12711/Words of Sense and Comfort

Words of Sense and Comfort
Date of Scene:	05 February 2021
Location:	Salem Center, Westchester County
Synopsis:	Zhao and Shannon have a chat. Words make sense. Zhao's spirit and heart are eased in the end.
Cast of Characters:	Xiang Zhao, Nightingale

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Xiang Zhao has posed:
It has been some time since Xiang Zhao made his way to this part of the city, but the park had been remembered. It's peace had been remembered. The snow remains, much as before, only it's a fresh blanket for big, fat flakes fall from the sky to add to that coating of snow. The thick clouds above blanket the sky and mute the sun's light. Despite it being not long after sunrise, it looks closer to nightfall. With the falling snow and the early hour, the place is fairly well deserted. A lone jogger runs through the snow on the other side of the park, sticking to paths that had been cleaned of snow the day before.

Xiang Zhao doesn't stick to the paths. He's actually in a little pocket of trees and mostly hidden from view, the pale color of his clothes helping him blend in, the falling snow helping greatly. But he's in the same spot he'd been in before, not far from the Hockey Rink. And he's moving, rather than sitting still, something that looks a lot like some sort of dance. If the dance were deadly. Flashes of light reflecting off of something polished might catch the eyes of any paying attention to their surroundings. Something probably metal, given the brightness of those flashes of light. Every time the thing in Zhao's hands flashes light, it's flat to the sun that cannot really be seen through the clouds.

Nightingale has posed:
     At first, the area near the hockey rink does seem deserted. But it doesn't remain so for very long at all. One lone young woman approaches the rink, clad in dark blue jeans, soft black boots, a dove grey sweater that looks as if it was made from the snow itself, and a beanie cap of similar hue. There is a pair of skates slung over one shoulder of the young woman, and a certain lightness to her step. What is a bit odd about her, though, is that there seem to be -feathers- protruding from her back, on either side of her spine.

     The metallic flashes of light capture her attention, halting her progress. Pale blue eyes keep watch on the flashes of light, and she keeps a safe distance for now....

Xiang Zhao has posed:
Xiang Zhao is focused almost exclusively on what he's doing, but he wouldn't be very good at what he does if he wasn't aware of his surroundings as well. The approach of a familiar, and yet unfamiliar at the same time for there are /feathers/, is enough to catch is own attention. Such that, though the dancing movements don't stop or even slow, he seems to be turning in that direction more frequently, now.

The flashes don't appear to be harmful, simply light reflecting off the metal surface of... is that a /sword/ in Zhao's right hand?? The impression of the sword is lightly curved, but not in the manner of a katana, more like a dao with a hilt of white and deep grey. A long object, a scabbard?, is held in his left hand, but it doesn't flash light and is the same colors as the sword's hilt. A pair of tassels can be seen each time Zhao whirls to the next movement of his 'dance', flaring out from the scabbard.

Like the tassels on the scabbard, the tassel at Zhao's sash flares out with his movements, as do his robes and his long hair. What little can be seen of his expression is closed off, almost hard, with very little of the serenity that is normally there. Hanging on one of the trees near him on a stub of a branch is the silk wrapped bundle of Xiang Zhao's guqin, it's bulk just visible through the falling snow. The whole scene is given an almost soft, surreal impression because of the falling snow. Nothing can be seen entirely clearly without getting within ten or twelve feet. But there's nothing surreal about sounds Zhao's feet make as he moves. Nor the occasional grunts of effort that one would expect from such physical exertion.

Nightingale has posed:
     What might seem like a sword dance to others, began to look more and more to Shannon like a practice form of some sort. By the flashes of light, she could guess that the odds were in favor of it being a bladed weapon of some sort. It would be wise to give its bearer a wide berth, and not disrupt their practice. So, although she does move just a little bit closer, she also maintains enough of a respectful distance to hopefully not mark herself as a threat.

     Feathers on the back do not yet a pair of wings make. Retreating to the skies was not an option just yet.

