Ennui
09-30-10, 05:44 PM
((OOC: I did sort of get carried away with the history, but I was enjoying myself, so feel free to skip most of it. The beginning and endings are somewhat important, however.))
Name: Masashi Yoshihiro
Age: 28
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Grey
Height: 5’7”
Weight: 139 lbs.
Occupation: Ronin
Personality: First and foremost, Masashi cannot ally himself with another non-ronin samurai. Though he no longer adheres to the tenants of Bushido, he is aware of his status among other samurai and would not actively seek to besmirch another’s reputation. His master’s death marked him as dishonorable. He is somewhat superstitious, but typically does not voice his fears. He’s also surprisingly tolerant towards other races and cultures, even more so now that circumstances demand that he cast aside all previous bigotry instilled in him by his peoples’ teachings.
Masashi is soft-spoken, rarely lashing out towards others in speech, but is not difficult to get along with once he gets to know someone. He is values self-preservation, infinitely more willing to steal or even strike down an opponent than risk his own life; this is a side effect of his enslavement by the invaders. He follows an esoteric moral code of his own devising, and has expressed his love of art and nature both. Masashi has a pathological fear of loneliness, for to him isolation can make even the most honorable man but a hollow shell.
He loves green tea.
Appearance: Masashi stands at 5’7”, relatively short for most men but tall for his people. Discreet musculature is spread around his body, leading many to underestimate his strength. Though far from overwhelming, Masashi can definitely throw a punch. His straight, black hair is around shoulder length and always kept up in the form of a topknot, as is customary. Footwear consists of tabi socks and waraji sandals, allowing comfort without hindering movement in most situations. He wears a black kimono with a red obi sash, through which is thrust his katana (left side) and wakizashi (right). His tone of voice suggests far-off shores; his native tongue, lilting and eloquent, does well not to betray its speakers’ bigoted society.
A mask netsuke fashioned in the likeness of an oni’s face dangles from his sash. He wears a straw hat outside of battle and can frequently be seen sipping from his sake gourd. A thin beard and mustache remain unshaven, as much from necessity as from style. Masashi makes an effort to bathe consistently, but his Bohemian lifestyle frequently complicates matters, though he has never received a direct complaint regarding his hygiene. His eyes’ odd coloration, especially for his people, is partially what resulted in his current situation. Masashi’s parents believed they were a terrible omen and left him at the mercy of the streets. His eyes garnered the interest of a daimyo that saved him from whatever fate poverty would have for him, and his eyes will certainly have more in store for him as time goes on.
History:
The tale of Masashi Yoshihiro begins in a distant land. Though it is a place not wholly unlike Akashima in appearance and style, its traditions and customs are far too brutal by comparison. Superstition runs deep into the culture’s past. While the civilization was still young, invaders arrived and laid waste to its cities and people, wanton butchers with no respect for life or nature. What could have been a nation as peaceful as any other descended into brief anarchy, where territory wars between warrior clans became the norm. For nearly a century there was no government but whoever shed the most blood, no law but survival.
And then a man rose from the ashes of battle, defeating any who dared oppose him as he unified each clan with minimal bloodshed. When at last his campaign had run its course, he promised that any invaders who returned would be repelled with the ferocity of gods. Their past had already instilled a deep hatred and fear of outsiders, however. Once the civilized lands of Althanas caught wind of this burgeoning society, they sent ambassadors across the sea to meet its people. Each diplomat sent was one killed, until finally the island country became considered barbaric and all further expeditions were halted.
Time passed. The man who unified the clans fell victim to sickness, but this time there was no war. Instead, a new leader was elected by the chiefs of each tribe, and this way it continued for several centuries. History gave way to mythology and folklore, to literature and to art, and the land flourished without support from Althanas or anyone else. A new caste of feudal warrior arose: the samurai. Swordsmen without peer, their blades were said to pierce armor, to reap the souls of demons who trespassed in their great nation. Fear surfaced once more. Not fear of the invaders who had razed their cities centuries before, but fear of the samurai and the destruction they brought.
It is in this place that Masashi Yoshihiro was born. It is in this place that, the moment his eyes opened and his parents saw the atrocity of his grey eyes, that he was discarded and left in the street. They returned to their humble homestead and prayed, hoping that somehow they could be forgiven for bringing such an abomination into existence. They assumed that the gods would erase poor Masashi and that their sin would be forgotten by everyone but the streets. Unfortunately for them, the street finds its own uses for things…
A street urchin. He dressed in rags and lived in alleyways with others of his kind, living off what he was given or could steal. Passerbies were irritated by filthy hands groping at their pockets in hopes that a coin might spill from them. Unfortunately, Masashi had not always had the best judgment when choosing potential prey for his attempts at thievery. A samurai happened to be traveling through the village that day, en route to his daimyo’s castle after a successful mission. Masashi remembers clearly the sound of that blade unsheathing, the cold touch of metal to his bare cheek… Without saying a word Masashi was abducted by the samurai and deposited at the feet of his master.
The corpulent old toad rose from his makeshift throne to inspect the new arrival. “An imp,” his swordsman explained, “who I caught clawing at my pockets.” The man wore a grimace of disgust. Meanwhile, the daimyo’s wart-covered fingers pinched and poked at Masashi’s cheeks. The elder man’s eyes flicked to the left and ran a hand through the long beard that fell nearly to his waistline. “Do you want me to execute him?” The samurai seemed impatient. The sagely old man turned his head with deliberate slowness.
“No…” A thoughtful look was apparent on his elderly features. “Leave us for a moment, Satori-san. I will give you my decision once I have scrutinized this boy.” Though the daimyo’s subordinate looked annoyed, he gave a ceremonious boy and retreated. A moment of silence passed as they both listened to the soft footsteps pad away. A door slid open and slammed shut. Masashi was looking around the room in desperation, searching for an escape route. However, the only way out was through that door, and he didn’t know how fast—
“I was a samurai once, child,” interrupted the daimyo. He had turned around to face his throne. Masashi hadn’t noticed it in his haste to determine a way out, but there was a fantastic mural suspended behind the comfortable chair. In it a young man slashed at a dragon-like beast, katana slashing through a geyser of flame that threatened to engulf him. Even though the scene had been transmuted into a painting, the glare of determination in the samurai’s eyes was evident. “The dragon oni that threatened the capital forty years ago,” he explained.
“Y-you fought that th-thing?” Masashi stammered.
“Indeed,” said the old man without turning. “That is the power of a samurai who follows Bushido.”
“Awesome…”
“You too could wield that ability, child. What do they call you?”
“M-my name is Masashi. M-Masashi Yoshihiro,” Masashi replied, cursing his stutter.
The daimyo turned, lips upturned in a warm smile. “You can call me Ojii-san.” When Masashi blinked at how casual the name was, and dipped an eyebrow in doubt, the daimyo’s cheeks puffed out indignantly. The resemblance to a toad was startling. “Fine, fine. Call me… Basho-sama. Yes, that will suffice.” Basho gave Masashi a kind wink. “But Masashi-san, I have a question for you, and I suggest you think about it before responding. What would you say if I offered you a chance to become a samurai?”
For the first time since being left alone with Basho, Masashi felt a sliver of fear run down his spine. The samurai were revered as the slayers of demonkin and the enforcers of justice. Any criminal who ran afoul a samurai would not survive to tell the tale. “B-but why me? I’m not even a commoner… I’m a street rat.” He looked down at the floor, hot with shame. He had forgotten what little etiquette he knew. Here he was, standing before a daimyo, as if there was any hope that they could be equals! He felt it prudent to kneel and clapped his hands together, as though he were praying. “Forgive me, Basho-sama… but I am a mere vagabond. I thank you for not allowing your retainer to kill me on the spot.”
“Nonsense!” spat Basho, and wagged his finger at the trembling thief. “Your eyes have something magical in them, child. I don’t know what it is, but I see it as some glimmer of hope. That’s what this place needs, more than jade or silver or even gold… although perhaps not more than good tea. There’s an astonishing deficit in—drat, I digress. Hope! This land needs hope! Now, I’ll ask you again, and your answer will be final. What say you, Masashi Yoshihiro, vagrant of the streets and potential servant of the daimyo Basho, to becoming a samurai?”
