Murimoto Yama buckled his mempo into place, the snarling face of a dragon replacing his own. He looked down upon the damaged outpost that housed the Ronin and their peasant rebels. The forces of the Dragon stole down the mountainside, moving quietly into formation. The time of unenlightened barbarism in this province was over. The Dragon had come.
Yama sent his cavalry in a wide circle of the outpost. The foolish peasants massed up to follow the force, exposing the rear of their line. He crossed his blades over his head and roared “For Yokuni!” as his troops swarmed forward, the sunrise cresting the mountains behind them.
As the Ronin, clad in dirty robes and scavenged armor, kicked and screamed at the peasants to bring them around, Yama shook his head. There were no honorable opponents here.
With the cavalry leading in a wedge, the Dragon troops cleaved through the peasant lines, breaking them into two groups. As they struggled, suddenly separated from leaders, the Dragon seamlessly split from one force to two.
The rebels were outnumbered, outtrained, and outequiped. They stood no chance, and the might of the Dragon military rolled over them like a wave of emerald. The Ronin used the peasants as shields, but that bought them perhaps 5 more minutes of life.
It was over before the sun had cleared the Dragon’s Teeth peaks. A new day was dawning in Agasha.
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