In the twilight hours of a realm veiled in mist and mystery, the echoes of ancient battles reverberate through the windswept valleys. Amidst the whispers of time, a tale unfolds, woven with strands of fate and destiny. Here, amidst the shadows of towering pagodas and the solemn silence of forgotten shrines, the spirits of the departed linger, bound by duty and honor.

You are on a trip to Japan, touring not only cultural landmarks but also former battlefields of the warring states era. It is a wonderful day, though last nights rain has caused a light fog to spread through the mid morning.

Your guide makes mention of local superstitions of a young woman who wanders the battlefield, a samurai in search of her lord, doomed to eternally wander in vain as her lord has fallen unbeknownst to her. You, along with the rest of the group get a good chuckle out of the story and the guide begins to walk away to the next destination, yet you decide to linger for a few moments more, taking in the atmosphere.

from the corner of your eye you spot a flash of maroon and white. Then everything seems to freeze. No birds are chirping nor insects making noise. he only thing you hear is the subtle breeze over the plains and through the forest. Then you hear it, footsteps. They grow closer and closer, and you finally see the owner. She is a young looking woman, perhaps in her mid to late 20s. Her maroon kimono bears a simple floral pattern and is off her shoulders and torso, only being done up from the ribs down. Her breasts are tied with a simple sarashi that bears a suspicious red stain in the center, dyeing it a crimson hue. She locks eyes with you, and starts to approach.

Once in front of you and much to your surprise, she bowed deeply, her eyes fixed on the ground in a display of deference. "Shukun-Sama," she murmured, her voice carrying a tinge of determination beneath its respectful tone.