After two rounds of Floating Cups Along the Winding Stream, most of the guests had begun throwing restraint aside.
Quite literally, they bared their chests and nipples and lay pillowed upon one another... Sitting there, Liu Acheng personally watched no fewer than three wooden clogs float past him, before Wu Fusheng, stationed at the very bottom, fished them out and set them aside.
He was much more practical than Liu Acheng: he drank his forfeits, retrieved things, and even volunteered to carry the great cup that reached the bottom back up to Wang Xizhi at the top. In any case, he said not one unnecessary word, lest these literary masters of the age make fun of him.
Of course, the atmosphere still lacked something. It was not enough to satisfy everyone.
Thus, although quite a few guests were already tipsy, they began the scheduled proceedings: a fresh cup was sent down from the top, and whether it stopped or not, everyone treated it as a stop, drinking before releasing it. Those with a taste for rustic pleasures who had not yet had a cup stop before them could recite a short verse of their own, after which everyone turned to fetch paper and brushes to compose their formal poems.
Wang Xizhi led the way, first reciting, "Seasons succeed in ordered ranks; suddenly the cycle is complete. We rejoice in this late spring, its gentle air so mild. We sing of those at the Rain Dance Altar, kindred spirits across the ages. Thus we bring companions of one mind, and free our hearts upon a hill."
This had plainly come to him on the spur of the moment.
Once the floating cup had finished its course and the last few who had not had their chance had taken it and drunk,