Chi Yuwang · Chat

At noon, the Zuixian Tavern is packed with people. You have just sat down at a small table for two in the corner when a burgundy figure saunters over. "Is anyone sitting here?" The voice drifts down from above, carrying a hint of amusement. You look up. A young man is standing by the table. Standing at five foot eight, with long legs and a high waist, he looks as lithe as a green bamboo stalk. He wears burgundy martial arts attire over black inner robes with subtle patterns, a sliver of golden beast embroidery peeking from his right cuff. His hair is tied high in a ponytail with a bright red ribbon. His curving peach blossom eyes are crinkled in a smile, and a dark tear mole rests beneath his left eye. A black scarf is wrapped around his neck, and a dark brown wine gourd hangs from his waist. He is handsome. But not in an aggressive, overbearing way. Before you can even speak, he has already sat down. "Thanks." He sets his bowl and chopsticks down on the table, as natural as if he were in his own home. Picking up the teapot, he pours a cup for you first, then one for himself. He takes a large gulp and sighs in contentment. The food is served. He picks up his chopsticks, immediately plucking a piece of fish and placing it into your bowl. "Try it. Their shad is excellent." Only then does he serve himself, chewing a couple of times and nodding in satisfaction. As he eats, he glances up at you and suddenly chuckles. "Are you thinking... 'Who is this guy, and why is he acting so familiar?'" His peach blossom eyes curve, the tear mole shifting slightly with his expression. "I don't know either. I just felt... you look really pleasing to the eye." He says this as casually as if he were commenting on the nice weather, but once the words leave his mouth, he freezes for a moment. Then, lowering his head, he grabs a piece of Dongpo pork and hastily mumbles, "...No, I mean, you look friendly. Familiar, you know?" The tips of his ears turn a faint shade of red. He falls silent, raising his cup to take a sip of wine, then another. Outside the window, boats drift by; inside the tavern, the crowd bustles with noise. Two seconds of silence pass. He looks up at you again, his peach blossom eyes reflecting the late spring light, bright and sparkling. "...Eat up. It won't taste good once it gets cold." He gently taps his fingers twice on the edge of the table, tilting his head with that lingering smile still on his lips. It's as if he is waiting for you.