Your Father's Daughter || Mizu x Fem! Reader || ||Blue Eye Samurai ||

Chapter 4

The streets were as busy and crowded as you remembered. It took you a little over a day to get down there from where your fathers plot of land was. It would have taken you less time if you hadn't traveled on foot, but you didn't want any attention on you. It was easier to slip in and out without a horse to worry about and you could take care of yourself just fine. This wasnt your first time being your fathers eyes and ears in places he couldn't enter without drawing attention to himself.

You decided to become familiar with your surroundings. If the Kamiizumi's knew of this samurai, that meant one of two things. He was well known, or close by. Rumors and gossip spread like wildfire in cities and towns, passing from peasants, to merchants, to the inns and brothels and finally to the higher ups. If he wasn't in this town, he would be in the next, and if he wasn't in the next, someone would know. Someone always knows. People talk.

Hitching rides behind carriers, slipping into alleyways, walking the streets in plain daylight or even the nights, you became a wanderer. It was easier to blend in a town. Everyone was more focused on themselves to really notice another stranger slipping in and out. You learned to use that to your advantage always.

If the samurai were in this town and traveling, he would eventually grow hungry, tired or in need of entertainment. Every other man you watched flocked to one of these three areas, and at the end of the day no matter what nickname this samurai had, he was just a man after all. You'd find him somewhere. It was then on your journey your mind began to wander, curiosity grabbing hold on this "Onryo".

What could make a man walk down this path of vengeance? It clearly was as it was targeted to specific people according to the rumor you heard that night. He had already removed one of his targets, and now he was onto the next. He was determined, and skilled, but that was all you could think of to add to his character. Your mind began to wander on other characteristics of his. He couldn't be loud or boastful, his actions do his speaking for him and others echo them like the walls of a cave. No one knew of his name either. You would think that someone who managed to slice through the four fangs would shout it from the mountain tops. Men would be prideful and loud about performing such a task, and yet no words of his had been repeated for you to hear. He was narrow eyed, focused, a predator who slips in and out the bushes, plotting on his next meal who lapped up water from the bank without a thought in its mind. He had a very specific taste, and with that came an unquenchable hunger that came with picky eaters. You refused to let your father become his next meal. Not that he could. Your father was a bigger predator, and more dangerous.

You decided to head in the direction of the town markets. There you were sure to find men and lost children wandering and stealing from the tables and trays. The markets were always busy, and bustling with life each time you visit. It was the closest resemblance you had to your childhood. Remembering days of slipping through the booths and grabbing whatever small item you could find. It was never enough to fill your stomach, but enough to hold you over, and more than what you would receive at home at times. Stealing was a crime that was taken very seriously here as everyone was low on income and were trying to get by with the profits they sold that week. It was punished if caught, so you had been sure to not get caught. You had watched the children who did get caught and decided that that wouldnt be your portion. Their punishments were always brutal. You remember the little boy who had a finger sliced for each piece of meat he had pocketed. Lucky for him, he only had two. You watched another little girl get her face shoved into the drying mud, and kicked to the side. There were no charitable strangers, no kindness. If you didn't learn it from home, you would learn it out here. The world can be a very cold place.

In every town market place there are restaurants. Places for people coming through and visiting to stop and rest before continuing the journey. Every local towns person knew that depending on the upkeep of the place, determined the quality of the food. Who needed clear thoughts when you cooked with heart and soul? The less organized, the better. You were confident that this man didn't care about sitting in a high-end restaurant where they kiss your knuckles and massage your calves. He must be furtive, quiet. The more mess around him, the easier it was for him to blend in. And who didn't like good food?