A walk for the lowly

In the dappled light of early morning, Kitsunagi received a telepathic message from Ren detailing his latest mission, a task as unconventional as it was intriguing. His objective was to assist a client in selecting the perfect pair of shoes that melded the worlds of comfort and combat into a seamless whole. The challenge lay not just in the selection but in the practice of combat, testing the shoes' efficacy as weapons—through the piercing strike of a stiletto heel, the solid thud of a wooden clog, or the sweeping force of a platform boot.

Kitsunagi looked at the instructions one last time, digesting the parameters of his assignment. The mission called for a balance of two seemingly incongruent skills – aesthetic judgment and martial expertise – mirrored his style's synthesis of strength and subtlety. With the scroll securely stored, he made his toward the marketplace, arriving with heightened focus. The atmosphere was filled with the fragrances of spices and fresh produce, and the sound of rowdy merchants and buyers bartering goods was overpowering. However, his attention did not waver; the mission was the guiding star that navigated him through the tents and booths. He decided to visit a shoemaker known for crafting boots as durable as they were elegant as a potential jackpot.

To the man's amusement, Kitsunagi informed the shoemaker of his peculiar mission. They pondered momentarily before the shoemaker showed him three boots, each combat footwear promising to provide battle and comfort. Kitsunagi took them one at a time, feeling their weight and testing their flexibility based on martial applications. The stiletto – slender yet deadly; the clog – simple and sturdy as ever; the platformed boot – imposing and balanced. The field of judgment was the backyard of the shoemaker, an impromptu arena for a most peculiar match. Kitsunagi donned each pair of boots, reverting to the fighting style he had perfected over the years. His kicks flowed like water, his swipes sharp and purposeful, testing them for response and damage potential. Every movement was choreographed, a dance fusing a martial art with a peculiar medium. Under the sun hanging behind him, high shadows trailing him, Kitsunagi judged.

The boots that sang in unison with his combat style, extending his natural prowess and agility, were the best. They were not just footwear but extensions of his will, tools that enhanced his natural acrobatics. Having secured the client's validation, the mission was over. Kitsunagi returned from the marketplace, clutching the scroll with his report, and pondered the day's lesson. In a world where the mundane and fantastic often blended, even the most unassuming objects could be instruments of strength and grace.

He hated this; it was a pathetic use of his time. He would be sure to keep his hatred towards Ren during his travels through this. But as he thought about Ren, he could hear that man's voice echoing through his mind's canals.

The sun was only halfway through its journey across the sky, casting a warm golden light over the land, when Kitsu saw an unexpected traveler cross his usual path – a kite with its string severed. The wind had carried it away from its intended direction, sending it spinning through the air with a strange, almost mocking vibrancy. Its colors were a riot of childhood whimsy, its path through the sky carefree and uncontrolled. In its way, it felt like a parody of everything Kitsu believed in – beneath the kite's cheerful facade, Kitsu saw his own deeply held nihilism reflected in him. And for one long moment, he felt like doing nothing more than watching. He could see the lost laughter in the child's hand in the design. In the broken string, he felt only holding futility – gradual decay and separation from all things.

Kitsu sighed, almost feeling like his breath weighed as heavily as his thoughts, and reached out – body moving with the clean, honed precision of decades of training – to catch the kite mid-fall. The contrast between feverish colors and his lined, bare palms was almost as stark as the contrast between his grand views and the kite's simple existence. The next step was clear – he needed to find the owner. It was a simple matter – or it should have been. And yet, returning a lost object to someone who had sadly lost it pulled at Kitsu's usual detachment. There was the kind option, the light in the shadow of his thoughts, and then there was the option he didn't want to consider – the option he craved.

While Kitsu pondered his decision, the life of the streets continued around him, unaware of the crossroads he faced in his soul. Once more, he raised his eyes to the sky, hoping to find some answer in this endless expanse. In the end, though, it was not a change in his inner philosophical position that finally decided things. Instead, it was one of those brief moments where he allowed himself to acknowledge in some small measure the web of connections that tied him to the world around him. Armed with the kite, Kitsu set off to return it, not rushing to give it back but acting in a way that would be true to his nature. His search was careful and diligent: each step was calculated as he looked at face after face, searching for a clue of loss, looking for a way back of the joy the kite might bring. It was a journey through the heart of the village, and with each encounter was an unspoken question. When he found the child and saw that the look of recognition in their eyes was equal to the color of the kite, Kitsu understood the total weight of his decision.

