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Another mild night had long settled upon the pristine streets of the Seireitei; hand-crafted tatami lanterns bathed the floor and walls in mellow warmth, tranquility blanketed the air where there had been orderly chaos hours prior, and most and the usual, if light, foot-traffic sauntered along, though as always it was clustered around those select few restaurants still open within the business district. It was within this business district that a mild absurdity was taking place: Iwamura, one known for his perennial conscientious habits--one of them, of course, being his immediate return home following the end of each day--had found himself trudging along, without any company and in his nightwear, and he had only a hazy understanding as of why. In fact, the only thing he could ascertain for sure was that it was company he was searching for in the first place; he could not even discern whether that company should be a ruffian common at this time of night or a particular individual known to him. At the same time, to his confusion, he did not feel any particularly nagging desire to speak to anyone, but there was no hostility present in that--it was moreso like how one doesn't need to be hungry to accept a snack.

'Perhaps it's a bit of loneliness, maybe,' Iwamura thought, but as he sauntered towards a traditional restaurant and ducked through its open doorway (the door had been propped open for the sole purpose of attracting any passersby), he found he wanted nothing to do with his own suggestion. He had acquaintances aplenty and a modest bundle of folk he could call friends, though upon reflection he at last noticed the fact that he often had to be persuaded to divert from his route home. Perhaps there was a kernel of truth in the thought after all, but it was still a mere kernel. He was a length away from satisfaction, that he knew for certain as well.

The eatery's interior was modest, soothing almost, with a setting almost indistinguishable from the establishments within Kyoto's historic sector. There were a few other Shinigami about; Iwamura counted seven, enough to make the place feel populated without any of the hectic air that permeates when crammed with customers. At least no one else was in their uniforms, Iwamura mused, undoing that little knot of stress. He found a relatively solitary spot at the bar situated against the right-hand wall and stood (he could never trust any form of seating), waving the bartender down. A cup of kukicha green tea was ordered, and Iwamura brushed his kimono, steel-blue and dotted with cream and peach hibiscus flowers, mostly to distract from the childish, docile and yet abrupt desire to plop himself down with the other patrons and carve himself into their conversations. Bewilderment followed, bewilderment towards himself, and he forced his gaze down at the bar counter.

The night meant very little to a man like Kishibe. To be quite honest, he hated it, even feared it, if a little. Though the dimly lit streets offered comfort to many a wandering soul, the inviting aromas of the eateries and joyous laughter of the taverns like temptuous little devils at one's senses; ever beckoning. To Kishibe, the darkness was but a bitter relic of his horrid past, for he had spent one too many a night within its suffocating grasp, alone, battered and broken. To many an innocent child, the setting of the sun meant the coming of monsters. Such imaginative beings would have been a welcoming sight for Kishibe, for his monsters were quite real.

Dusk often meant an early night for Kishibe, for he was prompt to vacate the sixth division's offices and return to his quarters; an early riser. Yet tonight, it seemed his inquisitive nature had gotten the better of him, the sights and sounds of the rukongai's night life seemed particularly alluring. Thus, he strolled, to nowhere in particular, roaming the sparsely populated streets searching hither and thither for any house that would have him.
He eventually happened upon a small restaurant.

Its door was left ajar, the tatami lamps above bathing the pavement below in an undulating, gentle orange glow. A neat trick, for surely the smell alone would be enough to captivate even a satiated spirit.
Pulling the curtains to one side, Kishibe stepped inside. Much to his surprise, he found the establishment to be quite empty, considering the many rows of vacant seats were a clear hint as to its capacity on a good day.

Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour, or the fact that seven of his colleagues had taken up a temporary residence. The civilians were often intimidated by the insular Shinigami, so it would not be entirely unforeseeable, he surmised. Kishibe cared not, silently delighted at the vacancy, at least his orders wouldn't be delayed. He strode up to the bar, hailing a member of staff, ordering himself a bottle of their hottest sake, and a bowl of miso pork ramen.

All of Bashira's moderate quality sakes were gone, used up after a particularly stressful few weeks. What with the chunk of Hueco Mundo sticking out of the ocean and hollow attacks on the rise. She could go out and buy more, or have someone else go out and acquire her more, but it was too late at night to send someone shopping, and she didn't want to bother with it herself. All she had left was the good stuff, saved for special occasions. This was not a special occasion, it was just stress. So she exchanged her formal attire for something much more casual and headed out, seeking out a place to drink.

The locale she settled on was one she tended to frequent often when she was still rising through the ranks. It was a personal favorite since it was more often than not hardly busy, meaning she wouldn't have to talk to people if she didn't really want to. And hopefully she wouldn't encounter too many other shinigami here, since her presence often put people on edge. Even in casual clothes, she just couldn't blend in with her imposing height.

Indeed, when she walked in, the 7 or so lower ranking shinigami immediately noticed her, halting conversations that may be considered somewhat inappropriate or speaking in hushed tones. Bashira paid this no mind as she scanned the interior, letting some nostalgia wash over her and memories of many a long night of drinking rise from the deep. Good times, at least as far as she could remember.

And yet, she noted the presence of two higher ranking acquaintances. While she didn't come here to talk, she found herself gravitating towards Kishibe and Iwamura, ordering herself a bottle of hot sake for herself.

The server brought her what she'd ordered, taking the opportunity to try to add something else to her tab. "Any food with that, out specials tonight are-"

"No thank you. Haven't been to hungry as of late. Sake is fine for now..."