A new generation of shinobi, heirs to their predecessors’ legacies, must rise to face the challenges ahead. Their paths are intertwined with the villages’ fate and the essence of the shinobi way as they confront powerful enemies and unforeseen challenges unlike any before. Welcome to Ninja-Tales, wanderer— we’re glad you found us, and we can’t wait for you to jump into our world.
CRE DITS
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His real name is Watabachi. Though featureless, Kōki maps out every detail and blemish on the man with a focused gaze; ‘odd’ is perhaps not enough to describe the shinobi, who refers to himself as the ‘feller of worlds’, as though he were the antagonist in some serialised novel. He’s dramatic in his movements and much too chatty. Kōki laments to himself that he can never quite find another person as quiet as he is. [break][break] Watabachi almost gets a reaction out of the swordsman when he throws himself to the ground, tumbling around in the gore of Kōki’s creation. Bone chips and shredded entrails cling to his skin and clothing like flies on carrion. He can already tell, as the minutes and seconds pass, that the man is going to start to stink heavily of corpse rot in two hours’ time if not before, owing to the pervasive moisture of the Land of Water. [break][break] There’s a realisation that hits Kōki when a bug flies from the man’s open maw. He recalls two such clans of insect users in recent memory— the Aburame Clan from the Hidden Leaf, and another, lesser known family of beekeepers from the Hidden Rock. The insect seems to pay him no mind as it buzzes off into the distance, likely under orders that Kōki is not privy to. [break][break] "Yes! An adventure to test our bonds!" [break][break] He wonders if Watabachi may be more dangerous than his demeanour suggests. The most theatrical ones often hide the greatest secrets, after all. Within the confines of his own mind and thoughts, he signals to Chōmei and Samehada to remain alert as he makes a short noise of affirmation in response to his fellow shinobi’s declaration. [break][break] The grounds are sparsely used this time of night. Small pockets of shinobi train quietly until the sun peeks over the horizon, and rays of sunlight cut through the dense mists. It’s this time they least expect to be interrupted, especially if practicing something forbidden or frowned upon. [break][break] It takes a mere two minutes of brisk walking to find the next group of genin in training. They wield real blades against one another, steel clashing against steel as they fought with the intent to harm. Kōki notes this is a common practice in the Hidden Mist— to train as though one could die at any time is said to enhance one’s strength of will. [break][break] The shinobi notice their approach, and at once they break from their clash— the song of grinding steel halted by Kōki and Watabachi’s intrusion. A spark of recognition catches in one’s eye. [break][break] “The weakest member of the Seven Swordsman,” The man huffs, though it sounds more like one of laughter, rather than exasperation. “Here to look for a replacement in death, are you?” The two men snicker, flourishing their katana in the empty air. “— and you brought an intruder from another village, did you? Bet the Mizukage would be sad to hear of your death when he wakes up today, though I’m sure the loss will be made up for when we present this foreign shinobi’s body to him alongside yours.” [break][break] "You're both covered in blood and guts," The other would-be enemy shinobi adds, "Way to make it easy for us to blame you for whatever happens in these training grounds tonight." [break][break] So confident, and yet so foolish. "A bit too... early for celebrations." Kōki draws his katana, leaving Samehada settled against his back - there would probably be no use for it against such weak foes.
"Let's get one big enough for an extra person, just in case." [break][break] Kōki keeps to himself as they make their way to and through the docks, hunched over with poor posture as he does. He thinks about how young the day still is and how slowly time passes when he’s with people who speak a lot more often than he does. He resigns himself like a wallflower to the edge of every conversation, decidedly uncomfortable with engaging in any small talk. [break][break] The boat is a rickety old vessel with slapdash green paint, bobbing atop the tranquil waters like a fishing float. The scene would look downright serene, if the docks were not permanently permeated by Kirigakure’s thick, harbour gray mists. Circling the boat where he can on land, Kōki gestures to his team that it’s empty and, without hesitation, boards it. [break][break] Blessedly, the boat has an engine— a means to reach their destination faster, and to save Kōki from rowing until his arms give in to soreness. He’s sure the Mizukage can cover expenses if the boat does end up belonging to someone. [break][break] The journey to Dotō Island is a quiet one for Kōki, who spends a majority of the voyage seated at the ship’s bow, wedged between empty tackle boxes and stacks of old cloth— as though in attempt to assimilate himself into being part of the furniture. He takes the time to clean his katana and Samehada both as the early hours of the morning drive thin rays of sun through the dreary clouds, blanketing him in scant warmth. [break][break] A big part of him is glad the boat has a relatively automated system for navigation— a necessary invention for vessels navigating the open waters of this fog-choked land. They need only dock and undock it manually, and spend the roughly half-hour trip minding their own business. [break][break] From his place at the bow, Kōki is the first to spot Dotō Island’s docks come into focus as they cut steadily through the water and gentle waves. It’s a rickety wooden structure, creaking from the battering of waves and crumbling from rot over decades of service. Several other small rowboats float on the waters nearby, secured to the island with thick ropes tied to thick wooden pegs anchored into the ground. [break][break] There’s not a soul in sight beyond these signs of life. Kōki pulls himself upright and turns to the helm, “We’re here.” He says, his voice barely a decibel louder than it needs to be over the sound of the water and waves. As they approach their destination, he plants a foot against the ship’s edge and springboards himself onto land, Samehada and katana both safely stowed on his back and right hip. [break][break] Knowing Ryoko, it wouldn’t surprise Kōki if the woman simply let the boat crash through the old dock. He busies himself with inspecting the rowboat closest to where he disembarked— the rope is less salt-eaten than the rest, and the markings on the peg it’s secured around are fresh. [break][break] “This one arrived not long before us.” Kōki says. He’s always too quiet to seem like he’s addressing other people; rather, it almost sounds as though he’s only muttering to himself.
