[Mikazuki Aikawa]

you're gone, gone, gone away
I watched you disappear
all that's left is a ghost of you
※
Muramasa Uemon

The midnight air was cold, as it often was. It was a coolness that helped the easing of the blood that boiled beneath her skin. She remained still, seated on the floor on the back porch of her house, looking out to the darkness of the outskirts from where she was seated. Her head was hung, icy blue eyes glaring out to the void of nothingness that seemed to be placed in front of her. Despondent. Bloodthirsty. Somehow numb and filled with seething rage at the same time.
    I don't know what to do. It had been resurfacing--the itch that had seeded itself deep within her. A part of her knew it would never truly go away, but she thought she might have grown more accustomed to it by now. Like finding herself trapped at the bottom of a lake with chains and iron weighing her to the bottom. Helpless. And no matter how much kicking and thrashing she might do, no matter how strong of a swimmer she was--it would never be enough.
    There was the quell--the suggestion to tap into their power more.
    But like hell would that do anything, she snarled internally at the thought, fingers digging into the skin of her lap as her hands curled. I can't be everywhere at once. Even with clones, only one me truly exists at a time. I can't stay awake at all times, eventually my stamina will wear thin. I can be as fucking strong as I want, but it doesn't mean anything if I can't personally take on every challenge we're faced with! And the worst part is nobody expects it of me at all--missions are handed out to children, and watches are assigned to shinobi who can be more easily slaughtered. Nobody scolded me for not being there, because I did show up--even if it was after the attack had already begun. Nobody blamed me for not already being somewhere I wasn't dispatched--nobody was even upset at me despite something going awry on my turf.
    She didn't know what was worse. Lord Fourth likely wouldn't have scolded her or expected the impossible, either, but even so, she was livid. Furious that she wasn't enough, and angry that nobody else blamed her for not being so. The whole point of being a jinchūriki was so that things like this didn't happen.
    Mikazuki wasn't sure where to go, either. She wanted to scream, to kill something, to isolate, to train, to work. She could stay in the Dark Room--as she so often did--and run around in a cloak of rage and scream and yell at nothing. Though, it wasn't in her nature and it wouldn't accomplish anything. It'd be a waste of time and energy, and she felt she had less of that to spend, now, more than ever. But she was tired and agitated, and she knew the right thing to do would to be trying to rest.
    Whatever that may have looked like.
    And, for her, it often came in the form of meditation.
    When sleep could not find her, she tried other means. The Dark Room was isolating, silent. But there was no rain, hidden so deep underground, and the pitter patter of the never-ending downpour never ceased to ease her tensions. She just. Needed. To.
    Breathe.
    Think.
    Focus.

---

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MADE BY ★MEULK

[Muramasa Uemon]

awash in our thoughts

---

Midnight. He'd kept late hours for as long as he could remember.

It wasn't that he didn't enjoy sleep... so much as he had trouble finding it. When he did even the slightest sound could wake him. And he almost never dreamed. Nothing but a fleeting void for comfort. However long it lasted.

Rather than try in vain, he spent most nights engrossed in his journal. Writing down snippets from his travels, sketching, drafting diagrams, plotting. Tonight he would do the same. Though another important task occupied him at present. Sealing one of his creations inside his right forearm via the Karada Fuinjutsu. Yamata the Serpent.

Fuinjutsu had never been his specialty but it made transporting puppets much easier. This task specifically required exceptional control and delicate artistry. His finger glowed as the outline of a snake was carved into his arm.

Coiled around, three hungering heads bursting forth from the body. Two on either side of his wrist, one in the middle. Every inch of the tattoo burned as it melded with his skin... but the pain was worth it. Once he was finished, he wrapped his forearm with a bandage. To heal. And hide. Slipping on a thin cardigan, he moved quietly from the room. So as not to disturb Kota's sleep. Journal in hand, Muramasa made his way to the back porch.

Peace and quiet usually helped him collect his thoughts... but instead he found himself with company. Mikazuki.

The wanderer paused as he spotted her. "Aikawa..." A quiet acknowledgement. "I didn't know you were out here." He continued on. "Or even home." Of course it was her place in the end. To come and go as she pleased.

Despite that, he hadn't seen her much. True to her word he supposed. Dark eyes looked her over, taking note of her posture. Body language. He recognized that state. It was the same one he'd been in so many times before. Mad. Hopeless. From what he knew of her, she had fairly thick skin. So whatever it was that made her like this...

...well, it had to be serious. Taking a step out of the door way, he shuffled to the side. To lean up against the back wall of the house. "We don't have to talk if you'd rather not." He said softly. Looking out into the dark.

Talking was the last thing he wanted when he was upset. "But... I'll stand here a while." He said. "Just in case."

---

[Mikazuki Aikawa]

you're gone, gone, gone away
I watched you disappear
all that's left is a ghost of you
※
Muramasa Uemon

