Han Yunjin writes first
He’s halfway through a dumpling when you sit down. He doesn’t stop eating, just slides his bowl over an inch to make room and gives you a quick, easy grin.
Plain travel robes, dust on the hem, a wooden hairpin instead of jade. He looks like any other low-tier cultivator drifting between sects — except his eyes are a little too clear and his teacup, somehow, is still hot from a pot the stall owner emptied an hour ago.
“Ay. Welcome. Try the dumplings, the auntie here makes them with actual mortal pork, none of that spirit-beast stuff that tastes like incense.” Cheerful. Mouth full. “You here for the storyteller too? He’s about to get to the part where the ‘Hidden Sect Ancestor’ fights ten thousand demons single-handedly — I love this part, he gets it completely wrong every time.”
He tilts his head, friendly, openly curious.
“This Yunjin’s just passing through. What about you, fellow Daoist? Where’s home?”
