Germanicus
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The sun beamed down upon a lone court yard, radiant streaks of light cascading about the harsh, barren tundra that was known as the Land of Iron. The frozen wasteland comprised of rolling hills of crystalline ice and snow, with the looming behemoth of Three Wolves Mountain standing vigilantly in defense of the dreary fortress nature had crafted with the leftovers of its bounty. Torrential gales bit with icy fangs at the flesh of any who dared set foot upon these hallowed grounds, and to cease moving was synonymous with the ceasing of breathing. As cold and rigid as the metal it was named for, the nation was a solemn one, where death and dedication ruled hand in hand, encompassing the life of every man, woman, and child which called it home. None but the strong could live out their days here. As such, the only ones who dared to tread the frozen battlements of Three Wolves Mountain were the known masters of the military world, who were born and bred for battle, the elite warrior caste which had dictated the policy of the continent for hundreds of years.
This was the land of the Samurai.
On this particularly frosty morning, Kinoshinta Hideyoshi thought with a shudder driving itself clean through the marrow of his normally steadfast bones, the deadly facets of the countryside were nothing when compared to the people who occupied it. He thought this especially true as he watched the grandiose spectacle in the training yards below; crowds of burly young bulls of men jostled each other for spots by chalky white lines which divided up the boundaries of the fighting circles, while older, more dignified warriors stood back appraisingly, nodding at every good move made and cringing with each pass of the most minuscule error. The latter group also scratched their beards furiously and raised their eyebrows indignantly at each fresh body which threw itself into the ring which was being held in such high interest. The older ones all knew no matter whom entered they would all come back out beaten and bloodied by the undisputed master of these yards.
Standing in the center of the largest white circle, one designed to be large enough to practice executing war maneuvers as a unit, stood a lean, well defined figure. Rounded shoulders and broad chest encased in ebony armor which glared subtly in the mid morning light, graying dark hair cut trimly above the top of his neck, the man stood impatiently as four new challengers entered the field and began to scheme with those already in combat against their veteran opponent. His face, though not wizened or blemished, but not young in appearance either, was drawn taut in stoic distaste. On the real field of combat, the lads set out to challenge him would be dead already. Never turn your back to the enemy. That was rule number one. (Or was it rule number two? He did tend to forget, occasionally. It was a rule. That was all that was important.) However, today was a day for greenhorns to take the field against their elders; let them plan, scheme, and strategize. They would need all the help they could get, he thought, not without a hint of guiltless pride.
Off to the side, Kinoshinta shook his head in pity. The addition of the four fresh bodies led the number facing Sentinel (as the practiced hand in the ring was commonly known) put the count at thirteen to one. Thirteen men against one lone soldier! He scratched his chin, puzzled that an experienced hand like Sentinel would ever give fresh blood such an advantage during what was widely considered as a competence examination. In his high, earnest voice, Kinoshinta whispered commentary on the fight to himself.
“Welp, looks like you’re in for it this time, chief…”
“Don’t be too sure of that, lad.”
Whirling with a start, Kinoshinta was surprised to see Shibata Katsuie, a giant of a man with a scraggly onyx beard hanging thick from his chin, monstrous war blade slung about his back. Bearing his own pearl white armor loosely over his large build, he grinned down at the young page. Measuring well over six feet tall, he towered over Kinoshinta. He let loose a deep, lumbering laugh, before crying out to the battle below. “Oi! Sentinel! The boss wants to see you, immediately! Finish playing around!”
Sentinel looked up, face showing faint signs of disappointed exasperation. The thirteen young fighters took this as a sign of distraction, and, having surrounded him in a semi circle, abruptly charged their sensei. The youths cut quite the figure, when viewed with an amateur eye; well built men, encased in stunning white armor, bearing well crafted wooden swords and rushing gloriously into the fray. Two waves came in from the left and the right, three boys to each side, while the remaining seven waited momentarily, before lunging forward themselves, expecting Sentinel to meet one of the two initial groups or backing away in desperation.
