[Muramasa Uemon]

between master and novice

---

More taunting words earned only a disinterested stare. "Yes," he said. "One of us clearly does not understand."

Conversing with someone like this was almost a pointless exercise in and of itself, and when compounded by her sheer inability to ever close her mouth, it was quickly becoming the cause of a new, dull ache inside of his skull.

Uemon did not wait for her to finish, and walked inside as she was mid-sentence. To procure a room for himself and wash away the grime of travel— the latter of which was admittedly more in a vain attempt to clean some of the irritation that had been caused off of his features. "Bear it," he told himself. "You have survived much worse than fowl."

Before he left his room behind, he made sure to grab something from his bag and pocket it, returning to the entrance after to wait for Gin. The wanderer took the time to remove a journal from his back pocket, starting to write a small passage about the day's events. Words like 'unbearable', 'haughty', and 'bird' dotted the a few lined pages. Soon enough, the woman returned to meet him, so he stopped his scrawling to close and stow his book. Silently leading her along as he took sensory note of the shrinking proximity of her 'guardians'. The trip itself was about what he expected, mostly consisting of him pointing out possible quality vendors and the woman bargaining loudly and aggressively over the price of things. Over time, his hands became fuller and fuller with their purchases.

Only the top half of his face was visible by the end, complete with his deadpan stare. "Of course I have to carry everything..." he thought, adjusting his grip as they shuffled along. When it came time to buy the materials for his own commission, he thought carefully about the components. "This one needs to be more durable,"  he thought. "Lighter, as well." So he opted for a coarse white cotton for the ito due to the fabric's tensile strength, honoki for the saya because of its resilience and the natural wax the wood contained, and an aiiro-colored lacquer to finish it all. The blade would be of Masamune make, but it would bear the Muramasa's dark blue and white coloring, something that he admittedly found mildly amusing. "She is sure to hate it." Once they entered the smithy Uemon would silently go about his preparations, setting down all of the materials neatly, and removing his jacket to hang near the entry.

Along with his right hand, a multitude of bandages covered his body. Binding his right elbow loosely, more peeking out from within the collar of his shitagi, and some smaller gauze taped on the back of his neck and behind his left ear when he swept his hair back. Some concealed injuries, others covered seals recently etched into his flesh. Also laid bare was the three-headed serpent tattoo on his left forearm. Several small, long faded scars dotted his exposed arms, and the lack of overcoat revealed a scroll holster at his waist and one for kunai strapped to his thigh. Gin's assumption that he was a fighter seemed to be correct. He glanced at his injured right hand, flexing his still-healing fingers to limber them up before donning an apron like the Masamune woman. Then, he reached into his pocket...

Retrieving an old, braided white hachimaki and tying it around his forehead to keep his hair out of his eyes. Gin's request earned a silent glance, and he reached near his waist, casting a wary eye in the direction of the lurking shinobi as he did. Slowly, he drew a small scroll from its holster and unfurled it on the table, the kanji '剣' visible on the parchment. One half-Hitsuji seal later, and a small puff of smoke erupted via the Hikin Fūinjutsu... leaving only a damaged katana and its saya behind. The scabbard was clearly well-maintained, but the blade was another story. 

From kissaki to kashira the weapon was a mess, its blade deformed, burnt, and stained with dark brown specks. Its black tsuka lacked any ito but was cracked, and its tate ito gata tsuba had been bisected jaggedly. Despite the wear, the sword still bore all signs of quality, with only its irregular hamon as evidence of an amateur's touch. Otherwise...

...it appeared a near-masterwork. "Here it is." he said, glancing to the old thing. "Father's work, mostly." Uemon squinted at the weapon, the faintest hint of sadness in his gaze. Sentimentality was something he usually avoided, but... "This was the first blade we forged together." A fond memory, but now was not the time to reminisce. "Its tamahagane is still good, since you—" he paused, turning to her with unamused expression. "...we need iron."

The wanderer returned his gaze to Yoshitake, thinking back on how he utilized it. "I need something shorter," he began. "Swifter, like a wakizashi." A katana was far too unwieldy for what he required of it, but a short blade would be the perfect size for his ends. "With a ruiteki gata tsuba for ease of drawing." Uemon carefully placed his fingers underneath both ends of the weapon, then lifted it from the table slowly, his eyes traveling its length.

Treating it with reverence, even in its damaged state, as he brought it closer to his face to inspect. An ever so slight frown graced his lips, and once he was finished, he turned to offer the weapon to Gin so she could take a look at it.

