Mori Toru
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My name is Mori Toru. When arranged in this traditional Japanese manner, I suppose it would mean "Forest wanderer." What my father had intended by this, I do not know. Sometimes I think he was quick in naming me. This thought runs through my head much these days.

Two months ago, I had been so close to finally finding my sister. But a vicious storm at sea, an uneventful night hiding in a brothel, and three bar fights later, I had all but lost track of her. My journies had taken me thus far to the southern coast of France, a country where I doubted my three languages would come in use. I could not express how anxious I was here. I was beginning to long for Edo, even Ryukyu, a place with I thought I'd never return to. Anything familiar. I wanted to speak my native tongue. And above all, I wanted rice. But here, outside of my home country, everything was different. I loved the change, but it was lonely. Was I the only one of my appearance to be found in this place? There were so many large noses here, such long, square faces sitting atop tall shoulders.

I readjusted the katana which hung at my side, examing then the sorry state of my hakama. There was a small rip which I would need to repair after washing them. I hated being so dirty, looking so ragged. And my hair was getting shaggy. My otoosan, my father, would have been ashamed, I thought.

I decided I needed to find a place to stay this night, somewhere that would not charge. A barn perhaps. I would have to stop at a tavern or something of the kind to find a suitable place.

With a sorry tug at my dirty clothing, I wound my way through the red glowing streets. My name may have meant "wayfarer," but I was beginning to see it was not truly my way.


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Okie day, there's a little intro to Toru.