The silence that followed became saturated with meaning and expectation. Images danced behind Masashi’s closed eyelids, of him battling ronin and leaping from rooftops to tackle fleeing murderers. Others followed, some more fantastic… a trio of ogres brought down in an instant by steel flashes, a dragon’s severed head dragged back into the capital. A morbid picture ended the montage: Masashi, sitting, wakizashi poised in front of his abdomen as he prepared for seppuku. “I will become a samurai,” Masashi whispered.
“What’s that?! I’m nearly deaf, boy. You’ll need to be louder!”
“I will become a samurai,” Masashi muttered.
“Again!”
“I will become a samurai,” Masashi spoke.
“Once more!”
“I will become a samurai!” Masashi shouted, and opened his eyes. He looked up into Basho’s face. The daimyo was grinning like a madman, and for once Masashi felt welcome. Basho pointed towards the door and Masashi turned to stare at the swordsman from before and another boy about his age. Masashi felt himself blush, embarrassed by his own outburst, but Satori seemed amused. The other, however, wore an arrogant smirk.
“I know it’s sudden, Satori, but surely a samurai of your caliber can take on two apprentices at once?” Satori gave a curt nod and let a single, short chuckle pass from his lips. “Besides, this one’s special. I’m sure you’ll have some fun with him, at least.” The look of smugness immediately dropped off the new boy’s face. “Oh, Hideki. I didn’t notice you there.” However, Masashi was too excited to notice their veiled jabs and concealed politics. He felt giddy as Satori gestured for him to come over.
Satori knelt down to look Masashi in the eye. “Someday,” he vowed, “you will be as great as I am.”
And that is when Masashi’s life really began.
…
…
Time passed. The lunar cycled waxed and waned into fresh years, each with a new challenge. Masashi and Hideki grew, sparking a rivalry but also a friendship. However, Masashi was a skilled eavesdropper from his days as an urchin in the streets. He heard things about Hideki that worried him. Once, while he was guarding the daimyo during a tea ceremony with a collection of dignitaries and poets, he overheard them mention his fellow disciple’s name. His father had been a ronin, or so they said. Killer of his master and brethren, a man who had forgotten the Bushido and lived on the lam, Hideki’s father had been hunted down and executed after a brutal duel.
Unfortunately, they had been unaware of Hideki. Knowing that his latent potential would be immense if he took after his father, they had decided to train him, well aware of the risk. For their superstitious nature, this was a major gambit. When Masashi had made the discovery, he decided to hide it from his friend, unsure if Hideki already knew of his own tragic history. Masashi had been able to push the knowledge from his mind and continue along the path to becoming a great swordsman. Meanwhile, the dark seeds sown in Hideki at birth were beginning to grow…
Training had been difficult. They typically used wooden blades to prevent serious injury, but they could still hurt. Both apprentices had lost count of how many bruises and welts they’d suffered during their bi-daily spars, although towards the end of their tutelage even Satori had been hard-pressed to defeat them. Sometimes, when Basho was not busy with tea ceremonies and discussing philosophy with diplomats or other men of high status, he watched them and reminisced about his own days as a warrior. His most common story was a recounting of his battle with the dragon oni, a fearsome creature that still inspired terror in him even after all those years.
Hideki had grown bored of the minor variations and tended to daydream, but Masashi listened attentively each and every time. Afterwards, he would entertain the notion that perhaps one day he would do battle with some great monster. Sixteen years of tales and laboring in the castle courtyard or the dojo… Masashi had made friends among his fellows and among the daimyo’s servants. He enjoyed their expressions of shock or mock distaste whenever he told them of his mission to rescue a damsel in distress, and how he had been so captivated by her beauty that Satori and Hideki had to slay the tyrant who held her hostage. Yes, Masashi was a samurai, but that did not mean he wasn’t a man.
For these reasons Masashi couldn’t help but be startled when the sounds of steel on steel roused him from his sleep. A wet day in spring, when the storm clouds threatened to bring torrential rains… later, Masashi would find he couldn’t blame them. Even the heavens had right to weep upon that day, when darkness arrived and it chose Masashi’s door to knock upon. Normally, combat alone wouldn’t have been enough to draw his attention. Reckless trainees often tried to duel each other with metal weapons, and more often than not a finger was traded for their foolhardiness.
No, there was something else mixed in with the clashing blades. Yells, screams? Too many to be the work of dim-witted novices… Masashi slipped into his kimono as quickly as he could and sprinted down the corridor, fearing the worst. The sound of fighting grew louder as his footsteps became more urgent. A horrified knot built in his gut as he approached the daimyo’s chamber – its door was open and Masashi could see a scarlet splatter on the other side. He slipped in with his katana unsheathed, but what came next left him disoriented.
Four gruesome oni lay in pools of their own blood. Leather caps rolled around their corpses, and their skin was a ghostly pale, white as rice. Eyes the color of ice peered lifelessly up into the ceiling, and long hair the color of grain had been drenched with viscera. What were they? Cheap imitations of men? Masashi saw nothing remotely human in their barbaric appearances. They had more in common with trolls than with any man he had known. But far more disturbing than the sight of these dead creatures was the man standing at the center of the room.
His topknot had been severed to let sweat-soaked hair fall to shoulder length. The kimono that he had been wearing was shredded to reveal a dozen oozing wounds, but he didn’t seem to care about them. He wielded a katana: opposite him stood Satori, facing Masashi, who seemed to be protecting Basho from the familiar man. The daimyo’s lips were a tight line, lacking any of their usual enchantment and instead steeped in hatred. “Hideki…?” Masashi murmured, grey eyes wide with incomprehension. His eyes drifted through the room as he realized that not only the demon folk had been slain. Five, six, seven samurai lay in heaps, torn to shreds by whatever unstoppable force the oni had wielded.
Hideki grunted in response. “Another worm to whet my blade on. Satori, why did you jump to defend this old fool? That blow won’t kill you, but it will certainly drain this fight of any excitement. Then I’ll do away with Basho the jester and destroy the annoying pest that has tormented me for over a decade.” He cast a glance over his shoulder at Masashi, bloodlust apparent in his stare. “That will make up for your disappointment, Satori…”
“What’s going on?!” Masashi yelled. He couldn’t believe what he saw. Satori, Hideki…? Fighting?! There had been disagreements, of course, but this was inexcusable. Had Hideki really brought those oni to the castle?
“Masashi, stay back!” Satori replied, and let loose a roar before he engaged his former apprentice. Their swords were a whirlwind of crashing metal, determination seething from both of them. They weren’t sparring. Sparks flew as they locked blades, positions reversed. Masashi could now see the look of raw, unhidden loathing in Hideki’s eyes. He pressed onward, forcing Satori into a messy retreat. “I knew you were a waiting disaster the moment I laid eyes on you,” the samurai hissed. Masashi had never seen him so furious.
“You should be blaming that liar behind you for this. He’ll be the death of you, Satori.” Hideki showed no sign of stopping. “You promise power, but I am greater than any of you. Without Bushido to limit me, I’m unstoppable! I killed two of your pitiful guards effortlessly, Basho. Once I’m finished with the last two clowns, I’ll take your head and the invaders will send me to new lands.”
Basho blinked. The old man’s taut lips parted slightly. “Invaders?”
“Of course! You thought those unsightly beasts were oni? They’re men. The same men that ravaged this land when it was young. I discovered them two months ago at the shore, when you sent me to dispatch the siren that had been terrorizing the locals. They’d slaughtered her by the time I arrived and told me their purpose. They would have murdered me and crushed my bones into powder if I hadn’t struck a deal. But they are generous… they offered me passage to a larger, better continent if I showed them the easiest paths into every daimyo’s city. Right now, there are a score of them in every throne room. They will paint the wall with blood from your samurai dogs. No, I’m no longer bound by your hopeless code. I am a ronin!”