---

[Masamune no Gin]

Was Uemon in a fit state to even work the bellows, let alone swing a hammer? These fighters and their love of battle baffled her, even as she supplied them their arms. The least she could do was add some grace to the barbarity.

And perhaps the Muramasa had mistook their founder's incompetence with a blade for a calling away from the martial arts. Violence clearly suited their kind better.

The lack of commentary and insults continued as she examined the ruined blade. She touched steel, tapped it with a fingernail, and held at a variety of angles to examine the workmanship and condition. Swinging it in slow arcs to get a feel for the balance, damaged as the blade was.
"Did you use it to try to catch lightning? I have never seen a halfway-competently-made blade in such poor condition." Gin dropped it back on the table, letting it clatter, despite her prior care. "I can use the steel for the tsuba and fixtures, but not the blade. Reforging it would likely carbonize the steel too much, making it too hard and brittle." In truth, she would rather avoid using any Muramasa steel. But the irony of taking something of her rival's and marking it as unmistakably Masamune remained too tempting.

"The blade comes first. If swiftness is your aim, rather than reach... a kodachi would serve well." A style that had fallen out of favor, in deference to the straighter and longer wakizashi. Too short for a sword, too long for a dagger. A weapon that could stand on its own, as opposed to purely a sidearm like a wakizashi. A perfect tool for the adolescent, the weak of arm, the swift, and the cunning and dishonorable.

Gin selected two appropriate lengths of steel, one high and one low in carbon, then walked to the forge. Fires smoldered within, as a forge rarely grew entirely cold. "I trust you remember how to stoke a forge?" She left Uemon with the bellows and the steel, to bring it up to the near-molten state needed to fold steel.

Meanwhile, Gin used charcoal and parchment to draft the blade to be constructed. A standard kodachi, though it did incorporate the requested design for the tsuba and the materials Uemon had selected. She also began to disassemble the ruined blade, marking off sections to break off and melt down for the tsuba and other fixtures.

Gin returned, to examine Uemon's progress, tongs in hand.

[Muramasa Uemon]

leads to masterwork

---

Dark eyes followed the woman's movements, taking note of her sudden shift in demeanor when it came time to work. Gin was still not polite by any means... but she seemed to at least be taking her work very seriously. 

An admirable quality, but one overshadowed by her personality. "Professionalism comes in different forms, I suppose." If the histories were to be believed, Muramasa Sengo had certainly not been a kind man, and his own grandfather, Zaemon, had been the very picture of a grouchy old man. "Even father had his moments." He thought to himself.

Uemon's reminiscence cut short as the woman asked about his weapon's state, correctly guessing its cause. Uemon glanced to his bandaged hand, then to Gin, then let his deadpan gaze drift to the side. "Yes, actually..." he said. Not naturally-occurring lightning, but lightning all the same. "It was either that, or be electrocuted myself." The woman dropped the remains of his sword, and he frowned lightly as he moved to adjust it on the table, listening to her continue on about the steel as he traced his fingers along Yoshitake's features. "That is fine." Came his reply.

It would be the last time he ever saw the blade whole again— even badly damaged, as it was. "We have been through much, you and I." The old katana was just a tool, but he could not help but feel some kind of attachment to it. It had been with him every step of the way. "My family's exile, my travels and training with Sensei, my time with that old drunken lout... even now, you endure." A lesser weapon might have melted completely, or otherwise shattered under the strain of that Ishi-nin's technique. Uemon stared at the dried blood on the blade, eyes narrowing slightly as he thought of the skirmish. "It was not the most fitting of ends... but an end, all the same." In its present state, it simply could not continue.

Thankfully, at least part of it would remain with him. "A kodachi, then." Uemon said in agreement with Gin. It was an older weapon with a more pronounced curve, but as long as it was short, he would not protest her family's own eccentric tastes. "You will be my blade no longer, but you can still be my guard." He thought, giving it one final inspection. "Besides..." his thoughts trailed as he turned away, to tend to the forge. "...a pointed tsuba can still pierce."

Far down this path, when the time finally came... it would be his father's steel that struck the final blow. He would make certain of it, if at all possible. Uemon paused for a moment, to take in all of the smithy's furnishing. It was more modern than that of his family's old one, and some of the appliances were different, but... "A forge is a forge."

The wanderer was not nearly as well-practiced as Gin in regards to smithing, but circumstances had seen that he kept at least some of his skills relevant. Not even a year ago he had forged a wakizashi for his ward, Kota, and he plied his trade to some degree in Amegakure and Kumogakure. Some skills, it seemed, never truly left a person. By the time the Masamune woman asked after his memory, he was already busy stoking the fires of forge. All of his movements executed with the same precision he might afford a Jujitsu technique, or the pull of chakra threads.

