HereComesTheSnow

Lostman Graffiti

Iwao - Eastern District

Well, far be it from the good Captain to let any of his loyal customers get away with slipping into a funk. The man had a preternatural gift for compliments, even if they came from an unexpected angle. He just always dyed it these days, y'know? "Spooled sunlight"... was certainly a new one, amongst "like a punk" and "bad news". Maybe that was focusing on the negative, but it was nice to hear somebody not riding your ass for it every once in a while, even if you'd long since stopped letting that bother you.

The erstwhile boxer's mouth quirked up a bit, in spite of himself.

Perhaps this was why he was thought of as a former philanthropist, happily giving away his millions from the mercenary life to pursue the humble calling of fisherman— he wanted to share his gigawatt smile with the rest of the world. Iwao certainly couldn't begrudge the idea.

Neither could he begrudge 600 yen a pop for unagi. That was a steal. Those damn things were so expensive normally... freshwater, farming, expensive to raise...

And here they were, wriggling about the bucket, pristine and by all rights healthy as could be. Good sheen to the scales, docile but still moving around...

...

How did he get unagi this close to the sea, anywa—

"I've got 4000!"

Uh oh.

For the briefest instant, Iwao's gaze snapped off of the long, luxuriant fish that promised cleared pores and possibly long nights under the covers (for Hiroyuki and Sayuri, at least) to capture several important details about his sudden competitor, stemming from the arm that had smashed into his peripherals and nearly made him jump.

That's a slick watch. The sleeve's... silk, I think. Not a tailor, but it looks fancy. Everything he's wearing, actually, looks fancy. Looks done up. I've never even seen any of that gaudy shit around here.

I can't outcompete this guy if he just keeps going over me. That much is for certain. Let's test the waters... If he's not a local, he might get spooked. If he'll play ball, I don't have a lot of room to work with.

The young man who never carried more than 6000 yen in his wallet on any given day spoke up, clear baritone slicing through the crowd to match the voice of the fashionista newcomer. It wasn't much, just a fleeting and momentary task to complete, but locking down some good grilled Unagi (or maybe Anago, who the hell knew) for everyone while not breaking the bank was a goal. The world seemed to sharpen a bit, even beneath the blazing heat.

"4250! While you're at it, what's the Snapper going for?"

A Certain Scientific Apocrypha

I'm always down for some Raildex.

Lostman Graffiti

Iwao - Eastern District

Heat haze on the wharf made for a rather fitting bit of metaphor.

The Eastern District was, in its storied Saturday fervor, no stranger to all types of people— young and old, clean-cut and roughnecked, fettered and carefree. As such, it came as no great shock to any present that amongst the milling crowds, desperate to not miss out upon the fruits of the sea, there ambled a young man with a head full of blonde. To begin with, a gray tee with a black and white diamond pattern combined with navy basketball shorts wasn't terribly "rowdy" attire by any means, and the way he floated through the mass of eager seafood junkies as though carried upon those thermals was even less so. He was just, surely, a kid in the middle of an image change here for the same reason as anyone else—

It's about 2 now. Hopefully the Captain's still got something worth eating left.

Shopping.

Arizawa Iwao was here to shop. Fresh fish seemed to be a welcome addition to the sharehouse's fridge, which was a lucky break. He had been part of this crowd since he was a grade-schooler, after all. If his feet didn't follow Saturday's most familiar path, then... Well, what the hell else was there to do?

Just like the wavering air that leaked up from the wood as it baked in the oppressive sun, he was just doing what he always did on a day like today. Going where he always went. If the day's a scorcher, an inferior mirage distorts the image of things near the ground. If the day's a Saturday, Arizawa Iwao goes and gets seafood. There is a how, and there's even a why, but to those in question it just is.

And thus it was. Here we are, headed to Captain Belo, just like last week.

"Ah— Sorry!"

A rogue shoulder, owned by a rather frazzled-looking man with short hair, collided with Iwao's and snapped him back to the present. The faux-blonde's earthen eyes tore away from the shimmers at foot level to meet those of the other half of the encounter,

"Nah. I shoulda been lookin'."