Xiang Zhao has posed:
That little bit closer is enough to lift some of the surreality, some of the obscurity. Enough to make just who holds the bladed weapon clear. Enough to make clear the shape of it. Though what it really looks like remains uncertain. Xiang Zhao hasn't stopped long enough, nor held still in between practice forms, long enough to give a firm impression of the sword. It's large enough to be a sword for certain, though. From the footprints in the snow, and how trampled down it is in the circle of which Zhao is the center of, it's clear he's been at this for awhile. Sweat glistens on his face despite the chill temperature of the air.

It doesn't take long for him to recognize the figure, despite the feathers. When he does, Zhao comes to an abrupt stop, his left shoulder toward Shannon. The scabbard is held out to his side, where it had been in the form, almost as a sort of shield between her and him. The sword is held out in front of him, point down toward the ground. He brings in the scabbard, brings up the blade, and sheaths it in one smooth move to the soft ringing sound of metal on metal. He's still breathing hard as he turns his head to look at her, sheathed blade now held at his left side. His right hand falls away from the hilt, perhaps a move he means to be reassuring. With his expression how it is, though... it might be less than reassuring.

Nightingale has posed:
     Oh, dear. That expression was one that Shannon had worn herself a few times. Something had gone wrong for Xiang. That wasn't just a practice form.

     He had been preparing for battle.

     Holding up her empty hands, palms forward, Shannon steps a little bit closer, finding the nearest bench to sit down upon. The chilly wind sends snowflakes dancing through the air, some clinging to her hair, some to her eyebrows, and yet none of Nature's delicate, icy lace seemed able to stick on her feathers whatsoever. Offering a smile to Xiang, she calls out softly, "Everything alright?"

Xiang Zhao has posed:
That assessment might well be the correct one. Xiang Zhao could very well be preparing for battle. Or maybe this is something he does fairly frequently. His breathing calming back to normal about this point speaks for it being something of a regularity. For a change, Zhao remains entirely silent. His expression doesn't even change. The look in his eyes is almost as cold as that of the snow falling around them. Does he even fully recognize her?

But then there comes that question. The familiar voice. He blinks once, and that seems to pull him from wherever his thoughts had taken him. His lips curl up ever so slightly on the right side of his mouth. "Shi," he says, voice as soft as it ever is. Some trace of amusement fills his eyes with that smile. "I am fine. Practice is necessary to maintain and advance to higher levels of understanding and ability." The trace of amusement, however, doesn't entirely erase the chill hardness that remains, just visible beneath.

Nightingale has posed:
     Something still seemed a little off, despite that smile. Shannon's brows furrow with concern, but she simply nods. Xiang would say what was amiss or not, all in his own time. "I haven't seen many practice with a blade like that. The way you moved, it almost looked like a dance." She's shifting about a bit uncomfortably where she sits, rubbing her back against the back of the bench as if she were a wild creature scratching an itch. Despite her look of concern, there was a marked lack of the shadows that had been in her eyes ever since they had first met, almost a lightness of spirit....

Xiang Zhao has posed:
"Mm." That could be agreement, or it could simply be a random sound. With Xiang Zhao, it has seemed to be agreement or 'yes' thus far. "With kungfu as I practice it, I tend more toward grace than power. I am not heavy enough built for many of the power moves." He watches that uncomfortable shifting, but doesn't comment on it. Instead, it's the lack of shadows. "You look.. better. Happier." As cold as it is, the sweat has mostly dried by this point. Zhao turns so his back is to Shannon and fiddles with his robes, pulling the outermost one up. When he drops it, he turns back, the sword no longer in hand, but tucked away beneath the outer robe. Now that she knows he has the thing, the solid shape of it can be seen marring the flow of the robes here and there. "Do you know anything of martial artists in Bushwick?" This asked as he turns his head to look back at her. His eyes settle on Shannon's and remain there. A single furrow has come to the middle of his forehead, giving him an almost troubled look.

