[Thread] [Okamoto Katsushiro and Shampoo]
Who: Okamoto Katsushiro (first_image) and Shampoo (amazonianism)
What: Shampoo invited Okamoto Katsushiro to try learning something of fighting (again) from her.
When: Now?
Where: Somewhere in the courtyard(s).
Rating: PG/PG-13 (Language dependent)
Shampoo stretched, eying the courtyard as a whole with a critical expression on her face. Between her unsatisfactory run in with the Ranma yet not Ranma the other day, and the inconclusive evidence of the library, she was more than glad for an excuse to be actively moving against someone. The journals were odd, as a tool; you could communicate with veritably anyone, though knowing who they were in reality was a toss up of if they were a good enough liar or you an astute enough observer.
In this case, she didn't know what to expect; she only hoped the offer to bother helping an individual who had lost a skill she herself considered to be priceless would be sufficiently worth her time. (She may have more than enough time on her hands, but she wasn't forced to squander it away on people less than deserving. Of course, her standards of "deserving" were a bit in the air.)
Still, as she craned her head up to examine the turrets, eyes squinting against reflection, she hoped this person would be here soon. Her journal lay open on the ground, and she occassionally glanced over. The magic which made other words appear still fascinated her, to an extent. She was eying them in speculation as she leaned on the wooden length of the poles she'd found.
What: Shampoo invited Okamoto Katsushiro to try learning something of fighting (again) from her.
When: Now?
Where: Somewhere in the courtyard(s).
Rating: PG/PG-13 (Language dependent)
Shampoo stretched, eying the courtyard as a whole with a critical expression on her face. Between her unsatisfactory run in with the Ranma yet not Ranma the other day, and the inconclusive evidence of the library, she was more than glad for an excuse to be actively moving against someone. The journals were odd, as a tool; you could communicate with veritably anyone, though knowing who they were in reality was a toss up of if they were a good enough liar or you an astute enough observer.
In this case, she didn't know what to expect; she only hoped the offer to bother helping an individual who had lost a skill she herself considered to be priceless would be sufficiently worth her time. (She may have more than enough time on her hands, but she wasn't forced to squander it away on people less than deserving. Of course, her standards of "deserving" were a bit in the air.)
Still, as she craned her head up to examine the turrets, eyes squinting against reflection, she hoped this person would be here soon. Her journal lay open on the ground, and she occassionally glanced over. The magic which made other words appear still fascinated her, to an extent. She was eying them in speculation as she leaned on the wooden length of the poles she'd found.