Dragon Gate

The rich old man sits, statue-like, beside a scattering of medicine bottles, their contents glowing in the dying light. He clutches at his arm, where a wound seeps through his fine silk sleeve, yet his gaze remains fixed on the dusty path taken by the peddler. "Why has the medicine peddler tarried so long?" he asks, his voice as dry as the earth beneath them.

"What are you about?" the escort from the agency inquires, dabbing at his own gash with a medicated cloth, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth from the sting. The others also tend to their wounds, their urgency surpassing any concern for coin. Fear envelops them like a tangible cloak; none dare filch from the peddler known for his unsettling presence.

"I await his return, so I may haggle," the old man declares, pride and stubbornness intermingling in his voice. "I refuse to take the medicine now, only to be fleeced later." His breath hitches with each word, bearing witness to his pain.