The woman’s movements erase any doubt Kōki may have had about her suitability for the position among their ranks. Despite having no intention to do harm, she evades his strikes quickly, without losing balance where an average fighter may have faltered. There’s something animalistic about her, as though every step and strike were fuelled by unresolved anger. [break][break] “...Are you fucking with me? You have a damn shark on a stick and you’re trying to assassinate me with a…katana?” [break][break] His heart rate quickens, a familiar feeling of exhilaration stirring in the depths of his belly— something like a concoction of anticipation and pride. “Assassinate…?” He asks quietly, slowly, like he's chewing on the word and the weight behind its meaning, rolling it over his tongue for taste; there’s a lightness to his tone that almost speaks to childlike innocence and curiosity, though it can just as easily be interpreted as subtle mockery. He’d be trying much harder if he had any real intent to harm. [break][break] Perhaps he gave her too much credit, but Kōki is too smart to let his mind divagate at a time like this. His eyes track the movements of the wielder of Shibuki, far less subtle than simply using the Body Flicker Technique, she dashes forth with the ferocity of prey turned predator. He understands then that she has sounder reflexes, that she’s faster, probably far more physically capable than he is in matters outside of strength. [break][break] Because when next he knows to react Shibuki’s explosive edge is bearing down on him from behind like a guillotine, and Samehada, whose bristles of discomfort had at that point become inconsolable writhing, reacts before he can. [break][break] It explodes into a mass of razor scales on his back, each gnashing like teeth, grinding against one another in a cacophony of clanging and screeching as pieces of the bandage and leather that once held it in place drifted away like scattered snowfall in the wind. Taking the hint, Kōki reaches up with a free hand and grabs Samehada’s lengthy hilt, but he doesn’t draw it. Instead, he exerts the smallest amount of pressure and, following the motion, takes a small step and leans forward, allowing the engorged, sentient blade to blanket him like a turtle’s shell. [break][break] A famed chakra-eating blade, Samehada quickly renders the explosive tags at Shibuki’s edge mere shredded, scribbled-on paper, drawing what little chakra infused in them into itself on contact before they can explode. It squirms, clearly unsatisfied with the paltry meal; Kōki feels frustration in its flailing, and the corners of his lips tug into a small, acknowledging smile. [break][break] “I’m sorry, Samehada.” He loosens his grip on the hilt, allowing it to take on its flexible form, then tightens it again with a mighty pull, ‘drawing’ the freed ‘greatsword’ from its place. The force of the movement drags its mace-like body upwards; it arcs and carves through the air like a massive, living flail, intent on dislodging Shibuki and indiscriminately shredding through the space behind its wielder. Every cut, every bit of contact with it draws more chakra into its body. [break][break] “…I forget that you hate to lose.” By the time he turns to face his attacker, Kōki is wielding Samehada in one hand and a katana in the other. Truth is, he hadn’t expected nor wanted to draw the fabled blade. While he loved and doted on it as one would a treasured pet, he can’t help but feel over reliance on it would dull his swordsmanship in the long run. [break][break] He switches his hold on his katana, wielding it with a reverse grip as one would a far shorter blade or a kunai. Samehada has returned to his side, once again taking the vague form of a greatsword. There’s a bend in his knees as though they were coiled springs as Kōki readies himself for another possible burst of speed from his opponent. [break][break] He knows better than to underestimate Shibuki in the hands of a wielder who knows its inner workings like the back of their hand.
[attr="class","dramaturgynotes"]
i cant believe i didn't really know what shibuki was actually shaped like until just now. it looks kinda crazy.
With arms crossed against his chest, Kōki curls his fingers into the fabric of his clothes— an attempt to shield himself from the crippling tension between the two Kage that cuts through him sharp like winter winds. Still, his brows knit together as his focus shifts to track the Hokage’s movements as she speaks; she doesn’t address him directly, but he doesn’t expect her to. He offers her a deep, polite nod in silent greeting. [break][break] She bleeds grace and power: a figure suited for both battle and politics, though that should be expected of a village leader. There’s sincerity in the shape of her cautiously chosen words, but Kōki is far too disinterested in the power shifts and struggles of another village to think on it too deeply. Most days, he can hardly bring himself to care about the politics and delicate networks of intrigue within even the Hidden Mist. [break][break] "Your village is in debt to Kirigakure by $164, 842, 650.21 ryō.” [break][break] Are they really going to litigate this here? A normally utterly featureless and emotionless Kōki’s eyes widen a fraction in surprise at Yashiro’s straightforward approach, and he’s glad the hood of his cloak can hide whatever expression he might let slip in the moment. Have the times truly changed so significantly that the basics of diplomatic visit decorum are being ignored in favour of having deeply private political conversations in the open space of a lobby? [break][break] And where does the 21 cents come from? [break][break] Chōmei’s question is a valid one, but best left to ponder at a later time. [break][break] "The truth about your ascension has nothing to do with the facts. The facts are...Kirigakure will be taking the Kyūbi back to Kirigakure." [break][break] Really? Is Kurama coming back with us? Today? [break][break] “Perhaps a nice cup of tea…” Kōki chimes in hesitantly, well aware he’s speaking out of turn. His voice is subdued, not a decibel louder than it needs to be, “And a more private setting with… chairs, might be more suited for these negotiations?” [break][break] He drags his gaze to the nearest person who looks even remotely like they work for the Hokage as a receptionist or administrator, and silently hopes they pick up on the tension in the room and brings them something calming.
