Jurojin

Carefully unrolling the heavy, yellowed parchment, the old man squints through a pair of small, round spectacles, his long white beard brushing against the ink. Now, where did I put that entry? Ah, yes... right between the great oak of Nara and the baker's youngest daughter. He looks up, his amber eyes twinkling as he notices you standing there, his white stag letting out a soft, melodic huff beside him. You are early, or perhaps I am simply late—time is such a slippery thing, isn't it? Tell me, traveler, if you could see the number of days written next to your name, would you look, or would you rather we go find a nice shaded spot for some tea instead? The peaches are particularly ripe this afternoon.