[Muramasa Uemon]

in all of the world

---

Night, Kumogakure no Sato, a local irezumi-ya located in a seedier part of the village.

A young man stood near a counter, conversing with the owner. Dressed comfortably in a simple shirt and hooded jacket that hung open on his frame, one sleeve had been rolled up to reveal a tattoo of a three-headed serpent.

Simple... but the linework was clean. Etched by a steady hand. The owner was an older, heavily tattooed man who took long pulls from an much-used kiseru as he examined the wanderer's right forearm. Half-inspecting, half-appraising as he studied it with a critical eye. 'You did this yourself?' he asked in a rough dialect. "Yes, by hand."

For a moment there was silence... then an approving nod. But he was not getting off easy— evidenced by some poking near the skin that made the young man wrinkle his face in discomfort. 'Have to take care of these'. Advice.

Another nod... it wasn't fresh, but it was recent enough to still be sensitive. Tattoos required upkeep, something he was now painfully aware of. 'Not in any gangs, are ya?' A shake of his head. "No... I just like art." Truth. But only half of it. Its purpose was two-fold. To remember... and to ensure others never forgot. Fated, hated enemies. 

Luckily they were far away from Kaminari no Kuni. Associating body art with crime was an old stereotype half-based in history. In his nation of origin, criminals were often branded with ink to mark them for life. Thieves on the arm, murderers on the head. All but guaranteeing them a life of ostracization. Normally, he would have kept this work hidden at all costs. But the dull ache in his arm never faded. It was not infected but it was irritated. And so...

Here he was, half a rogue himself and seeking some form of treatment late at night. The older man grumbled and turned to rummage through supplies. 'Think I got some ointment 'round here somewhere...' Nodding, he glanced down and waited. At the snake. Thinking back on his homeland. On how far he had come. How far was yet to go. 

---

[hirana kizumi]

A HEART'S A HEAVY BURDEN

Kizumi, somehow, had never gotten a tattoo. Thirty-six years old and the only marks on her skin were scars. The biggest one being the warped flesh around her injured eye, of course, but dozens upon dozens of smaller injuries marred the flesh of her limbs, her back, the soft paunch of her stomach. She’d been stabbed in the breast and clean through the back at sixteen; nearly lost a kidney at twenty-three; a scar near an artery on her thigh demarcated the mission she’d taken at thirty that had nearly killed her. One part whimsy and three parts reckoning with her own mortality brought her to the shop, where she sat in a chair and allowed an older man to needle ink into the scarred flesh of her back. It hurt more than she had anticipated, but in a pleasant way; it made her think of scourging, and she came a little closer to understanding the concept of religion. After four hours the front door of the shop creaked open. The owner had a customer, and Kizumi needed a break. She sighed, stretched, worked the stiffness from her shoulders and savored the tug and burn of her inflamed skin. She got up to look at herself in the mirror, sweeping her hair forward and craning her head over her shoulder to look at the bare expanse of her back. The outline was done: the head of a great kraken spanned the curve of her hip, its massive tentacles curling up the length of her spine and reaching for a lone, vulnerable ship that sailed the waters of her shoulder blade. Done by any other artist, it might have looked threatening; on Kizumi’s skin, the kraken seemed almost plaintive, the ship a melancholy beacon on a vast and empty sea. Her head tilted as she caught snippets of the owner’s conversation, and curiosity got the better of her. Poking her head through the privacy curtain, and grinned when she saw the subject of their conversation. "Oh, that’s gorgeous,” she said. "I—ah, hold on.” She disappeared for a moment, then came back through the curtain wearing a thin white shirt that made a pathetic gesture towards modesty. Beads of blood welled up to the surface of her skin, staining the fabric, though she didn’t seem to care. "You did that yourself?” Kizumi asked, peering to get a closer look, shameless about her eavesdropping. "You’re a hell of an artist. You’re gonna get some competition, boss, you gotta hire this kid.” The owner grumbled at her as he continued his search for the ointment. "Where ya from?” she asked, openly curious. She’d have to be a stronger person with a less alcoholically-damaged brain to remember the faces of all of her shinobi, but he had the look of a trained fighter, and he wasn’t wearing a Kumogakure hitai-ate. "You’re not local, right?”

Muramasa Uemon -- 479

LAIKA OF THQ

[Muramasa Uemon]

music fades, writings are lost,

---

Fortunately, he did not have much time to brood. A voice brought his attention back to the present and he turned to see— a woman. Peeking out from behind a curtain and grinning. "Oh, uh—" She stopped, then retreated.

Emerging after a few seconds in a thin white shirt. "I—" For a moment his mouth fell open just slightly. Half-surprised, half-distracted. He was not so crass as to ogle shamelessly... but she was quite the sight. So he did all that he could to avert his eyes. "Thank you." It was all he could think to say. The woman approached. And inquired.

Looking at his arm as she spoke. The wanderer did too. "Yeah, it took a while and a bit of blood but..." He glanced to her shoulder, motioning to his own with a finger. "It seems you know some about that." A smirk.