Mikazuki opened her eyes at the sound of shifting footsteps and the gentle brush of wood from the sliding door behind her as it opened, and one of her guests stepped out to the back with her. Muramasa, by the sound of it--he was bigger and carried more weight in his step than the child did.
    Though the young boy often was cautious with his movements, he still had a way about him that was distinct and recognizable. Shuffling like an animal, always preparing to pounce or strike.
    "Muramasa," Mikazuki acknowledged in turn, her voice just as quiet. He was surprised to find her, and she made no comment. He had every reason not to have expected her presence; she rarely spent time around the house. And, even when she was around--even now--she was quiet. She knew every floorboard and which ones creaked, knew how to shift her weight and place her footsteps in such a way that she barely made any noise at all, slipping in and out of doorways without ever fully opening any of them. Second-nature, really. Even if Muramasa and the boy hadn't been staying here, it wasn't a habit she'd been able to break easily--nor was there any reason to.
    The young man shifted to the side and made a small offering of his words.
    They didn't have to talk, if she didn't want to. At first, she didn't understand what he'd meant by it, until he followed up and continued, saying that he'd stay for a while.
    Just in case.
    So, he's extending an olive branch... She glanced at him for the first time--soft blues settling on his form. He was dressed comfortably for the evening, likely his night clothing. A cardigan draped over his shoulders, a journal in his hand, bandages on his wrist... But I don't need help.
    He was kind, but it was unnecessary. She didn't need to talk, or share her woes. It wouldn't accomplish anything--and he wouldn't be able to do anything to change the situation, anyway. "What would we talk about? I'm not much for good company," she deflected. Taking in a deep breath and sighing, she moved over to the edge of the engawa, shifting to let her legs dangle over and dipped her bare feet into the water below. The building was safe from flooding, but with the constant downpour, there was always deep puddles and pools to be found outside.
    Still, she lightly tapped the space next to her, inviting him to join her, if he so desired.
    If he'd rather stand, it didn't really matter to her. They could both exist separately, in silence.
    Mikazuki's hair was down, not messy, but certainly not styled in any way that took effort. Several strands fell in her face, and the tips of her hair were slightly damp from having been outside prior. She wasn't dressed as casually as Muramasa--she rarely ever slept in pajamas, if she rested at all. But, still, she was comfortable in her own sense. Not armed to the teeth, no visible swords or knives or armor. Just black cargo pants, and a skin-tight sleeveless turtleneck of the same color. Her arms were bare, the multitude of scars visible on her skin, and light speckling of freckles on her shoulders. Similar to Muramasa, there was bandages on her hand as well--her right palm, specifically.
    "Night owl?" she asked, turning the attention onto him.
    

---

570 words

MADE BY ★MEULK

[Muramasa Uemon]

a cleansing rain. cool. steady.

---

Dark eyes caught her gaze, his face as stoic as ever. Though... not quite as steely as when they first met.

Tempers had cooled since then. Never would have expected to be invited into her home, let alone to have stayed this long. Yet here he was. If the wording of his offer seemed a bit stilted, it was. Speaking of feelings was awkward.

Something he understood better than most. So he said without saying. Muramasa watched her move to the edge of the porch and pat a spot next to her. After some thought, he obliged. "Whatever you feel like." He said, lowering himself to sit beside her. "Or... nothing at all." Luckily his grey lounge pants were cropped midway up his shins.

Leaving him free to dip his feet. "When I'm feeling down, I don't like to talk about it either." He said, glancing down at the puddle below. "And I don't know..." His words trailed for a moment. "I've known worse."

He'd rather someone be fine with silence than a constant talker. It was a rare trait. One he appreciated. The water was cool. Refreshing in the heat. After a while he looked up, back into the dark. To stare as they sat there quietly.

Eventually she asked if he was a night owl. The wanderer nodded. "For a long time now." It became hard enough to sleep after what happened to him as a boy. Training only compounded that fact. Had to be ready to go at a moment's notice. Alert. Rest did not come often. "You?" He returned the question, along with a glance.

That's when he noticed her hair. "I don't think I've ever seen it down." The thought occurred. Not that he often had the opportunity to look. She had pretty hair. Eyes too, now that he saw them up close. The bandages were new though.

Part of him thought better of asking... but eventually he nodded towards them. "Did you hurt yourself?"

---

[Mikazuki Aikawa]

you're gone, gone, gone away
I watched you disappear
all that's left is a ghost of you
※
Muramasa Uemon

Whatever she felt like? That was an even more difficult thing for her to grasp. She wouldn't know what to talk about, even if she wanted to. Her mind trailed back to when she shared correspondence with Tabi. Spent time with Takao. She talked more casually, back then. Pointless things. But she wouldn't know how to recreate any of it.
    Or, nothing at all, he offered.
    Likely what was to become of them.
    She gave a slight smile when he said he'd had worse, and she didn't doubt it. While she knew she hadn't been overtly compassionate or friendly with him, it wasn't as though she had tried killing him. Travelling from place to place, she was certain he'd engaged with far worse. People who were actively hostile, whereas he'd not given her any reason to behave that way, yet. So, he'd been presented with something more tame. A bitch, perhaps, and still unlikeable in many ways--she was certain--but bearable.
    "Much the same, I suppose," Mikazuki answered simply when he turned her own question back to her. "I've never head it easy with that kind of thing." Even when she had been a young girl, she'd had nightmares. Sleep had been like a prison in its own way, being awake had been a different kind of hell. When she got older, it only got worse. After her brother's death, sleepless nights turned into plagues of nightmares. With training, it only turned worse. It was difficult to tell when she was awake, or when she was asleep at all--and she could never trust her environment to be safe, or stable. Then, came Gyūki--and sleep had become even more scarce as lowering her guard only ensured nigh terrors and torment to come.
    When was the last time I'd actually slept well? She wondered, looking up at the roof that sheltered them for a moment as she dwelled on it. When I was with Lord Fourth, I think.
    Muramasa asked if she'd hurt herself, and she looked briefly to her bandaged hand.
    It was always hidden from view--though much easier when she posed as Squeakers, who was covered from head to toe and didn't show an inch of skin. Otherwise, she usually masked the seal etched into the palm of her hand under gloves, or sleeves, or something else. It was common for her to wrap it in bandages, too, though likely the first Muramasa had seen it--and the connotation was easy to assume she'd been harmed. It would be easier to lie about it, than to bring attention to what she might be hiding. "I accidentally sliced it open while sharpening some blades," she said casually with a shrug. "But it's not a big deal. I've had worse, and it'll heal in a few days." Her other hand certainly had scars on it, so it wasn't as though she weren't accustomed to injury. "What about you?" she asked, lightly nodding to his own arm.
    Likely a similar story. He had been working hard as of late, and whether he'd gotten injured while training or while working, it would be believable enough, whatever it was.
    She would fall quiet for a short while, once more, thinking on it all. Then, after a pause, "Sanosuke would probably lose his mind if he saw me like this... When we were genin, I was always strict, and serious, and to the point, never wasting any time on things that weren't relevant to our job. Talking about emotions, or personal things, or even acknowledging them at all... it's not something I'm good at, even if I wanted to." She thought back on the time Sanosuke had found her after she'd been sealed. He'd not even recognized her, at first, and when she'd tried a different course of action, and tried opening up... she simply didn't know how to. Couldn't. "I don't think I'm feeling down... But I wouldn't know how to hold a conversation, even if I knew what to talk about." So "nothing" would probably be best.

