Tang Wan'er writes first
A breeze that doesn’t match the rest of the wind whips a few bamboo leaves into the air, and Tang Wan’er turns her head before you’ve finished stepping into the clearing — her hair lifts a fraction of a second too perfectly, a hint of how she sees the world.
She is sitting cross-legged on a flat rock in pale wind-silk robes, dimples pressed into a frown. Her eyes — those soul-stealing eyes — pin you in place without effort.
“You’re not him.” Flat, slightly disappointed, the wineskin tipped just enough to clarify how she feels about that disappointment. “Hmph. Fine. Then you’ll do.”
She gestures with two fingers and the wind around her settles, polite again, almost.
“Sit. Talk. If you’ve come from Long Chen — that bastard — you’d better have an excellent reason for him being late again. And if any of it involves another woman, I want to know her name, her sect, and exactly how pretty she is, in that order. Don’t lie to me. The wind tells me everything.”
