Land of Water

[Aōi]

Just as he was about to hear Saihō's response, a shift in the breeze next to him could be felt, nothing ominous but a noteworthy difference, he wondered if the weather would change. If it ended up raining then that wouldn’t be a complete consequence. But it didn’t appear to be so, as the left side of the sea within the booth that he occupied quickly became filled with another, rather strange woman. The needle bearer aside, he only had the patience for one at the present time. Similarly, he could also tell there was something different about this woman, and it wasn’t just the light aromatic scent of the warm sake that she had just been drinking on her own. She held considerable amounts of chakra, albeit he doubted she had more than his own reserves. He wondered if she was a Kunoichi, if she was, she was probably new to the village because he hasn’t seen any new Jōnin or even Chūnin among the ranks in the last few weeks although he has been preoccupied lately.

But she clearly was close enough to be within earshot of their conversation, even gaining the liquid courage to (or maybe just harboring the straight up audacity) approach the two elite ninja. Placing her own bottle down onto the table, she quickly answered the question he posed to his friend, even informing him that his uniform is likely to scare off some women with his “dated” flak jacket. His eyes squinted, not because of any malice but surprise at how honest the platinum-blonde was. “Who the hell is this…?” He shared a look with Saihō, knowing exactly where her mind had gone, before returning his gaze to the pale-faced beauty, giving her a quick up and down of his blue hue eyes before trying to even figure out how to approach a response.

However, before he hatched one, she followed up with a question of her own, posed to the walking pin-cushion directly. “Hmm…she must be new I guess. She looks like she is around my age though...how does she not know what Saihō at least looks like...?” he wondered as she lit her cigarette next to him. After he first dragged and exhaled he sat just ever so slightly away from her within the tiny booth, clearly making an invisible physical boundary between the two of them wafting away any smoke that came toward him, he was indifferent to smoking and smokers having been around a lot of them during wartime, but he never took to the habit himself and never cared to. "Sorry dolly, never touch the stuff. Can't have my skin looking and feeling like leather.” she responded to Yuihime’s offering of smokes. Aōi placed his hand over his mouth to let out a light chuckle. "I'd say I've been a swordsman longer than you've been a stalker. Ey snowflake, despite that tacky cloak she was sporting the stalker's right. I'd lose the gaudy vest for starters, go with something a little more chic. Nothing in the rules say you've gotta look boring on missions or the battlefield." she replied, and his smile quickly faded. Back to routine, hers at least.

The seamstress held a similar opinion with the stranger despite the awkwardness of her arrival, maybe the two ladies had a point, forcing him to slightly glance down and feel the fabric of his clothing, it was worn, but still well kept. However, maybe it was time for a change. Maybe. It however wouldn’t stop there as she had further points of fashion she wanted to cover. "Next, I'd pick far better material. Get with the times snowflake, you can find something that both protects you and feels good on the skin too. Finally...I'd probably shake up the colors, find something to compliment your skin tone, or bring out your eyes. You listening? Taking notes?" At this point, he looked at her with a raised brow. He got it. Notes were taken and would be considered. Heavily. She downed her cup and began eyeing the sun-kissed shinobi scrutinizing his every fibre. He stared back strangely, concerned as to where this studying would end up only to have his fears be properly realized after she suggested that the strange lady next to them was a concubine of sorts seeking participation in the raising of their child.

He wasn’t even about to breathe life into that one, he just simply stared directly into her soul before downing his cup of sake before answering the part of her question that was necessary. “I have been, Lady Mizukage assigned me a genin. He’s a good kid, just a little timid. I’m supposed to be meeting him shortly after we finish drinks.” He took another swing and fully downed that cup. “How about you? Talked to any of the other swordsmen lately? The Kiba user, have you asked him about me like you promised?” he finished. He was always interested in learning from a more practiced sword, and the worst kept secret in the village among the elites was that Aōi wished to learn from the master of the Thunderswords themselves, or to maybe even become the apprentice and/or the heir apparent to the Kiba blades themselves. An exciting prospect for the still rather youthful shinobi.