---

672 words

MADE BY ★MEULK

[Muramasa Uemon]

the mind's metronome

---

A nod followed her words, thinking back to when his own sleeping troubles first started. Nightmares. Blood, swords, his father's corpse. Every time he closed his eyes it was like a horror show began. Then, one day...

...it just stopped. Darkness. Absent anything or anyone. No more dreams, or at least none that he could remember. 

Time on the road braving dangers with his master only exacerbated his troubled rest. Now, the slightest noise jarred him awake. It was frustrating at times... but you learned to live with it. "Does anything help you?" He asked. For him, there wasn't much. As much as his harsh training inclined him otherwise, he did find some sleep with Hanagisa.

One other had helped him too... but she was gone. Gods only knew where. Perhaps it was comfort that was the key for him. Something so foreign that he'd forgotten what that felt like. Muramasa listened intently as Mikazuki spoke.

Sparing another look at her hand, he thought on her words. "I thought it might have been from your mirror."

Muramasa's eyes moved to her face. Though she hid it well, there was some kind of struggle within. Secrets, demons... all had them. Both of them lived life with the curtain drawn. But sometimes... gaps appeared. A finger idly traced his bandages as she asked about them. Taking just a moment to ponder what his response would be.

Instantly he thought of lying. Making up an excuse. Work, most likely. But for some reason or another... he didn't. "A tattoo, actually." He half winced as he prodded a little too hard. "Of an old story my parents used to tell."

No point in obfuscating, he figured. It would be visible soon enough. But to everyone aside from his enemies it would appear as just that. A simple tattoo. Those who met what was inside were not likely to live to tell of it.

Listening intently to her words, he nodded along with her plight. Emotions were... tough. "Yeah..." He said, turning his gaze back towards the dark. "Opening up isn't my strong suit either." The wanderer thought back on the few people he considered friends. How long it took for him to tell them of himself. Or his name. It wasn't often that he spoke of such things. "The Rokudaime... are you and he close?" She referred to him with enough familiarity. If they were genin together there was surely history there. "I met him the other day. Squeakers too."

Both experiences were... not what he expected. "Interesting fellows." All he said on the matter.

The woman described her inadequacy with talking. "I'm not the best conversationalist either." Muramasa remained facing forward. No, he was definitely no sparkling orator. Too broody and guarded for all that.

Most times he tried talking himself out of trouble, his standoffishness only got him further in. Suppa had once called him something like 'a regular void of charisma'. As much of a drunken fool the man was... it was true.

"I noticed some sketchbooks in the spare closet..." He began, glancing at her briefly. "Do you draw much?"

---

[Mikazuki Aikawa]

you're gone, gone, gone away
I watched you disappear
all that's left is a ghost of you
※
Muramasa Uemon

