SHINOBI - PART ONE
Eiji's late and the clouds aren't clearing.
I stand in the alcove that lies a half-a-street down the way from Mochizuki's tavern, chewing on a length of grass, shifting my weight from foot to foot. It's been a dismal morning, threatening to prove a dismal day. The clouds are grey as goat wool, close enough to touch, it seems, and there's that smell that precedes rain that I am certain I can smell.
You're always closer to rain in the mountains.
I chew my grass until I need to spit. The grasses of Iga, I've found, are wiry and bitter. It turns your spit bitter, and so I spit a second time. An old baba scowls at me, the way she's been scowling at me for the past ten wasted minutes, sweeping the same spot with the same broom over and over like she's trying to scratch my name into stone with the bristles. She doesn't know my name.
This isn't my town. I am not her people…
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