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Miyashita Arashi

"The weak swordsman reserves his sword strokes, clings excessively to his blade. and his footwork is unsteady. His grip is too hard and he is afraid to crack the earth with his step."

0 · 563 views · located in Edo Japan

a character in “The Seven Samurai”, as played by Anty

Description

ImageImageImageImageImageMiyashita Arashi》

β—™β—™β—™β—™* Male...β—™β—™β—™β—™* 376...β—™β—™β—™β—™* 6'1"...β—™β—™β—™β—™* 189 lbs....β—™β—™β—™β—™* Yōkai (Tengu)

AASTR 」x β–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œ AAACON 」x β–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œ
AASPD 」x β–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œ AAAPWR 」x β–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œ
AAINT 」x β–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œ AAACNG 」x β–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œ
AAWPN 」x β–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œ AAACHA 」x β–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œβ–Œ


Imageβ—ˆ PATH OF VIOLENCE β”‹ Mastery in the use of various weapons.
β—ˆ POISONOUS WINGS β”‹ Wings with feathers that serve as a dulling poison and, in the right hands, a strong medicine.
β—ˆ 23 MARTIAL STEPS β”‹ Ability to instruct on the use of various weapons.
β—ˆ MASTER OF CUTTING β”‹ A temporary return to his glory days, at the cost of physical damage and severe exhaustion afterwards.



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PERSONALITY 》
Miyashita Arashi is, at his core, a direct result of his environment and also simultaneously a brutal deconstruction of it - he believes in the purity of battle, a disgust for the sword, and that being Royalty is the result of being unafraid to to admit the harsh truth of Want. He is a man who finds himself at ease in any moment and carries with him an arrogance unmatched by anybody he's ever met. He is imperfect, he is noticeably crass, lacks social ettiquette, is by no means a good person, and yet still seems to have succeeded in attaining a sense of enlightenment in his pursue for his desires.

Despite being an instructor for various martial arts and weapons, he finds the idea that you should hold a sword as you would a lover utterly abhorrent. The idea is as foreign to him as the idea of a fire burning under the ocean - only a fool would entertain it, he'd say, and he'd very much like to meet said fool for a cautionary tale to his disciples. He believes(and, by virtue, knows) that a sword is nothing other than a tool to separate the vital fluids of your enemies from their bodies. It will not bring you food, it will not give you warmth, and it can dull your instinctual knowledge of how to effectively incapacitate an enemy. The sword he holds close to him at all times, in a sheath at his waist, is cold and unforgiving and frankly, inefficient when it comes to the act of murder. The act of cutting is not necessarily the act of swinging a sword, but, instead, the manifested Want to cut - a thumb in your enemy's eye is just as efficient as your blade, and often faster, too.

Arashi has a clear intensity to him that can, to lesser-willed people, give them an impression that he is a battle-loving idiot. He is unafraid to make noise when he steps, he speaks loudly, and will admit that he's wrong when he is wrong without batting an eyelash. Those attributing said intensity to idiocy would be... mostly correct, to his own admission. Arashi is by no means a genius - he is absolutely horrible at alchemy, incapable of building sound structures, terrible at farming, has never successfully made a painting, and is unable to bring out the most powerful facets of his Yokai heritage - he cannot shoot out the poisonous feathers, make them into medicine, or coat his sword in mystical poison. Or, even worse, he seems to fail at grasping the delicacies of religion. He is a devout Bhuddist, but, anyone who knows the practices, truths, or precepts of Bhuddism would likely end up coughing blood themselves when he seems to mention the act of murder in place for almost every tenet. His belief that everyone is equal extends to himself: he is a desire-loving fool with a lack of understanding for the world, but everyone else is also a variant of fool. He holds himself proud and is a cunning, scheming individual - yet he also seems an almost direct contradiction to the idea of honor or the samurai code.