Nightingale has posed:
     Bushwick again. What was it about that place that seemed to draw trouble to it like a magnet? Shannon cants her head to one side, lost in thought for a moment as she considers how best to answer Xiang's query. "I don't know about too many martial artists," she finally replies. "I know a friend of mine, he mentioned his girlfriend is into martial arts, but I'm not quite sure where she lives. I did meet someone named Oroku Saki once in Bushwick, though."

     She shrugs lightly, twisting and turning as she tries to reach in back of herself to scratch. It's a bit comical, really, but something she seems to be enduring with good humor. "He struck me as someone to be a little wary of, and my friend Andrea didn't speak too well of her encounters with him. Why, did you run into some martial artists in Bushwick?"

Xiang Zhao has posed:
Xiang Zhao observes the body language even as he listens to the words spoken. For himself, he stands perfectly motionless. Only his breathing gives him away as being a living, breathing person rather than a statue. "Shi." He takes a more visible breath, deeper, and his eyes take on a faraway look to them. "A group of men sought to cause me mischief. I jumped atop a building to get out of their reach, evading rather than engaging. But.. there was a group of martial artists. Just as I landed on the rooftop, they jumped down and attacked the men. I was safe, at this point. They were no further threat to me. But the martial artists showed no mercy. There was at least two deaths. When I asked them why the need for death, they said it was for my protection. But I did not need protecting. I.. do not understand." There comes a quiet sigh. "After, they carried the bodies away, both living and dead. I followed them. But I.. am uncertain what to do or think. This is not my home. Nor the territory of my Shìzú. I have no authority nor rights here." He pauses as his eyes focus on Shannon again. "What is wrong with your back?"

Nightingale has posed:
     As Xiang related his recent experiences in Bushwick, Shannon's brows furrow, the lines between them growing deeper by the moment. None of this sounded good, and she wasn't quite sure who or what was the root cause of the happenings surrounding Xiang's mysterious saviors. "I'm not sure what to make of all that," she finally replies. "There is a lot of which I know little to nothing of. But I can keep my eyes and ears open." Whatever it was, didn't sound good.

     The question about her back should, by rights, have been met with a scowl. Instead, it has the opposite effect. Her expression lightens, and she actually -laughs-. "It's not what's wrong with my back. It's what's -right-." She turns now so that Xiang can see her back. Through the twin slits in the back of her sweater, what look like little nubs with feathers on them are starting to poke through. "An antidote to the serum that took away the gifts of a lot of mutants was found. Distribution of it began last night. I was treated with the antidote. My gifts are returning. Those are my wings coming back in!"

Xiang Zhao has posed:
Xiang Zhao sinks down to the snow, settling to kneel in the snow, head bowed. "There was no need for them to kill those men," he says, voice even softer than it had been before. "If I had not been there, those men would be alive to go home to their families." He lifts a hand to rub his forehead, eyes lost for the brief moment they can be seen before he closes them.

The laugh snaps him somewhat out of the mood he'd wound up in, and Zhao opens his eyes and lifts his head to look at her again. The guilt is still there, seen within them, but curiousity at what's right with Shannon's back has obscured it somewhat. He watches as she turns to show her back. After a moment, he rises to his feet and steps closer. "You.. have pin feathers," he says, some sense of wonder to be heard. "I know from my time caring for our eagles and pigeons that those itch badly. I am glad you got treated and your gifts are returning."

Nightingale has posed:
     The pin-feathered nubs on Shannon's back wriggle to and fro in what to some might be an unsettling way, but all she can do is laugh for sheer delight. "I don't care right now that it itches. It's no worse than when my wings came in originally. It'll be worth every bit of the irritation."

     The guilt in Xiang's voice does reach her, though, her glee dampened as she listens. "That... is the side of battle nobody likes to think about. On either side of the fight, there is someone's family who may not go home." Her smile, when it returns, is perhaps a little bit sad, and remembered shadows swim up from the depths of her eyes as she looks at Xiang. "A medic can't save everyone. A fighter can't make sure nobody falls. You... save the ones you can, preserve what life you can." Words that should not be coming from one so young, yet are spoken as if perhaps she, too has lived them....

