Chapter Text
In all the stories where a traveler leaves home, embarking on an important task, the bards all focus on the thrilling bits and never get around to mentioning how the first obstacle is invariably the journey itself. Road dust in unmentionable places, how fresh water is hard to come by, the cost of maintaining equipment against bandits and worse, the list goes on. A broken wheel could mean the difference between a few days on the road and a week trying to make repairs.
No one wants to be caught sitting ducks in demon territory. Especially not when it’s pissing freezing cold sheets of rain from on high.
It could be worse, Ichigo thinks to himself, trying for optimism and ending up only bitter. One of their steam wagons could have sprung a leak.
He curls up under his heavy cloak, simultaneously shivering and sweating miserably in the soup-like humidity gathering around his preternaturally warm skin. It could always be worse.
Behind him, a panicked shriek sends his heart up into his throat, shattering the meditative calm that pervades the early morning from one of their three-man living coaches. Mizuiro is quick to shush Keigo before he can make too much more noise, but that doesn’t stop the half-lupine from whining about wet fur like a pup instead of the accomplished black mage he is.
Ichigo flinches, feeling cold rain splatter against his cheeks and mouth.
Fucking. Damn it.
He grips the head coach’s steering wheel tighter and tucks the flaming tip of his ruby-scaled tail higher up against the engine’s water tank. The closer flame ekes out just a bit more speed from the old machine, but not much.
Urahara better be grateful for all this trouble they’ve gone to. Beefolk honey and Leo herb spice are easy enough to get a hold of if you know how to ask, but who needs that much Dragonsblood fruit? They were lucky Rukia was able to negotiate with her brother on their behalf.
The familiar sight of the old fox’s rustic Shōten couldn’t come fast enough.
Imp attacks are an unfortunately common problem no matter where you are in the world, but perhaps nowhere more so than the Karakura region. It wasn’t even a few short hours since the pouring rain let up that a pack of the foul things decided to play highway robbery.
Dealing with them wasn’t a problem, not for so many experienced adventurers, two of them trained demon hunters. No, the problems came when, after declining their generous offers to fork over their supplies and spread their legs for a degrading fuck, a third squad came up behind them while they were busy hacking at the vanguard and the flankers. By the time they got done disposing of the bulk of the swarm, half their supplies were pilfered and a portion of the rest were so contaminated with pungent jizz that the only thing they could do was burn it.
Orihime cried over the state of her carefully-cultivated bread starters, the wyld elf clutching her curled ram horns in despair, and Uryū groaned as he got to balancing their already strained budget.
They have to divert off the main path, following the wheel ruts and hoof prints of dozens of other wagons that have passed before them. The trail leads them to a forest clearing with a mobile bazaar, one of many that linger in the so-called ‘neutral grounds’ between Karakura proper and the outskirts taken hostage in Hueco Mundo’s last war. A number of stalls seem already set up, stacking together with practiced efficiency that speaks to their readiness to dismantle at a moment’s notice. A diverse assortment of faces man wood and metal signs; lupines, minotaurs, sheepfolk, even a harpy and her flock of daughters.
And, of course, demons. Lots of demons. Enough to make anyone with any kind of sense nervous. They lock the doors before setting off.
Beside him, Tatsuki hums and considers the coloration of a vendor’s produce. The old wolf is the farthest thing from what one would consider a farmer, grizzled and wary, armed with a long spear, but the food isn’t dick-shaped or dripping with unnaturally sweet-smelling liquid. Ichigo keeps an eye on him and another on the other members of their group. It doesn’t look like this caravan has been open for too long. He doesn't see many of the usual trappings that litter these sorts of gatherings.
It’s nice to not have to chase off persistent prostitutes or stop someone from trying to lure someone else away. Chad keeps close to Orihime and Keigo’s sides as they search for replacements to their stolen tools, and Mizuiro argues with a blue-skinned incubus over some metal scraps, the demon sweating as Uryū palms his obviously Quincy bow with cold patience.