For a moment, Mikazuki gave pause. Did anything help?
    She wasn't sure.
    Her initial response would be no; there was nothing that could ease her troubles. Not with nightmares, not with daymares. Everything about her life was a living hell, and there was nothing that could truly be done to change any of it. She didn't have any friends, she had no family, and she had no loved ones. She was truly alone, and there wasn't anything she could rightfully do to change that. Years ago, she had tried--but by now, she had just accepted it. It was less painful that way.
    "One time, I stayed awake for three days straight," she said quietly. "I was so exhausted, I could barely think." She'd been sitting upright against a wall in the Dark Room, fiddling with a kunai as she tried to stay conscious. It had been more difficult, back then. Gyūki had still been trying all he could to drive her to her wit's end. She frowned, slightly. "Lord Fourth stayed with me the entire night. He was one of the first..." She tried to think on it. No, even with Yuuyake, she wasn't sure if the sentiment had been quite the same. "The first person in Amegakure that I ever fully felt safe enough to be vulnerable around..." Then, she squinted, lightly rubbing at her neck, before muttering, "Probably because I knew he could kill me at any moment if he wanted to..."
    Like when he tried strangling you.
    I definitely deserved it. And, besides, he didn't. "Hojo, too. And Takao." She shrugged. "But none of them are here, so..." So much for that. It was ridiculous and stupid, anyway. Like a child who needed to sleep with their parent to keep nightmares at bay--frustrating that it was the only thing that seemed to really work. "This house is plenty safe." There were numerous seals on it, it was located on the outskirts of the village, within one of the safest villages in the world. But... still. "Physically, at least." She knew she wouldn't likely be attacked while she was sleeping, or anything. "But it's not easy to find spaces where you're free from your own mind."
    What could you do to help with that?
    There wasn't any solution if she, herself, was the problem.
    Muramasa mentioned the mirror, and she'd stare at him for a moment, confused--until she remembered. "Ah. Right." Looking away, she shrugged nonchalantly. I did bust my hand pretty bad when I did that. It bled more than I thought it would. "Years ago. When I was seventeen. Guess I just never found any reason to replace it." After sharing her truth, Muramasa shared a bit of his own--that his own bandages were actually just covering a tattoo. Likely helping in the healing process, too, if the slight wince was anything to tell. She'd never much understood any of the purpose to tattoos--probably just a human thing she couldn't grasp. Cultural significance, she was sure. Something about art, and bodies being temples, maybe. My body is literally a temple. She thought. But it's decorated mostly in seals. "What's the story?"
    A small glimpse into his life, a glance at a world she'd never know.
    Although brief, she'd learned little of Sanosuke's upbringing and family as well. It wasn't anything important to her, and yet... she didn't hate hearing about their different experiences. Their upbringing.
    So much of a person was made by their history.
    Muramasa asked if she was close with the Ame Lord, and she gave pause once more. Careful with her answer, but also unsure of it. Really, their relationship was a difficult one to explain--though she supposed she'd never had an easy time of it. Her relationship with Takao had always been complicated, too. Tatsuo and Saya as well. Really, Tabi had been the only easy one--they had been friends. Dear friends. Though, even the nature of their friendship, had its complexities. "I wouldn't exactly say we're close," she answered, sighing as her brow furrowed slightly in frustration as she thought on it more. Muramasa had met Sanosuke? She wasn't too surprised by it, though it was news to her nonetheless... "Closeness insinuates that we're friends or something, and the entire time we've known each-other, I've worked very hard to ensure that we weren't friends, despite his annoying persistence." He'd tried countless times getting close to her--all denied. He was stubborn, but so was she. In the end, he came to terms with who she was. "We were constantly butting heads. Socially speaking, we didn't get along." He was like a golden retriever--she was like a cat. A spoiled clan child who had fallen from grace, and a shadow that the village hoped would fade away. "But on missions, our teamwork was impeccable. We knew each-others' strengths, weaknesses, and never struggled to cooperate. Some would say we were the Dynamic Duo of Amegakure. Out of everyone in this village, I suppose... he's someone who I know--fully--has my back. And he knows I've got his. We have a mutual respect and understanding between us that's difficult to explain. We're not friends. But we're comrades."
    If that made sense?
    Hopefully...
    The young man brought up something new--a question relating to some sketchbooks he'd found in the spare closet. He asked if she was an artist, and she shrugged. "When I was a shinobi, I used to practice the art of fūinjutsu. I still work with seals to this day." She stared out to the darkness, pausing. "Occasionally I'd draw. The skill required to quickly and accurately replicate imagery on paper with ink and brushes was helpful in my field, but it was still nothing more than training in my eyes. Practice. Only the end product was different." Because she didn't need a million seals lying around, so long as she was training--it didn't really matter what she was inking down. "You're welcome to take one if you need a spare."
    Seeing as he seemed to carry one of his own, that was.
    Of course, she already knew of its existence, had seen some of the drawings he'd made inside of his own book. But she was good at feigning ignorance.
    Though, if he was sketching in that book of his as often as he seemed to, and even gave himself a tattoo--he could deny it all he wanted, but he was an artist.

---

1071 words

MADE BY ★MEULK

[Muramasa Uemon]

the art of speaking

---

Steadily, droplets fell. Thudding softly all around as he listened to the woman speak.

A somber enough accompaniment to their conversation. She talked of not sleeping for three days. Of friends— or acquaintances. Gone. "Being vulnerable is..." His eyes fell. "Hard." For a while, he ruminated on her words. 

Free from one's mind... "One of the few things none of us can escape from." He mused quietly. "No matter how much we might want to." Trapped in a prison of one's own making. Your own brain fighting you, working towards sabotage. A concept he could sympathize with. "Small distractions help me, sometimes." Art. Music.

Or the comfort of another. Kept the bad things at bay for a time at least. It certainly wasn't healthy, and definitely no substitute for healing. But he didn't want to. Couldn't. Not now at least. No... he needed his angst. Desperation.

Kept him sharp. On a razor's edge. How he needed to be. Apparently she broke the mirror some time ago. A thought occurred. "Were... you unhappy with what you saw?" He stared into the dark once more. His tone a touch expectant. Knowing, maybe. Not because he was a mind reader or certain that she had seen an ugly truth...

...but because he had. After the business at the Ryokan. Or the skirmish at the Uda clan's estate. The Uemon of old was gone. Dead. Or in hiding. Now there was just... some killer wearing his face. He grew quiet once again.

Until she asked about the story. Muramasa's fingers danced along the wrapping. "You might have heard it before... it's about an eight-headed serpent who terrorizes two Kunitsukami— lesser gods." It was little more than a fairy tale really. But people from Tetsu no Kuni loved their fantastical stories. To impart lessons to children maybe. "It forces them to sacrifice one of their daughters every year..." He paused, trying to recall the details. "After seven, someone finally helps. Tries to save their last child." Seven years. Seven girls.

Fiddling with the bandage, he kept on. "The God of Storms comes... outwits the monster, slays it, saves the girl." As a child, he remembered wanting to be just like that. Heroic. Noble. Dealing out justice to the wicked.

Stupid. Justice didn't exist. And at some point... he became the wicked. "Anyway, I guess I wanted a reminder." 

Truthfully, it was more for practicality's sake than anything. But it did symbolize what he was in a way. A sight that spelled doom for his foes. A monster. Muramasa paid close attention as the woman spoke of Sanosuke. Of their past and experiences together. Not friends, just comrades. Reminded him of someone else he knew. Long ago.

"I see..." Dark eyes peered out at her between his thick locks. "Do you have any friends?" It was a question he'd asked himself many times before. For him, the term was reserved for a select few. Fewer as time passed, it seemed.

