[color=f7941d][h2]Douglas Song[/h2][/color][color=f7941d][h3]Hallow Grounds Coffee[/h3][/color]
The time it had taken Song to reach the more northern side of the city in the wee hours, post rain no less, was a timely and complicated matter. Not because there were many threats or perils he was to face, but because it was so far out of the usual area he kept himself to. Yet this mission above many others held great importance, if only symbolically in mind and to maintain a series of rituals long established; Song needed more tea. It was not an inexpensive endeavor either, as a man who took only from criminals to pay his bills reasonably had little - petty thugs carried petty cash after all. What complicated it more was that the prize was rare in itself, an import of China. Many novelty shops that had once carried it among their shelves long since ceased, leaving only those more select coffeehouses to have it, if at all.

So while he drifted between the streets, those which seemed to grow livelier by the moment, he recalled in mind the name of the retail that sold the much needed resource. "Hallow Grounds", clever, catchy, strange one would use such a name, perhaps it meant more? In another a day, another life rather, the wayward monk might be able to inquire why they called it such a thing. At least it was no terribly further north than the college which had gathered a strange storm about it the last night. The lightning, the thunder, most perplexing. To Song, the city seemed to be changing, as if its balance was shifting more than before. 

How right he would be without even knowing in slightest, for the moment the man stepped to the shop, door opening with a slight ring of a bell, the newcomer paused as he surveyed the people. Their expressions were confused, perhaps even ever so slightly in shock, others looked about in similar disbelief and equal lack of understanding. Fortunately none of them were burning metaphorical holes into the Asian man in the black long coat with their stares on the chill morning, a relief he much appreciated with a slow exhale. Looking around, from them to where there eyes went, he noted a television playing. The weather? What about it?

Still as the grave he lingered, though there was nothing to be noted. Odd grew worse at that and not wishing to standout too much, the man simply shrugged and guided himself to a rack of import goods the shop held. Hand laid to the tarnished wood finish, he browsed, keeping eyes and ears open while going about his business. The asset must be here, somewhere...

[@Metronome]