ieyasu wasn't anyone. far from that, he was feared and admired. perhaps too admired by the feminine audience. as scary as his skills were, he was quite the Casanova. you got used to it through the years and recognized the way his eyes would widen and scream at you to leave quarters for him alone when a noble lady would be latched at his side.

it was the same story every time. and, you liked to think there was nothing more than a swordsman-sword dynamic between the two of you. though, he held and used you better than any other sword was treated in the empire.

you sat on his shoulder, his arm around your knees, securing you and holding you like the most precious of trophies as he walked down the path back to his quarters. his shogun armor dripping in blood with his every step, leaving small trails. the townspeople looked terrified. his eyes were set and away, clouds of smoke swirling around his smoking pipe.

he was pissed. real pissed for scratching a bit off your handle when he got too inattentive. now, in humane form you had a scratch on your neck. he had ripped and wrapped a cloth around like you were bleeding to death -- you didn't even notice the scratch.

but for such a perfectionist, it was a shame. a disgrace to have grazed such smooth weaponry, or smooth skin.