Foot of the mountain

Kut walked up to the gates, and he awaited to be let in. To see just what he was expected to do to enter. Should he be asked to perform a ritual of any kind, then he would cooperate.

With the first light of dawn slipping gently into the darkness, creating soft hues of gold and amber across the room, Sakoshi Kurosawa felt his mind slowly transitioning from the realm of dreams to the waking world. A new day was upon him, its silent call nothing more than a reminder that the night cycle making way for the morning and rest retreating against the tide of activity was unbroken. Getting up from his bed with the controlled grace that defined his every movement, Sakoshi moved to greet the day with a quiet, respectful stillness.

To him, the morning rituals, simple and yet done with complete attention to detail, were not mere ways to prepare for the day. They were a show of respect for it, a series of silent bids to acknowledge the gravity of having woken from peace to the world of responsibility. His morning preparations began with folding his bedding, an act done with enough care that it was almost artful.

Sakoshi finished by splashing his face with cold water from the basin next to his bed, feeling the immediate cleansing effect of the water. Dressed in the clothes he had chosen with the care owed to a day's duties, Sakoshi took a moment to survey his room's gentle lighting. Each day, he mused, was a tapestry of the mundane and the unexpected, and his life, the guardian of the village's peace and protector of its people, would weave its patterns through all. Stepping out of the front door into the cool morning air rippled with the promise of vitality, Sakoshi moved through Ren's home with a practiced air. The house was a symphony of gently shuffling light and shadow, and while he had never called it a sanctuary before, Sakoshi felt its grounding power more vital than ever.

In the village, life crept back into the streets in a stirring symphony of domestic sounds and humanity quietly returning to life. He heard his neighbor's greetings and morning routines played out as nature's sounds blended seamlessly with them. Every morning was a painting of community and continuity, and Sakoshi could not imagine a different life. The world around him was always a struggle of both growth and decay, beauty and the grotesque, and each of his steps along the village path wrote a new stroke of his narrative. The day would be difficult, tiring perhaps, but he would be substantial- the village needed him to be so, and he had always been. A village protector, Sakoshi Kurosawa moved forward in more ways than one- forever devoted to the sunlit side of the Earth.

The day's unfolding with its natural order finally brought Sakoshi Kurosawa into the rhythm of village life. There was a duty in his steps, a connection to the people that burned in the depth of his heart with a sense of belonging and community when the day's message came. There were minimal differences in his appointed duty today, much as it had been before – Sakoshi was to be the village gatekeeper once more.

Such endeavors had given him the status of the familiar and the repetitive, but this was not all. Tit had more solemnity than a mere repetition of the act of observation. As such, Sakoshi went to his appointed place calmly and alertly. The gate was the marker, the boundary that reality had forced between a known entity and the uncontrollable expanse of the world. It was not a barrier but a threshold, for the village gate was both a marker of safety and a post of vigilance, and Sakoshi was the sentinel. His eyes cast the horizon, and his unwavering sense of duty focused entirely on ensuring the threats to the village's peace did not break into the known territory. He was the one who would meet friends and judge strangers, all to ensure that the serenity of the known was not disturbed by the menace that came from the unknown and the unknowable.

As the morning progressed, Sakoshi's form became a reassuring image to the villagers. The care and vigilance that only a man with his solemn demeanor could enforce went unquestioned and unchallenged. His interaction was a thing of efficiency and understanding; it was based on his actual ability to read the emotions in the body and to perceive, above all else, the undercurrent of the thought that drove the individual. It was a monotonous day, but the sheer complexity of the task was not something that threatened him. The balance between openness and caution was familiar territory, a grand space for his awareness and responsibility.

As Sakoshi Kurosawa kept his watchful eyes on the ins and outs of the village gates, scanning the minds and intentions of those who sought access through their passage, he couldn't help but take notice of one of the most exciting specimens to have recently arrived. A young man, close to eighteen years of age, stood out by the looks of his physical appearance and something subtler, perhaps even more distinct. Indeed, the new arrival, whose name was Sakoshi, hadn't yet gotten the chance to find out, was long and slim, and their gait spoke grace at every step taken.

Even his hair – cut short and black – seemingly marked the man as someone who took their appearance very seriously and wove tales and messages through it. Then, the change in skin color could not be overlooked, as it announced the newcomer's land – his being raised and forever indelibly marked by the light and shadow of the land of wind and sand. But most interestingly of all were the newcomer's eyes – gray, metallic, and crystal-like eyes, holding a spark of joy and an abyss of sorrow and life's endeavors simultaneously. They were the eyes of a person young in years but ancient in life, lived in experience and suffering nonetheless.

