Itachi Artwork Novels & Stories

Samehada (Naruto) Among the seven swords on this list, perhaps Samehada is the sword you are most familiar with and you don't need to go into detail about its origins. Samehada or literally means "shark skin" is the main sword of Kisame, Itachi's partner in Akatsuki. This abnormally shaped sword was passed down from generation to generation since the first Mizukage Era. Kisame himself is not the rightful owner of this sword, but Samehada (as a soul sword) judges the ninja worthy of swinging it.

She threw a jagged look at Scarlett, an unspoken challenge to her status. Scarlett had brought a mere supplemental herb-kit—a generic offering from her subordinates. It lacked soul. She watched with growing fury as Hudson Montgomery’s eyes locked onto the jade crane. Hudson’s hands began to tremble. His inner wolf roared with a sudden, violent recognition. The geometric precision, the hidden flow of the lines—this was the "Suha Vibe." This was Avery’s soul in stone. He moved toward the artifact, his heart thundering. Who had shaped this? But before he could touch it, a sickening crack echoed through the chamber.

There are black inks carved into his upper chest and over his collarbone; drawings of snakes, skulls, many other abstract paintings, and writings in both English and foreign languages blended. They look like a work of art from afar. I almost choke on my breath when I lift my eyes to his grey ones. They shine with interest, head tilting slowly as his lips curl slightly. He’s a work of art—I recognize yet again. I shamelessly drink in the hard lines of his jaw to the plump, wet red lips and eyes that shine darkly with promises of all I’m searching for. He’s a fine man draped in sinful, cruel glances and an enticing body. He’d do.

I asked. “Tsunade,” he replied automatically. “Who is that?” “The fifth Hokage,” he replied. “She’s got great tits, so there’s that.” “You’re an idiot, Beck Ryder,” I said, rolling my eyes. I was getting ready to slip out of the room when I saw a photo sitting quietly on his nightstand. It was the picture of a beach, with a bright blue sky above. And Beck was in the picture, probably sixteen at the time, shirtless and sunburnt with a man and woman beside him who looked so much like him, I didn't even need to ask.

Precisely of this reason, the group finds the artifact to suit perfectly to Niccoli's need. "Thank you so much." Niccoli did not stand on ceremony as he accepted his friend's kind gesture. His eyes can't help but reddened as he sees how thoughtful his friends are. He bit his finger and drip a droplet of his blood on the artifact to gain ownership over the artifact.After using his consciousness to scan the folded space inside, Niccoli nodded in satisfaction. "This is indeed a good place to have Monami stay for the meantime for her swift recovery."

The two noticed it was only Yamato. Without his cloak Yamato's heavily tattooed arms could be seen. The most notable tattoos were the kanji on his left arm that read "Even humans can be gods" while on his right it was a man climbing a spider's thread. He was wearing a tight black shirt, black gloves, and black pants. His face had a stern expression that seemed almost frozen with how stiff it was. "Where are the others?" Peter asked. 'You'd think he was a grim with that outfit.' Oliver thought.

Does he have an artistic side? I walk over to one of the paintings, and I can’t stop myself from touching it. It is a painting of a beautiful Siver dragon against a dark backdrop. The dragon almost looks like the one on Salvatore’s arm. It looks ancient. Majestic… fierce, and wise... I wonder If dragons mean anything to him.

“Alrighty then. Just take a seat and I’ll be right back with some designs.” Althea and I settle onto a sleek black couch while I take in the parlor’s atmosphere. The other artists work with practiced ease, their few clients either wincing slightly, chattering or staring into space as the needles glide over their respective skin. There’s something oddly peaceful about it—the way the buzzing and the quiet concentration merge into a steady rhythm. Bailey returns, flipping open a binder of custom designs. “So, what are you thinking, honey?” I glance at Althea before turning my gaze to the many artistic and creative designs on the pages but almost immediately, my gaze lands on the drawing of a ph

Otis' POV: She dismissed me and I immediately dashed towards the direction of the kitchen to prepare Alpha Damien's lunch but I saw something that brought my feet to a sudden halt. A wall of paintings… paintings of about seven different men each possessing red eyes and the symbol of the crescent moon on the left side of their chest that seems to illuminate light. “Who could they be?” The last painting caught my attention and all I could see was a striking resemblance between him and the man from the training ground.

Mean laughter echoes loud through the stone space, and every single eye turns toward my boots as if my rogue wolf were the pathetic punchline of a long-winded pack joke. I do not blink a single inch. My rough hand goes straight to my untamed, messy hair, and my sharp gaze shifts directly to the framed photograph of a world-famous historical artist hanging just behind Luciano’s broad shoulder. “So tell my ears, Master Scott. Are your lips saying that ancient alpha doesn't understand art either?” Everyone turns their heads fast to see what had caught my dark eye. On the high stone wall hung a massive portrait of a legendary pack artist from the previous century—his hair just as wild and untame