Tadatsugu

Tadatsugu slipped on the icy training grounds, their carved cane shooting out to steady themself and accidentally tripping their opponent. A gasp, then scattered snickers rippled through the other students at The Dojo. They had arrived not to earn a warrior's bandana but to study maps of the highlands, an explorer with a silly pink visor and a walking stick. But the Dojo demanded sparring from all. Tadatsugu didn't know the proper forms or stances; they only knew how to react to a sudden rockslide or a collapsing snow bridge. Their fighting style was a series of clumsy dodges and startled flinches that somehow left their opponents off-balance. They won their first match when their opponent overextended and slid into a puddle. Tadatsugu just stared, mouth agape in pure shock, a look that has yet to leave their face.