A picture of restraint.
[Somewhere in HQ is a garden. A Chan Buddhist rock garden, to be specific. The room is shaped like a sinuous curve, with a waterfall trickling down the far stone wall into a small, blue-tiled pool. The sand is white and fine, and the worn, carven stones look like pieces of old ruins, placed at elegant intervals. A few of them are even floating, though whether by magnetism, gravimetric manipulation, or some other mechanism is impossible to tell. A pair of slippers rest on the grass matt in the entranceway. Yao sits in a lotus in the center, between a hanging bronze bell and a dragon-shaped incense burner sending up soft wisps of smoke. His hands are poised in old mudras. Only someone very familiar with him would notice the tension in his muscles amidst all this seeming serenity.]
[OOC: Yao has found out about his husband finally sleeping with his perennial romantic entanglement. He's taking it much less well than it might seem. Anyone feel free to bug him or try to talk him down, but be warned: he's actually in a foul mood. And any Americas or Englands run the risk of smooth stones being pelted at their heads at high velocity. Also, several of these elements are not native to Chan Buddhist Traditions; everything is syncretist in the future, okay?]
[OOC: Yao has found out about his husband finally sleeping with his perennial romantic entanglement. He's taking it much less well than it might seem. Anyone feel free to bug him or try to talk him down, but be warned: he's actually in a foul mood. And any Americas or Englands run the risk of smooth stones being pelted at their heads at high velocity. Also, several of these elements are not native to Chan Buddhist Traditions; everything is syncretist in the future, okay?]