Nightmares

A blade bathed in crimson flashed in the moonlight. Its smooth, delicate arcs went from left to right, right to left, and then back again before disappearing from view as quickly as it had appeared leaving only inky blackness in its wake as an errant cloud swallowed the moon. When the moonlight returned, Yasahiro Yagami, the eldest of his family, found himself alone on a desolate plain in the middle of nowhere.

Left to right, right to left, and then back again he looked before finding nothing—he was alone. He was alone, and yet unseen eyes followed his every movement. Hiding just beyond his vision they bore into his very soul and through it until he could take it no more. Spinning around in a flourish, he revealed nothing more than the same empty plain he'd seen before. There was neither flash of movement nor hint of disturbance; whoever—or whatever—it was moved faster than the eye could follow or, perhaps, it did not move at all.

Die, brother.

The deep, familiar voice came from everywhere at once, and the clouds devoured the moon once more. Then came the pain, the excruciating pain of an object being driven through his back and out his chest. It burned like a heated spike and pushed the breath from the exile's body in an unholy wail. Left to right, right to left, and then back again he looked in vain, there was no one there, just an empty plain in the middle of nowhere.

Falling backward, his moorings to mortality loosen and finally snapped in an unceremonious end. Whatever pain he should have felt didn't register as he gazed at the blade—his blade—blooming out of his chest in the returning moonlight. This time it was his blood that bathed the blade in shots and gouts of his feeble life. Left to right, right to left, and then back to the now cloudless sky the exile's eyes darted this way and that before losing their light as his final breath escaped his lips without a word.

For the fourth time that night, Yasahiro Yagami, the eldest of his family, died.

Life, as it so often did in such matters, returned to the slumbering samurai in a gasp as he bolted up in bed. Sheets drenched in sweat, head pounding, and eyes bloodshot, the exile clutched his unwounded chest—it was all a dream, nothing more.

No, a nightmare.
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WC: 408

Morning, as it so often did in the early spring, snuck up on the Land of Rice. The sun inched over the horizon bit by bit, swallows flitted about soundlessly through the fast-brightening sky, and the low-lying mist of the night before burned off in lackadaisical spools to reveal the rolling landscape beneath it. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed announcing the new day to the world and, if he focused his senses, Yasahiro could just make out the creak and cracks of the other inhabitants of the inn moving about as they started their days.

It all should have been relaxing.

And yet, the samurai's head felt ready to split open. His thoughts raced, his vision dropped in and out of focus, and his heart seemed to beat at an irregular pattern in his chest. Indeed, if the man hadn't known any better he would have assumed he was poisoned or, at the very least, hungover. Rather than anything nefarious or negligent, it was a lack of sleep. Each time he closed his eyes the vision of the sword sprouting from his chest flashed back in an instant keeping him in a perpetual state between unconsciousness and consciousness—an altogether unhelpful state to be in when one needs meaningful rest.

Nonetheless, it wouldn't do to spend the entire day in bed.

Wrapping himself in a robe, the samurai made his way to the small kitchenette and put some water on to boil before returning to his bed. At his bedside, the blade of the misguided Hyuuga youth sat untouched since that unfortunate day, and, as had become routine, Yasahiro's gaze came to rest on it. What had driven that boy to such extremes? Did he have a family somewhere worrying about him? Why had had he so readily courted death? All these questions and more tumbled about the man's mind until the building growl of the kettle brought him back to reality.

Somewhere between the Land of Iron and the Land of Rice, he found the simple pleasure of a hot cup of tea and a good view did wonders for his oft scattered mind. This particular morning, it was a small cup of ginger tea and the view of Gaikotsu bay from the balcony adjoining his small room. Leaning against the railing, the exile inhaled deeply and tried his best to block out the sound of his neighbors three doors down already yammering away—the newly married couple were far too loud for Yasahiro's liking.

Perhaps it was time to move on.
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TWC: 828

Later that morning Yasahiro Yagami checked out of the Temo & Temo Inn for the last time. Sword at his side, bag on his back, and a farewell shot of sake from the innkeepers in his stomach, the samurai made his way down the coast at a steady, confident pace. To his right lay the uniform rows of the crop that lent the land its name, while to his left spread the vast expanse of the unruly Gaikotsu Bay churning with intermittent white caps. It didn't take a sage to appreciate the beauty of the untouched coast; there was just something special about curated humanity and untamed nature meeting so harmoniously that drew the exile ever further down the coast.

"You there, halt!"

The uneven staccato of hooves accompanying the command brought the samurai to a standstill as a horse cantered up on his right and came to a stop as well. The rider, a gruff-looking man with a long pike at his side and a beady pair of eyes, seemed to be sizing up the lone swordsman as his gaze came to rest on the blade by the samurai's side. In those beady eyes glinted a dangerous glint of recognition—the hilt of a kunai fell soundlessly into the samurai's hidden hand on the opposite side of the rider.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" Yasahiro asked, his tone even and calm.

"Hmm," the glint of recognition faded from the gruff-looking man's eyes. "I thought you were someone else, doesn't matter."

Tension ebbed from the samurai's body as the gruff-looking man half nodded to the sword at Yasahiro's hip.

"Regardless, if a man of your talents is ever interested in work, my Lord is always in need of another sword. He pays well—"

"Thank you," the exile cut the man off. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Suit yourself, I suppose."

The gruff-looking man scoffed and spit off the far side of his horse before urging it back into a canter revealing the blood moon emblem of Zukumiki, self-proclaimed warlord of the Rice and scourge of the countryside. Seeing this, Yasahiro half considered sending the rider home with a blade in his back and even went so far as to shift his grip on the hidden kunai. Soon, however, the moment passed as both the horse and its rider became fast-shrinking specks followed by a considerable cloud of dust.

In the distance, a defiant structure overlooking Gaikotsu Bay came into focus: Okada Castle, home of Lord Kita.

Now was the time for action.
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Exit.
TWC: 1252
+ 1252/1500 to learning the lightning element with full stat discount (25%)

Approved