The exchange was brief, the kite passing from his hands to those who could rightfully claim it, but the brief moment was something more. He smiled briefly, a rare sight, before walking away. It was a small rebellion against his nihilism. There may have been moments to treasure in the uncaring, vast infinite.

In his wanderings through the village streets, Kitsu was approached by an older woman, her appearance unremarkable yet full of an undeniable determination. A simple request was made of him, or rather a desperation-turned plea rooted deep within familial bonds and the importance bestowed upon a special celebration. The woman came to him, telling him of her granddaughter's birthday, how necessary it was to receive her presents, and how life had conspired against her to make it impossible for her to deliver by herself. Growing up in isolation, Kitsu felt an agreement form within him despite his reservations. Hand in hand, they walked towards her modest dwelling, where time seemed to linger on softly, playing the intimate memories of its inhabitants.

Once inside, the lady prepared a basket, mixing the expressions of her love in all shapes and forms. Baked treats and presents, gently placed beside one another, showed their shared bond and the consideration of each gift within. The basket was bestowed upon Kitsu with a gesture, a nod of gratitude that defied the debt instilled in her heart. The gifts were bequeathed upon him, and the knowledge of exactly where her granddaughter already was, and with a mission, Kitsu walked away on the faded road once more. The rhythmic pace lined up with his heartbeat, reducing the world around him into simple shapes and colors that further framed his original task.

At the end of the path, the delivery basket was given up, and a silent trade was made between the white-haired girl and woman reminiscing about death. The empty basket was all that remained as Kitsu turned away and returned to his solitary existence, although a newfound understanding settled into his tired heart. There was a purposeful pull holding him down that his life as a hermit did not quite allow for—the facets of human bonds. That particular sort of invisible tapestry people weaved between their hearts and souls that he had grown apart from for too long. In the grand scheme, a simple task had been accomplished, a breadcrumb thrown out by eternity only to falter to the ground immediately.

At the end of his journey, Kitsu turned back and forced himself to remember the old lady's kindness and wishes. He continued to trek through the village, begging for his time in the forest to continue, but something told him that there would be more to do with the town, and he was going to get the drug out of it anyway. He looked up into the sky and noticed the edges of the sky inching their way above the village's presence. He looked forward to the rain that it would bring.

Night fell, shrouding the world in a cloak of twilight that blurred the lines between the seen and unseen. Under the moon's watchful gaze, Kitsu found himself assigned a task that danced on the very edge of folklore and reality. An elder, troubled by nocturnal disturbances in their garden, had posited the existence of forest sprites and spirits—a hypothesis Kitsu likened to a statement that the moon might decide to hike for a walk through the sky. The young man's skepticism was engendered by a profoundly ingrained nihilism and view of the world. However, despite his disbelief, the assurance of a small reward for his efforts piqued his interest. Under the fall of night, he arrived at the elder's garden, a verdant sanctuary that transformed into a stage for the mysterious performance within its borders under the moonlit evanescence.

His movements were shadows within shadows—the young man was exceptionally skillful in stealth as he assumed his nonchalant watch. The hours he passed were an unyielding testament to Kitsu's patience and discipline, rivaling his stolid nihilism in defining his identity. The young man believed that the fashioning of sprites and spirits venturing into the conventional world of gardens and greens was no more than fanciful cleromancy. But still, the young cynic was resolved in his diligence. The night advanced, relieving the garden of its murkier secrets as the intrusion of the forest sprites validated the elder's bewitchment and spiraled into the heresies of the lunatic.

It did so not by convoluted intentions of capricious mythical creatures but rather through the natural and unanticipated actions of the creatures of the night. In the moonlight, the truly architects of the garden's disturbance unfolded before Kitsu. . The watchful young man observed actual spirits as he sat in concealment, and the natural residents of the verdant abode traversed the near-mythic darkness. Creatures of fur and feathers were drawn to the garden's abode by the promise of ripe fruits and hidden nooks—a promise of nature's design that disregarded the skeptical eye of their silent guardian.

