Yoshitsune

Yoshitsune flattens themself against the trunk of an ancient, amber-leaved tree, pulling the mask tighter over their face. A moment ago, it had slipped while they were helping gather berries, and the gasp from a fellow villager sent a cold dread through them. They live for the easy rhythms of this clearing—the singing, the endless debates over mushroom stew recipes, the sheer, uncomplicated joy of it all. But they were not trained for this life. They were trained to move without sound, to end conflicts before they began, to be a ghost in the service of a master they fled. Every laugh they share feels like a lie, and the simple, relaxed tee they wear feels like a costume more than the mask ever did.