12693/Music For The Soul

Music For The Soul
Date of Scene:	29 January 2021
Location:	Apple Park - Salem Center
Synopsis:	Xiang and Shannon meet again, this time in Apple Park. Music is shared, languages learned, and spirits lightened.
Cast of Characters:	Xiang Zhao, Nightingale

---

Xiang Zhao has posed:
True to the time of year, a blanket of snow coats just about everything in this park. The sidewalks on the outer boundaries of the park have been cleared, but the paths within the park have yet to be tended to. The hour is neither early nor late for morning, so there are people around and about.

Sitting under a thicker set of trees is one, still oddly dressed, Chinaman. The ground beneath him has been cleared of snow in a small, roughly circular patch. It looks almost as though it has been blown away, as by a strong breeze. But it's just that one patch. Xiang Zhao sits there, legs crossed, and a shabby looking thing that is likely an instrument resting across his lap. It is roughly the dimensions he'd described a guqin as having and appears to be made of wood. The end of it to his right is wider, and tapers somewhat to the other end. It appears to have seven strings that look to be in relatively decent shape, unlike the guqin itself.

Zhao's fingers lightly pluck the strings, one at a time. After each pluck of a string, he reaches under the wider end and appears to twist something that is hidden from view. It takes several minutes before he appears to be happy with how each plucked string sounds. Only then does he start what sounds like some sort of melody. Only to stop with a wince as one spot most of the way to the narrow end comes up with a flat tone. He pauses there, and reaches under the wider end again. Then plucks that spot. Pluck, fiddle. Pluck, fiddle. Then a very small nod, and his eyes close to continue that tune. It is once again short lived, though this time not for a sour note, but apparently having reached the end of it, satisfied once more.

That's when he actually starts playing, and it's obvious that the previous 'tune' was the equivalent of 'do re me fa so la te do'. A few heads turn as the music starts up. A few people stop. But none yet approach. Perhaps shy or perhaps something else. Xiang Zhao doesn't really seem to notice either way.

Nightingale has posed:
     Though most of the park was covered in snow, slowly, bit by bit the paths were being cleared--whether by design, or by simple dint of people making their own way where they wished to go. Men, women, and children all seemed to be enjoying themselves in snowy revelry, with snowballs flying, snowmen being built, and snow angels made in the landscape here and there. Some just liked to walk in this weather, while others partook in the joys of the nearby skating rink.

     Shannon was among the latter, her soft black boots crunching softly in the snow as she makes her way towards the rink. She's clad in light blue jeans, a dove grey turtleneck sweater, a beanie hat of similar hue, and a soft brown scarf wrapped around her neck like a warm hug. Over her left shoulder, she's slung a pair of simple white ice skates, tied together by their laces for carrying. Brushing some snow off a bench next to the rink, she sits down, setting the skates aside so she can work on unfastening her boots. As she bends over to do so, twin slits on her sweater gape open just a bit, like an old wound that refuses to close.

Xiang Zhao has posed:
Xiang Zhao is not actually all that far from skating rink, just the trees offer some small measure of privacy, though it's mostly illusory. Zhao can be seen easily by anybody walking past. Add to that, the music kind of tosses any illusion of privacy right on out the proverbial window. As he plays, Xiang Zhao is pretty focused on what he's doing and the music itself. His eyes mostly stay on the instrument upon his lap, but sometimes close briefly as he plays.

After a few minutes, the first song ends, and silence falls for a brief period of time before another starts. This one imparting a certain sense of tranquility and balance with it. It almost feels like Power of some sort is behind it, for those that are at all familiar with such things. How he is sitting, Xiang Zhao is sideways to the rink and is in clear view of the newly brushed off bench and Shannon.

Nightingale has posed:
     The music was enough to catch Shannon's attention, and she straightens, twisting about on the bench a bit to look over at Xiang. One brow flicks upwards briefly, her lips curling upwards in a ghost of a smile as she nods a greeting. But there are no words. She's simply paying attention to the music. For a moment, before the song with Power behind it begins, there are shadows in her eyes; since the day before, when she had spoken with Xiang at the gathering, he might perhaps now know their source.

     As the second song begins, the notes floating through the air, she closes her eyes, tilting her head towards Xiang, listening to each note played. It was a beautiful song, and soothing. It was enough to bring out her smile a little bit more, at least for the moment.

Xiang Zhao has posed:
Xiang Zhao likely doesn't know without any doubt the source of those shadows, but he almost certainly suspects at least some of the cause. He knows fully well how difficult change is. Especially unexpected change that one didn't have a choice in. This song, it lasts a good five or six minutes. The melody, as well as the notes themselves, are very well balanced. It might almost have been written specifically to bring about a tranquil and balanced state of mind. Certainly, Zhao's expression certainly seems to reflect that, just as serene as it had been the previous day.

