A Night on the Town

The historic Hisori Noh Repertory Theatre of Kirigakure, backlit by the evening sun, casts a shadow of it's elegiac grandeur onto the desolate streets of what was once the village's bustling theatre district. The husks of former competitors surround it, now either abandoned or born anew as warehouses or run-down shops, like gravemarkers that portend a looming demise. The Hisori is a three-tiered, tapering pagoda with a few noticeable gaps in it's terracotta rooftops like a pugilist's teeth. A once magnificently upkept sign above the front door displays a faded woodcarving of Lord Zeami, the legendary peacock patron of the Hisory clan and a mascot of theatre everywhere.

The front door has a small stained glass window in the center of it, a green and gold peacock feather with an indigo eye, marred by a hairline crack running through the center, and two atmospheric lanterns flank it on either side. That old oak door has some weight to it, creaking with character as it expels a small dust cloud in it's wake when the house opens.

The foyer has creaky old hardwood floorboards covered with emerald green rugs that lost a tassle or two along the way, and it's walls are crowded with ornate portraits of famed past actors or prominent Hisori ancestors. At a small mahogany brown kisok embedded in the wall and shrouded by red curtains is the reception office and coat check, on the left of which are the house doors and on the right is the narrow wooden staircase to the bar.

The theatre itself is a haunting beauty, perhaps the only place where the unmistakable ambience of the building outweighs the pervasive musty decline. This grand performance hall has been thoroughly isolated from economic, industrial and aesthetic progress of any kind. The second that one passes through the large mahogany double doors, the bustle of the foyer and the street fade instantly and they are enveloped by an austere hush. The carpeting is so soft it feels as if one might be swallowed up by it, the seats surprisingly comfortable with worn upholstery that goes unnoticed until the house lights come on at the end of the show. The stage itself is stoically traditional, an amber coloured maple frame of four pillars and a roof, the Hashigakari bridge extending off of it from the left leading to offstage. At the back of the stage is a painting of a pine tree. There are no props or design elements, no decoration, mechanism or spectacle of any kind. It is perhaps no wonder that this is a dying art.

Upstairs in the bar, Yosei waited with some anxiety. The bar space, originally reserved for VIPs but now usually open to the public due to the flailing audience numbers of late, is somewhat cramped and a dark wine red. In a bold choice for a room specifically used for tipsy patrons to drink sake and port, it is carpeted. There is an enormous, ornate grandfather clock on one wall while the rest are crowded with photographs and portaits of significant past patrons, varying from celebrities, politicians and nobles.

Yosei, youngest scion of the Hisori clan, lingered next to the VIP booth he had reserved, having already exhausted all possible small talk with the bartender, his cousin's wife. He stood resplendent in a fuchsia pink kimono he reserved for formal occasions, embroidered with a butterfly motif and tied around his waist with a wide belt that ended in a large, twirling bow. His mascara was heavily applied, his eyeshadow a sky blue, his cheeks rouged and emerald green fingernails threatened to shatter the wine glass in his hand if he clutched it any harder.

He had invited a few people - practically any other shinobi he had worked with recently, even some he barely knew - and instructed them to give his name to his uncle at the box office. They should have been sent up here once they arrived. He slugged back a dangerously large amount of wine and glanced at the clock. It's not as if they were late, but he hated waiting and some terrifying otherworldly presence had briefly possessed his body forcing him to care arrange a social event. He told himself it was only for the benefit of his family's theatre, which could do with large crowds to compel the paying patrons back, but despite himself he ended up caring deeply about who would end up coming. Sweeping his long blond hair over one shoulder, he went to take another sip of wine and, seeing that it was now empty, he placed it on the bar and signalled for a refill.

"The historic Hisori Noh Repertory Theatre of Kirigakure," Kurado read aloud, looking at the note he had made for himself. His hands clasped the table of his living room, looking over the note with a hefty sigh. His hand, with nails properly manicured, clasped his clean-shaven chin, rubbing it gently. What followed next was a pacing about the room. Cotton socks hidden within flat and thonged sandals tapping against his wooden floor. The simple black and gold sash tied in a knot at his back kept his dark blue and white vertical-stripped pants in place, despite all his pacing. The dark blue kimono over the rest of his inner wear was rather slim fitting, not leaving much at the sleeve to hang — despite this, he had nearly knocked over several items in his home already. He was nervous to go, if wasn't evident.