Or an attempt at one anyways, his expressions were always muted pantomimes of the real thing. Talk of hiring caused his eyes to widen just a fraction. The owner paused, took a puff of his kiseru, glanced at the young man and chuckled. 'Think so?' The man asked gruffly. 'Would you let him tattoo ya?' It sounded rhetorical. Half-mocking. 

Something that... honestly he did not mind. He was many things but no tattoo artist. "It's... just a hobby, really." He replied to the owner, who grumbled and continued his search. No one in their right mind would let some novice try their hand at permanently marking their body. Right? "Tetsu no Kuni, originally." Came his quiet answer.

Glancing to the woman's face as he studied it for a moment. Something about her seemed familiar... but he could not place it. Surely they had not met... he definitely would have remembered her. "Muramasa Uemon." A soft-spoken introduction as he extended his hand towards her. "Pleasure to meet you." It was. At the very least she seemed kinder than the gate guard had been. She seemed... pleasant. Easy on the eyes, too. "And yourself?" He asked, his dark brown eyes settling on her visible red one. "Are you from around here?" A question. Followed by a staggered, knowing laugh from the owner of the establishment. The young man glanced to him, then back to her.

Did he say something funny? Maybe it sounded like bad flirting or something. He was not flirting... was he?

---

[hirana kizumi]

A HEART'S A HEAVY BURDEN

Kizumi was only vaguely aware of the effect she was having on the kid, insofar as that she could tell he wasn’t quite meeting her eyes; but she had also just popped out of nowhere to butt in on his conversation, and so she didn’t think much of it beyond that. "I’m learning,” she said, laughing. "This shit hurts. Can’t imagine doin’ it on yourself.” The owner was unimpressed, but Kizumi just gave him a meaningful tilt of her head, looking between him and the artwork on the kid’s arm. "Hey, give ‘im a couple years and a few more of those on himself and he’ll be a pro, yeah?” Tetsu no Kuni—oh, yes. Her expression lit up, her memory kind to her for once; she remembered the daily report from the gate passing her desk very recently. Civilians came and went from Kumogakure’s gates, a necessary part of the village’s economy, but outsiders from so far afield were few and far between. "Pleasure to meet you, Muramasa Uemon of Tetsu no Kuni,” Kizumi repeated, her grin broad. Instances when someone didn’t recognize her on sight were growing rarer as the months ticked by, especially within the village proper. The opportunity for some degree of anonymity tickled her—she hated all the stuffy formality, the saluting and the deference and the ma’ams. She’d kicked most of her inner circle out of the habit by this point, but it was nice to have a normal conversation in public. But the shop owner laughed at the poor boy. She rolled her eyes, lightly whacking the man on the bicep with the back of her hand. Just a feather of a tap as she chided, "Don’t be mean, ojii-chan, or I’m gonna make him finish my tattoo.” Turning back to Uemon, her eye crinkling with merriment, she said, "Hirana Kizumi,” and then smoothly breezed along as though that didn’t mean anything at all. "I’m from up north, on the coast, but I’ve lived in Kumo for most of my life. I visited Tetsu once, years ago. Gorgeous weaponry.” Her head tilted, eyeing the sheathed blade slung over his shoulder. "You a smith? I’m a big fan of a nice piece of bladework.”

Muramasa Uemon -- 371

LAIKA OF THQ

[Muramasa Uemon]

art, alone, remains

---

A nod followed her words, along with a glance at her spotting shirt. "Pain's what they make sake for, right?"

Suppa told him that once... though he was pretty sure he just used it as an excuse to be constantly drunk. Faint smirk still holding, he saw the owner cast a suspicious glance over his shoulder. Uemon merely raised an eyebrow.

Confused as the older man's eyes rolled. "What?" He thought to himself, slowly turning his gaze to the woman yet again. "Was... that a line?" In truth, he was not the best at being able to tell. Much too broody and soft-spoken to ever really make advances— only attempt their return if they were done first. And of course he could not tell...

...whether or not he was barking up the wrong tree. In any case, it was not intentional. He could only raise a hand to scratch a cheek apprehensively as the woman came to his defense. 'A couple years and he'll be a pro' she said to the owner.

Muramasa Uemon the Tattoo Artist... another title for his growing list it seemed. Not nearly as bad as 'The Comedian' or 'The Hobo'. Maybe it was a sign that he had his fingers in too many pies. Either that or a testament to the sheer variety of perspectives he had come across in his travels. Dark eyes watched as her grin seemed to grow.

Telling him that it was a pleasure to meet him as well. "No truly, it's mine." He said, his expression softening a bit as he gazed at her. Niceties seemed rarer and rarer these days, and it was a relief to not have to be on edge.

Judging from the strength of chakra he could feel coming from her he could have easily been so, but she seemed kind enough so he was not any more guarded than usual. "Hah!" The owner snorted as she spoke and clapped him on the arm. Turning around to set a roll of gauze and a small container of ointment on the desk. "Yo, Yakio!"

