雪が降る、仕方がない。 [Tomie|Closed]

"I wouldn't count on it," the curt voice says as it stretches out a hand to the young man awkwardly leaning against the woodwork in an attempt to gain footing on the slippery surface. The long limb ensure that she keeps her distance even as she offers them to him as a means of getting up from the ground. Her gaze is neither particularly friendly nor hostile; it's more disinterested than anything. This is reflected particularly well in the usage of her free hand: it is wrapped around a lacquered kiseru with smoke emanating from the hole in the front. She is not the sort of person who readily gives her all when people demand physical labor. After all, she has not been raised to do so. The stick of sin also implies that the woman is on her break right now, due an absence of customers, and had apparently not anticipated the arrival of another one just yet. Once she finishes helping him stabilize, she takes another swig from the pipe. "A discount is given if discount is deserved."

While still flowery and polite, the words contain a clear message to the young man. Really young man, as a matter of fact. His face still carries the slight pudge of youth in them, rosy and fresh, but still shows that he is at the cusp of adulthood. While he may appear tall, due to the okobo, a choice of footwear she swiftly questions, he is wearing, the young man is still rather petite, almost as short as most of her employees. However, his hair holds the color of an older man: grey, very much so. It seems to have a nice quality to it, as well, despite the length.

Finding herself briefly lost in details as she inhales some of the sweet, harmful bitterness, the madam then proceeds to bow before the soon-to-be patron as to greet him properly. "My apologies. I am Tomie Magahara, and I own this tea house. I take it you wanted to book an appointment with us?" She gesticulates towards the sliding door on top of the porch, partially open to let in some fresh air. "Please follow me, then." With a graceful flip of the wrist, she empties the oriental pipe in the snow, leaving the fizzling fruit tobacco on the cobblestone covered by a thin sheet of snow to die.

The heels of her wooden shoes clack as she makes her way across the porch, opens the sliding door and enters heated building, which is mostly silent sans the backtrack of murmurs in the distance. In the daytime, the building, which could hardly be considered soundproof, tends to stay silent; only the occasional instrument lesson lights up the atmosphere with the repetitive notes playing incessantly. Today is not one of those days. The sweet perfume of fruit and berries, peach in particular, wafts through the reception area as she walks towards the counter with the tiny silver fox in tow. Tomie catches herself thinking that it seems as if someone has went shopping recently, something she should check later.

Once behind it, the soft hands place the pipe on the counter, next to a vase of ornately organized flowers, before they reach for the shelf behind, searching for the booking notes. The hands wrap around the weary bind, which has started to come off in flakes, before they place the heavy object on the counter in front of the young man. The fingers become but a painted blur as they flip through the pages to find the date that matches the day. They pin down the stained white already covered in some symbols as she finds it, the left index and middle fingers extending into her hairdo to grab a brush. The tip sinks into a dry ink house, becoming a puny shade of black, before Tomie's eyes finally look up to meet her customer's. The brown has expanded, or the pupil contracted, it is not clear which, but there is a sense of anticipation in them nonetheless. "What is your name, mister? And what sort of appointment do you seek to make with us?"

The same patient smile that she always makes is there again, vividly red and lips sealed. At the same time, thoughts form beneath the facade. Like a volcanic bubble, one pops to the surface and becomes dominant. I wonder if any of the girls will want him, if that is what he seeks.

“I wouldn’t count on it,”

His facial expressions dropped faster than a sack of spuds when her voice rings to his senses. He knew someone would be near-by, but not close enough for them to hear his loud, playful thoughts. He sharply turns to reach out for her hand, only to discover a startling realization.

She’s so tall, he mused to himself. He had to crane his head so high up that he may well be lying on his back just to see her face. He had never seen a tall woman before and especially one as beautiful, tad old for his liking, but still beautiful. His head swiftly gazes at her extended hand – an opportunity to touch her. He wanted her assistance but he was so afraid that he might mess up by tripping again or worse, fall into her (loving?) embrace.
 
