Early in the month, a relative newcomer may be seen puttering about the courtyard of Miyagi-do and its nearest streets. He is dressed sensibly for heavy duty gardening, decked out in thick gloves and a battered and inexplicable baseball cap, but instead of wielding trowel or rake he carries a squared off, sloped handled machete, which he wields with enthusiasm on the profusions of unnatural, thirsty vegetation when they are too large to uproot by hand.

Anyone who gets close enough to him without his immediate notice will overhear him carrying on a mostly one-sided conversation with the chattering vampiric plants before he dismantles them.

"You are looking for blood in the wrong place, Weed-san. This is not that kind of dojo, and you will upset the students," he tells one, gently, as it snaps futilely at his gloved fingers while being pulled up by the roots, "Ah - you have very bad manners. You should learn from the bonsai. Maybe then we would not have this problem."

He tosses the limp plant into a dirt-smudged wicker basket and hunkers back on his heels, putting a hand to the small of his back and arching against it with a sigh. Perhaps he should ask some of the students for help, after all...but he would end up hovering and butting in anyway, if he is honest with himself.

When, or if, he notices a person approaching, he smiles brightly, straightening up with a quiet crackle of his knees and nodding his greetings.

The man who makes his way around the gambling tables of Goat Turning could hardly seem further removed from the affable sensei at Miyagi-do. He leans rakishly against the edge of whatever game he is intent on that evening, the sharp lines of his black blazer a stark and deliberate contrast to the revolving series of bright yet stylish patterned shirts he layers beneath them. The glint in his eyes has none of the benign warmth he shows around the dojo - there is a vulpine mischief to it that has more teeth than playfulness.

He plays aggressively and unpredictably, his fortunes rising and falling in great swoops as he tries his hand at all manner of games, from blackjack to mahjong to a curious local style of poker. His nerve seems as unshakable as his hands, his expression never giving anything away beyond arched eyebrows of amusement or modestly resigned acceptance, whatever his luck happens to be.

This may have to do with the way he usually seems to come out modestly ahead at the end of the night, no matter how far down he may have tumbled during it. Someone with that kind of good fortune has no reason to fuss over temporary setbacks, surely.

And yet, for all his air of mystery and intrigue, the prizes he claims are extraordinarily prosaic. Simple medicines, food, a particularly soft and warm blanket, a parcel of nails, packets of seeds - nothing to match the sort of person he presents himself as. His frequent company, too, tends toward the slightly odd...

Chozen might be met at one of the gambling tables, or found at the bar, evidently waiting for someone. You may be that someone, or you may be a new acquaintance: either way, he will greet you with a somehow knowing smile.

[ DM me or ping me at terriblepurpose to discuss any additional starters you might be interested in! ]