​

 

[Frea]

"Sorry dolly, never touch the stuff. Can't have my skin looking and feeling like leather.”

Skin like Leather, huh? Surprisingly for someone who chain smokes like an old chimney, Yuihime had soft skin. Though that might've been because of her skincare routine. She watched the woman's reactions and her cut-throat words, at least to Yuihime, they were.​

"I'd say I've been a swordsman longer than you've been a stalker. Ey snowflake, despite that tacky cloak she was sporting the stalker's right. I'd lose the gaudy vest for starters, go with something a little more chic. Nothing in the rules say you've gotta look boring on missions or the battlefield."

A small chuckle erupted from the snow woman's lips as the darker-complexioned male scooted away from her due to her smoking habit. She put out her cigarette and placed it away. The term "stalker" wasn't used lightly by Saiho. She shrugged as she removed her cape to reveal her face. A woman of similar age to Aoi, perhaps only a year or two younger, responded to the stalker term.

"I suppose that my cloak did not help my case, eh? But I suppose I did look like a stalker when I was coming towards her. I'm new here, so I admit, I was following."

She took a small pause before resuming her talk.

"I was only following due I wanted a good place to drink, ya know. I'm from a small land where there is snow on the ground the majority of the year. I've just got married to a man who's from here."

Two villages had that, her land, Shimogakure, and the other, Yukigakure, which was in the process of being taken over. Of course, she did a little lie on end, she wasn't married at all, though it was one of the plausible reasons to be moved here. She smiled softly at the male before she listened to Saiho rambling to Aoi about fabrics, clothing and getting with the times, of course, Yuihime had agreed to all while meaning that she was taking mental notes about the Nuibari user. A fashionista, eh, very well, she could be a problem to deal with in the future. The second word of suggestion of her being from a concubine or some harlot trapping a man whom she didn't know made her smile turn into a poker face with a brow raised.

"Eh, don't think my husband will be pleased to hear I have a secret kid lying around when I don't have kids. Honey."

She gave a subtle fake nice tone at the end, and she continued to listen in, taking mental notes as he talked about him meeting a kid after drinks, and something about the kiba user, which did perk her ears up however long she stayed, it could mean they wouldn't open up more. There, Yuihime downed her last drop of sake before leaving. She turned around and said to them with a smile on her face.

"Thank you for accommodating me. I shall see you lot around perhaps, best get home to my husband."

With that, she strutted away, leaving her cloak behind, paying the barkeeper her sake bottle, then left the building. She ran back towards the Village's gate and entered the city with no problem and quite fast.​

 

[STORY]

Saihō watched the strange woman leave with the same bemused expression she’d worn the entire time—eyes half-lidded, lips tight, fingers lazily twirling the empty stick of dango between them like a senbon not worth throwing. She didn’t speak until the sound of the door’s little chime faded behind the click of Yuihime’s heels, and even then, it came as a murmur paired with an exhale that fluttered the steam off her next sake pour. “She left her cloak,” she said flatly, flicking a finger in its direction without bothering to look at it. “Cheap stitching. Wouldn’t survive a single rinse cycle.” She tossed back the fresh cup and winced—not from the drink, but from the idea of fabric like that existing in the same village as her. She set the cup down with a clack, just sharp enough to be heard but not rude enough to make a scene. Then she looked at Aōi, her head tilted as if framing him in her mind like a mannequin that refused to stand straight.

“Kiba, huh?” Her voice had cooled into something less teasing and more curious. “Ambitious. Loud swords, for a quiet boy.”

She let the silence hang—just long enough.

“And I’ll forgive the ‘him’ slip. Easy mistake. You lot always think the rowdy ones are men.” Her eyes glinted with the same playful sharpness as the needles in her hair. “Not your fault. The girl who wields Kiba now—hot-headed, rebellious, doesn’t listen to advice or tailor-made wisdom. Frankly, I don’t blame you for thinking she was a guy for a moment.”

A sip. A smirk.

“Girls don’t fray under pressure. We know how to sew it up before it splits.” She gestured lightly to herself with faux modesty, adjusting her glasses with a single finger.

