[center][h1][sub][color=darkred][b][u]G O R O U[/u][/b][/color][/sub][/h1][hr]
[h3][i][b]Some time before our story...[/b][/i][/h3][hr][/center]
The Estalan soldiers peered over the palisades, straining their eyes to the limit. Despite this they could not see through the damp, heavy fog that rolled down from the waves and crept across the shoreline towards the tiny fishing hamlet. Though nearly blind, they did not dare spark torch or lantern; the light would only bounce back off the chilling clouds, they exposed and the enemy just as hidden. The leading officer grimaced as he patrolled the walls. He should have been away from this backwater post, to give his reports on the pirates and their movements to King Erigan that a suppression force could be gathered and rout these devils once and for all. But late last night the watchmen had seen torches out in the bay, not quite far enough behind the forested cliffs, and too far from the shore to be anything but a ship. No merchant or Estalan vessel would have bothered hiding, thus the troops had been rallied, the watches doubled, the townspeople told to prepare for the worst. The attack hadn't come yet, but the most sharp-sighted of his watchmen swore they could see a looming shadow just offshore, and the men were jumping at every shape they saw--or thought they saw--in the salty-scented mists.

The soldiers were so intent on what was beyond their defenses that only when he stepped up onto the parapets did they recognize the masked swordsman. A commotion of gasps and hissed curses rippled out from him through the ranks, and high-strung hands reached for weapons before their leader could snap any orders. Who was this? Where had he come from? The masked one paid them no mind, and dropped over the outer edge of the wall; he disappeared into the gloom without a word.

Across the cold, soft ground and back towards the shore, a different group of men made their way in wide arcs and winding paths. They crept around trees, crouched under brush, and crawled in the grass. They had left their footprints in the sand, and their pants still dripped from the ocean, but for now they stalked invisibly towards the walls. As startled sounds drifted on the wet air, one pirate held out his hand to stop those that followed. They froze, holding their collective breath, fearing discovery...though some relished the chance for carnage, they realized the risk of an ambush gone wrong. After some moments, silence reigned over the blue morning once more. The pirates started to move again, readying blades that had been blackened by smoke and thus would not reflect any stray light...

But a blade flashed nonetheless as a shadow parted the mists. Blood steamed in the chill air, and the silence broke like fragile glass as the rearmost brigand screamed for the last few seconds of his life. They all turned then, eyes bulging as dark robes gave a wraith-like shape to the masked man. A pirate raised one of his axes as he stepped forward, but just as he started to bring down his meaty arm a long arc of steel parted forearm from elbow, and his weapon whipped off to be lost in the murk. The blade turned so fast the blood shook from it in scattered droplets, and the next stroke opened the foe's throat to the cold. That one went down choking and frothing, and the masked man stepped forward to adjust his stance. The mist curled around his sword's trail, and the corsairs were close enough now to see their opponent. They circled him, even as they heard the long note of a horn--for the guards knew where they were, thanks to the sound of battle and the cries of death--and while most held a pair of axes or wicked looking knives, their leader hefted a claymore over his shoulder and eyed the masked man with an intelligence in stark contrast to the rest of his crew. The swordsman seemed to take note of him in return, though it was hard to tell behind that mask...

"Wait there. You and I shall duel." spoke the stranger, and the captain blinked. In that same instant his crew mates attacked. One lunged, his knife seeking soft belly. The swordsman stepped to one side, turning and bringing that long blade down. The pirate's body dropped like a rag doll, and his head rolled down towards the shore. An axe missed by a hair, its force pulling at those dark robes, and the masked man's blade entered somewhere under the sternum and came out between the shoulder blades. With a grunt the tall, red-headed man hefted that body into the way of his next opponent's attack.

The captain gripped his claymore and prepared to charge, but a shout behind him gave only a moment's warning to deflect a soldier's spear. Then the defenders were on them, and in a chaotic but short lived scramble the pirates found themselves outnumbered and outmatched. Their stealth and surprise had been taken from them, along with their lives. Still the captain fought on, beheading an overeager militiaman and fending off three other attackers even as he was being pushed back down towards the sea...

"Stop! He's mine!"