His eyes spoke stories without words, and the tales they told were more intriguing for the fact. Kutari's clothing choices only made the young man stand out more. He wore a gray leather jacket, marking him as one of the pragmatists – those who knew what they wanted and saw the potential and perils of the world through discerning eyes. His hands were unusual, and they adorned his ears and fingers. One of his ears was pierced many times. Sakoshi knew firsthand the risk of wearing so many adornments in combat, but he appreciated the statement that danger could be embraced with a dash of style.

Each piece of jewelry was selected with extreme care for its deliberate placement, signifying the originality and sartorial audacity that only the young and those who had breathed the air of the sand and soil could accomplish so nonchalantly. When he finally approached the guardsman, Sakoshi nodded at Kutari as a silent gesture that he would be with him shortly. At that moment, when their eyes met, and Sakoshi finally turned his attention to the young man, a sense of curiosity welled inside him, a yearning to know more not just of this one man but of the life he had led, of the path his mind was laden with. Kutari was a fascinating puzzle, a person made of the mysteries of the sand and the sweat of the sun, and Sakoshi knew he would have to unravel him slowly and surely if he were to grasp that which underlined this man's being.

As the villagers and visitors kept streaming through and Sakoshi momentarily got lost in their minds, he already knew that the puzzle that was Kutari was one he'd be revisiting later. The man intrigued him, and that was not a small feat to accomplish for one who spent most of the day reading the thoughts of people who visited the blossoming village. Today was going to be just another day yet again, a day on the perimeter of the world – but that was not to say that the world wouldn't bring forth something new and exciting for him to ponder.

When Sakoshi Kurosawa finally approached Kutari, there was an air of expectancy, a gentle acknowledgment that the slight touch of fingertips would unlock a door into the essence of Kutari. With his curious blend of irreverent youth and commanding stature, the youth surrendered readily to Sakoshi's gaze. It was as if he agreed to the quiet communion, offering himself up to scrutiny without words. Sakoshi plumbed the depths of Kutari's being, his gift allowing him to navigate the shoals of the other's thoughts, emotions, and memories. He was a conscientious swimmer who respected Kutari's privacy and humanity.

He wanted only to learn and keep the uncle safe. Kutari's memories unfolded before him like the pages of a book, each page a glimpse of the young boy's younger life in the sandy desolation. His skin rose burnished and tanned like it is now, a physical reminder of his trials and the lands he had walked. Sakoshi caught glimpses of the boy's love for presentation, the care that went into choosing clothes and accessories a testament to his individuality and pride in his appearance. But behind it all, a driving force roared through Kutari's life and being, a single-minded intent that pushed him forward, past day after day of searching and climbing. His young journey was not merely a chase of experience but an adventurer's quest for knowledge about his place in his world.

These moments of life and death, joy and suffering, like the nighttime shadows that concealed these streets at sunset, transformed Kutari into the man he was, a young man living every day with a passion, embracing the challenges and risks his choices posed, and facing the darkness unafraid of what lay in its depths. As Sakoshi retreated from the young man's mind, the last remnants of their shared recollections fleeing before the end of their connection, the lines that connected him to this stranger began to unravel. Sakoshi looked at Kutari with respect, an acknowledgment of who he was.

No longer was Kutari just another traveler looking for passage. Instead, he was a young man whose life could be likened to a tapestry, woven through experience and choice and colored by the nature of his spirit. As the connection snapped and their voices left the other, Sakoshi saw his voice in a new light. He greeted Panai Kutari with a profound understanding of who he was, as abrupt as their mutual recognition had been, formed in the singular thread that connected their minds. The gate stood before them, as it had done for centuries, beckoning villagers down the paths they knew and the ones they did not. Sakoshi nodded, his recognition of the young man before him a testament to the fleeting nature of life.

So, after this silent communion and careful consideration of Kutari's intentions and memories by Sakoshi Kurosawa, the young man passed. Sakoshi saw nothing to fear in the character he had taken over these past days or his journey—only the potential for unfolding new stories beyond his ability to see within the village gate's embrace. As Kutari prepared to step through the village's gates, Sakoshi extended a sudden, practical, and symbolic gesture, a small wooden pass.

The same was a token that, though simple in every respect, came to represent the trust and understanding that Kutari had communicated in their shared silence. In its carven design, the small pass bearing the village emblem was a pass to freedom. Simple freedom would allow him to wander, talk, and explore, but something so much more complex intertwined within it spoke. When Sakoshi handed Kutari the pass, his gaze and the pass spoke volumes—a silent message of welcome and understanding. He saw where Kutari came from. He saw the journeys and the life that led him to this village and himself and beyond this here and now, and that said so much in such small gesture and sound.

Kutari accepted the pass with a nod of understanding and thanks, and though this exchange might seem short in the telling, it was extended in the feeling it conveyed. For these two figures, Kutari and Sakoshi Kurosawa, it was the intersection of their paths. Kutari's steps through the village's gates were guided by the wooden pass in hand for the advent of a story already written by the Fates. Sakoshi turned his head back to the people waiting in a series that was ever-growing but never too long.

