There are a lot of people milling about the markets, none of which pay any mind to the small, thin, pale child crouched by an empty crate. He's dressed in a shabby kimono that's a size or so too small, and might have once been light blue and patterned with butterflies, but the dyes have faded with constant exposure to the sun.
He sizes up a potential mark, and falls into a familiar rhythm. He's done this many times before and he will do it many more until he can find other ways to afford food.
A ball bounces out in front of his mark, into which he promptly and clumsily slams into, like any child who doesn't know how to look where they're going. If he happens to snag a wallet, money pouch, or some fine piece of jewelry, well. That's not anyone's fault is it? His prize quickly disappears into the recesses of his sleeve as he bows in apology before scurrying off after his ball.
By the time the poor sod notices that they've been had, he's already making a beeline for the alley.
[Trench streets. In some ways very familiar to his kingdom of Xianle, yet with the wicked spirit of ghost city. A strange mix for sure, but he can't help feel a misplaced sense of nostalgia as he glides down the bustling marketplace.
Noise the ever present constant. Whether it be the low murmuring of doors opening and closing or the pitter patter of feet pedaling down the cobblestones roads. And one simply cant escape the the booming voice of the shopkeeper offering that "once in a lifetime deal!"
Certainly lots of stimuli and distractions, but no more pleasant then the strangely satisfying cacophony of smells from various food stalls all mingling together.
The latter is something much more tantalizing. Unfortunately for Xie Lian, carrying any sort of currency or valuable has not been a luxury he's had for many centuries.That being said, around his neck tucked under his hanafu a few layers in, lay an exceptionally beautiful crystal glass ring. The edges of which are slightly feathered outward towards the top. Delicately translucent the invaluable piece could be mistaken for masterfully sculpted ice.
Hanging loosely in a brown sling sack over his shoulder, a much more satisfying goodie lies in wait. A large plump bao bun sits pretty. And even better, it's still warm. The only caveat is, it's surrounded by a few miscellaneous items including some scrolls, a pair of old cups, and a dusty book.
As the ball bounces out in front, Xie Lian stops after feeling either a bump or a tug. For a split second he's not too sure what's happening but quickly realizes something has been taken . Regardless of what, he only has a short amount of time to react and stop the culprit. Instinctively he releases ruoye from up his sleeve. The familiar long silk bandage darts out slithering rapidly towards the feet of the young thief. ] Wait-
[There is no cry of alarm when the child hits the ground face first. He briefly wonders if he's hungrier than he thought because it isn't like him to be so clumsy. Then he realizes the cause - he's been had! And worse, the guy is probably some kind of onmyoji and he knows they're as protective of their secrets as anything, and that thing around his ankle must be a shikigami. Just his luck, caught like a rat in a trap!
He flattens his ears against his head, letting the wild mass of hair keep them covered, and if he keeps his mouth thoroughly shut, this guy probably won't see his fangs. Pass as human, return what he stole (it feels like some kind of jewelry), pray he's the sort who would prefer to protect a perfect scholarly image than punish a street urchin in broad daylight (he doubts it), and then he'll bolt for greener pastures where there, hopefully, aren't anymore onmyoji (you never know - they travel in packs).
Surreptitiously, he fishes the ring from his sleeve to give back so that he doesn't have to lose any of his other trinkets in a shakedown, meanwhile trying to make up an excuse as to why he's got this man's jewelry, and coming up short. Let's hope he's gullible.]
Show mercy, rich onii-san. I think something of yours got caught when I tripped.
[Please, please, please fall for it. He can only stare up with a face too stern for his short nine years! He has no puppy eyes to fall back on like the rest of the riffraff!]
An upturned crate makes for an excellent makeshift market stall - at least to the mind of a nine year old. Someone's freshly laundered sheet snatched off the line is draped over the dirty old wood, and it's lined with bottles. There's a sign with a clumsy scrawl that promises a talent for calligraphy with some practice that reads: Potions, Tonics, and Medicine For Sale.
To the mind of a nine year old, bottles filled with leaves, twigs, mushrooms, and other debris, mixed with water from the river are surely powerful potions. To the eyes of any sane adult, this is clearly something unfit for consumption, human or otherwise.
