Sun, flaring like a great gold piece bursting from a molten core was dissipating into the great polsihed silver mirror of the marshlands, glass grown old and spattered with mold of cacophonic shades forming islets, riding the surface like so many boats yielding masts of gnarled wetland tree reaching in lazy arcs towards the sky. In the great shadow of a citadel seated upon this landborne ocean sheeding waterfalls through her roots like wedding day tears a teenager sat at her gates amidst the billowing tails of her watery dress. Resting upon the knees of the lady of the lake, the great stone matron's gaze offered some comfort in the breeze running through her full measure to this teen, the scent of lilies, fresh moving water and the cornucopia of spice embellishing street stalls and the markets invigourating his senses anew. Ryota had tasted true of his training this very morn, his very bones creaking and muscles burning with complaint. It was his own apparition of good fortune that brought the overstretching of his limits and a marked inability to raise his arms too high.

Rubbing his eyes, the black haired boy felt the grease and sweat of such a long day baking his mind and body in the heat coat his pale fingers,  giving a grumble of complain and a flick of his wrist in some futile attempt to dispatch it from his person. Eyes retreating from the now amber soaked precipice of the land of water's main seat of the shadow-folk, blue eyes squinted against purple images set into his sight of such strong direct light. Against the backdrop of his eyelids the white nova blurred and stirred against the more greaseless hand rubbing at his sore eyes.

"The night's watch awaits, Father." Uttered the boy hunched upon a favoured perch atop a building with a tinge of strain in his voice. Not entirely unreasonable to be fair yet duty calls upon all of us sooner or later. Hauling himself up upon the squared rooftop, the ninja remarked internally with a groan as sore haunches pushed him back to full height, soon plying his lower back with both hands to coax out delicate cricks and cracks of a spinal column that today had twisted every which way. Yielding a huff that puffed his cheeks like balloons, Ryota smoothed out the black of his inerited coat and fastened the mask in place. Duty was going to be late if he was not careful.

Within a few minutes he was back down amongst the streets, passing his way down the stone matron's legs and to march his way about the limits. Admittedly, he could take a particular sector or district but this struck far more pleasing. A threat from within could be handled by the experiences, the reputable and the legendary. This bottom-of-the-pile rookie knew instead that it was more the duty of his like to simply file reports and watch the walls. After all, who more unnoticed than a younger example of ninja? Crossing from this hilled street of small shops and niche restaurants the slimmer path gave way to the broad, more bustling mian street of Kirigakure. Even at this hour as crowds thinned amidst signposted bargains and gossiped of the day's passing events, Ryota smiled. Slipping through the shifting horde he took care to push himself even in these things, pearl buttons and fangs flickering through the dark centre of the road as they made their way for the outer limits carried a pair of probing eyes atop them.

Admittedly upon reviewing his earlier statement, it actually made considrably more sense for his type to retrieve word of inner disturbances, it was more flight of fancy than practicality of logic. Still, the genin made the effort to strain his eyes against the creeping blue of an abyss fading to black in an attempt to pick out a veritable criminal element. As his eyes adjust the man behind the mask ran tongue along his lips, the thickened saliva sticking to the roof of his dry mouth and set about parching his lips. Eyeing a stall offering refreshment, Ryota took decision it would be in his best interest to recon this booth in particular for the potential criminal element.

Striding across, taking care to weave between folk instead of bargnig through in some effort to further train humself in his manner of agile skill Ryota then took note of the man tending the stall. It was a quaint ordeal, the stall being barely more than the width of the man, just enough for either side of him to be set up with various packaged item to be hocked to the passerby such as himself. Leaning in somewhat to ascertain exactly what wares were available. Chocolate, gelatin, crisps... Drinks! Excellent. The somewhat young man was of tanned skin and lithe frame, a sparse beard indicating him to be the son of some fellow rather than the owner, looking quite disinterested with his head upon his arms. "Excuse me, a bottle of lemonade if you please." Requesting the Genin. Still the man stared, eyes vacant. Ryota gave pause, raising an eyebrow in pensive notion. Waving pale hand before the thoroughly spaced gentlemen before him, it registered how utterly vacant his eyes were. Substance abuse on the public high street? It seemed unlikely but the unprofessional boy such as he could very well be subject to such things. Shaking the man gently by the should prevailed nought, not even an inch of reaction. Looking about him, the assassin-to-be noted a note pinned to the side of the booth. It detailed a delivery time scarce moments from the present.

Baring no desire to be marked a thief Ryota took a step back, allowing a couple layers of the diminishing crowd's flow to cover his watchful eye. This 'delivery' was more than suspect with a man no more than a puppet in place. So long as he did not speak his clan would favour his concealment, pride for his form as a ghost growing within as a faint backlight to his focus. As a cloak-clad gentleman obscuring his face approached, a brown paper parcel was plucked from the sleeve of his robe little larger than a handspan, bound in string and with no solid consistency. Sloppy, this creature had even failed to package it correctly, powder spilling from it. Seeing all he had need of, this was a successful patrol in his eyes.

The sense of irony stored in the soul of the lady of the lake's veins, in her people and their movements against the individual's notions of fate and the direction of things. In taking a moment's departure from work it vehemently fell upon him? This would not do. Fleeing back, back to the brain of the city, Ryota would file a report and be done with this matter.

[1163 - 600 = 563]