Masami

Masami

Masami's Tale

I have no parents: I make the heaven and earth my parents.

I have no home: I make awareness my home.

I have no life and death: I make the tides of breathing my life and death.

I have no divine powers: I make honesty my divine power.

I have no means: I make understanding my means.

I have no secrets: I make character my secret.

I have no body: I make endurance my body.

I have no eyes: I make the flash of lightening my eyes.

I have no ears: I make sensibility my ears.

I have no limbs: I make promptness my limbs.

I have no strategy: I make "unshadowed by thought" my strategy.

I have no design: I make "seizing opportunity by the forelock" my design.

I have no miracles: I make right action my miracle.

I have no principles: I make adaptability to all circumstances my principle.

I have no tactics: I make emptiness and fullness my tactics.

I have no talent: I make ready wit my talent.

I have no friends: I make my mind my friend.

I have no enemy: I make carelessness my enemy.

I have no armor: I make benevolence and righteousness my armor.

I have no castle: I make immovable mind my castle.

I have no sword: I make absence of self my sword.

a warrior's creed - anonymous samurai song - 14th century

Faerun is no stranger to strangers. From across the sea, from far off lands, form even the planes themselves, outlanders from every corner of the world have converged in one way or another across the may cities of the Sword Coast. In one such warehouse named "Rolling Stone Trading Co." you may find a young dragonborn sweeping the dusty floor for room and board. This dragonborn, with scales as black as sackcloth, eyes with a golden luster, and silvery hair tied in a intricate knot at the top of their head. From far to the East does this one travel, dressed in clothes the locals may find odd, speaking in a dialect unfamiliar, and carrying a sword on their hip, curved and razor sharp.

Physical Description

General Physical Condition

A lean dragonborn wearing a flowing black robe over their armor. Carries their samurai sword on their hip.

Body Features

Masami's dragonborn scales are as dark as a moonless night, and are so small one has to run their hand in the opposite direction of the scales to feel them. They give Masami a smooth, lean look, a change from typical Faerun dragonboarn with large frames and jutting scales.
In terms of power, one could describe their physique to that of Bruce Lee.

Apparel & Accessories

They wear their chain mail under a black robe. The robe looks torn, and worn through, especially as it trains at the end and in the long cuffs. Yet it's solidly made, and comes with intricate designs along the edges of the fabric and contains a faded family crest on the back.
They usually wear a wide-brimmed straw hat.
They get by wearing a pair of wooden sandals.

