"I'm not rude, I'm colorful", Ling says to Drake as he reaches for his supplies. Taking what appears to be a small stainless steel rod, he smashes a large cube of ice into many chunks, and puts it into the shaker. On the ice, he adds honey, cream, and sake, and shakes it for a bit. He motions to the bartender, who provides him with a salt-rimmed glass and a strawberry, which he slices a slit into, sticks to the rim of the glass, and runs it around, mixing the salt and the strawberry. Next, he pours the drink from the shaker through two strainers, one he holds to the end of the shaker, and one he holds over the glass. The end result is a smooth, sweet drink, almost more of a very fine foam than a liquid. "Your drink, m'lady.", he says with a cheeky smile and a tip of a non-existent hat.
Ling had noticed her when she first walked in. Religious figure of some sort, maybe. Or a devotee. Judging only by clothing, at least. He had watched her for a bit from his peripheral vision, the ability to watch someone without moving his eyes being one of his most valuable skills. All the while he held his conversation with Drake and Yoshigahara, he had kept track of the lady in clothes almost as fancy as his. What caught his attention was having no noticeable identification with any group present. It was not the coarse roughness that the Junkers had, nor the expensive refinement of the Hackers. It was not the dutiful jeans and button-up he had learned to expect from the Rogues, nor the standard Maltese attire. It was not the combat-ready Chrysanthemums, nor the pleasant, ideologically equidistant attire of Natio Octavarium. She was someone else. Ling knew she wasn't here as a spy. Spies are fidgety. They know they're in hostile territory. They get jumpy and hyperactive. She was calm, collected, and adhering to a societal code of manners. She was definitely invited here by someone, yet no group moved to claim her. Well, I suppose I am a gentleman, Ling thought to himself as he took a deep breath to finish his cigar, and put it out in the ash tray.
Ling had already decided by her clothes that she had refined taste. Reading her body language, it seemed to Ling that smooth textures came first, and second came complexity. He began using his slicer to peel a black plum, and then slice it into extremely thin slices, slices that could be seen through with ease. With his preparation out of the way, he moved on to the big gamble: Does she drink alcohol? He motioned to the bartender, and after a small amount of entirely nonverbal communication, the bartender brought three bottles, one of Umeshu, which is a fine plum wine of Kusari origin, one of gin, and one of a lavender soda. Ling puts the thin slices into the bottom of his shaker, and uses a wooden muddler to press the juices out of each slice individually. Ling then scoops the leftover solids from the slices out with his spoon, leaving just the juice. He adds a handfull of sugar to make a thicker, plum flavored sugar. He then uses it to rim the glass. After that, Ling prepares the drink in a separate glass, two parts gin, one part umeshu, and one part soda. He stirs slowly and lightly so as not to make the soda go flat, then pours the drink into the rimmed cocktail glass. He takes one more plum, slices a thick slice, and floats it on top of the drink, giving the final emphasis of the sweet, refined flavor he had worked to build.
He held it slightly away from himself, in the direction of the woman in Buddhist attire. Not an offer, but an invitation. At an event like this, no one should be alone. That's how trouble starts, and while Ling was perfectly ready for trouble, he decided it would look bad on his reputation to be present at a fight (or worse) at such a high class event. He spoke to her, calling her over. "Fancy a drink in this fine establishment, Ojou-sama?"