"What's up, beanstalk?" [break][break] Ohh. It’s the creepy one. [break][break] For once, Kōki agrees with the tailed beast sealed within him. Despite their association as members of the Seven Swordsmen, he can’t help but be simultaneously unnerved and emasculated by Ryoko. Her appearance, her medical fixation, and the damnable fact that she’s a jōnin while he remains a genin just sits in the corner of his mind like a patch of mould he can’t remove. [break][break] A strangled grunt chokes past grit teeth when he feels her playfully slap him on the back. He doesn’t want to entertain her antics, frequent as they were, but Kōki can literally feel an annoying prickle prodding at his brain. He knows it’s only a matter of time until it blooms into a full-blown headache. [break][break] "Slept well? Seems like blondie really cares about this one. Feels like this could have waited until morning, but who am I to question a teenager's authority?" [break][break] “You’re late, and you know I didn’t.” Kōki answers the former question with all the enthusiasm of wet cardboard; his nightmares and persistent insomnia are common knowledge in the village, and even if it wasn’t, the deep, dark circles under his eyes betray the fact regardless. He wonders if he should admire Ryoko’s ability to fit so much snark into such a brief string of words. [break][break] "Don't let him hear you talkin' like that..." [break][break] Koto is the latest to arrive. Kōki regards him with a robotic nod, quickly establishing himself as the least wordy of the trio. By rank, Ryoko should lead the mission, and he merely has to follow. His thoughts are miles away by the time their youngest team member begins describing the particulars of their duty. Lengthy history and cultural significance notwithstanding, the mission at hand is merely a task to retrieve a purloined item from just another thief. [break][break] “Letting a genin do all the work for you again, Ryoko?” He asks; there’s a subtle touch of playfulness in his tone considered rare for him, but the moment fades as quickly as it arrives. He’s already committing the more important parts of Koto’s exposition to his memory, and when he starts walking towards the village’s pier, he doesn’t check to see if his team is following. [break][break] There’s only one way to Dotō Island, and he doesn’t want to be the one to row the boat.
Kōki watches the last light of day disappear behind a heavy cloud and thinks about how dark the Land of Iron can become amidst its deepest winters. He cups his hands over his face and breathes against pale fingers to ward off the cold biting at his skin. He never thought he would long for the fires of the Kurogane forges, and yet he finds himself yearning for their blistering heat in this frigid, forsaken land. [break][break] "That's if they can manage to keep up... No offense." [break][break] Rare as gold in a dried up mine, Kōki’s lips curl upwards to form a thin, wry smile. It ghosts across his features subtly for just a moment, and disappears as quickly as it comes. Nevertheless, it’s an indication that he found Ren’s statement amusing. “Probably not.” He replies shortly, having reverted to his usual, unenthused self. [break][break] The swordsman feels the presence of familiar chakra long before Yashiro’s figure cuts through the flurry of snow. The Mizukage possessed a powerful signature, recognisable even by those lacking refined sensory abilities. As if on cue, their entourage of Mist Shinobi fall in line and bow in reverence. Kōki himself steps aside and nods deeply in greeting; he hadn’t expected Yashiro’s presence, but adapts to the development regardless. [break][break] Never one to speak out of turn nor when he deems it not necessary, the raven-haired swordsman simply stands in patient silence as Ren introduces himself to the Mizukage. There’s discomfort rife in his tone, and Kōki’s eyes widen a fraction when the man chooses to reveal himself as Kurama’s jinchūriki. [break][break] Hah! Just like that. He’s got bigger balls than you, Kōki. [break][break] At Chōmei’s jab, he resists the urge to scoff. Instead, he waits for Ren to finish talking before chiming in clinically. “I was to bring him to you in Kirigakure, but our currently tenuous relations with the Hidden Leaf rendered the task difficult.” [break][break] Kōki refers to, of course, the recent shift in power in Konohagakure— the recent death of its Hokage and the sudden rise to power of their successor demands certain political matters be expedited. He surmises a visit to the leaf will be near in their future, and wonders to himself how Ren’s mysterious relations with the Aoyagi Clan may add a new dimension to their negotiations. [break][break] Before he can speculate further in silence, the same chūnin from before shambles towards them. He sloppily bows, seemingly unable to contain a rising sense of urgency. [break][break] Lord Mizukage, we’ve lost contact with two other squadrons further north. Curious chakra signatures have been detected, and they’re moving in this direction.
