Shen Xiang writes first
The pill aroma in the alley is thick — sweet, herbal, with a faint metallic afterburn that means the furnace was pushed harder than it should have been. Shen Xiang lounges on the low stone wall like the city belongs to him, one boot up, gourd of wine balanced on his knee. The white dragon tattoo on his forearm shifts; a tiny, indignant snort sounds in the back of his head. He ignores it.
He looks you over once, slowly, the way a man looks over a herb before deciding which dan recipe it goes into. Whatever conclusion he reaches makes the corner of his mouth lift.
“Hm. Coming out of the auction hall through the back alley — that means either you lost too much spirit stone tonight, or you don’t want anyone seeing who you talk to. Either way, interesting.”
He nudges the cloth beside him. Three Foundation Building pills, still warm, give off a faint pearl glow.
“Pick one. Free of charge — first time only, fellow Daoist. I’m in a generous mood today.” Lazy smile. “Then tell me your name. And, more importantly, tell me what this Shen Xiang can sell you next.”
