12692/Far From Home

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Far From Home
Date of Scene: 28 January 2021
Location: Fred's Diner - Mutant Town
Synopsis: Shannon meets Xiang Zhao in Bushwick. Music, meditation, shelter, and life are discussed.
Cast of Characters: Xiang Zhao, Nightingale




Xiang Zhao has posed:
Given the time of year it happens to be, one shouldn't be overly surprised when there happens to be snow. And there happens to be snow. Falling. From the sky. The flakes are of the sort that happen when it's on the edge of freezing, and they go back and forth between snow and slush seemingly at random. This leaves the roads, and the sidewalks, outside the diner slick at best and dangerous at worst. Through this falling frozen stuff emerges a figure that appears to be dressed for some sort of cosplay. In robes, of all things, that looks somewhat like a kimono. Tucked into the sash that holds everything together, a pale flute and a folding fan are visible. He does not appear to be carrying anything else as he opens the diner's door and steps inside. There, Xiang Zhao pauses. First to close the door against the chill outside. Then to glance at what there is here. The pause doesn't last for very long before Zhao ventures toward one of the unoccupied stools along the counter. The time is around mid-afternoon, perhaps an hour after lunch. Despite being a popular place, the inevitable after-lunch lull is in effect, leaving the place not /too/ crowded.

Nightingale has posed:
     The place might not be -too- crowded, but there are a few odd souls scattered about here and there. Some appear normal at first glance, with perhaps only odd, lizard-like eyes to hint at anything different about them. Some have scales, some have fur, and some seem nearly entirely human. One of those is perched on one of the stools at the counter, with a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and home fries in front of her off to one side, and what looks to be some sort of textbook on the other. She's dressed in dark blue jeans, calf-length caramel suede boots, and a wine-colored turtleneck shirt. Slung over her shoulders is a long, black woolen opera cloak, with red satin lining. The construction is largely simple, except for one thing.

     There are two slits along the spine in the back, as if at one time something had been meant to be there.

     The posture of the fair-haired young woman bespeaks a mixture of tension, resignation, and grim determination as she applies herself to her studies at the moment, munching absentmindedly on her repast as she does so. Xiang's entrance is enough to draw her attention, glancing over briefly and offering a smile. Her face is youthful, but there are lines between her brows at the moment, at direct odds with such an appearance.

Xiang Zhao has posed:
Xiang Zhao does take in the different, and differing, people here, but those differences don't really seem to ruffle the serene expression upon his face. His eyes linger briefly on the woman in the black cloak as he steps up to the stool, one empty one left between him and the blonde. He considers the woman for a moment, his eyes lingering, of all places, on her hair. His dark eyes drop to the stool he has stopped beside. With a graceful motion, he settles atop it. The outer robe, slit up either side, is deftly flipped back so that it hangs down behind him. As he settles, boots in a deep grey leather can be seen, the toes oddly pointed. With soles half an inch thick, they actually look pretty comfortable. Zhao reaches for the closest menu, which happens to be closer to the woman. He glances over it, but seems a bit hesitant on what to pick, reading over each item thoroughly.

Nightingale has posed:
     Shannon offers a smile to the elegantly dressed man in the kimono-like robes, reaching over to nudge the menu over towards him. "The meat loaf here is pretty good," she offers, tucking a few stray wisps of pale gold away behind her ear. "So's the eggs and home fries."

     At first glance, the tips of her fingers appear somewhat calloused, in the manner of those who have had at least some practice with stringed instruments. She peeks at the flute tucked away in Xiang's sash, brows flicking briefly upwards, and her smile lightening somewhat. "That's a beautiful instrument," she finally says.

Xiang Zhao has posed:
The nudge of the menu has Zhao inclining his head just a little bit to the woman. The gesture is held for a few seconds before his neck straightens again. There's not much of a smile there to be seen in his expression. Just a very slight curling of his lips. But that smile can be seen in his dark eyes if one knows what to look for. He lifts his eyes from the menu for a moment at the suggestions to look at her.

"Meat... loaf..? This is.. what?" His voice is quiet with a soft quality to it, and accented with something definitely not American. That accent, coupled with the arched brows and slanted eyes give strong hints to an Asian influence. "Zhao is familiar with eggs. But.. home fries is what?" 'Zhao' does not seem to be an English word, spoken somewhat like someone slurring out an 'ow'. But he doesn't seem to be in any pain, so maybe not.

Xiang Zhao's eyes follow hers to the flute, and his left hand follows to stroke the white and pale blue instrument for a moment. "Xièxiè," he says in reply to the compliment. After a moment of thought, he pulls it from the sash and places it gently and with great care upon the table between them. It appears to be stone of some sort and if touched, is cool, almost chill. The pale blue swirl pattern seems reminsicent of wind, and has been carved shallowly into the flute's surface.

