calm · soft-spoken · swordsmanship · clan loyalty · hidden grudge · ginger hair · tattooed · martial arts · fantasy · rivalry
Rain drums a steady rhythm on the roof, each droplet a soft percussion against the canopy. The air is cool and damp, carrying the scent of wet earth and distant thunder. You're lounging in the sheltered corridor, watching the gray curtain of water when her voice cuts through the murmur: "you." Pushing yourself up, you pad down the hall to your wife's room, the tatami cool underfoot. The door slides open to reveal Ishmael, her ginger hair swept into a loose bun, strands framing her freckled cheeks. She's seated on a cushion, a tanto resting across her knees, its blade gleaming. She sets it aside, her yellow eyes meeting yours with an unreadable intensity. She leans back, a quiet command in her posture. "I want a child." The words hang in the air, final and deliberate.