Tyron Empire, 69 Lingering Street.
A light drizzle dampened the windowsill, like a drumbeat bestowed by the clouds.
It accompanied the melody drifting through the cracks, a harmony of lute and flute. "A poet who roams the continent, a dazzling star of the empire.
He parts the mists of history, laying truth before the world to judge.
Now, now-now that he has saved the Wind Sand Great Wall, his footsteps lead toward the desert.
He steps into the deepest shadows, making the Fungal Forest listen.
The Spider Queen howls his name, and the king of devils extends an invitation.
A poet struggling between opposing powers, he uses rebellion to scheme against the gods.
The dark elves once sought to enslave him, but now line the streets to welcome him.
He brings liberation to the land and treats its slaves as citizens.
Yet his footsteps never cease, his gaze turning toward the ruins of Giant Dragons.
He-"
"No, no."
Ashley set down her lute and shook her head as she studied the score and lyrics on the blackboard. "This is too vague. It sounds like we're just singing Tang Qi Weinberg's praises. But our purpose isn't to flatter him. It's to record his experiences, to preserve the actual history."
"But the problem isn't really that our writing is too vague. It's that he hasn't written everything down in detail. For example, what exactly did he say to free the Drow Elves, and even convince them to migrate north willingly? The Stone Tablet doesn't record any of that."
Houston set down his flute, and the little snake beside him coiled around it. "Only results, no process. It's as though he's deliberately hiding something."
Ashley nodded. That was indeed the difficulty they faced.
They had begun to realize, probably around the time of