Komori stared across the frozen ground. In the distance, the battlements of Shiro Shiba rose from the dry earth. It had not rained for an age. The soil was like frosted chalk beneath the fingers, it worked its way into the eyes, the lungs.

High above, the storm continued to build. Soon, it would have to break. The strength of Osano-Wo would pour down upon the barren fields. Rain at last, but this would be more than rain.

Hurricane season was here. Already the kobune captains complained of the fierce winds, the bitter waves. Days from now, the whole of the Phoenix coastline would be drowned by the sea. Soon, the storm would come.

Mukami slowly worked his way between the trees. Somewhere in here, his Lord was lost. Not dead, but lost. Deep in his body, Mukami knew this to be true. No matter what those serpents had said.

Quietly, he stole between the shadows. Five feet to his left, a Shiba bushi knelt in the bitter earth, lighting a fire in the dusk. Hearing some sound, the bushi turned. His eyes swept past the skirmisher, but saw nothing. Nothing but the brush around him. He turned back to the fire. Mukami moved on.

At the back of his neck, Mukami could feel the rising storm. It had been building for days now. At night, the ghost lights could be seen dancing upon the tops of the trees of this wood, so far from their ocean home. The coming storm would hold the wrath of Osano-Wo himself.

Another sound. The Phoenix bushi stood, and drew his katana with a rasping hiss. He did not like guarding this haunted wood. Mori Kage was best left to the dead. He stepped slowly to where, moments ago, Mukami had stood. The skirmisher was long departed.

The noise persisted.

The Shiba bushi bent down, and found the faintest sign of footprints in the cold soil. He was not alone.

Beyond the edge of the forest, Mukami ran toward the banners of the Alliance. Behind him, he heard a scream, then silence.

Nodoteki watched as the last of the supplies was debarked onto the sand. Bushi and ashigaru stood upon the beach, and prepared for the trek inland to Yoritomo's encampment. They had raced the storm and won. Bitter waves tore at the shore, but the ships had landed safely.

The sailor glanced over at a small boy who was giving marching directions to one of the Gunso. The boy wore fine silks and a fragile, golden mask. The boy had known safe harbour when even Nodoteki himself had not seen the passage through the rocks.

Nodoteki did not trust him. "Bayushi" the boy was, and everyone knew that the Scorpion were not to be trusted. Everyone, it seemed, but his Daimyo. Everyone knew that the Scorpion must have been behind the Emperor's disappearance, or else why had the Emperor not sent for their return?

Still, the boy had found them safe harbour.

Nodoteki turned back to the sea. He could see the edges of the storm, where it was likely to break. It would be a fine storm, a wrathful storm. A storm whose like had not been seen in years.

Nodoteki pitied those who chose to stand in its path.

Yoritomo Komori stared into the evening dark, as the fires were lit behind him, one by one. Before him, in the distance, Shiro Shiba stood firm, refusing aid while the very earth starved. Pride had brought this day to pass. The air hummed with the power of the Thunderer.

Soon.