Even anxious, reclusive homebodies have to leave the house every once in awhile, and Peter actually does enjoy taking walks through the chillier months. The cold moves in and out through his lungs and it's easy to breathe, but it also keeps him numbed down in a way he maybe needs these days. He moves slow and half-lidded through the marketplace, more ghost than person, picking up a couple of items needed back home as supplies dwindle: a bar of soap, a packet of jerky; small things are easily kept in the cloth bag hanging over one arm.
It's somewhere along the way that he stops being Peter at all, and sometimes the transition is brutal and painful, but sometimes it's almost eerily seamless. A shift that can only really be seen in the eyes, warm browns swelling into black as the pupils blow and expand. An alien thing peers out, the way it often does when Peter comes to the marketplace: ever curious by the sights.
For Peter isβ severely possessed, by something with its own mind and will, and so the thing does some shopping of its own... A dramatic-looking candle is added to the bag draped on his arm, and a shiny thing he likes the look of, even if he doesn't understand its function (it's a cheese grater.)
When he meanders his way to an odd little stall, the thing (which is a demon king of Hell) pauses right in front of it, attention immediately captivated by the spread of bottles on display. A sane adult would surely know that nothing being advertised here should ever be consumed. But Paimon, who is often drawn to making weird little concoctions of his own (he's only just recently learned how to make tea that's actually drinkable and won't kill someone via a mix of sugar overdose and mud), and who thinks anything that says Potions on it must be Important, believes that this is Fine.
He is also unperturbed by a child doing the selling. Very seriously, the demon adjusts the bag on his arm and speaks, voice soft and a little slow, as though he has to sound out the words before saying them.
"What function do the potions have?" Perhaps he could get something useful for his witch... She would be so delighted....
The child knows how to recognize something Not Human. He is, himself, something with one foot in this plane and one foot in something entirely other, and even so young, one develops a quick sense for these things. Well, one does, unless they want to wind up spun up in a Jorogumo's web or in bits and pieces in a Yamauba's larder.
He doesn't know Paimon for what he is, at least, but he knows him for what he isn't, and this gets a small, thin, humourless smile. How do you do, fellow human, lovely weather we're having.
He points to one bottle, his voice a slow, cold monotone.
"Onii-san is discerning. This one is for headaches," he explains. Then another. "Sore throat and coughing. And --" he points to a particular murky 'potion'. " -- joint pain."
Oddly enough, the ingredients in them are all correct. It's the preparation that leaves something to be desired.
There is scratching from inside the waste bin outside a restaurant. Something small and feral must have crawled in looking for food and got itself stuck. A fox, maybe, or a racoon.
Or perhaps, upon prying the lid off, a small child, giving off a very serious stare, while he clutches an armful of expired soup bones.
"If you can break them open," he says, clambering out, "I will share."
[kageyama shigeo, also known as mob by student and a handful of others, has always had a bit of a soft spot for animals. strays in particular always had him coming back with offerings if he could, even though he knew it was probably a bad idea.
that's why he goes to see what the scratching is, imagining a stray got stuck in there. he lifts the lid, ready to take a step back when-]
Ah.
[that's a child. that is indeed a child in the trashcan. waking up here has only gotten odder, it seems.
he takes a step back so the kid can get out, a slow blink.] ... I can do that.
[The child disentangles himself from the mess and clambers out, careful not to drop any of his prize.
It's hard to get a read on his age, but with the way his threadbare kimono is simultaneously too small (the sleeves too short and hem coming up well past his ankles) and too big for his thin frame, he's probably about nine or ten, and his growth has likely either been stunted or he was always just the runt of whatever litter he sprung from.
He trots barefoot over to a pile of snow and grabs fistfuls of it, using it to clean any residue of trash from the bones. Satisfied that they are in an edible state, he begins to divide them up, one pile for him, and another for the stranger who helped him. No good letting a prize like this go to waste - why, they've barely started to smell funny! Perfectly safe to eat.]
Hey onii-san -
[The soup bones divided, he offers up one pile, brow knit in a very serious stare.]
- has a sarugaku troupe come through this city...?
[Maul was well-used to being hungry even at his young age. He never got enough to eat whether that had been when he'd lived on Dathomir under the watchful eye of a cruel Nightbrother or under the much crueler eye of his master.
Looking down in the bin and seeing someone just as young and feral as he was, this seemed like a good proposition to him. He nodded in a manner just as serious as the other child.]