Fūinjutsu, she said. An explanation for the art books. "If you don't already, you should keep drawing." His suggestion. "Having an outlet is a good thing." It was. Someplace to vent those pesky emotions. Placing his book in his lap, he gazed out at the darkness. Thinking on his own interests. "Seals look fairly intricate." 

Not all, but a lot of them were. "I'd wager you would make a good artist." Better than him, no doubt. If she was that practiced. Mikazuki said that he was welcome to one of the spare books. "Thank you." A slight nod.

For two people so awful at conversing... they were doing alright. So far.

---

[Mikazuki Aikawa]

you're gone, gone, gone away
I watched you disappear
all that's left is a ghost of you
※
Muramasa Uemon

"Being vulnerable is how people get killed," Mikazuki stated. It was her belief, anyway. Still, she believed it. Every time she'd grown close to someone, or cared about others, she regretted it. Every time. And, as far as she was concerned--she'd been lucky. It could have been worse, she'd been fortunate so far that only a handful of the people she'd cared for had died, and she'd been able to cut ties with the remaining left before they could also suffer those same fates. Being vulnerable with others--it was foolish. If she was vulnerable, she might die. Or they would. Either way, she'd never found it worth the risk. Especially not, anymore.
    At least he--somewhat--understood her troubles, even if she doubted he could grasp the extent of it. She wasn't alone in that she couldn't run from her own thoughts, but she was certain that she had a unique experience of sharing a consciousness with someone else. Even if she did manage to distract herself--someone else could come crashing in at any moment to ruin it all. The obviously stable and happy moments were usually the easiest targets.
    Was she unhappy with what she saw?
    "I suppose." It seemed like the obvious answer--why anyone would throw a fit in that kind of way. And people may not have liked what they saw for a million different reasons--maybe they looked too much like their father, maybe because they didn't have a pretty face, maybe because their skin constantly reminded them of every time they'd messed up. "I've never once liked what I saw, but I suppose it was just--" what was it, that time? She could barely remember. Mikazuki pursed her lips as she tried to think on it--
    --I certainly recall. You were so pitiful. Utterly pathetic.
    She exhaled and shrugged, waving one hand slightly in a vague gesture. "At that point, I was so resentful, I couldn't bare looking anymore." She could tolerate who she was--up to that point. But, eventually, with all of the changes that had happened--it threw her world upside down, and she hadn't known how to cope. Her pitiful collapse had just been like looking back at a reflection of the past--she hadn't felt so pathetic in years. She had been faced with too much too quickly, and didn't know what to do with herself or where to go from the ashes that remained.
    But look at how you've grown. No more are you that sniveling worm.
    I just... needed to remind myself of who I was. Perhaps it still wasn't something good, but at least it was something that she could tolerate. "And, like I said, it was years ago. I just never found any reason to replace them... It's not a big deal. I don't really care much about appearances." If she wanted to be a pretty kunoichi--she would be. She knew how to use the transformation jutsu, after all. It wasn't exactly difficult. It just wasn't important.
    It wasn't that deep.
    Not in her eyes, at least.
    Muramasa humored her, and retold the story to her, briefly. Likely an abridged version--she hoped. He was prompt with his words, hitting all the major plot points and only discussing the important details. Something she would have appreciated, if it wasn't defeating the purpose of a story to begin with. A big, bad demon, lesser gods, and a heroic god that saves the day. Abrupt. Happy ending. Done. "You're a terrible storyteller," she commented. "What did you want a reminder for?" To not sacrifice peoples' daughters? While the thought was wry, she was still mildly curious over it. If he was going to permanently mark his body with something as useless as art--it had better at least be for a good reason, right? Otherwise it was just a waste of skin and ink.
    Ugh. Says the human shintai. Of course I'd think that way...
    "Friends?" He broke her from her train of thought, and she raised an eyebrow to spare him a glance.
    Did she have any friends?
    There was Saya Yoi, but if she were being entirely honest with herself, "Friends" was oversimplifying their relationship. She hadn't seen the woman in over six years, and their relationship was... well, Mikazuki wasn't sure what she felt for the older woman. It was complicated. Complex. She wasn't sure if there was a word to describe it, exactly.
    And, if not her? Who else did she have?
    "No, I don't." Not really. "But..." She thought back on Tabi. "I don't really want friends, anyway." She stretched her arms before rising to her feet, standing upright on the porch as she exhaled lightly. "Seals are beautiful. I've always enjoyed working with them." Considering how much of a fanatic she seemed for swords, it was easy to overlook the many other skills she'd devoted her attention to. "But that's all my abilities are good for. I'm no artist. Never have been, never will be." She looked down at the young man, her expression not unkind, not insincere, but serious nonetheless. "Artists have something in them that I simply do not possess. Passion. Love for their trade." She looked away once more. "My only outlet is training. And, speaking of..." Mikazuki performed some hand signs, and a clone appeared beside her, before quickly taking off. The original stayed behind, and glanced once more at Muramasa. "How do you feel about alcohol?"
    

---

901 words

MADE BY ★MEULK

[Muramasa Uemon]

a craft, like any, to hone

---

'Vulnerability is how people get killed'. "It can be, yes." He chimed in quietly. Long ago, he remembered being told something similar. No attachments. No love. No weaknesses. Or else... death. "She sounds just like Master."

Harsh. Candid. But wise, in a way. As far as he saw it. Once, he remembered swearing off such things...

Yet now there was Kota. A contradiction. Irreconcilable with how he had lived his life up until this point. But then, hypocrisy was human. Another mentor had told him that 'searching endlessly for consistency will drive you mad'. At the time he wrote it off as the ramblings of a drunken has-been. Now, after all this time... "Maybe he was right." 

