Ran was silent a moment, digesting the information. She returned to the corridor and opened the next door, giving the barest glance at the standard motel-like room beyond. Then she shut the door, clapped her hands together twice in the manner of a worshipper at a temple, frowned as she thought of the room she wanted, and clapped her hands one last time. Expression intent, she opened the door into a room, similar in outline to the first she'd imagined, but obviously much more personalised.

Scrolls and writing implements fill every available surface, a cup of tea left on the low table, half buried in papers. The walls are covered with wood prints -- famous generals, distinguished tacticians, scenic vistas and known criminals (Ran-kun might be interested in one white-clad figure seemingly half-man, half-fox leaping over the roof of a house under the moonlight) and bookshelves, jammed to overflowing with scrolls and books, a good number of them apparently cobbled together by hand from whatever printed matter their owner could get his hands on.

Ran is familiar with the room. Disregarding the mess she kneels to check the cup of tea. "Cold," she says.