Blackfeather Woods the assassin's road

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.