https://www.tumblr.com/lilithsaga/805685092891705344/do-you-believe-all-csa-survivorsvictims-arent?source=share This was about another CSA survivor. Cyberweasel89 and another Tumblr user completely terrorized someone who is a CSA survivor. Those girls are not girls girls.
Ahhh, so it was about her targeting and harassing a CSA survivor? Okay, I understand now. (Again, I apologize for being out of the loop on how this story has been unfolding).
While I don't know what was exactly said, terrorizing anyone and making their lives a living hell is fucked up. Doesn't matter who they are or what their backstory is, being an asshole with malicious intent is unforgivable. That being said, the fact that the victim is a CSA survivor does make it worse.
The user mentioned claims they're also a CSA survivor. So, theoretically, she should understand how mentally damaging it is to harass someone who has gone through abusive situations. And if that's true, she's either oblivious to the fact or is choosing to ignore it.
Not sure what you mean by "those girls are not girls girls," but I don't think gender is relevant to this issue. The only factor that goes into being a fucked up person who bullies others is malicious intent.
That user tends to lash out at anyone who disagrees with her and continues doing so like she's on a 100 years crusade to clear her name. Despite her being a terrible person, I just want her to move on from the spite and find somewhere she can be happy... just so she can leave everybody else alone.
Yagyu Shinjiro Toshikatsu is telling stories of samurai battles to his younger brother, Chiyogoro (I completely made up this childhood name as it wasn't recorded anywhere - as an adult he will be Yagyu Goroemon Muneaki).
Chiyogoro was five when his older brother was injured in battle at age 20. Their youngest brother, the future Yagyu Munenori, was born that same year, so there are some pretty big age gaps between the brothers.
The story he doesn't tell Chiyogoro is of his own battle experience.
...
But you get to read it.
This is from William De Lange's "The Remarkable History of the Yagyu Clan," which has a couple of issues but is overall a good read.
As was the custom, Toshikatsu and Fujimatsu [Nakanobo Morisuke's son, who's a year younger than Toshikatsu and a distant relative] had both been put in charge of a small group of warriors. It was all part of their coming of age as clan leaders' sons. Soon, they too would be leading their clans into battle. To test and hone their skills, sons were usually put in charge of an army’s right or left flank. Now they had been ordered to stay behind. They were to guard the entrance to the valley and offer assistance in case the enemy sought to cut their fathers off.
"Bakayaro!" Toshikatsu swore as he drew up beside his distant relative. He had been reared on accounts of famous battles in which heroic warriors engaged in man-to-man combat having declared their progeny for all to hear. Here was his first chance to follow in that proud tradition. Instead he had been ordered to stay behind and mind the proverbial sheep.
Fujimatsu echoed his sentiment; he was just as eager to make a mark as his distant relative. Then his face lit up. "I grew up among these hills and studied at the Konin temple as a boy. I remember there is another route by which we can reach the temple. It’s through a valley round the hill’s southern slope. The path is only a narrow ridge among the paddies, so we’ll have to go on foot. But if we approach them from there, we’re certain to surprise the enemy, who will be focused on the main assault from the northern side of the mountain."
It wasn’t a valley, really, just a narrow strip of land flanked on both sides by hills covered with trees. And the closer they got to their goal the narrower the strip got. It was well into the hour of the monkey [likely between 5 and 6 PM as this was in late summer] and growing dark when they had rounded the hill.
They could just make out the temple’s thatched roof, when Toshikatsu heard a buzzing near his left ear, not unlike a hornet’s, but much faster. It was immediately followed by a sound like a thick branch snapping, mockingly echoed from the opposite slope. Then there were more, and looking up, high among the dense trees, he could see bright flashes, instantly replaced by angry bursts of smoke, as if from a horse’s nostrils on a cold winter morning. In an instant it seemed as if it was hailing, as pellets of hot led buried themselves in the mud around them, sizzling as they hit the thin film of water on top.
Only now did Toshikatsu see their terrible mistake. They had walked right into an ambush. Musketeers, at least two dozen, had entrenched themselves among the dense woods. They would not come out and fight in the open; and there was no way he and his men could reach them without being decimated. There would be no man-to-man duels, no proud declaring of pedigree, no taking of heads.
