Niijima Izumi
Character

The sun whispered its last breath in the form of a streak of orange and pink across Thule’s horizon, the amber glow slipping behind the towers and temples like a final breath before nightfall. Lanterns flickered to life one by one, swaying gently in the harbor breeze, their reflections shimmering across puddles left by the afternoon rain.
Niijima Izumi walked the winding streets in silence. Her black silk kimono, embroidered with crimson plum blossoms, caught the dim glow as if carrying the remnants of sunset upon its folds. Beneath the wide sash of her obi rested the weight of twin sword, hidden, yet never forgotten. Every step she took was balanced between grace and vigilance.
To the regular people of the world, she might have seemed no more than a performer returning from rehearsal; a geisha in red and black, her hair pinned elegantly, her face serene. But her hands, still raw from the day’s training, told another story.
Thule did not look kindly upon women who bore the way of the sword. By day, she practiced in secret; discipline, breath, resolve. By night, she entertained nobles and travelers alike, her shamisen and sake cups as deft in her hands as her blades. The contrast had long ceased to trouble her; she had come to see both lives as mirrors of the same truth.
“Rectitude. Courage. Benevolence. Respect. Honesty. Honor. Loyalty.”
The seven pillars of the bushido code were her quiet prayer, her hidden armor. They were not bound to gender, nor to recognition. They lived within every choice she made; each cut of the blade, each word she spoke in delicate conversation.
As she reached the lantern-lit alley, the sounds of laughter and clinking cups pulled her from thought. The warmth of the izakaya, the only one in Thule that welcomed both travelers and wanderers alike, allowed her somewhat chilled body and heart some warmth.
She hesitated at the threshold. To enter was to become the geisha once more, the smiling face, the soft laughter, the melody on stage. Yet beneath the silk and the song, the swordswoman remained, unyielding, unseen, but ever present.
Niijima Izumi exhaled softly, smoothing the front of her kimono. “Even in stillness,” she thought, recalling her master’s words, “the blade must not sleep.”
With that, she stepped inside; the scent of sake and grilled fish meeting her like an old friend, the glow of paper lanterns catching the red blossoms at her hem as the door closed behind her.
Niijima Izumi walked the winding streets in silence. Her black silk kimono, embroidered with crimson plum blossoms, caught the dim glow as if carrying the remnants of sunset upon its folds. Beneath the wide sash of her obi rested the weight of twin sword, hidden, yet never forgotten. Every step she took was balanced between grace and vigilance.
To the regular people of the world, she might have seemed no more than a performer returning from rehearsal; a geisha in red and black, her hair pinned elegantly, her face serene. But her hands, still raw from the day’s training, told another story.
Thule did not look kindly upon women who bore the way of the sword. By day, she practiced in secret; discipline, breath, resolve. By night, she entertained nobles and travelers alike, her shamisen and sake cups as deft in her hands as her blades. The contrast had long ceased to trouble her; she had come to see both lives as mirrors of the same truth.
“Rectitude. Courage. Benevolence. Respect. Honesty. Honor. Loyalty.”
The seven pillars of the bushido code were her quiet prayer, her hidden armor. They were not bound to gender, nor to recognition. They lived within every choice she made; each cut of the blade, each word she spoke in delicate conversation.
As she reached the lantern-lit alley, the sounds of laughter and clinking cups pulled her from thought. The warmth of the izakaya, the only one in Thule that welcomed both travelers and wanderers alike, allowed her somewhat chilled body and heart some warmth.
She hesitated at the threshold. To enter was to become the geisha once more, the smiling face, the soft laughter, the melody on stage. Yet beneath the silk and the song, the swordswoman remained, unyielding, unseen, but ever present.
Niijima Izumi exhaled softly, smoothing the front of her kimono. “Even in stillness,” she thought, recalling her master’s words, “the blade must not sleep.”
With that, she stepped inside; the scent of sake and grilled fish meeting her like an old friend, the glow of paper lanterns catching the red blossoms at her hem as the door closed behind her.
TAG:
Kurayami Bloodborn