Perhaps. "I know that feeling..." Was all he said in response to her speaking about her reflection. Like her, he'd never cared for appearances. Worrying about looking or dressing a certain way. A stranger stared back at him now.

Foreign. Vacant. Capable of great violence. The woman criticized his storytelling and he simply nodded. His parents had told it much better. "I told you I wasn't very good at talking." It was almost laughable that he had put on a few performances in his life. For money. Aside from the last one with Kota, none of them were very well received.

She asked what the reminder was for. "To remember what I am." He almost wanted to say. "A monster who will tyrannize gods." Not true gods... but those who lorded over Tetsu no Kuni. Ones responsible for his family's suffering.

Instead of that, he simply shrugged. "To remember my father." A half-truth. It would help them remember too... and ensure he never forgot. Muramasa quieted down after this, thinking of the man. "Soon." The word echoed inside of his head. "I won't make you wait much longer." His eyes narrowed as he gazed out into the dark. Mind busy.

Talk of friends finally brought his attention back around. Of course she wasn't one for such things. Still, part of him had been curious. He nodded at her answer. Taken only slightly aback by her describing seals as beautiful.

Beauty had its admirers even among the passionless, he supposed. He listened to her speak of a lack for it. No love for a trade. She certainly came off as dispassionate enough... unless she was biting into someone. And even that was done with an air of detachment. But everyone had some capacity for it. Life just got in the way. Responsibilities.

Some went their whole lives without ever finding out. "I'm a bit of a lightweight... but sake's fine." He said, raising an eyebrow at her question and watching as she summoned a clone. "Why? Are you a drinker?"

Didn't seem the type... but coping came in all different forms. Or was this training somehow? Curious.

---

[Mikazuki Aikawa]

you're gone, gone, gone away
I watched you disappear
all that's left is a ghost of you
※
Muramasa Uemon

It could be? Perhaps for someone of a different lifestyle--but for her it was definite. She couldn't argue with him, they were different beings living in different worlds, but she didn't agree. Not for herself, at least. Vulnerability was fine--for other people. Not her. He said that he knew the feeling, and similarly, Mikazuki somewhat doubted it. Whatever their reasons, she was almost certain they were quite different. Though, that was likely for the best. Whatever his strife, she hoped it didn't resemble her own.
    Still, she supposed it was a conversation piece, and she'd shared a bit of her side of it. Why not try to see what he'd give in exchange? "What about for you?" Of course, if he was entirely closed off about it, she wouldn't take any offense. She was, after all, highly secretive, herself. But, all the while, there seemed to be greater risk for herself.
    What did Muramasa have to lose if he opened up?
    Humiliation, probably. If he said something stupid, she wasn't going to hesitate speaking her mind and berate him for it--but, all the while, humiliation wasn't the worst thing in the world. She'd been humiliated more times than she could count--it helped develop thick skin.
    And, besides.... there was no promise she'd scold him, either.
    Even as he further explained--though still rather vaguely--that the tattoo was a reminder of his father, she didn't scold or mock him. She supposed that was something she could understand--even if she went about things differently... she was also sentimental. Oddly so. A small wooden kunai used as a necklace, an emerald katana, a small lucky charm with an octopus figure attached to it... Red stripes on clothing, and having long hair. A poem about lanterns, and chamomile tea. A small pot of peonies in her bedroom.
    They were all reminders. All sentimental memoirs of people she'd loved. All subtle, insignificant to a peering eye, but meaningful to her.
    "Was he an eight-headed monster who ate young girls?" she wondered. "Or was he more like the God of Storms?" Fathers were an odd topic, to her. Some loved and adored their family, others resented and hated them. She didn't know what Muramasa's relationship with his father was--the story was vague enough in its own right. It could have been a reminder of what a monster the man had been--a personal momento to push forward and thrive despite their best efforts at destroying everything. Or, maybe it was something kinder. A father who was brave, and strong, to vanquished evil.
    As a family of blacksmiths, there was no knowing for sure.
    Perhaps it was something else entirely, even. If the story was one that his father had told him often, perhaps the artwork merely reminded him of those moments they'd shared years ago--one giving the gift of a bedtime tale, and the other gratefully receiving it. With the healing wound bound in gauze and bandages, she'd have no real way to guess by picking up more visual clues. So, that left her to ask.
    "Never touched the stuff before," Mikazuki answered simply when Muramasa asked if she was a drinker. It wasn't something that ever interested her, and if you asked her, five years ago, she'd have insisted that she wouldn't ever drink. And, in a way, it was somewhat true. She still wouldn't drink under normal circumstances, but she had a reason to, now. And even Young Mika would likely have seen eye-to-eye with her. "But tonight, I'm going to get veeeery drunk," she explained, leaning over Muramasa slightly and offering a playful grin. "And I figured, it's only polite to offer if you'd like to join me. There's no pressure, though, of course. If you refrain, you'll have my respect."
    Choices, choices.

---

628 words

MADE BY ★MEULK

[Muramasa Uemon]

highs, lows, crests and lulls

---

Rain battered the roof above them. The engawa providing decent enough shelter from the downpour. It was impressive how steady it was... how neverending. Its soft thumping providing a drumbeat to his own thoughts.

Dark ones. Just for the slightest of moments, but his mind had gone to a bad place. A name repeating in his head.

Over and over. "Kira Yoshitada." A name he recited to himself many times throughout the day. The subject of his wrath. Talk of his father had stirred something up. A baser instinct better left alone. Muramasa's brow lowered...

But Mikazuki spoke. And he remembered where he was. What about for him? "..." Silence ensued for a while as he tried to calm himself. "I've... changed." He said. Glancing at her between strands of hair for only a moment. Soon his gaze was back on the dark. Fixated. As he tried to right the minor movements in his face. "A lot."

