"He told me a little more than that," Shen Qingqiu allows, "But 'cursed' seemed the most politic way to put it on a public street. Here we are." He pushes the tavern door open and guides Jon through, still keeping that hand on his arm. He's not squeezing or pinching, certainly not doing anything that might hurt him -- but good luck trying to pry him off.

He speaks to the proprietor briefly, asking for that booth in the back that he'd had his eye on and ordering a single beer for each of them. Only once they are seated -- both on the same side of the booth, Shen Qingqiu fencing Jon in with his body, does he let go of his arm.

"Now," he says kindly, "Now that I understand your situation a little better, I think it behooves me to offer my assistance. A willing volunteer has to be better than having another little 'accident,' hadn't it?" His eyes are sharp and glittering in their knowledge.