More. More. More. [Missions]

Numachi had left before the first light, gathered his military rations in his pack, and oiled his armor before putting it on. Hung his blades at his left hip and cinched them tight on his belt. He took a quick look in the mirror before he exited, pulling his hair back, and tying the teal strands into a ponytail just below the knot of his headband. In the mirror he saw those red eyes looking back, so much like the hounds of the Mizukage, he decided. That’s what he was though, just another dog of the Mist: fighting over scraps with the others, brought under heel of the alpha. Not much of a realization he decided, others must have done the same by now. The dog walked out of his apartment down into the street and out the gates of Kiri.

The mists were heavy on the road, obscuring the treelines that lined the path. Numachi turned his head to the crack of a whip, and the creak of wooden wheels. The teamster’s shout echoed out into the morning. He brought his horses to a halt beside Numachi, which slung a trough of mud along the tops of his boots. Numachi looked down then back up again to the teamster. He was saying something to Numachi, but he couldn’t make it out over the rustle of his horses. Numachi kicked off the mud and walked to him. He was sitting in the fashion of teamsters, elbows on knees, a length of leather in his hand, and a stupid smirk on his face.

“Headed south,” The teamster said.

“I’ve got a full days walk south,” Numachi replied,

“They’d cut my contract if I didn’t give a military man some aid,” The teamster admitted with a smirk.

“I’ll take the ride anyway, old timer.”

Numachi walked to the other side of the cart, climbed up the two steps, and sat beside the teamster. He pulled the reins and barked something at the horses. Hoofs kicked up channels of mud as the Shinobi looked up to the sun peaking over the treetops, bringing light to the obscuring mist. He unfurled the scroll in his pocket, and read it over again for the thousandth time:

Numachi Kinoko, you have been tasked with escorting the Priest Kurota to his home temple in the southern province. You will meet him a day's walk south in the _____ Province. He has some vague relation to the Water Daimyo, so take care to attend to his every need. There has been talk of burglars and vandals on the road as of late, see that he arrives at the temple unharmed and in good spirits. Kurota has requested that you meet at the town of Mizuhana, which is located at the. . .

Signed, Yuumon Habara, Jounin of Mist.

“Orders?” Asked the teamster,

“Something like that,”

“My son was a shinobi, much like yourself–we lost him in the war.”

Numachi nodded at that, unsure of what the proper response would have been. He felt the soft patter of raindrops on the back of his palms. Fingers clasped the edges of the scroll, rolled it back up into its cylindrical form, and stowed it away in a pouch. He grabbed the edges of his cloak, pulling them taunt around him, then flipped the hood over his head.

[557]

They arrived when the thin veil of red evening light was slipping off the horizon. The teamster pulled on the reins, cartwheels creaked in a trough of mud, and his team whinnied. Before them lay Mizuhana, a sprawling cityscape of blue-lit spires and red thatched roofs. The city seemed almost comical to the grandeur that was the Capital. Numachi had seen very few towns in his lifetime, and he wondered if Kiri was the largest city in the world. He climbed down from his perch on the teamster’s cart, flat palm braced against his scabbards. The teamster spat in the mud and tipped his hat to the swordsman.

“I know a few whorehouses in the area, best to stay away from Kawa street. Well lit, but you’re more likely to get your purse snatched than find a decent wench to bed. Head to the commercial district, and go to the brothels. The whores at the bars are dangerous, son. Trust an old man, experience is the greatest teacher…”

“Are you sure you can’t stay? I have enough coin to–”

“I’ve got to be on my way.”

Numachi nodded in response, hand outstretched to shake the teamster’s own.

He walked the streets in search of the Temple. Against the teamster’s advice, he strolled down Kawa street, spying cutpurses and low-caste prostitutes eyeing him along his way. A hand on the hilt of his sword was enough to keep away all interested in approaching him. He halted at the sound of shouting, two drunkards had knives brandished, enriched by a group of shouting denizens. The neon sign of the Tavern blazed behind them as they took awkward slashes at one another. Numachi walked through the knife fight and into the darkness past huddled homelessness and night prowlers.