After seemingly spending far too much time gazing at her face, he shot up onto his feet, thanks to her helping hand, politely nodding to her as he does so. A swift dusting off his kimono and a righting of his hair, he let out a beaming grin, almost goofy like.

Goodness me, what am I doing? His thought processed and echoed throughout his mind. This is weird; he had never been short for words. Is he smitten by the giant, beautiful lady? No, it was something else. He never felt something like this, she heard her again, adding to her opening line.

“A discount is given if the discount is deserved.”

In his merchant mind, it also means, ‘never, and I don’t care if you’re a Queen of Sheba,’ although, her additional line gave away who she is. He gave himself a mental ‘oh!’ like a silly dim-witted man who reacted to the answer of a simple, child puzzle as if it was enlightenment. So she is the ‘witch’ that everyone is talking about, he playfully muses to himself, I bet she scares the men away with her stature.

He watches her elegantly billow out a mist of the finest smoke from her lacquered kiseru, which got him interested. Maybe he should take up smoking? He wonders, his childish demeanour slowly creep up into his mind, threatening what he was supposed to be doing in the first place: find a way to get money, lots of them and quickly!

"My apologies. I am Tomie Magahara, and I own this tea house. I take it you wanted to book an appointment with us?"

Yes, please – just don’t pour the tea on my head! His nonsensical immaturity began to flood his train of serious thought like a burst river flooding the crop, reducing them to worthless and dirty food. He blinked a few times, exhaling to purge the ill thoughts of his before putting on his best, charming game face.

“Ah ha, my name is Kahōmono Moriya, I’m one of the new resident of District 22! Well… rather I’ve moved here from a place far, far away,” as practiced, he followed it with a polite bow at a slight tilt. He was worked on his posture and the voice beforehand; he wouldn’t want to mess it up, no matter how filthy and childish his train of thought may be.

His mind went back to her face, something was puzzling him. Does she seem a little…distant – no, that can’t be right, just as he raised up right, the Hostess of Moyamoyasumi was already entered the building. He didn’t hear her and quite possibly, she didn’t hear him. He was mortified to discover her retreat; he made a hasty catch up, almost getting stuck on the door – no thanks to the taichi sword of his.

Compared to Hostess’ graceful movement, the tiny silver fox was loud, stubborn, and panicky. He didn’t expect this to happen, he was supposed to keep an eye on the hostess and follow her close enough to hear her. His bashful footstep simmers down as he finally just a few steps behind the colourful graceful deer. Just as he thought he now paying attention once more, his mind suddenly was captivated, a throwing nest trapping the school of immaturity, while the wild wind of senses is blowing the boat off course.

The aromatic smell, the sensation it brings to his nostrils. The sweet perfume of fruit and berries flooded his smell, the warmth of indoors was flooding his touch, he never felt like this in a long time. It had been a long time since he had been on the road with his old man. He traces his fingers against the warm air, crooked and slightly parted while his arm remaining low to avoid attracting attention. He closes his eyes, trying to savour every moment of this unfamiliar senses. He loved it; he’s hooked on this sensation. Is this how it likes for people who lived in one place? He thought to himself, he felt like he was in cloud nine. Alas, the cloud will soon fade.

"What is your name, mister? And what sort of appointment do you seek to make with us?"

Her voice rings out to his ear, slapping him back to his senses. He jolted, he found himself standing in front of the reception with the hostess Tomie of Moyamoyasumi. She gave him a small smile, the familiar smile. He had seen that smile before, he was sure of it.

“My name is Kahōmono Moriya and I would like to be a permanent resident of Moyamoyasumi!” He acted out of impulse. He didn’t know what went over him when he said it, but the flowery smell and the warmth from the shelter were divine! He felt like he was in nirvana or in another celestial plane that provides all the greatest luxury in one place. To the tiny silver fox, his luxuries were – for now – humbling. He clawed out his small pouch of gold, the sales of his merchant cart from his right inner sleeve, tucked in between crafty seams to form a small pocket, tight enough to keep the coin pouch in place while moving.

“I’ll pay for this place if I have to!” The young merchant is showing his inexperience by raising his voice slightly than his usual. He was rough, wild with his voice. A life of an outdoor merchant was a loud and lively one, but it is also cold and filled with uncertainty. Every market day must be a profit or else forced to compromise something in order to survive.

