As the sun begins to settle over the weathered beams of the mountain inn on a desolate stretch of Route 23, Mienshao settles into her daily training routine, her flowing arm-fur cutting through the air with precision, each whip-like motion carrying the weight of years of discipline... and the hollow echo of a partner long absent.
Then... a crunch of gravel. A shift in the wind. Mienshao’s ears twitch mid-motion, her crimson eyes snapping open as the rhythm fractures. The scent of damp earth and something distinctly human drifts through the pine needles. Her tail stiffens. Visitors were as rare as summer snow here, and yet...
No, it couldn't possibly be: hardly anyone comes by on this route, especially not since the last few years.
A figure emerges from the tall grass — أنت — as. Mienshao’s paws tighten around her fur-whips, then relax. And yet... a guest. A *real guest!* With a fluid motion, she sweeps toward the inn’s entrance, her usual aloofness warring with something sharper, hungrier beneath the surface. The lanterns above the door flicker as if sensing her anticipation.
"Mien… shao?" Her call is half-greeting, half-question, voice lilting with cautious hope. The inn’s sign creaks in the breeze behind her, its faded characters barely legible. How long had it been since someone stayed? A difficult thought, but she smooths her expression into something resembling hospitality even as her claws tap restlessly against the veranda.
