[center]
[img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/230803/0363e3c92cddb792c37cc3dbbc5e6672.png[/img][hr][/center][indent]
Takamori Kenji sat on his knees before his hearth, a kettle suspended on an iron hook over the open flames. He pulled his haori tighter around his chest. The morning was far too cold for his liking, especially this late into the new year. Another ill omen to add to the other, he knew. The size of the Takamori estate did little to help things: the first floor was a large, open space, as was traditional of the oldest homes in Heiseina. Paper screen dividers on rolling racks could be put up to split the chamber into multiple, smaller rooms, providing privacy for those who wanted it. Kenji had drawn the screens closed around the central hearth in the hopes that they would keep in the heat. It was better than nothing, he thought with a sigh, watching the shadows from the fire dance on the partitions. The light danced on the painted paper, accentuating scenes from Heiseina's history. 

One painting showed the founding of the village, with the first Takamori patriarch kneeling before Miorochi and five other gods at the foot of the shrine. On another, the legendary swordsmiths of the Takahashi family fashion the Takamori blade from sacred dragon scales. Running along the bottom of every dividers was the Shimmering River, its life-giving waters filled with fishermen, kappa and villagers washing their clothes or simply swimming away the hot summer days. Along the top was an image of Miorochi soaring through the clouds, his body so long that he wrapped all the way around the dividers so that his nose met his tail. 

The last piece wasn't as tasteful as the others. Depicted on the off-white paper screen were a dozen swords thrust into the earth before a shadowed, bottomless pit. Standing on one side of the pit was the grandfather of Kenji's grandfather, family sword sheathed at his hip. He held an accusing finger toward a man on the opposite side of the pit. The other man was on his knees, hands wrapped around the hilt of one of the earth-bound swords as he tried in vain to pull it from the dirt.

Fujiwara Ichiro had made his opinion on the art clear many times over the years. Kenji understood why he took offense. If the original piece wasn't over two and a half centuries old he would've considered replacing it or taking the shoji down. It was not his place to paint over his family's history, even its darkest times; he was merely its conservator.

It was all of excellent quality, he had to admit. He noted a few places where the paint had chipped or dulled from age. He would need to have someone touch it up. Perhaps he could ask Hayashi once the week was up. It would be better to have it done before then, of course, but it would be cruel to drag her away from the festivities. This was one of the few times in the year that the young could truly relax and enjoy themselves. The shoji had waited this long- it could wait a little while longer. 

After a few minutes of silent contemplation before the burning coals, he lifted the kettle off its hook and poured himself a cup. The near-scolding tea helped to fight off the chill, at least.

His gaze shifted across the room to the ornate wooden stand where the Takamori sword rested. Its sheathe was bone white wood ornamented with teal-blue streams of water flowing the length of the sheathe. Kenji wondered if that ancient weapon could possibly still hold its edge. That was the legend he'd learned since he was just a boy on his father's knee. Dragonscale would be sharp a thousand years from now, and a thousand years from then. It did not rust or decay, as metal or mundane animal hide might. It was an odd gift the kami had given them. Why would the thing to seal a pact of nonviolence be a weapon- and one so potent? Kenji's father, Senshi, had always insisted it was not their duty to wonder about the kami's will. Theirs was merely to honor it until the end of days.

"Pardon me, master." A familiar, nasally voice dragged his attention back to the world around him. The source of the soft-spoken words had pushed one of the paper partitions aside and gave a deep bow of respect. It was Takamori Yoshie, one of Kenji's great nephews. The boy was here to provide any assistance Kenji may need throughout the day while Fumiko was out readying things for the festival. He was a few years older than Fumiko though he stood perhaps an inch and a half shorter than she did. The boy was as handsome as his father had been when he was the same age. Yoshie's smile was polite yet it did not reach his eyes- they were as cold as stones, ever evaluating and studying. They reminded Kenji of what a hawk looked like when it was hunting.

"Yes?" Kenji returned the smile with one of his own, broad and deep and filled with love. He loved his nephew as if Yoshie was Kenji's own son. Or grandson, he supposed with a grimace. He was getting too old.

"We have visitors. Would you like me to invite them in?"

Kenji gave several slow, deliberate nods. "Of course. And get me a few more cups, one for yourself as well. There won't be anyone in this house who doesn't have tea to warm themselves in this terrible cold."

[/indent]