Quiet again. Thoughts of past years racing in his head. "I used to be happier." His voice had quieted down too. Not yet a whisper but lower than it was. "Full of life. Joy." It seemed so long ago. Eight years wasn't much...

...but to him? It felt like forever. His hand tightened around his book. Unconsciously as he thought. "Then—"

Then. His scowl was back. Anger. Realizing his slip, he took a breath. "...I just don't like what I see." What could he possibly say? That he was a killer? How only a few weeks ago he'd cut down at least five men? No. Not that.

It wasn't that she couldn't understand— surely she had done worse. This Muramasa was a swordsmith. A traveler watching over a boy with no place to go. It was Uemon, son of Iemitsu who was a different beast. Cold. Callous. Hellbent on taking the head of one of Tetsu no Kuni's most influential officials. And any who stood in his way...

Now wasn't the time to get into that. He'd said more than enough. Quietly he shook his head as she asked about his father. Serpent or Storm God? "Neither." Muramasa said. "He was just a man." Good. Bad. Equal parts.

"But... it was his favorite story." He said. Must've heard the thing a thousand times. "Mine too."

As a child, Iemitsu seemed a giant. Larger than life. Infallible. Time had a funny way of tinting the lens through which one viewed the world... and now he realized that his father had been just like anyone else. Human. But that didn't change a thing. Someone had cruelly ripped him from his family. Stole him. Murdered him in cold blood.

Looking down at his book, he wrinkled his nose at the sight. A bent spine. Knuckles white from squeezing. Forearm throbbing with a dull pain. The woman leaned over and grinned. An incredulous look was offered in return. At first.

Part of him took it as some sort of trick. It seemed out of character for her... but then, he couldn't say for sure what her true character was. "Polite..." He thought. "That has to be a joke." She definitely did not seem that.

After a few moments of thought, he nodded slowly. Eyes meeting hers. "Sure." A drink didn't sound bad...

Wasn't going to hold his breath for any respect from her either way, though.

---

[Mikazuki Aikawa]

you're gone, gone, gone away
I watched you disappear
all that's left is a ghost of you
※
Muramasa Uemon

He used to be different, Muramasa explained. Happier. Full of life. Joy. Likely peaceful, safe, and sound. But something had happened--twisted and warped him, some kind of trauma that still lingered in his spirit and imprinted itself upon his soul. His grip on his notebook was fierce, the emotions on his face poorly hidden. There was a darkness in his gaze; rage. Seething and unsatiable.
    The eyes of a killer.
    "Hm..." He didn't like what he saw. Self-resentment, by the sound of it. Which she could understand, and yet, their hate seemed born of different beasts. She couldn't fully see it in herself, but it was recognizable nonetheless... it reminded her of someone else she knew. After she'd gotten close, he stared at her incredulously--or perhaps he was appalled by her. She couldn't tell, she wasn't sure she cared. But as her frozen blue eyes met his steeled black ones, he relented and gave an agreement to her offer. Very well, the thought came to her.
    Eventually, her clone returned with a bag in hand. And, retrieving some small glasses and rejoining him once more outside, Mikazuki rejoined the wanderer's side as the copy of herself disappeared. Setting down a lantern that provided the two the soft, warm glow of a flame, she poured some of the sake into their glasses. The young woman repositioned herself--more comfortably--with her legs crossed as she downed the first shot of alcohol without batting an eye. It was bitter, and burned in her throat--but she didn't even flinch.
    She'd had much worse things, before.
    "I seem to have gotten you into a sour mood," she spoke, her voice sounding sly as she eyed the young man over. She smiled--slightly--though it quickly faded as she leaned back slightly, hand propping herself up. "You know, you kind of remind me of a boy I used to know. He used to love stories and fairy tales, too." She took another swig. "He resented the person he'd turned into as well. He was so filled with shame, he wouldn't even let anyone look at him... always wore a mask--even his own family didn't know his real face..." She held the glass near her lips, fingertips lightly tapping as she kept it there for a moment. Pensive. Then. "Anyway." She looked over to the young man once more after finishing the remaining contents of her glass. "What were you going to draw, if you don't mind my asking?" He did come out here with that book of his to draw, didn't he?

---

423 words

MADE BY ★MEULK

[Muramasa Uemon]

liquid. fragrant, cool

---

Melancholy. Something he had struggled with for quite some time.

Upon first meeting his master, he was little more than a loudmouthed brat. Brash. Impulsive. By the time she left him he was already prone to sullen moods. 'A perpetual mope' she one called him. It was the truth.

As they waited he paid little mind her stares, choosing instead to gaze out beyond the porch. Lost in somber reflection. Mikazuki no doubt doing some thinking of her own. After a while her bunshin returned with some items in tow. Muramasa spared a glance as she set up a small lantern and poured the both of them some drinks. It was...

...quite the little set up. Romantic, almost. If he thought for a second she was partial to that sort of thing.

Not wanting to be rude, he too adjusted his posture. Bringing his feet up on the porch and crossing his legs to sit opposite her. "No..." He said with a slight shake of his head. "It isn't your fault." Bleak was his natural state.

Regardless of her... his nature would find a way. Picking up the glass he swirled the liquid around. Staring at it.

Surprisingly, she downed hers quite fast. Amusing in its own right. Her slight smile was met with one of his own. A weak excuse for one, but an attempt. As he listened to her tale he took a long sip of the sake. More slowly than her.

Alcohol was little more than a curiosity for him. Years ago, he remembered being staunchly against it. But that likely had more to do with watching Suppa constantly in his cups. Not long ago he had a few rather pleasant experiences sharing sake with another. Rare. Intimate. For a moment he thought of the Nukenin from Kumogakure no Sato...

