“Dog!”

one of the guards screamed at him, ripping Kenji’s
pack off his shoulders. “What garbage have you come to
peddle?” The man was half drunk.
Kenji bowed unceasingly as he trembled to his knees.
“Mighty warriors, most honorable lords, I come to you
bearing many fine tsuba, fashioned by the reknowned
artisan, Mitsunari of Mido. Perhaps you have heard of him?
They would be most worthy of your. . .”
The back of an armored hand cuffed him. His pack was
emptied on top of him, and the guard began to pick through
the merchant’s possessions, flinging items to the laughing
soldiers nearby. “There is nothing of value here,” the guard
howled. “Only junk. We will throw it away for you and
relieve you of the burden of carrying it.”
“Hold it, you fool,” an authorative voice said. Out of the
corner of his eye, Kenji saw an older Samurai on horseback,
snapping a resplendent fan at the guards, who sprang to
attention as quickly as they could. The rider turned to Kenii.
.v.. w-- v-.x.. - . . . ..V . . . . . u
“Did I hear you say Mitsunari of Mido?”