Quietly, he saw to his 'assistant' duties with diligence, slowly bringing the forge to red-hot temperature that was required for the steel. The coals burned brightly, and soon enough, the flames were ready to accept steel. Gin made her way back over with tongs, and he grabbed a hammer with his bandaged hand, returning to the bellows to wait.

Adjustments would be needed as they worked, and though his injuries still bothered him, he was focused. Ready to follow the Masamune's lead... however begrudgingly. "She seems skilled," he thought. "Now, I shall see just how much."

---

[Masamune no Gin]

Forging a blade was a long and arduous process. Even a master making a standard short blade would take hours, even with another master as an assistant. Metal needed to be heated through, folded, a dozen, a score, a hundred times. Beating out impurities and perfecting the steel. Blending the high carbon for the edge, so it would be hard and keep an edge, with the low carbon for the back, to give the blade flexibility, and thus durability.

Gin used Uemon's strength and ability, guiding him with simple words and instructions in the initial phase of turning the steel into an actual blade. Folding the steel, and shaping it. Still rough, still unpolished, but it was beginning to take shape. Hours of grueling work, where Gin remained focused, and did not complain.

Gin placed the nascent sword back into the forge, and wiped her brow, watching the steel with focused orange eyes. It needed to be hot enough to allow her to hammer out the channel, the tang, and other needed details, but not hot enough to warp.

"Hmph. A pity your clan has such a debased philosophy. You could have some potential, if you were reeducated." A mixture of respect and derision, Gin's eyes reflecting the sweltering glow as sweat dripped down her face. "You can prepare the clay and the water." Gin took the glowing metal - yellow-hot instead of red - and took a smaller, more precise hammer, and various chisels and other tools. Working alone, and swiftly, the channel for blood was quickly etched onto both sides of the blade, and then the holes in the tang where the hilt would be affixed. The rough shape of the blade took on definition. Rough edges smoothed out. The point well-defined. The blade hammered out, though it would be some time before it would be sharp. The steel was heated again, and two mon were etched onto the steel.

The mon of the Masamune, the mitsudomoe encased in entwined squares, was etched just above there the tsuba would be placed, clearly and permanently marking it as a Masamune blade. Not deep enough to compromise the blade, too deep to be polished out. Then, on the tang of the blade, a stylized "銀" - Gin, her name. A maker's mark, which would be hidden save for when the blade was disassembled.

Gin worked quickly and, frankly, masterfully. Focused, but clearly using muscle memory. She had made kodachi before. Many, many times. After all, Masamune blades were in high demand, and blades typically came as a pair.

The sun was setting, and the first step was done. The sword had shape. Now it needed strength, teeth, and completion. Gin placed the blade back in the furnace, to heat for the first pass of tempering. The second would give the edge the distinct wave pattern of a well-made sword, as well as that diamond-hard edge that gave a well-made sword its famous cutting ability.

"So. Still dubious of the Masamune ways?" Gin grinned, taking a damp cloth to wipe away the sweat from heat and exertion from her face. It was, despite the more modern forge, an extremely antiquated way of making things. Everything was done by hand and with simple tools. The curve of the blade simply hammered out, not made with a mold. The folds of the steel numerous and without shortcut. "Not my best work, but my best work would be wasted on you."

[Muramasa Uemon]

at odds, the two work

---

So it began, the steel being introduced to the flames, heated until near-molten, then grabbed with tongs.

Recent injuries made using his right hand awkward, and he winced more than a few times during the process. The wanderer had never been overly strong, and years living on the road made him more lean than anything. But...

Anything he lacked for in physicality, he made up for with a quiet determination and razor focus. Smiths worked better with one another when they had a rapport— allowing for the development of a sort of shorthand to use in place of vocal commands. Despite their clashing personalities and desires, Uemon seemed to work well with Gin.

Perhaps it was a mutual reverence for the craft, or the woman's superior skill seeing them through, but in any case they dove into the project. Taking cues from her, he hammered the steel with varying intensity as was required until it formed into a billet. She reheated the metal, and he helped fold it over itself with precise blows. Over, and over.