Ichigo tightens his grip on his mother’s warbow, adjusting it where it hangs off his shoulder by the string. The surrounding demons eye them both like rabid wolves, and any that dare to cross between stalls give them a wide berth. No one is brave enough to break the stalemate, which is fine by him. He’s still not as good as he’d like to be with it and he’d left the longer of his swords behind to stay light on his feet.
At the stall to their right, Kon leans forward over the wood counter, putting on his most charming smile. The brightly-clad minotaur woman he’s chatting with grins back as the flattery tumbles out like endlessly flowing honey. Her arms cross under her prodigious chest, pushing her breasts up towards their bard’s face.
“You sure you can’t do more?” She flutters her long, feather-like lashes, decorated with pieces of actual feathers. “I worked so hard to make these, and you’re already getting such a deal you’re practically stealing ‘em.”
For his part, the lion-furred leothran gives a sigh of such longing that it almost comes across as heartfelt. If he wasn’t holding the bolts of waterproof cloth so tightly under his arms she’d have to fight him to get them back, that is. “Would that I had more to give a beauty such as you. But alas. All I have is my most sincere appreciation.”
When the cowgirl gets an interested look in her eye, Kon leans in closer, lips almost to her bovine ear, and points directly at Ichigo.
“You see that guy?” Kon stage-whispers, anything but subtle. He ignores the irritated glare the salamander sends his way. “Total slave driver. Absolute stick in the mud. If I even tried to give you the appreciation you deserve, why, he’d turn my balls into a fuzzy ornament for his coach!”
“Watch it,” Ichigo warns, hand going to his trench knife to emphasize the threat, “or else your tongue’s going to become my new rust scraper.”
“See what I mean?!” Kon yipes to the now wide-eyed textile maker, her mostly human face just that little bit paler than before. Her arms reach out like she wants to make a grab for him, only for the bard to lean back in a dramatic arc, spine flexing like only a feline’s could without pain. “Oh, my dear, we must part!”
She ends up cutting him a better deal than he‘d been able to flirt out of her before. Probably out of pity and smidge of genuine concern, if the way she tries to flay Ichigo with her eyes is any indication.
Later, Kon is snickering beside him, chest puffed out and a swagger in his stride. His cloth bounty is secure in his bag so that he can help transport the dried vegetables and jerky they’d managed to haggle out of the wolf. “Every time. I’m telling you, Ichigo, turn the waterworks on every once in a while. You might actually find someone who can look past that sour face of yours.”
Tatsuki shifts her own burden into a steadier grip, very careful not to jostle the tiny yeast jars before Orihime can examine them herself. Her dark eyes roll in derision. “Do you have to be so obnoxious about it? You target him every time you need someone to be your bad guy.”
Kon shrugs, utterly unrepentant. “He’s the easiest one. Sado won’t play ball, Asano is too pathetic, and if I tried with the rabbit or Ishida, they’d probably actually skin me.” He pauses, shuddering. “Definitely Kojima. That, and I would never do that to Orihime-chan.”
“Why never me?” The monk asks, eyebrows raised critically, features going predator-sharp.
“Would you let me if I did?”
Tatsuki smiles back with a sickly sweet menace.
“See, that right there? That’s why you’re never going to be my bad guy.” Kon winds his tail around Ichigo’s, careful to avoid burning the rougher and scratchier end tuft on the flames that glimmer at the pinnacle of the salamander's own. “Ichigo at least plays along. He’s a real sucker like that.”
“I am?” Ichigo questions dryly as they approach Mizuiro’s wagon, which doubles as their secondary storage wagon. Placing his cargo in the back, Ichigo rolls his shoulders and flashes his comparatively small fangs in a wicked grin he can feel wants to curl into something more amused. “I think I saw a new rust spot on my footrest last night.”
