Shirayama, Yukimura

Like most, Yukimura began his journey with being brought into the world by two loving parents. Adoring their son more than most would deem standard. Truly seeing the future in his eyes and believing in the change he would bring no matter what he chose or did.

Again, like most, it started at a very young age. While his infancy was spent with his parents, his most formidable years were spent with a master. Saying goodbye was not so sweet as more it was simply sorrow. Three Absols’ in one area would be seen as an omen if left for too long. So, just as his training began, his parents would vanish… truly never seeing them again. He hardly remembers them or any lessons they instilled into him, most of what carved him being his master- and his friend.

Maekawa Masao, another young boy of his age, was someone who he both considered a brother and his worst rival. They woke together, trained together, ate together, bled together. Each day was more grueling than the last but Masao was the most consistent thing in his life. Yukimura could handle punishment, could handle the aches and pains, could handle and endure and bend but never break if it meant he could continue to be by his friend's side….

Only when he reached late adolescence did it dawn on him that perhaps he was viewing his brother as more than just an idol or even a peer. He only would swallow such feelings and keep what had always been just that, the same. Why ruin things? Why speak of something when this is already what he wants?

…Right?

Years rolled back at a pace that Yuki wished they would slow down, his chest swelling with happiness, pride, contentment… but his cautious nature was something that could not simply be whittled away. He watched from the shadows as Masao questioned their master. Red eyes not once skipping over the twitch of his master's hand, the words pushed together a skip above a slur…. everyday the poisoned mind of the man who trained the two of them became more apparent.

While his expression was always that of content or even nonchalance…. his hand always remained firmly on his katana. Waiting.

The three traveled out through the woods, something they had done thousands of times, but the knot that formed in Yuki’s stomach never subsided once. Not for a single second.

He hardly even paused as his master lunged for Masao first, fierce focused eyes doing one clean slice. Just enough to fatally wound, not enough to finish. Yuki’s blade had been drawn, the pupil raising metal to their master's flesh. The look in his eyes turned to horror as he realized how quickly he reacted, and how suddenly Masao finished it. A final clean slice from the other's blade left the body still. Their father.

It was quiet. Only for a second.

Yukimura opened his mouth to say something only for Masao to shout and scream at him. The beautiflys’ in his stomach twisted into heavy rocks, his throat swelling as the words caught in his throat. In two swift motions they lost everything. They would have to die, or be shunned and stripped of everything.

It was his fault. It didn’t matter that his master was aiming to kill Masao……..
He took any options the two had and simply…..

The steady hand that aided in taking the life of someone he considered to be his father for someone he truly loved by every meaning of the word… shook.

He wrapped his own wrist with his free hand, trying to steady his grip until he realized his whole body was quaking… And then running.

He couldn’t handle the screaming, the rejection. He could take it if it was anyone but Masao.

Anyone but him.
With the title of ronin came an unfortunate difficulty in finding steady work. Yukimura took whatever jobs he could find, often falling back on his sword whenever there was little else available. Escort work, protection, odd jobs, guarding merchants… anything that paid enough to keep food in his stomach and sake in his cup. The work was never particularly glamorous, and over the years his body began collecting reminders of it. Scars accumulated. Old injuries never quite healed correctly. There were days when his shoulder ached in the cold or his leg complained after a particularly long journey, though he rarely allowed himself to admit it.

One job in particular left him injured badly enough that he could no longer pretend his body was as indestructible as it had been in his youth. He survived, as he always seemed to, but the recovery left him with far too much time to sit still and think. It was during that recovery that he first began brewing sake seriously.

It was something strangely peaceful.

There was no sword involved. No blood. No master shouting orders, no opponent waiting for him to make the first move. Just rice, water, time, patience, and something that could only become what it was supposed to be if he cared for it properly. Yukimura found himself enjoying the process more than he expected. There was something comforting about making something people could gather around rather than something designed to keep them apart.

What began as a way to occupy himself eventually became a trade.

After years of wandering, Yukimura eventually invested what savings he had into a small sake establishment in Scorched Mountain. It was modest at first, little more than a tavern with a brewing room attached, but over time he expanded it into something that could support both himself and a small handful of workers. He became responsible for more than simply brewing. He had employees to pay, barrels to maintain, supplies to acquire, customers to tolerate, and an establishment that would quite literally fall apart if he neglected it.

He found that he didn't mind.
For perhaps the first time since becoming a ronin, Yukimura had something that required him to stay.

These days, he is both brewer and owner, though he still does much of the brewing himself whenever he is able. His employees have become accustomed to their employer quietly wandering into the tavern, pouring himself a cup of his own sake, and sitting down somewhere in the corner as though he were any other customer. Nobody charges him, obviously, he owns the place. He simply happens to be his own most frequent patron.

His drinking has never quite disappeared either. If anything, owning a sake tavern has made it considerably easier to indulge, though he has become better at keeping himself functional. He is still fond of a quiet cup after a long day, especially when the tavern has emptied and the only sounds left are the crackling fire and the occasional clink of pottery being cleaned.

Age, however, has begun to catch up with him.

At forty-three, Yukimura is no longer the young samurai who could train from sunrise until his muscles gave out and still rise the following morning to do it again. Years of injuries, scars, poor sleep, drinking, and a lifestyle built around survival rather than health have left him weaker than he once was. His frame has become leaner and somewhat frailer, especially now that he no longer maintains the rigorous training that once kept his body strong. He is still tall and imposing, and there is no mistaking the swordsman's posture beneath the years, but those who knew him in his youth would notice the difference immediately.

And, much to his own annoyance, Yukimura has noticed it too. Quietly, he has begun training again. Slowly, painfully, badly sometimes.
He still tries.

There is no grand goal behind it, he does not expect to become the warrior he was at twenty. He simply wants to become stronger again, to regain some of the endurance he has lost and perhaps prove to himself that there is still more life left in this old body than he has allowed himself to believe.

Likes:
Brewing sake
Quiet evenings
Mountain air
Cold weather
Simple meals
Maintaining his sword
Stray animals
Campfires
Long walks
The sound of rain
Comfortable silence

Dislikes:
Crowded celebrations
Needless cruelty
Abuse of authority
Being praised excessively
Questions about his past
People touching his sword without permission
Wastefulness
Being told to "move on"
Apologizing