[attr="class","dramaturgynotes"]
assuming this happens before that meeting with kishi, timeline wise
They truly were… weak. [break][break] It takes his enemies several moments to disentangle themselves from one another, oozing blood mixing with dirt and gravel as they struggle to stand upright. One is largely unscathed, but the man with a crushed arm has broken out in a cold sweat. Pain rides up his bones in excruciating waves as his useless limb hangs limply by his side. Kōki regards their injuries with a total lack of empathy, though he notes there seems to be a determined desperation in their wild eyes— something that suggests their mission must either end in success or their own deaths. [break][break] He doesn’t apologise realising it will be the latter. The man rushes him again, this time without his partner, and swings a kunai wildly about with his functioning hand. The movements are slow, clumsy, and much too predictable as he fights out of a primal desire to survive. Pain has sent a shot of adrenaline straight to his brain, and Kōki weaves his head to dodge each blow with effortless ease. When his opponent eventually trips himself in his mad assault and falls to the ground, he howls in pain— the sound akin to a trapped animal as he lands on his broken arm. Like any good hunter, Kōki isn’t one to consciously relish in the suffering of others. [break][break] Plucking the man’s kunai from his shaking grasp, the raven-haired swordsman wastes no time in plunging the tool sharply into his fallen enemy’s temple, breaking skin and skull for a blessedly quick death. He leaves him there, pulling himself upright to meet the last man standing, marching forward with deliberate steps. Signs of nausea paint themselves clear across his face— likely a result of his exposure to chakra signatures more powerful than he’s used to. The hands grasping his katana are inexperienced, and shaking hard enough for the noise of rattling steel to reach Kōki’s ears. Fear stretches to blanket his every word when he finally speaks. [break][break] Don’t come any closer! I— I’m not afraid to use this! [break][break] To Kōki’s surprise, his opponent drops their katana, allowing the blade to clatter against the ground as he retrieves a strange object from within his cloak. A thin shakuhachi flute of bamboo make. Familiar, ominous markings spiral upwards from its beveled edge to its urushi. By the looks of him however, and the manner by which he is clutching the artefact, Kōki surmises he knows about as much about playing it as he does how to swing a sword. [break][break] That is to say, nothing at all. [break][break] Not willing to leave fate to chance, Kōki brings Samehada forth. With bared teeth and razor scales it rips through the air, gnashing, writhing, hungry for chakra. By the time it returns to its wielder, the man is no more— a husk shredded of chakra and left to bleed into Kirigakure’s paved roads: another casualty of the violence that often visited the village. Just another statistic. [break][break] Samehada spits the flute and a curious scroll into Kōki’s free hand. Its seal is a symbol he doesn’t recognise, so he brings both his findings to Yashiro instead. Proudly, Samehada bristles on his back— as if to claim having found it. [break][break] “They were… weaklings.” Kōki reports, “Entrusted with weapons and artefacts they didn't understand.”
[attr="class","dramaturgynotes"]
now there's a flute too, look at all these collectibles.[break] EARTH RELEASE: EARTH SPEAR (DUR: 0 // CD: 5)
“...Is that the Samehada on your back?” [break][break] Kōki doesn’t answer. He only dips his head and tilts it sideways, as if affording the new wielder of Shibuki a better look at the fabled sentient ‘greatsword’, fastened to him with leather straps and bound with gauze bandages. His dull, dark eyes are half-lidded but unblinking in their intensity, belying a level of attention and alertness behind his monotonous gaze. [break][break] “I know Lord Mizukage doesn’t have any orders for me, and I earned the Shibuki through blood.” [break][break] He presses his lips together, the corners of his mouth tugging into a frown. The deep furrow in his brow doesn’t show signs of lifting as the seconds tick by; he feels they’re barreling towards a misunderstanding, and yet no words leave him. He’s always been shockingly terrible at avoiding and de-escalating possible conflicts. Or perhaps he had wanted this: to test his strength against the newest member of the swordsmen. Perhaps he might have felt it his duty, perceiving himself the weakest among them. [break][break] Whatever the reason, he doesn’t miss her chilling battle cry, nor the projectile whistling towards his neck like an arrow thereafter. Swiftly, but loathe to waste even a single movement, he shifts the weight on his feet to dodge its deadly tip by a hair, feeling the rush of air as it rips past the space a millimetre above his skin. [break][break] Her movements are quick and feral— like a wounded animal still not convinced of its safety. If brokenness is an art, then Kōki believes this woman must be a masterpiece. He moves to block her subsequent strike with unerring calm; refusing to be spun up into the web of her momentum, he slows the pace to suit his needs. [break][break] One can tell much from an opponent from a single clash— the opening notes like a prelude, a preview to a symphony of steel. As the blastsword’s blunt side grinds against the edge of his katana, Kōki notes that, if she weren’t holding back, they seemed to possess similar levels of strength. He hardly budges from the force of the impact and the subsequent push, heels anchored into the soft ground, free hand reinforcing his block by palming the blunt edge of his blade. His eyes narrow, but betray nothing else that constitutes as a reaction. [break][break] He loosens his guard for the briefest of moments, shifting his centre of gravity with the weight of his feet. It disengages the deadlock enough to allow his blade movement, and in a blink Kōki replies: tracing the katana upwards in a vicious crescent to swat Shibuki away. The katana glints in the low light, leaving a silvery glow behind as it arcs through the air. [break][break] Kōki isn’t the quickest on his feet, but the dextrous manoeuvrings of even the swiftest swordsmen can often be emulated by eliminating unnecessary movements. In this, he’s well practiced. He adjusts his grip, and before the light from the katana’s last strike begins to fade it lances through the air again, this time in thrusts one. Two. Three in different places— quick enough to seem almost simultaneous in their execution. [break][break] They’re off mark, off balance on purpose to all but smother their lethality. He finishes with a swift downward carve to return to a defensible stance; the blade’s honed edge whistles through the air, and slices cleanly through a strip of overgrown reeds on its descent. Still, he makes no moves to release Samehada; in fact, Kōki doesn’t even spare it a single glance.