Arashi is very, very sick and also very, very tired. If asked, he would readily admit to both while simultaneously trying to run miles out of spite for his body. He does not seem to care that he is decaying slowly, that his inability to control the feathers of his wings and their properties is slowly killing him, or that he should rest instead of standing to fight for Edo. He is counting the days till his death, yet seems as lively as ever in spite of his coughing up black blood, occasional fits of nausea, and a series of deathly, veiny lines coming from his chest. He refuses, absolutely, to stay sitting still and would rather put his body to use in protecting Edo from any potential invaders than rotting away in bed. He has no remaining family, no lover, and few servants; yet he'd fight to the last drop of blood in his body to protect the soba maker that lives in the spider-ridden house, his foolish disciples, and the young flower-collecting girl with the wooden stick who hits trees on the weekends in practice.

Most importantly, though, he'd never leave the newest of the Saitō family to fend for the village's livelihood without him. He has supported the lineage for generations, his loyalty lies with the name, and he finds it easy to accept her as the latest in the family despite her clearly not being related by blood to the couple he followed before her. He has been a retainer/vassal to the Saitō name for most of his life and, even if he believes he will soon die, he shall dedicate what remains of his former strength to ensuring her Want is protected.

Ultimately, Miyashita Arashi may be a contradiction to the samurai code and the idea of honor, but, he is one of the most trustworthy people a person could meet for his sheer simplicity: he will not cross his friends, he is unafraid to cut without a sword, and he has little shame in following his desires.

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ImageImage
HISTORY 》
Miyashita Arashi is not royalty in the diluted, faint meaning of the word: he was born as what most would consider a peasant to two Tengus making their home on the peak of a mountain in a wooden, sturdy building deep into the wilderness of Japan. He flew to the bottom of the mountain for sport, came back in the mornings for martial training with his parents, and found a simple, but boring life as his own. The only extraordinary thing about his family was that his mother had a deadly, dulling poison in the feathers of her wings that she could control at will and, that apparently, he would too. Despite this singular oddity, his life was monotony up till when he turned thirteen. Young for a yokai, drastically so, but old enough for tragedy to strike his home. A malevolent yokai had taken to coming into the area where his parents usually hunted for food - with an end that most would expect from the tale of a master swordsman. They were killed, had their feathers taken, and left at the bottom of the mountain for him to find when he mustered the courage to go down.

Rage filled the young tengu, giving rise to the strength necessary for going into the malevolent yokai's lair. His body quivered, his breaths were hot, and sweat beaded down his back with every step he took into the cavern that reeked of evil - though, Arashi had neither training with the sword nor refinement in the art for murder. His stance was tense, he clung to his sword, and his wrists were unbearably tight. The yokai that had taken to lounging in the valley at the bottom of the mountain could not climb up despite its multiple efforts, yes, but not out of weakness. It was too large, too bulky, and feared coming to the peak where the tengus would have a better advantage for fighting, but it was not weak. It had lived for hundreds of years, sharpened its fangs, and was taller than two men stacked on top of each other.

Arashi failed, utterly, to land more than a single scratch on the beast's hide. His only solace was that he wasn't an ordinary tengu himself, his wings had just started possessing the vaguest attribute of poison in them. Enough to dull the yokai's movements and for Arashi to barely dodge the strikes coming at him. The rage that had strengthened him before seemed all for naught in the face of a yokai that had learned death with all of its body, down to the very last claw. Even then, his avenues for escape were limited. It toyed with him, playfully, and neither of the two saw a way for him to survive.

It was by miracle that a family friend and his soon-to-be-instructor had been following the trail of malevolence. A kitsune by the moniker of 'Meti'. An often drunk, harsh, and notably not beautiful fox demon with nine curly tails and no sword. It only took Meti a sparse three seconds to cut down the malevolent beast, a flash of her fingernail enough to split it in half and give way for her to see the scared, trembling figure of Arashi. If asked as to what she did next, Arashi would gladly say, "She muttered curses under her breath and only decided to teach me the path of violence after seeing how utterly terrible I was at farming."

