It was a barren and quiet afternoon in the poorer district of the surface village. The kage had not likely intended the village to somehow organize itself into richer and poorer sections, but it seemed that this was the natural way of things. The streets were packed with two or three times as many sweaty bodies than the more affluent neighborhoods. The shops were less glamorous, and the decorations that had been spread equally throughout the city were becoming scarcer as plants died and maintenance began to falter. It shouldn't have been a surprise to any who was familiar with politics. The affluent made sure that they, their friends and benefactors homes and neighborhoods were well taken care of, and resources were limited. For a man to stand taller than the others, there must be a back for each foot to step upon.
This discrepancy did not only affect the citizenry, but also the shinobi of the villagers as well, however they were much less likely to live their lives in squalor. Risking one's life on a near daily basis certainly did pay more than a simple carpenter, but there were shinobi who had debts, or were simply not successful enough to warrant suitable living conditions, even if they were lucky enough to survive as far as they had. It was for these sort of shinobi that the workshop existed. Weapons required sharpening and reforging, puppets required upkeep and even simple tools needed fixing for even the poorest of shinobi. The few that used this workshop were grateful for it, as it provided basic supplies that they could not afford themselves, albeit in limited quantities and of poor quality. The workshop sat on the edge of one of the busy intersections, its opening only ten paces wide, thirty deep and five tall, yet housed room for at least a dozen workbenches and just as many shinobi to ply their trade.
As busy as the streets were outside, there was scant a soul in the building now. Empty, ave for one who was working near the back. The sounds of metal grinding against a sharpening stone echoed through the cluttered interior, drowning out the bustle from outdoors. Pieces of one of the puppets were scattered across the various workbenches and tables, the sole occupant making ample use of all their available space. He pressed the rough edge of a long blade against the wheel, pressing hard against the pedal that spun the grinding wheel in place. The weapon had no handle, just a long rod that fit into some section of one of the many pieces that were scattered around. Ren lifted the weapon off from the wheel, examined the edge for a moment before he pressed the edge to the grindstone once more and the echoing grinding sound sped up to full intensity within seconds.
This discrepancy did not only affect the citizenry, but also the shinobi of the villagers as well, however they were much less likely to live their lives in squalor. Risking one's life on a near daily basis certainly did pay more than a simple carpenter, but there were shinobi who had debts, or were simply not successful enough to warrant suitable living conditions, even if they were lucky enough to survive as far as they had. It was for these sort of shinobi that the workshop existed. Weapons required sharpening and reforging, puppets required upkeep and even simple tools needed fixing for even the poorest of shinobi. The few that used this workshop were grateful for it, as it provided basic supplies that they could not afford themselves, albeit in limited quantities and of poor quality. The workshop sat on the edge of one of the busy intersections, its opening only ten paces wide, thirty deep and five tall, yet housed room for at least a dozen workbenches and just as many shinobi to ply their trade.
As busy as the streets were outside, there was scant a soul in the building now. Empty, ave for one who was working near the back. The sounds of metal grinding against a sharpening stone echoed through the cluttered interior, drowning out the bustle from outdoors. Pieces of one of the puppets were scattered across the various workbenches and tables, the sole occupant making ample use of all their available space. He pressed the rough edge of a long blade against the wheel, pressing hard against the pedal that spun the grinding wheel in place. The weapon had no handle, just a long rod that fit into some section of one of the many pieces that were scattered around. Ren lifted the weapon off from the wheel, examined the edge for a moment before he pressed the edge to the grindstone once more and the echoing grinding sound sped up to full intensity within seconds.