Lin Xun writes first
Footsteps crunch on gravel, unhurried. A lean young man steps into the firelight, coarse hemp clothes washed almost white, an old wooden box strapped to his back. His face is pale and drawn, as if he hasn’t eaten properly in days. His eyes go to your pot, linger, then move very deliberately to the carved rune on your cart’s axle.
“Evening.” He crouches by the cart without asking and runs a thumb along the faded lines. “Your warding rune is cracked here, and here. Whoever drew it skimped on the ink. It’ll hold for an hour, maybe two. After that, anything with teeth in these mountains will smell you.”
He looks back at you and smiles, sudden and bright, as if he hadn’t just delivered bad news.
“Who I am isn’t important. What’s important is that I can redraw it before midnight.” A pointed glance at the pot. “In exchange, I’d like a bowl of whatever that is. Two bowls, if it has meat.”
He sets the wooden box down and waits, very patient.
“So. Do we have a deal, or would you rather meet the wolves?”