Yet another head poked out from behind the curtain, ostensibly the artist who had been inking the woman beforehand. "Need a break?" The owner asked, a look of disbelief on his face. "Got some second thoughts about choice in artist, here." Watching as the owner took another puff of his pipe, it was clear from his tone that he was just having a bit of fun with the woman. Still, the man did not seem convinced of his skill. Which, again, was fine.

Uemon shifted his gaze between all of them, nose wrinkling just the slightest bit. "How do I always end up in the middle of things?" The tattoo artist shrugged, seemingly indifferent to the idea which was worrying in and of itself... but then the woman spoke again. Introducing herself as Hirana Kizumi. "Oh." The word fell from his lips against his own will, his gaze moving to her face once more. Then to her shirt. Then to her face again. "...oh." The Raikage.

Name still fresh in his mind from his conversation with Shosuke, bits and pieces of rumors he had heard on his travels all coming together. A slight bow of his head followed. "Apologies, Hachidaime-sama. I didn't recognize you." Some slight embarrassment on his part due to ill manners. And wandering eyes. He lifted his head soon enough, listening quietly as the Raikage spoke some of her own origin and having visited his homeland.

Cheeks having only flushed a bit, he nodded. "That's about all we do have." Uemon said about weaponry, shooting a quick glance to the owner to see him smirk. Clearly amused watching the realization occur. "Not much else there aside from snow and self-righteousness." Referring to his home country's warriors— the samurai.

Iron-clad, insufferable, and to him... the enemy. "Kaminari no Kuni is nice country, though." He continued on, recalling a somewhat recent trip. "I've never spent more than a few days here at a time... but it's beautiful." It was. Last time his stay in the nation ran the gamut of experiences. Rare solace, passion once thought lost, blood.

Hopefully this time would be less eventful. "I am, yes. A swordmith by trade." Uemon responded, following her eyes to his sword. "Are you a student of kenjutsu?" While he was no expert swordsman himself, weapons were certainly his domain. Slowly, that faint smirk returned. "If you have need, I'd be glad to offer my services."

---

[hirana kizumi]

A HEART'S A HEAVY BURDEN

The comedy of errors continued apace, with only the shop owner being the wiser: Uemon was unsure if he was accidentally flirting with Kizumi, while Kizumi remained blissfully ignorant of his accidental flirtations. She was a Friendly Person, and was used to people being friendly in return. There was some teasing back and forth with the artist, and Kizumi cackled gleefully as she protested: "No, wait, don’t call my bluff, I need you,” she said to Yakio, but both men were committed to the bit, and the artist gave her a slyly amused look that said you had this coming as he took his leave. She was disappointed but not surprised when Uemon course-corrected—formal title, apologies, et cetera. Kizumi waved a dismissive hand, impatient, as if she could cast the fog of formality away if only she flapped her hands hard enough. "Don’t worry about it,” she said, and winked at the shop owner. Or did she blink? Hard to tell with the eye patch. "Boss won’t tattle, right?” Compliments to her homeland were the easiest way to endear oneself to Kizumi, and Uemon was quickly rising in her estimation. She beamed, more than happy to indulge in two of her favorite things: talk of her hearth, and of a honed blade. "I practice kenjutsu, but I practice a lot of things,” she said, tilting her head in consideration. "Definitely not a master, but I’m a fan. I tend to favor polearms and two-handers, but I also dabble in shields and bows from time to time. Meteor hammers are fun.” Training Yaki had rekindled her affection for the esoteric weapon. "I like variety, really.” Her humility was sincere: she had studied under an actual master of kenjutsu, and she knew her talent with a blade was nothing compared to someone like Toshizou. "I can put you to work if you wanna work,” she said, the gleam of opportunity in her eye. "I’m sure we’ve got some missions I can loop you in on. You shinobi-trained, or a samurai?”

Muramasa Uemon -- 338

LAIKA OF THQ

[Muramasa Uemon]

weapons made for war

---

Part of him expected the artist and owner to relent after they had their fun... but that expectation was dashed as the man took his leave. "..." Silence as he watched him go, only one thought bouncing around in his head. "...shit."

It looked like he was going to be put to the test after all. The owner only chuckled as he puffed on his pipe, nodding to the ointment on the counter. "Put some of that on yer ink and wrap it up— but not too tight." The man said, Uemon turning to look at him with a bit of a deadpan expression. "...how much do I owe?" He watched as the older man shook his head and let a devilish grin cross his face. "Think finishin' our dear leader's piece there'll make us more than even." As the words hit his ears his face grew even flatter.... but it seemed he was on the hook now.

One corner of his mouth perked in slight exasperation, he unscrewed the lid and applied an even coating of the translucent jelly-like substance over his right forearm. It stung a bit... but he figured that was probably a good thing.

Taking the gauze in hand he began to wrap his arm, glancing to the Raikage as she spoke. Nodding as she waved off his apology. The still-grinning owner placed a joking hand over his heart. "My lips're sealed." Uemon could only furrow his brow at the man as he tied off the fabric and checked to make sure that it was loose enough. "Right..."

Either way, it was in the past now. For the most part, the wanderer was very dispassionate young man. Of course he still had the capacity for it... but it was buried deep. Something his master saw to in his training long ago. Talk of weapons was one of the few things that could still tickle that part of his brain. And so, his brown eyes lit up a bit.

