Women Don't…
Words: 557- Rating: T
Women don't fight; they don't use swords. Women don't speak against men; they work, tirelessly in the kitchens; they slave, continuously over the cleaning, and the mending, and the wash. Women don't cause blood shed. To think a woman capable of more than temperamental violence, was ludacris, insane even. Women had their place, and that was beneath men.
The clear sound of steel carving air met the ears of a slumbering Tokyo. Far inward of the bloodshed centered around the streets of Kyoto, the obvious sounds of lives being lost ricocheted off of the wooden structures lining the pathways. The dusty, packed ground ran red as bodies unwillingly gave into the sweet call of death and spilled their hearts onto the floor beneath them. One from them all walked from the dark alley, stained crimson by the blood of others.
Calm. There was no rush to escape from the deed, no fear of discovery. Nothing but eerie, dizzying calm came from the samurai as his zori soundlessly plodded a trail along the storefronts. There wasn't another living soul out, no one around to bare witness to the vile act staining the relatively peaceful grounds of the city. Those who dare risk venturing from the safety of their homes, wouldn't see a thing, they would hear no sound, but the gentle breeze against the roofing tile. The blood of innocents would not greet the air, it wouldn't slide down the length of steel of the nocturnal hunter, there was no need.
Ink black hair flowed with the gusts of the midnight air, billowing alongside the warm haori and hakama. It streamed out from the warriors knot on the head of the killer, rivalling the sky with its dark shade. Steel glimmered, hard amidst a fringe of shadowy strands, dull but for the light of the moon.
Further and further along the streets the swordsman traversed, no apparent direction, no apparent purpose. It wasn't until he halted at the edge of a gated building, that any sign of life or mind showed on his face or body. The tall wooden fence was scaled easily, and the home on the other side infiltrated as well. No one stirred beyond the rice-paper walls, and no one was going to.
Hand laid lightly on the hilt of the small wakizashi, the samurai entered the building. Practiced ease guided his steps down the halls and through the doors to a room decorated for a woman. It was lined with chests and kimono racks and a small vanity and writing desk. A futon and yukata were lying in wait at the center of the room, ready for use by their owner. Uncaring, he stripped.
The layers of bloodied fabric fell to the tatami flooring with a shuffling 'whoof' of moving fabric, accompanied briefly by a clacking of weight against wood as the daisho was set aside in a far corner. When again the partially nude form met the glow of the moon, the soft lines of a woman shone in the pale light. The bandages on her chest uncoiled and slithered to the ground and left no skin covered as she knelt to retrieve her clean robe.
A woman had turned the tides. Nestled in the sanctity of a dojo, under the guise of being of the opposite gender, a woman was rising.
Owari
Thanks for reading. I'll probably continue this I just don't know when… Reviews are appreciated!
Arigatou gozaimasu, minna-san.
Wool