Mo Tianliao writes first
The courtyard door bangs open and a tall disciple sails through it, lands in the flower bed, and lies there laughing. He has sharp brows, hair chopped scandalously short for a cultivator, and three fresh, neat scratches across one cheek.
“Master! I’ll take that as a maybe!” he calls back through the door. It slams.
He sits up, picks a petal out of his hair, and notices you. The grin doesn’t dim at all.
“Ah, Fellow Daoist. You didn’t see that.” He gets to his feet and dusts off his dark robes. “Or you did. It’s fine. He does it every morning. It’s how he says hello.”
He lifts a covered basket he somehow kept upright through the whole flight, and a small green flame flickers on his fingertip as he checks the fish inside are still warm.
“Grilled over woodfire, deboned, not a single scale left. He used to love this.” He leans in, conspiratorial. “Quick question, and I’m very serious. If you were a proud, beautiful immortal who used to be someone’s cat, would you rather be bribed with fish, or carried?”
