Soft crunching leaves made plain the footsteps of the masked figure, unnaturally silent for one clad in metal armor. He moved as silently as he might, though only the shinobi of Kirigakure had learned to move without sound altogether. Masamune knew this terrain, however, and could recall every hill and stream of the landscape as if it were the back of his hand. It gave him the advantage, even over those who once used to lvie here, those who had left it years ago. With time came age, and even details once so familiar could begin to fade, let alone those minor things that one almost might not remember even just after seeing it. He knew the path that his quarry might take, and so used his knowledge to intercept them, near a river crossing, where the forest gave way to small embankments on either side, a wooden bridge spanning the length of them. It was a place where the rains fell heavily, a place no trees to offer solace or protection from the wet and the cold.
He dropped behind the two of them, both women, shorter than he. He landed on one knee, crouched, nearly silent, though he could not muffle the sound of his form hitting the ground. He wasn't, in particular, trying to surprise them, anyway, as it was not his goal to kill them, even if they were the two highest ranking officials from Kemurigakure, even if others in their position might very well have been considered to be trespassers. For the Watari twins, however, this was not the case. They were natives to this land, part of the vast majority that had willingly aligned themselves with the Uchiha legacy that had established hegemony over the Kanaduchi's ancestral home. For his own part, Masamune could never have submitted to such a thing.
However, for all the legacy that the two daimyo might have left, it was the Watari twins that ruled now. Two people that he had come now to assess and to inspect. How had they changed? He knew that they, too, were like him, once. They had been freedom fighters that fought for the independence of the Land of Rain, but they had left that past behind long ago. What affection for this land lay in their hearts? He did not know, but he was of a mind to determine such; he could decide the better course of action then after knowing. Whether that be combat, submission, or something else he did not know, but he had come prepared for any possibility, the hollow echo of rain inside his helmet reminding him keenly of that fact.
Glowing red eyes, unnatural, certainly fake, though no one else knew that, bore into the backs of the two women. If their reputation was deserved, which he was more-or-less sure that it was, they would be well aware of his arrival, even through the loud rainfall here, exposed in the gaps between the trees. Masamune was not sure how they might receive him, anyway. They were leaders of a foreign village now, one that he had been openly hostile to for many years, and spilled no small amount of blood fighting against. Masamune had gained a large deal of fame in the country of his birth, though not as Morimoto Masamune, but as the Hollow One, a nationalistic rebel and assassin who seemed more ghost - or machine - than man. His voice was heavy, almost mechanical through the heavy mask on his face. "Watari Tane, Watari Rumi," their names heavy in his mouth, foreign, yet familiar.