Post by Shinpei Minamoto on Oct 14, 2015 1:07:24 GMT -5
Variety is the spice of life.
This was something that was excellently depicted by Douji. Visits to the Zanpakuto spirit's little corner of Shinpei's mind were alwways different: never mind the disparate conversations you might have, the Japanese-style rooms changed in manifold and explanation-defying ways. There you'd be sitting, and you'd look into the next room over--only to find that it wasn't a tea room at all anymore: it was an indoors pool, of all things. Or maybe a flat patch of grass, not a room at all. Or maybe...
well, you get the point. Difference. Variety. Strangeness.
Can you see why Douji and Shinpei never really got along that well?
Take this evening for example. Shinpei was walking along an unfamiliar street, perhaps. Maybe even one that he'd never been on before. And yet the only reason he was here at all was because he'd been forced out of his normal, everyday path: the beloved red light district nearer his home had oh-so-recently closed down. Something about an "investigation" and "documents" and "unlawful" something or other. Honestly, Shinpei hadn't listened too closely: he'd heard the basics in the first sentence. The point was that some bastard had spilled the beans on the semi-legal operation. If Shinpei ever found him, he'd wring the tattletale's neck.
Of course, it wasn't like setting up a couple houses of ill-repute deep inside the Seireitei had been a great idea. But still, Shinpei had visited the place many times and he'd never felt a need to spill (Shinigami mandatory disclosure laws notwithstanding.)
That was why he was here. He'd been forced to find a new place to visit when staying home became too much, too much. Every now and then a guy had to get out of the house, even if there were such delights inside. And a garden. And some history. And a surrounding family, he supposed, but he didn't really bother much with them. The rift between himself and the rest of his kin had less grown than widened by miles after his sister's death all those years ago.
"Misty Corner, Misty Corner..." Shinpei muttered to himself as he walked the dirt pathways. Though he was dressed in a clearly expensive kimono, he didn't begrudge the humbleness of the outskirt town too much; after all, he hadn't been born that far from here. He'd been elevated as a Shinigami, true (and there were rumors that his family was due for the nobility) but he supposed he just never really changed. Not really. He was still in many ways the man who'd grown up in alleyways and open fields, cavorting here and there, wooing women and being scolded by his family in turn.
Besides, how much the kimono cost didn't motivate him near as much as the flowery, soft fabric did: if it felt good, chances are Shinpei was a fan of it. He was a man with a one-track mind, as I've often said and will say again before too long. And that track led him... here.
"Moyamoyasumi," he read out loud from the sign, and grinned. Even if it was so much more comfortable, so much easier to stick to what he knew, going somewhere new was fun too. He walked to the entryway, peering in through the few slotted windows that allowed light to escape. "Good evening," he addressed the woman he saw sitting. "I've been told that this tea house serves other patrons during the night. Was I correctly informed?"
This was something that was excellently depicted by Douji. Visits to the Zanpakuto spirit's little corner of Shinpei's mind were alwways different: never mind the disparate conversations you might have, the Japanese-style rooms changed in manifold and explanation-defying ways. There you'd be sitting, and you'd look into the next room over--only to find that it wasn't a tea room at all anymore: it was an indoors pool, of all things. Or maybe a flat patch of grass, not a room at all. Or maybe...
well, you get the point. Difference. Variety. Strangeness.
Can you see why Douji and Shinpei never really got along that well?
Take this evening for example. Shinpei was walking along an unfamiliar street, perhaps. Maybe even one that he'd never been on before. And yet the only reason he was here at all was because he'd been forced out of his normal, everyday path: the beloved red light district nearer his home had oh-so-recently closed down. Something about an "investigation" and "documents" and "unlawful" something or other. Honestly, Shinpei hadn't listened too closely: he'd heard the basics in the first sentence. The point was that some bastard had spilled the beans on the semi-legal operation. If Shinpei ever found him, he'd wring the tattletale's neck.
Of course, it wasn't like setting up a couple houses of ill-repute deep inside the Seireitei had been a great idea. But still, Shinpei had visited the place many times and he'd never felt a need to spill (Shinigami mandatory disclosure laws notwithstanding.)
That was why he was here. He'd been forced to find a new place to visit when staying home became too much, too much. Every now and then a guy had to get out of the house, even if there were such delights inside. And a garden. And some history. And a surrounding family, he supposed, but he didn't really bother much with them. The rift between himself and the rest of his kin had less grown than widened by miles after his sister's death all those years ago.
"Misty Corner, Misty Corner..." Shinpei muttered to himself as he walked the dirt pathways. Though he was dressed in a clearly expensive kimono, he didn't begrudge the humbleness of the outskirt town too much; after all, he hadn't been born that far from here. He'd been elevated as a Shinigami, true (and there were rumors that his family was due for the nobility) but he supposed he just never really changed. Not really. He was still in many ways the man who'd grown up in alleyways and open fields, cavorting here and there, wooing women and being scolded by his family in turn.
Besides, how much the kimono cost didn't motivate him near as much as the flowery, soft fabric did: if it felt good, chances are Shinpei was a fan of it. He was a man with a one-track mind, as I've often said and will say again before too long. And that track led him... here.
"Moyamoyasumi," he read out loud from the sign, and grinned. Even if it was so much more comfortable, so much easier to stick to what he knew, going somewhere new was fun too. He walked to the entryway, peering in through the few slotted windows that allowed light to escape. "Good evening," he addressed the woman he saw sitting. "I've been told that this tea house serves other patrons during the night. Was I correctly informed?"
