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He was tired and sweaty, but his confidence was building. His archery was poor, but he could fire a bow now, his martial arts were poor, but he could put up a fight, and they way he used a spear on foot was below average, but the daisho and the mounted spearman ship of Okami was actually pretty outstanding. He was learning things, a little bit of Japanese, but more surprising things about what he thought he knew about Japan stood out more.

Most of the samurai didn’t have much extensive training, some did, such as the man in the armor in front of him, trying to teach him what he needed to know, but many did not. As it turned out many learned what they knew on the battlefield, only a few tips and techniques that were handed down from their fathers. He did know the basics, and he was wonderful at defense, however he could not attack very well, he could never get an opportunity. This could be deadly on the battlefield, but there would also be men to assist him.

He loved his armor, at first he loved his distinction, the way there didn’t seem to be anyone else dressed like him but then he was told that the enemy would be looking for this very armor. He was scared, he didn’t like the idea of being targeted specifically by warriors as good as his own, but he would remain on the battlefield, he loved this lifestyle far too much to give it up.

He didn’t know the girl’s name, she refused to give it to him, she told him she was embarrassed, but he found out from the men, through the pitiful amount of the beautiful language he could speak that she wore her “Obi”, the sash in her kimono, backwards because she was a prostitute. She had learned English to get along with British traders. That was why she was embarrassed, but he understood, and didn’t bring it up, preferring to stay on the good side of the only one through whom he could communicate.

He could feel the sweat in the baggy pants and kimono that he wore the heavy armor over and, and was exhausted, but wouldn’t let himself stop. Strike after strike he blocked, using footwork and getting scolded. If he moved back too much then the other men would be vulnerable, he needed to stand his ground.

After about six hours of painful bruises, even through his armor, he did it, he held off the man in front of him without giving any ground, one foot planted firmly on the ground, the other pivoting. He did not land a blow, but no blow was made on him and he had made a small victory; he gained ground.

They were going to ride tomorrow, a simple patrol under normal circumstances, however there were missing scouts, and those that had come back with reports of strange troops. Gifts and goods to trade had been prepared, and would be taken with them, along with armed men to see if the threat was friendly and could be reasoned with, or if they had blood on their minds.