V
Vonghese
Guest
The morning sun was soft on her face, drying away the last residue of the water she'd refreshed herself with upon waking. The birds were going through a few chromatic scales to prepare for the day's songs. Dew sparkled on the grass, cold under her bare feet.
The sunlight took the sting out of the morning chill, just as she liked it. Kazusa hummed softly to herself as she stretched, loosening her body, her nostrils flaring as she enjoyed the fresh air before the town's smokes and brews polluted it. Every slow, graceful movement was like the next step in some secret dance, kept in time by an inner beat that only she could hear.
She could tell that she was being watched. The cook had left his door open so he could watch her while he prepared the morning breakfast. She would allow it. The cook was a respectful man, his eyes never flicked her way. He knew his place in the world, but allowed himself to dream even at his age. It was sweet. She smiled faintly to herself as she bent to a new position, and put him from her mind.
The woman was dressed in a spotless kimono as she went through her morning routines, and nothing she did allowed it to wrinkle or stain. The heavy rocks she would have liked to have lifted were muddy, so she went past them to spring up and catch hold of the ledge just over the side gate, pulling herself up in quick repetition till her arms ached, toes perfectly pointed all the while.
Eventually she noticed that she had another spectator. A man had come into the little courtyard and stood leaning, eyes boldly following each of her movements, lingering in places he wished he could see better. She did not allow his gawking to disrupt her training, giving his loutish actions the exact amount of consideration they deserved. Her eyes did not meet his as she crossed to where her naginata leaned, either, dancing from bird to spider-web as if he was not present.
"Let me see your hands," the man said abruptly as she reached for her weapon.
She blinked, as if noticing him for the first time. "Excuse me, sir?" she asked, eyes hooding demurely.
"Your hands," the man repeated. Upon closer inspection, he was dressed quite well. Not a samurai or true warrior, but someone who had trained... a rich man's son, perhaps? Someone who had trained, and fancied himself competent... perhaps he was even skilled. But his eyes did not have the right look. Whoever he was, he'd never killed a man, and therefore he was beneath her concern. Smiling, she bowed her head and held out her hands to him.
"Callused," he noted. Then he took them in his, his fingers caressing her palms. Bold! Bold, and foolish...
"Your hands should not be so rough," he told her. "Who is your father? What sort of negligence has he committed, that you must harden what should be soft?"
Stupid, but not without a modicum of courtesy. Ill-used courtesy, clearly his education had been a waste of everyone's time, but still... if he touched her nowhere else, she'd let him live.
"You are too kind," she murmured. "But please, do not let one such as I distract you from your day. Surely you must have pressing engagements."
He ignored the hint. "Surely there are better things for such a Lady to be doing than training as if she were a man..."
She didn't let him finish. She hadn't even begun her naginata forms yet. This buffoon was keeping her from training. Her hands blurred, there was a happy crackle of joints stressed to the breaking point, and the man was on his knees before her, eyes watering in pain. He was babbling something, trryng to excuse his behavior or protesting or begging or reciting poetry. Kazusa didn't care. She gave him a last winsome smile, the last attention she would favor him with.
This man was beneath her, regardless of their social ranks. He was a dog who'd been taught to dance on his hind legs and wear silk clothing, nothing more. She was willing to bet that his mother had been some coarse, base concubine. What a pity that her offspring had not aspired to rise above his heritage. Her gaze shifted back to the spider-web. It glistened so nicely, such a lovely picture. Maybe she should compose a haiku about it.
There was another pop of a tendon being torn from its mooring as she turned away. She'd forgotten to release the hand she held, oh, what a shame. Picking up her naginata, she walked back through the drying grass to the spot she'd picked as the center for her forms. By the time she was halfway through her first form, she'd forgotten about the man entirely.
"Three corners I take
To make my circle strong..." she considered. "To weave my circle web..." no, still one vowel short. She smiled at the cook as the man prepared her breakfast, such a debonair gentleman despite his circumstances. Over-paying for her meal, she returned to the courtyard, settling down on a bench to eat. Her morning had been so nice. She would like to continue in this theme for as long as possible.
The spider-web had been in a sheltered spot. The storm last night should have torn it all to ribbons. Maybe she could write about that. Surely there were plenty of poems already about the stillness and grace of spider-webs.
When her meal was finished at last, she left the courtyard behind the little breakfast-place and headed back to the inn, ducking into the tavern that made up the bottom story and pausing, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. She'd been party to enough fights to sense that the men in the tavern were spoiling for one... their body language screamed their violent intentions louder than the mightiest of horns. Rather than duck upstairs to refresh herself, Kazusa paused to watch.
Louts, every one of them, not a single gentleman among them, she decided. Her sympathies accordingly shifted to the woman they were menacing. In such close quarters, her naginata would be of only limited effectiveness, should she decide to join the fray, so she leaned it against a pillar and drifted a little closer with empty hands. If she needed a sword, she would simply take one.