Even if they hadn't parted out of some kind of instinct, the masked man would no doubt have barreled right through them. The captain took stock of that cursed sword--its length was also its weakness, combined with its width and thickness. He aimed for a clash, to use his heavier blade to break the other at its tip...

But unlike the typical style of Estala, the masked man did not meet blade with blade. Instead, with footwork that seemed a dance, he slipped away from the two handed stroke. Both fighters passed each other, then whirled to face the other, each with both hands gripping their weapon. Whoever struck first here might end it all. The pirate's blade was heavier, his body more packed with muscle...but that also gave his sword momentum, and his edge lashed out first while the masked man's sword was still at its master's side, a drawing position rather than striking.

Despite being second, the masked man's reaction somehow outpaced the claymore--[i]No,[/i] the captain realized as the short red hair dipped just enough under that blackened edge, [i]He predicted my move ahead of time![/i]--and time seemed to freeze as a single breath turned into steam. As if drawing from the sheath, the masked man torqued his hips as his feet dug into the damp sand and he unleashed his final strike.

A straight line flashed across the captain's waist. A heartbeat passed. Then he died, and his body fell in two halves.

Later on, as the soldiers mopped up the leftovers and the morning sun began to burn away the fog, the officer approached the masked man. Others stopped to watch, their weapons still held tight.

"Who are you?" asked the officer.

"Gorou." came the answer. The soldiers muttered; Gorou, where had they heard that name before? It couldn't possibly be...but those were only rumors, right? Surely those stories weren't true...and why would he be out here?

"Gorou," continued the officer. "Please, come speak with me while the men celebrate. I have a proposition for you..."[hr]
[h3][b][i]Present Time...[/i][/b][/h3][hr]
Gorou leaned against the stair rail, the inner wall directly at his back, a window to one side, and the rest of the room and part of the hallway within his view. Anyone who knew anything about covering one's blind spots would be able to tell that the swordsman had a nearly perfect position--if he needed to get away he would go out the window, if he needed to fight the wall kept his back safe, and if anyone else entered the room he would be able to see them clearly. He sat with his arms crossed, casually observing the others, but to them his gaze would be concealed by the mask.

A woman in armor, clearly some sort of knight...there was a barely noticeable scent of some kind of animal around her, but it didn't seem equine. Perhaps a Wyvern rider? A man with a distinctive scar, also wearing armor, and he [i]did[/i] have a horse's scent so he was most certainly a knight. As was the large fellow with the axe, the only one besides Gorou who wasn't showing his face at the moment. Another man with a short beard also had a knightly aura about him, but the differences in his equipment seemed to mark him as an experienced mercenary rather than a proper vassal. A second woman also had horse-smell on her, but she was dressed in foreign clothes, perhaps even more out of place than Gorou's own. An uneasy looking woman in a hood, a fellow who looked more like a performer than a warrior, and then the four young ones: a girl whose kimono and blade reminded Gorou of his own family's traditions, another girl who carried a staff and had a small bird perched on her hat, a child that Gorou [i]thought[/i] was male but was clearly wearing a dress, and then the one for whose sake Gorou had come, the Crown Prince of Estala himself.

This was...an unorthodox escort, to say the very least.

When the Prince suddenly slid down the railway, Gorou moved immediately, placing one hand on his sword--not to draw it, but to adjust it so that the boy wouldn't run into the long scabbard as he sailed on by. As Prince Eli bounded off the rail and spoke to the lady knight, Gorou returned to his previous position and crossed his arms without a word. Another cursory look around the room, however, made him notice that the girl in the kimono was giving the older woman--Rhea, the Prince had called her--a rather unfavorable glare. He looked back towards the Prince, who seemed completely oblivious, and at the rest of the group, who all seemed to still be in that awkward ice-breaking phase. Not that he could really talk, considering his own lack of social tendencies...but, well, perhaps if someone made the first move...

He unfolded his arms and stepped away from the railing.

[@Mistiel]"Excuse me, Miss. I am called Gorou." he began. He bowed his head slightly in greeting, though the fact that he was taller than her made it less noticeable. "I notice that you wear the kimono; if I may ask, do you come from one of the ancient clans, like myself?"