One of the men in the front of the forward charge found himself flying back into two of his fellows, as an obsidian blur flashed through the group farther back. Sentinel grinned as the two groups which had attacked from his flanks crashed into each other in their reckless hurry. Panicked and confused shouts rang through the air as the men became tangled and trapped by the collision of their groups.
Whirling towards the remaining five warriors before him, thin training blade flowing like muddy water through the air, Sentinel slashed down the first man to his left, tossing aside the opponent like a rag doll. He immediately transitioned into a back thrust which slammed into the gut of an enemy sneaking from behind, leaving the man groaning in shocked pain on the ground.
The remaining three had taken the time to form a human wall three feet away, each man standing shoulder to shoulder. Charging once more, each man stepped into a different aggressive assault; one thrusting, one slashing from the right, one chopping from above. Sentinel merely grinned and shook his head as his sword became a blur to meet the moves.
They had forsaken the advantage of numbers by meeting him in a direct assault.
He parried the thrust with a flick of his wrist, muscles not even tensing from the effort, lodging the other man’s sword in the path of the blades of the other two would be foes. The three novices ended up with their blades colliding just short of where Sentinel’s torso had been moments before.
Black lighting flashed through the sky, Sentinel in his terrifying glory gliding fluently through the air above the three, and with a roar and a sweep of his training blade, the samurai were sent flying back several feet, hurtled onto their backs as bones were heard cracking and breaking. They remained there, moaning in agony at their humiliating defeat by only a single warrior, their pride scarred as much as their bodies.
The men that had finally untangled themselves gazed on in horrified realization before dropping their blades and falling to their knees. Sentinel glared at them, aggravated by the ease of their surrender, before clicking his tongue, throwing his blade on the ground in disgust, and stalking out of the ring. As he passed Shibata, the two exchanged glances, and, each recognizing the competence of the other, nodded in respect. Kinoshinta merely glanced after him, wondering what summons could have interrupted the pace of the match.
Training was sacred to the samurai; each man held honing his own skill as the highest of duties. One didn’t lightly end scheduled training.
And if the Taisho was the one who called for it, something of vital importance was brewing in the upper echelons of the samurai world…
Sentinel stalked through the dimly lit hallways of fortress. The faint orange embers of the candles guided him into the room of the highest general of the samurai, the Taisho. Exalted as a warrior among warriors, the current Taisho, Tsuneshige, was held to be the strongest who had ever commanded the samurai. Called the Grand Demon, he was found sitting in his crimson armor while pensively brooding over several papers of reports sitting at the head of his cluttered desk. The remainder of the room was equally messy, appearing to have been left in disrepair for quite some time.
The Taisho, with his gray hair falling well over his shoulders and cavernous face drooping in weathered wrinkles, appeared like a defenseless, though gargantuan, old man. Any who took that estimate into battle shortly met their end. His dark black eyes met the green ones of Sentinel, and the two nodded before saluting to each other. Their work over the years together had established a sort of familiarity, and Sentinel was not held to stand on ceremony while in the old man’s presence. As such, pleasantries were also skipped.
The dark eyes of the Taisho met Sentinel’s own green ones, and the two glanced at the papers in a moment of awkward silence. Before long, however, the Taisho tapped slowly on the top most one in a repeating bang, each time hitting his desk successively harder.
“We…have been the veritable rulers of this continent for decades and a power for centuries.” His voice was cold and monotonous, a tinge as biting as the icy landscape they had been born of. “The samurai legacy is a legacy of respect of our military might. Our power, in return, has brought stability to the land. Bandits fear to so much as tread where our eye holds vigilant and the people prosper.”
He paused, regarding the paper on his desk. “However…some have begun to call us…obsolete. Relics of bygone days, who are growing feeble in their old age. More suited to a rocking chair than the destrier, better with the pen than the sword.”
He leaned forward and growled at Sentinel. “And I won’t stand for it! We are not some by gone era, ready for the world to bury at its leisure.”
He fumed for a moment, his face turning scarlet in rage before he calmed himself and proceeded.
