It was a fairly innocuous day.
He was wearing his leather apron, thick leather gloves, and a mask with narrow eye slits. The warm glow of the heated metal was dull now, but the sound of his hammed slamming on it continued. He had folded the metal more times than he could count and the blade was as fine as any he had made. There were more things to be done to it though. He needed to sharpen it, he needed to cast a jutsu on it so that it wouldn't be able to be removed from its sheath. When it was placed in the sheath that he had designed for it anyway.
How many more would he make, he wondered, really that was a question on how many years longer would he live. Cloud was enjoying an age of peace, something he didn't feel would happen if he had remained as Raikage. His time had been filled with turmoil, he had upheaved the very fabric of the society, turned the village into a socialist state, placed laws to restrict the amount of trade that any individual supplier could provide. He had removed the previous council, putting in place one which guaranteed a greater voice for shinobi than that for citizens.
A smile formed behind his mask and tears formed as he thought about his killing the murderer of his best friend. The man who had led the village for so long. The man who Akira had protected many times. Shin was the best of men, and the joy of killing the woman who had instigated his death brought Akira such pleasure still, seven years on.
This was the seventh weapon that would be placed in his grave.
Each weapon was different, and each was worked on for months before the day itself.
Placing the weapon in water the familiar hiss of the blade caused steam to rise from it. The weapon this year was a ninja-to. A short sword, one which Shin had never wielded, or Akira for that matter, but the care that went into it was what Akira valued. It was a symbol of how much Akira cared for his lost friend. A man who didn't deserve his fate, who knew he was making mistakes who had visited Akira only days before he'd been killed.
It was an emotional time for Akira, yet he didn't visit the mans grave site himself.
That was why every year there was a shinobi asked to come to his smithy and make the delivery for him.
The sparks flew as his foot pumped the pedal, the stone spinning as he carefully ran the blade along it, sharpening it to perfection. The slightest touch would slice through flesh, even his toughened, callused hands would be cut by it.
In the end he ran an oiled cloth over it, giving it a shine. He took the mask off, removed his gloves and hung his apron on the wall. His bare chest and stomach revealed, softened with age, but still showing the strength of a man who had stood next to Shinbatsu. The blade was tiny in his hands, yet he carried it out the front and lifted it into the light. The blade gave off a blueish hue, the wave across it showed the perfection of the folding. It was a hard blade, wouldn't bend, if wielded in combat it would kill.
Placing it on the ground he formed a series of handseals and cast a jutsu on the weapon. This was to stop it being used after it was entered into the earth at Shin's grave.
Picking it up once more he placed it inside its scabbard, a temporary housing for the weapon. He went about tidying his smithy while he waited for the shinobi who had been given the D-Rank mission to arrive.
[OOC: For a description of Akira - https://www.ninpocho.com/viewtopic.php?p=29582#p29582
This is out of date though I have update the age. He's still massive... just older.]
He was wearing his leather apron, thick leather gloves, and a mask with narrow eye slits. The warm glow of the heated metal was dull now, but the sound of his hammed slamming on it continued. He had folded the metal more times than he could count and the blade was as fine as any he had made. There were more things to be done to it though. He needed to sharpen it, he needed to cast a jutsu on it so that it wouldn't be able to be removed from its sheath. When it was placed in the sheath that he had designed for it anyway.
How many more would he make, he wondered, really that was a question on how many years longer would he live. Cloud was enjoying an age of peace, something he didn't feel would happen if he had remained as Raikage. His time had been filled with turmoil, he had upheaved the very fabric of the society, turned the village into a socialist state, placed laws to restrict the amount of trade that any individual supplier could provide. He had removed the previous council, putting in place one which guaranteed a greater voice for shinobi than that for citizens.
A smile formed behind his mask and tears formed as he thought about his killing the murderer of his best friend. The man who had led the village for so long. The man who Akira had protected many times. Shin was the best of men, and the joy of killing the woman who had instigated his death brought Akira such pleasure still, seven years on.
This was the seventh weapon that would be placed in his grave.
Each weapon was different, and each was worked on for months before the day itself.
Placing the weapon in water the familiar hiss of the blade caused steam to rise from it. The weapon this year was a ninja-to. A short sword, one which Shin had never wielded, or Akira for that matter, but the care that went into it was what Akira valued. It was a symbol of how much Akira cared for his lost friend. A man who didn't deserve his fate, who knew he was making mistakes who had visited Akira only days before he'd been killed.
It was an emotional time for Akira, yet he didn't visit the mans grave site himself.
That was why every year there was a shinobi asked to come to his smithy and make the delivery for him.
The sparks flew as his foot pumped the pedal, the stone spinning as he carefully ran the blade along it, sharpening it to perfection. The slightest touch would slice through flesh, even his toughened, callused hands would be cut by it.
In the end he ran an oiled cloth over it, giving it a shine. He took the mask off, removed his gloves and hung his apron on the wall. His bare chest and stomach revealed, softened with age, but still showing the strength of a man who had stood next to Shinbatsu. The blade was tiny in his hands, yet he carried it out the front and lifted it into the light. The blade gave off a blueish hue, the wave across it showed the perfection of the folding. It was a hard blade, wouldn't bend, if wielded in combat it would kill.
Placing it on the ground he formed a series of handseals and cast a jutsu on the weapon. This was to stop it being used after it was entered into the earth at Shin's grave.
Picking it up once more he placed it inside its scabbard, a temporary housing for the weapon. He went about tidying his smithy while he waited for the shinobi who had been given the D-Rank mission to arrive.
[OOC: For a description of Akira - https://www.ninpocho.com/viewtopic.php?p=29582#p29582
This is out of date though I have update the age. He's still massive... just older.]