Post by Shinpei Minamoto on Dec 31, 2015 3:23:42 GMT -5
It was a familiar scene, if you've been paying attention.
Shinpei's face sported a nice, red palm-print that stood out like a neon sign on his light-skinned cheek. Go figure what the sign said: probably something along the lines of "offended a pure-hearted maiden," or "playboy" or maybe "one witty remark too many." Any way you sliced it the mark had a pretty obvious translation in character, especially coupled with the careless smile on his face as he rubbed the stinging patch of skin. He blew a kiss at the retreating figure and laughed whole-heartedly, attracting the stares of more than a few bystanders. It was, after all, a perfectly nice day in the middle of a busy street. Somehow he always had an audience for these sorts of things.
It helped that everything about him tended to draw attention. Visually his clothing made him look like some kind of crazy foreigner, tradition-obsessed native Japanese, or obscure performer. His pink and silky kimono was odd enough but the floral pattern was downright feminine on the pink background. He wore it without care: it fit naturally enough but he wore it partially open anyway. Not because of the heat, though he did appreciate the breeze on his bare skin. Not because of comfort, since he'd chosen silk specifically for its softness. It wasn't even because he liked the blushes he'd get every now and then when some slip of toned physique would show through, although he did appreciate the reactions he got. Mostly, it just fit his persona, which he appreciated: there was no doubt that he was a playboy and a charming one at that. It meant that any interaction was by default an interaction with a playboy, if you understand what I mean. No? Don't worry, you'll see.
And the non-visual made him stand out too, if you can believe it. He had no experience whatsoever in hiding his Reiatsu and hadn't bothered to do so ever since he'd come down to Earth. What was the point? If someone needed to find him, they would find him. He had no business hiding and besides, he'd had some definitely pleasurable encounters so far based on all sorts of people following his scent trail, if you will. There were those who could see the red flag fluttering and those who just felt like he was different in some way or another. And of course, there were people who felt and saw nothing at all. How could you tell who was whom?
Well, that was half the fun. And he was a fun kind of guy.
Still, I can't deny a tinge of melancholy in his set when he turned a corner and found himself face to face with a road he'd just never particularly bothered to walk down before. It's not so surprising: Karakura town, though just a town, was still the sort of place you couldn't traverse entirely in the space of just a few months unless you were really trying to. And Shinpei--well, after all, Shinpei was the kind of man who felt most natural just "happening" to things, or vice versa. If there was one thing he actively sought out, it was women. As I've said a hundred times and likely will a hundred times more, he had a one-track mind. He was a single-minded kind of person, the kind that could only really focus on one thing at a time. It was hard for him to change tracks. So hard, in fact, he hadn't done it for centuries.
You can imagine Douji's plight, cooped up in that terribly thin sword, in that terribly solitary mind.
But it wasn't the fact that he'd found somewhere new that was weighing heavy on him: in fact, it wasn't even the fact that he'd neglected to completely explore the area. Instead it was the new buildings, the new apartments and facilities he saw there. Nothing wrong with them--they were unobjectionable. Some of the architecture was even kind of pretty, in a Japanese way. But he leaned on that streetlamp, accruing stares like usual, and couldn't help a small sigh. These streets were fine streets. Surely they provided housing, entertainment and sustenance for a whole host of people.
But they weren't familiar to him. No surprise there: centuries had passed.
And in the end, he was a man without much of a home to speak of at all.
Oh well! He made a habit of never dwelling on the past, honest. Would I lie to you? Never.
So he shook himself out of it and took a nice stroll up the somewhat steeply-lying street, aiming for what looked like a pretty lookout spot.
He did so like pretty things.
Shinpei's face sported a nice, red palm-print that stood out like a neon sign on his light-skinned cheek. Go figure what the sign said: probably something along the lines of "offended a pure-hearted maiden," or "playboy" or maybe "one witty remark too many." Any way you sliced it the mark had a pretty obvious translation in character, especially coupled with the careless smile on his face as he rubbed the stinging patch of skin. He blew a kiss at the retreating figure and laughed whole-heartedly, attracting the stares of more than a few bystanders. It was, after all, a perfectly nice day in the middle of a busy street. Somehow he always had an audience for these sorts of things.
It helped that everything about him tended to draw attention. Visually his clothing made him look like some kind of crazy foreigner, tradition-obsessed native Japanese, or obscure performer. His pink and silky kimono was odd enough but the floral pattern was downright feminine on the pink background. He wore it without care: it fit naturally enough but he wore it partially open anyway. Not because of the heat, though he did appreciate the breeze on his bare skin. Not because of comfort, since he'd chosen silk specifically for its softness. It wasn't even because he liked the blushes he'd get every now and then when some slip of toned physique would show through, although he did appreciate the reactions he got. Mostly, it just fit his persona, which he appreciated: there was no doubt that he was a playboy and a charming one at that. It meant that any interaction was by default an interaction with a playboy, if you understand what I mean. No? Don't worry, you'll see.
And the non-visual made him stand out too, if you can believe it. He had no experience whatsoever in hiding his Reiatsu and hadn't bothered to do so ever since he'd come down to Earth. What was the point? If someone needed to find him, they would find him. He had no business hiding and besides, he'd had some definitely pleasurable encounters so far based on all sorts of people following his scent trail, if you will. There were those who could see the red flag fluttering and those who just felt like he was different in some way or another. And of course, there were people who felt and saw nothing at all. How could you tell who was whom?
Well, that was half the fun. And he was a fun kind of guy.
Still, I can't deny a tinge of melancholy in his set when he turned a corner and found himself face to face with a road he'd just never particularly bothered to walk down before. It's not so surprising: Karakura town, though just a town, was still the sort of place you couldn't traverse entirely in the space of just a few months unless you were really trying to. And Shinpei--well, after all, Shinpei was the kind of man who felt most natural just "happening" to things, or vice versa. If there was one thing he actively sought out, it was women. As I've said a hundred times and likely will a hundred times more, he had a one-track mind. He was a single-minded kind of person, the kind that could only really focus on one thing at a time. It was hard for him to change tracks. So hard, in fact, he hadn't done it for centuries.
You can imagine Douji's plight, cooped up in that terribly thin sword, in that terribly solitary mind.
But it wasn't the fact that he'd found somewhere new that was weighing heavy on him: in fact, it wasn't even the fact that he'd neglected to completely explore the area. Instead it was the new buildings, the new apartments and facilities he saw there. Nothing wrong with them--they were unobjectionable. Some of the architecture was even kind of pretty, in a Japanese way. But he leaned on that streetlamp, accruing stares like usual, and couldn't help a small sigh. These streets were fine streets. Surely they provided housing, entertainment and sustenance for a whole host of people.
But they weren't familiar to him. No surprise there: centuries had passed.
And in the end, he was a man without much of a home to speak of at all.
Oh well! He made a habit of never dwelling on the past, honest. Would I lie to you? Never.
So he shook himself out of it and took a nice stroll up the somewhat steeply-lying street, aiming for what looked like a pretty lookout spot.
He did so like pretty things.
