DinkyInky wrote:*Glides in from the shadows and sets a low black table, inlaid with mother of pearl cranes on the floor, and scatters various styles of handmade cushions around it.
Places a crock of steamed rice, various meats, veggies and sheets of roasted seasoned seaweed that are on a tray, and a small crock of oikimchi on the table, along with ceramic rice bowls and chopsticks(along with conventional utensils for those unfamiliar with usage).
Steaming barley tea in a ceramic teapot, along with teapots of ting tung oolong and Darjeeling and small teacups are set in the center on a small black turntable.
Finally, embroidered napkins in simple black and gold rings are artfully piled at either end.
Vanishes once again into the comfort of the shadows.*
There is a metallic scraping beyond the door leading to the Necessary Offices and the Bathhouse of the August Moon. A large metal disk starts to push the door open. As it rolls forward it wedges for a moment, then with a crunch the door frame is displaced, followed by the clatter and crash of falling plaster and masonry as the entire disk enters and rolls to a halt by the low black table. Those on the table side see only the worked surface of a gong. The few on the other side watch a white-faced, black haired woman in a kimono the colour of ashes in the new moon, step out from walking the gong along by its broad turned edge. She has suspension ropes from the rim gathered in one hand, a large gong hammer slung across one way across her back, a device of chains, handles and hooks crossing the other shoulder.
Laying the padded hammer within the gong, she slings the ropes up and over the hall’s low roof beams, tightens one around securing cleats mounted on the wall, leaving the other loosely set. Rebuffing with the upraised palm of a black-gloved hand offers of assistance from the curious onlookers, she sets to raising the gong. Unhooking the ratchet winch from around her body she secures it on another cleat and hitches the lthe looser rope to it then cranks the handle enough to raise the gong a few inches from the ground before hard-locking the ratchet. As she moves about her work the hall’s underlying smell of dry dusty un-use with its recent additions of barracks musks and multicultural cooking is mingled by her scent of kyara and citrus flowers.
Collecting the hammer she moves around the hanging gong to its front, where it faces the new table, gently pushing a small crowd of Orientalists aside from their examination of the complex symbols painted around the gong’s face with her polite bows, an unnerving smile of her red lips revealing pointed, black, teeth, and firm pressure from the hammer’s shaft. Sufficient space cleared, she addresses the gong, preparing for the first strike by loosening the kimono and throwing it back from her muscular shoulders. It seems she is not wearing gloves after all. Beyond the extent of the white paint on her face and neck the skin of her shoulders and upper torso is sable-black as the palms of her hands.
She raises the hammer two handed. Slowly she strikes four blows, each a different style, each a different sound, and in the reverberations of each bows in the cardinal directions of the elements: earth, water, fire and wind. The fifth blow does not contact the gong, but its sound is plain to those with the second hearing, as she bows, without motion, to the Void.
Once the unheard sound dies completely she kneels at the table and, with respectful ceremony, pours and drinks five sips of oolong tea. With each sip she transforms: kimono colouring, skin paling, breasts shrinking, face shifting until Louis arises and bows directly to DinkyInk’s shadows.
“Exquisite tea. The perfect restorative. My compliments.”
Turning to Greg, “My, my. What a powerful transformation that was, Sergeant. Respect.” Louis winks, and whispers, “I gather your subconscious
really needed me to be a Louise for some reason, though I really cannot imagine why. I kept ending up as demonic women with each counter I tried! However when it comes down to it in the end, a good cup of tea cures all ills…
Louis looks at his pale hand, turning it palm up and back several times. “I wonder if black might suit me?”