Satori had paused. Masashi supported himself on a stone pillar. Basho looked straight ahead, lost in thought. Hideki let a mad cackle interrupt their brief reverie and lashed out with his katana, intent on finishing the duel. Satori managed to parry the strike, but just barely. He stumbled backwards into a corpse and began to fall backward, but Hideki had sheathed his katana and rushed forward to steady him. Masashi dashed over to meet them when Satori twisted to look at him. “It’s a trick, Masashi! Don’t—agh…” A sliver of light emerged from his back, inviting a pained groan. Hideki stepped back, withdrawing his wakizashi from Satori’s abdomen. The samurai clutched his wound with both hands.
For a moment, the only sound was Satori’s blade clattering uselessly to the floor. Then Hideki chuckled maliciously. “You’re the one who executed my father, aren’t you? Executed him, after you ambushed him at night with the advantage of numbers, knowing all too well that he could defeat any one of you by himself. You talk as though you have any right to call yourselves ‘honorable’. The truth is that you’re—”
“Quiet yourself, insolent child!” Basho roared from his podium. Satori stared down into the jade engraving at his feet: an emerald cloud joining a crimson sky.
Hideki stepped back as Masashi approached. “I’m so exhausted…” the dying man murmured. His vision was blurring as he turned to face his pupil. Yes, perhaps one had been a failure, but this one had a chance. “Masashi, protect the daimyo.” A crimson thread trickled down his chin. His blue kimono was stained with red splotches, blood both his own and of the phantom men that had assaulted the castle. His head was ticked a centimeter to the side as he admired his own wound and the ooze that seeped from it. The only things separating his bowels from the floor were his crossed arms, but they were becoming increasingly useless and unresponsive.
“Master…” Masashi’s usually naïve face had frozen in a picture of shock and despair. Hideki looked at them, eyes glittering with amusement. He grinned wickedly as his former friend probed him for remorse, guilt, anything that could give him hope. Then Masashi’s face hardened. His expression became a stoic frown. “Satori. I’ll protect the daimyo from this scum and any of the invaders who follow.” Satisfied, Satori stepped back and let his arms dangle at his sides. He seemed at peace as he fell forward into a growing puddle of his own gore, face totally unlike the other fallen warriors. Theirs had been contorted in horror and fear, but Satori appeared comfortable with death.
Could he invest that much trust in his past apprentice? “You’re next, Masashi. Any last words?” Pompous. In response, Masashi unsheathed his katana and in one fluid motion clashed with Hideki. “Ohoho, confident, are we? I’ll change that.” He disengaged. Slash. Parry. Stab, slice, cut. Dodge, sidestep, parry, parry, counter, volley, assault. They continued for awhile, the duel playing out almost as though it had been choreographed. Hideki’s descent into madness only accelerated as Masashi pressed on with his assault, sweat forming dirty rivulets down the side of his face. Twice he was nearly decapitated; he wore a fresh set of scars to serve as permanent reminders of Hideki’s treachery. During a brief gap in the action, he shot a glance towards Basho.
The nearly ancient daimyo’s gaze was fixated on Satori’s body. The sudden jolt of grief that coursed through his limbs made his grip on the sword slacken. He brought his attention back to Hideki just as the ronin rushed him, poised to pierce his chest. He leapt backwards, buying himself a few precious seconds with which to say goodbye. A mosaic of past images danced before his eyes as the steel tip moved to skewer him, when a wet cry brought him reeling back towards reality. He had been looking at the daimyo’s throne, which had become mysteriously bare. Where had the old toad gone? Why had Satori been killed? Why had the fearsome men come with cruelty heavy on their hearts?
He turned to face the blade, now buried deep inside him. Had these last eighteen years been a dream? Was he sound asleep in a cardboard box somewhere on the streets of the seaside village where had been born and condemned to die? He waited for the shock to dissipate, for the lance of pain to electrify his extremities and bring his mind grinding to a slow halt. He waited, but to no avail. Another bubbling gasp – maybe his mind had been disconnected from his body and his passing would be painless. Masashi realized abruptly that he had squeezed his eyes shut in preparation and let them open, not wanting to leave the world a coward who could not face his own—
“Dai-daimyo?” His voice seemed to shrink away but he forced it back. Impossible. This… impossible. “Daimyo! What are you doing?” Basho had thrown himself in front of Hideki’s sword. A steel shard poked out of his back, so close that Masashi could touch it. The old man groaned and coughed, splattering blood on Hideki’s face. The self-styled ronin’s mouth hung open in awe.
“I- I’m not sure.” Weakness lined the daimyo’s voice. It was distant, almost peacefully so. “I saw the way you looked at me just then, and figured… well, if you die, I’ll be next anyway… And there’s something about your eyes, boy. Something strange about them. Be c—ugh!” Hideki twisted the blade, still mute, but with clear intentions. “Stop! Let an old man die with his signature speech, won’t you? Don’t rush me.” Basho spat a gout of blood at Hideki’s eye, emphasizing his distaste. “Be careful with those eyes, Masashi. You’ll get more people killed if you a- abuse them… So teach this imbecile a lesson for me, won’t you?” A massive smile spread lazily across Basho’s face. He closed his own eyes, satisfied with his speech. Then his lips parted one last time, “Oh, and one more thing… try and survive for me.”
“Yes, Ojii-san. I will survive for the whole country.”
“Yes. While you do that, I have a dragon to s- s- slay…” The last word trailed off into listlessness as Basho faded from the world. Hideki tossed his inert body off his katana, its blade gleaming a sick cerise in the pale shafts of light that illuminated the scene. The storm outside had cleared, giving way to radiance. The light painted their faces, giving them a look of reverence for the dead. Hideki wasted no time with words, striking immediately. Masashi returned the blow, locking them together. Both pushed with all the brunt strength they had, putting them in a position where their foreheads nearly touched.
Heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor. “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Hideki sneered, “I invited some friends over. I hope you don’t mind.” A gruesome image of the snow-faced invaders burned in Masashi’s mind. He reacted immediately, weaving his katana in an intricate pattern while keeping both blades pressed together. He spun it in a circular fashion, forcing their weapons up into a corner and leaving them both with a one-handed grip. Hideki’s used his limited freedom to grasp at the wakizashi sheathed at his waist, and Masashi gave a final push. He used their intertwined swords as a support so that he could jump away, saving him from Hideki’s vicious jab.
Their katanas clattered uselessly to the floor. Masashi drew his own wakizashi. ‘I have one chance,’ he decided, recognizing Hideki as the superior swordsman. ‘If this fails, then so will I.’ He darted forward, feinting a blow to his opponent’s left… and then he initiated his last ditch attempt at victory. Simultaneous sword slashes, the unique technique that he had been taught by Satori. Empowered by force of will, his wakizashi struck twice. One blow came from above, visible in a shimmer of descending steel. Hideki chose to sidestep, but the second slice was horizontal. He moved with the blade itself, earning a deep cut that came just short of disembowelment.
“What?!” he roared, bounding away. One arm hugged his new scar, soaking the sleeve of his kimono in seconds. On cue, a grey-white hand ripped through the doorway, followed by the head of a morningstar. Immediately, the brutish head of a barbaric creature not unlike those who had been dispatched earlier by the daimyo’s samurai burst through. Hideki smiled at the man – a feat Masashi didn’t think he would ever duplicate, considering the beast’s yellowed teeth and deep furrows under his eyes. “This is the only survivor! The old man is dead!” Hideki shouted in a language Masashi couldn’t recognize.
The invader’s head disappeared for a moment. “Tha’ girly-man got ‘em. Yeah! Bastards kill’t two ‘er three o us tho. Say, lessee what eh’s got as a slave.” Three of the monsters ripped through the wood like paper, showering themselves in splinters. They all looked the same to Masashi, who had never laid eyes upon foreigners before. They wielded graceless weapons, more fit to butcher livestock than to wield in combat. One of them perused the scene, taking apparent delight in the miserable air that saturated the room. “Ey, which o’ yous gonna git ‘im?”
