Blackfeather Woods the assassin's road

the squalling of ravens accompanies the burst of their bodies from cover, erupting from the forest fringing the easterly limit of the woodland. they are a cacophony—but an excited one. there is blood on the wind and they are hungry.

their bodies are black smudges against a clear sky. they wing around the top of a lonely cypress tree.

upon the crest of a hill beneath the cypress, sprawling, is the eaten corpse of a stag felled weeks ago after the rut. there are only some pieces left, and not much to be kept. but the wolf that has staked its claim over it does not care, for he is hungry too.

Was it a beast or a man? From afar, Shinjou watched the figure feast upon the weary flesh of an aged deer carcass. Never would he have sunk so low! Or rather, never again would he allow himself to fall so far.

Wishing to avoid drawing the creature’s attention, the hooded samurai took great care to skirt a wide arc around the scarred and famished figure. Yet, in his caution, he failed to mind the treacherous roots beneath him and fell heavily to the ground. A thunderous crash, swiftly followed by a string of furious curses.

ちくしょう、ふざけんな!! he roared, ensuring beyond doubt that he had now caught everyone’s attention.

he has the sense of being watched. paranoia keeps his head on a swivel.

the ravens go quiet a moment, then begin to cry out in their many and varied forms. then there is a crash among the trees, and the man is moving—putting himself between the corpse and the offending trees, but also keeping himself in partial cover.

if the approaching figure looks up to the carcass again, the wolf is gone.

although he does not hold a weapon, there is an edge to the way he holds himself; as if ready to bludgeon the first body that steps too close—commanding, あんた誰なんだ？

A nihon-man? Shinjou lifted his head, bewildered—the stranger was gone. He had vanished like a specter, as if he had never been there at all. This was no ordinary man. For a moment, Shinjou could only stare, breath caught, too astonished to form a reply.

He stood firm, tail high, muscles coiled, poised to meet the coming assault.

Who asks? He had asked, his voice laced with a touch of almost youthful arrogance, like that of a fervent young warrior, restless despite his years. A practiced defiance masking the unease beneath. No one here knew him yet, so why not fashion himself into something bolder than he was? After all, a man becomes what he pretends to be, does he not?

it could have been a ruse. for a long time after the demise of his father's han the man called kikyō had to hide himself; names, stories, lies upon lies.

in the years since, a certain boldness had overtaken him—the spirit of revenge possessing and controlling him through many battles, so it stood to reason that, by now, his name might mean something.

still, he did not say it.

a man of samurai blood, he does answer in this way, and moves as his voice flows, in case the other is the same. their voice is young, he thinks—not that it detracts from any possible threat.

however, who would send a boy after him?

and in seeing the shape of a man, and seeing glimpses of scars, kikyō bristles and finds the shelter of shadows; the stranger looks battle-worn.

A samurai, or perhaps an assassin? Why did he not emerge from the shadows? His voice, elusive, seemed to weave itself behind every bush. Shinjou, perplexed, remained on his guard. He made every effort to conceal his unease, but his ears rang in every direction, desperately trying to pinpoint the location of the so-called man with samurai blood.

Does this man possess only the blood of a samurai? Why does he lack the courage? he growled. I am Shinjou Hirohiko of Kōdaina tochi! And I demand that you reveal yourself if you are not a coward! commanded the man in the black hood, poised to meet an attack, fully convinced he was being threatened.

there was a standoff.

one man shouting at shadows, the other moving deftly through them; and with the insistence of the louder man ringing in his ears, kikyō bridged the gap so he emerged flanking the other man.

careful who you call 'coward'. which none would take kindly to, but least of all the prideful, vengeful creature that now stood so close.

i am ushiyo kikyō— he kept his chin down to protect his neck, still not convinced that this man was not himself an assassin. ウォーロード黒い山

he would rather be known for the life he had built rather than the one which had been ripped from him.

