The process he knew well by now, closing his eyes he began to click his tongue against his roof top as he searched further down, deep within himself to find what he longed to find, his very soul's inner sanctuary. It was described differently to everyone, by everyone, no matter what. For Sekoia the sanctuary was a forest of weeping willows, where the blossoms sprouted and died simultaneously. For Pain is was a grassy field of pure white grass, like nothing that was on earth. For his father it was a deep oceanic cave, and his mother the sea itself. They all seemed at peace and in love with their inner sanctuaries; Shikamoa, however, was not by any means happy.
A raining forest with only a single, seemingly infinite, great oak. Walking into its closest root he began the march down a long wooden floor that seemed to have been stained and polished a beautiful red. The floor itself was rather unpleasant to the touch, but bearable at the very least. Shikamoa found himself nearing the corridors expansive length as he entered the forgery of his soul where he would be working. Reaching out he felt the pole staff come to his hand instantly. Twirling it cam natural, as he stopped he felt himself slump physically as he fully started the ceremony. Walking to the rooms center he grabbed the pole with both hands and slammed it into the wood, watching it sink in enough for it to stand on its own, satisfied her backed off as the seal momentarily broke, his physical body was now shaking with violent shudders. Tensing his arms and fists he began to flood what chakra he had into the soul shape and imagine what he wanted to come from it, concentrating on his image of it, a long katana-like blade, that didn't lose its size. At first he forgot the name of the long type of blade before him, but then he remembered the name of this weapon, his weapon. A odachi, the original blade of the samurai, the blade he had yearned for. As the last of his chakra drained his soul shape shined and threw of almost blinding light. Shutting his eyes he waited for the light intensity to go down before revealing the finished product, which was to every fiber of glee that Shikamoa could muster. A long odachi was in the floor as if stabbed into the ground for as long as it had existed, which it had. Walking over he grabbed the hilt and pulled it giving it a few test swings, its weight was adjusted to him, it felt right to him. Smiling he let it float up as he exited the forge. His face a large grin.
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