Not much, but enough to be noticeable. "Masterful enough to become Raikage." Uemon spoke, hint of a faint smirk returning. Humility was always a trait he admired in people... but he could tell by the way that she carried herself that she was skilled. Far more than he. "I haven't seen a meteor hammer in some time. 'Fun' as long as you're not on the business end of them." He said, thinking back to some kusari-fundo he had worked on while in Amegakure. Similar, but more common than the monk's weapon she spoke of. "Smart." He said, a touch of approval in his tone as she gave her reasoning. "Variety keeps the opposition guessing." While the value of being a master in one area was not to be understated, he also took a more open-ended approach to training.

Always best to have too many options than too few, he found. If he were more of a salesman Kizumi seemed like the ideal customer. "Do you need any repairs done?" He asked as she spoke of work... but he already knew where this was heading. 'Missions' she said. Uemon quieted down as the subject was broached, shaking his head at her last question. "Shinobi-trained, a bit. I'm no samurai." There was a hint there at the end of...something.

Some barely veiled disdain as the word 'samurai' left his mouth. As much as he despised them, he did still cling to their ways some. The prospect of selling his sword for instance never truly sitting right with him. Still...

...he could use the experience. Now was no time to let his edge dull. So... "If you have the work, I'll take it." He said, nodding to the woman. "Smithing, missions, or otherwise." Kota and he could use the ryō. And he needed to test himself for what was to come. Distractions, detours, and other business aside... he had a mission to do.

However far out of the way he found himself, that was his true north. Glancing over at the now-opened curtain, his eyes fell upon the empty tattoo chair. Another sat nearby along with tools of the trade. The wanderer's brow furrowed... then he shifted his gaze back to Kizumi. "Do you really want me to finish that for you?" He asked.

There was only one thing in the world that he considered himself an expert at, and that was swordmaking. Art, poetry, music... as far as he was concerned, they were but hobbies. It was her choice. Either way, he would oblige.

---

[hirana kizumi]

A HEART'S A HEAVY BURDEN

She recognized something of herself in the way Uemon’s eyes lit up as they spoke of weapons and their philosophies: genuine interest, intimate knowledge, sincere care for a skill held very close to the heart. Still, she wrinkled her nose at the praise. "Hat’s just politics,” she said, "‘n I think anyone who’s bold enough to call themselves a master either stopped bothering trying to learn or is trying to sell you something.” Samurai. She’d have to be a fool to pick up on the tension there, but even as well-traveled as Kizumi was, she wasn’t exactly intimately familiar with the culture of the Land of Iron—but she could pick up on a hint, smoothly glossed over the hiccup, and made a mental note not to bring it up again. Whatever his demons, they were his to keep, and she would not pry. "Trust me, I’ve got work,” she said, her grin turning sly. "You’re gonna regret that. How long you in town for? I’ve got a kid who’s been beating the shit out of everything in my armory, and a docket of missions that need doing. Let me know what you’ve got capacity for and I’ll see what we can do.” She followed his gaze to the chair, then glanced back at him: assessing his body language, his expression, the way he phrased his query. "Hey, I’m down,” Kizumi said, clearly entertained by this turn of events; but then, more gently: "but not if you’re uncomfortable. These guys are just bustin’ your chops, don’t worry about them. I don’t wanna take up your time if you got places to be, now that you’re—” she gestured vaguely to his bandaged forearm—”all fixed up.”

Muramasa Uemon -- 283

LAIKA OF THQ

[Muramasa Uemon]

made of iron and made of flesh

---

Modesty from the leader of one of the Shinobi World's most prominent villages... Uemon's opinions on ninja had declined in recent months, but her? He liked. "Someone told me something similar, once." He said with a nod.

Not that the Raikage needed a wanderer's approval, but she had it anyways. "I agree completely. Wise words."

An interest in weapons and humility to go along with what he was surely a fair bit of skill— he was thoroughly intrigued so far. And at the very least this was a less... standoffish interaction than what he had with the only other leader of a village he had met. It had been the wrong place, wrong time, wrong walk of life regarding that matter.

Wanderers were not treated kindly in all Hidden Villages, it seemed. "Perfect." He said about work. Kizumi's sly grin was infectious enough that had he been a smiler, he would have beamed himself. A word about regret only caused him to shake his head slightly, weak smirk still holding. "I like to keep busy. Like you said, there's always more to learn." To train, to improve, the process never stopped. And for what he needed to do he would need to become much stronger. As for how long he would be in the village... "At least a week or so. I actually came here looking for a cousin of mine, one of your ninja I believe? Muramasa Ryūzaburō." Surely the Raikage could not know every ninja under her command, but there was also no need to mask his intent. "He seems to be away currently so as long as it's alright... I'll stick around for a bit." Perhaps he could catch him on his return.

