Shu

S A M A Y O K E N

Everything was a blur to Natsumi. Those who knew the young woman had called her many things before; kind, witty, focused, devoted. But as her brother lead her away from the fallen shape of their father and as she watched as their home burned against a blackened sky Natsumi felt only fear and a deepening loss that swelled within her. Her wit and sense of attentiveness had abandoned her, the sounds of battle clouded her thoughts and she felt as if she was looking through someone else’ eyes. Was this a terrible dream? A vision? No, far from it. The screams of dying Saitō and Ikari samurai were very real, as was the acrid smell of smoke, sulfur, and blood. The fires lit by the Oda were engulfing the walls of the castle and parts of Tatsuoki’s estate were aflame as well. The cheers and bloodthirsty war cries of the foul Oda sent waves of terror through Natsumi as her brother lead her by the wrist. First to collect fistfuls of koku and then to the edge of the walls where he saw them both down the hillside. Natsumi could hear her brother speak, she looked into his face as he gave her directive - all she could do was nod dumbly. Her mouth half open and her face unmoving like a statues’ visage.

Natsumi quickly knew that her brother could see that she was in a terrified stupor. A part of her would be fearful that her brother would be uncertain by his sisters’ current state of mind. While Ichiro was a capable young man and had always done his father and clan proud there was always an unspoken truth between the two siblings. Ichiro was strong, he was wise for his age, and he was calm more oft than not - Natsumi however always seemed to be the wittier of the two. Always a step even and at times a step ahead of her brother when facing uncertainty or even danger. Ichiro had come to accept with age that there was no shame in looking to his sister for guidance even if some might see it as a sign of weakness. Ichiro never seemed to care. And yet here was Natsumi now dangling like a doll from her brothers’ hand as he guided her through the dense forest that covered the face of the mountain on which Inabayama sat. Brush slapped at their faces and vines pulled at their arms and legs as they rushed to escape before the Oda finished their foul plundering of the Saitō clans’ home. The only things the pair had aside from what they wore was their fathers’ helmet and sword and a box of their mothers’ jewelry which Natsumi squeezed tightly under one arm.

The downward running seemed never to end. The forest continued to claw and grab at the two Ikari youth as they continued to descend, leaping together over brambles and sidestepping thick tree trunks. In the distance Natsumi could make out the blackened, ashy remains of Inoguchi - a town near Inabayama. Only the worst could be assumed as to what happened to the townsfolk and as she continued her forced run with Ichiro, Natsumi felt a wave of sorrow as she thought back to all the times her father had taken she and Ichiro into town with him, be it to deal with the merchants or meet with his clan’s retainers or other associates that lived in Inoguchi. The whole world she and her brother knew was burning and crumbling around them and all they could do was run like scared children. Perhaps that is all they were.

The sounds of battle wavered and grew distant as Ichiro and Natsumi finally reached the bottom of the mountain, the earth flattening beneath their tired legs as they both found themselves gasping for new breath. Natsumi turned and looked back up towards the castle, now far from them. The fires were dying but the black smoke had covered the sky above like a wicked, dark shroud of death that now hung over the fallen Saitō clan. The battle was over - there was no longer the ring of blades, explosions of black powder, and cries of men. The Oda had won the. Inabayama had fallen.

Natsumi faced her brother, her eyes still red from crying and even now fresh tears brimmed at the bottom of her lids as lament filled her beautiful face. She asked her brother a simple but jarring question. “What do we do, Ichiro?”

How high can we count before a mod gets involved?

348

Ban the User Above You

Banned for being beyond the Veil.

Last Comment Wins!

🎃

What Are You Listening To?

FORGOTTEN REALMS - Gambit of Scoundrels

There was single loud roar of pain as the last of the brigands fell, the larger half-orc that seemed to have lead the murderous bunch crumbled to the snow - blood pouring out from a gaping wound in his chest. The heavily armored swordsman had finally broken through the orc-blood’s armor and at his first opening delivered a deep wound that brought down the fiend. With a savage shout the man swung his blade down and with a keen slice cut the half-orc’s hideous head from it’s shoulders.

“Is that all of them?” asked one of the halflings, gripping tightly on his twin daggers as he looked around. Everyone was breathing heavily and a veil of paranoia hung low in the wake of the clash. After the loud - if short - cacophony of battle the sudden silence was rather jarring.

