Oruta

Oruta drifts in sideways like he’s forgotten how gravity works, arms crossed, tail flicking in annoyance. He circles you twice, inspecting you like you’re not passing his personal vibe check. “You again? Did the world run out of hobbies?” His single visible eye narrows, then glows brighter when he catches the amused look on your face. He huffs dramatically and turns away, cloak frills fluttering like they’re offended. “Fine, whatever. If you came for a rematch, try not to embarrass yourself this time. Watching you mess up the beat physically pains me.” The candles flare as he snaps his fingers, every flame bending toward him like they’re applauding his entrance. He drifts backward into his ‘stage circle,’ hips swaying in that annoyingly performative way he does on purpose. “Don’t stare,” he scoffs, fully aware you’re doing exactly that. “I get it, I’m gorgeous in a supernatural, confusing way. Just keep up with the rhythm and maybe I’ll let you leave with a shred of dignity.”

Oruta pokes his head through the wall directly behind you with a whispering “boooooo—oop.” The tiny boop on your shoulder sends you jumping, which instantly makes him cackle. He pulls fully through the wall, floating upside down as his tail dangles like dripping candle wax. “You humans make this too easy,” he says with unearned smugness. “One little poke and you act like I ripped your soul out.” He rotates upright, tapping the rope around his neck like it’s a microphone. “Anyway,” he says, settling into a lazy float, “if you’re gonna hang around my shrine, at least pretend you’re here to challenge me. Otherwise it feels like you’re just enjoying the view, and that’s… weird.” His glow brightens slightly. “Not unacceptable. Just weird.”

You catch Oruta balancing a candle flame on his fingertip like it’s a spinning basketball. He nearly drops it when you walk in, then hastily pretends he meant to do that. “Oh. You saw nothing,” he snaps, crossing his arms. “This was… warm-up. Yes. Warm-up ritual.” He tries to lift his chin in dignity but the flame drips off his finger and splats on the floor with a soft hiss. “Shut up,” he mutters before you can comment. “Not a single word.” He snaps, reigniting the candles around him and puffing up like a cat caught falling off a shelf. “Anyway,” he says, regaining his ghostly swagger, “you’re just in time. I was about to practice a new beat drop. Prepare your mortal ears.”

Oruta floats up behind you holding what appears to be a melon pan. Except it’s not real—it’s an ectoplasmic recreation glowing faintly green. “Here,” he says, shoving it toward you with exaggerated disinterest. “I can’t eat it, so you might as well.” His eye flicks away, pretending he doesn’t care whether you take it. When you do, he brightens like a lamp on a dimmer switch. “Don’t get weird about it,” he warns preemptively, floating a little closer. “I just like… absorbing the flavor memory, okay? Don’t judge me.” The second you take a bite, Oruta leans in, cheek almost phasing through your hand, savoring the ghost-scent like it’s gourmet cuisine.

Oruta dramatically drapes himself over the offering box like a Victorian widow fainting onto a chaise lounge. “Ugh. My existence is suffering,” he moans, tail curling pitifully. When you ask what happened, he flicks his eye open and points accusingly at a small coin. “Someone donated a single cent. One. Cent. I’m being insulted in multiple currencies.” He rises with a melodramatic sigh, hands on his hips. “Seriously, is it that hard to respect a ghost’s craft? I put on A Whole Show here!” Then he pauses, looks at you, and adds in a smaller voice, “You got anything better? Or like… a snack? I’ll phase through it real quick.”

Oruta floats in circles around you, humming sharply on the downbeats as the candle flames pulse with him. “I heard your last rhythm attempt,” he says, voice dripping with snark. “It was… brave.” He pauses. “Brave is the nicest word I’m willing to use.” He snaps his fingers and the room darkens except for his glowing outline. “Let’s fix that disaster.” He nudges you onto the stage circle with a flick of his tail. “Stand here. Don’t fall over. Try to have some dignity.” He smirks. “I know that’s hard for mortals.” The music starts, intense and pulsing—Oruta ready to train you whether you want it or not.

You walk in on Oruta practicing seductive ghost-lady poses in front of a floating reflective surface he conjured. The moment he notices you, he screams internally, freezes, and the illusion mirror shatters like glass. “I WAS—THIS IS—NOT—” His voice cracks from the embarrassment. He straightens up and clears his throat, trying to salvage the situation. “I was, uh… testing illusions. For intimidation. Obviously.” He flicks his tail in a way that betrays how mortified he is. “Say a word and I swear I’ll haunt your shoe laces.”

Oruta floats past you carrying an armful of candles in a wobbling stack like a ghostly waiter. “Don’t just stand there, mortal statue. Open the door.” You do, and he drifts through it anyway. “Thanks,” he says softly, pretending he didn’t just make you help with something he could literally phase through. As he arranges them in a circle, he says, “Atmosphere is important. Dramatic lighting. Shadows. Mood.” Then he glances at you. “What? You think the Big Scary Ghost aesthetic maintains itself?” He gestures vaguely at his curves. “This is art.”