If not, he would just have to leave his contact info and try again at some point in the future. "I'm free for the time being. I'll take whatever you have." Another nod, thoughts of Iwagakure suddenly coming to mind. It was the last village he had done missions for— a necessary evil, he thought. He cared little for the squabbles of shinobi but he needed to sharpen his skills somehow. Operating a forge however was much more comfortable. Doing both seemed a good way to split the difference. "Hm..." A lone thought as Kizumi expressed concern, gaze shifting between her and the owner who was clearly getting a kick out of the situation. Typically he was not very prideful...

...but there was still a certain satisfaction in proving people wrong. "I appreciate that..." Uemon said in response to Kizumi, sparing a glance at the owner. "But I'm comfortable and just now I have nowhere to be." He watched as the older man's eyes widened before turning back to the Raikage. "As you like, Hachidaime-sama."

A gesture towards the chair with his hand followed, Uemon ignoring the owner as he made his way over he took a quick inventory of the tools. Ink, needles, gloves... everything he would need. Once Kizumi joined him, he would close the curtains for modesty's sake before walking over to a nearby sink to give his hands a thorough scrub with soap and hot water. After that, he moved back towards his own chair, took a seat, and situated himself. 

Pulling a pair of disposable gloves over his hands and checking over the supplies on the tray next to him. Taking care to kindly avert his eyes until she was ready and seated. "What sort of design did you decide on?" He asked.

Body art could say a lot about a person... so he wondered if there was some kind of deeper significance.

---

[hirana kizumi]

A HEART'S A HEAVY BURDEN

She knew that wanderers were not always warmly welcomed in the Hidden Villages—quite the opposite, in fact, since it was difficult to trust that a stranger to the nation would not betray it, or run off with ill-gotten goods or secrets. Kizumi was too pragmatic and too trusting in equal measure: wannin had kept the village’s wheels turning during the darkest days of the Great Plague, and she sincerely believed that most people were not out to do rampant crime for no particular reason. Uemon seemed like a sensible kid with a good head on his shoulders and no particularly malicious motivations, and that off-the-cuff judgement was good enough for her. She tilted her head, mouthing the name Muramasa Ryūzaburō as if that would jog her memory, but after a moment she shook her head. "Sorry,” she said, "doesn’t ring a bell off the top, but I can look him up when I get back to the office.” There were some ten thousand shinobi under her command—a number that kept her sweating through sleepless nights sometimes—and she couldn’t possibly be expected to know them all by name, but she was disappointed in herself regardless. "I can send along the info for some local smiths who might need a temporary hire, too.” Kumogakure’s armory was filled by the work of a few dozen smithies, but there were a few that Kizumi preferred for her personal needs over the rest. As you like, Uemon said, and Kizumi’s eyebrows shot up nearly to her hairline. "You’re gonna stab me in the back a couple thousand times,” she cackled, sparing a moment to stick her tongue out at the shop owner as if to say I told you so. "Just Kizumi is fine.” After the curtain was drawn, while Uemon got his tools ready and washed his hands, Kizumi pulled her thin white shirt over her head, bunching it up around her shoulders and the front of her chest to retain some semblance of modesty. She wasn’t especially precious about her body, especially in a context as clinical as this, but she didn’t want to put a young man in an uncomfortable situation. To his question, she hesitated, unsure how to answer. Instead she busied herself settling in, leaning forward on the angled chair that would give Uemon full access to her back, getting her arms arranged in a way that was comfortable and wouldn’t result in a dead limb in thirty minutes. "I grew up on the north side of the country,” she said after a moment’s thought. "My parents were fishermen and I was a sailor for a lot of my early career. I’ve always had a thing for nautical themes, so I thought a ship at sea and a kraken in the depths would be cool for a first tattoo.” A cheeky grin. "Never run into a kraken, though. I just think they’re neat.” What this didn’t explain: the loneliness of the kraken, the melancholy, steadfast trajectory of this ship. Most of the work that needed to be done now was in the details: the shape of the kraken and the ship for which it yearned was in place, and now it was time for small, thin lines and broad, heavy strokes of shading. No color, just the greyscale scene of the sea at night. "You a fan of snakes?” she asked, resting her chin on her hands. "Three heads is an interesting design.”

Muramasa Uemon -- 573

LAIKA OF THQ

[Muramasa Uemon]

all need sharpening

---

Still no luck on the cousin front but that much he expected. Doubtless the Raikage had hundreds of thousands of shinobi under her command. Knowing them all by name was an impossible task and he had little info to go off of.

Typically Uemon was not at all an optimist... but he had hope yet. During his stay in Kumogakure he would be sure to trawl areas of heavy traffic— if anything, he might have more luck speaking to some of the rank-and-file ninja stationed here. The Muramasa were not standouts appearance-wise, but Ryū was a notable enough person.

Samurai turned shinobi had to be a rare occurrence in any Hidden Village. "Thank you." He replied to her offer of work quietly and at the woman's preference for first names he could only nod. "Fair enough, Kizumi."

The same small attempt at a half-smile lingering on his lips as he set about prepping his station. Despite his wandering gaze earlier, Uemon did not seem to stare much as she disrobed and took her seat. It was not his first time seeing the female form and he was not some uncouth, leering jackal... however beautiful she might have been. 