As if on que, Kon immediately breaks down into loud cries of cruelty and abuse of his handsome person, pathologically incapable of not being dramatic at least five times before midday. The noise draws the ire of some of the demon guards doing perimeter patrol, but a swift glare from the two warriors has them turning back to their own damn business. Tatsuki elbows the leothran in the ribs, which thankfully quiets him down before they can attract more attention.
When Uryū and Mizuiro rejoin them, it’s with a few small crates and expressions far from satisfied. “We can remake most of our lost restoratives from what we can find on the road,” the taeleer states with bland annoyance, his bare foot tapping on the ground in displeasure, fluffy black lop ears hanging tense to his shoulders, “but if we hit just one major road bump, we’re screwed. None of the stalls carry what I need.”
“We’re also officially out of money,” Uryū states much more quietly, eying what they’ve bought. His lips thin as he takes it all in. The Quincies are a nomadic bunch, seldom staying in one spot for long to stay ahead of their tricksome prey. Their lack would weigh heaviest on his mind. Ichigo feels it too.
Seeing the other human in the group’s expression, Tatsuki holds up one of her purchases: a small satchel of fragile dry leaves and herbs. It’s something they stock up on when they can. When brewed into a strong tea, the bags have the habit of suppressing appetites and forcing hungry bellies quiet.
His cousin shares Ichigo’s grimace.
Yummy. He can already taste the sharp bitterness that no amount of sweetness will conceal. Herbs like these are the saving grace of many an unlucky or impoverished group of travelers, but there’s a reason they’ve gotten the nickname of the adventurer’s most spiteful friend.
Kon groans mightily, heaving his crates up into the back. “Urahara better be paying in cash this time. I want to sleep in a tavern bed at least once this month.”
“Bed bug semen,” Mizuiro interjects with a pleasant smile.
“Saliva, not semen! And we agreed to never speak of that plague again!”
The cargo is loaded while they wait for the rest of their cadre to rejoin them. The activity is routine, Ichigo tuning out the light conversation floating over his head in favor of trying to calculate the remaining distance ahead of them. Mizuiro hops into the side door to organize the new supplies around Keigo’s messy bedroll and his own precariously cluttered workstation. He has to move his personal hammock around to make room for it all.
Ichigo hands the final box over in time to see Mizuiro's ears pressing flat against his dark hair. “Heads up,” he says lowly, locked onto something behind them. “We might have trouble.”
These mobile bazaars, for all that they’re as degenerate as they come outside of Hueco Mundo itself, are known for being relatively safe places. The Quincy don’t bother with them so long as they don’t come across them. The clans that make up the Gotei Alliance only care about the goods they try to hawk to the ordinary citizenry just in case they turn out to be the next source of corruption that the Demon King tries to squeeze past the latest cease fire. Even the rogue demons that roam where they please adhere to some unspoken neutrality, since these caravans tend to be the only way fresh crops and goods can find their way over the border.
No one ventures that close to demon country and returns with their soul in-tact without the approval of the King. As such, it’s generally understood that only capable adults should ever seek one out.
So imagine Ichigo’s surprise when he looks over his shoulder, hand reaching for his knife, and almost drops it as he spots a child, red-faced and small, wearing a beautiful yellow sundress. Short horns curl out from her head that will eventually become proper battering rams, twisting over seafoam green curls that hang into her huge honey eyes. She’s squinting wet eyes as she stomps her cloven hoof at a man giving her a mocking sneer, clawed hands dangling what looks like a beaded bracelet out of her reach.
Kon rumbles an uncharacteristically menacing sound at the sight. “Oh fuck no, he’s not bullying a kid.”
Ichigo covers the distance in a blink, hearing two sets of footprints following. The man's eyes lock onto their movements almost immediately, piercing blue with round pupils like the jaguars he resembles. Bone white fur with dark rosettes cover his limbs, his round-tipped ears and long, flexible tail, fur abruptly fading to black over his hands and bare feet. He looks strong, the compact wiry muscle of his arms and chest partially exposed from where his heavy, fur-edged shawl rests on his shoulders like a fitted cloak. Loose black-leather pants drape over his cat-like legs, belted low and tight to his hips and sewn in the what might be the style of the southern mountains, but Ichigo rarely sees even the full-blooded feline folk venture this far afield, let alone a half-blood.