A name that stirred no memory within him, much like his title, though he was, it seemed, a lord. That was hardly surprising—his body was a map of scars, and he bore himself with the bearing of a battle-hardened warrior, one who had fought in wars devoid of honor. Shinjou had only ever known the clash of fangs steeped in blood and honor; the thought of concealing such a vital point in the presence of a stranger would never have crossed his mind. If this man was a warlord—moreover, a Nihon warlord—then surely he too was bound by the same code.

And now, old man, where is your black mountain? And your men? He took a measured step back, senses sharpened, attuned to the faintest rustle, the subtlest creak that might betray the presence of hidden warriors. Who are your vassals?

He doubted the man’s identity, if only because his name rang hollow in his ears, evoking nothing but silence in the depths of his memory. Could he be so ancient that Shinjou had not yet been born when he carved his place in history? And yet, he had been taught the names of all the great warriors. Perhaps, in their lessons, they had simply spared him the names of the disgraced.

a sneer.

my men are abroad; i am a lord with no land, seeking the blood debt of those who stole from me. these were not lies, although he chose to omit the details. it was disgrace that swept kikyō from the land of his father—and while he had been taught of the dignified end that seppuku intended, he had never carried through with it.

and why should he? brothers, gone, father beheaded. what honor could be salvaged in his own death?

he felt he had died many times to get here.

the disdain lifts from his face, replaced by suspicion and a stern aspect. you are not an assassin, or you would have begun your assault by now. a ronin then? do you lack a contract?

a lord could use more bodies.

Thus, he was a dispossessed lord. But when, and by what cruel twist of fate, had he lost everything? Shinjou found himself intrigued by the scarred man.

I am no ronin, he muttered, though it was clear he was lying—to himself most of all. Here, he was no one. He served no cause, no master. But there was no need for anyone to know that.

I serve the lord of Kōdaina Tochi! No name came to his lips—all those he had once known, he refused to utter their damned names. Have you never heard of the Hirohiko? Perhaps he was wounded that his name stirred nothing in the hearts of men.

…Yet if you truly are who you claim to be, know this—I am a man of honor! I was raised to defend the interests of those who shared my values. And above all, to pledge himself to the highest bidder—the one who could offer him decadence and indulgence. Words that flowed in one direction, while his heart wavered in another.

the tension did not ease.

the only names i carry are the list of dead, or those that i intend to send to jigoku. my path has led me many places— here the man pauses to again regard the warrior before him, a new appreciation brewed between them, be glad i do not know the name.

and as he was still hungry, and as the other man proved not to be a threat to his own aims, kikyō began to stalk towards the corpse again.

a bitter victory, to covet the unwanted dead.

So, was he a man to be feared? At least, if one were to believe his own words. A man who could make Shinjou's father tremble, perhaps? In any case, he bore the scars of a seasoned warrior—or those of a vanquished man, carved by fate and defeat alike.

There was something in his presence that intrigued the man beneath the black hood. When the scarred one turned away, daring to present his back as if to prove his indifference, Shinjou's expression darkened. A man of honor and faith, he had claimed to be—yet did he not possess something unsettling? If not outright fearsome, then at the very least, imposing? His tail lashed the air, a telltale sign of wounded pride.

Well… consider yourself fortunate as well, he muttered, petulant as a spoiled child, before striding forward with an arrogance too great for his years. What I see is an old, battle-worn man who scavenges like a vulture, he sneered.

A man who could not even send his prey to its death by his own hand—some samurai you are… His words, sharp as steel, cut through the air, his chest swelling with misplaced confidence. So forgive me if I find it difficult to believe you are truly a lord. Ushiyo Kikyō? I have never heard that name.

