It was beginning to snow in Rokugan. . .it was everywhere covering the ground I fine white powder , weighing down on the branches of cherry blossom trees and  worst of all, it heralded the return of Sayomi to the one place she most dreaded within her heart, home with her husband. It was not that her husband was a bad man, he had never raised a hand to her nor mistreated her but she felt absolutely /nothing/ towards him. Her heart was as cold as the freshly driven snow when it came to the man whom she was arranged to spend her life with in ‘marital bliss’ as her mother had called it some years ago upon her coming of age and receiving her Daisho, her blade and its companion.<br/><br/>While her relationship with her husband was far from bliss, there was one whom she yearned for, one for which her heart was like the zenith of spring towards in its love and warmth, the nurturing spirit she’d never been able to put into her arranged marriage. It was where her feet carried her now, towards the small, nearly abandoned structure on one of the tallest hills that overlooked the small settlement below. It was strange  ,she thought. In her years with her husband she had never once felt like this about anyone , never felt the compulsion to write poetry in such a … lewd fashion. Her mind briefly recalled one such poem she’d recently mailed the woman and the Bushi’s near snow-white skin flushed, adding even more contrast to the pale blue of her traditional dress.<br/><i><br/>
Pretty flower, who could plant you, then abandon you in your bed?<br/>
Each day I stop to admire your aroma ; will your gardener mind?<br/>
<br/>
Each night I pluck my own petals, but dream of yours in bloom.</i><br/><br/>Her cheeks grew warmer and though the thick silk of her gown and the stockings beneath did little to guard against the frigid advance of the wind upon her, thoughts of her Snow Lilly never failed to.  To feel this way about a woman was wrong. . . someone so below her divine station even more so but Sayomi cared not for formality when it came to this woman. She was the one that she could remove the porcelain mask of apathy she donned to perform her duties around. And for the Crane Bushi, this was priceless much like her Daisho, her blades, for what it represented. It was love, with a Geisha or no, it was still love and it ignited a spark in her much like her husband had failed to do. With him it was always a game. She knew what sounds and reassurances to give him, when to act coy or play the shy young maiden but it was never pleasurable for her. This was different . . . there were no games, everything was genuine, genuine.<br/><br/>The word echoed in her mind as her footsteps carried her up the gentle slope of the large hill, sandals leaving her tracks in the snow while her the wind once more ran its icy fingers over her pale cheeks, her almond shaped eyes watering and causing her long, silvery-white hair to whip behind her. Before soon the crunching of snow beneath her sandals came to an end and she was before the door to the small, abandoned home they often retreated to in the winter. The petite woman  kicked off her sandals at the door and slowly slid it open before being greeted with the warmth of a stoked fire blazing warm in the hearth. Good, they boy she’d directed the coin to had listened to the courier then.<br/><br/>Letting the heat of the flames fill her with warmth and take away the bitter chill from her cheeks and hands the woman slowly began preparing for the annual ritual that always took place when they were to meet. Her feet carried her around the small house almost without her thinking, easily finding what she needed to prepare tea the traditional, ritualized way. While her body went through the motions she was free to think, and a thought had struck the Bushi that had greatly amused her.<br/><br/>She was not loathing this action. . . it was so simple but it amused her greatly. If her husband had ordered her to make the tea, while she would have minded her place and prepared it for him every fiber of her being would resist quietly. But while she was here, setting her place and pouring the two cups of gently steaming brew she felt only a simple happiness, the kind of simple ‘bliss’ her mother had likely described to her in doing her duties as a woman for when she was married away… it brought a small smirk to her porcelain features, the whit e haired maiden stifling her laugh as she set the pot gently aside and assumed her seat on the cushion at the end of the small table. There she waited at her place, the table set for one, two tea cups steaming gently.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>