The sunlight took the sting out of the morning chill, just as she liked it. Kazusa hummed softly to herself as she stretched, loosening her body, her nostrils flaring as she enjoyed the fresh air before the town's smokes and brews polluted it. Every slow, graceful movement was like the next step in some secret dance, kept in time by an inner beat that only she could hear.
She could tell that she was being watched. The cook had left his door open so he could watch her while he prepared the morning breakfast. She would allow it. The cook was a respectful man, his eyes never flicked her way. He knew his place in the world, but allowed himself to dream even at his age. It was sweet. She smiled faintly to herself as she bent to a new position, and put him from her mind.
The woman was dressed in a spotless kimono as she went through her morning routines, and nothing she did allowed it to wrinkle or stain. The heavy rocks she would have liked to have lifted were muddy, so she went past them to spring up and catch hold of the ledge just over the side gate, pulling herself up in quick repetition till her arms ached, toes perfectly pointed all the while.
Eventually she noticed that she had another spectator. A man had come into the little courtyard and stood leaning, eyes boldly following each of her movements, lingering in places he wished he could see better. She did not allow his gawking to disrupt her training, giving his loutish actions the exact amount of consideration they deserved. Her eyes did not meet his as she crossed to where her naginata leaned, either, dancing from bird to spider-web as if he was not present.
"Let me see your hands," the man said abruptly as she reached for her weapon.
She blinked, as if noticing him for the first time. "Excuse me, sir?" she asked, eyes hooding demurely.
"Your hands," the man repeated. Upon closer inspection, he was dressed quite well. Not a samurai or true warrior, but someone who had trained... a rich man's son, perhaps? Someone who had trained, and fancied himself competent... perhaps he was even skilled. But his eyes did not have the right look. Whoever he was, he'd never killed a man, and therefore he was beneath her concern. Smiling, she bowed her head and held out her hands to him.
"Callused," he noted. Then he took them in his, his fingers caressing her palms. Bold! Bold, and foolish...
"Your hands should not be so rough," he told her. "Who is your father? What sort of negligence has he committed, that you must harden what should be soft?"
Stupid, but not without a modicum of courtesy. Ill-used courtesy, clearly his education had been a waste of everyone's time, but still... if he touched her nowhere else, she'd let him live.
"You are too kind," she murmured. "But please, do not let one such as I distract you from your day. Surely you must have pressing engagements."
He ignored the hint. "Surely there are better things for such a Lady to be doing than training as if she were a man..."
She didn't let him finish. She hadn't even begun her naginata forms yet. This buffoon was keeping her from training. Her hands blurred, there was a happy crackle of joints stressed to the breaking point, and the man was on his knees before her, eyes watering in pain. He was babbling something, trryng to excuse his behavior or protesting or begging or reciting poetry. Kazusa didn't care. She gave him a last winsome smile, the last attention she would favor him with.
This man was beneath her, regardless of their social ranks. He was a dog who'd been taught to dance on his hind legs and wear silk clothing, nothing more. She was willing to bet that his mother had been some coarse, base concubine. What a pity that her offspring had not aspired to rise above his heritage. Her gaze shifted back to the spider-web. It glistened so nicely, such a lovely picture. Maybe she should compose a haiku about it.
There was another pop of a tendon being torn from its mooring as she turned away. She'd forgotten to release the hand she held, oh, what a shame. Picking up her naginata, she walked back through the drying grass to the spot she'd picked as the center for her forms. By the time she was halfway through her first form, she'd forgotten about the man entirely.
"Three corners I take
To make my circle strong..." she considered. "To weave my circle web..." no, still one vowel short. She smiled at the cook as the man prepared her breakfast, such a debonair gentleman despite his circumstances. Over-paying for her meal, she returned to the courtyard, settling down on a bench to eat. Her morning had been so nice. She would like to continue in this theme for as long as possible.
The spider-web had been in a sheltered spot. The storm last night should have torn it all to ribbons. Maybe she could write about that. Surely there were plenty of poems already about the stillness and grace of spider-webs.
When her meal was finished at last, she left the courtyard behind the little breakfast-place and headed back to the inn, ducking into the tavern that made up the bottom story and pausing, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. She'd been party to enough fights to sense that the men in the tavern were spoiling for one... their body language screamed their violent intentions louder than the mightiest of horns. Rather than duck upstairs to refresh herself, Kazusa paused to watch.
Louts, every one of them, not a single gentleman among them, she decided. Her sympathies accordingly shifted to the woman they were menacing. In such close quarters, her naginata would be of only limited effectiveness, should she decide to join the fray, so she leaned it against a pillar and drifted a little closer with empty hands. If she needed a sword, she would simply take one.