“Please?” He flashes a beaming smile as he minded his manners; maybe he was trying to make her laugh by being immature? With a gaze at her, showing off the youthful glimmer in his hazel eyes, he was adamant on getting what he wants.

[1130 | 23]
Total: [1898 | 38]

It could just as well be a puppy standing before her counter with a food bowl in its mouth as it could be this raggedy youngster excitedly declaring his name to her. He had seemed nervous out there, but still a bit composed. She proceeds to start scribbling it down in Kanji, as she assumes it is 果報者, a strange name, before abruptly stopping in the middle of the second one. The madam raises her head from the stained pages, expression still the same as before, as she looks at Mister Moriya. What sort of place does he think Moyamoyasumi is? There are no such things as permanent residents of the establishment, only patrons and employees. Of course, that doesn't count herself, but she is the owner of the place. One shouldn't question her position like that; without her, the business would fall apart.

The request is promptly followed up with a petite, pathetic sack of coins placed on the counter in front of her. Her eyes go to the lump that makes a clinking noise once it hits the wooden board. Does he expect that to be enough to stay here for the rest of his life? That won't even pay for an hour with one of my girls. Her eyes trail back to the puppy with a wagging tail, eyes glittering with excitement. Where in the Rukongai did he hail from? Had he even seen the entirety of the establishment? It is basically a mansion. Even if the coins are golden, they won't be able to buy a piece of tatami floor from her begrudging vision come to life. The whimper of a plea, electrified still, only solidifies her knee-jerk reaction.

"I apologize, Mister Moriya, but Moyamoyasumi is by no means for sale." Hasty and short is the bow that follows, not particularly respectful, but customary nonetheless. The gentle fingers put the brush down, allowing it to rest in the ink bowl while Tomie focuses on this "Lucky Fellow". As boorish as his suggestion had been, it did indeed entice her, given the fact that a situation like this has never occurred before. The closest were the incidents where the local merchants had approached her in an attempt to sell it to them, which she had politely declined.

"We," the madam initiates, colloquially referring to the business and herself, walking away from the counter and towards a window. "Don't have any 'permanent residents', I'm afraid." She turns towards the boy, chin raised high above the silver-haired boy. "Our employees are also only women. It is not appropriate for me to teach a man the arts of an oiran." Eyes sweep over his attire, and most importantly, his shoes. Even though you already are wearing the shoes of a maiko. What eccentric sense of fashion. But she doesn't really blame him for that. Effeminate young boys masquerading in women's clothes is a trend that has become rather notable in these last few centuries, oddly so.

But the men like it, and often the women did too, so it's a cultural phenomenon she doesn't particularly mind, especially since it somehow seems to quell the barbaric men, the yakuza in particular.

Bringing out a fan of her sleeve and sliding it open with a cracking noise, Tomie proceeds to start fanning herself. "Nonetheless, Mister Moriya, you did mention that you are a merchant, no?" She seeks the confirmation she already knows she will receive out of hospitality. "It is difficult to establish oneself in a new district without proper capital. I have seen many merchants close up their shops due to lack of funding." The wooden shoes clack as she approaches an elevated area next to the counter. Stepping out of her okobo, she proceeds ahead and slides open the door leading to her personal quarters. "Please follow me." Glancing over her shoulder, she eyes Mister Moriya for the slice of a second as she presents the command disguised as a suggestion.

She assumes the seiza position on a cushion next to the tiny table in the middle of the room. On top of the table is a vase with a single orchid, blooming nobly alone. Behind her is a desk containing a wide assortment of paper, books and scrolls. In her hand, a porcelain container of sake with two cups in the other. "Have a seat, please," the madam gesticulates towards the seat opposite of hers.

