Your sword can slice a kitsune mask in half, split a boulder asunder, yet for all that you never remember. That's the true tragedy of you I think. You'll always be a ronin lost in the wind.
Black and white is the only way to know what existed between where you started and last call, isn't it?
There you are, silken harlequin and all rage, dark woven diamonds puffing in and out around your ruined face, Slagar the fox looming over Mattimeo.
No one can ever tell you who you are. Ironic. You can't tell yourself.