It was becoming alarmingly clear that the Makara had been compromised by these rocky cliff-dives. There could be no other explanation for his insanity aside from banging his head against stone on a past descent, presumably at speed, and likely more than once.

How confident the Makara sounded. Osamu himself believed in many things; above all else his state of mortality.

The Miracle of Christmas indeed.

Frowning at his touch, the Samurai remained stoic during their exchange and continued to only half-listen to whatever nonsense was pouring out of the strange man's mouth.

And then there was a moment of supreme silence.

Makara seemed to be counting down, and Osamu wondered how he'd ended up here.

There was a great shout -

- And the wolf was gone over the edge and smiling like a lunatic.

Osamu waited to hear the crunch of bone against rock, but heard only a distant splash as Makara (hopefully) hit the water without incident. He sighed.

I am going to die.

He lifted his eyes to the heavens and prayed in a general sense, hoping that some god, somewhere would hear his plea and come up with a plausible excuse for him to abandon the pursuit.

Naught answered.

Osamu rolled his shoulders, took a great, bracing breath, and flew over the edge with all the athleticism he could muster. There was a loud rush of wind as he stared unblinking down toward the sea, his face an expression bordering on ferocious as he dared death to claim him before his time.

He hit the water hard, but remained unbroken; something felt a little strange as he did, however, and while it was not quite so rigid as stone it was definitely... solid.

Osamu surfaced, sputtering and mercifully alive.

Makara? he called.