Free of mandatory lessons, Kaimenko returned to her usual schedule of practice and watches. She had brought one of the practice weapons with her and moved to one of her favorite spots on the ship. The woman popped her back and fell easily into the beginning stance for a pattern dance. The blade of the nagamaki pointed down and away from her in the ready position.

The woman moved gracefully from form to form, the swaying of the ship doing little to disturb the fluidity of her movements.

"Moshi-Gunso-Sama!" barks Masamichi as he bounds up to her, coming up short, falling into an appropriate bow.

The woman stops, 'blade' pointed at the Crane's throat as she balances on leg. Kaimenko straightens and uses her short sleeve to dab at the sweat running down her neck. "What?"

"After inspection there is a small amount of rust developing on some of the metal pieces on some of the ballista. Permission to proceed with requisite oiling, polishing and cleaning as needed." he says, maintaining a disicplined posture.

"Fine," her eyes narrow as she gives the Asahina a hard look, "But Chuckles will be overseeing you and evaluating your work."

He bows, then pauses, "And thank you for the posting, Moshi-sama." he adds quickly before bounding away back into the hold to get the things he needs to clean stuff up and find a "Chuckles"

/exit

The happy, bouncy, mustached Crane got a frown for his troubles. Kaimenko would never understand that Clan. Ever. She shakes her head and goes back to the pattern dance.

Watches and working, the general order of duty on aft deck in the afternoon. The open sea was a pleasant enough thing to watch, for something that would kill you without a thought or even much of a fight. It wasn't even totally a waste of time, perhaps out there there really WAS a pirate drunk and stupid enough to mistake a legion ship for a merchant vessel.

Now watching the moshi-gunso practice would truly be a waste of time. Unless one needed yet more demonstration of 'This is what a Moshi sounds like when bees make a nest up it's backside'. Interrupting the holy important Duty of watching an empty sea to learn more about swordsmanship would likely net one a new, even more important duty. Like inspecting and polishing the inside bottoms of the pickle barrels in the hold.

Still eyes could only see one way, ears could pick up things all around. With the Moshi actually focusing on sword practice, she wasn't powering the sails with her lungs. With a little effort, one could listen to the particular stab, slash stab sound her naginata made through the air, the timing and pressure of her feet as they struck the deck, while one was still being diligent about their duties. Mixing a little knowledge and imagination together, one could perhaps steal an insight or two.

If they were careful. If they were quiet.

For all that she was a priest, the woman moves with all the precision and deadliness of one who's more martially inclined. The blade flicks out like a serpent's tongue, biting hungrily at her invisible enemy's neck, thigh and underarm. All the places one would find the large veins of an enemy. Her expression did not fall into a look of peace as many other's would when they were consumed by the practice of their forms.

No, there was no peace for the Moshi as her bare feet slid against the smooth wood of the deck. That much was evident from the fire in her eyes.