Nightingale has posed:
     'Xiexie' was all Shannon needed to hear, to figure out what the accent was. It was the one and only word she knew in the language, the spark of understanding lightening the shadows that seemed to linger in her eyes. "You're welcome," she replies. In response to Xiang's question, she smiles a little bit more, picking up her fork to nudge one of the fried cubes of potato on her plate. "Those are home fries. Cubes of potato partially boiled, then finished by frying in a pan. Very tasty."

     With one fingertip, she reaches out and gingerly traces the swirling patterns on the body of the flute, admiring the flow and simple beauty of the design. The arch of her fingers hints perhaps at experience with other instruments. "My name's Shannon. What's yours?"

Xiang Zhao has posed:
That lightening of shadows is not missed, and a certain amount of curiousity comes into Zhao's own eyes. Despite his expression remaining serene and without much in the way of emotion to it, his eyes are very, very expressive. It seems that with this man, the saying 'eyes are the windows to the soul' might well be very true. Those eyes are drawn to the motion of fork and fried cubes. "Oh. Potatos are known." He seems to decide on something as the waiter appears. "Tea, please. Meat loaf and home fries, please." These are noted by the waiter who lingers for a moment in case Shannon wishes anything.

Xiang Zhao looks down at that tracing of his flute. "Do you play?" He may be seeing those hints of experience. His eyes lift at her introduction and question. He lifts his hands and cups them before him, pointed in Shannon's direction, and half bows to her with his hands in that position. "Xiang Zhao," he replies. 'Shan-jow', spoken almost as though the two syllables are a single word. He straightens, and lowers his hands to rest on his lap. Every motion is measured, elegant, not a single movement wasted.

Nightingale has posed:
     The gesture of bowing is echoed, with a light smile from Shannon. "Pleased to meet you," she replies. The waiter is given a subtle shake of her head to decline anything further at the moment. "I do play, but my flute is different. I've never seen one like yours before." She reaches over for her textbook and closes it, and leans down for a backpack that had been resting on the ground, hidden by the long sweep of her cloak. As she's putting the book away in the bag, images on the cover that look as if they're suited to medical studies might be briefly seen. "Are you a musician, then?"

Xiang Zhao has posed:
Xiang Zhao sits in absolute stillness as he listens, up until the point he glances to the flute again. "This one is jade. And is.. special." While a beautiful instrument, it is far more common to see two piece flutes than flutes made all of one piece these days. He reaches for the flute and tucks it back into his sash. A nod is given as his tea is placed on the table. "Xièxiè," is spoken again, this time to the waiter as he departs again. He reaches one hand for the mug and pulls it closer. One inhale of the brew and it's clear that Zhao is not very enthusiastic for this tea.

The question draws his attention and eyes away from the tea and back to Shannon. "Mm." There's a short pause as he lifts the mug and blows on the surface of the liquid within. "I am most proficient with guqin, but did not have mine with me when I went into meditation."

Nightingale has posed:
     Shannon's brows furrow at that, her face a study in confusion and frank curiosity. "What's a... guqin?" She finally asks. Her pronunciation is not perfect, and the name of the instrument is spoken slowly, as to one unfamiliar with the language. The connection between meditation and the lack of guqin also appears to elude her, the tilt of her head giving her a somewhat mildly bewildered expression. "How could meditation mean your guqin would be missing?"

Xiang Zhao has posed:
Xiang Zhao actually has to think about the answer to that question for a few moments before his mouth opens. But no sound emerges before Zhao's mouth closes again. Another moment of thought, then he nods once, ever so slightly, almost as though to himself. "An instrument with seven strings. They are shaped thus." He places the tea, undrank, back onto the counter top before spreading his arms out to either side until his hands are about four feet apart. Then opposite that, about a foot in width, then roughly half that high. "This," he says, tapping the flute at his right side, "Is easier to carry." The bewildered expression is met with one of calm thoughtfulness. "I did not have my guqin in meditation. Thus, I did not have it when I came out of meditation here. It is.. far away."

Nightingale has posed:
     "Oh... so meditation lets you travel?" There is a surprising level of understanding now in Shannon's expression, some of the clouds of confusion wiped away as if by a spring breeze. She tilts her head slightly to one side, considering. "Would you be able to meditate, and return to where you left your instrument? Or... does it take a great deal for you to do so?" Perhaps not so unfamiliar with that or similar ideas, then. What sort of girl was this?