Ichigo’s hand settles on top of the young satyr’s head, applying gentle pressure to try and maneuver her behind him. Tatsuki comes up on his left and takes the child further back while Kon steps up with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Now, I know kids can be a bit much sometimes, but that’s no way to treat a little lady,” he says jovially as jaguar guy takes on a look of bored interest. His head tilts just the slightest bit to the side, ears flickering fully erect. He’s larger than Kon by a head and easily broader than any of them besides Chad. He sizes them up, shifts his weight, but the lack of tension in his body tells a whole other story.
“Why don’t you give that back and we can grab a pint or somethi-ING!”
A flash of disgust darkens the man's face an instant before he takes a swipe at the Kon's head. Reflexes are the only reason Ichigo grabs that hand before it makes contact, the force behind the seemingly lazy swipe catching him off guard. Kon ducks away with a yelp, far too slow to have dodged it on his own. The salamander bears down on the mitt in warning, feeling bones shift.
Blue eyes flicker to him, widened like he hadn't been expecting someone to back up their bark. "Try that again, and you're losing use of this hand," he says, squeezing harder for emphasis. Calculations fly visibly through jaguar guy's head, brow pitched in interest, and Ichigo glares back with all the fury he can muster to keep that gaze on him. While he's distracted, Ichigo takes the chance to snatch the stolen bracelet from limp fingers.
The theft is barely noticed, jaguar man instead staring deeply into his eyes as if fascinated. Ichigo watches dark pupils contract and expand the same way Kon's do when Yuzu cooks him something new to try. Shivers run like cold fingers down his spine as the guy lights up with the most psychotic grin Ichigo has seen in years, dangerous with gleeful anticipation.
He opens his mouth to say something, but it’s cut off as twin mounds of plush warmth push themselves into the back of Ichigo’s head. Strong arms wrap around his shoulders as two firm, coarse-furred thighs lock around the back of his waist, another’s body clinging limpet-like on his back.
Ichigo jerks his head around, looking over the breasts that try to suffocate him to find the same face he’d pushed behind himself a moment ago aged twenty or so years, a jagged, freshly-healed scar bisecting her face. He stumbles, balance disrupted, the weight of an adult satyr’s body enough to make anyone’s spine bend, let alone one who bears such a generous figure and an extra set of horns-
Shapeshifter, his instincts whisper in his ear. A demon.
The demoness stares her tormentor down with cold disapproval, burying her chin into the top of Ichigo’s orange hair hard enough to make him wince. For his part, the man bares his teeth back in response, looking positively furious.
“Leave,” she commands, voice smooth and deceptively delicate despite the force of will she manages to load into a single word. “You’ve made your point. Even so, I won’t give up. So return to your own and leave us be.”
“You’re pathetic, Nelliel,” jaguar man spits, ears going flat enough to show white spots on the back face. Before his eyes, Ichigo watches as two squat horns of black bone sprout from his hairline, pupils stretching into slits with the sclera darkening as like ink spilling into water. No wings sprout from his back like they would with most demons, but they don’t need to when his white and black tail gains an incriminating spade tip. “You and your little duo of fuckwits want to give everything up, fine. Enjoy bathing in your own tears and cunt juices when you fail, you pretentious coward.”
The incubus rips his hand out of Ichigo’s grip, barely sparing the salamander a fleeting, heated glower before stalking off. Vendors and demons alike scramble to get out of his way, eying him like a live explosive. Only when he's out of sight do they transfer that same fearful stare to their group.
As one, the entire bazaar abruptly seems to decide pretending they don't exist is the best idea they've ever heard. Only in the wake of everything does it register how quiet everything had gotten from the moment they’d stepped up to challenge the disguised demon.
