With Wei and Li engrossed in their discussion, and Wu and the Fangshi silent, Jiao Jie -ever the curious spirit- refilled her cup with hot water from a dented kettle and pushed her chair back. Heading towards the door, she slipped towards its right and peered out of the window into the dark night, holding the cup between slender fingers. At home, the servants would have placed a warm bottle in her bed, and the sheets would be crisp and clean. The room would smell of flowers, arranged by her own hand. There wouldn't be talk of ghosts or fighting; she would discuss music and poetry with whoever she had invited, with smiles and little delicacies to please the eye and palate. Her eyes grew melancholy as she thought of home. Raising the mug to her lips, Jiao Jie sipped absently, indulging in pleasant memories. She looked out over the dark Inn grounds, spying for signs of life other than the rain and the restless whinnying of their horses, which might have existed in her imagination only. Any sign that the world stretched out beyond would do, a reassurance that they would leave this confined space behind and be on the move again.<br/><br/>Her thoughtful mood shattered at the sound of boisterous laughing and she cut a glance over her shoulder, smiling. "A poem! That'd be just what we need. Please, tell!"