When MacKinnon suddenly got up in his face, Akitsugu didn't flinch. His jawline remained tight, and his eyes were fixed firmly on the mischievous, glittering green gaze of the first person he'd met among all these settlers who had earned his ire.
"It IS mine," he shot back at her, every ounce of him convinced of the matter, "and I believed it was obvious it would be mine when I stated, before: I. Am. A. Blacksmith." He swept an accusatory hand at the tools in the barrel. "What use do YOU have for them, then? Do YOU know how to use them? Can YOU make nails, or axe blades, or ploughshares, or ANY of the other things the rest of these people will need, using MY tools? Clearly you've no idea how to maintain them!"
With a jerk of his head, he indicated the others of the group around them---though whether anyone else had something to weigh in on this building argument, he wasn't of a mind to wait for their opinion. "Those of us who've gathered here, from who knows where, after going through who knows what, have all---unanimously, to my knowledge---agreed to work together for the good of the whole group! Thus I, as the blacksmith, am entitled to the smithy and its contents! Thus Master Brom, as a chef, is entitled to any cookware he may need! And so on for any other professionals among us and whatsoever we may find among these homes! So what is it that YOU do---besides loot your surroundings like a baser, no-good bandit!?"
Akitsugu, coming from a foreign culture that more often placed the good of a family or community over that of an individual, couldn't believe the sheer audacity of the excitable treasure hunter. It also seemed he wasn't taking her jests in good humor, either. True enough, he hadn't made any bombastic announcements or planted any kind of flag on "his" properties, but, true to his word, at the time the man simply hadn't thought it necessary. If someone had told him "by the way, if you don't stake your claim, someone else is going to rob the place," he would've been just as incredulous to that statement as he was in this moment. Why would they take things they couldn't use? Who would they sell them to, among the other poor-as-dirt wanderers too busy fixing up their own claims? Such ideas would've never taken root in Akitsugu's own mind, thus he could not see why they might be relevant to another's point of view.
But, after he'd said his piece, he realized just how angry he'd become. He sucked air through his nose and let out a low sigh, not quite a growl, and tried to compose himself---
"I heard a pretty big crash when I was leaving the area. Might wanna check if your smithy still there, y'know?"
Akitsugu's pupils dilated. In the same instant it took his body to trigger that involuntary reaction, the micro-expression of emotion, the left side of his coat-like robe flared outward. His thumb pressed against the tsuba. His right hand locked onto the hilt. An inch of the blade gleamed and the ball of one foot dug into the earth.
"Aki-tan, don't do it!" screamed the sword, in a voice like a young woman.