Sword in Water

[Shinkirō Kawakami]

The art of Kenjutsu has existed for over a millennium. Swordsman from all over have sought to perfect it-- The technique of the sword. Though not always known under that specific name, the concept has remained the same. Even now, as the future presses on and new, more advanced disciplines arise, the sword remains a universal key. A weapon with a single purpose, a edge.

It matters little where one practices his profession. Whether day or night, raining or dry, mountains of meadows. The practitioner seeks to perfect his method no matter where he may go or be. Shinkirō believes this without a doubt. It is that belief that, even on his makeshift boat, betwixt tear shaped isles, that he seeks to perfect his swordsmanship.

Like moonlit quicksilver the mysterious Samurai sword dances to life within the mist of Mizu. The sound of steel and wood and parting air livens the toiling haze. Though no one stands watch or bares witness to the hallowed training of a Samurai, his dedication to it is unparalleled. Every draw, every slice, strikes true against imagined foes and invisible paths seen only by the swordsman himself. A sword dance with no particular rhythm, but idea of how it should be.

Each stroke of steel plays through a scenario, a story, made by his thoughts and reflections of the past. How many warriors has he seen use these techniques? Their names lost in the annals of time, but their styles and skills relived every moment-- Every draw of the blade. In an instant the mist parts, revealing the heavily armored Samurai briefly, then silently it creeps back together; A perpetual veil on the eerie byways of Mizu no Kuni. And once more the blade seeks haven within the scabbard.

[Shinkirō Kawakami]

Dedication drives a man to extremes they say. Very few understand what true dedication is. It is a conviction of sorts that pins him on a fixed path. He is destined, determined, and adamant to stand his ground in belief. Samurai take this concept so strongly that they have died on the battlefield for their thoughts and beliefs. But in their ephemeral lives, they passed on what become a tradition. Each passing generation has given the next a repetitive but functional art of swordsmanship.

Shinkirō's determination is no less than that of his ancestors. A warrior at heart, born with a heart of Samurai steel and conviction. Even so far from home, the concepts instilled within him shine true and he practices on. Almost ritualistic his actions cleave the air and brush away wisps of mist as it encroaches on his vessel. Though the purpose is not to remove the mist-- Merely honing one's own abilities. A practiced hand is a keen hand.

As time passes there is no need for strained effort. One begins to flow into the action as if it were a part of themselves. Each swing, step forward, every thought and idea melds into a whole and flows into a single strike. Like lightning the blade leaps into the air and strikes. The air is sundered and the mist scatters briefly. A fleeting enemy. But always it returns and serves to push the warrior on as his eye follows the blade into completion. He seeks only mastery - Only Perfection - An understanding of the blade.

What is this technique? The sword is drawn and it strikes-- The move is known but the name is as elusive as a winter rabbit. His mind delves deep and the blade sweeps once more. What did they call it again? It had seen it done and practiced it himself so long that it became a distant memory, not forgotten, but no laying within mental reach. This is not frustration he feels, for that would cloud his vision. It is a curiosity that gnaws at his mind and spirit, drawing the technique up from the farthest reaches of his mind.

[Shinkirō Kawakami]

Shinkirō had fought in many wars and learned many things on the battlefield. Through the way of the sword his comrades and himself had secured victory many times. It was through Bushido-- Through Kenjutsu that he was allowed to continue on. Modesty made it appear as though skill did not play a factor. As the sword leaped from it's haven once more, the idea was laughable. Skill? Shinkirō? It was just a swordsman. An old used tool of era long gone, short-lived as it was.

The mist soon parted by not a result of Shinkirō's training. The skies, clouded and angry, finally released their wrath on Mizu. Lightning flickered through the atmosphere and rain pelted the land beneath. Like the light pat of hands against drums, the beat of water droplets into the waters of Mizu filled the air. Even on the metallic surface of Shinkirō's armor could it be heard resonating into the distance.

It was an omnipotent sound that had no end. It became a part of the ritual. A melding element into Shinkirō's training his he crouched within the soggy makeshift boat, swollen wood creaking with strained effort to support the activity. Each draw drew a protect from the boat, but he endured each, held together by tight, fresh vines salvaged from the waterside somewhere. Each drop of water added to the weight it carried, pooling upon the interior.

There was no worry in the Samurai though. Land was all around him and should something happen it would not take long to reach one of the various islands that composed Mizu. What he did not know is which harbored the hidden village of the water country, Kirigakure. But what his mission and purpose in the country entailed did not require him to know that specific location. Only when he found what he sought would that become a required knowledge.

Once more did the sword dance, but this time it struck residual beads. Translucent and plentiful, they made excellent targets for the Samurai to practice-- To train. He was never known for being very power. It was the speed of his draw that made all the difference in the field of battle. Back to back, enemies everywhere, speed became one's greatest ally. The blade cleaved through the descending water, but the technique's name still evaded him.

[Shinkirō Kawakami]

In one swift thrust the name formed on the tip of his tongue. He stood there with his sword drawn and pushed forward. As the blade instantly lanced through the air, he knew. "Mae Zuki." It was a common technique employed within the field and played a pivotal role to anyone who knew how to use it. A simple thrust could be the most deadly, especially when done in such quickness that the opponent has little time to react.

With a nod and a grin of satisfaction, Shinkirō sheathed the katana and placed his hands on his hips. His muscles ached but the satisfaction of remembering the technique was enough to dull the pain. For now. He sat back into the boat and pulled out the oar. The rest was.. Well.. Rest until training was picked back up or a Nukenin was found. No doubt, hours later, he would be back at it, practicing another forgotten move.

Attempted To Learn

Mae Zuki (Front Thrust)
Rank: D
Type: Offensive / Taijutsu / Kenjutsu
Range: 0 - 6 ft.
Special: Rank of strike depends on the user's highest 'Battojutsu' rank. Each time retrained, 'D' ranked damage is stacked.
Description: Commencing from a standing position, the practitioner draws and thrusts a frontal attacker then quickly sheathes. As they invest more time and practice into the art of offensive sheathing, their overall offensive rating shall increase.
Domain: Kenjutsu. Battojutsu 'D'.

[Messatsu!]

Tech Learned, +6

[Shinkirō Kawakami]

A long time had passed while Shinkiro was in Mizu no Kuni, but with no apparent action outside of the last bijuu attack. Who knows what happened after he left. The whole village could have been destroyed wherever it was, but all he needed to know was that the villages were on top of their own issues. The Samurai would know no different. The mission was complete as far as he was concerned. From boat to land Shinkiro made the long journey back home.


( move to iron. )

[Messatsu!]

moved