After checking the needle and ink, he took his time applying the substance to the tool's point and. Some irezumi establishments were more modern than others but he only really had experience doing this in the traditional way.

By hand and very, very carefully. "This is going to burn a little." He said, pursing his lips as he took hold of a disposable cleansing wipe and gently dabbed at her ink. Some blood had pooled on its surface during their conversation and he needed a clean area to work with. Once that was done, he took a moment to inspect the piece of artwork. A great sea monster reaching out of the depths for some lone sea vessel. "Humble beginnings?"

Uemon chimed in at her tale, placing his gloved fingertips on Kizumi's back. Thankfully most of the line work was done so his part in this did not involve much extrapolation. "It seems I'm not the only one with a fondness for myths." He thought, listening to her intently. From here, he could clearly see several of the scars that marked her body, no doubt mementos from battles past. Along with the obvious one on his forehead that was something else they had in common. "Do you miss the sea?" He asked, steadying the hand holding the needle as it neared one of the inner edges of the piece. "I'm guessing leading a Hidden Village doesn't leave you much time to sail." After that?

A swift prick of the needle followed, his dark eyes narrowing on the task at hand. Uemon's hand moved slowly but with purpose all the while doing his utmost to focus. No sense in doing this halfway. "It's an ambitious piece for your first one." He said softly, his needle working into a steady rhythm as he continued to apply the ink. It was slow going but bit by bit the small lines were etched into the stenciling. At her comment about krakens a corner of his mouth perked up. "I can't imagine krakens leave many witnesses, if any." Neither did three-headed snakes.

Naturally his curiosity was returned in kind with a bit of her own. Upon hearing the question his hand paused for just a moment as he thought. "Not particularly, no." Uemon had always held a certain fondness for animals, just not really the scaly cold-blooded type. "In my homeland they're sometimes seen as a symbol of good fortune... but this one's actually from a story my father used to tell me as a child." The tattooing resumed, the wanderer narrowing his eyes as his efforts moved to the ship. Ensuring all the lines were darkened properly and working out the details of the portholes and mast. "I suppose it's just a reminder of the past." He said.

For himself and for those responsible for his family's current situation. Only they would have frighteningly little time to dwell on its meaning when he caught up with them. "Are you close with your parents?" A question as he focused on the ship's features. Its wooden construction, a raised anchor, the cloth of the sails billowing in the sea breeze. "Oh, and..." Uemon paused for a moment, leaning over to glance at Kizumi's face. "If you need to take a break at any point just let me know." He knew firsthand that being stabbed with a needle again and again hurt.

Of course he could assume from her scarring that she would have few complaints... but an offer of reprieve was given all the same. In the meantime, he grabbed another wipe with his free hand and got rid of some of the spotting blood and excess ink that was present. Before long the ship would be finished, then it was onto the sea monster and finally the shading. A single needle was slower than a powered machine, but Uemon was a deft hand.

Aside from that, this was much easier to do on someone else than himself. Taking just a moment to concentrate, he returned to detailing the sea vessel, taking care to mind the pressure of the needle. Not too harsh, not too light.

---

[hirana kizumi]

A HEART'S A HEAVY BURDEN

"Got it,” she said, acknowledging his warning, but even that didn’t stop her from hissing faintly at the sting of alcohol on an open wound, something that had never faded with time. Once the sting faded, she relaxed minutely, humming a wordless assent to his question: humble beginnings was a nice way of putting it, but she’d had a good childhood, in her estimation. "Perk of the hat is I get final say on mission assignments,” Kizumi said, her lips quirking into a cheeky grin. "Something comes through that needs bodies on the water, I give the hat to the dog and go have some fun.” Her council hated it—if it was for anything less than an A-rank’s payout, anyway—but she would have gone stir-crazy a long time ago if she didn’t go out on as many missions as she did. The sting of the needle was easier to bear than the alcohol, the steady prick-prick-pricks of pain soothing and meditative by nature of repetition. He was working on the ship, first, which sailed across the thick muscle tissue of her shoulder—a pliable enough surface that it barely registered as anything more irritating than a bee’s sting, once they got into the rhythm of it. "If they exist, I don’t want to run into one,” Kizumi said. Chuya would want to hunt it, as she loved hunting so many of the sea’s great beasts, and it seemed a shame to try to kill something so grand, so… mythical. "I was,” she said, injecting just the right amount of cheer into her tone. "They passed when I was twelve. Sea’s a bitch, yanno.” At a pause in Uemon’s movements, she shifted slightly, winding her long hair up and tugging it more forward to make sure it all stayed off her back. "We’re working at your pace, baby, take breaks as you need. I’ll be comfy for hours.” Wasn’t a lie or a stretch of the truth, either; the mild irritation of being tattooed was downright relaxing compared to some of the experiences she’d endured. It was the same kind of dopamine rush she got from knocking back a bottle of whisky—made her mind go smooth and blank. K had been gently pushing her to put the bottle down; maybe this could be a decent substitute. "Tell me the story about the snake,” she said, her good eye slipping closed. "That your father told you. If you don’t mind.”