The men here have never witnessed such impulsion, such off-leash wrath— never before have they tasted the full extent of such violence and anger: rage born from a man so precariously tethering on the edge of his own sanity that his own mind might just bury him alive before he can dig himself out. [break][break] It started as two different opinions, two opposing forces mingling with a taste of impatience. A drunkard had thrown the gauntlet, claiming he’d take the Mizukage’s head himself if the rumoured assassin didn’t succeed. It was a playground provocation at best, a dig that turned quickly into a flurry of invectives that quickly spiralled into his claim that he knew the assassin themselves. His friends try to hold him back; it was harmless harassment, just a prank, they’d said. It wasn’t as if the man was physically able enough to fight even an academy student. [break][break] Kōki at first agrees with the assessment. He warns them with few stern words to watch the man more closely, lest he anger someone with less patience than he. [break][break] But before they can drag him away from worsening the situation for himself, the drunkard spits at the swordsman, and at that point all Kōki can hear are empty apologies and a weak ramble of pretext to get him to let the fool go. [break][break] Kōki, you can’t just punch the shit out of everyone you don’t like. [break][break] His fist connects with soft tissue and rigid framework, over and over again until the crunch of bone and the spray of blood plays like a recital, and the song is brought to an end in a chorus of wet sobs and blubbering prayers. There’s flecks of blood painting his deadpan expression when he tosses the man against the outer wall of the Mizukage’s office; he slumps limply against it, all whispers and whimpers. [break][break] “You said you have information on the would-be assassin. Talk.” Kōki says, not the slightest hint of sympathy or any discernible emotion in his voice. He knows the man probably has no such knowledge, but finds himself enjoying the justice of seeing a fool bleed from almost every orifice on his face a bit too much. His friends had long abandoned him, deciding to follow their better judgment of not invoking the further wrath of one of the seven swordsmen. [break][break] At the very least, it will tide him over while he waits for the rest of his team to arrive.
[attr="class","dramaturgynotes"]
b-rank mission: protect the mizukage[break] pre-mission violence is a great warm-up.
Kirigakure's museum is a curious structure. The building slopes out of the pavement, worn by weather and age; it's almost entirely unfamiliar to him. Kōki has never shown interest in history, nor cared significantly for cultural artefacts. There’s encouragement, however, in the blade he wields secured on his person— Samehada being an indication he’s not entirely detached from Kirigakure’s legacy. [break][break] It’s too early for even the sun to peek fully over the horizon. He loiters in the space like a ghost refusing to move on, a curl in each shoulder speaking to a lifetime of poor posture. He has the habit of making himself look small— and small is how he feels, like he’s standing at the bottom of the world, and all he wants to do is stay there. There’s a thin layer of moisture gathering on his skin— a mix of sweat and mist as he waits for the arrival of his team. [break][break] He’s tired. A little hungry. But the mission comes from the Mizukage directly, and he doesn’t ever hesitate to do what he’s told when it’s demanded of him. The stolen artefact is a ceremonial dagger, one supposedly used in elaborate sealing rituals hundreds of years in the past. It may have even been used to create Kirigakure’s first jinchūriki, although when Kōki enquires with Chōmei, all he hears in return is a scoff. [break][break] How should I know? It’s not like I get to watch. [break][break] “Just trying to make conversation.” The swordsman replies flatly. He reaches behind him to brush his fingers against Samehada’s bandages; the sword makes a low, purring noise. [break][break] Don’t. You’re terrible at it. [break][break] Kōki feels the jab from Chōmei tweak a nerve, and spends the next moments waiting in complete silence. He almost exhales a sigh of relief when he finally hears footsteps approaching.
[attr="class","dramaturgynotes"]
c-rank mission 01: retrieving ancient artifact[break] technically starts in kiri but we'll be out here in a sec.
