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Z-Grip had claimed a quiet corner of the ship and was undisturbed by the shameful antics of the drunken shopper and his friend. However, she noted their boorish behavior with great disdain. The crew members and other passengers had gone to great pains to give the penja a wide berth. It was clear from her dark garb and fashionable hood, neither of which she ever removed, that the young woman was a penja. Stories of penjas had long since traveled beyond the Stationari Shogunate and the penjas were rightfully feared and respected. Even the insane Nevergrown knew to avoid the shadowy warriors. Z-Grip did not know if any of her own stories had accompanied her onto the ship, but she knew from experience that the large, brutal blade that she kept strapped across her back would preserve her peaceful solitude.

The young penja was seated with folded legs and hands. Her back was resting against a strong plank of wood and her eyes were half-closed and half-open in mediation. Her gaze cast downward as she contemplated the many mysteries of the pen blade, but she remained aware of her surroundings. Had the captain sought out her opinion, she would have cut down the red-faced shopper with her paper cutter blade in a heartbeat. But she had not been asked. And the captain had not acted. It was a shameful display.

The foreigners from the other departments did not understand honor. They had no concept of honor. They had no words for honor. They could not see honor. They did not feel honor as it was written with the red ink of their blood. Blind as they were, the foreigners could not recognize the irrevocable spiritual ruin that the drunkard's continual existence slowly inflicted upon not just the crew, but the passengers of the ship. The ignorance of the gaijin pained Z-Grip. 

It was lamentable that she had fallen so low so as having to sell her blade to such dishonorable scoundrels. Were she still counted among the most honorable Stationari she would have carved a nine by nine grid onto her abdomen with her pen blade, completed the puzzle, and committed sudoku on the very spot. But she was not. Not any more. She was a roamnin. She had no honor. Only shame. She was a pitiful creature cursed to wander beyond the walls of the Stationari Shogunate. She had no honor, but she remembered. She knew. The heart of a true warrior beat beneath her breast. Unlike the gaijin that surrounded her she knew the way of the warrior. She still followed the code of Brushido, the way of the painting warriors, once championed by the Sword Saint Rembrandt. She had no honor, but she knew enough to feel shame.

Every day, the gaijin strayed further from the light of Brushido. 

Swingline Classic Cut Pro called for blood and Z-Grip felt dark thoughts of violence move through her as she struggled to keep the blade wrapped in cloth. 

Only the sight of the colorful Dorf pouring over a strange book stayed the hand of the penja and prevented her from delivering the righteous fury of her blade upon the gathered barbarians. Although the pitiful creature looked to be only slightly taller than a child, Z-Grip had encountered his kind before and knew better than to underestimate the Nevergrown and their slightly more civilized cousins, the Dorfs. Rising in a sudden gust of motion and soaring across the deck of the ship as if the wind herself the penja approached to just beyond a sword's length of the diminutive fellow. Showing the appropriate level of respect, Z-Grip coughed politely to draw his attention, and then offered a short, polite bow before she spoke.

"Greetings, Dorf-san. I am Z-Grip of the Zebra Clan Corporation. I would ask the name of a gaijin that yet remembers the value of words in ink and carefully forged paper. I feel obliged to add, that it gladdens my heart to discover that you, one of the tiny toy-wielders, are literate. May I humbly ask what ancient tome of knowledge it is that you hold in your child-like hands?" 

[sup][@AmpharosBoy][/sup]