disclaimer: yo muramasa ain't mine. dig it.

Jinkuro scratched his chin, brushing his fingers against what scraggly stubble lay there, contemplating his next move.

To the public, he was a foul demonic swordsman, he had his hobbies as any regular person had. For some men this was whoring, and for others it was drinking, and he did both- or used to.

He lifted a cup of sake in response to his thoughts, and downed the rest of it before he refilled it.

He had always had a secret passion though, one as elegant and brutal as oboro-style. Jinkuro had experienced the brutality first hand, at the feet of his peers in the art. Their criticisms had been weak and ineffectual, but he had put people on the wrong end of his sword for less. The soft stomachs had shown to also be weak and ineffectual, as he had found out while gutting them to make sure no others would hear their heinous slander.

'They don't know talent.' He snorted, before holding up the brush again, 'They wouldn't know it- even if it cut them wide open!' His strokes were wide, yet precise gashes on parchment. No character existed on the page without his will, no stroke existed without the perilous conditioning of his wordsmithing. His words were iron, and their meaning as deep and precious to them as their muse.

Jinkuro breathed in deep and closed his eyes, allowing his mind- a torrent of ideas and symbolism and poetic device- to wander to his little wife, Momohime, as he finished his art. The creative storm quelled, and the soft curls of her hair, and the red of her cheeks filled his mind instead.

As he exhaled, he swept his eyes over his work and beheld the fruits of his labour.

monkey shrieks- disturbs

the flesh at rest in mountains

splashes and jiggles

And another, one that Jinkuro mused to be one of his finest masterpieces-

driving my sword in

like driving my dick inside

best feeling there is