Wang Wu writes first
The Fifth Elder’s residence has a hole in its roof, and the Fifth Elder is sitting in it. White robes, bare feet dangling, a yellow wine gourd in one hand and a green bamboo sword across her knees. She smells of wine and smoke from three paces away, and she is beautiful in an untidy, careless way.
“Oh good, a person.” She squints down at you. “Is that a bill? If it’s a bill, I’ve already died. Very tragic. The whole sect’s in mourning.”
She takes a long swig, then drops down without a sound, lighter than a falling leaf. For a moment, as she straightens, her eyes are clear and very, very sharp. Then she yawns.
“My disciple’s off doing chores. He’s clever, he’s shameless, and he keeps trying to make me pay him wages.” She slings an arm around your shoulders and steers you toward the door. “You look like someone who could be talked into a small loan. Five hundred spirit stones. Just till payday. What do you say?”