“Do it yerself.”
The bulky warrior gave an exaggerated sigh and looked directly at Masashi. “Yer mine, girly-boy.” He unstrapped a blunt-looking club from his back, rotten teeth borne in a nasty grimace. The man was bound in grey and brown furs with leather armor underneath, and a horned iron cap sat atop his skull. His beard was braided into tendrils that swayed in front of his midriff. He took a clumsy swing at Masashi while his companions tended to Hideki. “Stay still why don’tcha?” Masashi wasn’t focused on the mock battle, however. He couldn’t focus on anything but Hideki’s face as it moved away.
For the first time, Masashi Yoshihiro felt a profound hatred. He looked at the garish invader for scarcely a second before lashing out at him, catching the giant off guard to send him stumbling backwards with a severed braid. He spun immediately to face Hideki, who had turned to find the source of all the commotion. “I’ll kill you, Hideki Nobunaga, I swear on the graves of our sensei and our daimyo!” He spat at the fallen samurai, the man who had caused him so much grief in only the last hour.
Hideki ‘s expression took on a demonic aspect. “If you survive the journey, I imagine the next time we meet it will be in distant lands.” The two hulking barbarians supported him. Masashi cursed himself for not eviscerating the dishonorable traitor when he’d been given the chance. He surmised that the wound he had dealt was mostly superfic-… He heard a loud ‘thump’ and lost all sense of touch, except for the soothing cold of the stone floor… “You took a fine opportunity to strike, Olaf.” Hideki was speaking in unfamiliar tongues.
“Yeh. Poor bastard nicked me, ye know. Shall we ship him off with the rest of the slaves?”
“Store his equipment. Give it to whoever purchases the poor dog. And try not to treat him too roughly… I want a fate worse than death for this one.”
“Aye.”
And then blackness swallowed Masashi up, like the ink of space might occasionally a star, and he tumbled into the welcoming sea of unconsciousness.
…
The ocean waves become wild once you journey far from land, but the mountain cherries remain as of old. Unless they have been burned already by these horrible, vile invaders whom words could not fully describe. He stared out into the abyssal blue, looking forward to another day of labor amongst fellow slaves. They treated him better than others: his lashings from the leather whip were shorter, less violent. His rations were less measly, and occasionally he suspected this of being a deliberate trick by Hideki. The other slaves despised him for his better treatment, and he had thought they would try something, but the journey was drawing to a close and they left him alone. Except for their dirty looks, anyway, but he had grown indifferent to those.
Hideki.
The word still came sour to his lips and left the taste of blood. Hideki. A throbbing knot of hatred buried deep inside his chest where once had lived his heart. Hideki had chosen another ship to ferry him across the sea to these supposed new lands. What had it been called? Masashi had begun to pick up on the raiders’ words, begun to understand their meaning. A port city, where they would sell this shipment of slaves and go on to other untouched countries in order to satiate their lusts – Scara Brae. Masashi nodded to himself in affirmation. That had definitely been its name.
Days had blurred into weeks. The samurai was sure they had spent many months at sea. The foreigners’ whispers told him they would arrive in mere days. He would need to make some attempt at escape during the transfer, lest he risk enslavement for the rest of his days. Work at the ship’s oars had kept him physically fit, and when he had a moment of privacy he would practice his footing and stances. This way he could keep from letting his senses grow dull for when his chance at escape surfaced… he would like nothing more than to draw a blade against his captors then and there, but at best he would doom the entire boat of slave.
He recognized plenty of men and women from different cultures and creeds. Some looked able-bodied and willing to fight, but Masashi had no interest in a revolution. Nay, all he needed to do was bide his time and strike at the perfect moment. So more time passed, hours waxing and waning with the rise and fall of the sun. Each day he heard the mantras of religious men and each night their apocryphal chants. Sometimes hypnagogic images of their faces danced beneath his closed eyes, tormenting him as he slept. They turned into pictures of the men who held them hostage and then of Hideki, Satori, Basho. He rarely dreamt, and when he did they were only nightmares. And one morning, after one such nightmare passed, he heard someone shout, “Land-ho!” Dozens of the other slaves shot upright at the words.
They were removed in groups of five, wheeled off to potential buyers. The men were too preoccupied with rum and mead to purchase handcuffs. They sent two escorts with each party. Masashi spied two fellow samurai from other prefectures, who he could recognize by their tattered obi sashes. The three of them nodded to each other in confirmation of their identities, but did not speak. One of the men accompanying them held Masashi’s weapons in his hands. He seemed perplexed, as though he wasn’t quite sure whether he was holding the elegant blades properly.
Luckily for Masashi, he wasn’t. They had clearly underestimated his lethality – as they grew farther and farther from the ship, to the point where the two invaders could scream and no one would hear them, Masashi struck. He unsheathed the wakizashi and in one smooth stroke spun, bringing the sword down on the surprised guard’s neck. Blood spurted from the deep cut before turning into a river that rushed down his back: the man lay in a crumpled heap at the samurai’s feet, twitching as he went through his death throes. He whirled to face the warrior’s partner, neatly parrying a blow from his longsword. They locked together for a moment before Masashi realized that his physical ability paled in comparison to the seasoned viking.
He surrendered their brief contest of strength to sidestep the slash. The dim-witted barbarian left himself open, and Masashi wasn’t in the mood for mercy. He stabbed the hideous gladiator just beneath the armpit, driving the wakizashi to the hilt. The man threw his arms up and roared, wrapping his hands around Masashi’s neck. The samurai felt the world vibrate as blackness slowly crept up on his vision, but he was in luck. Before long, his opponent succumbed to the grievous wound he had been dealt and collapsed backwards, landing with a small ‘thud’ next to his cohort.
He sheathed his wakizashi and retrieved the katana. The two commoners had already fled, leaving the three samurai. They stared at each other, recalling the atrocities that had befallen their friends and families. “Thank you,” one murmured to Masashi. The trio bowed and parted ways. Masashi had no doubt they both had already resigned to their new fates and would try to reintegrate into these new, prosperous lands, but Masashi knew who had caused their sudden destruction. Hideki’s smiling face appeared in his mind’s eye, and the samurai clenched his fists as fury blossomed in his chest.
“I will kill you, Hideki Nobunaga,” he vowed, and sped off into the depths of Scara Brae.
History was not yet done with Masashi Yoshihiro.
Skills:
Kenjutsu: The art of the Asian blade. Masashi is currently above average as a swordsman and a samurai, but hopes that he will be able to improve his skill.
-- Kenjutsu: Simultaneous Sword Slashes: Masashi seems to strike two times in the blink of an eye. The attack is typically vertical-horizontal, but may be either or. He can perform this technique three times a day.
Dexterity: Masashi has above average dexterity. He is faster, more agile, has better balance, is more coordinated, and has better reflexes than the average person. He is currently 1.5x more dexterous than a normal human being.
Rapid healing factor: Through meditation, Masashi can heal his wounds faster than most. Meditation also allows him to rest and regain more energy than usual. He can heal 1.5x faster than a regular man.
Equipment:
Weapons
--Katana: A steel katana, characterized by its curved, slender, single-edged blade. It is commonly associated with the samurai culture and has become a staple of their weaponry.
--Wakizashi: A steel wakizashi. The standard companion to a katana, it is similar in appearance but is fairly shorter. It is often used for ceremonious purposes and Masashi prefers to use his katana if at all possible. A wakizashi, for instance, may be used to commit seppuku (ritual suicide).
Armor
--Kimono: A silk kimono. Black, it is always tied with a red obi around the waist (which is where Masashi sheathes his swords). It offers little protection from anything but the elements.
--Clothing: Under his kimono Masashi often wears standard clothing. Like the kimono, it offers little protection, but may have some resistance to dull blades, blunt objects, and other such primitive weapons.
Accessories
None.
Other
--Backpack: Containing: standard survival gear, a fresh set of robes, basic med kit (needles for stitching up wounds, some cheap salves, etc), a hunting knife, a whetstone.