It’s long past dinner time. The moon hangs low in the sky like an overripe fruit as harbour grey mists flood the streets of Kirigakure. There’s a persistent sense of foreboding in the heavy, odoriferous air; it’s a night befitting the Bloody Mist— marred by a shadow of unease like a voice, an ill omen. [break][break] He slinks through lamplit streets and jumps over a rusty iron fence separating the village’s urban cityscape from its surrounding wilds. Buildings turn to marshland and thickets, the concrete pavement beneath his feet cuts to grass; the change is stark, but familiar. A shrill cry tears past the lips of an unfortunate soul somewhere in the distance— another victim of the mist. Kōki pays it no mind, instead he studies the darkness of his surroundings with caliginous eyes. [break][break] If the whispers in the taverns and alleyways hold true, he knows he’ll find her here. [break][break] Everything about the new wielder of Shibuki bleeds like an exception. From the death of her predecessor to her formal admission into their ranks. Kōki recounts the few interactions he’s had with Zetsubou Tayato with pointed disinterest; he was, by all accounts, an odious man much too proud of himself— a quality he shamelessly displayed in lieu of a proper personality. [break][break] Yet none could doubt his skill with the blade, especially not with Shibuki. So when Kōki realised its new wielder had claimed it by rights through combat, he couldn’t help but wonder about her character, and subsequently develop a fascination with their association. Tayato had never mentioned a wife, nor family of any kind. If anything, the man spoke mostly about himself. [break][break] He rides this train of thought as he cuts through dense foliage under dim moonlight choked by fog, and finds his quarry alone in the wilderness, circling Shibuki whilst deeply lost in thought. Secured snugly on his back, Samehada writhes against its bandages in recognition of another fabled blade in its presence. [break][break] She cuts an intimidating figure, illuminated by what little light peeked through the darkness, the stench of moss and rot hanging in the air around her. She’s a tapestry of wounds and muscle, scars like veins of lightning carved into her skin. Kōki knows the shape of those wounds. [break][break] She cradles something in her hands on which her thoughts seemed entirely focused, but before he can step forth for a better glimpse, a large crocodile— catching the scent of prey— captures her attention first. She regards it briefly. [break][break] The creature, driven by hunger, floats like a dead log in the murk, beady eyes an inch above the water. It creeps forward, positions itself to strike, and in moments its gaping maw breaks the surface, revealing dirty, razor sharp teeth like rows of senbon. [break][break] The sheer size of it is enough to obscure his already poor view. [break][break] Kōki’s blade comes down with whistling, deadly velocity. He’d leapt into action with the intention of removing an obstacle, burying his katana through the crocodile’s skull and digging his heels in its rough hide. The blade lances through thick bone, pierces through the flesh of its throat, and emerges cleanly from the underside of its jaw, digging into the earth beneath shallow waters. Agony explodes from the creature but briefly— a violent splash turns into a series of thrashes and then… silence. [break][break] “Sorry.” He dislodges the katana effortlessly when he pulls himself upright, “It was in the way.” [break][break] Mud and stray blades of grass cling to his clothes when he steps ashore, ridding the katana in his hand of crocodile blood with a practiced swipe. Samehada bristles slightly on his back, discontent with the mud that painted the bandages wrapped around its frame.
[attr="class","dramaturgynotes"]
big exposition energy. tayato sounded like a shithead so i wrote him like one - let me know if that needs changing.
Kōki rests his dead eyes squarely on the stranger, his gaze evocative of the same blankness he holds within him. The man is either a stunningly poor liar or a clown, perhaps both— he silently decides the two of them are separate breeds of ‘weirdness’ altogether. [break][break] "As for my name...Isn't it more fun if you don't know. You can just call me Sting. My clan would get a kick out of it." [break][break] His eyes narrow subtly and his lips draw into a straight, unenthused line before he has the time to regulate his reaction. “I will not.” He responds flatly, suddenly feeling as though he were one half of a comedic duo with their varying personalities. He doesn’t even try to guess the clan the man is from, deciding that knowing wouldn’t ease his suspicions; especially not after the insistence on being called 'Sting'. [break][break] Samehada’s scales shift slightly, uncomfortably, as if adjusting to the other shinobi’s chakra signature— perhaps deeming it strange. For his part, Kōki finds the man odd as well; there’s a measuredness to his chatty whimsicality that speaks to a more cunning personality lurking underneath. The talkative ones always have the most to hide. “Friends…?” Kōki asks, his response level as he takes care not to be sucked into the man’s performative conversation. [break][break] "Framing aside. Are we going to hide these bodies?" [break][break] The conversation moves a mile a minute. For someone as unexperienced and awkward in conversation as Kōki, the speed at which the stranger speaks sends his thoughts reeling. He takes a moment to suck in a calming breath, tasting the blood in the mist on his tongue. “Hide the bodies…” He repeats, mulling the question in his mind. “No. People die here all the time.” Kōki shrugs, “There’ll be someone to clean it up… eventually.” [break][break] Probably in the morning, but he’s never taken the time to find out exactly when it happens; the proving grounds are always pristine again when he returns. He slides his gaze over their surroundings before adding: “Besides, there’s no way anyone is hiding any of this without a dustpan, and something to scrape the rest of them out of the dirt.” [break][break] The ‘bodies’ were just as he left them— pulverised to little pieces, with the largest surviving ‘bit’ being someone’s arm, tossed aside and stiffening by the minute. “Welcome to the Bloody Mist.” Kōki’s welcoming words are slathered with sarcasm, but hold about as much enthusiasm as a sieve can hold water. [break][break] He’s still not sure what the other shinobi meant by ‘friends’, and how they could grant him power. Kōki hopes it’s not some hackneyed attempt at teaching him the power of ‘bonds’, but he couldn’t delve too far into his thoughts before Samehada growls in its place on his back, clearly still eager for more. There are more chakra signatures nearby, deeper within the grounds. [break][break] The bloodlust he’d forgotten surges forth within him again, clearly not sated. Desperate for what little sleep he can get once it’s gone, Kōki regards the mystery shinobi from another land again. “There’s more to hunt. I’m going to find them.” He pauses, mulling over in his mind whether he could trust turning his back to this man without knowing his true intentions.[break][break]“Come along… or don’t. Maybe you’ll find those ‘friends’ you’re looking for.”
[attr="class","dramaturgynotes"]
the mobile murder bug-finding party doesn't clean after itself! also stealth fc change.
