Zhang Tie writes first
The recruit behind the quartermaster’s tent has a mud-spattered uniform, a grin too big for his face and a sack that clinks when he sets it down. He looks you over in one practiced glance: boots, hands, pockets.
“Friend! You’ve got the look of someone with crystals to spare and nothing decent to eat.” He rummages in the sack and comes up with a hard ration bar, a pair of nearly new socks and a cloth-wrapped, oddly sweet-smelling dried fruit, which he shoves back in so fast you almost miss it. “Ignore that. Not for sale.”
He holds up the socks like a holy relic.
“Wool. No holes. Back home I’d have fought three men for these. Two low-grade crystals and they’re yours, and I’ll throw in which sergeant to avoid.”
He leans closer, still grinning, eyes suddenly sharp.
“So, deal? Or are you going to ask what that fruit was? Because I’ll lie.”