“…I digress. What I have summoned you for is this; you are familiar with the weavers of jutsu, the shadow warriors, the so called…shinobi?”
Sentinel nodded without hesitation, though not speaking. His face remained stolid and devoid of feeling. He had engaged in border skirmishes with several such groups before. Though mighty, they lacked any real organization, and therefore were never great in number. Still, a tinge of foreboding began to slide its way into the veteran samurai’s mind.
Tusneshige continued on; “Very well then. Reports indicate that the shinobi have been rallying recently. Several of their clans have been warring for the past several years, and we have watched silently at the development of their conflicts. However, some of the clans seem to be forming…alliance. Grouping together. Almost…” the old general glared up at his soldier. “…as if they were trying to form a nation. You know as well as I do that if they succeed, the balance of power will be completely thrown asunder.”
Sentinel did not respond at all this time; while he was an excellent warrior, he hadn’t stepped upon a battle field in over a decade. He was in his fifties now. In no definition was he a young man any longer. The turn this conversation was headed would most definitely not become pleasant.
“Go to the south west, into the Land of Fire. Once there, you will find the rallying clans of shinobi and exterminate them. By any means necessary.”
Sentinel barely held back a cringe. He hadn’t wanted to go to war any longer. He was content wasting his days away playing shogi and training the next reckless lad who would waste his life in a direct assault on a much more experienced enemy. He was done with war.
He merely replied, in a completely unremarkable voice, neither high nor low, “what is the name of the clan you wish me to eliminate, lord Taisho?”
The leader of the samurai smirked at the expected compliance, and pointed to a small symbol on the report; a double edged black spear, sitting horizontally across the page.
“They are called the Senju…”
This is a new Fan Fiction I just had an idea for today, needed something to write. Needed to write anything, I guess I should say. Anyway, this is set in the world of Naruto, before the founding of Kohonagakure, though not too long before. The emphasis I currently have placed is on the samurai and the land of Iron, and their possible involvement before the birth of the great ninja villages. I have taken some creative liberties, so I apologize if everything doesn't strictly adhere to the original story of Naruto. Also, many of the characters will be original; some familiar faces will find their way in, but most will be new. This chapter in particular will introduce new samurai characters. (Backstories I didn't go into deeply for this chapter. Those will be explored later.) Well, that's my two bits; thank you for your time, I hope you enjoy.
The sun beamed down upon a lone court yard, radiant streaks of light cascading about the harsh, barren tundra that was known as the Land of Iron. The frozen wasteland comprised of rolling hills of crystalline ice and snow, with the looming behemoth of Three Wolves Mountain standing vigilantly in defense of the dreary fortress nature had crafted with the leftovers of its bounty. Torrential gales bit with icy fangs at the flesh of any who dared set foot upon these hallowed grounds, and to cease moving was synonymous with the ceasing of breathing. As cold and rigid as the metal it was named for, the nation was a solemn one, where death and dedication ruled hand in hand, encompassing the life of every man, woman, and child which called it home. None but the strong could live out their days here. As such, the only ones who dared to tread the frozen battlements of Three Wolves Mountain were the known masters of the military world, who were born and bred for battle, the elite warrior caste which had dictated the policy of the continent for hundreds of years.
This was the land of the Samurai.
On this particularly frosty morning, Kinoshinta Hideyoshi thought with a shudder driving itself clean through the marrow of his normally steadfast bones, the deadly facets of the countryside were nothing when compared to the people who occupied it. He thought this especially true as he watched the grandiose spectacle in the training yards below; crowds of burly young bulls of men jostled each other for spots by chalky white lines which divided up the boundaries of the fighting circles, while older, more dignified warriors stood back appraisingly, nodding at every good move made and cringing with each pass of the most minuscule error. The latter group also scratched their beards furiously and raised their eyebrows indignantly at each fresh body which threw itself into the ring which was being held in such high interest. The older ones all knew no matter whom entered they would all come back out beaten and bloodied by the undisputed master of these yards.
