dirtylittleronin

It had taken him a very long time in the icy rain to find an armful of wood that was dry enough, but he had finally managed to start the beginnings of a small fire in the irori, the sunken hearth in the single room that made up the hut. It now bellowed acrid smoke from too-green and too-wet wood as he hung his soaked hakama and outer kimono to dry in the entryway where wooden pegs, which may have once held farm implements and raincoats, lined the walls. He pulled a tattered straw mat, no doubt left behind by the previous occupants, to the hearth and used the corner to fan his fire, hoping it would soon provide warmth, if not enough for comfort then at least enough to warm his fingers, which were stiff from the cold. He could still see his breath by the time the fire had grown and he’d settled down on the mat, as close to the edge of the irori as he could, pulling his thin haori more tightly around his shoulders. The little hut, which he had found quite by chance after being caught in