And closed momentarily, as a grunted acceptance of blame and tilt of the head were made in response. A moment passed as the two regarded eachother awkwardly, before Iwao took it upon himself to cut things off there and start walking again. It was true, after all— even if the heat made a guy wanna take a nap, melt into the floor, or otherwise shut off, he had to keep his eyes on the prize if he was gonna get there before the Seven-Time Mr. Fisherman's stocks ran dry. Not to mention, the other dude was in a hurry to begin with.

As usual, even though the veterans of the Eastern District knew that this was cutting things close, there was still a very respectable crowd around the jacked, jovial, and judicious Somali salesman. There was just no catching the man at a dead hour— they only seemed to exist once he'd begun closing up, cleaned out by the hungry citizens of Tenoroshi. Two people were rung up with the quickness in the time Iwao took to approach, and when he'd drawn up to the far edge of those jockeying for position, three had taken their place.

Hm. Nothing compared to the buccaneers that massed during the morning, but still competitive.

The pensive frown that had populated his face when he was lost in his head faded, its ghost accompanied by a calculating narrowed gaze. He'd have to find a way in here. A gap in the net, if you'd pardon the pun.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Fantasy Knight RP

Gerard's currently acting on orders given. He was a bit far to help once she started writing, and trusts those already handling it to do so with more sense than him. No sense in crowding the questioning when he's better used on lookout duty, as he sees it.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Fantasy Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@Krayzikk

Soulless, huh?

Well.

A light snort puffed from the ex-mercenary's nostrils, ghost of a smirk playing across his face as he approached the tall, wide archway that lead to the inner gardens of the Crown. The interrogation continued behind him unabated— it seemed as if there was no immediate threat of a retrieval party, or the tying of loose ends and loose lips. That was good— without worrying about more bolts flying at more heads, answers would hopefully be forthright.

You tempt fate pointlessly, Gellert. It's already proven willing to bite. It could happen at any point.

Well, of course.

A half-step before the posted guards, he paused the string of regimented, direct strides that had brought him there, meeting the eyes of each before glancing at their crossed polearms. He didn't expect them to permit his entry, to raise the X-shaped gate of steel that was before him— if they had, the Crown was wasting their resources.

No need to worry about that, at least.

"Some party, huh?" he huffed sardonically, turning on his heel and unbuckling the leather strap around his chestplate.

He wasn't terribly worried if he never received a response from the pair, either. Instead, he simply planted the tip of his (still sheathed, mind you, these were the royal family's floors) longsword into the carpet, and cast an amber gaze onto the whole scene before him.

Should the soulless come, as Nicomede mentioned, Gerard would know, and act.

The equation with them was really quite simple compared to this, anyway. No point in capture or questioning.

Just simple threat erasure.

Lostman Graffiti

Punchdude

Name Arizawa Iwao

Description: Clocking in at 5'10 and 150 pounds soaking wet, Iwao is a man made of wire. The sharper lines of his face are mellowed and softened by an expression that most often wobbles between careful neutrality and faraway melancholy, smiling rarely. He's reserved, and seems driven by routine more than anything else, and tends to retreat inward once that's spent up. The more observant sorts would notice his pronounced knuckles (at least if they were weirdos that looked at hands), and those that catch him on his nightly runs through the city would find his hands wrapped in cloth— both tells of the passion that once dominated his youth: boxing. The former amateur prospect may be unable to train, but it's undeniably still what he loves. His poster is a framed image of Madison Square Garden, and his laptop is often playing an old black-and-white fight on YouTube (Archie Moore a common face) as unobtrusive background noise. It probably has something to do with why his normal wear is usually utilitarian or sporting in nature. Lots of shoes to run in, and hoodies to work up a sweat in.