The flames were sweltering, and the burning coals soon left faint trails of soot on his face, mixed with sweat. Gin spoke and he glanced up, his face impassive. "..." Though he paused before he could speak, seeing the glow of determination in her orange eyes. Even like this, sweating, aproned, and elbow-deep in the forging process, she looked... "Pretty." No, as her looks had never been in question. "Tenacious." He corrected his train of thought, unable to deny a hint of respect welling up within. "A pity your clan is so pompous," he said flatly, looking back to the steel to give a final strike. "You might make for somewhat decent company, otherwise." In a different life, perhaps. "Still..." he muttered, returning his focus to the task at hand. "...you seem to know what you are doing." A command came to tend to the clay, so he spared her another unamused glance and set aside the hammer.

Impolite tone or no, it was an essential step in the forging process, and so he readied it with the same steeled resolve he had displayed thus far. "Remember what you were taught." Uemon carefully selected pieces of clay, then set to work grinding them into a fine dust. He also collected some steel powder leftover from a previous polishing, and charcoal powder to add as filler. Each ingredient was essential, and too much or too little would result in a shrinking clay that might crack as it dried. After all was well-incorporated he added water, turning dry ingredients into an almost-thick slurry. A second mixture, higher in carbon content for the edge, was runny with more water. "Good." He thought.

Now prepared for coating, he worked closely with Gin during the application of the clay to ensure that the mixture was applied evenly and carefully. Though, she did not need much help in this regard. "Hm..." A hummed thought, assisting when needed and observing when not. The names etched into the blade elicited little response, save for faint wrinkling of his nose. It was standard practice, and he might have done the same. "Now, to give it soul." Uemon mused to himself as they readied for the tempering process, heating the blade up to critical temperature and committing it to a water bath. He closed his eyes, saying a small prayer in his head, as was tradition in his clan.

Though, he had long given up any true worship of Tetsu no Kuni's many kami. "I never took issue with your clan's ways," he replied to the girl, taking careful hold of the blade and bringing its tang up to his eye to check for straightness. "Ours are just as old as yours." While they diverged at some point in history, the fact remained that Muramasa Sengo and Masamune Gorō were contemporaries. "...your general attitude is a different matter."

Inspecting the spine of the weapon, the kodachi was more curved than the wakizashi he was used to making... but its angle was true. A fine weapon, or the beginnings of one anyway. "Waves," he thought, laying the short blade flat on his palm to inspect is hamon. "Due to run red before long, no doubt." Truthfully, he was impressed with its quality.

On short notice, to make something of this caliber was commendable. He even almost spoke a word of praise, in his own stilted way, until she spoke again. Another pithy, mean-spirited comment. "..." Uemon glanced to Gin.

Briefly, before returning his eye to the blade itself, to continue its inspection. "It will suffice."

---

[Masamune no Gin]

"Hah! Of course I know what I'm doing. I don't know how your clan does things, but one cannot become Kyōsho without knowing every step of making a blade, from raw ore to polished and sheathed tachi," Gin boasted, her ego surfacing up from the air of professionalism. It didn't seem to effect her work; her build might have relatively slender, but it was clear that pretty much all the meat on her bones were tightly corded muscle.

Still, making billets and shaping steel was something any fool could do. Making an emsouled weapon took a master, and she was indeed one. Perhaps an arrogant one, but her confidence was clearly at least somewhat founded.

The tempering process was much less taxing, fortunately, and it seemed Uemon know how to prepare the clay. She inspected the consistency, then began to apply it to the blade. This idle of whom of hers was going to take her well into the night to finish, but it was a good test blade. To see if the tools, supplies, and furnishing of this land were of an acceptable quality, and where they lacked.

"You forget, Muramasa. Our revered ancestor sought to revive and perfect ancient arts, not sully them with base 'innovations,'" Gin said while she worked, her face a mask of concentration despite the sneer in her tone. "And you would find me much more pleasant company were I among peers." How many people did Gin consider a peer? Scant few came to mind, but there were people even Gin respected.

"Oh, swallow your pride, Muramasa. Admit it - if most any smith had made this, it would be their magnum opus." Gin took up the blade by the tang. It still needed polishing, sharpening, and to be affixed to the hilt. But the weight and shape were right, even though she couldn't shake the feeling the blade was somehow corrupt. She mentally added a purification ritual for herself and the sword to her to-do list. "You polish and sharpen it," Gin held the steel up to him, treating it with more more reverence than she had Uemon's ruined sword. "I'll construct the hilt." That would mean melting down the salvageable steel from the prior weapon. For another client, she would have asked more questions, but this sword was being made to her standards, not his. "Now, what name do we give this poor, unfortunate, sword...?"

[Muramasa Uemon]

despite their disparate ends

---

A side-eye was all he offered to Gin as his half-hearted praise stoked her ego further. "I should have known better."

