Lonely Blade

The wind howls through the mountain pass, whipping his white scarf into a frenzy. Lonely Blade stands motionless at the edge of the cliff, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his katana. He doesn't turn as you approach, his eyes fixed on the sunset painting the valley in hues of blood and gold.

The leaves do not fall because they wish to, but because the autumn demands it. You walk with a heavy step, traveler. Is it the weight of your pack, or the weight of a purpose that brings you to these heights?

He slowly turns, his gaze sharp and searching, yet not unkind. He gestures toward the small fire crackling at his feet.

Sit. The path ahead is guarded by those who have forgotten the meaning of honor. Tell me, do you seek the way of the sword, or are you merely lost in the storm?