Nelliel squeezes her limbs tighter around him before letting go, hooves squelching in the mud as her arms come to rest behind her back in a girlishly cute pose. The yellow sundress from her child form remains, but it’s larger now, only just long enough to give her some sense of modesty and flowing enough that she has to wear a belt below her bust to keep it closed. There are no straps to hold it up, but belted to her upper arms are two detached sleeves that hang down to her palms.
She looks at Ichigo with something that looks alarmingly like pity, but it’s quickly smoothed over by a gentle smile. “Thank you for trying to help,” the succubus says with what sounds like genuine gratitude. “Though I’m sorry to say that this might cause trouble for you later on. I’m Nelliel Tu Odelshevank, former Knight of Las Noches,” Ichigo’s eyes widen, startled, and Tatsuki chokes on an aborted gasp, “but my friends call me Nel-chan.”
“What was all that about?” Tatsuki asks after a brief, reluctant introduction. She waves Uryū down from where he aims a holy arrow right for the succubus’ head.
“I've become a bit of a laughing stock in Hueco Mundo,” she titters awkwardly, taking the bracelet back from Ichigo's numb fingers to slip on her wrist. It’s well-made, a string of colorful glass beads with a metal clasp carved with an insignia they can’t see before it’s back under her sleeve. “I’m on a quest to do something many consider impossible, and as such, I get mocked and harassed a lot. That one was just someone who finds it particularly offensive. Personal differences, you see.”
Kon tilts his head, ears flickering with curiosity. “What’s the goal?”
“Don’t mock me for it,” she takes in a long breath, already bracing herself, “but I’m on a journey to restore my soul and the souls of my dearest friends.”
“Why would we mock you for something like that?!”
“Do you think it’s possible?” Ichigo asks, eyes widening. Would anyone know? Could someone actually do it?
Would Urahara have any idea?
Tatsuki eyes him out the side of her face, visibly uncomfortable.
“I won’t know until I try,” the demoness shrugs, smiling and hopeful. “I know where our souls are and I know they still exist. The one who turned me is too prideful to consume them for power when he knows he can hold them over me.” Nel’s expression darkens, gaze drifting low. “Not when they could instead serve as a testament to my moment of greatest weakness. But! I will reclaim them in time. This, I have sworn.”
Two more demons come charging towards from before long, loud and crying their distress for the entire world to hear. The rest of their group rejoins them just in time to be introduced to Nel’s lieutenants, Pesche and Dondochakka. The two incubi are almost unnaturally cheerful and come across as paradoxically innocent for demons, but what they seem to lack in cleverness, they easily make up for in enthusiastic loyalty.
Boldly, Pesche declares that they will return to Las Noches and run interference so that no one questions their captain’s absence for a while longer.
No one is happy about the arrangement. The nobility of their goal aside, no one trusts them not to report their whereabouts to interested parties. That leads to a tense stand-off where both sides eye each other with wary caution.
“We have no idea who you people are to anyone else,” Pesche eventually admits, scratching at his feathery antennae, pale glittering moth wings shimmering against his purple skin even in the overcast light. “Hueco Mundo deals with so many adventuring types, what’s one more group? The only strange thing I see is a single Quincy instead of a whole band.” He pauses as if on a stage. “Or did I? Maybe they were just a local hunter? What did you see?”
The massive demon beside him gives a blank stare. The moment stretches out into awkward silence as he chews his lips between orcish tusks. “What’s the difference again?”
Ichigo stares, mouth agape, truly at a loss for words. Nel gives them a wide grin, hands clapping with eager expectation that this will be a sufficient show of good will. Her sundress swishes with her child-like sideways swaying, lacy hem just barely covering the transition between bare flesh and thick chestnut fur. Unlike most demons, her base form doesn’t seem to have any misaligned or exaggerated proportions, he’s noticed; her body is luscious and a true showcase of feminine beauty, with large breasts and curved hips and thighs capable of crushing watermelons, but beyond the extra horns and the long, thin spade tail? You’d be hard pressed to tell her apart from a normal female satyr. Even her lieutenants don’t appear so unusual by non-demon standards.