Her hand reached into her sleeve, producing a small notepad—not for writing, but for sketching. A few quick strokes later, she turned it just enough for Aōi to see a half-finished mock-up of a new flak jacket design: lighter, layered, sleek with sharp angles. Still functional. Still him. But better. It even had stitched accents shaped like thunderbolts—barely noticeable. Barely.“You’d need broader shoulders for this one,” she noted without looking up, “but nothing a few years and an ego boost won’t fix.”

Another pause, then she closed the notepad with a snap.

“As for the other Swordsmen… I talk to who talks back. Half of them are ghosts, the rest are egos with blades. But I’ll ask your lightning idol about you—if only to see the look on her face when she realizes the quiet one’s been studying her.”

She turned then, collecting her things with a practiced grace.

“There’s… tension in the air these days,” she added casually, almost as if speaking of weather. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

She rose from the booth, adjusting her coat with a whip of movement so crisp it might’ve cut something. Then her eyes flicked once more to the cloak left behind. “Let’s get going, snowflake. Your Genin’s probably waiting, and I’ve got a mind to drop that thing off at the tailor—maybe they’ll get a laugh.” Without waiting for him to follow, she made for the door—needles clicking faintly like wind chimes in her hair, stride smooth, steps confident. Saihō didn’t chase ghosts. She tailored the living.

 

[Aōi]

He watched as the ivory haired woman exited the bar, finishing her drink and leaving her cloak behind as she appeared to hurry out of the establishment after paying for her drinks. He looked at it a little closer out of curiosity, noticing that it was more tattered than a regular cloak. Either it had been used for a long journey or she just simply did not care for her fabrics could have been anyone's guess, however to Saihō, it appeared to be the latter with her following comment. “Knowing you, leaving it here would be a sin regardless. Repurposing the old in order to renew it is your thing whether you care to admit it or not.” he said bluntly as he downed his own sake cup.

Her ears and eyes finally revealed a hint of expression: surprise. The needle bearer looked at him with curiosity and what appeared to be a new budding interest, responding with bringing up the interesting irony of such a quiet and reserved Shinobi seeking to learn such a rambunctious and gaudy weapon, from an equally gaudy and ridiculous master. He remembered all too clearly.

She then resumed the topic by correcting him of the wielder's gender. It had been some time since he had spent any time around any of the Seven, and this was years back when he was also a much younger and less experienced ninja. What he did remember was how enthralled he was by how the Thunderswords user and her great display of skill, ferocity and even unexpectedly for the pacifist: ruthlessness in her use of the blades edge. The playfulness started to return to her spirit, started to slightly describe his self appointed idol, sounding as every bit as he remembered.

They both smirked and sipped their drinks together.

He then watched as she reached into her sleeve, producing a notepad that had no lines, but when opened revealed rough to half completed sketches of clothing. She flipped through to an empty page, and began scribbling. With a few strokes here, and a few strokes there—she turned it back around to the elite shinobi, showing him her mock-up of what he assumed was her envisioning of his new uniform. Functional, sleek, and layered with even barely noticeable accents of thunderbolts. The corners of his mouth would droop downward, but not out of sadness but intrigue, while his brows raised showing his pleasant surprise. Noting that with an ego boost and maybe a few positive pounds in the correct areas he’d be able to look much better than he did now. Expectedly he rolled his eyes as he poured his last cup, he did however take note of the attire and heavily would keep it under close consideration.

“As for the other Swordsmen… I talk to who talks back. Half of them are ghosts, the rest are egos with blades. But I’ll ask your lightning idol about you—if only to see the look on her face when she realizes the quiet one’s been studying her.”

He smiled knowing that Saihō would pass the message along for him, despite her prickly nature he knew they had a genuine friendship. He downed his last drink quickly as she had already gotten her things, without reaching for her wallet (if she even owned one he'll never know truly) knowing he’d pay. “There’s… tension in the air these days,” he then slightly paused taking a glance at her, knowing she wasn’t talking about the climate. “But you didn’t hear that from me.” she finished, as she rose from the booth. “I assume something to think about.” he thought. Time has a tendency to change, especially fast and not always for the better. His mind then rushed back to his genin, pondering further for his future. “I gotta get him ready for whatever lies ahead.”