With deliberate steps, he placed himself between the man and his carrion—an unmistakable challenge. The reckless youth…

feel free to power play or anything you'd like, I'm in anyway!

masa emerges from the mist-veiled wood like dusk given form. black fur ripples with each step, cold eyes fixed upon the path before him—not the carcass, not the warlord, but his own retainer.
he speaks; an iron-wrought command.
stand down, shinjou.
the dispassionate voice of a man turned blade. a master shaming his blade for drawing itself unbidden.
his gaze flicks to kikyō then—
you. state your name; who are you? whom do you serve?
a samurai, yes. but one tempered in blood. and grown cold in exile.

what was this? the younger man stepped forward. his words sounded like an offer at first, then an insult flowed as freely as air; and how was kikyo expected to react? he stopped short. he watched as the hooded man moved to place himself then, between the man and his meal.

a hardened stare, red-eyed to the haughty man's apple green, followed by the slightest shift of his weight. there was a change in the tension between them as the stranger sought to take control of it—his chest swelling and his body poised in defiance of something unnamed.

the arrival of another man does not quell kikyo's restlessness in the moment. the new arrival had been hidden from sight, and well enough to be truly concealed; but he makes himself and his alliegance to shinjou known, plainly.

it is clear to kikyo that this is the man in charge, not the boy.

kikyo does not turn the glacial look away from shinjou, but he commands with is own voice, loud enough so that the new arrival may hear him (and perhaps this shinjou would understand better, once it was reiterated...):

ushiyo kikyo—warlord of the black mountain; second son of lord sadasane! I await the return of my kogara, so that my quest of vengeance may continue. The force of his voice matches the confidence that was once spouting from shinjou, and when he is finished with his refreshed introduction he takes a steady breath with his nose—his jaw giving the slightest twitch as it closes, his features taut.

he waits—at the ready—for the man's order to be obeyed, unless his katana sought further insult.

That he longed to disobey, that he dreamed of the old samurai reaching for him, of their white blades meeting in a clash of steel. But his lord had spoken. Frustration flickered through him; he ran his tongue along his lips, then lowered his head and stepped back, resigning himself to a mere sidelong glance at the one he served.

Masa-dono. He greeted, his arrogance suddenly subdued, before yielding his place, his gaze once more drawn into the boundless crimson depths of the scarred elder’s eyes.

a hum of question upon the black furred man's tongue. samurai eyes watching, sliding between this warlord and shinjou, chin lifting once to look down upon both men of shorter stature.
i am masa of the akashita clan. a name spoken with the highest caliber of honor upon his wetted tongue. first sword to lord hikone. his rightful son. upon introduction, masa offers one dip of his head.
it is all he may offer in the name of keeping peace. masa is not a violent man, undue. only if he must be.
he steps closer, stride the ghosting of clouds in the sky. with ease, muscle coiling. kikyō of black mountain. warlord. where is your clan? where are your swordsmen, your herald, your retinue?
one could not be warlord without followers. without sworn swords. he says they are coming—but masa questions this, with the biting of his dull yellow gaze.

the boy was disarmed with the command of this man. kikyo saw something give within him, and this was good enough to release him from his defensive stance there. he withdraws, no longer eager to contest his right to eat from the carcass. it was not about the meal—that much was obvious.

the newcomer calls himself the son of a lord. it is not a lord's name he recognizes. this one has the same questions as his vassal and kikyo grows impatient to the line of questioning. do they not listen? do they not follow bushido as he has been taught?

he looks to akashita masa.

i have no clan. my father's han was taken from me years ago. i need no herald, no accompaniment— he has pride still, and stands strong. my swordsmen are scattered as they hunt in my name—and when they find those that wronged my father, that killed my father, that took what was mine, they come to me again.

and so he was alone.

Shinjou struggled to keep his sharp tongue from slipping. His gaze drifted from the old man to his lord, back and forth. Vengeance, honor, fathers—it was always the same tale. There was always a father to avenge, an honor to reclaim. Always, in one way or another, a father calling upon his son, even from beyond the grave.

The one in the black hood curled his lips ever so slightly, head tilted, eyes keen as a blade bared to the light.