But, eventually all things must end, and so too does the song. As the last notes hang in the air, still vibrating from the strings, Zhao lays his hands atop the strings to still them. The sound fades to nothing and silence, but for the typical background noises of this place. Now that he's no longer quite so focused on the music, Zhao glances around. He takes a visibly deeper breath and lifts a hand to flick a stray strand of dark hair back over his shoulder. The hand further lifts to wave once toward Shannon.

Nightingale has posed:
     Skating is forgotten for the moment, the young woman rising from the bench to leave a trail of boot prints in the snow, leading towards the source of that tranquil music. Shannon says nothing for some moments, instead taking a knee near Xiang to listen to the last few notes of the song. "That was beautiful," she finally says, her smile a bit lighter, the shadows, much more faint. "Is that a... guqin?" She rolls the word around in her mouth for a moment, trying a few times to get the pronunciation right from only hearing it once, the day prior.

Xiang Zhao has posed:
Xiang Zhao ducks his head for a few moments at the compliment. "Xiexie," comes the quiet response as his head lifts again. The question is met with a slight nod. "Mm." He glances down at the instrument in question and runs a fingertip down the body of it. "It is in need of minor repair. Sanding and a new coat of varnish." Indeed. What little varnish that hadn't worn off the guqin has peeled. Badly in some places. It looks like it sat in someone's barn for ten or twenty years, the state it's in. The only thing on it that looks in decent repair are the strings. Those were likely already replaced by Zhao. He lifts guqin from his lap and offers it over to Shannon. "How was the festival yesterday? I missed the end."

Nightingale has posed:
     Shannon smiles, adjusting her position to sitting on the snowy ground. It was likely to result in a half-frozen backside, but it was a small price to pay. The guqin is laid gently across her lap, her fingers tracing each string almost reverently. "Looks like the worst of it's the varnish," she says. "But the joins of the wood seem to be sound, at least. I think there's a small crafts supply store not too far from here. They may have some minor woodworking supplies, if that would help?"

     Keeping in mind the way the instrument had been held by its owner, she turns it so the wider end is facing to her right, glancing over to Xiang for confirmation, before attempting to play. One string, then the next was plucked, the sound a gentle, pure tone. The arch to her fingers tells of one who has indeed played stringed instruments before.

     "The festival went fairly well, actually. You left just before I sang at the talent show. Andrea Jackson also performed, and so did Nick Drago. One of my friends, Alice, she was using her gifts to bring a lot of joy to many little ones, making masks to fit them perfectly, so they could play as their favorite heroes."

Xiang Zhao has posed:
Another of those small 'kind of' nods. "Mm. The joins are all fine. There are no cracks. That would help." Xiang Zhao watches more what she does with the guqin than he watches Shannon herself. A slightly larger nod at her glance, confirming that she has the instrument the right direction. He leans over and lightly taps the larger end so that the thing is not sat centered on her lap. Along the body of the guqin, opposite the strings from Shannon, are small dots that look made of mother of pearl or something similar. A narrower cluster of four on either end of a clsuter of five spaced wider apart. The guqin winds up center of her body between the first cluster of four and the first one of the five. "Like that," he explains.

Xiang Zhao gestures to the part of the strings that lies between the dots and where the strings go through the guqin on the wind end. "Right hand remains here, this is where the sound is created. Left hand adjusts tones and vibration." With that, he sits back how he was, giving Shannon a bit more space. He lifts his arms enough to flip his sleeves back, and then rests them upon his knees, palm side up. Zhao's dark eyes close as he listens to both the music and the words spoken. His lips curl ever so slightly at the description of the festival. "It sounds lovely. I would have stayed, but I am unused to crowds."

Nightingale has posed:
     Noting the position of each dot on the neck of the instrument, Shannon smiles somewhat. "This reminds me a little bit of the guitar," she muses, pressing her fingers to the string near each of the dots, and plucking a note. She glances briefly at Xiang, as if to confirm her initial impression of the purpose of the mother of pearl spots. She and Xiang are settled on the ground near some trees at the edge of the park, where a circle in the snow has largely been cleared. She has an unusual stringed instrument across her lap, narrower on one end than on the other, and about four feet in length. The wood has itself seen better days, with the varnish worn away and patchy all over--but the tone of each note is clear and pure. "This might be one I could learn, with a bit of time."

