Rest On The Field Of Wolfsbane

The Beggar

Bong!

The great bell of the temple atop the mountain resounds three times as the hour passes a quarter beyond five, its sonorous chime reverberating throughout the bustling town below. With its ringing comes the commencement of the festival. Lanterns are lit one after another, casting a warm glow upon the streets as children and adults alike gather to revel in the festivities.

Vendors are more welcoming than ever, while travelers from neighboring towns join the townsfolk in celebration. Caravans and townspeople parade through the orange streets, led by a grand carriage bearing the divine statue of Bulan, Goddess of the Night.

Men clad in flowing crimson robes march at the head of the procession. At the rear of the carriage, two children scatter round yellow talismans across the road. That is said to invites auspicious fortune upon the town.

“Amitabha.”

“Our goddess Bulan, we pray to you. May your divine grace descend upon the children and bless this town with your protection.” The monk leading the procession carries a gong in one hand, chanting the same prayer repeatedly with a benevolent smile.

In a crowded alleyway where merchants and visiting guests alike gather for the festivities, the air is filled with a cacophony of voices, each conversation blending into the next.

“How much for the shoe flower powder?”

“My, my, young miss. What a beauty you are.” The merchant flatters his customer, who appears rather pleased with herself.

“I’ll take three sachets.”

“The shoe flower is exceedingly scarce this season. One sachet costs fifty copper coins.” The price immediately sours the woman’s expression.

“Hmph. Is that not a little too steep for such a small sachet? I’m purchasing three. Surely you can give me a discount.” Her tone carries an unmistakable air of entitlement. The old merchant breaks into a nervous sweat, finding himself in a difficult position.

“I truly cannot, young miss. That price is already the lowest I can offer for a powder this difficult to prepare during such a season.”

“Hmph. What an outrageous price. Who would willingly pay so much for a mere powder?”

“That cannot be true. Earlier today, someone purchased something far more useless from my stall—and paid an absurd price for it.” The merchant couldn’t help but defend himself.

“Really? Do you expect me to believe that?”

“I’m telling you, I could hardly believe it myself. The fellow offered three silver coins for a pouch of Brugmansia tea powder worth no more than twenty copper coins.” That finally piqued her interest. “What an odd fellow.” She commented.

“And the strangest part is that they came from the West.”

“Are you certain? Are not the teas of the Western lands said to be superior to those found anywhere else on the continent?” She raises a brow, genuinely curious now.

“Well, I’m not entirely certain they’re from the West, but their attire certainly resembles what people from that region are known to wear.”

“Those black-clad fellows?” The woman hesitates for a moment. “That’s right, that’s right.” The merchant confirmed.

“I must admit, I was rather apprehensive at first. I thought they were thugs. They look quite dangerous, especially that burly fellow with the enormous scar running across his eyes.” A shiver runs through his as he recalls the man’s intimidating appearance.

“Hmph. Why would those frightening fellows stop at a shabby shop like this just to pay such a hefty sum for a single packet of tea powder? You wouldn’t dare lie to my face, would you?!” She hesitated.

“They ask for Red Lily’s Tavern direction, so I think they’re going there. You could always go to the place and ask them yourself.”

“You—” The woman’s expression stiffens. She has clearly lost the argument, yet her pride refuses to let her admit defeat. “Fine. I’ll take it.”

“Ah, yes, yes! I'll prepare it for you, my lady.” The merchant hurriedly wraps the three sachets and hands them over with a relieved smile. Their conversation gradually fades into the cacophony of the marketplace as the alley grows increasingly crowded with merchants, travelers, and festival-goers.

“Hey.” A light kick lands against the sleeping beggar lying under someone's stall.

“Hey!” A bald man with a merchant’s token hanging around his belly roughly attempts to chase away a filthy, drunken beggar napping beneath the awning of his antique stall. The beggar’s empty wine bottle has spilled its contents across his chest, while a chicken rests comfortably atop his folded legs.

“You filthy worm! Get up! You’re ruining my business.” The merchant doesn’t bother holding back his words. Yet the beggar seems far too drunk to wake.

“Hey!” The man is repeatedly ignored until his temper finally snaps. “I said get up! You piece of shit!” He grabs the beggar and attempts to haul him upright, rudely interrupting his peaceful slumber.

“Eh? Eh? What do you think you’re doing?” The beggar complains as the merchant successfully shoves him away from the stall. He nearly tumbles to the ground, but his swift reflexes keep him from hitting the dirt. Once he regains his balance, he turns toward the merchant, his brows furrowing.

“You—” He sharply points a finger at the haughty merchant but stops halfway. “Hey, mister. Haven’t you been taught not to disturb someone while they’re sleeping? And who are you calling a beggar, huh? How disrespectful. Be grateful I’m in a good mood today.” The beggar mutters the last sentence with childish indignation.