--

For the span of 70 years, Arashi followed Meti and learned almost all he knows now from her: decadence, freedom, his twisted bhuddist beliefs, and every inch of martial prowess in his body. She was the one who taught him the harshness of cold folded steel, death with everything he has, and the manner by which to be the ruler of one own's mind. "Living is an exercise of violence," She taught him, motioning to the blades of grass he'd crushed with his steps, before going quiet and not finishing her statement. At the end of the 70 years, she finally told him the second part of the precept, "Exercise of violence is the fate of living."

The years that follow his apprenticeship under Meti are shrouded in ambiguity, though one thing is for certain - eventually, or perhaps immediately, he came into the service of the Saitō name. The head of the family at the time had convinced the still relatively-young Arashi to willingly pledge his allegiance to the name for as long as he'd live, as both a vassal/retainer and later on as an instructor for various forms of martial arts. Over 240 years spent serving the village of Edo has come far in helping him grow to love the village as an indispensable part of him... one he can finally protect himself.

At least, that's how it should have gone. For a long, long while in his servitude to the Saitō family, he was in peak condition and able to defeat most who'd come to dare challenge him. He was fast, strong, and a skilled swordsman. There were very few individuals who could match him in a one on one battle. He was at the peak of his well-being and seemed to be getting stronger as the days passed. His wings started gaining a purple, shimmery gloss to them as he reached adulthood for a tengu.... but, this was an omen rather than a gift. It proved no detriment immediately, nor showed no signs of being anything other than good, and he was able to teach with little effort. Arashi managed to teach a good portion of the most skillful guards aligned with Edo, as well as some who left Edo to find their own destinies. The student he is most proud of, Nagamasa, can be a testament to what Arashi has accomplished and what he was capable of.

At his very peak, however, something changed. The wings on his back had reached maturity, a maturity he was wholly unprepared for. The poison in his wings is mystical in nature. It cannot be cured through normal means, but that doesn't necessarily make it a death sentence. It is a poison that saps the strength and speed from a person, one that gets worse with the more exposure a person has to it. A second's exposure will only dull the area it hits, a minute's exposure with dull the body slightly, and so on. Though, such limited exposure usually has the poison leave the body on its own. It is only truly dangerous if it can get into contact with the heart, or if a person is exposed to it for a long enough time(often hours in time). Once exposed to the poison for hours or through the heart, a person will start suffering from the same deterioration that Arashi does - not immediately, but gradually. The well-known cure for the poison, once it has established itself, is simple: The burned ashes of a feather from a tengu with poisonous wings, the crushed pit of a peach, and blood. The cure is also impressive in that it manages to cure a person of most disease or poisons, as well as the tengu poison itself. For most tengu of his particular variant, though, the poison is more of a tool than a detriment. With enough practice, a tengu with poisonous wings can learn to make it so the poison does not affect it, and even then the poison is naturally less effective on the tengu that produces it or the tengu will be aware of the cure for the poison. Arashi, in his impressive incompetence, however, has failed to be aware of either.

In one single day, 40 years ago, he was met with an unimaginable pain in his chest. A black spot, small and hardly noticeable, had set itself over where his heart would be on his chest. This was the start of his decay. His mother never had the chance to teach Arashi the dangers of not practicing with his unique heritage as a rare tengu with poisonous wings. The dulling, deadly poison in his wings had finally grown strong enough to affect him - every day after that initial one, when that black spot had grown on his chest, was a day he seemed to be getting weaker. Gradually, very, very gradually, he found the black spot seeming to grow outwards like a tree - branches of black spread out from it like the paths of a maze and he found himself starting to grow duller. He could not crush steel with his hands, he could not swiftly run through the streets of Edo, and he knew not the fact that the feathers on his wings could be made into medicine.