And so you wait here, hoping they will finish the work for you? Shinjou finally said. Do they even know their lord has fallen so low?

With a swift gesture, he pointed to the rotting carcass, a stench-ridden thing he had, it seemed, not forgotten. Honor was to be a proud warrior, to live by a certain rhythm, to abide by certain standards. Had he grown so old that his blade could no longer cleave through the flesh of a stag? Did he still possess the vigor to mount a lady?

Despite his lord’s presence, Shinjou let himself go once more, a quiet, insolent smile playing at the corner of his lips.

masa swipes gaze from shinjou to kikyo. lip curling in thought. taking a deep breath of restraint.
but it is quick that his gaze is to slide to shinjou, burning with scorn. do not dishonor yourself. the words are low, dangerous in their calm. you shame me, shinjou hirohiko. hold your tongue before it is taken.
his head turns now to kikyo, and this time, there is something harder set in his gaze. though he has called down his bannerman once more, it does not spare this mutt his judgement.
a lord with no land. a general with no men. i see. the words are not meant to mock but to dig reality deep. you call yourself warlord, kikyo-sama. if your warriors return, i will see it. but until then, you are one man. he observes. it seems the samurai masa is a double-edged blade in his wordings.
masa hums once. contemplative, then draws breath. you will find no blade drawn from mine, son of sadasane.

were he not trained as a true samurai and had he not obtained the many life lessons of a man proven in battle time and again, kikyo would have taken greater offense to the wagging tongue of the boy—and although he felt that tongue to be owed to him, now, he would not let the judgement and the cajoling of shinjou to exact any reaction.

it was enough to hear him cautioned by his lord, for now.

another thing altogether to hear this lord speak so plainly towards kikyo's situation. his jaw tensed again, this time while eyes trained upon masa. they will return when they have a name for me, and i will go and i will take the head of my enemy. however, masa was correct.

he could not wait forever. masa saw plainly the truth that kikyo resisted.

a long breath is drawn in, sighed out.

and you, akashita masa? do we stand upon your han or do you roam, the same as i do?

The arrogant man had withdrawn, standing a few meters from the scene, silently guarding his lord’s back, his white enamel blades poised to be drawn at the slightest provocation. He stood rigid, head bowed, his gaze locked onto the fallen lord. His features were taut, his tongue slack, hanging like that of a hound whose mounting frustration coiled like a knot in his gut.

Feel free to skip my turn for the next posts! Shinjou is still here but will only intervene on Masa's orders.

i roam, he answers at last. voice level, low. not by disgrace, nor exile. my lord lives still. and my path is his to command.
his eyes settle upon kikyo with weighted calm. my han does not call for me. not yet. i serve until i am called back.
a beat.
i know my enemy. i return after honor is restored.

then we are the same. not in all ways, but enough. and he does not fault this man for his young charge, this brash boy who is brimming with such confidence. no doubt the boy will learn or lose his tongue one day - perhaps his head. kikyō does not wish to be the one to take it, despite the many insults.

i have taken many han for myself over the years. many heads have rolled. when my hunting is finished, i know my father will know peace. until then, i roam... but if you have need of another sword, here he is firm in his command of himself, watching masa-dono with a challenging stare, perhaps i will not roam so far.

and if his kodama return, he can take more and more for himself. but that is a possibility within which kikyō has his doubts.

there is no pity in his stare, only understanding. it is born not of shared pain, but of shared discipline. exile was a slow bleeding. the gods took their time with warriors like them.
you speak of your father’s peace. i pursue the same. he draws breath again. if your sword does not rust, and your vow does not break, then perhaps it would be well to roam beside us. tourmaline eyes do not challenge, but neither do they yield.
i lead no han. i do not command legions. i move with few—but i move with purpose. and if that purpose suits you, kikyō-sama, then draw near.
masa lowers his head by an inch. the gesture is not one of deference, but of acknowledgement.
there is always need for another sword.