Hello FF readers and writers. This is just a quick moment of inspiration that came to me. It recounts what happens to one of the Eastern Army's most notable leaders should the campaign go a certain way. This is from Kessen 1. Enjoy!
They're dead. Th-they came from all everywhere.
I-I can only just rise-AH! It hurts.
I fall to my knee, staining the ground with blood. Heavy breaths pass my lips, and more ruby red comes forth. My strength is fading, falling.
My body is broken.
The sun beats down hard upon me, burning my arms where the armour was ripped off. An arrow wobbles from my back; another from my leg. My spear, covered with the gore and matter of many of the Westerns, lies beside me. My sword, hanging limp in my hand, I can't hold it high no longer.
"San, he is here!"
"Now is our chance!"
Voices. Them. They're coming. They're coming.
I look up. Through my one eye, the other swollen shut and riddled with purple and blood, I see three Reds nearing, their spears forward, at me.
I weakly call out, but one look to the left and right … I see the fallen soldiers of blue lying around me. One, a young one from Edo, tall and strong, lay with his head cocked to one side, a deep wound on the back of his neck. Another, from near Osaka – rather ironic – was slumped over a fallen table, two arrows sticking out of his chest, face holding a pained look.
They attacked us … so fast.
They approach closer. The sun is beating down more heavily, cursing me, mocking me, berating me for failing Lord Ieyasu. The east would prevail, my son ….
Naotaka
He would take my place. He would continue my legacy.
Pain once again flares through me and I drive my sword into the ground, resting on it, exhaling heavily.
My body is broken. My strength is fading.
They are coming, spears pointed, their metal tips gleaming in the sunlight. They are mocking me. Weak, beaten, easily finished.
No! I push myself to my feet, staggering one time. I try again and manage to get to my feet.
I, Naomasa Yi, stand tall. Beaten, but tall.
The soldiers of the Western Army mutter something between them. Invectives? Maybe. Begrudging admiration? Hopefully. I have not the power to answer back, but I think my rising to my feet would be enough for that.
I look up, the vague outlines of them approaching with caution. I give them a small smirk, my pointed orange helmet almost falling.
Come and get me.
They oblige. The first of three, a small man but with a ruddy face and hard eyes, rushed forward, spear at the ready.
My though drifts to my son. His growing stand among the Eastern Daimyo. Honda, Hosokawa, even Fukushima. I hope my son will take the head of Mitsunari before Masanori.
Flesh rips. A strangled breath. My insides are squashed. I grip the spear as it jabs further into my gut. Does it run me right through? I-I don't know.
It hurts. S-stand strong!
The voice of the Red insults me. I heed it not and look up as I fall on my sword.
"N-Nao-taka!"
My son.
I fall to the ground, the darkness coming, a peaceful serenity washing over me. The warriors remark something, but it is distant. Fading.
My son.
Take Mitsunari's head. Defeat the followers of the Toyotomi.
My son.
My son.