Warriors Spirit

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by TujoThePanda

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In all walks of life were there those divergent and wayward souls whom stood apart from the likes of their fellow man, whether in worldly exploits or in the accomplishment of truly legendary feats. And so would follow that one was set to walk their own path on the face of the world, and chose for themselves whether to meet their destiny or be moved by it. The day and age called for one to assume their own craft in life in taking on some meager or prominent purpose by which to live. Farmers tilled the fields as artisans worked what crafts were to be considered their work, be it in glass blowing, bricklaying, or smithing. Tradesmen practiced said trade by their own accord and acted through to what could be performed daily, be it a merchant in commerce or a sailor at sea.

And yet there remained one choice craft that earned those practicing it an everlasting fear, respect, infamy, and distinction in those who grew to be proficient in what it is that they did. It was a craft that, as hated as it might have been by the masses, remained altogether influential and necessary in all lands throughout the world at large. For by those possessing the drive, courage, or depravity to assume such a station in life, and in all tiers that scaled to the high born. Those willing to take up arms against their fellow man on the fields of battle, inflicting pain or death unto others, be they the lowly peasant inducted into the vast standing armies that marched in the defense of the realm to those Lords and Nobles with a personal stake in what conquest and glory was to follow. The craft of bloodshed, of violence, of slaying.

The fundamentals lay universal and widely recognized. That there could be but one victor and one loser, and in most cases upon which emotions ran high and one was forced to act, death was inevitable. But the separation lie in how one lived, and how one died, in following through with such exploits. By what values and convictions dictated how they carried the blade marked them as virtuous or depraved, and so there were those of great standing that stood as honorable, and those of less than righteous standing as dishonorable.

Through the darkness of night did a fire burn bright, the rise and flow of the warriors spirit that welled deep in the heart of a brazen youth, standing separate and apart from his fellow man. And marked by sheer will and determination that had since manifested deep within the core of his being did he stand enlightened and liberated by his own convictions, imbued unto him by his walk through life, for he stood for no man but himself. What had begun as the musings of an impetulant child had since built and developed into the mark of skill and proficiency, that he might be of greater caliber than those peers around him, having proved his worth by the way of the sword. Valiant and intrepid was he to stand upon his own merit in the face of omnipresent danger, a youth so brash and brazen as to take up arms in the name of what honor and glory there was to be had on the fields of battle. From a boy to a man was he now the master of his own fate. For he followed along the path of the sword and the way of the warrior, and delved in the practice of swordsmanship with a sense of absolution about him.

His fortitude was evenly matched in mind and body, his look of form and figure rather broad and thick in standing so tall and stalwart. What broad shoulders accommodated a thick set of arms were matched by the expansive canvas that was the flat edge of his chest, offset only by the expansive girth of his middle that spread outwards from his form, being held by those strong and sturdy legs that lie beneath. And what natural borne coat of fur encompassed the length of his form was cast in the color of monochrome, indicative of black and white. His face was marked by the touch of an ursines blood, that thick and textured protruding muzzle matched with those ostensibly wide cheeks to match the wide face, the sloping chin offset by the bridge of his nose to only continue in the sharp incline of his skulls form. And from his scalp did the thickest strands of white hair filter down from all sides, kept in place only by means of the brass ring that hung near from the nape of his neck.

That which adorned his attire comprised of wear fit for battle, the armored harness kept in place by an assemblage of rope and cloth in fastening it to his form. Matching the curvature of his shoulders did those composite plates hang as pauldrons about the uppermost reaches of his arms, much in the same way as a mantle. And with those gauntlets that reached past the wrists and to the upper reaches of his arms did they obscure his hands and forearms. And augmented by what ropes hung from the thick cloth belt tied about his wrist were there the trio of plates that hung about his thighs and groin, going as far down as his legs and ankles in the addition of greaves. The assemblage of plates was intricately fashioned in a meticulous manner, wrought from an amalgam of metal, paper, leather, and lacquer so as to afford its wearer what protection that few weapons could truly breach. Curious how his chest lay bare of any such accoutrements, exposed to the open air, whether for weight or mobility.

And what attire adorned him was comparatively sparse in contrast to what armor that embellished the exterior of his form, comprised largely of what cloth pants had been hewn in the color of curd, and that navy blue cloth belt to be tied at his waistline. And asides those sandals to cover his feet was his form more or less exposed to the elements. It so followed that his choice weapons hung by his waistline, black lacquered scabbards housing what choice weaponry comprised his blades, his badges as a Samurai.

Between the shrill ring of steel was there the glimmering flash of light, shining bright against the mirrored edge of the sword held in open paw. Twin paws clenched the hilt with an iron-lock grip, feet set apart in being planted firmly to the ground as his bodily form took on an angular tilt in assuming a more pragmatic fighting stance, all against the onset of the enemies approach. And the look in his eyes beheld the ire and fury like the billowing of flames in the rise and drive of his warriors spirit, face beaming with intensity as his teeth grit, a harder look readily taking hold. There was no hint of scorn or contempt that he harbored there, but of sheer will and determination for what trials might follow through in the trials ahead. And he would meet them and be victorious, or face nirvana and perish in the face of a greater adversary, whichever was to be decided by the fates above in seeing through to his destiny.

Commentary: It was about time I set to draw something as cool and epic as I saw Tujo, and this was the result. On and off between the span of two weeks would I work on this during my break-times at work, and all of those fifteen minute sessions would add up fast. The expository description I wrote is not my best, I will freely admit, but it took no shortage of effort in stringing together what words and phrases came to the finished product. While this was officially finished Sunday, I didn't manage to get everything together till today. Conveyed in this picture is Tujo set in a medieval fantasy setting, the likes of which mirrors the look and feel of feudal Japan. He ventures into the world in search of his father, Kinjo Musaki, and to follow through in the ways of the sword. And from there, he finds for himself a sense of excitement and adventure as he tries to find for himself his place in the world.

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