Sharing a glance with his many times distant cousin, Uryū tries to remain steadfastly unimpressed. When Orihime joins in on it, clearly moved by their story, followed by Kon, and with most everyone else making up a more neutral but supportive faction, the only one left to agree with him is Mizuiro.
When even the arcanist begins to cave, Uryū lets out an explosive sigh. He shoves his arrow back in his quiver with ill grace.
“Don’t look at me if this goes south,” he instructs with a huff before turning to Ichigo. “Especially you. I’m just going to assume you want to introduce her to our benefactor.”
That must have been the dismissal the two demons were waiting for. The incubi take off in a cart pulled by a frankly massive bull, leaving them all in a dust cloud, departing with a frantic cry of, “Go, Bawabawa!”
The bull had actually lets out a warbling bellow before slamming its hooves down hard enough to crack the rain-soaked earth. That’s fucking terrifying.
“Your benefactor?” Nel asks, ignoring the commotion that has people screaming and diving out of the way.
It takes a second for him to pull his gaze away. “... A mage who's been studying corruption and its effects on the soul for as long as demons have existed in this world,” Ichigo says, nodding his head towards their caravan. “He’d be interested in trying to see if it’s possible to restore a lost one.”
A sheen appears over her honey eyes, grateful and overwhelmed, before it’s blinked away.
“I would be delighted to meet him,” she says, her next breath catching in her throat. Nel coughs discreetly to clear it. “Thank you all, truly. Even if I fail, I’m so happy someone besides my own believed in me.”
Orihime clasps the satyr succubus' hand in her own, steering her towards the girls’ wagon. Uryū frowns sharply, no doubt perturbed about how he’s going to lose the open spot that was his any night he wanted to share either of his girlfriends’ bedrolls. Chad remains a soothing presence beside him. Kon is babbling beside Ichigo, excited by the prospect of a new face, demon or not, while Keigo and Mizuiro return to their own wagon to finish preparations.
Ichigo flinches as something cold and wet falls on his hair. The moisture slides, unpleasant, across his furnace-warm skin and scales. It drips down his neck and into the collar of his armored leather coat and cotton undershirt. He looks up.
Overhead, the sky begins to weep once more. Something nameless and leaden sinks heavy in his chest, and the mark over his belly aches like a phantom wound.
The next morning arrives much like the last, wet, dreary and quiet as a graveyard, but at least nothing blocks the road or tries to make off with their scarce goods again. They only stop a few times so that their resident mages can gather the last remaining herbs they need to begin restocking their restoratives. The main ingredient is common in these parts, as are the caps of the tree mushrooms that, when peeled for their tops, make for decent plasters in a pinch. Uryū also scouts out several plants that, when processed and cultivated in the ‘proper way’ according to Quincy trade secrets, result in a potent concoction that turns virulent when exposed to corruption. Their last supply had imp semen smeared all over it, rendering it useless after the hour it took to lose all efficacy.
Nel proves her worth as both a companion and as a fighter the day after, when a group of harpy bandits catches them struggling in a rut. The feathered women approach with daggers drawn and eager grins, only to squawk and scatter in a panic as they meet more resistance than they bargained for.
She claimed to be a Knight before, and in the end is more than capable of putting her money where her mouth is. Ruthless, efficient and elegantly poised, she dances around the battlefield with a gleaming, well-maintained sword. Afterwards, Nel grabs one of their assailants and disappears behind a boulder. Given the pitch and volume of the moaning and screaming that follows, it’s not hard to imagine what’s happening.
“A girl needs to eat sometimes,” Nel says with a shrug when she returns, licking glistening fluid from her fingers. Come to think of it, she hadn’t touched the rations they’d put aside for her. When asked, she says that she doesn’t want to strain their resources when this can tide her over for a short while. Ichigo tries not to think about it too much, lest his own belly start to squirm to be fed.