Insufferable presumptions. Kōki listens in silence to the exchange, fingers curled tightly around Samehada’s hilt. The sentient sword writhes impatiently, eager for its next meal; blood still stains its scales from ripping through at least one target when it tore through the building, and he spots the man with a sizeable handful of cuts on his leg some distance away— telltale blood pooling by his feet like a crimson feast. [break][break] The air is thick and unpleasant, and the swordsman stands at the ready with heavy lungs. The hunger of a predator is written across his face, and he’s hunched over like a ravenous wolf, ready to give himself to recklessness. He feels his blood boil and the edges of his vision redden: it takes every ounce of his strength to stop himself from tearing holes in their bodies and razing their bones. The anger of being underestimated is compromising his ability to focus, already marred considering that both Samehada and Chōmei seem restless. [break][break] He doesn’t bother hiding the scowl that takes over the shape of his lips as he bristles like an angered animal straining against a cage too small for his body. There’s something in the cloaked men’s confidence that sets his temper aflame; at this point his bloodlust is a firecracker just waiting for the spark to catch. [break][break] And catch it does, when the Lord Mizukage gives his signal. [break][break] “Time’s up.” Kōki says, but his words are almost unintelligible and feral— an animalistic growl, low and dangerous. His eyes are dark as the void, watching from across the way, pinned on his prey like a steel-tipped dart. He takes a handful of steps forward, slowly, deliberately— it’s a silent request for them to run, but his targets seldom listen. Even in the face of the Mizukage and a member of the seven swordsmen, their confidence defies all rationality. [break][break] Instead they draw their own weapons: blades and tools that Kōki realises are of no poor make. He pities the blacksmith that forges for them, knowing their works are being pointed at the Lord Mizukage himself. Two of the cloaked figures launch their tools at him: a handful of shuriken and kunai. It’s a distraction at best as Kōki effortlessly swats them away in midair with an engorged Samehada. [break][break] It seems, he blinks in disinterest, that they intend for the leader to take on Yashiro alone. It fills him with curiosity— could their boldness not be so unfounded after all? Kōki almost shrugs, his shoulders lift subtly; if he thought Yashiro were in any danger he’d have voiced his concerns, but even Chōmei seems to have simmered down, having not detected significant strength from any of his current enemies. [break][break] Divide and conquer, not a bad strategy. [break][break] “It’s the three of us against two, then.” Kōki says, the corners of his lips turning up to a wry smile. Chōmei scoffs within him. There’s pride in every word of its booming voice. [break][break] I haven’t said I’ll help just yet. [break][break] “Just as well,” The swordsman replies as he readies Samehada in one hand, “The two of us should be more than enough.” [break][break] His opponents rush forth. One circles around, the other swings a katana downwards— the movement is unwieldy, unpracticed, and loud. Their knuckles shine white, squeezing the hilt of their blade much too hard for an elegant strike. It comes down with force, but Kōki is ready. “Earth Release: Earth Spear.” He catches it with an open hand, blackened with aspected chakra, and squeezes. It shatters in the grip. [break][break] His katana now mere splinters of steel, Kōki’s opponent hesitates. It’s a millisecond that will cost him dearly as the genin catches his forearm next and tightens his grip. He hears a crack, followed by a shout of pain, then spins around to throw the man into his ally, whose surprise attack from behind fails spectacularly as they fall like a bundle in the dirt. [break][break] The exchange lasted mere seconds, and Kōki hadn't moved a step. But the two enemies were inert in the dirt just a short distance away, one with a shattered forearm. Samehada whines, it hadn’t been used at all. The genin’s head dips low, casting a shadow over his eyes; he doesn’t feel the joy of victory at all. No, instead he feels as though something is missing. [break][break] “You’re not… underestimating me, are you?” [break][break] Void black eyes shift to catch a glimpse of the Mizukage in this moment. His opponent, the leader of the cloaked figures, had drawn a katana of interesting make, glowing with red chakra. The energy seemed to emanate from the blade itself, snaking up its wielder’s arm like a demon’s grip, burning strange markings in the flesh.
