Post by Shinpei Minamoto on Dec 2, 2014 18:51:49 GMT -5
"What if I slept my way through the world?"
It was a variation on a classic question. Could he possibly enjoy the women of the world at a faster rate than they came of age?
These were the kinds of thoughts that Shinpei idly toyed with as he lay on the fountain's edge in Karakura park. Why was he here? Simple: it was the easiest place to stay. For some reason this city had an absurd amount of spiritual energy and activity. He doubted anyone would find him hiding out unless they went over the place with a fine-tooth comb, and honestly--who cared about him that much?
He was here, wearing an antique college boy's uniform untucked and disheveled, a sword at his side. The gigai came with its own clothing, though that wasn't what made it so uncomfortable. There was something about putting on that second skin--functionally no different than wearing his own body, but still--that just itched. Constantly. He scratched erratically at the back of his neck.
Right now he was wondering what his cut-off age was. 70 ws to old, sure--but was 60? Was there a line? He'd known a cute 62-year-old, though he'd known her in terms of centuries. Age was a vaguer concept in the Seireitei, after all. Fewer messy questions about age of consent: though a spirit matured more slowly than a human, immaturity was usually fairly obvious. Honestly, he hadn't run into problems like that much. The way girls came to him, they were usually young but not that youung. He didn't go in much for the super immature. Their paths didn't cross. Can we get off this topic already?
Trouble was, Shinpei didn't have the resources he did in the Soul Society. His suitors might come calling, but they'd be visiting his rooms, his estate in the Spirit World. They wouldn't find him here.
Do you understand yet why this was dire? Why, over the next months, he'd start dying by inches? I doubt you do yet, but that's fine. That's normal. We're getting there. Another layer in. He doesn't have much armor left.
Shinpei languorously stood, tottering slightly as the blood rushed to his head. He noticed a group of girls looking at him, giggling, and naturally he waved them over. They giggled some more. Girls like to do that, no matter the country. They smiled at him and spoke first, like it had been their idea to approach.
"Excuse me," the leader asked. "Could we take a picture with you? You're some sort of samurai, right?"
Shinpei considered that before nodding with a grin. "Something like that."
They took their photos. He pulled them into the shot, pushed them away teasingly. Back in his element. "You know," he mentioned as they finished up. "I have a few tricks up my sleeve... as a traveling samurai." He scratched the back of his head modestly. "Care to see?"
They did, and they were clapping as he used his sword to play with a little wooden top they'd bought nearby. It twirled and skated along the flat of his blade.
"The fat man made his way across the bridge," his story continued, "and the next bridge was twice as narrow."
The top flipped, the sword moved; the wooden toy wobbled along the blunt edge of his katana.
"He managed to make it all the way to the edge of the second cliff, but the final bridge was just a bit too narrow."
He flipped the top, and it sought the new plane; instead, it fell right through the sharpened egdge of his blade. Like the sword was ethereal. Like he was a ghost.
The accumulated crowd clapped. Shinpei made an exaggerated bow. In his element. "Any requests?" He called. "I know a few tricks." A few, at least. Sometimes more than one.
It was a variation on a classic question. Could he possibly enjoy the women of the world at a faster rate than they came of age?
These were the kinds of thoughts that Shinpei idly toyed with as he lay on the fountain's edge in Karakura park. Why was he here? Simple: it was the easiest place to stay. For some reason this city had an absurd amount of spiritual energy and activity. He doubted anyone would find him hiding out unless they went over the place with a fine-tooth comb, and honestly--who cared about him that much?
He was here, wearing an antique college boy's uniform untucked and disheveled, a sword at his side. The gigai came with its own clothing, though that wasn't what made it so uncomfortable. There was something about putting on that second skin--functionally no different than wearing his own body, but still--that just itched. Constantly. He scratched erratically at the back of his neck.
Right now he was wondering what his cut-off age was. 70 ws to old, sure--but was 60? Was there a line? He'd known a cute 62-year-old, though he'd known her in terms of centuries. Age was a vaguer concept in the Seireitei, after all. Fewer messy questions about age of consent: though a spirit matured more slowly than a human, immaturity was usually fairly obvious. Honestly, he hadn't run into problems like that much. The way girls came to him, they were usually young but not that youung. He didn't go in much for the super immature. Their paths didn't cross. Can we get off this topic already?
Trouble was, Shinpei didn't have the resources he did in the Soul Society. His suitors might come calling, but they'd be visiting his rooms, his estate in the Spirit World. They wouldn't find him here.
Do you understand yet why this was dire? Why, over the next months, he'd start dying by inches? I doubt you do yet, but that's fine. That's normal. We're getting there. Another layer in. He doesn't have much armor left.
Shinpei languorously stood, tottering slightly as the blood rushed to his head. He noticed a group of girls looking at him, giggling, and naturally he waved them over. They giggled some more. Girls like to do that, no matter the country. They smiled at him and spoke first, like it had been their idea to approach.
"Excuse me," the leader asked. "Could we take a picture with you? You're some sort of samurai, right?"
Shinpei considered that before nodding with a grin. "Something like that."
They took their photos. He pulled them into the shot, pushed them away teasingly. Back in his element. "You know," he mentioned as they finished up. "I have a few tricks up my sleeve... as a traveling samurai." He scratched the back of his head modestly. "Care to see?"
They did, and they were clapping as he used his sword to play with a little wooden top they'd bought nearby. It twirled and skated along the flat of his blade.
"The fat man made his way across the bridge," his story continued, "and the next bridge was twice as narrow."
The top flipped, the sword moved; the wooden toy wobbled along the blunt edge of his katana.
"He managed to make it all the way to the edge of the second cliff, but the final bridge was just a bit too narrow."
He flipped the top, and it sought the new plane; instead, it fell right through the sharpened egdge of his blade. Like the sword was ethereal. Like he was a ghost.
The accumulated crowd clapped. Shinpei made an exaggerated bow. In his element. "Any requests?" He called. "I know a few tricks." A few, at least. Sometimes more than one.