He stroked the back of his hair, which had been tied up into a small bun. He looked to the window, the sun now setting, indicating it was time to head out. Kurado hardly knew most of the people that would be attending the theatre, but they were his peers, to a degree. He couldn't just hide away in his home, or do missions alone for the rest of his life. After a short inner monologue pep talk, the genin was ready as he'd ever be to head out. It'd take some time to get there, anyway.

The building itself was, well, historic. It had that old feel and appearance, it was objectively beautiful. However, long-standing areas with a lot of history was a magnet for the strange and supernatural. While Kurado was here for, essentially, social purposes, he couldn't help but have a secondary task of scoping the place out. It was unlikely he'd have such an intimate look at this place again, at least not until he earned a bit more respect in Kiri.

"Yosei Hisori," Kurado muttered to the taller man before him, presumably his acquaintance's uncle. There was some similarities in their features, anyway. The young man's eyes wandered briefly around the box office, a wide variety of peacock-related aesthetic touches were very apparent. It was a good look for a theatre. He was so enraptured by his surroundings, he hardly heard what the Hisori clansman said, but context clues told Kurado was good to go.

Entering into the theatre it was... big. Not as crowded as Kurado thought, thankfully. Overwhelmed visually, Kurado walked by the wooden staircase to the right and found himself drawn to the actual performance hall itself. Leaving the foyer, Kurado stood in between the open mahogany doors and stared off toward the stage. Like a spell had been cast on him, the young man soaked in the atmosphere. How many performances had been given on that stage? How many people had sat in these seats to watch, and are no longer in this world? He couldn't help but stare and think, nearly forgetting the reason he came here in the first place.

[WC = 504]

Yosei caught Kurado's eye in the lobby and gracefully floated over to him in an affected gait. The young man appeared to be lost in thought, taking in the ambience of the setting. The theatre tended to have that kind of effect on people, evoking a sudden introspectiveness. Yosei didn't know Kurado well at all as he was probably a few years behind Yosei at the academy, but their time as genin had overlapped and one tends to have a passing familiarity with all of their local colleagues.

"Kurado, isn't it?" Yosei said brightly. "We've only met a few times I think. You look very sharp, I must say." Despite being adept at faking compliments, Yosei didn't have to embellish here. Kurado's ensemble spoke less of someone with natural style and more of one who had taken some effort to meet the occasion, but that was admirable.

"I'm glad you got the invitation. There's a booth reserved upstairs in the bar for us where we can wait before the show. We can get to know each other."

Is this how people act? Yosei wondered. He felt that yes, it probably was at least a fair approximation. Greeting, chatting, complimenting, all the classics of social interaction. Perhaps his smile was a bit forced. He tried to tone down the unnatural grin that was distorting his face but ended up grimacing a little instead, and so he made the smile even wider to cover it. Mentally kicking himself, Yosei lead Kurado upstairs to the booth as they talked.

WC: 256

Murata paid the theater a visit the day after her mission with Yosei. In the light of early afternoon, she sat across from it next to a food cart and slowly munched on crab omelet. She gazed over the aged theater and its re-purposed contemporaries.

The owner of the cart discussed with his son that it'd probably be best to move shop soon. They are beloved by the workers in this struggling district, but so many businesses have closed that even that niche is running dry - and relying on a rush of customers on performance nights at the Hisori theater isn't reliable, either. Murata considered asking them where they planned on heading to, as her omelet was absolutely delicious, but that somehow felt like admitting defeat. An irrational feeling, of course. Things change. Resisting the tide of the people's will and keeping this collapsing theater shambling forward, zombie-like, is foolish. Shinobi are odd. They have odd dreams. Does Yosei truly believe in this place?

"How long do you think the Hisori has, huh?" Murata asks the food cart's owner, leaning casually on its side.

"I've always said a year... but I started saying that a decade ago," the owner laughs. "It's a stubborn thing. ...Get off my cart, please."

---

The night comes.

Murata arrives in faded midnight blue, her getup adjacent enough to kimono to be considered formalwear. Its age, at the very least, seems to match the occasion - likely handed down, cared for clumsily. "Upstairs, sir," the man at the box office tells her, Murata giving him a chipper wave of farewell and navigating the dark, history-laden theater up to - oooh. Nobody told her there would be drinks.