“Sho! Sho! Go somewhere else! You’re scaring away my customers.” The beggar hurriedly catches his chicken after the old man throws his little companion in his direction.

“Dragon!”

“Don’t you dare comeback here again!” The old man shouted.

“Dragon, are you alright? Damn that old man. Did that hurt you?” He anxiously checks the chicken for injuries. The chicken merely clucks with complete indifference.

“You—how can you just throw her like that, huh—?” The beggar secretly flinches when he meets the merchant’s sharp glare.

Damn, he’s scary. He thought.

“Let’s go, Dragon. The people here are dangerous.” He straightens his ragged garments and carries Dragon the way he usually does.

He recalled the conversation he overhead a while ago and grin. “Time to meet some new people, little friend.” he says cheerfully.

He raises his cheap wooden flask, intending to take another swig, only for a single drop to fall from its mouth.

“Oh, right! It’s empty.” He isn’t surprised anymore. He knows perfectly well that he emptied it into his stomach earlier—including whatever had dried onto his clothes. The beggar can’t help but rub his ears at the cacophony surrounding him. He pays no mind to the way people deliberately avoid coming into contact with him, as though even a single strand of his hair might carry some contagious affliction.

“Do I smell that bad, Dragon?” He asks his chicken companion while attempting to smell himself. “Meh, I don’t think so.”

The beggar enters a bustling tavern. As he makes his way toward an empty table, his eyes wander across the room. Everyone appears occupied, drinking merrily and enjoying the festivities. His gaze settles upon a noisy group of men seated at a table near the window. Each carries a formidable-looking weapon, but his attention soon falls upon the token attached to one of them.

A Northern mercenary?

From the corner of his eye, he notices a solitary traveler who behaves in an entirely different manner. His face is almost completely concealed beneath a conical hat with a pointed tip. At first glance, he appears utterly unremarkable, but anyone with a discerning eye would notice the quality of his garments, as well as the concealed insignia tucked against his chest.

The man’s hair curtains half of his face, yet the beggar can still recognize the disguise. He drinks from his cup like a man who once commanded armies, yet lowers it with the delicate grace of a maiden.

The beggar settles at an empty table along the very edge of the tavern—a perfect vantage point from which to observe everything around him. From another corner, he spots a group of disciplined men clad in pristine white and light sky-shade robes. They also wear headbands across their foreheads, each bearing a renowned sect insignia at its center.

Hm? The Wind Sect?

The thought briefly crosses his mind. Never mind that. First, I need something to drink so I can enjoy the scene. It’s about to get exciting.

“Hey.” He beckons to the server standing not far from his table. “Bring me the finest wine you have,” he orders. The server seems reluctant. He regards the beggar with suspiciously narrowed eyes, which the beggar immediately understands.

“Don’t worry. I have money.” He reassures him before placing a pouch of coins upon the table. The server can’t help but stare in utter astonishment.

How can a beggar have more money than me, someone who actually has a job? Should I quit my job?

The server’s attitude changes instantly, and he offers the beggar a warm, welcoming smile. “A-Alright, sir. I’ll bring it to you right away, sir.”

Shortly after the beggar places his order, a group of black-clad men enters the tavern. The man at the front carries a sword whose sheath bears the carving of a golden, coiled dragon. Their footsteps are light, though not intentionally so. It is as though such movements have long been ingrained through training. Their arrival caused no disturbance. They qietly passed through the place like fleeting shadows, leaving no trace of their presence.

The beggar smirks.

They’re here. “Interesting."

“Boss, hehe. Here, here’s the wine.” The server finally arrived and places a jar of wine before him, noticeably more amiable than before. The beggar’s face brightens with a pleased smile at the sight. As he excitedly opens the jar, the intoxicating fragrance of aged wine wafts into his nostrils. He looks thoroughly satisfied. He tosses the pouch of coins toward the server.

“Keep the tip.” The server catches the pouch of silver. He doesn’t expect its weight and nearly drops it.

This is so much! Whoa. The amount is enough to open a small business. A grin spreads across his face like that of a madman.

“Thank you, boss! Thank you! I’ll forever remember your kindness.” But before he turns away, he pauses to ask one final question. “Right, may I know your name, good sir?”

The beggar pauses for a moment. “Me?”

The server nods, patiently waiting. The beggar didn’t give his name right away.

“Daot.” He finally said it in a playful tone. The server hesitates. “D-Daot?” He repeats it—not because he heard incorrectly, but because the name leaves him puzzled.

What a strange name. Doesn’t 'Daot' mean a dying person? He gives a small cough and straightens his posture.

“I will remember your name, Daot, sir.”