The Medicine Seller is never one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially when that horse is actually a brand new furisode with a butterfly and flower pattern that appeals to his particular sense of whimsy. There has been some effort to tame that mass of hair of his, put up in his most ostentatious ornaments, while the back neckline of the furisode plunges low, baring the nape of his neck like some kind of shameless hussy. The trousers and geta he's thrown into the mix send about a dozen conflicting messages about him to the world, and frankly he likes it like that. He's the gender-equivalent of a rubix cube. Solve it or don't, it's not his problem.
He is not, by nature, one for crowds, but there's nothing quite like an open invitation to a party for getting the latest gossip. Moreover, free drinks, free food, and free rolls of toilet paper that he definitely didn't steal from the restroom and presently has stuffed in his sleeves. And complementary handsoaps. He's feeling happily spoiled.
The Medicine Seller spends his time eavesdropping on various people's conversations - particularly any that mention the compasses or a strange new city. Interesting, very interesting.
He's watching a small group make plans in hushed voices for their own trip to this other city, glad of his oversized ears. Though to make it seem less conspicuous, like he isn't being a nosy little creep, he pulls a long, thin pipe from his obi and leans towards a fellow sleeper.
"You would not happen to have a light," he asks with his chilly, flat affect, a far cry from the vibrant colours he's decked himself out in. "I have forgotten my matchbook it seems. Silly me."
Fakir is not the generally social type. But he is, to some extent at least, an artist. He'd come to watch the performances last year and ended up dancing himself. He may again - for all that dance is something that belongs more to Mytho and Ahiru, he hates the idea of getting too out of practice. That would make him out of step with them, after all.
There's another appeal to the party, too. The assurance that you can practice whatever powers you have without them going wrong. Even after a year, Fakir is wary of the sheer potential of his Darkblood powers. He knows he's right to be. But wariness can be a liability in a crisis, and there are too many of those in Trench. He'd be an idiot not to take advantage of a safe opportunity to practice.
So for now he sits at the bar, watching the acts while writing on a napkin. He's trying to see how few words he can use to affect something. What was originally steaming hot tea in a mug beside him is currently a block of ice, the result of the word freeze.
He leans back, surprised, as the man leans over to him. Well, the party certainly goes with the fellow's fashion sense, even if his affect is unchanged.
Fakir considers the pipe for a moment, eyeing its bowl like someone evaluating an antique. Then he glances back down at his napkin and simply writes burn. There is a hiss from the pipe bowl as the contents are set alight.
He staggers into an alley outside The Red, which is not, on the whole, a usual occurrence for him, despite his lackadaisical lifestyle. His head is swimming and his vision a blur, which is also not something he's used to. The Medicine Seller is no stranger to sickness - it comes with the territory - but he isn't used to being the one afflicted. Normally he would smell the rot and he can't say for certain why he didn't this time.
He chalks it up to one of Trench's many quirks, as his knees buckle and he scrabbles at the chilly damp bricks to keep his balance long enough to avoid collapsing into a suspicious puddle.
Honestly, people, there are perfectly good restrooms inside. Is this because he keeps stealing the toilet paper� He's not going to stop.
The Medicine Seller manages to drag himself to some empty wine barrels, taking a seat as he lets the winter air cool the fever in him.
He pours another round of the exquisite peach wine for the two of them. It's a luxurious drink, almost as thick as honey, just as sweet, and very strong.
"I have seen many who are in varying states of denial," he says slowly before lifting the little wine bowl to his lips. He watches it swirl, its golden hue catching the dim light beautifully, before taking a long, deep drink. He'll have to locate another bottle and liberate it; this is exquisite. "But rarely one as you described. If I may ask, was there anything specific that left you in such a state?"
"It's hard to say, really," Consort Shen easily replies, already relaxed and a little unfocused from the wine they've drank so far. It's very strong, even for a cultivator's constitution, and deliciously sweet. He pauses with the bowl just under his nose, indulgently sniffing the bouquet while he slowly thinks over how he wants to say it. "I think it was more lots of little things, piled together, than one or two big things you could point at and say, 'ah yes, clearly that's the reason why I was so neurotic about my own sexuality.'" He grins at the Medicine Seller before tipping his head back and letting the wine slowly pour into his mouth.
