[center][h3]Yung Rinan[/h3]
Late Morning | Just Outside of Hearth | Entering the Hamlet[/center]

Big wheels turned, creaking and squeaking as the old wagon dipped and bumped its way through the field between the ancient Monastery and the Hamlet known as Hearth. What the monks often referred to as “the road” to the village proper was, in reality, anything but. Since the pious dwellers of the temple had long since detached themselves from the worldly machinations of the world beyond their walls, neither they, nor the “Heartheans” had taken much time or spent much effort into developing the space between their two homes. What amounted to the path for the wagon was simply a meticulously measured route that best avoided the worst of the slopes, dips, and stones that dotted the fields north of the Hamlet; this planning had been done by the monks not too long ago as they began steadily reaching out into the society they had once cloistered themselves from. 

They had done their best to mark the way: on either side of the wagon’s progress, it was flanked by pairs of narrow wooden posts on either side, hammered into the ground, with a roughly even spacing between each pair. Even with these delineators, however, there were no guarantees. While the Monastery had done its best to maintain their road, the lack of any actual infrastructure meant that the terrain could change on them; even if only slightly, altered conditions from weather, sentient actions, animal activities and the like, could make the road more or less difficult to traverse one day than it had been on the previous. Of course, this meant relatively little to anyone purely traveling on foot, as anyone with a stable pair of feet beneath them could negotiate the earth without much issue… But for anyone hauling a wagon, it presented quite the challenge. 

As his luck would have it, Yung Rinan had managed to land himself on wagon pulling duty on this particular day. Beads of sweat fell from the half-elf’s cheeks as he manhandled the cart out from a particularly steep rut in the ground. The wagon dislodged from the rut with a bounce as it settled back down. It shook from side-to-side as it hit the ground. Ringing from behind Rinan, there came a clatter of metal implements, chiming loudly in five-tone harmony, accompanied by a thud of wood against wood as the large taiko drum settled aggressively back into the cart. A pair of monks tending to the sides of the cart scrambled silently to ensure that the large drum wouldn’t roll and damage their hand-pans. 

The young monk stopped pulling, and turned to check that his brothers were ok, only to be met with a light whack to the face. The stern face of his superior, Elder Feng, stared at him, giving a lowering gesture with his hands, bidding Rinan to go more easily; the Elder tapped the top of his head, and pointed at the drum. Rinan looked more closely, and nodded, noticing that the calfskin stretched across the top of the percussive instrument had seen better days, and might not last a day at the market; if they were lucky they might draw in enough funds to replace it. 

Grabbing hold of the wagon’s handles once more, Rinan grunted, to the dismay of Feng who put a finger to his lips with an even sterner glare, and heaved the wagon forward. Rinan quickly tightened his mouth shut, and continued on towards the Hamlet. He hoped that the effort of hauling the instruments would be worth the result. It had been a long shot for Elder Feng to convince the High Elder to allow them to attempt a public performance. The Monastery had, in recent months, found itself dried up on funds to spend at the market. They had tried seeking donations, but Ingrid, the town guard, had stamped out their efforts as “panhandling,” and shooed them out of the village with only a few copper pieces to show for their troubles. That was when Feng, once a wandering bard, suggested he take his shamisen, a few metal hand-pans, and the taiko, into the village, to put on a performance for the people while they busied themselves on Market Day. 

While the High Elder was far from restraining his disdain for using their sacred ensemble for “entertainment,” he conceded when he saw how diminished the provisions had become. Assured that proceeds would only go into supplies and the maintenance of their temple, he allowed for Feng to lead his ‘troupe’ of musicians to market and put on a show for the people as they shopped. This, perhaps, would at least keep the giant of a guard off their backs. 

Rinan, however, would not be among the performers. Lacking much sense for the arts of sound, his role in the day’s activity was purely to assist in getting the instruments from the temple to the village center. 

Some time later, he brought the wagon to a halt in an empty spot in the market. It was already abuzz with activity, and the monks, more than usual, were drawing an awkward attention to themselves; anyone who had suspected that the monks of the Monastery on the hill weren’t entirely right in the head might have felt their suspicions validated as Rinana hoisted the large taiko off of the wagon and onto its stand. The monks’ “band” spread themselves out on a circular rug, about six feet in diameter. The percussion instruments set up to the back half of the rug, with Feng, shamisen in hand and already tuned, at the front and center. 

With his own work done until the market closed or they were kicked out again, Rinan took to wandering about the village. It had been a while since had come through personally, and some things had changed; he noticed a wealth of newcomers had arrived since his last visit. Moreso, he noticed that a large, once rundown building, had been rebuilt into an ‘adventurers’ guild,’ whatever that was. Though the bell began to chime from the guild building, Rinan gave it little notice for the moment. Instead, he walked along the market until he spotted the preposterously tall figure of the local librarian. The half-elf had occasionally spent time in the library; though he never checked books out, he would usually find himself a book with useful information, such as new martial forms he could practice, and less useful materials such as poorly written and misinformed guides to meditation. 

To the monk’s surprise, the librarian had brought a small collection of texts out into the market. Was he looking to sell? Rinan swiftly made his way to the cart of books, and quietly began perusing while the librarian and his acquaintances were distracted by the arrival of a child.