He's a tall man, bemused by expression, black hair hanging long down his back and over his shoulders, everything a touch disheveled. Scores of lacerations mar his skin, and based on the matching cuts into his robes indicates more within; there's flecked blood, but little, and even the lacerations he shows are scabbing over, healing as they should. Not seamlessly, he doesn't think, not when he has no medicine to aid them in that way, but with his sheathed sword at his hip and the thousands of arrows bent on eradicating him from existence or the concept of spiritual intactness as suddenly gone as his waking here was sudden, he can recognise gratitude.

Also frustration, keen and tamped down on, while one hand touches the lei around his neck.

"What are the chances," he says, sighing, "We can disembark by choice?"

He has a pointless death to get back to. Very fruitlessly heroic and everything.

The piano corners him coming out of Bric a Brac, where he'd been studying the goods on display and the peculiar playacting that went into 'bartering' for goods. He doesn't understand it, simply accepts that it works as it does, and then there he is holding a ship in a glass bottle and the piano growls.

Or attempts to growl. It vibrates its strings in a threatening manner, annoyed at the extended time it'd taken for Yue Qingyuan to exit the store it'd been looming outside of. With its giant maw of a lid opening to reveal shark-like teeth, Yue Qingyuan blinks benignly, shifts his hand holding the bottled ship up, takes hold of his sheathed sword, and slams it down on top of the piano's open mouth.

It doesn't dent anything, for better or worse, but it does send the top lid slamming into the bottom one with a discordant clanging of keys and what might be, almost, a pianoic whine.

"I can't sense if you're possessed or not, but I don't advise you to continue."

Addressing a piano. As one does.

He has the sense of being stalked by something he doesn't quite see far before he meets the wee predators. The clothing in this shop is already... strange. Bright, clashing, inadequate to his tastes and familiarity, and also the only option given when his own robes have dozens of lacerations through them from the arrows preceeding all the arrows meant to kill him.

Meaning when he's debating between shirts and has been attacked at least once by bundles of children's clothing, he's now taken to standing on top of one of the racks to further examine long sleeve dresses in dark colours to layer over lighter pantsuits.

"What a clever way to keep clothing held together." There he is, marveling at a zipper. Pulling it down and up again, zip zip, how nearly smoothly it goes!