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It's been over eleven years since the Fourth Mizukage vanished, presumed dead, and the Land of Water is only barely starting to struggle out of the morass of violence the islands were plunged into in the civil war that ripped first Kirigakure and then the entire country apart at the seams.
Not every corner, though. Not this corner, a bloody collection of tiny islands ruled over by tinier warlords, scheming and fighting in the dark like rats. They're far north enough to be near where the sea turns into a chaotic, heaving mess. The whirlpools that once protected Uzushio now choke off trade through the region, intelligent merchants going along Fire's great rivers to ports on Lightning's northern coast or swinging along the outer edge of the barrier islands, looping up and around.
Amajina was supposed to be the weapon that broke that trap. The key that unlocked the cage holding the rats together. The fist that tamed the sea, for her clan and her clan alone. The blade that cut down their enemies.
There's been a voice in her head for the last six years, an anxious murmur of a being who doesn't want to do that, and Amajina is not in the mood to play along.
She's sitting on a promontory on the south-eastern edge of one of the few regions still resisting the integration attempts of the Land of Water reborn, looking out at the swell of the ocean - a storm's coming soon, she thinks, sweeping up from the south. A typhoon, even, to be lashing the waves this far ahead of its central mass, though Amajina can't be sure without diving in and giving herself over to the currents of her bijuu in a way she's hesitant to.
Amajina is busy with something other than weather forecasting, anyways, absorbed enough in her thoughts not to notice the wind trying to steal her hair, the salt crusting on her skin. She's certainly paying no attention to the road behind her, a treacherous thing leading up to a long abandoned temple, to graveyards carved into the mountain in a vain hope the ocean won't steal them. Travelers pass, sometimes, unremarked by her, not caring to notice her in turn - there's any trade, any movement, here, much of it fueled by malcontents with the ongoing consolidation of power in the south. They're either blind to what she is, or not in the mood to mess with a young girl bleeding this much chakra into the air.
She's debating with herself one very simple question: to fight, or to flee?