Familiars: None.
Other: Ambidextrous.
Name: Masashi Yoshihiro
Age: 28
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Grey
Height: 5’7”
Weight: 139 lbs.
Occupation: Ronin
Personality: First and foremost, Masashi cannot ally himself with another non-ronin samurai. Though he no longer adheres to the tenants of Bushido, he is aware of his status among other samurai and would not actively seek to besmirch another’s reputation. His master’s death marked him as dishonorable. He is somewhat superstitious, but typically does not voice his fears. He’s also surprisingly tolerant towards other races and cultures, even more so now that circumstances demand that he cast aside all previous bigotry instilled in him by his peoples’ teachings.
Masashi is soft-spoken, rarely lashing out towards others in speech, but is not difficult to get along with once he gets to know someone. He is values self-preservation, infinitely more willing to steal or even strike down an opponent than risk his own life; this is a side effect of his enslavement by the invaders. He follows an esoteric moral code of his own devising, and has expressed his love of art and nature both. Masashi has a pathological fear of loneliness, for to him isolation can make even the most honorable man but a hollow shell.
He loves green tea.
Appearance: Masashi stands at 5’7”, relatively short for most men but tall for his people. Discreet musculature is spread around his body, leading many to underestimate his strength. Though far from overwhelming, Masashi can definitely throw a punch. His straight, black hair is around shoulder length and always kept up in the form of a topknot, as is customary. Footwear consists of tabi socks and waraji sandals, allowing comfort without hindering movement in most situations. He wears a black kimono with a red obi sash, through which is thrust his katana (left side) and wakizashi (right). His tone of voice suggests far-off shores; his native tongue, lilting and eloquent, does well not to betray its speakers’ bigoted society.
A mask netsuke fashioned in the likeness of an oni’s face dangles from his sash. He wears a straw hat outside of battle and can frequently be seen sipping from his sake gourd. A thin beard and mustache remain unshaven, as much from necessity as from style. Masashi makes an effort to bathe consistently, but his Bohemian lifestyle frequently complicates matters, though he has never received a direct complaint regarding his hygiene. His eyes’ odd coloration, especially for his people, is partially what resulted in his current situation. Masashi’s parents believed they were a terrible omen and left him at the mercy of the streets. His eyes garnered the interest of a daimyo that saved him from whatever fate poverty would have for him, and his eyes will certainly have more in store for him as time goes on.
History:
The tale of Masashi Yoshihiro begins in a distant land. Though it is a place not wholly unlike Akashima in appearance and style, its traditions and customs are far too brutal by comparison. Superstition runs deep into the culture’s past. While the civilization was still young, invaders arrived and laid waste to its cities and people, wanton butchers with no respect for life or nature. What could have been a nation as peaceful as any other descended into brief anarchy, where territory wars between warrior clans became the norm. For nearly a century there was no government but whoever shed the most blood, no law but survival.
And then a man rose from the ashes of battle, defeating any who dared oppose him as he unified each clan with minimal bloodshed. When at last his campaign had run its course, he promised that any invaders who returned would be repelled with the ferocity of gods. Their past had already instilled a deep hatred and fear of outsiders, however. Once the civilized lands of Althanas caught wind of this burgeoning society, they sent ambassadors across the sea to meet its people. Each diplomat sent was one killed, until finally the island country became considered barbaric and all further expeditions were halted.
Time passed. The man who unified the clans fell victim to sickness, but this time there was no war. Instead, a new leader was elected by the chiefs of each tribe, and this way it continued for several centuries. History gave way to mythology and folklore, to literature and to art, and the land flourished without support from Althanas or anyone else. A new caste of feudal warrior arose: the samurai. Swordsmen without peer, their blades were said to pierce armor, to reap the souls of demons who trespassed in their great nation. Fear surfaced once more. Not fear of the invaders who had razed their cities centuries before, but fear of the samurai and the destruction they brought.
It is in this place that Masashi Yoshihiro was born. It is in this place that, the moment his eyes opened and his parents saw the atrocity of his grey eyes, that he was discarded and left in the street. They returned to their humble homestead and prayed, hoping that somehow they could be forgiven for bringing such an abomination into existence. They assumed that the gods would erase poor Masashi and that their sin would be forgotten by everyone but the streets. Unfortunately for them, the street finds its own uses for things…
A street urchin. He dressed in rags and lived in alleyways with others of his kind, living off what he was given or could steal. Passerbies were irritated by filthy hands groping at their pockets in hopes that a coin might spill from them. Unfortunately, Masashi had not always had the best judgment when choosing potential prey for his attempts at thievery. A samurai happened to be traveling through the village that day, en route to his daimyo’s castle after a successful mission. Masashi remembers clearly the sound of that blade unsheathing, the cold touch of metal to his bare cheek… Without saying a word Masashi was abducted by the samurai and deposited at the feet of his master.
The corpulent old toad rose from his makeshift throne to inspect the new arrival. “An imp,” his swordsman explained, “who I caught clawing at my pockets.” The man wore a grimace of disgust. Meanwhile, the daimyo’s wart-covered fingers pinched and poked at Masashi’s cheeks. The elder man’s eyes flicked to the left and ran a hand through the long beard that fell nearly to his waistline. “Do you want me to execute him?” The samurai seemed impatient. The sagely old man turned his head with deliberate slowness.
“No…” A thoughtful look was apparent on his elderly features. “Leave us for a moment, Satori-san. I will give you my decision once I have scrutinized this boy.” Though the daimyo’s subordinate looked annoyed, he gave a ceremonious boy and retreated. A moment of silence passed as they both listened to the soft footsteps pad away. A door slid open and slammed shut. Masashi was looking around the room in desperation, searching for an escape route. However, the only way out was through that door, and he didn’t know how fast—
“I was a samurai once, child,” interrupted the daimyo. He had turned around to face his throne. Masashi hadn’t noticed it in his haste to determine a way out, but there was a fantastic mural suspended behind the comfortable chair. In it a young man slashed at a dragon-like beast, katana slashing through a geyser of flame that threatened to engulf him. Even though the scene had been transmuted into a painting, the glare of determination in the samurai’s eyes was evident. “The dragon oni that threatened the capital forty years ago,” he explained.
“Y-you fought that th-thing?” Masashi stammered.
“Indeed,” said the old man without turning. “That is the power of a samurai who follows Bushido.”
“Awesome…”
“You too could wield that ability, child. What do they call you?”
“M-my name is Masashi. M-Masashi Yoshihiro,” Masashi replied, cursing his stutter.
The daimyo turned, lips upturned in a warm smile. “You can call me Ojii-san.” When Masashi blinked at how casual the name was, and dipped an eyebrow in doubt, the daimyo’s cheeks puffed out indignantly. The resemblance to a toad was startling. “Fine, fine. Call me… Basho-sama. Yes, that will suffice.” Basho gave Masashi a kind wink. “But Masashi-san, I have a question for you, and I suggest you think about it before responding. What would you say if I offered you a chance to become a samurai?”
For the first time since being left alone with Basho, Masashi felt a sliver of fear run down his spine. The samurai were revered as the slayers of demonkin and the enforcers of justice. Any criminal who ran afoul a samurai would not survive to tell the tale. “B-but why me? I’m not even a commoner… I’m a street rat.” He looked down at the floor, hot with shame. He had forgotten what little etiquette he knew. Here he was, standing before a daimyo, as if there was any hope that they could be equals! He felt it prudent to kneel and clapped his hands together, as though he were praying. “Forgive me, Basho-sama… but I am a mere vagabond. I thank you for not allowing your retainer to kill me on the spot.”
“Nonsense!” spat Basho, and wagged his finger at the trembling thief. “Your eyes have something magical in them, child. I don’t know what it is, but I see it as some glimmer of hope. That’s what this place needs, more than jade or silver or even gold… although perhaps not more than good tea. There’s an astonishing deficit in—drat, I digress. Hope! This land needs hope! Now, I’ll ask you again, and your answer will be final. What say you, Masashi Yoshihiro, vagrant of the streets and potential servant of the daimyo Basho, to becoming a samurai?”