Standing in the center of the largest white circle, one designed to be large enough to practice executing war maneuvers as a unit, stood a lean, well defined figure. Rounded shoulders and broad chest encased in ebony armor which glared subtly in the mid morning light, graying dark hair cut trimly above the top of his neck, the man stood impatiently as four new challengers entered the field and began to scheme with those already in combat against their veteran opponent. His face, though not wizened or blemished, but not young in appearance either, was drawn taut in stoic distaste. On the real field of combat, the lads set out to challenge him would be dead already. Never turn your back to the enemy. That was rule number one. (Or was it rule number two? He did tend to forget, occasionally. It was a rule. That was all that was important.) However, today was a day for greenhorns to take the field against their elders; let them plan, scheme, and strategize. They would need all the help they could get, he thought, not without a hint of guiltless pride.
Off to the side, Kinoshinta shook his head in pity. The addition of the four fresh bodies led the number facing Sentinel (as the practiced hand in the ring was commonly known) put the count at thirteen to one. Thirteen men against one lone soldier! He scratched his chin, puzzled that an experienced hand like Sentinel would ever give fresh blood such an advantage during what was widely considered as a competence examination. In his high, earnest voice, Kinoshinta whispered commentary on the fight to himself.
“Welp, looks like you’re in for it this time, chief…”
“Don’t be too sure of that, lad.”
Whirling with a start, Kinoshinta was surprised to see Shibata Katsuie, a giant of a man with a scraggly onyx beard hanging thick from his chin, monstrous war blade slung about his back. Bearing his own pearl white armor loosely over his large build, he grinned down at the young page. Measuring well over six feet tall, he towered over Kinoshinta. He let loose a deep, lumbering laugh, before crying out to the battle below. “Oi! Sentinel! The boss wants to see you, immediately! Finish playing around!”
Sentinel looked up, face showing faint signs of disappointed exasperation. The thirteen young fighters took this as a sign of distraction, and, having surrounded him in a semi circle, abruptly charged their sensei. The youths cut quite the figure, when viewed with an amateur eye; well built men, encased in stunning white armor, bearing well crafted wooden swords and rushing gloriously into the fray. Two waves came in from the left and the right, three boys to each side, while the remaining seven waited momentarily, before lunging forward themselves, expecting Sentinel to meet one of the two initial groups or backing away in desperation.
One of the men in the front of the forward charge found himself flying back into two of his fellows, as an obsidian blur flashed through the group farther back. Sentinel grinned as the two groups which had attacked from his flanks crashed into each other in their reckless hurry. Panicked and confused shouts rang through the air as the men became tangled and trapped by the collision of their groups.
Whirling towards the remaining five warriors before him, thin training blade flowing like muddy water through the air, Sentinel slashed down the first man to his left, tossing aside the opponent like a rag doll. He immediately transitioned into a back thrust which slammed into the gut of an enemy sneaking from behind, leaving the man groaning in shocked pain on the ground.
The remaining three had taken the time to form a human wall three feet away, each man standing shoulder to shoulder. Charging once more, each man stepped into a different aggressive assault; one thrusting, one slashing from the right, one chopping from above. Sentinel merely grinned and shook his head as his sword became a blur to meet the moves.
They had forsaken the advantage of numbers by meeting him in a direct assault.
He parried the thrust with a flick of his wrist, muscles not even tensing from the effort, lodging the other man’s sword in the path of the blades of the other two would be foes. The three novices ended up with their blades colliding just short of where Sentinel’s torso had been moments before.
Black lighting flashed through the sky, Sentinel in his terrifying glory gliding fluently through the air above the three, and with a roar and a sweep of his training blade, the samurai were sent flying back several feet, hurtled onto their backs as bones were heard cracking and breaking. They remained there, moaning in agony at their humiliating defeat by only a single warrior, their pride scarred as much as their bodies.
