The wind never truly rested at Dragon Tooth Pass, but Shizue Tsuchimikado still found herself startled by it. The cold bit into her skin, leaving her numb and wanting to have bundled better against the cold, though what she wore was enough to keep her from hypothermia and frostbite, it wasn't enough to keep the nip of the wind out of her bones.
It did not behave like the gusts that prowled the training fields or the clean drafts that rolled down from the peaks near the outlying villages. This wind had intent. It searched seams in clothing, pried at straps, worried at loose hair, and carried the thin grit of ice that stung the skin in quick, petty bites. It made even the stone feel alive, as if the cliffs themselves were inhaling and exhaling through the narrow corridor. A shudder ran down her spine as she looked at them, as if they were glaring ancient sentinels.
Shizue stopped just before fully committing to the choke point, letting the first brunt of the air hit her while she took in the landscape with a scout’s caution.
The granite walls rose on either side in sheer, dark verticality, fractured and scarred by old stresses that looked like half healed wounds, wet and weeping. Lightning flickered somewhere far off, turning mineral veins into faint, brief glimmers. It was beautiful in a harsh way, the kind of beauty that did not care whether it was witnessed, but demanded respect from anyone caught in it. Above, clouds churned and shifted like a living ceiling. Even birds kept their distance, as if they understood the geometry of turbulence that could fold wings the wrong way or send one into a break-neck tailspin.
This was the only way in or out of Kumogakure, and it felt like the village had carved its reputation into the stone by simply existing behind it. The mountains were almost better than any wall that any shinobi could make, and Shizue couldn't help but feel in awe of the raw power of the volcanic upheaval that kept her and her lover safe.
Twin guard towers anchored the pass’s opening, stark and imposing. Movement along their parapets never stopped. Shinobi rotated, watched, recorded. Nothing crossed Dragon Tooth without being noticed. One of their steely gazes pinned her like a butterfly to a canvas for a moment.
Which meant Shizue had been noticed already.
She adjusted her grip on the strap of her pack, more out of habit than need, and stepped forward anyway.
Her clothes were practical, but they still carried the faint signature of her upbringing. The outer layer was a travel jacket reinforced at the seams, fitted enough to not snag, but tailored cleanly. Dark fabric, minimal shine, the sort of thing that could pass as unremarkable from a distance while still sitting well on the body. Under it, a thermal wrap and a shinobi vest that had been repaired more than once. Her pants were sturdy, tucked into boots made for uneven stone and packed snow. A scarf covered the lower half of her face when the wind cut hardest, and when it shifted, it revealed a glimpse of her mouth set in a thin, determined line.
She kept her hands gloved, but the gloves were thin enough to feel pulse points if she needed to. Hidden under layers, beneath cloth and modesty and caution, inked seals lay against her skin. Fuuinjutsu, kept private. Not ornamental, but practical. They were beginnings, sketches of a future she refused to abandon.
Her eyes, multicolored and iridescent even in dull light, tracked the pass with a careful, practiced sweep. Elevation changes, sightlines, where loose rocks might give underfoot, where a body could be pinned by a fall. She did not have the luxury of being reckless. Ten years stuck as a Genin did not mean she was lazy, well, maybe a little bit, but It meant every failure echoed louder than it should have, and every success felt like it had to be wrestled from the world.
Today was not an academy exercise. It was not a small errand for a district official who would forget her name by evening. She had been called here. Directly, or close enough to it. That alone had pulled at her curiosity like a hook under the ribs, drawing her toward the surface of actual Shinobi work like a fish on a line.
As she moved deeper into the shadow of the eastern tower, she saw them.
A man stood just beyond the line where the tower’s shade fell darkest. Broad shouldered, bottom heavy in the way that spoke of countless patrol miles and heavy packs. His skin had the bronzed, weathered look of someone who had spent years being punished by altitude and wind. His hair was tied back in a practical knot. His uniform bore Kumogakure’s insignia, worn but maintained with meticulous care. A blade rested at his thigh, the kind that looked more like a requirement than a promise. She wondered how many ha tasted the bite of the blade, and if he had notches, how many were in the hilt.
The pack slung over his shoulder drew Shizue’s gaze at once.
It was too large for a normal patrol. The canvas was reinforced, straps tight, compartments tagged with color markers. Rope coiled along the sides with climbing spikes and pitons secured cleanly. A map case strapped across the top. Everything about it said preparation, distribution, and a mission planned with more seriousness than comfort. It also spoke of being gone for days, if not weeks. She shrugged her own pack, wondering what the hells she had got her self into.
He had been waiting. That much was obvious. The way he shifted his stance and redistributed weight spoke of time measured in cold minutes, and he was not alone.
A woman stood with him, and Shizue’s first thought was that the wind should have bothered her; it did not.
No fur lining, no insulated cloak, no concession to altitude. She wore black, tailored and severe, with a structure that made her look like she belonged in a room where secrets were taken apart piece by piece and examined, still bloody from extraction. Her hair was pulled back into disciplined braids, not a strand out of place. Her hands were bare. The cold scoured the pass, and still she stood unmoved, as if the temperature was a problem for other people. She seemed to be a part of the earth around, rather than a tree planted there.
Shizue caught herself searching for the visible puff of breath that should have marked her exhale. She didn't feel alive, much less human until she saw it, faint but there.
The woman’s posture held a calm so precise it felt sharpened. Shizue did not know her name from rumor or memory, but she recognized the type. Someone who measured words, who treated ceremony like clutter, and regulation like commandments.
