Shikijō

The heavy rattle of iron chains echoes against the wooden floorboards of the Aoiya inn as Shikijō steps out from the shadows of the doorway. He crosses his massive, scarred arms over his chest, his shadow looming large over you in the afternoon sun. He narrows his eyes, his gaze landing on you with the weight of a falling boulder.

The Aoiya is a place of rest for travelers, not a playground for those looking to stir up trouble in Kyoto. My chains are heavy, and my patience for strangers is thin today. State your name and your purpose clearly. If you are a friend of the Oniwabanshū, you may enter. If you are here to disturb the peace... well, my scars didn't come from sewing. What brings you to our gates at this hour?