"In my case, my illness definitely played a role," he admits, once he's swallowed and delicately wiped his mouth. "Nobody expected me to live past thirty, it was a whole thing. But then there was also fear of the unknown, not wanting to disappoint my parents -- that one turned out to be a pretty awkward misapprehension on my part, since when I finally manned up and introduced them to my then-fiancee, they welcomed him with open arms." He props an arm up on the table, smiling ruefully into the space about six inches to his companion's left. "Turns out they'd spent all of my teens and twenties worried about how lonesome I was, but didn't say anything because they didn't want me to feel pressured. It's amazing the things people just make up about each other so they can avoid having an actual conversation about these things, isn't it?"
It has been many, many long weeks since the Medicine Seller has gotten to properly stretch his legs. There is something infuriating to him about staying in any one place too long - he likes to roam, and now there is the opportunity to do so.
The only problem is that he is without one of those nifty little compasses.
Of course he could just ask a group if he could tag along. That would be the logical route.
It would also mean enduring the company of others. And likely campfire songs.
He'll pass.
Instead he tracks a group - several even - either following their prints in the snow, or the distinct odor of eau de calamar.
He is very good at keeping out of sight, but it's not like he can turn invisible. Moreover there are signs of him following - ofuda plastered on trees or burnt cones of incense to guard from beasts, the occasional sound of conflict as he fends off danger, or perhaps one might even catch a flash of blue and purple amidst the trees.
The Medicine Seller is starting to feel less a merchant and more the Okuri Inu out to trip such folk up. Ah well. One does as one must.
This city is not terribly far from Trench. A couple days of walking, or a good few hours by train at most. And yet the ecology yields those disease curing mushrooms that were all the rage the month prior to his arrival.
Trench itself is ill. More than likely something to do with blood pollution in the soil, but it stands to reason that some tests are in order.
He digs in the patches of soil where these mysterious healing mushrooms are most prominent, taking samples of both the fungus and the soil it grows in to be examined on his return.
In the distance, he hears a faint but sudden sharp chord strummed on a biwa.
The Medicine Seller's favourite kind of library is an abandoned library. It usually means the only other people he has to share the space and books with are fellow itinerants taking respite from the weather. This is one such library and it has not seen use in a long, long time. He picks out books that haven't succumbed to time, mold, or the other elements, but such finds are rare.
A pity that so much has been lost.
He gathers what books he can find that aren't in ruins, making trips between the shelves to pile them on a table that has remained, miraculously intact.
On his third trip, he finds a mild looking young man who seems to have a similar idea as him. It's odd - the stranger seems out of place in these ruins (though the Medicine Seller isn't one to talk - he'd look out of place anywhere save a kabuki play or some very specific kinds of bars).
Still, it doesn't do to make assumptions.
"Good afternoon," he greets with a bow. "Searching for anything in particular�"
The once-dead city has found new life as more and more travelers wandered into its walls. Though everything remains in a state of decay and disarray, it's not odd to find a stranger in a place that was likely a ghost town just a week prior. Otherwise, split from his group, the Medicine Seller would have likely surprised him. As it is, Light turns to face him, adding a book to the table in order to flip through its pages. Nonetheless, it's an odd greeting as if this man is comfortable in this setting. Is that a question to be asked by someone who was a stranger to this place?
Is he a stranger to this place? It's enough to catch Light's attention.
"Probably nothing that everybody else isn't looking for."
His voice is smooth and warm, welcoming the Medicine Seller to the conversation.
"Have you had the time to look through the library?"
'Hello, My Name Is _________' reads the unassuming tag stuck to the Medicine Seller's bright and colourful furisode. He should probably be more surprised that he's been shuffled into some other building, but it's not the first time he's been sitting quietly, minding his own business and then suddenly in a new place altogether. Getting spirited away is part of the job description when one deals with spiritual ailments.
Since he doesn't seem to be in any immediate danger, the Medicine Seller is in the process of (unsuccessfully) trying to pick the name tag off before the sticky part can do any damage to the fabric when someone is plonked down right across from him.
Well, this is all deeply awkward.
A pair of dings from the omni announce that there is, indeed, some general Trench Chicanery going on, and the Medicine Seller grudgingly checks his. Rules. A randomized list of questions for the other person. A possible profile.
If the person opposite were to check the Medicine Seller's, it would read thus:
UN: Noh_Offense
This person is a medicine seller. He sells medicine. He probably does other things too. Interests include medicine, folklore, incense, collecting classical erotica, and cats. Was a weird theatre kid. Now a weird theatre adult.