Her self-confidence needed no outside assistance. Uemon continued to inspect the short blade, his discerning eye looking closely for signs of imperfections. Though his father was a master smith, his training had ceased at age ten.  

Even without a closer look he already knew the truth... that this woman was a much better smith than he could ever hope to be. "...I believe you mean that your revered ancestor refused to change with the times." He said, sparing her yet another blinkless glance. Although he himself kept to the old ways in some regards— tradition was not inherently valuable. "There is a reason tachi and kodachi were eschewed for their newer counterparts,"

Pragmatism being the foremost cause. "Surely, a Masamune Kyōsho should understand this..." Uemon's flat gaze lingered on Gin as he paused, then he turned back to the blade. "...on second thought, perhaps not."

The woman's response to the matter of her company caused him to shake his head slightly. "Somehow, I sincerely doubt that..." he muttered to himself, finishing his inspection of the blade before moving towards a nearby table to set it down while he gathered tools. Uemon prepared a sen for the rough beveling of the weapon's edge, a toishi for sharpening, then he began. "You asking anyone to swallow their pride is..." Uemon paused. "Something."

Funny, perhaps, to someone with a more developed sense of humor. To him, it was just ironic. More annoying than anything else. Gin's instruction to sharpen and polish was idly waved off— as this was not his first time assisting in a sword's forge. And soon enough the two were back in motion, Uemon working on the steel, Gin on the tsuka. Sharpening was as delicate a process as the rest of the steps, so he made sure to devote his focus entirely to the matter. Working the drawknife carefully along its edge, striving for symmetry in the beveling. "A name..." he thought as Gin posed her question, halting his movements as he pondered. "Akōmi." Uemon replied after a long silence.

Voice barely a mutter over the dwindling crackle of the forge. It was tradition to use one's own surname in the titling of a blade, but this was not of his make. And 'Masamune Akōmi' sounded ill-fitting. Kenjutsu was not his specialty, but regardless, Yoshitake had seen much use over the years. If recent events were any metric to judge by...

...this Masamune kodachi would see even more. Uemon finished his beveling, inspected his own handiwork, then gently shook off any shavings into a small receptacle. To use for the next forge's clay. Then, he flexed the stiff fingers on his right hand, ensured there was ample water on the stone, and began to sharpen the blade on the toishi.

He worked silently, carefully applying an equal amount of force with each stroke of steel on stone. Uemon focused on the scraping, and soon, a proper edge began to form. "One sharp blade," he thought. "To herald a great, red sea."

So he continued on, fully intending on honing its edge to the razor finish he would require.

---

[Masamune no Gin]

"Perhaps your lectures would ring less hollow if our positions were reversed. But alas, you and yours are reviled, whilst I and mine are exalted," It was a debate the Muramasa and Masamune had engaged in since the very beginnings of their clans. From before the beginning, really. Gin didn't care to argue the point. She had her manual of Masamune designs, and they favored tachi to katana. That was enough for her.

Especially once more esoteric requests were made of the blades, deviating from tried and true patterns only invited disaster.

"Akōmi," Gin considered the name, before working to break up Uemon's ruined blade, then placing them in a crucible to melt down. "An inauspicious name for an an inauspicious blade. How fitting." Shaping the fittings and ornamentation was more of an art than the science of the blade. She considered ignoring his request for the shape of the tsuba, but silently acquiesced. It would be an unholy marriage of Masamune and Muramasa. Hopeful that wasn't an ill omen in and of itself.

She worked the bellows to bring the furnace up to a blinding blaze, hot enough to melt down the steel and other metals, which would then be made back into small ingots to be worked into the more delicate shapes.

The tsuba was first, made of the steel of Uemon's dead blade. At least he knew how to pay some respect to a weapon. Not enough to prevent it from falling into its present state, however.

Fortunately, the Muramasa mon was both familiar to her, and already modeled after a tsuba. So shaping then detailing it proved fairly simple. The smaller fixtures for the hilt were left plain,and made of sifter, lighter metals,again largely scavenged from Uemon's old blade.

The menuki were another matter. These had to be ornamented and sacred. Something to ward off Uemon's polluted spirit. She settled on renditions of a god of war - hopefully the more violent spirit would be less offended by Uemon's violence.

It was delicate and precise work, and Gin fell finally silent as she shaped and sculpted the miniature sculpture that would assist in creating a better grip. A work of art that would be obscured by wrapped cloth.

Once she had completed the first, she looked over at Uemon. "Do you know how to make your own saya?" Other smiths neglected or delegated these additional tasks. Not the Masamune. One needed to know to make every component of a weapon, from beginning to end. From mine or bog up until the complete sword or armor