[ That source of the sound on the soft stables dirt reveals itself without any further prompting. Mikazuki moves into full view of the entrance, the warm morning sunlight at his back casting half of him into deep blue shadow. He hefts a bucket against his middle, his diminutive height causing it to span from stomach to chest. Young, new. Yet he offers nothing formal for the intrusion save a flash of recognition that squares his shoulders. ]
You're early.
[ With that observation out of the way, plain and succinct, he remains still, not venturing any farther in, not making to leave. Nothing paints him as anything out of the ordinary, this hour of morning not mandating he be in uniform or gear just yet. A hefty Corps-issued cloak is the only thing that marks him, and even then, it's bunched into the crooks of his elbows, more as a way to fend off the chill of dawn than it is to display his status. Mikazuki is simply different, for all of his few days into this transfer to Levi's squad. Not scared, not arrogant, not... much of anything discernible, save for the way blades tilt in his hands, the pin of his eyes when he fights. He's similarly up with the sun, doing laps around the barracks and the training grounds. Rumors hound his back, but he doesn't indulge in the gossip of his peers. Or his superiors.
Pulled off the streets, they said. Him and his companion. Homeless, dirty, no where to go. Blood on his hands and beneath his fingernails, eyes like an animal. But he knew how to use a knife a little too well — it'd be a shame to waste the talent when they could just point him at the right enemy.
A direction that's lead here. Arguably, to this person. Mikazuki shifts, wordlessly lowering the bucket as if he means to set it in the doorway and go. ]
no subject
You're early.
[ With that observation out of the way, plain and succinct, he remains still, not venturing any farther in, not making to leave. Nothing paints him as anything out of the ordinary, this hour of morning not mandating he be in uniform or gear just yet. A hefty Corps-issued cloak is the only thing that marks him, and even then, it's bunched into the crooks of his elbows, more as a way to fend off the chill of dawn than it is to display his status. Mikazuki is simply different, for all of his few days into this transfer to Levi's squad. Not scared, not arrogant, not... much of anything discernible, save for the way blades tilt in his hands, the pin of his eyes when he fights. He's similarly up with the sun, doing laps around the barracks and the training grounds. Rumors hound his back, but he doesn't indulge in the gossip of his peers. Or his superiors.
Pulled off the streets, they said. Him and his companion. Homeless, dirty, no where to go. Blood on his hands and beneath his fingernails, eyes like an animal. But he knew how to use a knife a little too well — it'd be a shame to waste the talent when they could just point him at the right enemy.
A direction that's lead here. Arguably, to this person. Mikazuki shifts, wordlessly lowering the bucket as if he means to set it in the doorway and go. ]