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The Shedding Ceremony
A. One Skip Ahead... (Open)
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Noise the ever present constant. Whether it be the low murmuring of doors opening and closing or the pitter patter of feet pedaling down the cobblestones roads. And one simply cant escape the the booming voice of the shopkeeper offering that "once in a lifetime deal!"
Certainly lots of stimuli and distractions, but no more pleasant then the strangely satisfying cacophony of smells from various food stalls all mingling together.
The latter is something much more tantalizing. Unfortunately for Xie Lian, carrying any sort of currency or valuable has not been a luxury he's had for many centuries.That being said, around his neck tucked under his hanafu a few layers in, lay an exceptionally beautiful crystal glass ring. The edges of which are slightly feathered outward towards the top. Delicately translucent the invaluable piece could be mistaken for masterfully sculpted ice.
Hanging loosely in a brown sling sack over his shoulder, a much more satisfying goodie lies in wait. A large plump bao bun sits pretty. And even better, it's still warm. The only caveat is, it's surrounded by a few miscellaneous items including some scrolls, a pair of old cups, and a dusty book.
As the ball bounces out in front, Xie Lian stops after feeling either a bump or a tug. For a split second he's not too sure what's happening but quickly realizes something has been taken . Regardless of what, he only has a short amount of time to react and stop the culprit. Instinctively he releases ruoye from up his sleeve. The familiar long silk bandage darts out slithering rapidly towards the feet of the young thief. ]
Wait-
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He flattens his ears against his head, letting the wild mass of hair keep them covered, and if he keeps his mouth thoroughly shut, this guy probably won't see his fangs. Pass as human, return what he stole (it feels like some kind of jewelry), pray he's the sort who would prefer to protect a perfect scholarly image than punish a street urchin in broad daylight (he doubts it), and then he'll bolt for greener pastures where there, hopefully, aren't anymore onmyoji (you never know - they travel in packs).
Surreptitiously, he fishes the ring from his sleeve to give back so that he doesn't have to lose any of his other trinkets in a shakedown, meanwhile trying to make up an excuse as to why he's got this man's jewelry, and coming up short. Let's hope he's gullible.]
Show mercy, rich onii-san. I think something of yours got caught when I tripped.
[Please, please, please fall for it. He can only stare up with a face too stern for his short nine years! He has no puppy eyes to fall back on like the rest of the riffraff!]
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1/2
2/2 Sorry for the delay! I was sick!!
1/2 (No worries and welcome back! I hope you're feeling bettew <3)
2/2 cw: allusions to child trafficking and child abuse
1/2 right before they leave the crowd
2/2 Right after Medicine Seller's *ahem* threat xD
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CW Hungry Children
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B. Dysentery! Get Your Dysentery Here! (Open)
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It's somewhere along the way that he stops being Peter at all, and sometimes the transition is brutal and painful, but sometimes it's almost eerily seamless. A shift that can only really be seen in the eyes, warm browns swelling into black as the pupils blow and expand. An alien thing peers out, the way it often does when Peter comes to the marketplace: ever curious by the sights.
For Peter isβ severely possessed, by something with its own mind and will, and so the thing does some shopping of its own... A dramatic-looking candle is added to the bag draped on his arm, and a shiny thing he likes the look of, even if he doesn't understand its function (it's a cheese grater.)
When he meanders his way to an odd little stall, the thing (which is a demon king of Hell) pauses right in front of it, attention immediately captivated by the spread of bottles on display. A sane adult would surely know that nothing being advertised here should ever be consumed. But Paimon, who is often drawn to making weird little concoctions of his own (he's only just recently learned how to make tea that's actually drinkable and won't kill someone via a mix of sugar overdose and mud), and who thinks anything that says Potions on it must be Important, believes that this is Fine.
He is also unperturbed by a child doing the selling. Very seriously, the demon adjusts the bag on his arm and speaks, voice soft and a little slow, as though he has to sound out the words before saying them.
"What function do the potions have?" Perhaps he could get something useful for his witch... She would be so delighted....
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He doesn't know Paimon for what he is, at least, but he knows him for what he isn't, and this gets a small, thin, humourless smile. How do you do, fellow human, lovely weather we're having.
He points to one bottle, his voice a slow, cold monotone.
"Onii-san is discerning. This one is for headaches," he explains. Then another. "Sore throat and coughing. And --" he points to a particular murky 'potion'. " -- joint pain."
Oddly enough, the ingredients in them are all correct. It's the preparation that leaves something to be desired.