The silence that followed became saturated with meaning and expectation. Images danced behind Masashi’s closed eyelids, of him battling ronin and leaping from rooftops to tackle fleeing murderers. Others followed, some more fantastic… a trio of ogres brought down in an instant by steel flashes, a dragon’s severed head dragged back into the capital. A morbid picture ended the montage: Masashi, sitting, wakizashi poised in front of his abdomen as he prepared for seppuku. “I will become a samurai,” Masashi whispered.
“What’s that?! I’m nearly deaf, boy. You’ll need to be louder!”
“I will become a samurai,” Masashi muttered.
“Again!”
“I will become a samurai,” Masashi spoke.
“Once more!”
“I will become a samurai!” Masashi shouted, and opened his eyes. He looked up into Basho’s face. The daimyo was grinning like a madman, and for once Masashi felt welcome. Basho pointed towards the door and Masashi turned to stare at the swordsman from before and another boy about his age. Masashi felt himself blush, embarrassed by his own outburst, but Satori seemed amused. The other, however, wore an arrogant smirk.
“I know it’s sudden, Satori, but surely a samurai of your caliber can take on two apprentices at once?” Satori gave a curt nod and let a single, short chuckle pass from his lips. “Besides, this one’s special. I’m sure you’ll have some fun with him, at least.” The look of smugness immediately dropped off the new boy’s face. “Oh, Hideki. I didn’t notice you there.” However, Masashi was too excited to notice their veiled jabs and concealed politics. He felt giddy as Satori gestured for him to come over.
Satori knelt down to look Masashi in the eye. “Someday,” he vowed, “you will be as great as I am.”
And that is when Masashi’s life really began.
…
…
Time passed. The lunar cycled waxed and waned into fresh years, each with a new challenge. Masashi and Hideki grew, sparking a rivalry but also a friendship. However, Masashi was a skilled eavesdropper from his days as an urchin in the streets. He heard things about Hideki that worried him. Once, while he was guarding the daimyo during a tea ceremony with a collection of dignitaries and poets, he overheard them mention his fellow disciple’s name. His father had been a ronin, or so they said. Killer of his master and brethren, a man who had forgotten the Bushido and lived on the lam, Hideki’s father had been hunted down and executed after a brutal duel.
Unfortunately, they had been unaware of Hideki. Knowing that his latent potential would be immense if he took after his father, they had decided to train him, well aware of the risk. For their superstitious nature, this was a major gambit. When Masashi had made the discovery, he decided to hide it from his friend, unsure if Hideki already knew of his own tragic history. Masashi had been able to push the knowledge from his mind and continue along the path to becoming a great swordsman. Meanwhile, the dark seeds sown in Hideki at birth were beginning to grow…
Training had been difficult. They typically used wooden blades to prevent serious injury, but they could still hurt. Both apprentices had lost count of how many bruises and welts they’d suffered during their bi-daily spars, although towards the end of their tutelage even Satori had been hard-pressed to defeat them. Sometimes, when Basho was not busy with tea ceremonies and discussing philosophy with diplomats or other men of high status, he watched them and reminisced about his own days as a warrior. His most common story was a recounting of his battle with the dragon oni, a fearsome creature that still inspired terror in him even after all those years.
Hideki had grown bored of the minor variations and tended to daydream, but Masashi listened attentively each and every time. Afterwards, he would entertain the notion that perhaps one day he would do battle with some great monster. Sixteen years of tales and laboring in the castle courtyard or the dojo… Masashi had made friends among his fellows and among the daimyo’s servants. He enjoyed their expressions of shock or mock distaste whenever he told them of his mission to rescue a damsel in distress, and how he had been so captivated by her beauty that Satori and Hideki had to slay the tyrant who held her hostage. Yes, Masashi was a samurai, but that did not mean he wasn’t a man.
For these reasons Masashi couldn’t help but be startled when the sounds of steel on steel roused him from his sleep. A wet day in spring, when the storm clouds threatened to bring torrential rains… later, Masashi would find he couldn’t blame them. Even the heavens had right to weep upon that day, when darkness arrived and it chose Masashi’s door to knock upon. Normally, combat alone wouldn’t have been enough to draw his attention. Reckless trainees often tried to duel each other with metal weapons, and more often than not a finger was traded for their foolhardiness.
No, there was something else mixed in with the clashing blades. Yells, screams? Too many to be the work of dim-witted novices… Masashi slipped into his kimono as quickly as he could and sprinted down the corridor, fearing the worst. The sound of fighting grew louder as his footsteps became more urgent. A horrified knot built in his gut as he approached the daimyo’s chamber – its door was open and Masashi could see a scarlet splatter on the other side. He slipped in with his katana unsheathed, but what came next left him disoriented.
Four gruesome oni lay in pools of their own blood. Leather caps rolled around their corpses, and their skin was a ghostly pale, white as rice. Eyes the color of ice peered lifelessly up into the ceiling, and long hair the color of grain had been drenched with viscera. What were they? Cheap imitations of men? Masashi saw nothing remotely human in their barbaric appearances. They had more in common with trolls than with any man he had known. But far more disturbing than the sight of these dead creatures was the man standing at the center of the room.
His topknot had been severed to let sweat-soaked hair fall to shoulder length. The kimono that he had been wearing was shredded to reveal a dozen oozing wounds, but he didn’t seem to care about them. He wielded a katana: opposite him stood Satori, facing Masashi, who seemed to be protecting Basho from the familiar man. The daimyo’s lips were a tight line, lacking any of their usual enchantment and instead steeped in hatred. “Hideki…?” Masashi murmured, grey eyes wide with incomprehension. His eyes drifted through the room as he realized that not only the demon folk had been slain. Five, six, seven samurai lay in heaps, torn to shreds by whatever unstoppable force the oni had wielded.
Hideki grunted in response. “Another worm to whet my blade on. Satori, why did you jump to defend this old fool? That blow won’t kill you, but it will certainly drain this fight of any excitement. Then I’ll do away with Basho the jester and destroy the annoying pest that has tormented me for over a decade.” He cast a glance over his shoulder at Masashi, bloodlust apparent in his stare. “That will make up for your disappointment, Satori…”
“What’s going on?!” Masashi yelled. He couldn’t believe what he saw. Satori, Hideki…? Fighting?! There had been disagreements, of course, but this was inexcusable. Had Hideki really brought those oni to the castle?
“Masashi, stay back!” Satori replied, and let loose a roar before he engaged his former apprentice. Their swords were a whirlwind of crashing metal, determination seething from both of them. They weren’t sparring. Sparks flew as they locked blades, positions reversed. Masashi could now see the look of raw, unhidden loathing in Hideki’s eyes. He pressed onward, forcing Satori into a messy retreat. “I knew you were a waiting disaster the moment I laid eyes on you,” the samurai hissed. Masashi had never seen him so furious.
“You should be blaming that liar behind you for this. He’ll be the death of you, Satori.” Hideki showed no sign of stopping. “You promise power, but I am greater than any of you. Without Bushido to limit me, I’m unstoppable! I killed two of your pitiful guards effortlessly, Basho. Once I’m finished with the last two clowns, I’ll take your head and the invaders will send me to new lands.”
Basho blinked. The old man’s taut lips parted slightly. “Invaders?”
“Of course! You thought those unsightly beasts were oni? They’re men. The same men that ravaged this land when it was young. I discovered them two months ago at the shore, when you sent me to dispatch the siren that had been terrorizing the locals. They’d slaughtered her by the time I arrived and told me their purpose. They would have murdered me and crushed my bones into powder if I hadn’t struck a deal. But they are generous… they offered me passage to a larger, better continent if I showed them the easiest paths into every daimyo’s city. Right now, there are a score of them in every throne room. They will paint the wall with blood from your samurai dogs. No, I’m no longer bound by your hopeless code. I am a ronin!”
