. He was never home 'cuz he was satisfying his bloodlust. Ain' no doubt o' that. Only reason he was okay was he murdered his own kind 'stead of ours.”

The same argument. That Touku's father had only taken up circling and patrolling the village to keep youkai at bay to satisfy some unknown necessity for the kami races to murder. Every time he heard it, Toukutarou just breathed it in and out like a plague. He cycled it through his body, and each time it burnt away at his system just a little bit more. Each time he knew, though, that Colin would win in an argument. All he ever did was talk—if Touku struck, he'd win. Akina said it every day. He'd win. He'll win, so ignore him. Walk around him. Old man Colin is prejudice, but he helped build this town as much as dad did. He never lifted a finger to change it—he just blows hot air. He just wants you to squirm. He wants you to get yourself kicked out. So don't bite. You're a big boy. A big boy. Now he was pushing 17, and it boiled his blood as much as it did back then. If only he could reach out and harm... without every being noticed. If only Colin spoke where people could hear. Though his distaste was known, his voracity was not.

If he let Colin see the packages, the girl would be called to question. From how she passed the chore on, Toukutarou had no doubt that she would be angry for that. So there was only one thing to be done--“This is my chore, and I'll appreciate if you let me to it.” Toukutarou snarled and used his speed to his advantage as he ducked to the side and around Old Man Colin. As if to give proof to the thought, the sun seemed to grant him back his vigor. Colin's shadow really was a death trap.

From here on out, though, it was just Toukutarou and the setting sun. One chore, and he had passed the biggest challenge that the little town could have handed him.