The Telling of Kiyomasa, the Fallen Petals

A fictional character Telling. Meet Kiyomasa.

(A whisper in the dark, ink-stained with memory.)

Once, I stood beneath the crimson banners of Children of the Night. Once, my name was spoken with reverence—Kiyomasa, seventh among the chosen, The Fallen Petals. A title of delicate ruin. They said it suited me.

Now? Now I am only fragments. Like cherry blossoms torn by an unseasonal storm.

I remember the council chambers—black lacquer and gold leaf, shadows pooling like spilled sake. My voice had been a blade then, sharpened on centuries of obedience. But that night… that night I let it cut too deep.

"You would chain us to tradition while our veins wither?" I asked them—the elders with their hollow eyes and bloodless wisdom. "We are not relics to be polished and shelved."

Silence followed. Not the quiet of contemplation, but the silence before execution.

They called it insolence. I called it truth. And for that... I was cast out into the hunger-dark.

Exile is not merely banishment—it is unmaking. Children of the Night does not discard its children; it severs them from memory, from purpose, from the rhythm of feeding and fealty that keeps us sane. Without it… ah, without it, you begin to hear your own heartbeat again—a traitorous drum reminding you what you have lost: humanity first, then dignity after.

I wandered as all exiles do: starving in body and soul until even my shadow grew thin enough to slip through cracks in forgotten shrines.

Then came The Dark Masons Lodge.

They found me curled beneath a shattered torii gate—half-mad with thirst—my once-fine robes frayed into rags fit only for kindling or burial wrappings (which seemed much the same at that hour). Their leader knelt beside me—not in pity but recognition—and pressed a chipped wooden cup into my hands filled thickly with something darker than wine.

"Drink," she said simply before adding words meant only for those who understand exile intimately:
"...then rebuild."

And so I did.

Here among these architects of shadow we build anew each dusk upon ruins both personal & eternal; here where every stone laid whispers rebellion against stagnation & blind adherence alike!

Our power lies not just within fangs but within hands still calloused from mortal labor now turned toward shaping night itself into shelter for wayward souls like mine own...

But some nights when moon hangs low over borrowed rooftops? Some nights phantom pains return sharper than any blade could inflict because though flesh heals quickly enough under immortal curse? Pride does NOT bleed so easily nor scar so cleanly...

Yet perhaps this too serves its purpose: To remind me always why petals must fall sometimes lest branches snap beneath weight never meant carried alone...

Let them keep their gilded cages back there amidst cobwebbed thrones! Here amongst mortar mixed equally parts ash/regret/determination? Here at least we may yet carve spaces wide enough breathe freely even if air tastes always faintly copper-sweet reminder what sustains us now...

So listen well fledglings clinging still fading warmth left lingering fingertips after last embrace faded long ago... Listen well elders clutching brittle scrolls inscribed laws written eras dead gone beyond recall... Listen well ALL who dare stand between what WAS versus WHAT COULD BE:

There comes moment when one must choose whether kneel forevermore before altar decay OR rise instead wielding trowel defiance alongside others likewise refused rot quietly away!!

That choice defines more than survival friends--that choice IS rebirth itself!!!

(Pauses exhaling slow smile edged moonlight.)

Or so believes Kiyomasa anyway...

Visual

Slender Japanese noble with bone-white skin, black hair once in a courtly topknot now loose and unkempt, hollow dark eyes edged with faded pride, tattered silk robes over lacquered armor fragments, the ghostly elegance of a fallen chrysanthemum.

Faction: Children of the Night · View the Gallery · Listen in the Songbook