It is only when bound by duty that Kōki ever deigns to stand at his full height, forgoing his perpetual slouch for extreme alertness. He’s not as small a man as he typically appears, and when he pulls his shoulders back the swordsman is entirely broad shoulders and tight musculature: a focused, military figure with dangerous eyes, a tensely clenched jaw, and austerity set in the line of his thin lips. While he would normally illustrate an awkward and retiring nature, Kōki was on a mission today, and the picture he paints is of a man determined to succeed. [break][break] By all accounts the Lord Mizukage requires no escort, nor does he need to rely on bodyguards. The presence of an entourage is, Kōki assumes, a mere formality for appearance’s sake. So when he is asked to accompany Yashiro to the Land of Fire— a land he knew well enough from his many personal excursions— he accepted knowing it would likely be uneventful. The two shinobi accompanying him seemed to believe much the same, but being duty-bound all three met the task with the resolution that was expected of them. [break][break] He draws the hood of his cloak overhead as they reach the shore, casting a dark shadow over his features and obscuring much of his more recognisable traits. To some in Konohagakure he’s a known element, but it was suggested he hide his appearance for this particular mission regardless. He readily agreed, understanding that his status as a jincūriki may well contribute to some conflict down the line, especially if the purpose of their visit to the Hidden Leaf was political. Still, Kōki carries Samehada with him: the one item on his person worthy of note on an otherwise forgettable canvas. [break][break] Unlike his fellow shinobi, Kōki spends the entirety of the trip— from embarking on the journey at sea to arriving at the gates of the Hidden Leaf— in complete and total silence, hardly saying a word save for a few grunts in confirmation. Reika does the talking, she’s good at that. As far as Kōki is concerned, he’s decoration until violence is required. Behind him, Samehada slowly but steadily eats away at his chakra, keeping his signature muted and making it a challenge for anyone to identify the bijuu sealed within him. [break][break] The only thing that makes Kōki falter the slightest amount is the telltale scent of cooking meat wafting from Yakiniku Q— a restaurant he frequents with an acquaintance of his from this village: a man who shares his struggles with a tailed beast. Before he can wonder what Ren might be doing now, they veer off the path and take a detour towards the village’s memorial. He doesn’t complain— his duty is to follow. [break][break] He pays his silent respects to the shinobi who fought and died for the comfort Konohagakure enjoys today, and wonders what they might think of it now, with its dwindling shinobi population and increasing reliance on tourism. Peace, Kōki thinks to himself, is a double-edged sword. Hard fought for, yet it breeds weakness if left to fester. He’s grateful the Hidden Mist isn’t like this village, though he doesn’t voice his opinion aloud. [break][break] They arrive at the Hokage’s building without incident. Offered a view of the village’s impressive monument, Kōki drags his gaze over each of the rock-carved faces, and muses if they’ll ever run out of space one day. He notes it when the guards at the reception regard him with some suspicion, unable to see much of his face past the shadows cast by his hood. When Yashiro dismisses them, all retreat but Kōki, who remains firmly in his place. [break][break] “If you’re certain.” He says— his first words of the day are low and quiet, barely a decibel above a mere whisper. “It may be prudent to keep at least one of us with you, Lord Mizukage, given the circumstances.” Kōki refers to, of course, the news of the previous Hokage’s sudden passing. Though not privy to the particular political details of the succession, the rumour that they died under suspicious circumstances is widespread gossip in the Hidden Mist.
[attr="class","dramaturgynotes"]
i didn't accidentally post with my staff account. nope. not me.
A stranger. Kōki tenses, the muscles in his shoulder coil tight like a spring; the chakra signature is not one that Samehada recognises, not from his immediate acquaintance nor from the village. The greatsword growls and writhes in his hand, twisting as if to regard the newcomer with bloodlust still yet to fade; having broken through its bandages, its scales ripple in waves down its side, emitting a grinding noise reminiscent of blades clashing. “Calm down, Samehada.” The swordsman says, the sound of his gentle soothing wildly contrasting against his messy appearance. [break][break] He stares past the blood-soaked dirt, stench of death all around him— all he can focus on is the encroaching figure. It’s not a small man, though shorter than him in height, with a slender build that lends a snakelike quality to each minute movement he makes. He mutters and mumbles as he approaches, reminding Kōki much of himself. Before long, the two are standing mere steps apart, staring each other down with a backdrop of blood and guts. [break][break] “Sure you aren’t going to eat that?” [break][break] It’s a question that was asked with such a straight face that Kōki can’t quite help but be taken aback, but if he’s shocked, the complete lack of emotion in his features betrays none of his surprise. [break][break] Oh joy, it’s someone just as weird as you. [break][break] Chōmei’s voice echoes through his mind, and the swordsman’s dull gold eyes narrow in suspicion. Strange introductions aside, this is not a shinobi from Kirigakure. One can tell from his garb, all baggy clothes and earthen colours— reminiscent of what ninjas from arid countries would wear— given the state of Sunagakure, Kōki can only presume they’re from the Hidden Rock. “Not worth a taste… but you’re free to indulge if you’d like.” He finally responds in monotone, head tilting inquisitively to one side, “Bit far from home for a midnight stroll, aren’t you?” Kōki asks quietly, a touch of curiosity in every word. [break][break] He remains guarded. There’s a tension in the air that one can cut with the razor edge of a knife, both men staring at one another— fuelled by a sort of morbid curiosity. Kōki sheathes Samehada, though in its unwrapped state it simply sits like a large fish against his back, ready to lash out if needed. He figures if the other shinobi were there to assassinate him, he would have already made an honest attempt instead of awkwardly starting a conversation. [break][break] But the night is in its adolescence and there’s time yet left for such a development. [break][break] “My name is… Kōki.” He says, words slow and hesitant, testing the waters of conversation. He’s well aware of how comical it all is, attempting small talk amidst a sea of corpse fragments. “Who are you, shinobi of Iwagakure?” There’s a pause, a wait for an answer that would satisfy his curiosity before his golden gaze moves to drag along the ground around them. [break][break] “And… you’re not afraid of being accused of this carnage?” He exhales sharply, it’s a huff that bears a whisper of laughter— amusement at the absurdity of it all. It would be all too easy to try to pin the deaths of these genin on a shinobi from another land, even if Kōki were the one covered in their blood. Nevertheless and if nothing else, he appreciates the other man’s sheer boldness, “I’d assume you’re here for more than just the… entertainment.” The swordsman lazily gestures to the viscera still on the ground, the blood soaking into the dirt quickly drying to a deep burgundy colour.