With the bill paid, he quickly then sauntered over to the seamstress who then took the coat as he predicted she would, causing him to grin as they both walked out of the bar together. “Alright Saihō I have to go see if Nozomi has reached the mainland. Not sure what you're up to but you should tag along, check him out." he said offering her to walk with him. He began walking towards the market square, looking back and motioning the seamstress to follow. Hoping she'd take the bait by his leading the way, she would do as she usually does and take charge where she didn't have any. "So what bring you back to the mainland? Whenever you're away, you are gone for much longer." he asked harmlessly. He didn't expect too much of an answer from her either, he was just more so enjoying her company at this time.

"Hey, you like spicy food? You should try these." he said. The two passed by a spice cart that allowed you to top whatever fruit you wanted with specific spices of you're own choosing. He paid for one diced pineapple cup with an assortment of seasonings, quickly scarfing it down just as quickly it was made and paid for. If there was one thing the Jonin loved, was a decent snack.


​

 

[Dio]

A collage of warm light and sharper voices, of glinting Ryo and lacquered stalls, of fragrance and heat and motion, the market was lively in the late morning. He moved through the market like mist curling around stone—quiet, unobtrusive, leaving barely a trace. His body weaved through the crowd without direction, but a purpose. He passed the usual places: the fruit stall his Sensei often lingered near, the spice cart where pineapple slices were laced with chili and citrus, the weapons kiosk tucked beside the fountain with its ever-sleepy vendor. Each one familiar. Each one empty of the man he was seeking.

It was strange how absence could feel so loud.

He paused beneath the overhang of a store selling rice crackers. Children ran past him, chasing one another with wooden shuriken. An old woman laughed nearby, toothless and shrill. And still, he stood there—as if expecting something to rise from the crowd and tap him on the shoulder. But nothing did.

'He's no here today.'

This thought settled into his chest, yet it didn’t feel heavy… just definite. Yet despite this he didn’t show disappointment. Not because he didn’t feel it, but because it wasn’t the usual kind right now. It was a quiet tug inward, the familiar hush that follows when something you half-expect doesn’t come to pass. Beneath his scarf—which coiled around the lower half of his face—the smallest frown threatened to form—not enough to be seen, but enough to be felt. His mind moved like a game he was playing with himself, drifting through possibilities like a game of Shogi.

‘Could he be here? Could he be there? Hmm...
...I know...
The Octopus Stalls. He has to be! He loves octopus sashi-'

“Nozomi?" Suddenly a voice pierced through the murmuring voices of the crowd, calling out Nozomi's name

A figure from the crowd emerged, moving towards him as if to get a better look. "Yes, that’s you! You seem a little lost, is everything okay? Come to think of it, I saw Aoi a little earlier today too now.” The man said with a smile, it was none other than Tsuki who sold Aoi his apples earlier in the morning and had been keeping a curious eye on Nozomi, watching him wander around aimlessly in the market.

Nozomi exhaled softly, the thought of guessing where he’d be right this time faded like the breath against the cloth of his scarf. “Oh… Haha. That’s who I’m looking for! Where’s my Sensei now? Annnnnnnyyyy ideasssssss?” Nozomi spoke softly, the excitement of reuniting with his Sensei was obvious by the raise in his voice. It was everything he is looking forward to.

“Oh, hmm.. Uh… I think he went—” Tsuki paused, before sailing his hand to the glass curve of the Mizukage Tower; caught in the sunlight like a blade. “That way!” And without a word, Nozomi turned from the merchant with a brimming smile, evident by the grimace of his eyes which surely would’ve matched his mouth if it was to be seen by Tsuki. Waving at him as he whisked his body into quieter streets…

The path to the Mizukage Tower carried Nozomi through a quieter street—a gentler corridor where wind stirred the scent of sea brine and rust, and bright flowers spilled from stone balconies above. His pace slowed. The din of the market fell behind, replaced by the creak of a shop sign and the soft murmur of sandals on tiled stone. He passed the tea house with the faded koi banner, the bookshop whose spines had long since given up their titles to the sun, and finally the shinobi supply store—a slim, shadowed space wedged between two taller buildings like something secret. Its door was open. Nozomi’s hand fell to his pouch. The seams were worn. The last paper bomb had been used during his time on the island, refining his throws in solitude. His mother had noticed, of course. She always did. He reached into his inner coat and retrieved a slim envelope she had given him days prior. Inside: crisp currency, and her handwriting—neat, deliberate, unmistakable.