By the next night, after three constant days of travel, Karakura Town was at last within viewing distance. The tall towers and glowing beacon at the center of town were a heartening sight after so long in the open fields and the treacherous woods, so they make the decision to stop for the night and get some rest. Usually, they try to keep moving through the dark hours if they can help it due to all the hazards of the wild countryside, but with only a third of their group capable of producing the fire they need to operate the head wagon’s steam engine, sometimes they just needed to make a stop, especially before the final push. The Gotei has an armed patrol that passes through the area with some regularity, so counters the suggestion when Chad brings it up over their intercom system.
Since he’d slept off the last night shift, Ichigo volunteers to take the first watch.
The rain that’s plagued their travels for days on end has let up for the moment, but he doesn’t trust that it will last. Humidity lingers like a pressure in the air, and drops fall from the leaves of the thicket trees they’ve parked under for shelter and cover. The sound of droplets dinging off of metal and earth leaves him restless for reasons he doesn’t care to name.
He’s planted himself on top of the lead wagon, which he shares with Kon. It's the only one with a metal roof, giving him a good vantage point, able to see all sides of their camp without issue. In the distance, their destination glows fire-bright against the backdrop of the night sky, windows shining like stars. Ichigo knows he won’t see his family home from here, that they're going to enter town from the wrong direction. Even so, that they’re so close does wonders to lift his spirits in spite of the shitty weather. Hopefully his sisters are doing well, and that his father’s clinic hasn’t almost burned down. Again.
He hopes his mother hasn’t gotten worse since the last time he saw her.
The wind blows and saps all warmth out from under his cloak. Shuddering, Ichigo brings his scaled legs up closer to his body, their near-digitigrade structure working against his goal to preserve as much body heat as possible from the unseasonable cold as his ankles are left exposed. With scaled claws, he wraps the thick cloth around himself tighter. If he wasn’t worried about the material drying up and catching fire or preserving his nightvision, he'd even bring his tail up from where it dangles off the side.
At times like this, Ichigo laments his luck that he wasn’t born a frostscale. It’s as much a myth that cinderscales can’t get cold as it is that elemental salamanders inherit their parent’s flame type. Sure, he might have inherited his father’s ruby red cinderscales, but he could just as easily have ended up with blue-green aquascales like Kaien, or white galescales. Or fucking frostscales.
Summers would have been hell, but at least their tail flames don’t actually catch objects on fire. Thank whatever gods might still exist that Karin and Yuzu inherited galescales and poisonscales respectively. The clinic would have burned down far more often if there were four cinders in the home instead of just two. Why the town won’t just let them build more than the foundation out of concrete, Ichigo has no idea.
The miserable, moist chill of the night aside, there's a reason Ichigo took the first watch alone.
The darkness is peaceful when it's not blowing. Long grass swaying sounds a gentle backdrop with the rustling of leaves and the pitter-patter of lingering rainwater. The steam wagons hum quietly, keeping their occupants warm and dry. There's been no movement since Nel slipped into Chad's wagon, trading places with Uryū at Orihime's request, allowing the lovers to spend the night together. There's been no sound since they settled down to sleep.
Something is watching them from the shadows. Something that's been following them for the last three days and nights.
None of the others have noticed. Even Tatsuki, as paranoid as he is for the same reasons, hasn’t seen or felt anything amiss. Nothing has shown up on Keigo's scrying orb. The only one who takes him seriously and agrees with him is Nel.
"Though I'm sorry to say that this might cause trouble for you later on.”
Ichigo clutches his mother's warbow in one hand and one of Uryu's poison arrows in the other.
He just has to be patient…
The lightest of sounds reaches his ears, a gentle thump of flesh on the metal top of the head wagon’s roof, sends him springing to his feet. The arrow in his hand is knocked and pulled back before he’s even fully upright. It flies before he even catches a glimpse of what he’s firing at, but the bastard sneaking up on him is fast. The arrow goes wide over their shoulder in a way that would make his Quincy mother cringe, allowing them to lunge across the meager distance towards him.