Kitsu watched in the quiet moonlight as they played out their epic interactions, animated by the pursuit of their selective survival. When the morning dawn painted the sky with the hues of golden light, the young man emerged from his nocturnal concealment. The mystery of the elder's superstitions Eden was laid bare under Kitsu's watchful eye. The stealthy presence presented a report to the village elder, dismissing their fanciful myth in favor of nature's more incredible design. The findings were delivered so assuredly that no counterclaim could be made in deference to imagine phantoms, so the young man was aware of the promised coinage that had finished the job. The shadowy figure walked away from the elder's mythic abode with a heavier purse than when he first arrived, a simple irony not lost on the young nihilism.

In a world that he found devoid of meaning, the young man's task was to chase superstitious phantoms. But in the sense of sirk and perhaps divine humor, he had been tasked with unraveling the mysteries of nature's creation. Despite the futility of humanity's beliefs and disbelief, nature would continue to thrive. The storm was directly above them now, and it was pouring rain.

In the eerie embrace of a gathering storm, Kitsu's path twisted towards desperation. The settlement, battered by the whims of torrent and howling wind, lay cloaked in a foreboding shadow. The sky was dark, and everything was ready to fill the village with tears, which were soon to burst from the sky. His torment was a match to the torment of his thoughts. The only sentiment he felt when he arrived was the prompting of desperate souls seeking a voiceless reprieve from the storm's unyielding passage.

A barn, with but a gaping fault in its roof, was their beacon of hope—a house of life. Kitsu often viewed the journey as a bargaining transaction with death. Death was skepticism, but there was no room for questions. The payoff for his consideration was evident, and despite the many questions raging in his mind like the storm that enveloped the villagers, action was imminent. No motion of shelter or life enticed him; only the challenge of the elements called him. The spat from disparity and entropy. His mass was but a calculation of the damage.

The patchwork system they would use to keep the storm at bay. The solution was utterly human, as was the predicament, and the only solution was the synergy that had brought them into the shack of trial and need. Hands grabbed things without words and treated claw-like-motion became a bridge across the board and hope. Wood, cloth, and man intertwined to mismatched symmetry in survival and chance. Kitsu's critique was not a demolition of the ad-hoc roof or its flimsy builder but of the fragile string knot constraining a world of ends.

The first drop, disguised as a simple raindrop, fell in the tentative pattern of anxious drums, signaling the end, beginning, or gathering of elements. Kitsu tied the last peg, the last knot of firm survival, rob, bed it of elegance and precision, and made it into the one thing that sufficed at that moment. The night-opening entrance for survival dashed into the furious statement of the storm. The settlement offered a barely warm place to rest and a simple meal. The significance was of little testament, but their appreciation brought light onto the cold and isolated attempts his life has become.

That night, as the storm raged outside, Kitsu found peace not in the questions posed but in the reality of the answers provided. It was not understanding that saw him through but action. The storm lypushed against the barn, but Kitsu was the dam that bent, held, and prevailed. It would end, the storm, and life would rise as dawn broke through the marshes of retreat and life. He could feel the spirits revel in the pure strength of nature's forces. He could hear the pouring rain pound now cease, and he would walk out seeing the after-effects of the storm's disruption. The ground was soaked with water, and the animals caught in the storm were completely soaked.

He would walk back to the forest, not really feeling anything for the day that he had. He had missed the spirits in the forest, but he would revel in the fact that he was able to experience such a show of their power within the confines of an artificial structure.

WC: 2538
TWC: 2538
EXIT

Claims:
Completion of 5 E rank missions
2000 ryo per mission due to Beloved Presence = 10,000 ryo
+50 AP
Current bonus AP = 836
After this mission = 886

WC Claims:
+1875 words towards Indomitable Will (Replacing ARcher's Calling) (Complete) [Max Stat Discount applied]
+663 towards Pureblooded Shinobi (663/3000) [Max Stat Discount Applied]