[center][b]Golden River Inn[/b]

[color=00FF00][b]Sheng Qingling[/b][/color][/center]
It had been a few days since Qingling arrived at Xincai. he knew he had to get away from the place where his family's crime had been discovered so he wouldn't get caught, but he had no idea where his parents went. His father didn't really have a place to call home, and his mother had only mentioned the Immortal Tools in passing; it hadn't occurred to her to tell him a place to go should he ever get lost. After all, both of his parents were great martial artists, and would be able to find him. But now they believed he was dead, and he had no way of locating them.

From the moment he arrived in the city, he began plying his trade, performing in the streets for coin and keeping his ears open for gossip. it wasn't long until rumors brought him to the Golden River Inn, a place where martial artists gathered. It would be the perfect location to keep his ear to the ground for any news of his parents. If they were on the vengeance warpath, he was sure he'd hear news of them resurface sooner or later. He had approached the innkeeper with his musical talent, offering to entertain the guests in exchange for room, board, and a small income; a few songs later, and he had the job.

Everyday since, Qingling would check the board for news of his parents, but so far there was nothing. Currently, he sat at the north wall of the ground floor were he had been given a stage from which to play. As he strummed his guqin, Qingling sang about a soldier whose contingent had suffered a grave defeat. Behind enemy lines, the soldier needed to find a way back to his homeland. His motivation being the fact that news of his defeat would reach his parents and that they would presume him dead. He blamed himself for his filial impiety at allowing his parents to suffer the grief of losing a child when he was actually well and alive.

Though the subject matter hit close to home, Qingling did not allow his voice to waver, delivering the music impeccably. Expression through song was his own way of lamenting his situation and confronting the worry that plagued him. In a way, he was screaming out to the world in a vain attempt to reach his parents to let them know that he was alive and for them not to grieve. He knew it was pointless, but it was cathartic in its own way.

Qingling had considered journeying out to search for them himself, but not only did he not know where to start or what direction to head in, he was also in poor health. Qingling had died, or nearly died, he wasn't sure which, and years of drugs and having his meridians tweaked had taken a tremendous toll on his body. He didn't blame his mother for trying to hone him but he had to admit that it had come at a great cost. If he was to travel out, he would almost certainly need an escort. But who could he trust to take him? Who could he rely on?