Thank you for agreeing to oversee my training in this field, @Sinthorus. I greatly appreciate it and look forward to your tutelage. 
I am open to both RP and OOC oriented training, even a combination of both. Whatever best suits you at your own discretion.
As discussed, I will go ahead and open us up with a premise for approaching this from an IC RP angle. Please feel free to make the switch to and from OOC and RP as you see fit.
The world was ever changing. This was truly encapsulated in the most recent cataclysmic sundering that washed over the world in a grand finale that shut the curtains to the world as it once was. Civilization was thrown apart, its shambling pieces tossed against the currents of the new era that was rapidly dawning upon what remained of its vestiges. Like all things, devastation gives way for new growth, yet few are so readily willing to accept such things as good..
Amidst the various roaming, nomadic tribes that now existed was often a crawling of the various remnants of the once extensively populated Shinobi realm. Some clans managed to mingle together in careful harmony of the new world, while others splintered and individualized, becoming like that of the Ronin; unassociated, unbound and unwilling to admit to any creed, new or old. One such woman followed the latter's path. With rags of black and red for clothing, her leftmost arm was loosely bound in a multi-layering of bandages that were interwoven with the occasional vague depiction of what could only be identified as various Fuinjutsu sealing scriptures, all of which were scuffed and looked far worse for wear. Despite her otherwise "inconspicuous" behavior, she was nothing if not a sore thumb among the crowds of ordinary individuals.. Her form sauntered down the middle of the dirt paths carved out from frequent use by the tradesmen's carts and the caravans that came and went throughout the nomadic tribe, each time passing by stalls that were decorated in either various baked goods, cuts of meat and
Yet suddenly, something caused the woman to stop deep within her tracks. She stood in position, unmoving for several long moments, disrupting the flow of traffic surrounding her, causing many to gawk at her in uncertainty or frustration before deciding to simply move along despite the annoyance. For the long morning and afternoon that she had roamed about this particular caravan, she had heard all sorts of familiar sounds and smells: The sound of "craftsmen" and "smiths" tinkering and clanking at their tools in such a way that was amateur at best, hinting that they truly had no idea what it was they were doing; forges cold and anvils riddled with stray scuffs.. evidence that they were simply aiming to "look busy" so as to suggest that the goods they offered were possibly made by them, so as to be able to sell at a considerable upcharge. All day she had heard this same rhythm working through the air of the tribe, yet right where she stood, just to one side of her, she heard no such ambient fidgeting.. Yet there it stood, another Smith's stall that was hardly robust or ambitious in any way, suggesting that it was just as mobile as all the rest. Each piece that was placed out for display were certainly well made, yet they hardly appeared to be anything overly fanciful; all just refined enough to be functional and no more. Tending the stall was a man who.. from as far as she could smell, enjoyed the drink far more than met the eye, yet it seemed not so potent enough to mask the true odors of earth and fire commonly associated with a forge. While she had yet to investigate too avidly into his current activity, somehow she suspected that he was far too idle for a man that was -like all the rest- trying to sell cheap trinkets and useless, questionably acquisitioned goods. In fact, for the moment, he seemed entirely uninterested in convincing anyone that he was selling anything at all; merely adopting the space to as to follow a sort of habit. Curious..
Steadily, the woman pivoted upon her heels at long last after such a lengthy pause in the middle of the road before strutting up to the stand in question, where she carefully eyed the contents of it's merchandise in a busying manner, as though to hide the fact that her true interest was in identifying who the owner was, and how he might conduct himself as a Smith. With vibrant, amber-yellow irises to pierce through the veil of her dark, rugged bangs that blotted her visage, the woman steadily settled on one ornate piece in particular. In truth, she had no real interest in the item; it was quite ordinary, yet it served as an easy point of reference to detract from any suggestion that she might be there for anything else. "Not bad craftsmanship. They don't seem stolen like all the rest.. But they're strangely bland. Seems rather odd for a man that reeks of carbon and oil, I'd imagine you'd have far more to show for it."
I am open to both RP and OOC oriented training, even a combination of both. Whatever best suits you at your own discretion.