He strode through a residential district, which appeared upscale to him with fancy door fixtures and well-manicured lawns. Perhaps I should ask for directions. No not in this place, I’m more likely to get run off by security guards, than be given actual directions. Better not he decided. Through the Residential neighborhood, Numachi noticed homes started to turn into storefronts again, but these weren’t the slums: Fine gold-encrusted calligraphy replaced neon signs. His head craned to a group of people dining on a patio at street level. Fine featured beauties, he noticed, laughing under dimly lit vestibules

“Can I help you?”

Numachi turned his head to find a Patrol man behind him with arms akimbo.

“I’m looking for the Temple of ____, do you know its location?”

On recognition of Numachi’s headband, the officer’s scowl faded.

“For a moment I thought you were,” He laughed, “Well when you openly carry steels in this district, you’re usually looking for trouble.”

“No trouble,” Numachi waved a hand at the statement, “I’m looking for a priest,”

“Well, directions I can help you with,” He admitted.

The officer pulled out his notebook and began sketching a rough map for Numachi to follow.

“Y’know, I used to be a shinobi,” The officer said,

“You don’t say.”

[506. TWC: 1063]

Kurota stumbled through the doorway, nearly fell, and braced himself against a guardrail at the top of a flight of stairs. His bald pate was covered in a gold sheen from the pale light of lanterns. Over the guardrail, his head bobbed as he wretched up the liquor in his stomach. The bouncer stood behind him, arms crossed around a barrel chest with a wry smirk on his lips. Green spittle dripped from his lips–wiped it away from his lips, then wretched once more. The bouncer chuckled.

“Fuck you,” Kurota gurgled

He laughed again, “Get the fuck outta here, Priest.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Kurota waved him away.

Kurota grabbed the guardrail and began his descent. Down on the street, he walked past a teal-haired man talking loudly to a patrolman. Fucking loud bastard. He stumbled on the curb as he made his transition from the street to the sidewalk. Woah, easy Kuro, nice and easy lad. He walked past an open door with a woman standing in the opening. She beckoned him with a hand wave.

“Why don’t you come in darling?”

It had been a long time, Kurota decided, a long time, but he best keep it pushing. Master Shimagu would be pissed to see him return this late and in such a state. . .

The temple loomed before him. Small billows of incense streamed through the front pillars. He could smell the jasmine. Kurota took the stairs one at a time, stumbled here and there, but eventually made his way to their peak, and passed through the large double doors banded with iron. The great foyer was empty with only the small flicker of candlelight at the altar. His blue beads rattled as he took a knee before the great idol. Please forgive me. I've sinned oh great. . .

His head snapped the beat of wings in the clerestory. The rancid smell of a cooped-up bird replaced the jasmine in his nostrils. He turned back to the idol and–oh great one. . .please protect me. . .no harm may come to me if I have but faith. . . you bitch. Footsteps echoed from the foyer. Kurota stood to meet them. Shadows receded from two men with swords on their hips. He knew them. . .Kacha and Puura from the Daimyo guards. . . A black bird landed on the idol next to him. What the fuck was going on.

“We’ve been watching you,” The bird said.

Kurota’s eyes widened.

[413, TWC:  1476]

“I know you,” Kurota found himself saying.

“And us,” Puura said

“You,” and Kacha

“Why would your uncle send for you?” The bird squawked

A chill slivered down Kurota’s spine. They’re not sent from Uncle that I am certain of. What would they want from me? His once wobbling awkward step became rigid from fear, he sobered with each new word. Kurota thought to yell for the others, his head turned to the long hall between two shadows cast by Puura and Kacha. Then shook his head. He watched as Puura drew his sword, wincing against the candlelight that danced and radiated from its edge. His companion Kacha stood fixed with his hand on the pommel of his sword, and a stupid grin on his face. Protect me oh great one. . .

“We were here long before you fashioned your Gods. Your prayers will do you no good even in this, your holy place, Priest.” The bird said.

“Don’t think to call your friends, we’ve slain them as they slept,” Puura said

Blasphemy. The Great. . . would never allow such blasphemy in her house. Kurota’s fingers moved in a blur of hand seals, and his mouth spewed water that filled up the floor of the temple. The rush of white waves pushed the swordsmen back, and the black bird's flapping wings took it high above the rising waters. Black feathers fell from above as its voice echoed over the surging water. They were quick to recover, he noticed, Kurota watched the swordsmen as they laced their feet with blue chakra that lit up the dark, and began walking towards him across the giant flood to him.

