Ren
Rank
D
Perks
Prodigious, Cool
Chakra Nature
Wind
Basics
Unarmed Combat
Subterfuge
Ninja Tools
Weapon Art: Kunai^
Chakra Flow
Advanced
Advanced Taijutsu^^
Weapon Style: Striking Iron
Sealing Arts
Summoning
Special
Flying Raijin
Prompts
Combat
In combat, Ren will attempt to overwhelm his opponents through speed and rapid repositioning. Rather than immediately rushing enemies down, he uses his keen tactical awareness to position himself where he wants opponents to direct their attention. This misdirection enables him to strike opponents when they least expect it using flying raijin. One moment he might be hurling shuriken from behind the cover of a tree and the next moment he'll be behind his opponent with a kunai. He will avoid prolonged brawls, instead opting to withdraw if things don't go his way in the initial clash and strike again when he thinks there's a better opening.
Personality
Ren has a strong sense of hierarchy. He obeys those above him and commands those below him. He is fiercely loyal to the nobility who he views as the sole source of order in a chaotic world. He never forgets what life was like without them. His years spent both destitute and in service to the nobility has made him something of a bridge between the two worlds, able to navigate the extremes of privilege and poverty with equal skill. His time in the village has made him long for family and friendship, but like a wounded animal he sees everyone as a threat and never lets his guard down. While he does empathize with street rats and scoundrels, he knows what desperation can drive people to. As a result, he's unlikely to open up to anyone who doesn't have a clear purpose beyond simple survival.
To commoners, he'll come off as stern and dispassionate as he never fully trusts them.
To nobility, he'll be very courteous and deferential, but also somewhat distant as he believes it's beyond his station to get close to them.
To fellow ninja, he's a professional who's eager to work with those who take their jobs seriously and intolerant of those who don't.
Backstory
Ren's first memories were of the road. The long, aching march between villages that seemed endless. His feet burned, his weight dragged at his joints, and his ankles threatened to buckle with every step. His head drooped, eyes fixed on his own feet, moving in desperate, uneven rhythms.
Something bumped his head. He jerked upward, just in time to feel a hand slam into his face. Stars exploded behind his eyes as he stumbled back, cheeks aflame, taste of blood in his mouth. Dust swirled around him. A man scrambled to check his bag, muttering curses. When he turned, eyes locking on Ren’s, the glare was sharp enough to slice. “Hands to yourself, thief!”
Like many, Ren was a war refugee. He, along with the others of his group, wandered the countryside in search of a home that never wanted them. Every village turned them away, seeing them as outsiders. Or worse, criminals. They were right. Ren and the other children would lie, cheat, and steal to survive. Any honest people in the group had long since died.
Ren's first understanding of family came as he was raiding the garden of an isolated homestead. Ren crouched in the shadow of a crumbling wall, eyes fixed on a small courtyard. A mother bent to tie her child’s shoelaces while the father chopped vegetables for the evening meal. The children laughed when one stumbled, and the sound twisted something tight inside Ren. He turned away, pretending to adjust the strap on his bag, stomach knotting, heart heavier than he could name.
He never understood it. Eventually, he buried that feeling deep. Vulnerability led only to betrayal. Ren believed there was nothing more to life than survival. He was trash. Unwanted. Undeserving of the lives others took for granted. Loyalty, to him, worked like a dog’s instinct: don’t bite the hand that feeds.
Ren’s life took a turn the day someone finally took interest in him. Years of wandering had brought him to a small port village on the ocean’s edge. Rain slicked the gravel paths, and everywhere else, mud and tall grass swallowed the horizon. The sun dipped low, dark clouds gathering above. He knew the night would be merciless.
From his place at the edge of the group, he watched villagers turn away the new arrivals. No surprise there. What was odd was the sudden surge of guards, hurrying to clear a path, shouting at the crowd. A man in the watchtower waved, signaling the others.
Ren’s eyes flicked to the distance, catching sight of a caravan headed toward the port. An idea sparked. Before the guards could notice, he slipped from the group, pressing low into the grass, alert and watchful. The refugees dispersed and the caravan rolled in. Ren studied each wagon carefully and soon found his mark.
Ren crouched low in the tall grass, eyes locked on the pile of fruit stacked in the caravan’s stores. His stomach growled, but he didn’t move too quickly, never too quickly. He inched closer, palms brushing against the dirt, careful to avoid a single snapped twig.
He had made it past the guards. The line of watchful eyes, the creaking of leather straps, even the barking dogs, they had all been fooled. He was alone. He was safe. Just as he leaned forward to bite into a ripe peach, a voice sliced through the quiet: “Hungry, are we?”
Ren froze. His teeth hovered above the fruit, his chest tight. He had not evaded anyone. He had been watched the entire time. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his eyes. A man stood just beyond the grass, hands clasped behind his back, expression unreadable but sharp as a knife.
Ren’s instincts screamed: run. But something in the way the man watched him, calm, measured, and knowing, made him hesitate. This wasn’t a merchant or a soldier. This was someone else entirely.
Ren had stolen from a noble clan of the Hidden Moon. Shinobi. Ordinarily, that would have been a death sentence, but fortune favored him that day. A clever child with no loyalties, hardened by years of crossing the continent alone, was exactly the kind of asset the nobles prized. He was taken into their service and put to work immediately.