[ a summoning circle made of robin's notes certainly shouldn't have the power to summon anything. but with the way tsurumaru sits in the middle wearing an amused and pleased smirk, it almost looks as though the note-circle-abomination has somehow summoned him. in his defence, his amusement stems from the fact that there's something endearing about the way people woke up from sleep. first the bleariness, and then the blinking as slow recognition filtered in past the veiled layers of drowsiness, and then finally, as the world comes to focus--

well, what's maybe not nearly as interesting is how self-possessed their saniwa is, with not even a peep of surprise in his expression. but, well, that's what makes their saniwa theirs, after all, so he supposes it's okay after all (there are always future chances, always). ]

They'll come to appreciate it once our new Nue friend comes across yet another herd of hapless animals. Everyone appreciates fresh meat. [ said flippantly, without flair, like this is a sure thing according to The World as known by Tsurumaru Kuninaga. he makes a face however. ] Except for Kousetsu-kun. I'm almost certain he subsists solely on tofu and really sad poetry.

-- hey, I can add that. [ it only takes a few moments of shuffling through his summoning circle of doom to locate the page, white sleeves scattering his work about without any real regard or decorum. he grabs the pen tucked behind his ear and pens in another line to kousetsu's profile--

"subsists solely on tofu and really sad poetry. may possibly be allergic to skinny jeans". perfection. ]

Really, I'm on a roll.