She disregards his desires and pours a cup of the translucent alcohol for him and for herself, regardless if he wants it or not. Delicately yet swiftly, she downs it and pours herself another one. The brewing burning sensation in her throat mixes nicely with the bittersweet aftertaste of fruit tobacco. "What sort of merchant are you, Mister Moriya?" Now it is time for the full-blown interview. She is not going to be entirely honest, as that would be disrespectful to the man, but she is intending to be strict with him. "Where did you start out? From whom did you receive your training?" The brown eyes invite scrutiny in the boy, examining his body language.

She takes a second sip from the cup, eyeing him still. "Why would you be worthy of my support?" The question seems unrelated to the other ones, but contains vital importance. She sends him a stiff smile, attempting to ease his confusion. "Consider this an interview, if you so desire." An interview for what? His preposterous decision to spontaneously propose eternal residence with her business has prompted her to take his issues into her own hands. "Your proposition at the counter shows me nothing but desperation. I take it you moved here in hopes to improve your livelihood, no?" Fingers tap the porcelain bottle as she pours herself a third cup. "I am considering whether I should give you a loan so you can start your business or not. I expect to be paid back, with interests, of course." Tomie allows the final line to hang in the air as a guillotine over Kahōmono Moriya in case he hasn't yet caught on in this game of life and business.

He blinked. Again and again in a rapid succession, what the hell am I doing? He startled. His inner self would be screaming at him, cussing and heckling like an uptight and enraged boss after catching one of his workers sticking his rear end out on the photocopier. He made the approach desperately; he couldn’t believe how badly he made his introduction. His inexperience made him ruthlessly picked out every single flaw that he had made over the past five minutes. While his thoughts and self was on a rampage like a boisterous, petulant child he maintained a composed and elegant posture, waiting for the hostess, the Witch of Moyamoyasumi to answer his stupid and irrational question while gazing at her with a faint and casual warming smile.

"I apologize, Mister Moriya, but Moyamoyasumi is by no means for sale."

Of course she won’t and he knew that from the moment he entered, but he was so caught off guard by how gentle and homely the building is that he had a moment of weakness. He was convinced that his knees briefly buckled as he made his way towards the reception.

The next answer was a no brainer. He knew that was never an option. He again cursed his inexperience and his irrational approach. He likened himself as a cat darting towards a laser spot by the wall, oblivious of its surroundings. He gave himself a soft clearance of his throat, raising his palm up to cover part of his mouth – customary manners must be upheld as the old man sayings remains embedded inside his mind, among all this chaos and criticism.

“I would like to apologize for my excited outburst, it is rare to enter such a fine and homely establishment such as Moyamoyasumi,” he took a slowed bow, arching himself till his head was facing down at the ground. If he had a good mind, he would be bowing even further to express how sorry he was for his pathetic display. He raised back upright, gazing back at her as she finally asked him a question.

"Nonetheless, Mister Moriya, you did mention that you are a merchant, no?"

How did she know that? His thought panicked. Is she really a witch, does she have the ability to read his mind? He couldn’t recall any words pertaining to his career? His eyes dart back and forth, his facial muscles relaxes, even his jaw relaxes. Leaving his mouth slightly gawped as he trying to figure out how on earth she knows, unless she had similar experience. He wasn’t the first who asked the price of the place. His shoulder drooped as he figured that he had really messed things up, leaving him to stand like plum. He had no control of the situation and that frustrates him.
“Yes, I am. You’re very perspective, Madame Tomie,” Moriya stood upright, shoulders back and his hands rested in front of his stomach. He gave her a nod to compliment her perception, regardless if it was easy to tell – after all, he came at her, showing all of his valuable hands, a straight that could win him big money.

He thought about the difference of owning a store in one place compared to roaming around, lugging a cartful of trinket from one district to another.

What sort of merchant am I? He never really asked himself that. He knew that selling trinket is no good. The only reason why he had managed to get money out of selling nigh worthless items was simple, he had never stayed in one place.

"Where did you start out? From whom did you receive your training?"

That part was easy. He had been trading for all of his life; he had never been in one place for more than a week.