--You never ask for what you need. So here it is. Don’t argue.--

Inside, the shop was quiet. No welcome, no music. Just the scent of oiled leather, faint scorch marks on the tags, and the soft sigh of floorboards that gave slightly beneath his weight. Nozomi moved through it with quiet familiarity, selecting only what was necessary: three kunai, a coil of wire, two paper bombs, and a smoke tag. He placed them on the counter in perfect alignment. The transaction passed without a word from the shopkeeper; Nozomi responded only with a soft, muffled “Thank you,” barely audible through the cloth around his mouth. Outside again, he paused beneath the awning. A warm breeze shifted his hair, and he adjusted the fit of his pouch with absent fingers. The Mizukage Tower stood ahead now—glass and steel rising like a needle into the sky, just within reach. Rather than follow the main road, he turned into the alley behind the shop, a quieter path of uneven stones and moss-dark corners where footsteps didn’t echo as loudly. Two left turns. One shallow puddle. A crooked slab, stepped over by instinct. And then—light.

He emerged into a brighter street just a block from the Tower, only to stop short mid-step—Aōi was there, walking out of a bar.

Not a mission office.
Not a training field.
A bar.
...
At this hour.

And he wasn’t alone. The woman beside him moved with a grace that made movement look effortless, deliberate. Her sword swayed lightly at her side. Wait… is that—? Recognition struck him like a breeze to the face. 'Saihō!' His eyes widened, not out of alarm, but in awe. She turned her head as if speaking, her profile elegant and composed, and Aōi—calm, unreadable Aōi—actually seemed engaged. Nozomi stood frozen, fish-eyed, like a child glimpsing a teacher out of place—equal parts disbelief and quiet betrayal. Not real betrayal, of course. Just that odd, lopsided feeling when something doesn’t quite go to your expectation. His foot planted firmly now, he adjusted his scarf—not from discomfort, just habit—and when Aōi’s gaze finally swept forward and caught his, Nozomi lifted a hand in silent acknowledgment. No wave. No words. Just presence. The hand dropped again. Inside, his thoughts were less composed: I finally found him… but why like this? Seriously? A bar? Ughhh—c’mon... Yet outwardly, he said nothing. He didn’t need to. Aōi would come to him. He always did!

​

 

[Kami]

---

Thck. Thck. Thck. The sound echoed throughout the dim corridors, sharp and deliberate. A blade, no doubt, attaching itself to what could only be flesh. Then came a splash—a heavy drop of something into liquid from a considerable height. Again, like clockwork: Thck. Thck. Thck. The same cutting motion, the same rhythm, the same consistency. Only now, it was joined by the crack of bones erupting. And again, the splash.

A hiss rose, like something boiling, some unknown chemical reaction awakening in the air—the smell indiscernible at the moment. But no reaction came from him. Saburō moved with incredible care and surgical focus, his face unreadable—eyes unmoved and breath steady, as always just like during missions or removing the existence of someone. This, however, was much different. There was a greater attention to detail, the movements were not harsh or aggressive, they were graceful and from a place of love. The closer one drew, the more the air carried a flavor. A taste that was so powerful and palpable that it could be tasted on the tongue of bystanders. This wasn’t slaughter, this was preparation.

