Eastern Marketplaces [O]
Dec 7, 2015 23:59:53 GMT -7
Post by Tipu no Zakuji on Dec 7, 2015 23:59:53 GMT -7
Tipu pulled his woolen coat closer to him as an autumn wind nipped at his neck. The seasonal winds cut through the sky-high city like rivers, pushing and pulling through the valleys flanked by the impossibly high skyscrapers. It brought the smell of the sea; the Kirigakure ninja wrinkled his wide nose at the rich smell. The pale sky would force the layman to assume the oncoming of rain but the Tsuki-born shinobi had become accustomed to the mist-laden skies. The horizon was but a shadow in the city: the combination of the mists and skylines allowed him to only take in his immediate surroundings: an experience to which he had grown to expect; the memory of a clear horizon was now far behind him.
Tipu's muscles ached with a bittersweet pain that tugged at his attention. Yesterday's mission had him hauling heavy objects for an old woman in the western part of town. While he was unaccustomed to such tedious missions, he did his duty without complaint and took his pay with gratitude. Such missions brought the ninja of the village great respect from the common folk, and as a result Tipu wore his armband on his large arm with great pride. His Zakuji headdress flickered like the flame of a candle about to be extinguished and beneath his coat his feathered necklace tickled his chest. He wore his rapier upon his belt, a symbol of his status.
A rush of wind brought the market chatter to his wide ears. He always heard it before he could see it, a phenomenon that citizens of the mist knew all too well. The afternoon market did not buzz as much as the early market: it was often the morning when everyone took their daily errands before beginning their late-morning chores. Nevertheless, Tipu was still unaccustomed to the crowd of the Kirigakure markets. The occasional harvest markets of his homeland would rarely draw more than a hundred folk, but several times that was a daily occurrence in the sprawling metropolis.
It was not a thick crowd, not thick enough to lose somebody in it, but still crowded enough to have to maneuver skillfully without colliding with another person. It was with patience Tipu moved, careful not to strike anyone with his large frame and have someone drop their afternoon purchase. He approached a stall with recently slain chickens hanging in the window and purchased a cut of meat for tonight's supper and one for tomorrow's. The butcher wrapped it in thin, brown paper and sealed the packages with a red, rubber wax. It was with delicate and dexterous fingers the butcher wrapped. Watching him work somehow brought a deep calm over the young shinobi. He paid the man, tucking the purchases under his left arm, and thanked him.
Sure there were closer butchers but this one was Tipu's favorite. He did not know the man's name, nor had ever spoken to him beyond ordering his cuts, but somehow he felt a connection to the man and his work. Tipu turned, preparing to make the two mile walk back to his small apartment.
Tipu's muscles ached with a bittersweet pain that tugged at his attention. Yesterday's mission had him hauling heavy objects for an old woman in the western part of town. While he was unaccustomed to such tedious missions, he did his duty without complaint and took his pay with gratitude. Such missions brought the ninja of the village great respect from the common folk, and as a result Tipu wore his armband on his large arm with great pride. His Zakuji headdress flickered like the flame of a candle about to be extinguished and beneath his coat his feathered necklace tickled his chest. He wore his rapier upon his belt, a symbol of his status.
A rush of wind brought the market chatter to his wide ears. He always heard it before he could see it, a phenomenon that citizens of the mist knew all too well. The afternoon market did not buzz as much as the early market: it was often the morning when everyone took their daily errands before beginning their late-morning chores. Nevertheless, Tipu was still unaccustomed to the crowd of the Kirigakure markets. The occasional harvest markets of his homeland would rarely draw more than a hundred folk, but several times that was a daily occurrence in the sprawling metropolis.
It was not a thick crowd, not thick enough to lose somebody in it, but still crowded enough to have to maneuver skillfully without colliding with another person. It was with patience Tipu moved, careful not to strike anyone with his large frame and have someone drop their afternoon purchase. He approached a stall with recently slain chickens hanging in the window and purchased a cut of meat for tonight's supper and one for tomorrow's. The butcher wrapped it in thin, brown paper and sealed the packages with a red, rubber wax. It was with delicate and dexterous fingers the butcher wrapped. Watching him work somehow brought a deep calm over the young shinobi. He paid the man, tucking the purchases under his left arm, and thanked him.
Sure there were closer butchers but this one was Tipu's favorite. He did not know the man's name, nor had ever spoken to him beyond ordering his cuts, but somehow he felt a connection to the man and his work. Tipu turned, preparing to make the two mile walk back to his small apartment.