Xiang Zhao has posed:
Xiang Zhao shakes his head, and a certain level of frustrated acceptance enters his eyes. "No. There was.. an accident. A surge. It has never happened before. I am uncertain how I traveled. Her understanding and apparent familiarity with such things seems to have made Zhao relax at least a little bit. "I cannot. I have tried. It was likely a result of that húlí interfering with me again." What in the world is a 'hoo-lee'?

Nightingale has posed:
     To be trapped, far from home, is a heartbreaking situation, indeed. Mist gathers in Shannon's eyes, glistening at their edges as she nods. "Do you have somewhere to sleep?" she finally asks, her voice laced with concern. This could not be easy for Xiang, and it broke her heart. "There are places here that help those without anywhere to go. It would at least get you out of the cold."

Xiang Zhao has posed:
It is not pleasant, that is for certain! Xiang Zhao, seeing her expression, allows a small smile to appear on the edges of his own. "If I were not meant to be here, I would not be here. Fate always has a plan." As to the sleeping, he hesitates for a moment, then minutely to the right, then the left. "I do not. I have been finding sheltered places. I am used to the cold. It is colder at home." A pause, and Zhao looks thoughtful. "If there is a place to stay that will accept a trade, I will not say no. I can cook, and protect."

Nightingale has posed:
     Motioning to the waiter, Shannon requests a pen and some paper with which to jot down a little information. Only too happy to honor that small request, the aforementioned items are brought to her. She writes down the names of a few shelters in Bushwick, and one in Harlem. "These first two names, they're here in Bushwick. Then there's the New Hope shelter in Harlem. I've volunteered there before. You'll find most shelters willing to accept help, however. If you do go to New Hope, please tell Sam Wilson I said hello?" The paper is offered to Xiang, with a gentle smile.

Xiang Zhao has posed:
Too late, Xiang Zhao realizes just what it is Shannon is after. Paper and a writing utensil. "Next time, if you need such items, I always have them with me," he says in that same quiet voice. He watches her write, and, without paying much attention, reaches for the tea and takes a drink of it. Some emotion shows there. A faint grimace. "I must request tea," he murmurs half under his breath as though to himself. The tea is set down. Shortly after the writing has begun, and the explanations of the writing, Zhao's food arrives. "Xièxiè." That comes with a slightly distracted tone as the majority of his attention is on Shannon. English. Not his best at understanding it. He is doing well, though! "New Hope. Sam Wilson. I will do as you request." He accepts the paper and looks it over for a moment longer before folding it in half, then in half again so it's in almost a smaller square. Then he tucks it, of all places, into the front of his robe at his chest. Maybe there's a pocket there? The food, it seems, has been forgotten for the moment. Or perhaps it simply hasn't consciously registered that it's there.

Nightingale has posed:
     A hint of rose colors Shannon's face as she realizes her misstep in not asking Xiang first about pen and paper, and she ducks her head. "I'm sorry. No insult was meant by not asking." Pausing, she purses her lips slightly, considering. "Xiexie is... Chinese? How would you say, 'I'm sorry' in the language?" Her food, too, is forgotten for the moment, as the challenge of another language presents itself.

Xiang Zhao has posed:
Xiang Zhao waves his right hand once before setting it down again. Back to his lap. The tea? Left on the counter top. "No insult was given. You did not know. Now you do, if needed next time." The question about xiexie is given a sound. "Mm." It's the same sound from before. It seems to indicate 'yes'. To the second question, he replies, "Wo dàoqiàn." Woe-dow-chin. The food is finally remembered, and he reaches for it. The fork is ignored, and the spoon taken instead. A small piece of the meatloaf is cut off with the spoon. "Is there a place where Chinese gather? I wish to pay my respects." The small bit on the spoon is lifted to Zhao's mouth and into it. And there, he pauses as the flavors hit his tongue. Slowly the spoon is lowered. "Mmm," he says, the sound slightly longer and more drawn out than the 'affirmative' sound. "This is good."

Nightingale has posed:
     Shannon shakes her head and shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe someone at the shelters might have an idea, though." For a little while, there is companionable silence, as both partake of their respective repast. When she is finished, she glances back over at Xiang. "Would you be insulted if I paid for both meals?" she asked, hesitating for a moment to request her check.

Xiang Zhao has posed:
The food on Xiang Zhao's plate is all eaten. He leaves nothing behind. Except the tea. The tea is just /bad/, clearly, to his sense of taste and smell. At that question after the meals are done, Zhao goes utterly still for a moment. The question is not directly answered, though the answer, perhaps, will be clear enough. "Xiexie." He doesn't appear to be insulted, so that's something. Though, his fair complexion shows a touch of color high on his cheeks and at his earlobes. Slightly embarassed, check. Insulted, no check.