1 Inside the skin of a dog, outside the hide of a tiger. [Private / Kumogakure Arc] Thu Jul 04, 2019 2:08 am
Watsuji
D-rank
"You will die, foolish boy. The last five years you have lived a slave, and you intend to take your freedom and plunge it back into the grasp of your captor?" Hideyoshi sat, legs crossed in front of the fireplace as Miyamoto, Watsuji sharpened Mother's Bequest. The sound of steel sliding against the whetstone was unpleasant for most, but each time it rung out the samurai felt his ambition growing. He had not the time during his servitude to learn any new techniques, nor had he accumulated any money with which to purchase finer equipment. He had only the body he was born with, the gifts and bestowed weaponry he had been given by those who mattered most, and a heart full of rage.
The Miyamoto village in which Watsuji had called home all of his life had been abandoned by the soldiers of Kumogakure who claimed it under Hastur overnight. Something had sent them fleeing. His people were still trying to piece together what they could for a living. Mother and Father had no idea that the Ronin was readying himself for a showdown with the man who sliced the cap from a mountain. His blue hair had darkened, his body had grown tall and muscular. And that natural bright glow in the young boy's eyes had hardened into a fiery amber. Gray robes with olive accents upon the seams and detailing wrapped around his body as a straw hat sat comfortably upon his hat, obscuring his eyes.
It was the midst of the night when he slipped away toward Kumogakure. One could still see the smoke rising as the village sat upon the horizon. This irrational act was sure to come with consequences. Hideyoshi never allowed him to forget about consequences when anger overtook the younger Miyamoto. The criss cross patterns of deep lashing scars across his pale back represented one thousand unheeded warnings from the ancestor spirit. It was all too much to simply ignore though. The small, rambunctious, lighthearted boy who stood here years before was all but washed away by a need for vengeance.
The journey itself seemed to pass in an instant. His village wasn't far from his destination. The gates were ablaze, or what was left of them. A trail of destruction seemed to be carved through the village itself. He would take advantage of the chaos, keeping a steady pace as he kept one hand on Mother's bequest, heading northeast within the village, away from any chaos which might have been unfolding. What looked to be civilians rushed through the streets, direct east. It was likely that they knew of another way out. As Watsuji passed through the smoke which blew in from his flank, he would seek to enter one of the presumably empty homes for a moment to gather his thoughts and establish a base of operations. In this sort of chaos, he needed to act quickly to take advantage. He would grasp the door knob and twist.
What he found within was not an empty home, but a man, woman, and child huddled together in the corner. The man held what looked like an ornamental wakizashi out in front of himself and his family. Sweat dripped from his brow and mingled with tears as he let out a single, simple request.
"Please, don't harm my family." With his back to the outside, Watsuji stood shocked. He would never harm innocent people like them. He was ashamed about having struck fear into their hearts this way. Who was the source of the disarray that seemed to be sweeping through the village? What had stricken these people so full of fear?
"I won't. And neither will anyone else." Watsuji would say sternly as he closed the door and turned back toward the outside. A small workshop was attached to the side of the house. It was haphazardly constructed and clearly not ready to handle real projects. But it would work for a small base of operation for Watsuji. At least for now.
WC: 677
The Miyamoto village in which Watsuji had called home all of his life had been abandoned by the soldiers of Kumogakure who claimed it under Hastur overnight. Something had sent them fleeing. His people were still trying to piece together what they could for a living. Mother and Father had no idea that the Ronin was readying himself for a showdown with the man who sliced the cap from a mountain. His blue hair had darkened, his body had grown tall and muscular. And that natural bright glow in the young boy's eyes had hardened into a fiery amber. Gray robes with olive accents upon the seams and detailing wrapped around his body as a straw hat sat comfortably upon his hat, obscuring his eyes.
It was the midst of the night when he slipped away toward Kumogakure. One could still see the smoke rising as the village sat upon the horizon. This irrational act was sure to come with consequences. Hideyoshi never allowed him to forget about consequences when anger overtook the younger Miyamoto. The criss cross patterns of deep lashing scars across his pale back represented one thousand unheeded warnings from the ancestor spirit. It was all too much to simply ignore though. The small, rambunctious, lighthearted boy who stood here years before was all but washed away by a need for vengeance.
The journey itself seemed to pass in an instant. His village wasn't far from his destination. The gates were ablaze, or what was left of them. A trail of destruction seemed to be carved through the village itself. He would take advantage of the chaos, keeping a steady pace as he kept one hand on Mother's bequest, heading northeast within the village, away from any chaos which might have been unfolding. What looked to be civilians rushed through the streets, direct east. It was likely that they knew of another way out. As Watsuji passed through the smoke which blew in from his flank, he would seek to enter one of the presumably empty homes for a moment to gather his thoughts and establish a base of operations. In this sort of chaos, he needed to act quickly to take advantage. He would grasp the door knob and twist.
What he found within was not an empty home, but a man, woman, and child huddled together in the corner. The man held what looked like an ornamental wakizashi out in front of himself and his family. Sweat dripped from his brow and mingled with tears as he let out a single, simple request.
"Please, don't harm my family." With his back to the outside, Watsuji stood shocked. He would never harm innocent people like them. He was ashamed about having struck fear into their hearts this way. Who was the source of the disarray that seemed to be sweeping through the village? What had stricken these people so full of fear?
"I won't. And neither will anyone else." Watsuji would say sternly as he closed the door and turned back toward the outside. A small workshop was attached to the side of the house. It was haphazardly constructed and clearly not ready to handle real projects. But it would work for a small base of operation for Watsuji. At least for now.
WC: 677