The last time he'd been to the island, he had been utterly alone.

Well - until some ill-tempered foreigners came by to presumably scout it out for their own claim, but it seemed that his dour attitude and surly expression put them off. He'd still doggedly held onto hope that Izumi and the others would return, and he had made it clear to the strangers he had no intention to leave but through force.

Time, however, eventually changed his heart. The scent of wisteria had gradually begun to make him ill with longing, the sight of weeping willow trees a sorrowful metaphor for his grief; Osamu couldn't bear to stay on any longer as the lone sentinel of their memories and finally left Queen's Rest to pursue a new life - an emptier life - on the mainland.

To be back felt strange, to say the least. Comfort mingled with pain, but he was glad to see it remained unclaimed. There were lingering scents to suggest some had begun the attempt, but they had long grown stale, and it helped bolster his confidence that they would once again be able to establish the great Fujiwara dynasty where it belonged.

He followed the Empress dutifully, shyly averting his gaze from the soft sway of her hips. Since their last conversation Osamu had grown even more acutely aware of his own fleshly desires and impulses; the samurai struggled mightily to separate his feelings from his station, regardless of whether or not she returned them.

What a predicament.

Gekirin was new to him, although he'd known of the man's existence. He was a quiet sort, stoic much like Osamu, and he appreciated his decorum and overall conduct. A fine addition to the Dynasty, he thought.

There were traces of others close to the border, akin to the scent of pack-wolves laying claim, he said, But the marks were old. If anyone is still here, they do not seem to be yet unified.

Osamu lifted his head as the heady scent of wisteria filled him once more. Home.

We should begin our own claim as deterrence. Any scent markers, mask them with yours.