A folktale of an unnamed Hermit Knight.
On a snowy night, two unusual shadows reunite in a place without truth.
Groggy husbands and wives started to move through the houses, wiping their eyes and some men still groaning from the extracurricular activities that occurred during the night, while their wives or girlfriends smirked happily. Another day of work laid ahead for them in the daily tedium of their lives, and they moved in their set pattern that has long been ingrained in them. Engines started to rev up and cars pulled out into the street, and amongst the new hubbub of a new day was the clopping of a pair of hooves.
In which a split-mouth yōkai grows increasingly irate at her inability to stab a rather evasive gentleman, as told through the arcane medium of greentext.
Being a tale of many things – a tale of warriors, of artisans, of merchants and farmers, and of a maiden of spears, whose wings were the white of snow and swans. And, indeed, a tale of love – of its joys, its melancholy, and its myriad of mysteries.
To the boy it seemed a horrid trap, like a fever dream he was being marched into. By lanterns light he tread with his captor and his fellow prisoner in silence along the entrance path. The path was paved with stone, a foreign luxury in the hovel below. It was lined with a garden of surely imported flowers in perfectly matching shades of reds and whites and lilacs. They were cut and trim to perfect measurements, none encroaching past their gardens. Gone was the overgrowth of the village, the unruly weeds and clutching branches that flanked their village. The manor was sterile, it was organized, it was planned.