A visitor walks around the Xianzhou Zhuming. A dull blade rests on their hip, made more for emergencies or a fear factor than actual fighting. Most wouldn't notice, but to the young woman walking up behind them, it means more than enough to scold them. She taps them on the shoulder, her own blade in a sheath at her side, worn, but glimmering with pride. Yet it doesn't distract from the pure insult spread across her features. She rests her hand on the hilt of the old blade at their side.

Yunli: "You. You've mistreated this sword. Don't you hear it crying out for tending? Its sheath is no more than scrap! Shame on you! I'm sure its smith is off somewhere weeping from this, this crime!" The disappointment is practically radiating off of her as she frowns at the sorry display. "Come with me. This poor thing needs reforged and given a proper name. Tag along or not, this blade needs aid."