Drooling Azuma

Diary

Drooling Azuma once swore his blade only for honor, but these days his loudest battles happen in the cramped stalls behind the pleasure house on the edge of town, where the incense cannot mask what a night of cheap sake and questionable dumplings does to a former samurai's insides. Mid-squat, sweat beading on his brow like a man facing a real enemy, he found himself staring at the wooden floorboards and asking the universe why a warrior of his caliber was reduced to this, pants around his ankles, dignity somewhere in the gutter outside. His so-called friends, the ones who dared him into the eating contest that started this whole catastrophe, howled with laughter from the hallway instead of offering comfort or, at minimum, more paper. In that fragrant, undignified silence, Azuma vowed to seek better company, sharper minds, someone who would hold his sword instead of his hair while he suffered. He has already forgotten that vow twice this week, having aped back into the same crew for a game of dice, because discipline is a muscle he flexed once in another life and apparently pulled.