The sun began its descent, spreading long shadows in every direction and a palette of oranges and pinks across the sky. Then, Sakoshi Kurosawa relieved the watch on the village gates and prepared for the night shift. From the bustling highway of the day, the village slowly eased into a moderate hum, anticipating the rest that the day's conclusion would promise. With the gates about to be closed, Sakoshi handed over to the permanent night watch, completing the familiar rite that marked the end of his watch.

Walking back toward Ren's house, his steps were measured with the thoughtful gait of a man faced with the peace and melancholy of the prevailing darkness. The village seemed to be falling asleep after a day of work as dim lights flickered into existence, signaling life teeming behind each house's door. As he idled back to Ren's, his steps retracing those of the day's awakening, Sakoshi pondered the day's interactions, the people he met, and the stories that only momentarily intersected with his. Each encounter at the gates was undoubtedly of responsibility's nature; Sakoshi fitted it with the thought that the world he served as gatekeeper was a rich tapestry of purpose and obligation.

Seeing the familiar structure of Ren's house gave Sakoshi a feeling of homecoming and relief. For years, the traditional home has been symbolic as a powerfully built structure and as a harbor from the wind blowing through the trees gently. The boundary of the building was a welcome reprieve from the space where he had to shoulder the heaviness of his role. There was a little ceremony when he walked into the house, but the man within congratulated himself for the respite. It was almost second nature to heave a sigh of relief once the door was closed, and Sakoshi let out a tired groan.

There were traditions to uphold, and even though a meal and a well-placed moment of silence were not dull, they still provided the grounding he desperately needed after the day and before the night. In the house's silence, he tried at least to pretend that the night was far away and the morning was not in a hurry. The feeling of at last stopping did much to keep Sakoshi calm, and the closing of the gates was nothing if not a relief. It was not only spatially but mentally a boundary—a closing off of the day and a door that was hard to turn back. Furiously, the morning would be prepared to do so, but he still had the moments to reflect on a dying day in the silent space. The door barred the world, and the night, in the company of his thoughts and duty, Sakososhi knew fatigue was his, before the dawn.

The night he had enveloped Ren's house in a blanket of calm. Sakoshi Kurosawa stood amid the tranquility of his home, reflective and at ease amid the solitude that allowed him to distill the day's lessons into guidance for those yet to come. The stillness of the house, broken occasionally by the whisper of wind or creak of wood, was a welcome respite necessary for entrusting the man responsible for the safety and well-being of the village.

Sakoshi thought of the visits to the gate, the stories unburdened by words, the mantle of responsibility with its unique weight: every day brought a new element of understanding, a fresh nuance in the multifaceted presentation of human nature, life in a communal environment. But the task of vigilance and retrospection was an honor at the same time. Sakoshi knew the morrow would bring new challenges, new faces at the gate, and new stories that would color the tapestry of the village. His charge was to guard its territorial borders physically. Still, his duty was to shepherd the community and the sense of family and acceptance that defined it in the personalities Sher's paths crossed through. The night went undisturbed like an obligatory balm of unbroken peace as Sakoshi soothed his spirit.

When the early morning light insinuated through his curtains, Sakoshi was ready. He arose quickly, the deliberateness of his actions unchanged, to proceed to the gates once more. The fresh village awakening atmosphere greeted him as he made his way through, and the sights and sounds of the community welcomed the day upon him. The rhythmic ping of the blacksmith's hammer, the early morning's murmured greetings, and the foliage rustling conspired in the village tapestry he had vowed to shield. At the gate, Sakoshi resumed his post, moving with the purpose of spirit.

The day to come was bound to inflect its troubles and tribulations, but he approached them with the assurance of previous familiarity and a touch of the heart-warmed calm of a man confirmed in his place. His eyes again scanned the vista before the village, a vigilant guard watching the threshold between known and unknown. The cycle was unbroken for Sakoshi Kurosawa as he once more took the helm of the guard post duties. He emulated the accurate ideal of stewardship and selfless service in his consistent exertions and unspoken reveries. His post at the gates was not a repeat performance of service but a conduit for deepened connections to protect the human aspects and the heart of the spirited village.

WC: 2959
TWC: 2959
EXIT

Claims:
Kutari Uchiha's Chakra Sig
Allowing Kutari in to the village

WC Claims:
+696 towards Transparent Escape Technique (complete) (Previous Progress)
+1875 towards Senses Beyond (Complete)
+388 towards Ninshu: Commune (388/1125)

Kutari would follow along with the ritual and allow himself to be scanned, including all of his memories. When he was done, he would accept the wooden pass and enter into the gates.

EXIT
No WC claims:
Entering Tsukigakure.