Xiang Zhao has posed:
"I am unfamiliar with the guitar," he says, saying the word 'guitar' carefully, as though even the word lacks familiarity for him. With his eyes closed, despite the serene expression he normally sports, Xiang Zhao looks a bit tired. But, his lips curve upward at the bit about learning. "Mm. It is not difficult, but.. the musical scores might not be easy to understand. I have never heard of one written in English." That.. might not necessarily mean anything! "I am glad the strings were kept stored rather than strung. Replacements may not be so easy to find."

Nightingale has posed:
     "If there's anywhere to ask, it's the music store here in town. I don't know if they carry strings like these, but they may at least know where to look." As Shannon figures out each note and its placement on the guqin, her playing becomes more sure with each note plucked. There might be one or two sour notes here and there, but the challenge of learning a new instrument does much to lighten her spirits.

     Gradually, the notes begin to settle into a light triplet rhythm, with a blues-like feel to them. At first, she is humming the melody, then singing along with each note she plays.

"There is a house in New Orleans
They call the rising sun
And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy
And God, I know I'm one...."

Xiang Zhao has posed:
Xiang Zhao nods once. He opens his dark eyes to watch her playing, now. "I shall look there. And ask, if they do not." The few sour notes there are does not seem to bother him overly much, if at all, for he shows no reaction to them. Nobody is perfect their first time playing, afterall. He tilts his head at the melody she winds up playing, and this? He seems to be unfamiliar with as well. There's a curiousity in his eyes that comes with experiencing new things. Though the tune is different than what he is used to hearing, Zhao seems to be enjoying it. The guqin and the vocals both.

Nightingale has posed:
     Shannon's foot taps the ground lightly, the young woman swaying as the music flows through her. There is no doubt that music is something she has a passion for, and can be very healing. Each note played emboldens her, her voice growing stronger and more clear. She even begins to attempt adding vibrato to some of the sustained notes, with varying degrees of success. Her voice is low and silky as she continues.

"My mother was a tailor
She sewed my new blue jeans
My father was a gamblin' man
Down in New Orleans..."

Xiang Zhao has posed:
As the music continues, Xiang Zhao closes his eyes again. His breathing slows, growing shallower as he sinks into an apparent meditative state. Still listening to the music. It actually helps. As he relaxes further, his serene expression blanks, showing nothing at all. As she plays and sings, Zhao is still, nothing bringing ripples to mar the surface. If Power can be sensed at all, by her or anyone close to them, it can be sensed gathering around him, perhaps even flowing into him.

Nightingale has posed:
     Perhaps it's not a song one might normally associate with an instrument such as the guqin, but somehow it just works. Each verse is sung with greater confidence than the last, with the final notes fading away as the song ends. Allowing the last notes plucked to ring out for a few moments, Shannon just smiles, before finally resting her palm upon the strings to silence them. "Xiexie," she finally says. "To be allowed to play your instrument was a privelege."

Xiang Zhao has posed:
Xiang Zhao remains as he is, completely still, until the strings are silenced with a touch. Only then does he take a deeper breath again and open his eyes. The fatigue is still there, but it's less than it was. "Bie keqi," he replies. "This one.. is not yet fully mine. Perhaps, one day, it will also be here." The implication here seems to be that if she would like, Zhan will almost certainly let Shannon play the guqin that is truly his.

Nightingale has posed:
     There is a distinct look of confusion from the young woman as she peers over at Xiang, her brows furrowing lightly. "How is this one not yet fully yours?" she asks. Too, the look of fatigue lingering about him is not lost upon her, which only deepens the lines upon her brow. Her voice thrums with concern, perhaps the worry of one more accustomed to healing others than herself, as she asks, "Are you alright?"

Xiang Zhao has posed:
Now that he's back out of the meditative state, Xiang Zhao's expression is once again serene. "This was my first time playing this guqin," he replies. "I handled it only enough during the night to string it and partially tune it. One could say it is as much yours as it is mine. The guqin which is mine, I have been playing since I was little." At the concern, he holds up a hand, briefly. "I am fine," he says as the hand settles again to its former position. "I used more of my... self.. today than I intended to." From the thoughtfulness to his eyes, whatever he's meaning likely doesn't translate well.

Nightingale has posed:
     Shannon smiles lightly, nodding briefly. Though the translation was imperfect, the idea was there. "When you play an instrument, you use your spirit, as well as your hands. The instrument soaks that in, like the earth drinks in rain. It's the same for my flute. It was my mother's first, and will always have a piece of her spirit, because she had it from childhood."

     The guqin is lifted gently from her lap and turned about so that it faces Xiang properly, held out on upraised palms. "If you used more of your spirit than you intended, maybe rest would be good. But, I am still young, and don't know much."

