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The cold of the day scarcely grew more bearable as the day marched on. In the time that had passed since dawn, dark clouds had rolled over the valley to cut off what little light the rising sun offered. The venerable Moriyama complained of aches in his bones- a surefire warning of coming rain. Some within the village placed votive offering papers in their households to the kami of rain to forestall its coming until the celebrations had concluded. Others rushed to ensure their windows were closed and none of their belongings were left to be soaked, fearing its coming regardless: some things were the will of the gods, regardless of the whims of men.

On the western edge of the village, where a handful of logger's camps and hunting lodges meet the edge of the Mumbling Wood, something stirs. Small animals rush from the safety of their dens and into the dirty streets of the village. Birds flee from their nests for distant horizons. Even a handful of Yokai follow, leaping into open windows or scratching and yipping at closed doors for the villagers within. People more curious than afraid peer out of the safety of their doorways into the dark clump of trees.

Hoof beats sound in the dozens. The voices of men, loud and abrasive, bay in similar number. Mounted soldiers break the treeline at a trot. Banners mounted on their backs flap in the wind as they ride: on them, a burning, steel fist on a crimson field. They wear mismatched armor of scavenged scraps, hastily slung together to patch holes in old, worn lamellar. Weapons of all kinds hang from their hips and backs: from clubs, spears and swords to bows, and a handful of long, metal tubes attached to odd handles. Panicked screams filled the air at the sight of these tools of blasphemy. Villagers sprinted away in terror, some headed deeper into town with warning cries on their lips, and others running for the safety of the wilderness. None of the horsemen gave chase. They simply continued down the main avenue, more of their number exiting the treeline to follow. Perhaps twenty men in total rode into Heiseina.

They came to a halt in the center of town before the Crane's Roost Inn. Some dismounted, taking their horses by the reins and making their way toward the pitifully small stables attached to the building. It could barely house half their mounts even if it was empty, and a few visitors from other villages had come in to partake in the celebrations. "This place is a sorrier sight than we thought. Largest village we could find and this is the best they've got? Its barely bigger'n a chicken coop." A giant of a man with a belly big around as a barrel grumbled, loudly. 

He pulled a spiked war club nearly as tall as some of the other men around him from its holster on the saddle bags, much to his horse's relief. It was a massive beast itself, yet even still it was a wonder it could carry the man on its back for any time at all. "Where's the damned stable boys? Or in the innkeep, for that matter?" He thundered, his voice booming for all the world to hear. He leaned his impressive weight against the club as he stood beside his horse, waiting impatiently for [i]someone[/i] to appear.

Another rider dismounted and left his horse's reins in the hands of another man so he could make his way across the village square. He strode with purpose toward one of the only groups of people still out on the streets. They were milling about around a squat, long structure. The hand-painted sign outside- and the clanging sounds from within- told him it was the shop of a metalworker.

"Good morning," he called out as he allowed himself inside, his voice straining to maintain a polite authority through his exhaustion. The heavy bags beneath his eyes and sweat-slicked forehead even in this chill reinforced this well. He wasn't a particularly tall man, nor was he sweet on the eyes: his face was scarred, his nose slightly crooked, and his expression ever dour. His armor appeared to be in better shape than he was. It had fewer dents and ad-hoc repairs than the rest of his cohort, and was even painted in the same red crimson of his banner, that flaming hand adorned on his chest piece. On his left hip a sword hung from his belt. Simple, unornamented, yet its like had not been seen in the valley for over three hundred years. On his right hip was a leather holster containing an alien device- a metal tube attached to a cylindrical chamber and a curved wooden handle. 

"I am Captain Ashida Katsuro of the Blazing Fist," Katsuro bowed slightly in introduction. "I was hoping you could help me."
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