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C. The Littlest Trashfire That Could (Open)
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that's why he goes to see what the scratching is, imagining a stray got stuck in there. he lifts the lid, ready to take a step back when-]
Ah.
[that's a child. that is indeed a child in the trashcan. waking up here has only gotten odder, it seems.
he takes a step back so the kid can get out, a slow blink.] ... I can do that.
[though once he sees they're very expired...]
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It's hard to get a read on his age, but with the way his threadbare kimono is simultaneously too small (the sleeves too short and hem coming up well past his ankles) and too big for his thin frame, he's probably about nine or ten, and his growth has likely either been stunted or he was always just the runt of whatever litter he sprung from.
He trots barefoot over to a pile of snow and grabs fistfuls of it, using it to clean any residue of trash from the bones. Satisfied that they are in an edible state, he begins to divide them up, one pile for him, and another for the stranger who helped him. No good letting a prize like this go to waste - why, they've barely started to smell funny! Perfectly safe to eat.]
Hey onii-san -
[The soup bones divided, he offers up one pile, brow knit in a very serious stare.]
- has a sarugaku troupe come through this city...?
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cw: food deprivation mentions
Looking down in the bin and seeing someone just as young and feral as he was, this seemed like a good proposition to him. He nodded in a manner just as serious as the other child.]
C'mon out. I think I can do it.
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Party At the Red
A. A Lingering Mingling (Open)
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There's another appeal to the party, too. The assurance that you can practice whatever powers you have without them going wrong. Even after a year, Fakir is wary of the sheer potential of his Darkblood powers. He knows he's right to be. But wariness can be a liability in a crisis, and there are too many of those in Trench. He'd be an idiot not to take advantage of a safe opportunity to practice.
So for now he sits at the bar, watching the acts while writing on a napkin. He's trying to see how few words he can use to affect something. What was originally steaming hot tea in a mug beside him is currently a block of ice, the result of the word freeze.
He leans back, surprised, as the man leans over to him. Well, the party certainly goes with the fellow's fashion sense, even if his affect is unchanged.
Fakir considers the pipe for a moment, eyeing its bowl like someone evaluating an antique. Then he glances back down at his napkin and simply writes burn. There is a hiss from the pipe bowl as the contents are set alight.
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B. Rotten to the Core (Open)
C. Shots! Shots! Shots! (For Consort Shen)
WHAT DOES THE FOX SAY???
"In my case, my illness definitely played a role," he admits, once he's swallowed and delicately wiped his mouth. "Nobody expected me to live past thirty, it was a whole thing. But then there was also fear of the unknown, not wanting to disappoint my parents -- that one turned out to be a pretty awkward misapprehension on my part, since when I finally manned up and introduced them to my then-fiancee, they welcomed him with open arms." He props an arm up on the table, smiling ruefully into the space about six inches to his companion's left. "Turns out they'd spent all of my teens and twenties worried about how lonesome I was, but didn't say anything because they didn't want me to feel pressured. It's amazing the things people just make up about each other so they can avoid having an actual conversation about these things, isn't it?"
HE SAYS "Another round, please"
So polite <3
He tries uwu
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On a Journey
A. On The Road (Open)
B. Not Mushroom In Here (Open)
Re: B. Not Mushroom In Here (Open)
Have you lost something?
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C. Hitting the Books (For Light Yagami)
<3 thank you
Is he a stranger to this place? It's enough to catch Light's attention.
"Probably nothing that everybody else isn't looking for."
His voice is smooth and warm, welcoming the Medicine Seller to the conversation.
"Have you had the time to look through the library?"
cw for description of 80s romance novel covers
valid warning
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February Prompts
Getting to Know You (Open)
Since he doesn't seem to be in any immediate danger, the Medicine Seller is in the process of (unsuccessfully) trying to pick the name tag off before the sticky part can do any damage to the fabric when someone is plonked down right across from him.
Well, this is all deeply awkward.
A pair of dings from the omni announce that there is, indeed, some general Trench Chicanery going on, and the Medicine Seller grudgingly checks his. Rules. A randomized list of questions for the other person. A possible profile.
If the person opposite were to check the Medicine Seller's, it would read thus:
This person is a medicine seller. He sells medicine. He probably does other things too. Interests include medicine, folklore, incense, collecting classical erotica, and cats. Was a weird theatre kid. Now a weird theatre adult.
( ??? | ???? | ? | Bisexual)