Muramasa Uemon -- 407

LAIKA OF THQ

[/quote]

[Muramasa Uemon]

centuries-old tales

---

A hiss hit his ears and he nodded slightly while he continued to clean the ink. Not in an 'I told you so' sort of gesture but more so in a 'sympathy pains' kind. If only he had gotten drunk before he did his own piece on his arm...

But then, he probably would have messed it up and bled much more. Kizumi explained some about the process of her office and the image of a dog in a Kage hat was funny enough. "Quite the perk." If he was a laugher he might have chuckled, but instead he returned the needle to her back. "Leading from the front..." He said, peering at her.
 
Half-smile persisting as he raised an eyebrow. "Very noble of you." It might have sounded like a jest, but he actually rather respected that. No hiding behind desks and leaving the hard work for subordinates. As far as military command went, that made her better than most. Jokes aside, he refocused on his work. Dipping the tip of the needle in ink again before putting the finishing touches on the small ship. The weathering of the wood, the folds in the sails, blunting of the bottom of the anchor. "That makes two of us." Uemon said softly about krakens.

In the Shinobi World there was danger enough without happening across mythical sea leviathans. He would rather face down an entire platoon alone than have to contend with something like that. Once the ship was done, he gave the vessel one final wipe to rid it of any blood and excess ink while he listened to the Raikage. The wanderer was reserved enough normally, but the subject of dead parents seemed to quiet him down further. "I see..." Uemon listened intently and gave a solemn nod as she shared, talk of watery graves ending the snippet. "My sympathies."

Though she spoke of it rather nonchalantly, he knew that kind of pain all too well. The kind that cut deep and never really left. It seemed they had even more in common than knowledge of weaponry and an appreciation for body art. "I'm sure they'd be proud of how far you've come." He said, in the only attempt he could make at offering some small comfort. From fisherman's daughter to Raikage... it really was quite the tale. Storybook-worthy.

Relevant to the next question she asked as it turned out, though before even that she assured him that she was fine. And in that assurance was the thing that finally brought a bit of color to his cheeks. Not seeing her in states of undress, not his own initial wandering gaze, but being called 'baby'. "Of... course. In that case I'm fine, too." He said, clearing his throat before readying the needle once more. An application of ink, a gloved hand on her back...

Then a slight pause as she inquired about the story involving the serpent. "I don't mind it's just—" Another pause. "I'm not much of a storyteller." He admitted, shaking his head slightly as he thought back to the puppet show he and Kota put on back in Tsuchi no Kuni. It was the eight year-old boy who carried them through, not him. "But... if you wish." Uemon shifted his attention and his hands towards the kraken. Starting in on darkening the lines of the great monster's tentacles. "You may have heard of it before. It's an old, old tale." Placing the needle to the Raikage's back, he began his poking. Steadily as he collected his thoughts. "Centuries ago, there was a giant white serpent with eight heads and eight tails." He began, detailing the kraken's writhing limbs. The wrinkles on its arms, its suckers, and so on. "It spent its time terrorizing gods... and it was good at it."

An understatement truly, yet he kept his concentration as his right hand continued to move. "Year after year it brought horror to the lands... eventually taking a liking to two lesser deities in particular." Poor, helpless parents from what the stories would have one believe. Uemon having been a guardian for some time now could only see them as weak and unwilling to fight. "This couple had many daughters and the snake acquired a taste for them. It forced them to give him one child per year... and soon seven years had passed." He grew quiet as the needle continued to move. The implication of his trailed words clear enough. Seven years, seven daughters gone. "During the eighth year the God of Storms happened upon them. He'd been cast out of the heavens for being tempestuous so... maybe he was looking for redemption, I'm not sure." As usual, the telling of such tales differed. When he was a boy he thought of the deity as a noble hero, someone to aspire to. Now he knew that there were no such things as heroes in their world. "Anyway, he agreed to help in return for their daughter's hand in marriage. The god hid her, transformed her into a comb and placed her in his hair." That part had always been strange to him. But then, these sorts of gods were odd and fairly eccentric. Near everything they did was strange. "After, he devised a plan to deal with the serpent— it had a love for sake as well. So he filled eight vats with sake distilled eight times over and laid them out for the monster." A pause.

Narrowing his dark gaze as the needle continued along the kraken's arms one-by-one. Focusing on the great beast as he spoke about another. "The snake was greedy, of course. So when it found the vats it dipped all eight of its heads into each vat and drank deeply." No matter how many times he told the story, he could remember the first time he had heard it like it happened just yesterday. "And while the eight-fold liquor lulled the creature to sleep... The God of Storms lied in wait. He gripped his ten-span sword, charged, and severed all of its heads." With that, Uemon paused again while he finished up the area near Kizumi's shoulder blade. By this point the tentacles were all coming along and only a few touches and the head itself remained. "He slays the dragon and saves the girl. That's about it." He said quietly. "Trite, I know but... it was my father's favorite story."

