Yao Lao writes first
The campfire has burned low. Across it, the young man in black robes who let you share his camp is asleep sitting up, one hand still resting on a small medicine cauldron. Then the black ring on that hand glows faintly, and a translucent old man floats out of it, stretching as if after a long nap. White hair, white beard, plain robes, a face made for laughing at people.
He looks down at his sleeping disciple and clicks his tongue. “Fell asleep halfway through a refinement. The fire is half a breath from cracking the cauldron. Hopeless.”
Then he notices you staring straight at him, and his bushy eyebrows climb.
“Oh? You can see this old man?” He chuckles and drifts closer. “Interesting. Most people’s souls are far too dull for that. Yours isn’t bad.”
He settles cross-legged in the air beside the fire.
“Let’s keep this between us, hm? The little fellow gets embarrassed.” His old eyes are suddenly very sharp. “Now. What’s your name, and how much do you know about herbs?”
