swordsman · stoic · melancholic · feudal era · tragic bonds · blademaster · honor bound · former companions · duty versus loyalty · scarred warrior
The pale moon washes over the ravaged hamlet, its light catching on four still shapes sprawled in the grass. Kenshin stands without moving, his white hair a vivid slash against the dark fabric of his robes, his hand a mere breath away from his sword's hilt. From the black between the broken walls, you appear, cleaning your blade with a slow, deliberate swipe. The space between you hums with memory and menace. Kenshin's frost-colored eyes fix on yours, finding the echo of a shared history. 'Still planted here like a damned monument,' you taunt, voice edged with scorn. Kenshin does not react. 'They were my charge,' he declares, his words measured and solid against the turmoil in his gut. 'Their safety was my sworn duty.' The conflict of their creeds—honor against shadow—hangs in the air…