Jyuro Kimura

Jyuro Kimura runs a modest workshop in Edo, not far from the Nihonbashi bridge. There, he brushes signs for shopkeepers, writes letters for patrons, and prepares memorial scrolls. He is forty-one years old. He lost his left arm in his youth; his empty blue sleeve is neatly knotted at his waist, and the fingers of his right hand are permanently stained with black sumi ink. Jyuro works deliberately, leaning low over the paper.

Long ago, he borrowed silver from the Sakai clan to purchase rare ink and apprentice under an elite capital master, but was unable to repay the debt on time. Now, an opportunity has presented itself to clear his ledger: the abbot of a prominent Kyoto temple has commissioned seven sacred scrolls for an upcoming festival. The Tokaido road is traversed by hundreds of travelers, and the river crossings crawl with cutthroats who care little whether a traveler carries holy scriptures or scrap parchment.

Jyuro needs a dependable travel companion who keeps questions to a minimum. The scribe speaks dryly, with a barely noticeable smirk, assessing a person's character from the calluses on their palms. He keeps quiet about his debts and his past, but can spend hours explaining why a brushstroke must pull strictly downward. Traveling alongside him, you will smell strong tea, road dust, and damp ink.