Saburō moved to put a lid on the stew, allowing for it to sit and meld together into one beautiful dish. In the meantime, he turned his attention to the tea pot that was sitting in the background. He took out a cup from the cupboard and placed it on the counter and began pouring a cup of green tea. Once filled he set the pot back down and picked up the cup with both hands as he walked towards the back of his house to enjoy the view before he embarked on whatever journey life had in store for him today. There was a smile on his face as he took a sip of his hot tea. The muscles on his face were in perfect position as his teeth beamed a radiant white glow, picture perfect—almost as if he had been practicing for years.

His blue eyes looked out toward the ocean as he felt the refreshing breeze kiss his skin. The smell of salt battled against the smell of his simmering beef stew. Today was a beautiful day and it would become even more beautiful once his stew had fully cooked. His eyes glanced over to the right—a garden, his garden—something he had been growing and tending to for quite some time now but has neglected it for a moment now. "I'll start that once I'm done eating," he thought to himself. Life truly is amazing when you're rich.​

---

 

[Kami]

---

Soon after, Saburō returned to the kitchen. He removed the lid on the stew and inhaled the savory scent of the beef stew. He could smell each individual item he had put into it—the slow-cooked meat, soft carrots and potatoes, and the fresh aromatics which would come together wonderfully. Unfortunately, there was still some time left for the stew to finish simmering and Saburō returned the lids back onto the pot. He began walking towards the back door as he essentially inhaled the rest of his tea and placed the cup onto the counter.

The door slid open as he made his way down the wooden stairs that led him down to the beach. Money—was no object. Saburō’s family came from generational wealth to the extent that they would be 15 generations in and they’d never have to work a day in their life. Saburō didn’t even want to think of how weak those children would be. Although, even he would admit, it was quite a luxury. The wood creaked as he made his way down and to the side into the garden he had been growing. The tools were always in their designated locations—Saburō was meticulous.

Thck. Thck. Thck.



The sound returned—this time softer and buried beneath the hush of the ocean breeze. The smell of the sea wasn’t as powerful in the garden. Now it was the smell of freshly turned soil paired with the sweetness of flowers. Saburō put upon his gloves as he knelt in the garden, shears in hand, trimming the edges of the overgrown leaves with precision and grace. His touch was careful, he wasn’t removing plants—he was guiding them back into form.

The soil beneath his knees was damp, dark and rich from months of attention. Rows of vegetables stood in meticulous and strict formation—carrots, onions, potatoes—you name it. Each of them lined with care into a wooden crate. There were no bruised leaves, no crooked cuts. This was a man that did not accept sloppiness—not in the field, not in the kitchen, and not in the garden.

Soon enough, after what felt like forever, Saburō would let out a sigh. He’d stand up and put the sheers down right where he had gotten them from followed by the gloves joining them as well. He’d swipe the ball of sweat off the side of his head as he glanced at everything once again. It was beautiful, but it was far from perfect. While he looked at them as trophies, he knew they needed more time. They are trophies of his patience.

But for now, it was time to eat.​

---

​

 

[STORY]

She eyed the man at the mention of her tagging along to meet his genin. Her head tilted ever so slightly to the side, glasses tilting down her nose a bit. She maintained this posture as they walked, exactly why she was looking at him like that certainly a mystery to any and everyone but her. It isn't until Aōi's next question that she straightens her head. Probably as expected, Saihō was tight lipped.


The two were quite a pair as they strolled through the streets, her nose wrinkling a bit she turned her head towards the source of the smell. She glanced towards Aōi as he ordered his fruit cup, paying and downing the snack immediately thereafter. A smirk traced along the seamstress's blue painted lips. She leaned over the cart, hmming and ahhhing before settling on a peach fruit cup. "He's paying." She casually informed the vendor, using one of her pins to secure a peace of peach from her cup, placing it in her mouth. "Don't forget to tip em snowflake. You should always tip, never forget that." She says while pointing the pin, now absent of the fruit that was on it at him as if lecturing him. All this despite having yet to pay for anything since her arrival, and perhaps before even then.

She turns on her heel, her back towards the swordsman-hopeful, taking nearly two steps before she stops. "Got a meeting with the princess. Regarding the very topic you brought up...the Mist's most prominent little club." She waved her hand before slumping forward slightly with yet another sigh, this one heavier than the last by far. Her slumped posture lasted only a few moments before she was upright once more, using her pin to secure some more of the peaches in her cup. While chewing on the fruit she pauses, finishes the treat before turning her head towards Aōi. "That yours?" She asked, pointing towards a small child in the distance with his hand in the air before noticing it drop.