“We may have use for your talents,” The bird cawed, “if you come with us willingly.”

Kurota’s response was to spew a cataract of water at the airborn foe, but as it came into contact with the air around the bird the water was swept away by some unseen force. Kurota’s eyes widened as Puura closed in with his blade. He dodged a blade arc by gliding backward across the surface of the water. Kurota sprayed a thin beam of hissing water, so highly pressurized it looked white. He turned his head directing the water spray horizontally across Puura’s neck. His head flew loose from the root, and his face collapsed as if being held together by paper mache put under some great heat. He heard the flap of the bird's wings again and looked up to see it hovering above him.

“What the fuck are you?”

“As I’ve said: We were here long before you.” But Kurota knew what he meant: Before the age of men.

Feathers rained down upon him, and he glid on top of the surface of the water like a water bug, dodging the projectiles. Kurota raised his left forearm to shield his eyes from the blackrain, but they stuck in his skin like senbons. He released a cry that echoed the echo of rushing waters. In the corner of his eye, Kurota saw a flash of shadow. He craned his eye to see Kacha rushing towards him blade drawn. He released the chakra at his feet and sunk into the dark waters below, and doing so, dodged the blade strike within a hair's breadth.

Kurota emerged from the depths twenty strides away from the swordsmen, pushing himself up with chakra-laced palms and feet. Water dripped down his bald head into his eyes, clothes were soggy and weighted by the moisture. He heard the bird caw above him,

“You’re at your limit. You’ve done well to make it this far against us, but our next move will be your doom,” It said

“I’m sick of talking birds,” He spat.

[622, TWC: 2098]

The Patrolman’s directions had been correct at least. Numachi stood at the base of a great stair carved from stone, and at its peak lay wooden doors banded with iron. The Sigil of the Water Monks flew above black spires. I thought they were supposed to be a haven for weary travelers. He tilted his head to the darkened windows. The Temple at Kirigakure had always been well-lit, even on the dimmest of nights. If this was an omen or some portent, Numachi was oblivious to it. Placing a palm on his sword hilt, Numachi approached the entrance, steadying the sheath that knocked against his leg as he climbed.

Before the great doors, he called aloud for guards, but upon hearing no reply Numachi knocked on the slab of wood. No reply. With each consecutive knock, he grew impatient, until he was beating on the door with all his might. It heaved before him. The bolts on that tied together hinges squealed, as slats of vertical wood cracked under some unknown force. Numachi’s red eyes widened as water gushed from the cracks in the panes. He dodged to the right as the water came bursting forth, exploding the door into shrapnel. The great flood surged outward, down the stairs, and out into the streets below. When all its fury passed, he turned to enter, drawing his steel as he waded through its waterlogged halls.

Numachi passed corpses face down as he roamed the temple, some already parchment pale, and swelling from the water. The hall opened into a grand–what was the word? Numachi did not know it–prayer room? High arches. . . A strange smell wafted past him. He heard the stiff beat of wings and saw moon beams illuminating the room from a hole above him. Saw a bald monk kneeling before a swordsman with a black bird on his shoulder. The monk was on the verge of passing out, all his weight leaning forward on the swordsman’s leg. Numachi’s splashing footsteps made them turn their heads.

“Am I interrupting?”

The swordsman pushed the monk over into a puddle as the blackbird took to flight from his shoulder, and sloshed his way over to Numachi.

Numachi rested the back of his blade on his right shoulder, a wry smile touching his lips. Eyebrows bent high into an inquisitive pose. Then a weak voice called out in the moonlight.

“You’ve–,” The voice rasped,” You’ve got to kill the bird first.”

The nameless swordsman’s blade arched towards him through the air, and Numachi replied, blocking the blow with his sword. Numachi pushed him back, sending him reeling through the water, and attempting to regain his balance.

Numachi looked to the monk again, who had managed to prop himself up by his elbows, his face raw and bloodied from the scene.

“Kill the bird,” The monk called again,

Numachi caught a glimpse of himself in the water illuminated by moonlight. Some mission. Numachi dashed at his opponent, skimming across the water like a bug.

[WC: 502 TWC 2600]