Satori had paused. Masashi supported himself on a stone pillar. Basho looked straight ahead, lost in thought. Hideki let a mad cackle interrupt their brief reverie and lashed out with his katana, intent on finishing the duel. Satori managed to parry the strike, but just barely. He stumbled backwards into a corpse and began to fall backward, but Hideki had sheathed his katana and rushed forward to steady him. Masashi dashed over to meet them when Satori twisted to look at him. “It’s a trick, Masashi! Don’t—agh…” A sliver of light emerged from his back, inviting a pained groan. Hideki stepped back, withdrawing his wakizashi from Satori’s abdomen. The samurai clutched his wound with both hands.
For a moment, the only sound was Satori’s blade clattering uselessly to the floor. Then Hideki chuckled maliciously. “You’re the one who executed my father, aren’t you? Executed him, after you ambushed him at night with the advantage of numbers, knowing all too well that he could defeat any one of you by himself. You talk as though you have any right to call yourselves ‘honorable’. The truth is that you’re—”
“Quiet yourself, insolent child!” Basho roared from his podium. Satori stared down into the jade engraving at his feet: an emerald cloud joining a crimson sky.
Hideki stepped back as Masashi approached. “I’m so exhausted…” the dying man murmured. His vision was blurring as he turned to face his pupil. Yes, perhaps one had been a failure, but this one had a chance. “Masashi, protect the daimyo.” A crimson thread trickled down his chin. His blue kimono was stained with red splotches, blood both his own and of the phantom men that had assaulted the castle. His head was ticked a centimeter to the side as he admired his own wound and the ooze that seeped from it. The only things separating his bowels from the floor were his crossed arms, but they were becoming increasingly useless and unresponsive.
“Master…” Masashi’s usually naïve face had frozen in a picture of shock and despair. Hideki looked at them, eyes glittering with amusement. He grinned wickedly as his former friend probed him for remorse, guilt, anything that could give him hope. Then Masashi’s face hardened. His expression became a stoic frown. “Satori. I’ll protect the daimyo from this scum and any of the invaders who follow.” Satisfied, Satori stepped back and let his arms dangle at his sides. He seemed at peace as he fell forward into a growing puddle of his own gore, face totally unlike the other fallen warriors. Theirs had been contorted in horror and fear, but Satori appeared comfortable with death.
Could he invest that much trust in his past apprentice? “You’re next, Masashi. Any last words?” Pompous. In response, Masashi unsheathed his katana and in one fluid motion clashed with Hideki. “Ohoho, confident, are we? I’ll change that.” He disengaged. Slash. Parry. Stab, slice, cut. Dodge, sidestep, parry, parry, counter, volley, assault. They continued for awhile, the duel playing out almost as though it had been choreographed. Hideki’s descent into madness only accelerated as Masashi pressed on with his assault, sweat forming dirty rivulets down the side of his face. Twice he was nearly decapitated; he wore a fresh set of scars to serve as permanent reminders of Hideki’s treachery. During a brief gap in the action, he shot a glance towards Basho.
The nearly ancient daimyo’s gaze was fixated on Satori’s body. The sudden jolt of grief that coursed through his limbs made his grip on the sword slacken. He brought his attention back to Hideki just as the ronin rushed him, poised to pierce his chest. He leapt backwards, buying himself a few precious seconds with which to say goodbye. A mosaic of past images danced before his eyes as the steel tip moved to skewer him, when a wet cry brought him reeling back towards reality. He had been looking at the daimyo’s throne, which had become mysteriously bare. Where had the old toad gone? Why had Satori been killed? Why had the fearsome men come with cruelty heavy on their hearts?
He turned to face the blade, now buried deep inside him. Had these last eighteen years been a dream? Was he sound asleep in a cardboard box somewhere on the streets of the seaside village where had been born and condemned to die? He waited for the shock to dissipate, for the lance of pain to electrify his extremities and bring his mind grinding to a slow halt. He waited, but to no avail. Another bubbling gasp – maybe his mind had been disconnected from his body and his passing would be painless. Masashi realized abruptly that he had squeezed his eyes shut in preparation and let them open, not wanting to leave the world a coward who could not face his own—
“Dai-daimyo?” His voice seemed to shrink away but he forced it back. Impossible. This… impossible. “Daimyo! What are you doing?” Basho had thrown himself in front of Hideki’s sword. A steel shard poked out of his back, so close that Masashi could touch it. The old man groaned and coughed, splattering blood on Hideki’s face. The self-styled ronin’s mouth hung open in awe.
“I- I’m not sure.” Weakness lined the daimyo’s voice. It was distant, almost peacefully so. “I saw the way you looked at me just then, and figured… well, if you die, I’ll be next anyway… And there’s something about your eyes, boy. Something strange about them. Be c—ugh!” Hideki twisted the blade, still mute, but with clear intentions. “Stop! Let an old man die with his signature speech, won’t you? Don’t rush me.” Basho spat a gout of blood at Hideki’s eye, emphasizing his distaste. “Be careful with those eyes, Masashi. You’ll get more people killed if you a- abuse them… So teach this imbecile a lesson for me, won’t you?” A massive smile spread lazily across Basho’s face. He closed his own eyes, satisfied with his speech. Then his lips parted one last time, “Oh, and one more thing… try and survive for me.”
“Yes, Ojii-san. I will survive for the whole country.”
“Yes. While you do that, I have a dragon to s- s- slay…” The last word trailed off into listlessness as Basho faded from the world. Hideki tossed his inert body off his katana, its blade gleaming a sick cerise in the pale shafts of light that illuminated the scene. The storm outside had cleared, giving way to radiance. The light painted their faces, giving them a look of reverence for the dead. Hideki wasted no time with words, striking immediately. Masashi returned the blow, locking them together. Both pushed with all the brunt strength they had, putting them in a position where their foreheads nearly touched.
Heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor. “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Hideki sneered, “I invited some friends over. I hope you don’t mind.” A gruesome image of the snow-faced invaders burned in Masashi’s mind. He reacted immediately, weaving his katana in an intricate pattern while keeping both blades pressed together. He spun it in a circular fashion, forcing their weapons up into a corner and leaving them both with a one-handed grip. Hideki’s used his limited freedom to grasp at the wakizashi sheathed at his waist, and Masashi gave a final push. He used their intertwined swords as a support so that he could jump away, saving him from Hideki’s vicious jab.
Their katanas clattered uselessly to the floor. Masashi drew his own wakizashi. ‘I have one chance,’ he decided, recognizing Hideki as the superior swordsman. ‘If this fails, then so will I.’ He darted forward, feinting a blow to his opponent’s left… and then he initiated his last ditch attempt at victory. Simultaneous sword slashes, the unique technique that he had been taught by Satori. Empowered by force of will, his wakizashi struck twice. One blow came from above, visible in a shimmer of descending steel. Hideki chose to sidestep, but the second slice was horizontal. He moved with the blade itself, earning a deep cut that came just short of disembowelment.
“What?!” he roared, bounding away. One arm hugged his new scar, soaking the sleeve of his kimono in seconds. On cue, a grey-white hand ripped through the doorway, followed by the head of a morningstar. Immediately, the brutish head of a barbaric creature not unlike those who had been dispatched earlier by the daimyo’s samurai burst through. Hideki smiled at the man – a feat Masashi didn’t think he would ever duplicate, considering the beast’s yellowed teeth and deep furrows under his eyes. “This is the only survivor! The old man is dead!” Hideki shouted in a language Masashi couldn’t recognize.
The invader’s head disappeared for a moment. “Tha’ girly-man got ‘em. Yeah! Bastards kill’t two ‘er three o us tho. Say, lessee what eh’s got as a slave.” Three of the monsters ripped through the wood like paper, showering themselves in splinters. They all looked the same to Masashi, who had never laid eyes upon foreigners before. They wielded graceless weapons, more fit to butcher livestock than to wield in combat. One of them perused the scene, taking apparent delight in the miserable air that saturated the room. “Ey, which o’ yous gonna git ‘im?”
“Do it yerself.”