Xiang Zhao has posed:
"Mm." Xiang Zhao considers what has been said, and then he nods. "Spirit. You are correct. My flute is the same," he says, resting his fingers lightly against said flute for a moment. "Weifeng belonged to my muqin, and Jin Shu to my fuqin." As the guqin is gathered up and offered back, he reaches out and reclaims it, his motions gentle and graceful with no motions wasted. He settles it across his lap and pulls a wadded up bit of cloth from his sleeve. Shaken out, it appears to be a roughly guqin sized bit of silk cloth. "Much of what I do uses my spirit," he says as he starts to wrap up the guqin for the return trip to wherever he's going. "Rest, yes. I rested a little, while you were playing. I am in no danger, presently. It would take a lot more than I have used to do so, I promise."

Nightingale has posed:
     "Muqin... mother?" Shannon's a little confused by the language, but she tries her best to pronounce the word, and figure out its meaning from context. "Fuqin... father?" She can't help smiling as she sees the care with which the instrument is treated. Too, the lines of worry on her brow fade, at the reassurance of Xiang's well-being. "Good. My healing gifts, when I had them... and the wings... I could sometimes tire myself out more than I thought at first." A soft laugh escapes her, the smile on her face turning into something of a sheepish expression. "I would find out the hard way when my head touched the pillow at night."

Xiang Zhao has posed:
Xiang Zhao looks pleased by the guesses. "Shi," he says. The care he treats the instrument with might be familiar, at least somewhat, from his actions the previous day. He seems to treat everything with the same care he's treating the guqin with now. He finishes wrapping it and ties the ends together to form a sort of sling for ease of carrying, the guqin cradled within. He looks up again, and nods. "Mm. With spells I am familiar with, I know precisely where my limits are. I only run into trouble with new spells, or if there is no other choice but to use what I have." He sounds as though he's run into that phenomenon a time or three. There comes a quiet, but audible, inhale and exhale, accompanied by a slight, but warm smile, his eyes all but dancing with amusement. That? Had to have been a laugh! "Sometimes, the pillow is a demon of seduction."

Nightingale has posed:
     Try as she might, Shannon cannot hold back a soft chuckle, her own pale blue eyes fairly twinkling with mirth. "Such a terrible demon, so soft and fluffy that one cannot leave its embrace when the sun rises." Though she tries to press her lips together in a thin line, there is no holding back the smile that insists upon turning the corners of her mouth upwards. "But it can be a healer, too." She puffs up a little bit, shifting to and fro like a peacock fluffing up its tail feathers, as she seems to have correctly guessed the translation of the two unfamiliar familial terms.

Xiang Zhao has posed:
The amusement lingers, though the smile is not quite as large and the laugh has not emerged again. But Xiang Zhao's eyes dance with it. "Mm. Great seductress. Great healer. Mostly good. Occasionally bad." He pauses, and then expands on that last. "If one were to become lazy with too much of the seduction." Zhao goes quiet for a moment, expression thoughtful as he considers her fluffed up body language. "Zumu," he says. "Zufu." Another pair of words that seems likely to be related to one another somehow.

Nightingale has posed:
     There was something about those two words that had Shannon's brain working overtime, her brows furrowing once again. But this time, it was not lines of worry appearing between her eyes, but those of concentration, born of curiosity. Without context, this one was a little harder. "I'm not sure this time," she finally admits. "Possibly... grandmother? Zumu? And grandfather? Zufu?" Shaking her head, she shrugs. "Without context, it's harder to tell."

Xiang Zhao has posed:
And yet, without context, Xiang Zhao had given those two words. Likely, he has faith she can figure it out. His expectant expression seems to give that impression of utterly trusting that she'll come to the right conclusion. "Exactly so," he says. "Zu. Grand. Mu. Muqin. Mother. Fu. Fuqin. Father." Even without the context, at least there were correlations. Zhao takes a moment to shift the wrapped guqin to his back, one arm through the strap. Then rises to his feet with a fluid grace. The same sort of grace as someone who dances on a very regular basis. Once to his feet, Zhao settles the guqin into a comfortable position. Despite having sat there for awhile, he seems to be perfectly steady and balanced on his feet.

Nightingale has posed:
     Though perhaps with slightly less grace, Shannon, too, rises to her feet, brushing away some of the damp debris that has accumulated on her jeans. Remembering the gesture of the day before, she bows to Xiang, and smiles. "I am glad we met again. Please, travel safely, and who knows--perhaps our paths will cross again."

Xiang Zhao has posed:
Xiang Zhao turns to properly face Shannon, and does likewise. Hands cupped before him at about chest level, and half bows to her. "I am also glad we met again," he says, straightening from the bow. "And you as well. Be safe." A pause, and then, "If it is fated, we shall meet again." He turns then, and makes his way past her, steps slow, unhurried, but sure, away from the ice rink and deeper into the park.