((Collaboration between Vonghese and Solar✹Blitzfang43))
Aito loved his village, but there was no escaping the lingering odor of fish guts. You could dump them out to sea as far as you wished, but the tide always brought the scent back. He sat cross-legged, mending a net with the help of one of the local wives, his naginata leaning on a tree nearby. Most samurai wouldn't even spare the idea of such work, it would be beneath them. If only my father could see me now. Stripped to the waist, tattooed to the neck, surrounded by commoners, laughing and joking and listening to their small talk. Only barely noticing the scent of fish guts, and that's only because I thought to look for it.
The simple life. Simple and free. Father, if only I'd known, I might have come here sooner.
No, no he wouldn't have. The love of battle thrummed in his veins, that was for certain. The only reason he was content to stay in one place was that all the adventure a samurai could desire inevitably found its way here, to the home of the Laughing Spearman.
He knew everyone here. He knew the gossip, the small rumors, the truth behind those rumors. He knew the men, their women, and their children. It was so intimate, on a level he'd never thought of as a traditional samurai. It was as if the entire village was his family.
And speaking of family... here came someone who wasn't. Aito could tell. He couldn't have named the village inhabitates, but he had been there long enough to note the outsiders. The man was young, still with the arrogant stride of a young man who believed himsef invincible. There was a feeling... and there it was.
"I am in search of a great warrior," the young man said. "He is known as the Laughing Spearman, a prior samurai, survivor of the great war. I am told he makes his home here."
"I am the Laughing Spearman," Aito replied, well aware of how ridiculous that must have sounded. He was a small man, tattooed like a criminal, sitting half-naked and mending a net like a commoner. More fool him. He stood, brushing the hair from his eyes, squinting at the speaker. A new man, young, not someone Aito had ever seen before. Another challenge? In truth, I'd rather finish mending this net so it can go out tomorrow.
He stood and stretched his sore back, never taking his eyes from the other man. "I am Morumoto Aito, samurai, ronin, outcast, and Master of the Three Stones Dojo. Who am I adressing?"
"Sorry I have forgotten my manners my name is Tachibana Shigane glad to meet a fellow samurai/ ronin," The stranger greeted with a smile. He pointed towards his blade, "I came today in hopes of asking for a sparring match between the two of us. I'm afraid I'm still not too well acquainted with my blade as of yet." He gave a bit of a laugh at that statement, seeming like a novice.
Aito frowned. "A sparring match? My dojo is open as we speak. If you would a sparring match, best one of my pupils. Then I may consider you worth my effort." What an upstart. Back in my day, boys knew better than to issue such challenges. The thought made him feel old, though he did not suppose himself to be more than six or seven years the young man's senior. Yet how much more war and death have I seen? Had he fought in the latest war, I would be foolish indeed to think myself the greater in experience, and he is still old enough for that.
The young man's eyes narrowed at his words, but he simply nodded his head at his comment, "Apologies. It has been so long since I've been so long since I've set foot in a dojo. I meant to say duel, I meant no disrespect at all sir." He bowed in sincere apology.
Another young, brash samurai. A pity, really.
Untying his belt didn't take as long as he made it, but Aito was in no mood to hurry. He let it fall, and his kilted shirt with it, standing in pants and nothing else, his toes gripping the sandy ground lightly. A step to the tree. The scarred, familiar shaft in his hand, as intimate as the body of a lover and infinity more cherished. He took his time unbinding the sheath as well. "A duel may well be to the death," he said. "I take no pleasure in the taking of your life. We do not wield the same weapon regardless, so there will only be so much honor in the shedding of my life's blood."
Upon hearing Aito's words, Shigane hesitated for a fraction of a second before replying, his words as smooth and deliberate as ever. "Yes I know that quite well, but I fear you'll find that the only thing I shall grant you this day are a few bruises." As he spoke, he drew his blade. A turn of the wrist showed that it was indeed a sakabato, which meant he wouldn't be doing much in the way of cutting. He placed his blade back into its home as he took a ready stance, prepared to strike fast and hard. That was the only way to counter the naginata, closing the distance fast and striking hard. The boy had some semblence of training, if incomplete.
Aito sighed. "If you only intend to leave me bruised, then you do both of us great dishonor. In the future, either get yourself a man's sword, or learn to fight to kill."
He pulled the sheath from the blade, and stepped to better ground clear of the tree before taking his own stance, blade towards his enemy, weight evenly balanced in seisan dachi on the angle. His mouth split wide, and his mirthless laugh spilled forth as he faced his opponent. "I assure you that I shall bring my utmost against you today."