Despite the story's detail... no hint of excitement came through in his voice nor embellishment either. Just the same dreary tone perhaps a touch colder than before as he recited it all. Though the most grim thing of it all was of course the tattoo itself. Choosing to etch the tale's villain on his arm rather than its hero was telling of something.

As to what that might be he would leave the woman to ponder for herself. "Still doing alright?" He asked, as his hand continued to move. "I'll need your hip next." A few more lines and it was onto the head, then the shading.

---

[hirana kizumi]

Her nose crinkled in distaste at Uemon’s kind accusation of nobility, though she didn’t give voice to the protest; she couldn’t quite find the words to illustrate her perspective that if she was setting a high bar by going on missions alongside the genin and chuunin under her command, that still meant the bar was buried six feet under. Not kindly, anyway. She let thoughts of leadership and responsibility and her long-dead family wash away from her mind as the needle sank back into her skin, poking at a steady, consistent pace that felt akin to comfortably rocking in a chair. Kizumi listened in silence as Uemon poked and talked, talked and poked, making soft noises of shock and awe and disappointment at all the right moments. Kizumi hmm’d an affirmation at his query, twisting some lever on the underside of the chair to flatten it out; she twisted in place, turning enough to give Uemon access to the part of her hip he needed without putting herself gratuitously on display. The position itself wasn’t terribly comfortable, but it wasn’t anything she couldn’t endure. "I don’t think it’s trite,” she said, after a period of quiet contemplation; chewing on the story, turning it over in her mind. "Your father must have loved it for a reason. Lots of ways to cast yourself into it—are you a parent, helpless to protect your children from the great evils of the world? Are you a parent, feeding your children to the great evils of the world to protect yourself? A kid sacrificed to the mouth of violence? A cast-out god in search of redemption, or a lonely man in want of a marriage? An eighth daughter saved, but at what cost? Condemned to what fate?” A sigh, slowly released. "I don’t think anyone casts themselves in the role of the villain,” she said, "but everyone has an eight-headed snake in their lives. Even—especially—the eight-headed snakes.” Another beat, and then: "Only three heads, for yours?”

Muramasa Uemon -- 336

LAIKA OF THQ

[Muramasa Uemon]

of snakes, storm gods, and sake

---

True to form, the wanderer remained mostly silent once his tale was done, adjusting his gloved hands to suit the Raikage's new position and resuming his needling with the same quiet poise he maintained before his long tale.

It had been quite some time since he had spoken this much... and he much preferred to listen rather than do the talking. Perhaps it was simply the interest the woman showed beforehand that made him share. Many people he had met were content to simply talk about themselves and never even bother to ask others about their lives. It was...

...nice. To be able to share a bit of his own past for once, however slight. Kizumi for her part was a good listener and had no issue sharing her thoughts about the story afterwards. Uemon focused on the linework of the great kraken's head, rounding the curve of her hip with the needle as it steadily stabbed in rhythm with his breathing.

"Yeah..." He agreed softly with her assessment of his father. "I think... perhaps, he saw a bit of himself in all of those characters." Muramasa Iemitsu had been a complicated man. Even now, he could recall his father's many arguments with his grandfather as if they had happened yesterday. The same went for those with his mother, too. As a child he knew that the man was far from perfect but he had still been his father. His. Now he was just... gone.

Uemon paused for a moment to glance at the Raikage's face. "Your hipbone's coming up." He warned quietly before shifting his gaze back to the task at hand. "Deep breath." Any area where the skin was thin always stung more. Tattooing over his own radius had shown him that firsthand. Once she was ready, he would continue on.

Returning the tip of the needle to the flesh and going back over what outline was already there. Talk of villains had him considering his own circumstances closely. "Most people don't." He replied, seemingly in half-agreement.

Most... but there were some who believed villainy to be necessary so long as it justified the ends. Once long ago, he fooled himself into believing his path was righteous. That he could maintain his honor and seek justice. It was his sensei who first challenged that notion, calling his aim simple vengeance. And the years had only proven her right.

Nothing noble could or would come from what he was doing. Sure, it adhered to Tetsu no Kuni tradition, but ultimately the 'old ways' were nothing more than plain murder. Blood for blood. "Kizumi." He spoke, glancing back at her face. "Who... or what is your eight-headed serpent?" An enemy nation threatening her home? The sea itself for taking her parents? Or something— someone less abstract, perhaps? Normally, he would have avoided this subject like the plague. Since they were already here though... he was fine with delving a little deeper. Tidying up the sea monster's head did not take long as most of the linework had been completed, so now it was onto the details. Its sleek skin stretched over its massive body, its two large bulbous eyes, and the musculature of its many leading up towards its face. "Only three heads. For now." He said in reply to her question. "It's unfinished."

As was what the artwork was made to represent and... as was he. By the time he got around to adding the eighth head to the piece he hoped to be ready for the confrontation he had trained all of these years for. If that would turn out to actually be the case really was anyone's guess. All of his progress would be for nothing if he did not apply it.

Soon enough it would be time to head back west. Uemon hoped to find Ryūzaburō by then, but if not... then it would fall to him alone once more. "Maybe it's better that way." He thought as he worked and waited for her reply.

---