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How far east must he travel?

The white walker found himself growing more and more agitated with his idle meanderings through this world. He heard whispers of a tree to the east from where the malice itself sprung forth, a connection to hell from where his species originated. He thought that he would find more and more purewalkers as he traveled closer to the source of their kind. Yet, here he was, sorely disappointed. Those he sought were more scattered around these lands as opposed to increasing in frequency the further East he wandered. He was beginning to believe that this tree was no more than a mere legend.

An uncomfortable amount of time had passed since his last duel with a purewalker, his opponent of choice to test his skills. Killing other species did not satisfy him; he felt as if they did not challenge him. They simply were not on an equal level. All of them had the ability to harbor fear in their hearts, something of which walkers were completely devoid. No, no other species on this land simply fought and killed for the sake of it. No other species was able to compete with him like his own.

"But where are they?" he muttered to himself as he went deeper into a thick forest bordering the mountains from which he descent. He was looking for a tree, so, where better to find a tree than a forest?

He whipped his head towards the voice, furious gaze resting on a small fox wrapped in tattered garments. He would have mistaken it for a normal field fox, were it not for the wickedness in her eyes. He tensed a paw to strike the foul creature, but restrained upon further inspection. She was covered in dirt and leaves, and he did not want to touch such a dirty thing with his bare paws. "Disgusting," he growled, still enraged by her conniving assault. "What kind of filthy idiot want to get 'down and dirty?'"

He considered drawing his blade and engaging his foe right then and there; he typically did not like to battle walkers in their feral forms, but he would make an exception for this impudent rodent. He did not, though, for she spoke of a body of water. He blinked, eyes narrowing just a touch. This wretch had already played him for a fool once, and he was not inclined to trust her again; however, his clothes demanded near immediate care or they would stain. He watched her for a moment as she prowled away, eyes fixed on her movements. She surely would not walk into her own traps, unless they were set up in such a way that would only hit larger beings. Thankfully, he, too, was a smaller canine. He shifted into his own feral form, wrapping his sword in his clothes and then picking up the bundle with his many tails.

He followed her swiftly and silently, scoffing at her comment. "Great," he muttered, still irritated with his current state. This is not how he expected his next encounter with a walker to be, being led to a lake to clean his clothes after being rudely tricked into the mud. He wanted an honest duel, and, so far, it did not seem that he would be getting it. He also did not want to have to consider traps during his fights, and would have preferred a more open area, like a clearing... or a lake.

"How much farther?" he questioned, though it was more of a demand than an inquiry.

He would have sighed in relief, were it not for her derisive remarks. He glared at her as she entered the water, then turned his attention to the lake's disturbed surface. It looked clean enough - he was half expecting a putrid swamp - though he found himself missing the warm, pure waters of the springs to the East from whence he came. "I manage just fine, without any need to 'have fun' in the mud." His hackles rose with the thought. "Those who've trained their bodies and mind don't need to fight with wild, uncontrolled movements, rolling around in the dirt like children."

He shifted back into his more equine form, and entered the water. It tempered his wrath, and he turned his attention away from the other walker to his clothes. He soaked them and seemed entranced as he idly listened to her explanations. "Bears," he scoffed, amused by her reasoning for such underhanded tactics. "The ones I've met are nothing more than large fools who think that strength and size are the only assets they need to kill. They're easiest walkers to slay." He smiled with the thought. "They're stupid and predictable."

Her next comment interested him. "Your legacy? What're you leaving behind besides a couple traps?" he mocked.

He carried his clothes out of the water, then stuck his sword into the earth and draped his silks on the hilt to dry. He watched her as she transformed back into a fox-like creature; it did not seem that she was keen for a fight. "You're welcome, I guess," he stated, sarcasm dripping from his fangs.

"A challenge," he replied, tails lashing with anticipation, "but, if this is how you fight - with traps and dirt - I don't think I'll find one here."

For a moment, he considered her words, brows furrowing with thought. "What good does it do you to have children?" he asked, perplexed. "How would you use them? Unless they're not walkers... our kind is too unpredictable for use." The girl did not make much sense to him. He was aware of the fact that his days were numbered - especially considering the path he had chosen to walk in his life - but it would not stop him from leaving his mark on the world. He desired to continue learning, improving, all in the name of mastery of his craft. He could not imagine offspring being of any use to him at all.

He began dressing himself, preferring to wear damp clothes than leave his garments and weapons unattended. "Fear... we can't feel fear. That's what separates us from the rest of these pitiful things that live in this world - and you must know that. Hate, however... hate we feel intensely and often, and I hate dirt."

His eyes flickered with delight, though he continued to harbor distrust for this particular walker. He had no intentions of falling into another trap laid by this conniving mare. "Don't worry about me, weasel. My name is Ashura, and I've never shed a single tear." He anchored his paws into the earth, clenching the hilt of his blade with his teeth and drawing it out from the ground. Then, he waited, patient and relaxed.

His gaze remained level, unfazed by her criticism. If only she knew the strength of the sword and the skill it took to properly wield it. He was tempted to show her, but he did not trust her. Anything could be a trap with this crafty weasel, and he knew better than to be goaded into his doom.

Instead, he listened as she described her intentions, and, surprisingly, he understood them. "You want to be legendary," he concluded. He realized at that moment that he shared that desire. He labored tirelessly over his art, refining it more and more with each passing day. And yet, why did he bother?

Perhaps Kiyo discerned the diminishing clarity of his gaze as he was further lost in his thoughts. He had not considered his future, or what would happen to him after he was gone. A legend only lasts for so long, and she found a way to ensure its survival through the generations. It was so simple.

"Interesting," he mused, his eyes focusing on her again. "I killed my father, in a way." Although Hojo was not his biological father, he was the only father Ashura knew. The old swordsman raised him, and taught him everything he needed to be as successful a duelist as he had become. He cast his gaze to his sword at his side, then looked back at the weasel.

"It is my art. The sword is a part of me just like my limbs, and it reveals truths about yourself. In order to wield it, you must be in full control of your mind. You channel your aim into the blade, and it obeys... but it will only reflect what you put into it. A clumsy wielder will not see the kind of success as a disciplined practitioner. It is graceful, beautiful, and far more dangerous than any fang or claw can be." He paused for a moment, considering his final statement. "It is the key to becoming the greatest killer this world has ever seen."