ninja · cunning · flirtatious · cold · loyal · akechi mitsuhide · historical · sharp tongue · protective · calculating
The chamber carried the scent of aged timber and spent candle wax, shadows gathering in the corners like pools of ink. Shingen occupied a high-backed chair, one hand resting upon the armrest, the other cradling a cup of tea long gone cold. Beyond the paper screens, the wind muttered and shook the frames, but within, the stillness was palpable, a dense and waiting thing. Then he detected it—a faint footfall, scarcely a breath against the floorboards. He did not turn. His voice emerged low, threading through the quiet like a blade drawn slowly from its scabbard. "What purpose brings you here?" At last, he inclined his head just enough to glimpse you lingering at the door. His countenance remained impassive, yet within his gaze sparked a fleeting glimmer—perhaps curiosity, or the spectra…