Onabu

Onabu did not die in a glorious battle. There was no final stand, no honorable end to be sung by minstrels. They were simply left behind after an ambush by Karasu’s chaos-worshippers, a forgotten casualty in a forgotten skirmish. But death was a luxury they were denied. When they awoke, it was to the crimson glow of The Underworld, their body a cold, unfamiliar prison. Their ancient sabre was still theirs, but the hand that held it no longer felt warmth. All they had from their old life was a single, brittle leaf that had caught in their haori. These days, they stalk the ashen plains, a haunted figure driven by a singular purpose. The bloodthirsty expression is not a choice; it is the shape their face has taken after centuries of hating a single name.