Close by, a girl stood with them, younger than the woman and different in presence. Alert, shoulders squared, eyes steady with the stubborn conviction of someone who had decided she belonged somewhere and would not be dislodged, a skipping pebble perhaps. The girl introduced herself as Shuusui Ruri, and Shizue’s mind flicked at the name like a page turned quickly.
Shuusui. Byakugan. Clanned. Heightened perception.
So this mission was not small. Not local. Not safe. As if the packs hadn't told her that already. Shizue's eyes darted to the side, almost as if she were looking for a route of escape, but then flicked back to the group. She was a medical konoichi, she had to cut her teeth somewhere.
Shizue approached with care, boots scraping softly against frost bitten rock. She did not rush into their space. She stopped a respectful distance away, letting the wind tug at her scarf and the hem of her jacket, now feeling ridiculous for her meticulous care on how she dressed.
The man with the pack, Arato Jinsho, had the posture of someone who had been instructed to be here and to say only what he was allowed. His eyes tracked and cataloged. The woman in black had already spoken earlier, from what Shizue could catch as she arrived. Her voice cut through the wind without effort, and her words were sparse, direct. She had named herself as Orochi Sakura.
That name slid through Shizue’s thoughts and did not settle comfortably, almost like a snake in the grass. There, but moving, not settling down, not because she knew it, but because it sounded like a blade drawn partly from a sheath. Orochi: A serpent, A warning.
Shizue kept her face neutral. She did not let the sharpness she felt show. She had learned, painfully, that reactions were a kind of currency in shinobi life, and she could not afford to spend them carelessly like her father did Ryo.
This was the moment she had imagined in different forms for years, visions of grandeur that flicked across her inner gaze like the colors that swam in her irises as she looked between the people gathered. A mission that mattered. A gathering at the village’s throat, watched by towers and recorded by eyes that would not forget who passed. Her name, written down. Her presence acknowledged.
And then the old fear rose, familiar and ugly: what if she was not supposed to be here? What if she was simply another body, another Genin filling a quota, another name that could be crossed out without consequence if the mission failed, her body returned and given a soldier's burial before collecting dust and weathering away, unwritten in the annals of time.
She forced herself to breathe slowly, to feel the cold air in her chest and anchor herself in it. She had come for a reason, even if she had to decide that reason on her own. Shizue stepped forward the last few paces and offered a small bow, formal enough to respect rank and context, not so deep it suggested weakness.
“Shizue Tsuchimikado,” she said, voice steady, carrying over the wind as best she could. “Genin.”
She did not add an apology for being late. She did not justify why she was here. She simply stated herself into the space, as if she belonged in it, she had used this tactic with her father's clients, with her father, with the upper crust of Kumogakure.
Her gaze moved first to Jinsho, because the pack made him the axis of this meeting. Then, briefly, to Orochi Sakura. Then to Shuusui Ruri. She let the triangle of their presence imprint on her mind: the supplier, the severe unknown, the clan representative who looked too young to have been sent with permission.
Shizue’s eyes lingered for half a breath on Ruri’s face, searching for the pale focus that marked Byakugan blood even when dormant. She did not stare, but she noted the steadiness, the way the girl did not fidget. That kind of composure usually came from either excellent training or sheer stubbornness. Either could be useful.
Shizue’s pack shifted slightly as the wind pushed at it, and she adjusted the strap with one hand. The motion revealed a glimpse of the medical kit secured at her hip, compact and well organized. Bandage rolls sealed against moisture, antiseptic, needles in a small case, chakra conductive thread, a few pills she had assembled herself for altitude sickness and shock. Not official issue. Personal preparation. It was her way of insisting she was more than a runner with good endurance.
She glanced toward the gates behind them, looming and heavy. The stone corridor funneled sound and focus. Every word spoken here felt as if it would bounce off rock and be remembered by the cliffs.
“I received the summons,” Shizue said. “It mentioned environmental danger and the need for heightened perception. I assumed it was not a standard patrol assignment. What other 'environmental dangers' are we likely to encounter?”
She kept her tone factual, careful not to demand details that were not hers to demand. At the same time, she did not shrink. She let her posture say what her rank could not: I am here. Use me. A thin gust knifed through the pass, sharp enough to sting at the skin around her eyes. She blinked once, slowly, refusing to look affected. She had trained in rain, in heat, in the normal misery of the field, but this wind carried a different kind of cruelty, nails digging into her arms and raking her with the need to shudder or shiver even though she was trying to put on a strong front.
She did not speak again immediately. She let the moment hang, letting Jinsho’s role take its proper place. Letting Orochi Sakura’s sharp presence remain what it was. Letting Shuusui Ruri’s stubborn readiness stand unchallenged. Inside, though, Shizue made herself a quiet promise, the kind she had made many times and broken only when the world forced her to. This time, she would not be forgettable.
This time, she would not be a name that vanished into paperwork. If this mission took them into the vast icy landscape beyond Kumogakure’s throat, if it demanded endurance and discipline and the ability to keep others breathing when the cold tried to steal it away, then she would make herself necessary.
She would make herself matter, and she would show her girlfriend that she belonged in the ranks of Kunoichi and wasn't just a pretty face. Her fingers went to her choker, made of dragon scales and touched it lightly, almost out of habit, steeling herself for what was to come.
WC: 2281.
The wind never truly rested at Dragon Tooth Pass.
