Makings of a Monster

Daidoji Tamoko could not help letting wind steal a single tear rolling away on her high cheekbone, on her olive skin. A month ago such a thing would have been unimaginable to her. To cry in any but the most private, closed place, to show emotion in public. She has been trained as a samurai of the Crane clan, the ancient Daidoji family of warriors, to take her place among her ancestors who had several distinguished generals among them.

Such an excellent promise she had shown, such a blessing she had been to her old father. She more than fulfilled all the expectations placed on those who would rise among the most respected of the family's long line of warriors. Her speed and agility and her ability to seemingly fight on defensive and let the enemy be his own downfall were all according to the tenets of Crane clan's fighting techniques. With feline grace and feral beauty she carried her ancestral katana with pride, always sheathed at her waist, and her wakizashi never left her sash even when she slept.

To break the ancient code of honor of the samurai, bushido, would have been unimaginable to her as there was no cowardice in her spirit and she was determined to earn her place among those most revered in the ancestral halls of their clan. This until it came to her brother Yoshimo. That he was a rogue with a disarming grin, the blacker sheep who had turned his efforts into more shady activities was not a reason of dishonor to the family as such. Just as the sun needed to let all things bathe in its shine and glory, so needed the moon shed her palest glow among the lands when only shadows walked them. That was the way of things, and that was the way of the Crane clan.

But what family honor did demand was facing the consequences of one's choices, even most fatal and crucial ones, and so Yoshimo would have done had Tamoko not intervened. The mere word of her father should have been enough, but the old man was fond enough of the girl that he had privately explained to her how the clan and its might far exceeded any individual members, or any heartaches combined to them and their choices. Did Tamoko not think it hurt him too to see Yoshimo executed? Did she think he didn't remember how the boy had made all the Daidoji laugh with his pranks and sly jokes? But this matter far exceeded all musings like that. Yoshimo was a convicted criminal, plain and simple. Should the clan publicly interfere it would lose face greatly, and that it couldn't afford. Yoshimo would approve, he had pointed out. He knew the rules, as did all the Daidoji who took the shadier path.

And yet Tamoko had defied him. She had sworn to save her brother, no matter what, thus defying the word of her daimyo and the head of the family. She rode to the prison where Yoshimo was held, killed the guards and let her brother free. She took the stunned Yoshimo and smuggled him into the shadier streets where he would find safety. As for her own fate, it was sealed now. She was no real Daidoji anymore, nor a samurai. She had no honor, no daimyo. She was but a ronin, a wave rider, a samurai without a master. A samurai without a purpose. Her father would have to see her to commit ritual suicide to save face. All else would be unimaginable no matter how fond the old man was of her.

What choice did Tamoko have left? She rode the desert, the Golden Way, rumored to lead to the faraway west. There she would find her destiny, where ever it would lay. She didn't know much anything about the ways of the westerners, but surely they needed ronins too? People fought and shed blood, this was their way. And she was none the worse in that by the loss of her honor and purpose.

Just a single tear. No more. Wallowing in self-pity would only weaken her. Tamoko stopped to fill her waterskin and prayed to the spirits of her ancestors. Perhaps some of them had had a spark of rebellion and defiance in their souls, and would come to her aid should the need arise.