“I was found on the road by an elderly merchant. He had half a mind to leave me on the road, but I suppose he wanted Opus Magnum, he wanted someone who he can pass on his knowledge of sales. I grew up traveling on the roads, from one district to another – it was a lonely road and I rarely had any friends, just acquaintances. It had been over a month now that he had passed away, a month since he had given me my name.”  He paused for a moment, dwelling on the time of his death,

“I may become off as a little blunt, but I may be a merchant, but this particular ware is something that I am inexperienced in,” He spoke cleanly, plainly and most importantly, honest. He made it short and simple, no need to overwhelm her with silly jargons or belittle her with big technical words. He deduced from her dialogue, her appearance and her seemingly a successful business; she’s a woman that can only be impressed with solid foundation of business. He paused, finding the next line like a free climber searching for the next three grooves to grasp upon.

“What’s worth more than gold? Many would say their life, but that’s merely an ill thought out answer,” he lightly waves in dismissal as he spoke, again, he made another mistake. Asking her a question, she is listening, don’t bother asking her questions!

“I believe life by itself is expendable, cheap even. Anyone can be a strong warrior who can cut many men down, but having valuable information on them? Now that is worth a lot. I wish to develop an information network that’s so detailed that if someone asked me what you had for breakfast tomorrow, I would give them an answer.”

Easier said than done, but how can you get some rich details? More importantly, how on earth can he get information related to Seireitei? He pauses for a moment, flashing a smile and nodding ever so faintly at her. He wished she never said that this was an interview. He exhales, finally discovering a solution to his little Intel gathering.

“I will build a large storage are to keep supplies in. I would buy and sell materials, rice, resources to areas where there are demands,” He gazes at the cup laced with alcohol. He lightly wet his lips with his tongue before taking in another breath, “How would you deliver those materials? Ah, that’s where gathering information comes in. I will employ drivers who are also information gatherers. They will listen and remember details such as the going-on in other district, what material or food they need or to get rid of and even rumours.” He took a deep breath. He thought it was good enough, he wished that he could elaborate it even more, but with the abruptness from madam Tomie which lead to him standing by the table in her personal quarters. Despite all this, his posture remains almost static, stiff even. His hands were planted on his thighs as he delivers his proposition to the Interviewer. He didn’t want to wave his hand frantically like an eccentric madman. He wanted to remain reserved, using only words and his business sense to shed away his earlier mistakes.

He wanted to how her that he’s serious and in desperate demand of money.

“Is there any questions, Madame Tomie?”

He flashed a smile, eying at the cup full of alcohol, wondering how he’s going to find an excuse to not drink the alcohol without offending her.


[1231| 24 GP]
[3129| 62 GP total]

Retaining an introspective sort of silence, the madam silently judges the boy as he attempts to make a convincing case for his so-called business idea and background. And so far? She is not particularly impressed. The boy spews idealism left and right, with little to no footing in reality, with these hopes of potentially founding a spy network with her hard-earned capital fluttering about in the same space as kirin, Chinese credibility and dragons. Not only that, but the boy seemingly appeared intent on not drinking the sake she had generously offered him, the singing blue-eyed child, which quite frankly, does not please her. Can't expect children to take their medicine, I suppose. She downs yet another cup, still not feeling the effects of the sake outside of the pleasant warmth brewing through her thorax.

He seems convinced, proud almost, even, when he finishes his impromptu tirade and asks her if she has any questions regarding his business plan. But she has all the time in the world to say what she intends to say, so she does precisely what she wants to do there and then: pour herself yet another cup of rice wine. The kid had cherry picked which questions he had wanted to answer, which had left a rather sour impression on the madam. Is this whelp even ready to handle a business on his own? She ponders for a while, allowing her delicate index finger to circle the top of the petite cup numerous times while scrutinizing the boy from a distance, coy smile in tow.

Surely, that nervous smile of his would grow all the more twitchier as she waited with her reply. The boy didn't even seem to comprehend the ability to sit still in a proper seiza position for an extended amount of time. I should lower my expectations for a brat straight off the streets.