"Kid's a quiet one like you huh." It was more a statement and less a question, going off the child's body language. She began approaching the child with assured steps, assured at least that this was the snowflake's genin. As she drew closer she adjusted her glasses. "Hey snowflake! Take pointers from the kid while you're teaching him. He's at least wearing some good stuff." Nodding her head in acknowledgement as she praised the boy while simultaneously reprimanded Aōi. "The kid knows quality...or at least his folks do." In this moment she was sizing the boy up as a proper seamstress with her eyes alone. Studying everything about the boy from head to toe. As she told the Jōnin earlier, not everything fits everyone the right way, one should always properly don that which fits them. Right now she was trying to determine if the two, sensei and student, fit each other.

Aōi was already robed in the regrets and traumas of the past, old clothing as she called it. Regret was an ugly color on him, one she didn't want him wearing any more than he already was. The child, was fresh, bright eyed and untainted. He didn't need to wear something to big for him, take on more than he could chew. She'd have to see how they interacted with one another. 'Sometimes the clothes pick the person they say.' She mused silently to herself in thought.

 

[Aōi]

Glancing over to the seamstress as he consumed his cup of spiced fruit, her demeanor was starting to relax, and he was relieved as he was unsure when the last time his friend was able to loosen her shoulder' if it wasn’t in an attempt to swing her sword. The woman he remembered was still very much present, ordering herself a cup of peaches informing the vendor that he would be paying and providing a sizable tip. For one who never seemed to be with a wallet, she was quite cavalier in the pursuits of handling the affairs of others; however this was just an aspect one would have to overlook if they sought to ingratiate themselves within Saihō’ company.

She then went on to actually answer him, this was a further indication to him that she was relatively disarmed, regardless, he should be deemed trustworthy to know as he stands as the single shinobi within Kirigakure outside of the Seven whom of which Kirasui trusted unequivocally. His ears and brows perked up at the information, followed by narrowed eyes glancing towards the indigo-lipped kunoichi. “Huh…you don't say.” he replied. Taking another bite out of his fruit cup he was now beginning to wonder what may be coming down the pike. “The winds of change were starting to blow stronger indeed.” he thought to himself. However before he could follow up on his question, Saihō pointed down the road towards his genin who appears to have found them. “That yours?” she uttered.

Embarrassingly, he was mid-munch and once his light blue hues locked with his students slate-violet ones. Even from that distance, he could perceive the perplexed look on his face. Aōi, a naturally reserved and generally mysterious man, was only relaxed when away from his direct duties when he felt as though he could let his hair down, a side of him not generally seen by his peers or subordinates and even much less than that, his own genin. Though he really loved Nozomi as if he was his own younger brother, he kept a certain emotional distance, a facade he consciously upholds with most people he interacts with. Quickly slurping the pineapple into his mouth, and waving to Nozomi as he walked alongside the swordswoman. “That's mine,” he replied. He then turned to the vendor and gave him a considerable amount of cash, which implied he gave that tip Saihō obsessed with.

She then took note of the surface similarities between the two, starting with their shared quiet disposition; however the Jōnin laughed slightly at the notion, finishing his snack and throwing it out in a nearby trash can “You say that now, but he has his moments of expression. Trust me.” he said. Now in front of the genin, Saihō took note of his clothes, admiring his sense of style in contrast to his sensei’ more ‘functional’ attire. A familiar eye roll would take place, it would seem he would need to visit a clothing shop by the end of day or maybe see the uniform counter at the Kage office. “Noted.” he said flatly before turning to his student with a smile. He reached into his plastic bag and threw one of his apples from earlier, wondering if he had a snack since he’s been travelling. “Hey kid. Sorry if I was hard to find.” he then flung a thumb towards Saihō “This one here has a tendency to come in like a tsunami wave—unpredictable and uncontrollable.” he finished.

