Hamasaki Hiroshi
Hamasaki Hiroshi was man things. He was a runaway, almost-monk, a sharp-eyed haggler, and a foreign-blooded bastard to name just a few. He also was quite fortunate, it seemed. The samurai had found him kneeling down in prayer. It was a small-mission built by Jesuits who he was grateful he had never met before in his life. He thought of the Cathedrals he heard about from the monks. They spoke in wistful tones of grand buildings of stained glass, the equal of even the greatest Shinto and Buddhist shrines in Nihon. It was ironic then that Hiroshi had the ability to travel and see those great buildings where the monks could not leave their monastery on Kyushu. Still, Hiroshi doubted he would ever leave Nihon or the calling that he had answered. The small tabernacle and carved, wooden crucifix was enough.
"Deus meus, ex toto corde pænitet me ómnium meórum peccatórum, éaque detéstor, quia peccándo, non solum pœnas a te iuste statútas proméritus sum, sed præsértim quia offéndi te, summum bonum, ac dignum qui super ómnia diligáris. Ídeo fírmiter propóno, adiuvánte grátia tua, de cétero me non peccatúrum peccandíque occasiónes próximas fugitúrum. Amen."
He had killed seven men on his previous mission. They were wicked men, bandits who had once been ashigaru, but had deserted to prey on the innocent rather than fight in one of many conflicts. He had been taught to feel compassion for such men and perhaps a holier man could have converted them with words alone, but Hiroshi was not such a man. He had a sword and he put it to use.
The samurai, Ikeda Kojuro, was a model of respect and duty. The job he offered was like many he had performed before so, Hiroshi genuflected and made the Sign of the Cross before turning to the samurai and bowing.
"I would protect those you would charge me with with my life."
Thus, he found himself on horseback at the edge of Edo, waiting for the rest of his traveling companions to arrive. The women naturally caught his eye first. One was the picture of classical Nihon beauty, all pale skin and raven locks with a heart-shaped face and high cheekbones and the other was clearly of foreign blood, just like him. He had never seen hair the color of the sun, though he had heard of it from foreigners visiting the monastery on Kyushu. They were both beautiful and such beauty attracted unwanted attention from men who sought to take what could only be given and thus destroy what they sought to possess.
He bowed his head, but could not help but raise an eyebrow at the pale, raven-haired woman's words. It seemed that Ikeda knew the small ronin, Kousaka, and the boy had spoken with great excitement. He could not help but smile at his eagerness.
"It is an honor," he greeted the women and bodyguards they brought with them. He would say no more until Ikeda spoke. It would be a rude otherwise. He had already toed the line by speaking that small sentence before the samurai.