Sea spray flew through the air, resting itself onto the face of the man who'd washed up to shore. It was if the sea was spitting on the man that intruded her depths, wishing him to begone from her waters. As if to drive the point home, a wave came crashing down on Takai. With a jolt, he shot up from his wooden bed, sputtering water. 'What the hell," Takai muttered, wiping the salt water from his eyes and trying to figure out where he was. The wreckage of his make shift ship lay in pieces around him. It was to be expected though. Takai was a swordsman and a blacksmith, he had very little skill in ship craft.

Another wave washed over Takai, pulling what remained of his wooden rafter further up the beach. "There is not point just sitting here," he muttered under his breath as he got to his feet, "hopefully I can find a village this time and maybe a decent ship." His hands instinctively went to the swords he carried, one on his left hip and the other across his back. It was a reflex, an action that gave him comfort for as long as he had his swords he was never without friends. The sand burned to souls of his bare feet, but Takai ignored the pain, walking up the beach to the tree line ahead. "Well, well, well," a voice sneered from within the shadow of a group of trees, "looks like we've got ourselves another wash up."