[It could happen to anyone. Kasen has long since burned the shape of the enemy armies into his eyes - it was simple enough to do for one so inundated with their elegances, poems and stories and tea ceremonies keeping his mind sharp as his blade, but even he would admit this fact isn't one you need those things to understand. All of them, from himself to the lowliest member of their army, know perfectly well what could become of them. It only takes the smallest doubt, an ounce of desire lighter than a breeze... but even knowing he is at risk as they all are, Kasen feels safe. He neither mourns nor resents his master, and in this citadel, surrounded by the glory of spring and (fortunately, it seems like the Saniwa knows what's good for them) barred from horsekeeping duty, he is at peace.
However.
However, glorious or no, this spring has gone on too long. Kasen Kanesada has exhausted every poem in his mind, every word at his fingertips, and it is infuriating. What he needs, even more than Tadaoki, even more than to save any person, is a new subject. He thinks little intrusive thoughts sometimes, of how the ribs of the chest might resemble a flower if allowed to bloom like one, or how the spine was nothing but a stem for the brain. The body is so charmingly organic. The urgency in his own voice when these thoughts rise to the surface disturbs him more than the thoughts themselves, but he knows better than to force them from his mind. It is healthier this way, he thinks, for his hands and ink and paper, if not for him.
But it isn't enough. He locks himself away in his room to remove the excess stimuli, but it isn't enough. He's quieter on the battlefield, more methodical, watching intently the spatter of blood and the way they cut their swaths through the Retrograding Army, but it isn't enough. The image in his mind isn't vivid enough. He needs more.
The idea improves the longer he allows it to sit. The Saniwa will fix them even if he breaks them, and the cause was so just. He is, for once, not immediately concerned with cleaning himself upon arriving home. Instead he turns to whoever is closest, sword or Saniwa (the thought of who will fix the Saniwa when he breaks them is lost to him now), with his usual smile.]
I'm new please be kind
[It could happen to anyone. Kasen has long since burned the shape of the enemy armies into his eyes - it was simple enough to do for one so inundated with their elegances, poems and stories and tea ceremonies keeping his mind sharp as his blade, but even he would admit this fact isn't one you need those things to understand. All of them, from himself to the lowliest member of their army, know perfectly well what could become of them. It only takes the smallest doubt, an ounce of desire lighter than a breeze... but even knowing he is at risk as they all are, Kasen feels safe. He neither mourns nor resents his master, and in this citadel, surrounded by the glory of spring and (fortunately, it seems like the Saniwa knows what's good for them) barred from horsekeeping duty, he is at peace.
However.
However, glorious or no, this spring has gone on too long. Kasen Kanesada has exhausted every poem in his mind, every word at his fingertips, and it is infuriating. What he needs, even more than Tadaoki, even more than to save any person, is a new subject. He thinks little intrusive thoughts sometimes, of how the ribs of the chest might resemble a flower if allowed to bloom like one, or how the spine was nothing but a stem for the brain. The body is so charmingly organic. The urgency in his own voice when these thoughts rise to the surface disturbs him more than the thoughts themselves, but he knows better than to force them from his mind. It is healthier this way, he thinks, for his hands and ink and paper, if not for him.
But it isn't enough. He locks himself away in his room to remove the excess stimuli, but it isn't enough. He's quieter on the battlefield, more methodical, watching intently the spatter of blood and the way they cut their swaths through the Retrograding Army, but it isn't enough. The image in his mind isn't vivid enough. He needs more.
The idea improves the longer he allows it to sit. The Saniwa will fix them even if he breaks them, and the cause was so just. He is, for once, not immediately concerned with cleaning himself upon arriving home. Instead he turns to whoever is closest, sword or Saniwa (the thought of who will fix the Saniwa when he breaks them is lost to him now), with his usual smile.]
Excuse me.
(Wildcard)
[Uh. ANYTHING ELSE YOU'D LIKE TO DO goes here.]