Xiang Zhao has posed:
Xiang Zhao considers her words. "Mm. Of course it will be worth it," he agrees. To have wings, now that would be something. "I can... float, a bit. It is.. limited." He doesn't seem at all unsettled by the way those pin feathered nubs move. Then again, if he'd taken care of eagles and pigeons and the like, there would be some experience with such things there. He turns and steps around Shannon until he's facing her front again.

"I.. they crossed the street to get to me. Came within reach of the other martial artists because of me. I do not quite know whether I am guilty because of that, or thankful for the protection offered by the martial artists. I think.. I feel both and it is.. unsettling." There is a thoughtful expression for a moment. "Mm. That I have long done. Protect what life I have the ability to protect. I at least stopped them from killing at least one of them. Whether he remains alive.. I do not know."

Nightingale has posed:
     "I think in your place, I would have felt much the same. Grateful for the protection and being alive, but grieved that someone else had to be hurt for that." Shannon's brows furrow, as she thinks on this for a moment. "Did you ask them to help you, or did they choose to do so on their own? If they chose on their own to act, and you did not ask, then I can't see that you would be guilty. A fighter going into battle knows the risk that they may not come home. A medic in battle knows the same, and in addition to that, that they may not be able to save everyone. I can imagine that the martial artists who stepped in to save you, and the ones that attacked you, had to know the risks."

Xiang Zhao has posed:
"I think I feel more grieved in this case, because at the poin they attacked I was in no danger. I was up on the rooftop with the martial artists. I think that is why I feel guilty. They did not need to die and I did not realize what the martial artists were doing until some of the men were already dead." He pauses as she asks that question. "They chose to act on their own. They would not answer me when I asked why they had to kill to protect. Subduing would have been enough. But, I also do not know if these men who meant me harm had done others harm before me." Xiang Zhao wrinkles his nose a bit. "I think it likely they had caused others harm. They did not hesitate at all before coming to cause trouble with me."

Nightingale has posed:
     "I'm... still young. Maybe this is going to sound very strange coming from me. But it sounds like you walked in on something that was already happening, and they acted on their own. Mourn the loss of life, but... don't let guilt weigh down your spirit. It's not a good way to go. In the end, both of us are only mortal, and we can only do so much." Shannon smiles lightly, trying to keep her spirit up for Xiang's sake, offering a calming, steadying presence as best she can.

Xiang Zhao has posed:
"Sometimes, the young have more wisdom than the aged," comments Xiang Zhao quietly. He looks up to the overcast sky, to the falling snow. He closes his eyes and lets the snow flakes fall onto his face as they will. He remains that way through the rest of what is spoken, and for several breaths after. Finally, though he doesn't move or open his eyes, he does speak again. "You are likely right, Shannon Xiaojie, and I am overthinking."

Nightingale has posed:
     "For a long time, I felt guilty that the first time I was called in to use my gifts to heal another, I couldn't save them. They were dead before they hit the ground. It was... a hard lesson to learn. Sometimes, I still remember them, but also many things I was told by others because of that day. The guilt isn't as bad as it used to be. I remember the lessons taught, and try to use the memory of those times for strength to continue to do what I can, and forgive myself for what I can't." Shannon smiles softly, tilting her head towards Xiang. "It's a daily struggle inside one's self, but one well worth it."

Xiang Zhao has posed:
Xiang Zhao is silent for a time again, his face still turned up to let the snow fall on it however it lands. After the workout he'd had, if he isn't careful he might wind up sick. "I.. have had a similar experience, with healing others. Sometimes, I am simply not strong enough. My power, energy, is not always deep enough to be /enough/ to save the worst injured Even my Muqin cannot save everyone. At home, in the territory of my Shizu, I know what to do. I know who and what to show no mercy to and who and what to save whenever I can. It is.. easier. I have many people to rely on there, who I know care for me without reservation. Here.. I am but one person." His voice grows quiet. "Lost and alone," he says, all but whispered, as though he hadn't really meant to speak those three words aloud. He sounds homesick. But then shakes himself a bit and opens his eyes to look up again. "Those who are beyond redemption, or who are actively trying to kill me, I feel no guilt over giving them no mercy. In the situation I found myself in, I simply did not know what to do. I know I should not feel guilty over it. Thank you, Shannon Xiaojie. The insight is very welcome."

