Blackfeather Woods the assassin's road

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.