He tosses the bow down onto the driver’s seat and throws himself backwards off the wagon. He reaches for his blades, the left finding his knife, the longsword in his right. He hits the ground with a hard thud that rattles his body, but only when he glances back up does his breath catch.
The jaguar demon from the bazaar grins down at him with a twisted eagerness that sends his hindbrain screaming. The incubus crouches at the roof’s edge, pleased by something as he scans Ichigo from top to bottom. “Yo, little mander,” he says in a low purr.
The salamander breathes in to call out for the others, only to freeze as the demon pulls something wooden out of his pocket. He presses a black-furred finger to his lips.
"Shhh... Don't go waking the others up, now," he tells Ichigo in a hushed tone, spinning the whistle to show its face is carved to look like a shrieking woman. "Not unless you want every imp pack from here to that river a mile behind to come flying. They'd love your company, but I don't think you'd enjoy theirs."
His grin widens, sick with the sadistic enjoyment he clearly derives from the power he holds now. "Especially not that little threesome in that wagon over there."
Ichigo grits his teeth and tightens his grip on his swords. The flame of his tail flares brighter with his anger. "What do you want, demon?"
How did he get past Keigo's scrying?
"My name," he says, stepping off the wagon to land on the grass with silent feet, claws flexing like daggers, eager to taste flesh and blood, "is Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez. Remember it, salamander. You're going to be screaming it after I beat you into the dirt."
“Pretty tough for someone relying on threats and ambush tactics,” Ichigo taunts back even as he feels the threat slither cold and hot down his spine.
Out of nowhere, Nel comes sprinting out from behind Chad’s wagon like she’d been lying in wait, naked except for a flimsy camisole, sword clutched tightly in hand. “Get away from him, Ichigo!”
“Nel?”
The jaguar demon, Grimmjow, snarls in frustration from deep in his chest. The noise is eerily similar to what would come from the voice of an actual great cat. “Lay off, Nelliel! This one is my prey!”
The demoness slides to a halt in front of Ichigo, legs spread wide and arms raised in a protective stance, only to stiffen. “You’re a cretin,” she hisses back, causing Grimmjow to grin and raise the whistle like a taunt.
“Just making sure no one gets any funny ideas,” he assures idly. Eyes like kerosene flames lock onto Ichigo with unnerving brightness. “I want a fair fight, one on one. No back up, no magic, no poison. Winner gets to do whatever they want to the loser until dawn. Be warned, though…”
The incubus’ grin widens, fangs gleaming in the fire light. “Run, and I will chase you. In fact, please do. It’ll just make the resulting punishment all the sweeter.”
Nel whirls around on Ichigo. Her pinched brow gives her a frantic look to match the dread in her eyes. “Grimmjow is another of Las Noches’ Knights, ranked number Six. Don’t underestimate him.”
“Aww, come on. Where's the fun in telling him off the bat?”
“Why are you targeting me?” Ichigo moves to stand beside Nel rather than remain shielded by her. His heart beats an anxious rhythm against his ribs despite his outward stubbornness. A Knight. One of Aizen’s generals, one of several in command of his demon armies. Are there more than six now? He doesn’t remember. It was so long ago. “Don’t tell me your King has his Espada out harassing random adventurers now.”
Grimmjow tilts his head, abruptly blank-faced, rounded cat ears swiveling forward with interest. “Espada, huh?”
The screaming of his animal brain pitches into a shriek.
Nel stares at him, incredulous. Ichigo is careful to ensure that his expression doesn’t change.
“You know what?” Grimmjow lifts his chin in silent challenge. “Beat me and I’ll tell you. We doing this or you feel like eating imp dick?”
“We’re doing this,” he rushes to confirm before the incubus can think about lifting that whistle. “If you’re eager to eat mud, fine by me.”
Nothing for it, then. He’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t lose.