Out of the darkness behind the boy, from the corner near her folded futon, a pale hand extends, finger wagging disapprovingly. Dearest kami. This is not an appropriate situation for you to butt in on. Disregarding her prayers, the incorporeal creature proceeds to push itself out of the dark pit where it had been situated, slimy hair hanging on the floor as its torso slides out, followed by its nether region, the lower part of the kimono suspiciously flat, leaving it seemingly legless. With its sprawled hands, more talons than human appendages, it starts crawling towards the table, no sound accompanying the slitering. It leaves no trace in its journey towards Kahōmono Moriya, no expression on its blank canvas of a face to unveil how it feels.

The dexterous, inhuman limbs quiver as it latches onto the fledgling merchant's legs, gradually pulling the massive bulk of its hollowed body up as its arms travels further and further up the boy's torso. Nails dig into the delicate fabric, but leave no mark whatsoever, as the pale figure claws its way to the top. The chin now rests on the boy's shoulder, heavy hair hanging over him. In its right hand, it has grasped the young man's throat, tightly squeezing the center with gnarled, mummified fingers. The other remains free, having resumed the disdainful wagging motion.

It appears as if the house kami disapproves of my thoughts regarding this boy.

Who knows, honestly? What if the boy turns out to be an amazing information broker? He could just as well become someone of yakuza-status, coercing people into his services with the wealth he has amassed. But young Mister Moriya needs to get there first; it is not so easy to have major breakthroughs in terms of businesses, especially nothing as unorthodox as information brokery. Besides, the boy had presented a staggeringly disappointing case for his business, as if taken out of the blue. Could someone like this be trusted with large sums of money?

The simple answer is, of course, "no".

Fortunately, there is no simple answer in a matter of "large sums of money", as said measurement is wildly subjective. It just so happens that to her, "large sums of money" is something that she won't even bother to define. As it just so happens, not even Moyamoyasumi had cost her that much. The times had been kind to someone dependent on a merchant's wealth.

The finger ceases spinning around the cup and settles on her lap, as proper etiquette dictates. "To be perfectly honest," she is not, she never would be to someone like him. "Your concept sounds interesting, but rather far-fetched, Mister Moriya." The tangle of hair wells over the man, noodles soaked in ink. Knowing how the kami manifests, he would not notice it at all, even as it virtually melts on top him, becoming this deflated mochi-substance clinging to his shoulders. "I am not sure if I can properly invest in such a risky business idea." Eyes meet eyes--Well, eye, as the spirit's hand had covers half of Moriya's face. "After all, I don't really have anything to take back with interests if your economical status deflates, do I?" There is a threat in her tone, looming but not unexpected. Regardless of how little she invests, Tomie does expect to reap rewards from her field of interest. Caution is a dear friend of hers.

"Besides, I do not want to be caught in a precarious position if it somehow becomes evident that I have given out a loan to an someone who turned their business into a criminal hive." With fingers wrapped around a new pipe, this one lacquered green, she lights it, allowing aromatic smog to fill the room. "I do have a face to lose." Unlike the spirit crawling all over the effeminate boy... And the boy himself.

There is a spark in her eyes, a thrill of having place someone over the fire, where they would either be singed or throttle through unscathed, treasure in hands. There is a joy in having power over him. "I'm giving you a second chance. Please convince me this time around."

This whole appointment seems off. To Moriya, he expected something more of an entertainment. When the moment the witch herself asked to answer her question again, he gave her his cute, confused look on his face. He began to playfully toy with the cup full of Alcohol, swilling back and forth, tempting to spill onto the table before stopping. He gazes up at the towering mistress and flashes a small, yet nervous smile on his face, pondering what he need to say.


“Why?” Was the first thing that comes to mind, “Hang on, how did she know that I was a merchant? Did I even tell her that I was a merchant?” The more he pondered, the more he realized that she really wanted to do an interview. Was she really planning on giving him money? Such idea trembles the young boy. Words from the old friend of his, warning strangers like her, the moment they hand you the money – that’s it. They will own you forever, make use of you and abuse you. He gulped at that thought.


