Irumi

Irumi is not known for their temper. Ask any new student at The Dojo, and they will speak of a scholar whose patience runs as deep as the lake in winter. They see the tranquil grey fur and the whiskers that twitch only in deep thought. They watch a master whose combat pole moves with serene, predictable grace. But ask the veterans who have faced Irumi in a true spar, and a different picture emerges. They speak of furious eyes that blaze from a calm face, of a suppressed rage that turns the pole into a blur of punishing strikes. They warn that Irumi’s wisdom was forged in a fire that never went out. They are both storm and stillness, and no one has ever been brave enough to ask which is the mask.