[jin guangyao decides that it is better for both of them if mike does not see a comparatively large stringed instrument emerging from a comparatively small bag, even if the laws of physics have never applied to qiankun bags. while mike staggers forward and collapses into the grass under the weight of his own shattering mind, jin guangyao turns himself at such an angle that the bizarre sight of his guqin emerging out of thin air won't be quite so off-putting. an attempt is made, at any rate.

he folds himself neatly into a lotus position on the grass before mike and rests the guqin across his knees.] yes, xiansheng, [he says quietly when mike gestures between them. his smile is a gentle and reassuring thing, honed over many years to calm wild, erratic tempers, to be as soothing and reassuring as possible, as much for his own protection as for the benefit of others. he carefully begins to adjust the tuning pegs; the melodic twang of the strings possess no spiritual power yet.] we have met before. this one is called jin guangyao, and your name is mike enslin. you have tried rice beer before, though this one does not know whether you enjoyed it or not. [a wry twist to his smile; he's reaching for a shade of humour, something to ground mike in the least horrible of his feelings.

then he begins to play.] please close your eyes, xiansheng, and listen to the music. focus on your breath and empty your mind of thoughts. [easier said than done, of course, but the calming spiritual energy that suffuses the notes is real whether mike manages this or not. the song cannot excise pain, and it cannot change the past, but it brings peace and understanding, even regarding those things we can't bring ourselves to accept yet.]