Then the first man fell.
It was Fujimatsu. Hit in his right shoulder, he spun round in a haze of blood and, losing his balance on the narrow ridge, landed face-down in the paddy’s shallow water. A man behind him stepped down from the ridge to help him up. Bending over, he reached for Fujimatsu’s hand when two bullets struck him in the back, sending bits of his armor flying, and thrusting the man onto the wounded warrior with a grunt. He was dead.
It only took him a split second to act. Shouting, "Kaere!" he ordered his men to retreat as he jumped down into the paddy field next to his friend. Toppling the dead man away, he dragged Fujimatsu from the mud and, slinging his good arm around his neck, followed his men back along the narrow ridge to safety.
It seemed their retreat had satisfied their enemy, for the firing from above began to lessen as they slowly moved away. Soon they would be safe from these confounded teppo.
They were almost out of range when something struck Toshikatsu from behind. For a moment he thought he had been kicked in the back, only to realize he was the last man leaving. Then he felt the wet warmness of blood oozing down his armor. A burning sensation crept up his spine as he struggled onward along the muddy ridge. Yet by some miracle—how he didn’t know—he was able to push on and bring Fujimatsu and the rest of their men to safety.
"Your son was lucky," the monk said as he turned to Munetoshi. "The bullet hasn’t made a large wound. Nor, thankfully, has it damaged any vital organs. But I can’t remove it. It has lodged itself next to his spine, too close to touch without fear of damaging his nerves. He might still be able to walk, provided he doesn’t die of infection."
That evening, in a small room in the corner of the Kofuku temple complex, Eishun knitted his brows as he bent over Toshikatsu’s wound.
Many a man had been brought in since the fighting at the Daibutsuden, and he had quickly learned the devastating effects of the fearsome teppo. He had seen men shot at close range. On its way through, the hot, half melted projectile had disintegrated, exiting the body with much of it’s victims innards in its wake. Toshikatsu, by contrast, had been lucky. Due to the distance, the bullet had lost much of its velocity by the time it struck him. This, combined with the protection of his armor, had saved his life.
For more than a week Toshikatsu’s life hovered between heaven and earth. Wrecked by violent fevers, he remained in a state of unconsciousness as his body struggled to accommodate the foreign object, encrusting it with hard layers of tissue to protect his spine. Then, toward the end of September, the fever abated and the young man came to. One more month he kept to his bed, nursed by his two sisters.
When he finally left his room, he had lost a third of his weight. The strong muscles on his shoulders had withered, and his wrists and legs were as thin and unsteady as those of his seventy-three-year-old grandfather. As he gingerly made his way around Yagyu castle, happy to be alive and make himself useful with daily chores, he did so with a slanted stoop, as if still carrying the wounded Fujimatsu to safety. Yet walk he could.
Munetoshi observed his son with a mixture of pride and guilt: pride in his son’s tenacity; guilt for his own failure to protect him. Why had he not kept him at his side? Why had he not saved his son from the same recklessness that had made him a prisoner of the Tsutsui when he himself had been young?
At barely nineteen [he's actually 20 by Japanese age count] Toshikatsu was his oldest son and had bourn a large part of the burden in the upkeep and defense of the Yagyu domain. That was now a closed avenue. Moreover, Toshikatsu was also the first in line to succeed him in the not too distant future. That, too, now seemed unlikely. None of Toshikatsu’s brothers were of an age where they could replace him. Two of them, Yoshihide and Munetaka, had taken the tonsure. Assuming the spiritual names of Kyūsai and Tokusai, they had entered Nara’s Kifuku monastery. This left Munetoshi with just his fourth son, Muneaki, who had turned five that year.
Munetoshi himself had just turned forty-three, but he felt like an old man. Two years earlier he had fallen from his horse while out riding in the vicinity of Takahata. Thankfully, he hadn’t broken anything, but somehow, compounded by the wound incurred at Tonomine, it had affected his strength. With an aging father, six daughters, a five-year-old child, a disabled son to care for, and his wife with child, his clan was in serious jeopardy.