Nightingale has posed:
     "You're welcome... wait... what was that you called me?" Shannon's brows furrow, and she peers over at Xiang. There's that look of open curiosity lightening her expression, and putting something of a twinkle in her eye, as it did the last time he tried to teach her a few words of the language. "What is... Xiaojie?"

Xiang Zhao has posed:
Xiang Zhao has to think about that for a moment. "Ah. It means.. a Lady who is young and often of a good status. It is a word used when one has respect for another, whether that respect is through conventions of society, or friendship on a personal or familial nature." He lowers his head to look at Shannon instead of the sky, an almost uncertainty held in his eyes, as though perhaps he said the wrong thing.

Nightingale has posed:
     The smile that lights up Shannon's face at the explanation lightens her whole expression. "See? You are not so alone as you think, by your own words." She chuckles softly, cupping her hands together and bowing. "Xiexie."

Xiang Zhao has posed:
That smile must be contagious, for Xiang Zhao's lips curl up. It's not as bright a smile as Shannon's, but everything about Zhao seems to be about moderation and serenity, so that is likely unsurprising. "Bié kèqì," he replies to her thanks. "Xiexie. Is thanks. Xiexie ni is thank you. Doh je is thank you very much." The 'je' in the last instance is pronounced exactly the same as the 'xie's in the other variations. "Xiexie is an easy going thanks. Xiexie ni is a bit more thankful. Doh je is the most thankful, usually said when gifts are given, or someone has done something good for you."

Nightingale has posed:
     Shannon bobs her head in understanding, the concept of differing levels of thanks not an unfamiliar one to her. "The Apache language has similar ideas. I suppose most do." It seemed there would be no skating this day, but that was perfectly fine. She rises to her feet, brushing off her jeans and smiling. "I can't imagine there is ever a wrong time for gratitude, whatever word one uses to express it."

Xiang Zhao has posed:
Xiang Zhao is quiet for a moment, expression thoughtful. "There are two phrases," he says softly. "Which are necessary. It is good to say them early and often. When it is too late, they will be said with tears." This gives the implication that he has said the two phrases in tears at least once in his life. "Xiexie. Duìbùqi. Thank you. I'm sorry." He goes quiet again, simply.. being. Maybe trying to get himself back into balance again. Or some semblance thereof. "Gratitude and apology. Both are things one should not shy away from." His brow furrows at that point, worry clear in his eyes as he reaches his right hand into the front of his robes. He pulls out a bit of paper, pale, though not quite white, thich as though hand made, roughly half a foot tall and three or four inches across. On the front of it are written words in the Chinese style. The top of the thing is literally smoking as he pulls it free. As soon as it's in the air, it ignites as though Zhao had set a match or lighter to it. His eyes are locked on it and the worry is unmistakeable. "I must go," he says as he watches the piece of paper burn. When it gets down to the last little bit, Zhao opens his hand and lets it burn out on his palm. It has to hurt, but his expression doesn't show it. Once it's all ash, he lets it fall to the ground and turns run off through the park, heading south. The silk wrapped guqin with two ends of the silk tied together into a sling of sorts has been quite forgotten, and left behind hanging on the tree.

Nightingale has posed:
     "Wait! You forgot...." Shannon's words trail off, and she sighs a little. She had a feeling as to what that silk-wrapped item hanging on the tree was--and she was not about to leave something so precious hanging there for just anyone to take away with them. Instead, she walks over to the tree and picks up the guqin, in its silken case, cradling it gently. "Shhh... easy there," she murmurs. "I'll guard you till Xiang can come back for you." For, as they spoke once before, did not such instruments have a spirit all their own? She sets off towards home, bringing the instrument with her, to keep it safe and sound.