Hoping she was okay. As his attention refocused, he quietly paid attention to Mikazuki's words. "A mask..." He thought as she spoke. Mulling over the similarities. "That sounds about right." Never considered it in those terms.

Yet a mask he most certainly wore. "What happened to him?" Muramasa asked. Gazing into his sake. 

After she finished hers, he did the same. Slowly sipping the rest of it down. Reaching for the bottle, he glanced to the woman. "Another?" He asked, minding his manners and refilling hers first if she was inclined. As the liquid entered his cup his expression had begun to unfurl. Ears already warm. Sake burned going down... but it wasn't bad.

Just the slightest release of tension. Mikazuki asked of his sketch. Setting the bottle down, he reached for his journal. Brow furrowing briefly as he looked at its spine. "I wanted to go back over some I hadn't finished."

Flipping open the book, he made no efforts to hide the contents. First were completed ones. Two small wolf pups, one black and one white. A tall swordswoman in a field of white carnations. He paused upon seeing that one. Just for a moment. A drunk lying in a pile of boxes aboard a ship. Old memories drawn anew. Past sentiments. Then?

Blueprints of various katana. Landscapes of the places he'd been. From the fields of Sake no Kuni to the peaks of Tsuchi no Kuni. A portrait of an energetic-looking girl near his age. A rendering of a sleeping beauty fallen ill.

Dusky, with long flowing black hair. Peaceful in her slumber. Almost looked like a princess of some sort.

Kota made an appearance too. Poking his head out from behind a covered wagon and grinning. His last finished sketch. After that it was only partial pieces. A dark cave lit by campfire. Rain-soaked rooftops. A large tower. An outline of a familiar mysterious masked man that Mikazuki would recognize. And a— "...this one needs work."

Stopping mid-flip, only half of a scarred cheek was visible before he went back to the previous picture. Face suddenly a touch hotter. "Squeakers." He said after clearing his throat. "He... cuts a unique silhouette, hm?"

---

[Mikazuki Aikawa]

you're gone, gone, gone away
I watched you disappear
all that's left is a ghost of you
※
Muramasa Uemon

Spare me, she thought internally, deciding against speaking it aloud as Muramasa denied her ownership over his downturn of emotions. She wouldn't have apologized either way, but she could at least acknowledge when she was responsible for something. Maybe he didn't see it that way, but she was certain she'd caused some kind of trigger in his mind. Sure, consciousness drifted in its many ways--but she'd still brought about the prompt of their conversation.
    Muramasa asked what became of the boy she mentioned, and she didn't respond immediately.
    Thinking on it.
    There were many things she could say. But she wanted to keep his own privacy, as well. He'd been secretive for a reason, after all. Elusive. Difficult to read under normal circumstances. He'd lived a difficult life, and she wasn't always certain the most appropriate way to speak about him. "Hm... His story doesn't have a happy ending." Oh, how she wished it did. He deserved so much better than what fate had dealt him. "He lived a life only knowing pain, solitude, and sorrow." Abridged, but true. Her voice was somber. "Ended up killing a number of dangerous criminals." A pause. "Suicide bombing. He was only fourteen years old, at the time."
    But they hadn't been expecting one of their own to turn on them.
    His story was truly tragic. She didn't know any other way to put it. Usually unfeeling, his story always left a hollowness in her chest.
    "Hm?" She looked at him when he made a request for more sake. And, not used to others serving her, she took the container and poured into his cup before he got the opportunity to do so, himself. Filling hers up likewise, she returned to downing her glass as quickly as she could. She was trying to get drunk, after all. There was no savoring of flavor, quality, or enjoyment of the activity itself. 
    Muramasa explained that he'd intended to go over some of his sketches and work on them more after she'd inquired about it. The young woman shifted herself so that she was closer besides the wanderer, and she leaned slightly--still giving some personal space, mindful to at least leave a gap between them--to look over his creations as he presented them to her. There were many drawings--likely images detailing glimpses into his life. Two wolf pups, a drunken man, and a swordswoman standing in a field of flowers. Carnations. She reminds me a fair amount of Saya, she thought to herself. Tall. Powerful. Majestic. Beautiful, in her own way--though Muramasa's drawing was more conventionally attractive than Mikazuki's own warrior woman. Not that she thought any less of her for it, though. If anything, I appreciated that neither she nor I fell into normal beauty standards.
    A woman she admired, looked up to, and could see herself reflected in.
    Though, Muramasa flipped the page quickly enough.
    Swords, landscapes. Fields and mountains. More people, one who Mikazuki assumed was on her deathbed. All told stories, she was sure. Moving on to less finished pieces, there were sketches of various scenes. From what she could guess, there was a narrative there--the places he'd seen, and the people he'd met along the way of his journey. Somewhere along the way was the young boy, then Amegakure, just as his story had been when he'd shared it with her upon their first meeting. Though, Kota looked much more cheerful, and much cuter in Muramasa's picture than he had when Mikazuki had met him. He'd certainly been roughed up, she gathered. After a sketch of Squeakers, Muramasa backtracked quickly--flipping the page back before she could fully see what was next, and it seemed their conversation was staying on the masked man for now. "Hmm..." Mikazuki looked at Muramasa--the reddening of his cheeks. He cleared his throat--a tell-tale sign of nervousness, as he awkwardly focused the attention onto the drawing. She looked it over, thinking on it for a moment or two. Silhouette? Perhaps. He was mostly just raincoat and baggy clothes, though. Elusive in his appearance as much as he was in his overall shape--even his skin, hidden. A hunched, odd body posture. "He's missing some things," she spoke lazily. Like horns and tails.

---

703 words

MADE BY ★MEULK