Tsurugi Daigorou

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Tsurugi Daigorou

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The weight of the boar pressed against Tsurugi's back as he hauled it up onto the butchering station, muscles straining but steady. The carcass was fresh, its thick hide still clinging to the crispness of the mountain air, blood pooling where his blade had struck true. He exhaled sharply, a cloud of breath rising in the cold, then reached for his knife—an old thing, sharpened so many times that the steel had taken on a curve, the wooden handle darkened from years of use. As he worked, the hide peeled away in long, clean strips, the scent of iron and damp earth thick in the air. He was efficient, carving along muscle and bone with the kind of speed that only came from decades of doing the same work, over and over. He hummed low in his throat, something to keep his mind focused as he separated meat from sinew. Tsurugi straightened with a grunt, rolling his shoulders before splitting the ribs with a heavy crack of the cleaver. The sound echoed through the trees, sharp and final. He wiped his blade clean on a scrap of cloth, then stretched, bones popping in protest. 'Hnn. Cold's settling in deep tonight. Could use a drink.'