"That's the catch of the day!" The rowdy Shikoku pirate crows, a gleam in his single silver eye and a mischievous smile on his face, as he examines the large fishing net holding his rival bob in mid-air.
Unfortunately for Motonari, his circle blade had not made it in with him, the weapon having been dropped earlier when the trap had been sprung. It now lay a few too many metres from Motonari’s reach.
The green-clad daimyo glares at him, eyes ice-cold. "Brute. Pirate." he says curtly, the childish insults readily bouncing off of Motochika's gleeful and triumphant form. Motochika thinks he's just pissed he fell for the oldest trick in the book - a net trap laid inconspicuously along the ground, covered by a small pile of dirt and leaves.
"Aye Mouri, whatever ye say."
Motochika licks his lips as he revels in the sight of a dishevelled Motonari, clothes and face marked by dirt and leaves stuck haphazardly in his hair.
Motonari, the majestic sun who always seemed to be so far above him, had finally been forced down to earth.
He leans in close, smirks at the way Motonari's small, gloved hands tighten around the net's thick mesh, how the beads of sweat mark his brow. If Motochika didn't know him better, he would have thought that Motonari felt nervous, cornered. Looking into Motonari's eyes confirmed his thoughts - within those dark irises that resembled the blackest of nights was a reserved fire, biding its time until it could leap out and scorch him with its searing flames.
Motochika would willingly be burned by that fire, so long as he could hold that sun in his hands.
"You’re mine now, Mouri."