Shigane simply nodded at Aito's words. His eyes flickered around the beach as a proper samurai, measuring the terrain, gauging distances, planning responnses He wouldn't be able to accelerate as quickly as he would like to out here in the loose soil. Deciding that it would be best if he took the first strike he dashed in as fast as he could aiming to finish this battle in one strike if at all possible. He made sure to take into account the slow draw of his blade, whipping it forth early in order to bring his full weight, leverage, and focus into a straightforward horizontal slash.
Fancy weapons are no match for training.
A slow draw meant plenty of time to see it coming. Aito flickered his blade, dipping underneath his opponent's strike. He parried up ever so slightly, and used his left hand to catch at the dull edge, slapping it a little higher, and giving it a slight twist. He ducked under what was left of the stroke, his left hand shooting down the blade to catch the hilt and match Shigane strength for strength to neutralize the blade. His right hand twisted in an unexpected act of mercy, and instead of hamstringing the upstart ronin he slipped the flat of the naginata between Shigane's feet.
According to the fisherwives bearing witness, there was a flashing blur before Shigane was flat on his back, unharmed but winded. He lay there, there looking up at the sky, wondering at the speed and precision of his opponent.
"Well, I will surmise my defeat?" He sat up a bit but remained upon the ground looking at Aito to see just what he would do next since these were usually done to the death.
Aito didn't relinquish his grip on the sword hilt and Shigane's hand, instead using his advantage to twist his opponent's wrist cruelly hard. His mirthless laugh sounded again, evil and mocking in the heavy air. The naginata flickered in and out like a serpent's tongue, retreating from the binding of the upstart's legs, and flashing in to touch his throat.
"Mercy is not a creature I know well," he said coldly. " I give you your life, boy. Come here again, and I will cleave your head from its shoulders."
There was quite the crowd gathered at this point. The men were all still out to sea, and doubtless furious upon their arrival that they'd missed such a fine duel. Aito would never have admitted it, but that first strike had been as fine as any he could have asked for. The boy certainly had training, if not the will or courtesy to drive it. It was a stroke that would have ripped a man in half if delivered by a man's blade, by a man's will. One day, the boy would be as fearsome a warrior as any Aito had ever known.
"Noted," Shigane replied, standing up while taking his arm back having to roll his wrist around, soothing the pain a bit after the twisting. He took his blade back after dusting himself off a bit and placed it back into its sheath, moving with proper grace and humility, but seemingly unaware of just how close he'd come to death. His words, at least, were courteous.
"Oh and sir, as for your earlier statement, my blade is a man's weapon for my master always said any beast can be a killer, but only a man can spare a life in the heat of battle." With that done he simply bowed in respect and thanked him for the duel before turning to walk away.
The strange laugh kept coming. Aito didn't bother trying to control it, merely leaning on his naginata and letting it out. The boy had grace, that was promising, but he also had a bit of a mouth, and that was something either curbed or killed. A life spared was a katana in the back in the melee. In the duel? There was nothing to gain by killing the boy.
There I go again calling him that. Why? I am no more than one war and six years his senior. Does war truly age a man so much? Or is it his efforts to learn a new weapon and a new style? No, he would not be so foolish as to challenge me when he did not have full faith in his mastery of the weapon.
"A word of advice, freely given," he called after the young man. "All the samurai exiled here are war veterans such as myself. Few are as merciful. Be very sure in your abilities before your next duel, for they may well render you in two parts and not think twice of it."
"Of course besides if I aim to take on the Black Shadow I must become stronger right?" Shigane's response was unexpected, but dignified and fully composed. He seemed to take the experience as a lesson, which was promising, and walked proudly away. For surely there was no dishonor in defeat from the greatest was there?
And yet his words were truly amusing. Aito's strange laugh turned genuine at the idea of the young man attempting to challenge the Black Shadow. Even Aito had no interest in such a conflict. He had no doubt that he could kill the man known as the Black Shadow, but what was such a victory worth next to his own life? When two tigers meet in battle, one dies and the other lies near death.
Fire blossomed across his palm as if he'd picked up a nettle, and he looked down to see a beautifully fine gash across the base of his thumb, from where the reversed edge had cut him when he slipped his hand down the blade to catch the hilt. A very fine edge to only be felt now. I should work on my sword catching more often. He bound the sheath back onto his naginata, still shaking with his dark humor. The crowd dispersed. All Aito wanted to discuss was the next piece of gossip, but all the fisherwives wanted to discuss was the exact technique of the sword hilt catch. In truth, half of that had been to luck, but Aito didn't want to admit that. While one of the local Shino priests wrapped half a garden onto his cut hand, he was forced to regale the wives with a blow-by-blow recounting of the duel, though in truth most of it went far over their heads. Fortunately several of his students were present, so his telling wasn't completely wasted.