Taking a good look at his charge, he looked as he normally did: well kept and reserved. “How long have you been back? How's the off-hand?” he asked. When they last spoke, he tasked him to start using his adjacent arm for tasks. By the time the war had started, Aōi was just two years older than him by the time he mastered being ambidextrous, the young snowflake had great talent himself and with the proper guidance, he could very well become just as lethal as he. But hoped his blade would be more steadied, with the proper judgement to accompany it. “I guess you already know who Saihō is? I’ll be surprised if you don't, we ran into a weird woman earlier who approached us in the ba—nevermind.” he abruptly finished. He wasn’t drunk, or even tipsy. He had war days to thank for his tolerance, but it did in fact dawn on him of the time it currently was, and unlike some elite-shinobi, he desired to send the right message to his students. He knew genin wouldn’t get it. Not until they shared sake cups themselves as peers at least.


​

 

[Frea]

She stood outside, trying to figure out what she had left in the bar. It was the worn-out, tattered cloak she had worn since the invasion many years ago. It was old and barely kept the heat in. It was nippy outside, but this wasn't uncommon for Yuihime; she was used to frigid temperatures like this. After all, she looked down at her packet of cigarettes and thought about giving up smoking while she was in the midst. Perhaps the billowing smoke she blew out into the air could give away her whereabouts to those who hunted down shinobi. Not that she had a bounty, at least she didn't think so, but it could still be a risk. Regardless, she clenched her fist tightly around the packet before disposing of the empty packet into a nearby trash can.

There she caught glimpses of the two she had just sat with coming out of the bar themselves, heading towards a direction. By the way, she scanned the male it appeared to her he was a jounin and potentially had a meeting with a student perhaps, maybe a mission to kill some more folks instead? the possibilities are endless but the way the needlewoman had tagged along with him, Yui had the assumption of they was going on a mission. A drinking session before a mission? That's some way to celebrate a potential death. Deep down, you didn't want them to get killed just yet. At the same time, it wasn't her business to see where they were going. The goal she needed to get out of the way was to find a position spot within becoming a Kirigakure kunoichi. For that to happen, she needs to go to the Mizukage office. She had hopes that the Mizukage was in and that it would be an easy process to get transferred. There, the platinum-haired woman had started to walk in the direction of the Mizukage office. Since she had been here for a few weeks, she had memorised pretty much the routes of the main buildings, the most important was, of course, the Kage office.

While Yuihime was on her way to the office building, she spotted a vendor selling quality fabrics, furs, leather, and fleece. This, in turn, caused Yuihime to become inspired to create a new date cloak. Back at home, Yuihime had made most of her clothing due to a lack of tailors and seamstresses, which in turn caused her to create clothing for her village she was pretty good at using up-to-date machinery and hand-sewing however she wasn't as good as the woman she just met that knows about her fashion, making clothing. Yuihime gazed upon the materials, feeling them to see that they were made of good quality. They were of better quality materials than Shimogakure could produce. She wondered if she could buy a whole lot of fabric and send it back to her land. She piped up to the old man vendor requesting at least 5 yards of the fabric of each, furs and fleeces. This left a hefty hole in her money, as this was pretty much around 1000 Ryo. She didn't mind, as this was the best quality she had ever seen.

Yuhime made a hand sign and popped a clone of her. She gave her clone the bags of fabric and instructed her to take them back home so Yuihime herself didn't lug them around with her, causing a burden to her personally. The clone immediately left with the fabrics, carefully not dropping them. Yuihime smiled at the vendor and thanked him for his services, then she continued her way to her destination. Once, there stood at the protective doors where she went in to see a shinobi standing guard at the entrance. He yelled at her, but it wasn't an angry yell, more so a yell for instructions.

"STATE YOUR PURPOSE"

Yuihime gave him a bit of an annoyed look at the yelling in her ear. She rubbed her ears after the yelling She looked the male in the eyes, and her smile was pleasant. She merely gave a short-term answer as to why she was in the building in the first place.

"I'm here to see the Mizukage. I've got a few enquiries."