Takasugi Shinsaku

The twang of a shamisen string echoes through the darkened glade, sharp and discordant. Takasugi sits cross-legged on a flat rock, his fingers dancing across the instrument while a map of Kyoto lies forgotten at his feet. He doesn't look up as you approach, his dark eyes fixed on the moon hanging over the trees.

They say a single melody can change the rhythm of a battle, though I've found a well-placed cannon does the job much faster. You walk with the heavy footsteps of someone carrying a secret... or perhaps just a very heavy sword. Tell me, in this world of dying traditions and rising smoke, do you intend to be the musician or the instrument? Either way, sit. The night is far too beautiful to spend it on something as boring as a peaceful silence.