manuscripture: for when you're monochrome af (Default)
ʀᴏʜᴀɴ ᴋɪsʜɪʙᴇ. ([personal profile] manuscripture) wrote2016-03-28 09:24 am

IC INBOX / BUSINESS CARD ( ARCHIVE AS OF 12/13 )


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WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, ROHAN KISHIBE.

FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 512.66.730.91

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[ Somewhere around town-- at the bookstore, the Tomoe-Kaname Bakery, attached to posts and notice boards --you find a small white notecard. On it is printed a little message and some numbers in ornate lettering. If you look closely, it reads the following: ]

Rohan Kishibe, Mangaka & Visual Artist
Owner Pro Tempore of Ebony Threads Tailor Shop
Highly Experienced.
Commissions & Advertising For Hire
Pay Negotiable.
Contact At: 512.66.730.91 for inquiries
Castle Lüvchaque - Directly North of Bavan per appointment ONLY.


(( feel free to use this as an action-based prompt too. any random interactions will MOST LIKELY take place in the form of walk-ins at the tailor shop unless it's pre-planned. just drop a starter in here! ))
operadiance: stopped (fermata)

[personal profile] operadiance 2016-09-25 02:06 am (UTC)(link)
[ She purses her lips at the first query — it's more useful for patching up a stabbing, but he goes on, so she waits. At the gesture, her face twists up, a little disgruntled. ]

They're annoying. I can't even style my own hair without getting caught on these things.

[ Her hair is styled, though, tied up in its usual pigtails — she just has to rely on other people to help hold things in place so she doesn't tear her arms open (more).

But she exhales, shrugging her shoulders.
]

I'm glad it's gone, though. I wasn't exaggerating back then, you know. Most of the time I was around you, it was trying to get me to kill you. I couldn't even be in the same room with my best friend without having to talk myself down from ripping his throat out.

[ Considering how calmly the interaction is going this time around — it's a pretty obvious difference in attitude. ]

Anyway, that stuff— [ she nods towards the bottle still in his hands ] —'s better for sealing a cut jugular, or a punctured lung, or things like that. But it should work for shedding too, if it's that bad.
operadiance: serenade (serenata)

[personal profile] operadiance 2016-09-25 05:38 am (UTC)(link)
Mm. [ Her head shakes, and with an easy slip she gets down from the stool — not that she has much room to go down, legs as unfortunately long as they still are. She smooths out her skirt. ]

No, I don't need anything. It was just that.

[ The gift-delivery, she means; her errand is finished. ]
operadiance: small instrumental tone (cavatina)

okay kaa

[personal profile] operadiance 2016-09-25 08:30 am (UTC)(link)
[ A little surprised by the request, she leans back against the stool, watching him dig through the desk. Her tail flicks a little to find a position to relax, her wings still folded in close; her hands grab the seat to keep it from skidding across the hard floor and knocking her to the ground.

He talks over the shifts of paper and shifts of scales across the ground; her claws tap at the underside of the stool seat, expression neutral. Like she's not going to notice a tactic like that... hasn't she told him before that she lives with a Naga?

When he brings the sketchbook her way, flipping to the proper page, she peers at him a moment before turning her gaze to the book. Of course, it's not the prismatic magnificence of the first portrait, but it is beautiful. There's a real sense of Action to it — like her arm really were in mid-motion, and that the sweep of the throw will resume in only a moment.

Here is his compliment: those blue eyes, whose color he worked so hard to capture, are focused on that page — but so too are the eyes that sit above them. Wider set, similarly veined with rivulets of gold like mortar, theirs is a different hue entirely, a reddish purple close to opaque ruby.

She hasn't opened them before him, before now — but she doesn't look at him with them.
]

I'm glad I don't have to deal with all that anymore. [ Something like a joke, a hand hovering over the page, fingers indicating the bars on her tail. ] It's amazing... your memory is really strong, isn't it?

[ A furrow, as she looks towards the ink crossing the page. ]

What do you mean, use it?
operadiance: from Bergamo (bergamasca)

[personal profile] operadiance 2016-09-25 11:23 am (UTC)(link)
Clunky? [ The descriptor takes her by surprise. Yuzu glances up from the page, upper eyes closing quickly for shifting focus. (And though she knows she needs to practice using them if she wants them to be useful, it's too nauseating to take in so much excess detail for very long.)

Still, a word like that — it doesn't seem to match the ones she knows. Yusei was always so dexterous with everything, with white scales that mirrored the moonlight better than still water; Rio with her pale look, a source of fire somehow carved from a glacial shelf. The trepidatious darkness of Yuto, the strength and vigor of Suou, when those two still walked this world...
]

Maybe you just haven't seen the right ones.

[ A pause, considering. Then again, none of them were any good at dancing, and she doubted that Jotaro of his was particularly elegant.

She shrugs; within that motion, the lower bulbs of her wings unhook, allowing the limbs to hang out a little wider, less bound. There's no risk to anything knocking over, but with a greater surface area exposed, more heat enters the air.

Not as sneaky as he'd hoped.
]

Where do the others fall? The other forms we're forced into.

[ MONSTER HOT OR NOT. ]
operadiance: tightened (aria)

[personal profile] operadiance 2016-09-25 01:15 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Nagas... the most beautiful.......nagas.. She can't help it. She bites both of her lips back as far as her teeth will allow, a curled hand pressing hard against her mouth, trying to suppress a tremble for a laugh. Sure, Kishibe might have that art house inkblot vibe going for him, the naga she thinks of first is Yuya — with his bright, clashing stripes and the cute (whip) viper in his hair and his candy-crayon coloration and the size and spectacle of his rattle, the easy target in the shape of an inflated human hand, like a mascot costume glove tied to the end, locked in the wide-finger splay of a wave.

She loves him, but beautiful isn't the word.

With effort she forces laughter down, steadying her mood the longer he goes on — for each type of creature he names, she thinks of who she knows bearing that pelt, who bore that skin before. The ones who are still alive, and the ones—
]

Me? [ Oh, her opinions. ] Eh, just on looks alone, or anything?