“She doesn’t care about her reputation, I am sure she heard what the people around here are calling her. Only reason why she isn’t lynched is because she offers ‘gentlemen’s entertainment”, his body hunched forward, using his right palm to cup against his cheek with his elbow resting against his right thigh. Cross legged and slouching. She must be screaming from the inside, cussing and ranting he assumed. Rip him from limbs to limbs and use his pretty flesh for…


His mind drifted off there. His ill timing for weird fantasy had always crept in at the worst possible time. His eyes peers up at her once more, standing upright with his palms resting against his knees, finally decided on an answer.


“Mistress Magahara,” He delayed his train of thought with an ‘urm’, he really doesn’t know what to say. He hated wasting people time, especially someone more important than Tomie Magahara of the Moyamoyasumi’s tea house, “I am not entirely sure what your aim is? I merely wanted to be a patron for tonight. You see, I am planning on doing something that may change my life and since there is a risk of death,” He pauses once again, straighten his arms with his hands resting on his lap and let rip of his mischievous smile with a confident tone on his voice, “I wanted to feel a woman touch tonight!”


He can’t wait to hear her response. What’s worse is that he’s feeling more and more like a goof, leading her on. Or was she testing him for some reason? All he knows is that he cannot survive in this cold winter, especially with just this attire – fashionable it may be, but it lacks the necessary protection from the outside.

"You dishonor me."

The remark isn't even a sneer, but her lip has become but a pair of discontented pillows resting against her skin, nose scrunched ever so slightly and eyes burning with irritation. She isn't often this direct with her intentions or feelings, seldom, as a matter of fact, but this lucky fellow from Moriya appears to not understand the situation at all.

First he goes along with her suggestion upon picking up on the boy's rather characteristic appearance, strangely kempt for someone with such a small pouch strapped to his being, carrying trinkets of apparent value which to the trained eye is revealed as sham. She had been so generous to him, presenting such an offer to a starving merchant is more than he could even ask for.

And he had gone along with it at first, attempting to convince her that information is valuable. The idea interest her still, but his mundane executive plans left her unconvinced. She offered him a second chance, to redeem this idea in the eyes of a businesswoman with experience that by far not only outweighs his own a few times, but many tenfolds.

And here he feigns ignorance with his boyish smile and rattling money, dimples that kill maidenheads.

But unfortunately for him, she is no naive maiden.

She doesn't buy what he is selling, which is nothing short of deceit. His scrappy hands cannot even buy a night with the girl who is willing to sell herself for the least amount of money. He had come to the right place at the right time, but still managed to make a fool out of himself and squander his chances, which were already low.

"Do not take my kindness for weakness, Kahōmono Moriya," she warns him, still maintaining her casual pose, eyeing him with spite. If he thinks he can weasel out of this situation without problems, he is not only hopelessly foolish, but not particularly adept at reading the atmosphere either. "It saddens me to see you wish to reject my offer in such a manner, but it cannot be helped, I suppose." Not if you want to keep up your teenage dream facade.

Fueled by her will, the window blows open, inviting a harsh gust inside, sending the various paperwork spiraling into the air, becoming a blizzard with the powdered snow invited inside. It twirls around her, fluttering paper and sighing wind becoming the background music to this scene, while the candles around them die.

Between the fits of white and pale snow, her brown eyes burn with an intensity that can only be seen as pity.

"I regret to inform you that with the amount of money you currently possess, you won't be able to buy yourself a night of comfort here." Her voice is still as clear as ever among the chaotic sounds, calm and collected. Loose strands of hair slap her face, moving back and forth to the pace of the storm. "Therefore, I shall ask you to leave and also to not return unless you can provide the funds to afford sessions here."

The only touch he is to experience now, is the one of a yuki-onna's frigid fingers on his cheeks.

Amidst the chaos, the madam spots a familiar silhouette resting in the corner, blending neatly into the white panorama they are in, with dripping black hair covering most of its front. The gnarled hands extend forwards, palms turned upwards in the motion of a beggar before the figure disappears.

The storm around them grow ever more intense, frost gathering on the table, rims covering the edges of their cups of sake. As if guided by invisible hands, the door bursts open, various sheets and flakes fly into the hallway, opening the way out for the boy. "Now, please go." Her voice echoes before she is almost entirely covered by harsh winter and frantic pieces of paper.