"I love the green," Murata says as an aside to the bartender, grinning back at her as she leans back on the counter. "Hisori!" she says, pointing to their host as he appears. "Gorgeous as well - ooh, it's a theme! The peacocks!" Murata snaps her fingers in recognition, as though she has solved some great puzzle. "Excellent work with your makeup, as well."

He had obviously put quite a lot of effort into his look, and it would be a tragedy for that effort to go unrecognized, especially as he looks as though he might sweat it all off within the hour from sheer stress.

"Akido, you too, sharp," She says, lifting her chin in acknowledgment to her other mission partner when she spots him. Aw, man. Both of these boys look immeasurably stressed out. She'll have to sus out the reasons for this using all of the professionalism and grace a lifetime in the temple of Ninshu has granted her.

"You both look stressed," she says. "Why?"

[WC: 447]

Yosei tossed his head back in a shrill laugh that didn't belong to him. The theatre had a kind of transformative effect on him that brought up a persona that was both thrilling and profoundly insufferable. Sweeping his immaculate hair over one shoulder he cut off the insincere laugh in an almost alien way.

"Stressed? Nothing could be further -" Yosei paused here to take a gratuitous gulp of wine. "From the truth. Thank you for the kind words Murata, it's nice to see you again." This part wasn't insincere, regardless of how it came off. When he last met her, Murata had made quite an impression on Yosei. She was so opposite to Yosei in every fashion - aesthetic, manner, background - that normally he would have avoided her, but being forced to work alongside each other on the road left him grateful for her company. She had a way of livening up the room, that much was certain. Her upfront manner, her proud declarations of the obvious, the way that her personal volume was just slightly higher than the unspoken agreed-upon noise level of everyone around her, they all added up to a cheeky kind of charm that subverted the stuffy atmosphere of the theatre that Yosei sometimes privately grew weary of.

"Of course, you look lovely as well." He added, catching himself on his faux-pas a little late. "I hope you both will enjoy the performance. You might be more likely to enjoy the discounted sake of course, so please do help yourselves."

Hopefully neither of them were too concerned with the shinobi prohibitions, because Yosei could really use the social lubricant right now. He politely waited for his guests to sit in the booth before seating himself.

Murata blinks blankly at that strange laugh, eyes following that prodigious swig of wine. Her good new friend, lying to her at a social event? How hurtful.

"The whole family is putting on a show tonight, ah? Fine, fine, I won't pry," she laughs. She does an exaggerated little curtsy at his recognition of her appearance. "I don't own much fancy! This isn't even really mine, but I expect my dear comrade won't be needing it back any time soon," she says, with a sort of oddly chipper mournfulness. She leaves that topic behind, much more interested in the prospect of affordable and surreptitiously-consumed sake. "I'm very sure that I will enjoy both."

Murata soon finds herself in the booth with her drink, inclining her head in the... vague direction of where the stage probably is. He'll get the gist. Hopefully. "What's this show about, then?"

[146]
[TWC: 593]

The night passes. It's a fascinating, novel experience, and Murata hopes that she will have opportunity to chance this run-down theater again. For now, however, she must move on - and she bids her friends farewell and departs into the dim of another Kirigakure evening.

[Exit]
[TWC: 637]

Claiming 6 stats, going into Speed. Those 637 words are going into Block.

Approved

Eventually the time for pleasantries passed and the crowd took their seats. Yosei delighted in the sounds of an audience settling in; the creaking of antique seating, the stray murmured conversations being smothered by a blanket of hush that falls over the theatre as the lights dim. The performance was serviceable - two full length dramatic Noh renditions, each broken up by a short comedic satyr play of sorts. By the second performance, a subtle din had risen amidst the reverent silence as patrons began to shift in their seats and whisper to one another. Yosei couldn't blame them; when he looked at the stage, he didn't see the timeless tragedy of hubris and cruelty he had hoped for. Instead, he saw tired and underpaid actors performing in a stately old ruin and pretending it was a theatre. 
Once it was time for the final bow, a significant chunk of the audience had already left and more still were trickling out in a slow line hoping to beat traffic. Yosei thanked Murata, who appeared to have enjoyed the night more than anyone else in the building, and then went to greet the cast and crew. He showered them in superlatives, but it didn't seem to raise their somewhat defeated spirits. 
There was only so much that could be done with flyers, deals, discounts and comped tickets. The theatre was going to need certain more drastic actions if it was going to survive long enough to be upheld by future generations of Hisori. He left the building, his childhood home, with a steely determination. 


WC: 262