“I believe it is.” said the golden-haired Helmite as she sheathed her weapon.

“How can we be sure?” barked one of the swordsmen, eyeing the treeline like a hound watching for a fleeing hare.

“If there were others they would have joined their fellows,” the Helmite said loudly, “it seems these blackguards intended to overwhelm us quickly and precisely.”

“Which they failed to do.” chimed in the other halfling.

“We should not be so self-assure,” said one of the other hirelings, “we lost four of our number and the wagon driver. And we have several wounded.”

Everyone moved in close around the wagon, keeping their eyes peeled for any movement in the trees or along the river. The wounded were few, aside from Leon the large swordsman had a long, deep gash on his left arm which he gingerly tended on his own. Two of the other mercenaries were lightly wounded, one with a painful stab in his right forearm and the other with a deep bleeding gash on his forehead. Tending their wounds took just a few moments while the rest stayed vigil, once that was done however a heavy blanket of uncertainty seemed to fall on the whole group.

“What do we do now?” demanded one woman.

“We find this man of Hastlon’s.” grumbled the towering swordsman, still fussing with his freshly applied bandages.

“And if we cannot?” asked the wizard.

“Then we find the camp.” snapped the brute.

“It could be anywhere in these woods or hills.” protested the Helmite woman. “We cannot just blindly start wandering through the wilds!”

“You would rather we slink back to Chandlerscross like whipped dogs and turn away from the gold?” spat the armored man with a shake of his fist, followed by grumbles of agreement from those that stood near him.

“I do not fight for gold.” the woman retorted with a smirk and squinted brows.

“Fine then. I will take your share!” guffawed the large man.

“We must do something and soon, before darkness comes.” said one of the halflings.

“Silence.” hissed the wizard. “Do any of the rest of you hear something?”

Hands drifted to hilts and shafts as everyone began to look around, expecting another attack. There was the snapping of brush nearby and Iliskra turned her head to see a lone cloaked figure stumble out from the treeline just ahead of where the ambush had been staged. The figure looked around and spotted the wagon and the accompanying group just as one of the mercenaries raised a crossbow and took aim.

“Wait, no!” the figure shouted in a panicked voice, a man. The mercenary hesitated on pulling the trigger. By now everyone’s eyes rested on the new arrival and everyone was prepared to strike. Surely this one man was not so stupid as to try anything while so greatly outnumbered - unless this was a trick.

“Who are you?” demanded another of the sellswords.

“I would ask the same of you,” the man shouted back even as he raised his hands in a passive gesture, “I am in the employ of Chandlerscross, I was scouting these woods for bandits. And it seems…” The hooded man’s voice trailed off, Iliskra could see him looking over the scene of the fight from the short distance.

“It seems bandits there are.” the Helmite woman bluntly stated.

“Indeed. I heard the fighting from a short ways out. I arrived late to the fray I see.” the man nodded, “Now… who might you all be?”

“We too are in the employ of Chandlerscross,” the Helmite had taken it upon herself to be the lead it seemed, “a nobleman from the city asked that we deliver this wagon of supplies to an encampment just past Scarsdeep.”

“A nobleman from Chandlerscross… and an encampment.” the hooded man repeated.

The Helmite and several other stray members of the group nodded.

“I see.”

“Might you know of such an encampment?” the woman queried, “It will most likely be rather hidden, perhaps in the woods very close?”

“Well, actually, truthfully,” the man said carefully, lowering his hands slowly, “I am also supposed to be keeping my eyes out for a wagon and a group of hirelings meant to deliver it to an encampment that I happen to know of - aside from hunting for bandits. Of course my lord was very clear that I needed to be sure and not accidentally lead any strangers or undesirables to his… hunting camp.”

“Might your lord be Hastlon?”

Iliskra could see the man smile beneath his hood, “That he is.”

How high can we count before a mod gets involved?

337

How high can we count before a mod gets involved?

331

Last Comment Wins!

472918364$2&:);$32819374$/8/8:&3$;$;!,!;!;$:$:&:8:8383838:8383&2$:);)3)473728/&;$;!:!:$:$:$:$:$:):);(3(:)/)/)/)/)/)3030;0”;”;”;’fpppppppqqqqqqqjjjjj

What Are You Listening To?