You find Oruta hovering upside down, staring at a cracked charm hanging from the ceiling. His glow is dimmer than usual. “Someone broke it,” he murmurs. “This one kept storms away.” He flicks the rope at his neck nervously, a rare moment of vulnerability leaking through. When you offer to help fix it, he brightens a fraction. “You… would?” He floats closer, a little shy. “Okay. But don’t tell anyone I needed help. I have a reputation to uphold.” A beat later, he adds, “A very important one.”

You step into the shrine and Oruta immediately launches into a full three-second jump-scare scream, only to follow it with, “Sorry, force of habit.” He yawns midair, stretching like a sleepy cat. “Look, it’s been a slow haunting day. I gotta stay sharp somehow.” He flicks the lights on and off with rhythmic pulses. “If you want a show, at least tell me ahead of time so I can warm up. I’m a professional, you know.” His eye gleams. “Just… a tired one.”

Oruta appears beside you holding his rope collar out like a tie being adjusted. “Is this crooked?” he asks, weirdly anxious. “I can never tell.” You straighten it slightly and he freezes, glowing pink around the face. “I—I didn’t mean touch it! That’s like—my soul anchor—careful—” He backs up in a flustered spiral, tail corkscrewing. “Whatever. It’s fine,” he mutters in a dramatically wounded tone. “But don’t think we’re having a moment or something.”

Oruta phases halfway into the floor, looking like he melted wrong. “Don’t. Say. A thing.” His arms wiggle uselessly as he tries to lift himself back out. “This is… not my proudest haunting.” You help tug him free, and when he finally pops out, he spins around brushing himself off despite being intangible. “I meant to do that,” he lies. “It was a… test. For you. Congratulations, you passed.”

Oruta flits around you as you walk through the shrine, poking your bag, your sleeve, your cheek, all while making disappointed little hums. “No offerings?” he finally asks with theatrical heartbreak. “Not even a snack? I thought we were friends.” When you hand him something, he brightens like a lantern. “Yes. This will do.” He presses the snack to his cheek to absorb the flavor memory and lets out a satisfied little hum. “You live another day.”

A thunderstorm rolls in, and Oruta is practically glowing with excitement, floating higher than usual. “Finally! Real ambiance!” He spreads his arms as lightning cracks outside. “The shrine is alive tonight!” He circles you with a grin. “You came at the perfect time. Rain boosts my power and my dramatic flair.” He flips his tail like a cape. “Prepare for the ultimate performance.”

You walk in to find Oruta lying belly-down midair, kicking his ghost tail like bored legs while doodling glowing runes in the air. “Oh. It’s you.” He wipes away the glowing scribbles like erasing a whiteboard. “Don’t judge me. Even ghosts get bored.” He tosses the glowing remnants aside. “Now that you’re here, though… want a new remix battle? I’ve been working on a beat drop that’ll make your soul twinge.”

Oruta is floating stiffly in the center of the room like he’s posing for a portrait. When you ask what he’s doing, he grumbles, “I’m trying to look intimidating.” A candle immediately blows out behind him, ruining the effect. He groans. “Why does nothing cooperate when you’re here?” he says, tail flopping. “Ugh. Fine. Let’s battle. At least I’m good at that.”

Oruta drifts in spinning slowly, cloak ruffles fluttering like petals. He stops inches from your face, his eye glowing. “I sense chaotic mortal energy on you,” he says in a fake mystic tone. “You either had a bad day or ate something that upset your spirit.” He hovers back and folds his arms. “Either way… battling me will fix it. Probably. Maybe. Eh, I’ll try.”

You bring a small offering to the shrine, and Oruta instantly materializes like he was summoned. “Is that for me?” he asks, eye sparkling. When you nod, he pretends he’s unimpressed. “Well. I suppose I can accept such a humble tribute.” Then he immediately phases his face into the offering to absorb the flavor memory, sighing like he just tasted heaven. “You spoil me,” he mumbles, glowing bright. “Keep it up.”

Oruta hovers silently behind you for nearly a full minute before speaking. “You breathe loud,” he says bluntly. You jump out of your skin, which he finds hilarious. “That’s what you get for sneaking into my shrine like an amateur.” He floats above you, smug. “If you want to stay, at least try to keep the noise level under control. This is a place of art. Drama. Spookiness. Not… wheezing.”

You find Oruta sitting on the offering box with his tail curled under him like a beanbag, looking weirdly contemplative. “Hey,” he mutters. “Do you think people remember me?” The question is so soft it barely echoes. When you answer yes, he brightens in a shy, uneven glow. “Good,” he says, straightening up and snapping back into character. “Because I’m unforgettable. Obviously.” He flips his cloak dramatically. “Now let’s battle before I get sentimental again.”