The bulky warrior gave an exaggerated sigh and looked directly at Masashi. “Yer mine, girly-boy.” He unstrapped a blunt-looking club from his back, rotten teeth borne in a nasty grimace. The man was bound in grey and brown furs with leather armor underneath, and a horned iron cap sat atop his skull. His beard was braided into tendrils that swayed in front of his midriff. He took a clumsy swing at Masashi while his companions tended to Hideki. “Stay still why don’tcha?” Masashi wasn’t focused on the mock battle, however. He couldn’t focus on anything but Hideki’s face as it moved away.
For the first time, Masashi Yoshihiro felt a profound hatred. He looked at the garish invader for scarcely a second before lashing out at him, catching the giant off guard to send him stumbling backwards with a severed braid. He spun immediately to face Hideki, who had turned to find the source of all the commotion. “I’ll kill you, Hideki Nobunaga, I swear on the graves of our sensei and our daimyo!” He spat at the fallen samurai, the man who had caused him so much grief in only the last hour.
Hideki ‘s expression took on a demonic aspect. “If you survive the journey, I imagine the next time we meet it will be in distant lands.” The two hulking barbarians supported him. Masashi cursed himself for not eviscerating the dishonorable traitor when he’d been given the chance. He surmised that the wound he had dealt was mostly superfic-… He heard a loud ‘thump’ and lost all sense of touch, except for the soothing cold of the stone floor… “You took a fine opportunity to strike, Olaf.” Hideki was speaking in unfamiliar tongues.
“Yeh. Poor bastard nicked me, ye know. Shall we ship him off with the rest of the slaves?”
“Store his equipment. Give it to whoever purchases the poor dog. And try not to treat him too roughly… I want a fate worse than death for this one.”
“Aye.”
And then blackness swallowed Masashi up, like the ink of space might occasionally a star, and he tumbled into the welcoming sea of unconsciousness.
…
The ocean waves become wild once you journey far from land, but the mountain cherries remain as of old. Unless they have been burned already by these horrible, vile invaders whom words could not fully describe. He stared out into the abyssal blue, looking forward to another day of labor amongst fellow slaves. They treated him better than others: his lashings from the leather whip were shorter, less violent. His rations were less measly, and occasionally he suspected this of being a deliberate trick by Hideki. The other slaves despised him for his better treatment, and he had thought they would try something, but the journey was drawing to a close and they left him alone. Except for their dirty looks, anyway, but he had grown indifferent to those.
Hideki.
The word still came sour to his lips and left the taste of blood. Hideki. A throbbing knot of hatred buried deep inside his chest where once had lived his heart. Hideki had chosen another ship to ferry him across the sea to these supposed new lands. What had it been called? Masashi had begun to pick up on the raiders’ words, begun to understand their meaning. A port city, where they would sell this shipment of slaves and go on to other untouched countries in order to satiate their lusts – Scara Brae. Masashi nodded to himself in affirmation. That had definitely been its name.
Days had blurred into weeks. The samurai was sure they had spent many months at sea. The foreigners’ whispers told him they would arrive in mere days. He would need to make some attempt at escape during the transfer, lest he risk enslavement for the rest of his days. Work at the ship’s oars had kept him physically fit, and when he had a moment of privacy he would practice his footing and stances. This way he could keep from letting his senses grow dull for when his chance at escape surfaced… he would like nothing more than to draw a blade against his captors then and there, but at best he would doom the entire boat of slave.
He recognized plenty of men and women from different cultures and creeds. Some looked able-bodied and willing to fight, but Masashi had no interest in a revolution. Nay, all he needed to do was bide his time and strike at the perfect moment. So more time passed, hours waxing and waning with the rise and fall of the sun. Each day he heard the mantras of religious men and each night their apocryphal chants. Sometimes hypnagogic images of their faces danced beneath his closed eyes, tormenting him as he slept. They turned into pictures of the men who held them hostage and then of Hideki, Satori, Basho. He rarely dreamt, and when he did they were only nightmares. And one morning, after one such nightmare passed, he heard someone shout, “Land-ho!” Dozens of the other slaves shot upright at the words.
They were removed in groups of five, wheeled off to potential buyers. The men were too preoccupied with rum and mead to purchase handcuffs. They sent two escorts with each party. Masashi spied two fellow samurai from other prefectures, who he could recognize by their tattered obi sashes. The three of them nodded to each other in confirmation of their identities, but did not speak. One of the men accompanying them held Masashi’s weapons in his hands. He seemed perplexed, as though he wasn’t quite sure whether he was holding the elegant blades properly.
Luckily for Masashi, he wasn’t. They had clearly underestimated his lethality – as they grew farther and farther from the ship, to the point where the two invaders could scream and no one would hear them, Masashi struck. He unsheathed the wakizashi and in one smooth stroke spun, bringing the sword down on the surprised guard’s neck. Blood spurted from the deep cut before turning into a river that rushed down his back: the man lay in a crumpled heap at the samurai’s feet, twitching as he went through his death throes. He whirled to face the warrior’s partner, neatly parrying a blow from his longsword. They locked together for a moment before Masashi realized that his physical ability paled in comparison to the seasoned viking.
He surrendered their brief contest of strength to sidestep the slash. The dim-witted barbarian left himself open, and Masashi wasn’t in the mood for mercy. He stabbed the hideous gladiator just beneath the armpit, driving the wakizashi to the hilt. The man threw his arms up and roared, wrapping his hands around Masashi’s neck. The samurai felt the world vibrate as blackness slowly crept up on his vision, but he was in luck. Before long, his opponent succumbed to the grievous wound he had been dealt and collapsed backwards, landing with a small ‘thud’ next to his cohort.
He sheathed his wakizashi and retrieved the katana. The two commoners had already fled, leaving the three samurai. They stared at each other, recalling the atrocities that had befallen their friends and families. “Thank you,” one murmured to Masashi. The trio bowed and parted ways. Masashi had no doubt they both had already resigned to their new fates and would try to reintegrate into these new, prosperous lands, but Masashi knew who had caused their sudden destruction. Hideki’s smiling face appeared in his mind’s eye, and the samurai clenched his fists as fury blossomed in his chest.
“I will kill you, Hideki Nobunaga,” he vowed, and sped off into the depths of Scara Brae.
History was not yet done with Masashi Yoshihiro.
Skills:
Kenjutsu: The art of the Asian blade. Masashi is currently above average as a swordsman and a samurai, but hopes that he will be able to improve his skill.
-- Kenjutsu: Simultaneous Sword Slashes: Masashi seems to strike two times in the blink of an eye. The attack is typically vertical-horizontal, but may be either or. He can perform this technique three times a day.
Dexterity: Masashi has above average dexterity. He is faster, more agile, has better balance, is more coordinated, and has better reflexes than the average person. He is currently 1.5x more dexterous than a normal human being.
Rapid healing factor: Through meditation, Masashi can heal his wounds faster than most. Meditation also allows him to rest and regain more energy than usual. He can heal 1.5x faster than a regular man.
Equipment:
Weapons
--Katana: A steel katana, characterized by its curved, slender, single-edged blade. It is commonly associated with the samurai culture and has become a staple of their weaponry.
--Wakizashi: A steel wakizashi. The standard companion to a katana, it is similar in appearance but is fairly shorter. It is often used for ceremonious purposes and Masashi prefers to use his katana if at all possible. A wakizashi, for instance, may be used to commit seppuku (ritual suicide).
Armor
--Kimono: A silk kimono. Black, it is always tied with a red obi around the waist (which is where Masashi sheathes his swords). It offers little protection from anything but the elements.
--Clothing: Under his kimono Masashi often wears standard clothing. Like the kimono, it offers little protection, but may have some resistance to dull blades, blunt objects, and other such primitive weapons.
Accessories
None.
Other
--Backpack: Containing: standard survival gear, a fresh set of robes, basic med kit (needles for stitching up wounds, some cheap salves, etc), a hunting knife, a whetstone.
Familiars: None.
Other: Ambidextrous.