The men that had finally untangled themselves gazed on in horrified realization before dropping their blades and falling to their knees. Sentinel glared at them, aggravated by the ease of their surrender, before clicking his tongue, throwing his blade on the ground in disgust, and stalking out of the ring. As he passed Shibata, the two exchanged glances, and, each recognizing the competence of the other, nodded in respect. Kinoshinta merely glanced after him, wondering what summons could have interrupted the pace of the match.
Training was sacred to the samurai; each man held honing his own skill as the highest of duties. One didn’t lightly end scheduled training.
And if the Taisho was the one who called for it, something of vital importance was brewing in the upper echelons of the samurai world…
Sentinel stalked through the dimly lit hallways of fortress. The faint orange embers of the candles guided him into the room of the highest general of the samurai, the Taisho. Exalted as a warrior among warriors, the current Taisho, Tsuneshige, was held to be the strongest who had ever commanded the samurai. Called the Grand Demon, he was found sitting in his crimson armor while pensively brooding over several papers of reports sitting at the head of his cluttered desk. The remainder of the room was equally messy, appearing to have been left in disrepair for quite some time.
The Taisho, with his gray hair falling well over his shoulders and cavernous face drooping in weathered wrinkles, appeared like a defenseless, though gargantuan, old man. Any who took that estimate into battle shortly met their end. His dark black eyes met the green ones of Sentinel, and the two nodded before saluting to each other. Their work over the years together had established a sort of familiarity, and Sentinel was not held to stand on ceremony while in the old man’s presence. As such, pleasantries were also skipped.
The dark eyes of the Taisho met Sentinel’s own green ones, and the two glanced at the papers in a moment of awkward silence. Before long, however, the Taisho tapped slowly on the top most one in a repeating bang, each time hitting his desk successively harder.
“We…have been the veritable rulers of this continent for decades and a power for centuries.” His voice was cold and monotonous, a tinge as biting as the icy landscape they had been born of. “The samurai legacy is a legacy of respect of our military might. Our power, in return, has brought stability to the land. Bandits fear to so much as tread where our eye holds vigilant and the people prosper.”
He paused, regarding the paper on his desk. “However…some have begun to call us…obsolete. Relics of bygone days, who are growing feeble in their old age. More suited to a rocking chair than the destrier, better with the pen than the sword.”
He leaned forward and growled at Sentinel. “And I won’t stand for it! We are not some by gone era, ready for the world to bury at its leisure.”
He fumed for a moment, his face turning scarlet in rage before he calmed himself and proceeded.
“…I digress. What I have summoned you for is this; you are familiar with the weavers of jutsu, the shadow warriors, the so called…shinobi?”
Sentinel nodded without hesitation, though not speaking. His face remained stolid and devoid of feeling. He had engaged in border skirmishes with several such groups before. Though mighty, they lacked any real organization, and therefore were never great in number. Still, a tinge of foreboding began to slide its way into the veteran samurai’s mind.
Tusneshige continued on; “Very well then. Reports indicate that the shinobi have been rallying recently. Several of their clans have been warring for the past several years, and we have watched silently at the development of their conflicts. However, some of the clans seem to be forming…alliance. Grouping together. Almost…” the old general glared up at his soldier. “…as if they were trying to form a nation. You know as well as I do that if they succeed, the balance of power will be completely thrown asunder.”
Sentinel did not respond at all this time; while he was an excellent warrior, he hadn’t stepped upon a battle field in over a decade. He was in his fifties now. In no definition was he a young man any longer. The turn this conversation was headed would most definitely not become pleasant.
“Go to the south west, into the Land of Fire. Once there, you will find the rallying clans of shinobi and exterminate them. By any means necessary.”
Sentinel barely held back a cringe. He hadn’t wanted to go to war any longer. He was content wasting his days away playing shogi and training the next reckless lad who would waste his life in a direct assault on a much more experienced enemy. He was done with war.
He merely replied, in a completely unremarkable voice, neither high nor low, “what is the name of the clan you wish me to eliminate, lord Taisho?”
The leader of the samurai smirked at the expected compliance, and pointed to a small symbol on the report; a double edged black spear, sitting horizontally across the page.
“They are called the Senju…”
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