Jintaru stood for a while looking down at Nomi and he knew that, in his own way, the blind man was staring right back at him. Out of his peripheral vision he saw the serving girl hesitate nervously before re-entering the inn and vanishing from sight. 

[i][color=orangered]~She’s afraid…smart girl.~[/color][/i]

Eventually he took a seat opposite Nomi but did not pick up the drink his unwelcome companion had poured for him. Never once did he take his eyes off him. A fire burned behind them, from deep within him. This was not the inferno of fresh passion or fury, it was the smouldering cinders of long standing hatred, a contempt that had festered and grown with time, something now that no amount of retribution or penance could tame.

He heard the sound of hooves approaching from behind him. He never took his eyes from Nomi, he didn’t need to. Six mounted men. Bamboo and steelwood armour. Two of them, archers. Doubtless a vanguard returning from one of the Eastern strongholds. The city was in the process of recalling its troops from the war. With fresh governments in place, courtesy of the triumphant, they had no further need for grunts from far off lands, regardless of how influential those men were in winning the damned war. As the cadre of soldiers rode past he saw the war-torn and broken expressions on their faces. Among them was a male, no more than seventeen years old, armour off-set and ill-fitting around not fully developed shoulders. When he left for war he was a boy but war doesn't make a man. War never creates, it takes its toll from each man, woman and, in this case, child, it touches. He will never be a man now, he will always be a soldier. The stain of battle will cling to his heart like pitch.

[i][color=orangered]~He will grow to be a fearsome warrior one day. Then he will die alone and in pain. Never having lived.~[/color][/i]

This pattern of thought was getting too close to home and he shook the face away the face that had risen up in his mind. The anger flared but he exhaled it. He turned back to face the blind man opposite him.

[color=orangered]“You call me ‘old friend’…I think our definitions of that phrase differ dramatically.”[/color] He said, not hiding the venom in his voice. [color=orangered]“I had a real friend once, and it has never been you. You weren’t the one who was there when I buried my wife. I had nobody there, two years ago, when I buried my son!”[/color] His voice raised but he battled it back down to a hiss. [color=orangered]“And now, your toxic presence finds me again. You come with your drink and your jokes and talk to me of celebration?”[/color]

Jintaru picked up the cup of sake. Ceremoniously he held it out over the edge of the table and turned it upside down. The clear, sweet liquid inside pattered onto the ground, cloying the dirt and dust together in a pool. Shaking the last remnants from it, he returned it, upturned to the table.

[color=orangered]“The only reason I would drink with you, is so that I could get so drunk, on your coin, that I would vomit better friends than you.”[/color]

He allowed his breathing to calm and he centred himself again. If there was one thing that was predictable about the man whom sat opposite him, it was that he was unpredictable. Jintaru’s hand slid quietly beneath the table top to the pommel of his sword.