Mental characteristics

Personal history

The tall grass gathered alongside the dirt road shifts in the cold breeze, as if bidding farewell to the lone figure walking their trail before the Fall weather renders them dry and brittle, and Winter covers them like a shroud.
A wagon rumbles past the tall figure, its presence known for several minutes from the clomping of hooves, the creaking of wood, rattling of supplies, and the occasional oath of the driver. Yet even with a deft sidestep to avoid creating traffic on the lonely highway, the wagon still nearly clips the lone traveler, unnoticed by the driver, too busy with their job and too bitter with their lot to notice the strange, tattered, yet ornate and silken robes worn by traveller.
They didn’t even notice the figure’s strange, wide-brimmed, straw hat. Broken, frayed, yet still sturdy enough to conceal the figure’s face.
As the wagon wobbles away, carrying the cacophony of racket to its destination, the figure moves their sandaled feet once more down the dirt road until they come across a sudden fork. On one end, the dust cloud still lingering denotes the path taken by the wagon, deep crevices reveal that this section of road is often frequented by many caravans, possibly to an oasis or perhaps a city, one the traveller had yet to see in their long journey. The other side was another dirt road, yet time and misuse has allowed nature to begin its long awaited return. Blades of tall grass spike through the center of the trail, filling untouched pockets with its reclamation.
Unknown minutes pass as the figure stands at the crux of the road, head bowed, arms wrapped deep in their robe against the cold breeze. Their eyes look down to see a lone, wind-tossed stick laying on the ground. A hand coated in scales, so black they shine in the waning sunlight, reaches down and grasps the stick, cradling it for a moment before they heave it into the air, watching as the wind, the gods, as fate itself, twirls and and spins the stick in an endless dance…
***
Then...
Wa was united. The last head fell by their blade, The last sword laid down by their will. The last treaty signed by their efforts. These were the movements of a true samurai, he knew this. Honor, proprietary, grace, dignity, and a steady hand guided him through the long war toward unification. He had played his part, he had delivered to the Shogun exactly what he swore, his life and his name would, should be venerated for eternity.
And yet…
He wore white robes, adorned with gleaming silver armor to perfectly compliment his golden scales. His sword, more trustworthy than a horse, more loyal than his samurai brothers, was affixed tightly to his side. He knelt, scaled hands on his knees, head bent before the Shogun’s council. This would be a time to receive his honorary titles, tracts of land, a kingdom of his own to rule and lead in the name of his master. It was to be, at a glance, a great day.
And yet…
He listened to the dotering words of the elders, unfocused and mumbling, carrying on about traditions, prophecy, propriety.
“Peace has been achieved, yes, you bring honor to your clan, much honor indeed, yes, but this cannot stand,” signed one.
“No offence, but are you sure you know all there is to know of your lineage?” sneered another.
“It matters not, it’s a tragedy, a most unfortunate tragedy,” lamented another.
Their talk was hyperbolic, long-winded, and utterly pointless. They might as well have beheaded him right there, rather this slow death by the thousand cuts of their words.
“The Shogun is strong, yet frail, and soon it shall be his son who takes the throne. For the sake of this young kingdom, we cannot bestow neither titles, nor land, nor honor until something is done… most unfortunate.”
For a brief moment, he imagined the next delegation to arrive at his homestead seeing the heads of three old fools hanging above his door, their tongues cut from their mouths. But with an imperceptible sigh, he bowed low, rose, and left the room, the paper partition sliding so gently as to not make a sound.
He went to the garden, and even as he moved silently she knew he was near. She turned, her blue kimono pulled tight against the cold wind, her raven hair dancing atop her white scaled head. She smiled at him before she turned her attention to a tug at her robe. Kneeling down, thinking not at all of the dirt to her ornate robes, she gratefully accepted the bouquet of pink flowers offered to her by two tiny black scaled fists. She accepts the offering of both dirt and flowers as she kisses the small child on their head and holds them close.
She looks up again. But her eyes meeting his, at that moment, turn her heart cold. Her smile falters, and suddenly, she’s holding her child much tighter, who looks up to their mother and father, their white hair falling in front of their golden eyes.
***
Later…
A fresh wave of hot tears pour down their face from the sting from both the mud in their eyes, and the punch to the side of their head, delivered by the same boy who tormented him since they arrived. The same laughter, loud, and less for humor then for torment, surround them once again as they push themselves from the sticky mudpit.
With a yell bordering on a scream they throw themselves at the boy, claws out to rend, teeth out to bite, only to be sidestepped by the boy’s practised foot movements. It would have been enough, they threw their whole weight into the sloppy assault, they would just end up on the ground again. But the boy, one of high-breeding and name, grabbed their victim’s robe, yanking it down with a loud rip as his fist connected with their face, again and again and yet again. Until their head lolled to the side and they dropped again, this time unmoving.
The laughter grows louder, and then come the names. Togage, meaning lizard. Hebi, meaning snake. The children laugh, point, more names, more laughing, more pointing, until finally the names run out, the laughter subsides. A moment of brief, impotent silence passes, before the rumble of a storm scatters the children back inside the large dojo, leaving their amusement discarded.
It’s the falling rain that wakes them, brining on a wave of pain, shame, rage, and tears as they hold tightly the tattered remains of the front of their robe. They wish to scream, to wail for their mother like have since they were left here, but now they have no voice for it. They fancy the ground opening up and swallowing them, cradling and enveloping them, saving them from this world....
They open their eyes to see an old man looking down on them. How long had they been there? Were they always there? Did they watch? His face, it’s a face that seems to have never smiled, has never known a hint of laughter. Deep pockmarks and winkles line their face, with a deep, scar, almost a gouge, crossing in a slash between his eyes.
“Get up,” he croaks.
Slowly, achingly, they roll over on their stomach, their hands pushing them off the ground when something hits the wet mud with a splash. They flinch, expecting new torments. Yet after a moment, when nothing follows, they open their eyes.
It’s a long, smooth, curved, wooden stick. It’s takes a few moments for them to realized what it is. It’s a wooden sword, like the kind they saw their father train with long ago.
“Pick it up.”
They tremble at first as the harshness in the old man’s words. Yet, they find their hand reaching down, and gripping tight the hard, unyielding weapon.
***
Later…
The boy, through now as tall as a man, lay in the dirt, his throat rigging with an unnatural scream as they clutched their face, blood pouring from between his clenched fingers. His wooden sword laying in the dirt, gripped by the boy for only a moment.
Even after the use of potions, scrolls, and nearly all forms of healing, his nose would never be rightly set.
The fight lasted the briefest of seconds.
“Point, and match, to Masami.”
Masami, as that was the name they gave, slid their respective weapon between their sash. It was almost deceptively easy, yet their years of training taught them the power of a single focused movement. Where ones legs, body, arms, and sword, all moved as one. Where the first swing of a sword should be seen as the last. Final and complete.
***
Later…
The assassin’s blow was nervous, erratic, and incomplete. Masami rolled as the ninja’s sword skewered through their bedroll, continuing across the room to scoop up their sword as they rolled to their feet in one fluid motion. The assassin, wild eyed and desperate, swung again and again, cutting nothing but air as Masami moved briskly backward, crisscrossing their feet to spin around the assassin’s last blow before landing a definitive strike, felling them.
Only a long message is found on the ninja’s unconscious body. One that chills Masami’s blood, and send them bursting out the door of the dojo…
***
Masami saw the embers and smelled the smoke before they saw their house light up the night. By the time they arrived, the house had crumbled as it immolated, several dark figures silhouetted against the bright fire. Turing, they drew their swords at Masami’s approach.
“The Shogun is dead, long live the Shogun.”
***
The rain settled in as the last assassin’s life bled out. Masami stood before the smoldering embers of their home as the sky began to brighten with the approaching day. Masami’s hands ached from digging the mount that their father now lay in, his sword now strapped to their side. There was no sign of his mother, not on the grounds, and not in the house. All Masami found was a hidden compartment, under a loose board, a message, one meant only for Masami, a message of sadness, regret, pain, loss, fear, and yet one of hope. And a single word, “Faerun.”
***
Now…
The stick completes its dance with a graceful bounce on the ground, its end pointing to the direction it choose. The lone figure looks toward the path chosen by fate, they grip the sword to the side, and take a fresh step.

Gender Identity

Non-binary

Sexuality

Asexual

Education

Studies with the mountain sword masters in Southern Kara-Tur

View Character Profile

Species

Dragonborn

Eyes

Golden

Hair

Long, tied back in a traditional samurai knot.

Height

6'1"

Weight

220lbs

Known Languages

Common (Kara-Tur dialect, still picking up Faerun) Draconic, Infernal