He'd never looked into why the malevolent yokai had taken his parents feathers, or the medicinal attributes they could have when prepared by someone versed in the art, or how to negate the negative effects of the poison on himself. His condition as a tengu was rare and it wouldn't serve him any good even if he did know what could be made from his feathers, the medicine that could be hypothetically created could heal many things and the effects of the poison, but not on someone who has been exposed to it for as long as he has with as much as he has. Deliberate practice, that he did not have, in regards to controlling the poison is the only solution, but there is no one like him that he knows of to teach him - nor does he know that as the answer.

Now, he simply waits for his inevitable, slow death while trying to be as useful as he possibly can in the protection for Edo.

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*Character sheet inspired by Maccotango, and Aethyia.
*All Credit belongs to them.

So begins...

Miyashita Arashi's Story

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Character Portrait: Miyashita Arashi
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#, as written by Anty
Arashi sat with his legs crossed, his back straight, and a pipe in his mouth in the soft quiet near the Edo Bay. He Exhaled, once, carefully, and while pointing the puff of smoke towards the bay. The smell of tobacco wasn't pervasive, but it was clear in the way it left his presence that it was not just breath. Swirling, white, and floating up into the bright sky.

He was under what was a simple wooden structure for shade with a canvas angled in front of him. Light barely reach down under the shade and the bay was just a few feet ahead of him. It was darker underneath the shade than out of it, Arashi hadn't lit any light, and the way natural light fell around him gave off the impression that maybe, just maybe, he liked it this way. "Don't light anything," he said, catching the movement of his servant in the corner of his eye and speaking with a voice that implied some form of harshness yet didn't seem willing enough to do anything. A lazy, imposing kind of strictness. It wasn't night, the day was fresh, and he wanted to appreciate it before his health deteriorated to where he wouldn't be able to. "It's better this way, no reason to turn on the light if I can't write a few simple words."

Course, it's been doing him no good to be smoking, especially not with how his health has been recently, but he paid the thought no mind. May his lungs fill with all the black they want, he'd give it no thought until his lungs were coughed up and he could no longer breathe. Then, maybe then, would he listen to the warnings from his disciples about smoking with his disease.

Instead, he just kept looking down at the scroll on the canvas and painted little strokes of black onto its surface. Swish, swish, swish, and swish - paint met with paper and formed the words of his teacher's wisdom until the Fourth Martial Step was written in clarity on its surface. Calligraphy wasn't easy, though perhaps it could have been made so if he bothered to light the lanterns, and he found it took an immeasurable amount of time to get the words written how he wanted them(At least, that's what he told himself in regards to just how horrible he was at it). It couldn't possibly be that he was just horrible at it. Not whatsoever.




Breathing is very important! Is the violent breath of life in you not hot? Exhale! Exult!

Fourth Martial Step - Meti





Each Martial Step was one of the lessons Arashi'd been taught in his years with Meti, a guide to the path of unhindered violence and the futility inherent in it. He'd started writing them down once he thought the possibility of him dying was enough to worry about - something especially emphasized when he read the Martial Step he'd been writing now. Exhaling took effort, sometimes, and it was getting harder by the day to follow the guide set by his teacher.

Each hanging scroll took days upon days to finish, not out of length or difficulty, but because of his utter ineptitude when it came to something unrelated to battle, conversation, or doing things he shouldn't be. Four scrolls down, 19 more to go. "We'll bring it home in an hour." He said, causing the servant to finally stand and begin putting away Arashi's calligraphy tools. There wasn't anything to do now, other than sit around and appreciate the sweet scent of grass in the morning while waiting for the words to finish drying on the scroll.

He took another puff, taking careful note of where his sword was(out of habit, more than necessity), and admired the words on the scroll. If one were to see him, they'd notice nothing out of the ordinary other than the fact that he was out doing calligraphy. His wings were tucked away, his sword was rarely an oddity, and... even if someone did notice, he was known well enough in Edo for someone to comment on it. Recently, he'd taken to coming here often enough for people to assume it'd become a regular thing.