Lostman Graffiti

Punchdude

Name Arizawa Iwao

Description: Clocking in at 5'10 and 150 pounds soaking wet, Iwao is a man made of wire. The sharper lines of his face are mellowed and softened by an expression that most often wobbles between careful neutrality and faraway melancholy, smiling rarely. He's reserved, and seems driven by routine more than anything else, and tends to retreat inward once that's spent up. The more observant sorts would notice his pronounced knuckles (at least if they were weirdos that looked at hands), and those that catch him on his nightly runs through the city would find his hands wrapped in cloth— both tells of the passion that once dominated his youth: boxing. The former amateur prospect may be unable to train, but it's undeniably still what he loves. His poster is a framed image of Madison Square Garden, and his laptop is often playing an old black-and-white fight on YouTube (Archie Moore a common face) as unobtrusive background noise. It probably has something to do with why his normal wear is usually utilitarian or sporting in nature. Lots of shoes to run in, and hoodies to work up a sweat in.

World Building
Inoue Tatsuya is a student at Hijirido University, sharing a class or two with Iwao. Friendly and affable, he's transitioned into college life easily— smashing through his studies to spend the week planning a nice Saturday evening with his girlfriend. Works a few night shifts a week at Nacchan's to fund these ventures, and is a member of the airsoft club.

Tanno Junichiro is the owner, purveyor, and extremely respected Head Coach of the Corsair Boxing Gym. A former member of the Japanese Navy, the "Ol' Skipper" is a strict and exacting disciplinarian to his students, but that salty exterior conceals and quickly gives way to a fatherly pride for each. They are his sons and daughters, and though he works them hard as they can take, it's out of a true commitment to seeing them achieve their dreams. Shockingly great with kids for being such a hard-nosed man of the sea. He and Iwao are currently not on speaking terms.

Kobayashi Mitsuo is a street urchin hero of justice. A young man that never had much aspiration for college, and is suspected to have maybe watched anywhere from one to fifty too many sentai shows as a kid. His method of "nitty-gritty vigilantism" ultimately amounts to seeking out scuffles he can get into (with a fighting chance, of course— he's not suicidally delusional), with people that, in fairness, probably deserve a slugging. Usually. Has a habit of making weird speeches and jumping to weirder conclusions. Considers Iwao a "success story", after a few times crossing paths with him. Possibly due to getting it smashed, falling out of his pocket, or other such calamities befalling his smartphone, Mitsuo has gotten shockingly good at repairing them, and makes ends meet by monetizing that service.

Corsair Boxing Gym: Nestled away within the Eastern District, one of Tenoroshi's most respected crucibles of combat sports sits within a small warehouse, just a mile or two from the wharf. Named such after Tanno's maritime background, adherents of his "Train Smart, Work Hard" philosophy jokingly dub themselves "pirates", in no small part due to their raids on the Saturday Fisherman's Markets. Hey, you don't get much better than fish for lean eating on a weight cut. Regardless, fighters both pro and amateur can be seen throughout the day during the gym's hours of operation, on their Road Work route through the district, friendly smiles for anyone passing by. Unless they're dead tired, of course.

Nacchan's Grocery: In the homey, inviting suburbia of the Northwestern District there lies an equally homey, inviting market. Sitting on the corner of a well-lit street and a public park, Nacchan's is a one stop shop for any of your foodstuff needs, from instant ramen to the illustrious (amongst young mothers, anyway) kale. Recently added a deli thanks to a good year, and are currently hiring to fill those new part-time shifts. Good prices for where it's at.

Yuki-Hama: Imaginatively dubbed "Snow Beach" on account of its white sands, this straight stretch of coastline is just around the bend from the Northeastern District's popular boardwalk, and it's a picture of solitude. The tranquil waves lapping against the sands both soothe troubled minds and wash away the tracks of those who would grow tired of doing all their running on pavement. A respite for the joints never hurt. It's a good refuge to be alone with one's thoughts, if that's really what you need, especially at night.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Fantasy Knight RP

I'll get a gear-mover up soon

Lostman Graffiti [Urban Fantasy]

And in the edits go, because i sweat these things

Lostman Graffiti [Urban Fantasy]

same here. i’m a fan of everyone that’s cropped up so far, don’t really envy ERode’s position