In the Dojo [So Open]

Up and down, up and down, up and down, the wooden pole masquerading as a sword soared through the air like a pendulum tilted to one side, dancing indefatigably under the watchful gaze of the young (ish) practitioner. And what a watchful gaze it was, all six of those unholy red-on-yellow eyes moving in synchronicity, like the segmented vision of some horrible and alarmingly human insect. From the back one could almost say he was normal, a little tall for a genin, sure, perhaps a bit too zealous in his training, but nothing strange, nothing which should call any of the alarming responses people tended towards.

From the back, however, would be from the entrance as well, and from such a vantage one could see a wide berth surround him, the otherwise orderly rows of those training in sword and shuriken and fist interrupted so as to not move too closely to this odd creature. Horns were one thing, but that unholy visage defied stomaching. For his part, Kuragesame kept alone, facing one wall, joyously perfecting the cut he practiced. The important thing, for him, was to align not simply his hands but his whole body with the edge of the cut, to move his momentum so as to maximize the efficiency of the strike and to not risk snapping the blade, at least when he eventually elected to pick one up.

Having only small-fry missions available him, he had fallen on some hard times and could not afford anything in the way of a useful weapon and so he relied on his hands. Not something much becoming of the world’s most renowned swordsman, but eventually the village would recognize his talents and shower him with gold. That was, after all, how the human world worked; money had been made up and so could be thrown out without care, at least according to the six-eyed beast.