As discussed, I will go ahead and open us up with a premise for approaching this from an IC RP angle. Please feel free to make the switch to and from OOC and RP as you see fit.
The world was ever changing. This was truly encapsulated in the most recent cataclysmic sundering that washed over the world in a grand finale that shut the curtains to the world as it once was. Civilization was thrown apart, its shambling pieces tossed against the currents of the new era that was rapidly dawning upon what remained of its vestiges. Like all things, devastation gives way for new growth, yet few are so readily willing to accept such things as good..
Amidst the various roaming, nomadic tribes that now existed was often a crawling of the various remnants of the once extensively populated Shinobi realm. Some clans managed to mingle together in careful harmony of the new world, while others splintered and individualized, becoming like that of the Ronin; unassociated, unbound and unwilling to admit to any creed, new or old. One such woman followed the latter's path. With rags of black and red for clothing, her leftmost arm was loosely bound in a multi-layering of bandages that were interwoven with the occasional vague depiction of what could only be identified as various Fuinjutsu sealing scriptures, all of which were scuffed and looked far worse for wear. Despite her otherwise "inconspicuous" behavior, she was nothing if not a sore thumb among the crowds of ordinary individuals.. Her form sauntered down the middle of the dirt paths carved out from frequent use by the tradesmen's carts and the caravans that came and went throughout the nomadic tribe, each time passing by stalls that were decorated in either various baked goods, cuts of meat and
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even cutlery and utensils. It was a strange feeling knowing that most of what was within this tribe was no doubt scavenged from the ruins of nearby villages and even pillaged from other caravans. While the raven-haired woman was hardly a saint, such nefarious methods of collection only to aim at profiting on them after the fact didn't sit so well with her; certainly not well enough to allow her need for a choice weapon to rest on her standards.Yet suddenly, something caused the woman to stop deep within her tracks. She stood in position, unmoving for several long moments, disrupting the flow of traffic surrounding her, causing many to gawk at her in uncertainty or frustration before deciding to simply move along despite the annoyance. For the long morning and afternoon that she had roamed about this particular caravan, she had heard all sorts of familiar sounds and smells: The sound of "craftsmen" and "smiths" tinkering and clanking at their tools in such a way that was amateur at best, hinting that they truly had no idea what it was they were doing; forges cold and anvils riddled with stray scuffs.. evidence that they were simply aiming to "look busy" so as to suggest that the goods they offered were possibly made by them, so as to be able to sell at a considerable upcharge. All day she had heard this same rhythm working through the air of the tribe, yet right where she stood, just to one side of her, she heard no such ambient fidgeting.. Yet there it stood, another Smith's stall that was hardly robust or ambitious in any way, suggesting that it was just as mobile as all the rest. Each piece that was placed out for display were certainly well made, yet they hardly appeared to be anything overly fanciful; all just refined enough to be functional and no more. Tending the stall was a man who.. from as far as she could smell, enjoyed the drink far more than met the eye, yet it seemed not so potent enough to mask the true odors of earth and fire commonly associated with a forge. While she had yet to investigate too avidly into his current activity, somehow she suspected that he was far too idle for a man that was -like all the rest- trying to sell cheap trinkets and useless, questionably acquisitioned goods. In fact, for the moment, he seemed entirely uninterested in convincing anyone that he was selling anything at all; merely adopting the space to as to follow a sort of habit. Curious..
Steadily, the woman pivoted upon her heels at long last after such a lengthy pause in the middle of the road before strutting up to the stand in question, where she carefully eyed the contents of it's merchandise in a busying manner, as though to hide the fact that her true interest was in identifying who the owner was, and how he might conduct himself as a Smith. With vibrant, amber-yellow irises to pierce through the veil of her dark, rugged bangs that blotted her visage, the woman steadily settled on one ornate piece in particular. In truth, she had no real interest in the item; it was quite ordinary, yet it served as an easy point of reference to detract from any suggestion that she might be there for anything else. "Not bad craftsmanship. They don't seem stolen like all the rest.. But they're strangely bland. Seems rather odd for a man that reeks of carbon and oil, I'd imagine you'd have far more to show for it."
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