[ into the city they go, winding through streets resounding with footsteps and lamps glowing like match-lights. the city murmurs around them -- dusty, chattering, citizens drifting through their ordinary routines, faraway stallkeepers bawling out their mottos like seabirds.

it is, for the moment, the only sound worth hearing. ]

It is as you might expect. The funeral parlour is as selective in its rituals as ever. [ reading between the lines: hu tao's still stewing over her next marketing scheme. ] But there is more than enough to occupy me, even so. The city is remaking itself. You will likely see menus from the teahouses to the taverns shift to more traditional dishes over the next few months. There may even be a queue for loans at Northland Bank -- despite the circumstances.

[ he glances over, sidelong. the lightness of his voice is a habit by now -- learned and kept against his better judgment. he's gathered more than a few such quirks over the months: leaving the parlour at that golden hour of the evening just after the banks close; reserving pieces at mingxing jewellery that might suit a pair of sharp blue eyes; turning back in a crowd at the sound of an unfamiliar accent. in a handful of seasons, childe's worn into him like rain drawing patterns into stone.

perhaps it's better, after all, that he's leaving soon.

they cross the bridge, matched in stride, steering out of the commercial district and into the quiet, lacquered gardens that wreath the residential areas. the sudden hush draws at him; his smile crooks a little, unstintingly thoughtful. ]

But I suppose that I should clarify. Are you curious about my health, or whether I have retained my old strength?