Mission:

National Security

The sun suffocated behind the darkened skies, remnants of the roads lifted into dust only to be carried in the breeze, drifting in the early evening. The wind whistled, singing songs of sad maidens that traversed as it passed the shinobi that rested upon the trees arms of bark and leaf green. Lying in wait was a man with frosted hair, a brilliant white that distinguished him from many others from their charcoal black and ashen grey. The fire still burned bright in their eyes however, their eagerness blazed with passion and readiness as their trusted iron tools within their tightened grasp and unwavering determination to use them seemed unmatched with the experience behind them and a new calling before them.

His eyes were shut closed, his ears peaked as they honed on each familiar sound of the forest. In order to track, one should learn the simple question; which sound did not belong? His body did not move and neither did his comrades. Frozen to their positions as if their blades allowed frost to stick within their sheathes, not wanting to engage unless otherwise forced. They lived and died in the shadows. When streets were in distress, they would take to the rooftops. When the performance carried on, they lingered behind the drawn curtains ready with the hook at all times. Wolves among sheep, snakes within grass, porcelain dolls in  haunted houses, the shinobi lived and died in the shadows with only the hopes of their actions being written in history as their signs of remembrance.

His eyes opened. The man with brilliant white already found three sets of eyes focused to his own. A simple nod allowed them to follow up with their preparations, iron steel curling into their forearms. They moved with elegance yet no sound would accompany them. The lifted themselves from one knee, their heels lifting off from the branches as their weight shifted onto the ball of their feet, one hand between them for further support. Their faces covered in dark blue cloth to match the darkened skies allowed them to hide with ease in the night. Their eyes seeped through like stars in the night, only they were enveloped in malice and with the intent of impending death. They say shooting stars are a symbol of reaching ones ultimate destiny. Which brave enemy dared to look?  

A short distance away, not one hundred meters from their current whereabouts, the dust would not settle on the earthen roads. It dispersed with each step taken by a team of eight men of shadows. The pace was steady, yet quick. The spring in their steps almost gifted their bodies with the appearance of flight across the winding an narrow path. Their heads remained forward while their eyes shifted to scan the area. Some carried sickles and chains that wrapped their bodies to silence the jingles it bore. Others carried small blades of tanto, pockets filled with wire, shuriken, kunai, paper scrolls, makeshift bombs or any other means of aiding their mission of assassination.

The shinobi that resided upon the trees began to melt into the shadows, climbing down the trunk of the old father of leaves. Two of the shinobi melted into a puddle of water by roads edge allowing the pale moonlight to reflect on their whereabouts with a subtle hint. The man with hair of frost became one with the bark, intertwining with its roots at the base of the woodland and sunk into to the soft soil beneath. The remaining shinobi began his retreat, a messenger of the shadows in case of their failure, or a ploy left at his own devices. His hand grazed every other tree as he passed them, deeper and further into the woods, swallowing his unknown further into the darkness.