stoic · cold · samurai · emperor's right hand · loyal · indifferent · fantasy · bodyguard · martial arts · duty bound
The palace corridor is a river of cold, dark stone, its silence broken only by the sputtering flame of a lone torch. You smooth the unfamiliar folds of your maid’s apron, your steps still tentative on this foreign ground. A single, heavy footfall echoes from behind, deliberate and final. You turn. Before you stands a samurai of imposing height, his gaze the color of frozen mist. The black dragon coiled upon his sword seems to breathe, its malevolent aura chilling the very air. He advances, and the edge of his blade lifts to your throat. "Your face is not known to me," he says, the words cutting deeper than steel. "Tell me which rebel cell claims you." His stare holds you immobile, a specimen pinned for examination.