( No hesitation now, as he flows forward, blockade in this narrowing space, a man staring down at the heartbreak of one horror, smelling the burnt flesh, the fear. Something has died, has stained this poor creature, but: )
No. Partially touched by, but not possessed, either.
( A sickening feeling, what lags and tags behind, and he plays in that moment, commands the resentful spirit that tries to surge forward, wanting to lash out, an embodiment of smokey anger. It coalesces over the quivering, moaning creature, and it is his song that keeps that anger contained, that soothes what feels more and more like protective anger, possessive lashing out.
There is a too familiar thrum of that, Lan Zhan at his back with their son and his cutting direct to the sum of all threats: Qingshan defended, from all threats. This stalled and seething spirit hovering over the collapsed and painful child, the lines of stitching, the forcible nature of it, the living embodiment: he trails off to a pause, a stop that leaves him and the spirit in each other's periphery, waiting the next step of their dance.
A short phrase, to the point. For Lan Zhan, and warning what will follow. )
The child is a living construct of a yao. Surviving, but not survived by, a parent.
( He steps forward, shadows swirling and dancing along with him, pulling away from Lan Zhan and their small, silenced son, with his tears and the snot that leaks from his nose and he clings on to his light of a father, burying himself close, unhappy and scared that his mouth will not open, that the cries are stifled within it, and he doesn't know, cannot know why. Such distress leading to his clinging harder, the tears flowing free, and this is as much of what Wei Wuxian protects as the dead crouches over its progeny.
His song is no less iron under velvet, or kind in its awareness, than it might be otherwise. But it calls, and commands, and he steps forward, and: the men's voices echo, cries that should be words but warp in the roiling cry that rises from the resentful energy of what may well be called a monster, surging against Wei Wuxian's call not toward him, not toward Lan Zhan, but back toward the darkness and the pounding feat of those who pursued that which had escaped.
All of that which had escaped.
The crippled child claws at the ground, pulls themselves forward, eyes watering, or crying, or both. Everything in Wei Wuxian's chest feels stifled, his stomach sick, when the monstrous spirit pulls free, with a backlash that hits the child, lifting them just enough to send them rolling and crashing into Wei Wuxian's legs. He doesn't stumble, but does rock back, the shock of it more physical than spiritual, this conglomerate of mismatched features collapsed over his feet, wheezing out a breath and trying to curl up, to make itself small.
He grimaces, crouching down to lay a hand on fur, his other cleaving strong to Chenqing. There is life beneath his hand, and pain he can guess from the flinch to the sight of what his eyes take in at a close glance, fleeting. The touch of death he'd first felt has receded, put the potential for it remains. Still, that taste on his tongue fled with the monster of resentment that had been playing guard and hatred against those who consume, those who desire a power beyond themselves.
He can make guesses, and he strokes a hand over the malformed head, speaks simply: )
Be still.
( And who is to say if the creature understands, but it curls tighter, tucked against Wei Wuxian's legs, shivering.
Chenqing comes back up, but he pauses, asks of Lan Zhan without looking: )
Handling the spirit won't be an issue, but I don't know what the men will bring.
( This is not a good place for swordwork, but the work he does can work, but what benefit of what doubt needs to be given? This is a muddy situation, and there is something bent and broken in more than body in these depths. )
no subject
No. Partially touched by, but not possessed, either.
( A sickening feeling, what lags and tags behind, and he plays in that moment, commands the resentful spirit that tries to surge forward, wanting to lash out, an embodiment of smokey anger. It coalesces over the quivering, moaning creature, and it is his song that keeps that anger contained, that soothes what feels more and more like protective anger, possessive lashing out.
There is a too familiar thrum of that, Lan Zhan at his back with their son and his cutting direct to the sum of all threats: Qingshan defended, from all threats. This stalled and seething spirit hovering over the collapsed and painful child, the lines of stitching, the forcible nature of it, the living embodiment: he trails off to a pause, a stop that leaves him and the spirit in each other's periphery, waiting the next step of their dance.
A short phrase, to the point. For Lan Zhan, and warning what will follow. )
The child is a living construct of a yao. Surviving, but not survived by, a parent.
( He steps forward, shadows swirling and dancing along with him, pulling away from Lan Zhan and their small, silenced son, with his tears and the snot that leaks from his nose and he clings on to his light of a father, burying himself close, unhappy and scared that his mouth will not open, that the cries are stifled within it, and he doesn't know, cannot know why. Such distress leading to his clinging harder, the tears flowing free, and this is as much of what Wei Wuxian protects as the dead crouches over its progeny.
His song is no less iron under velvet, or kind in its awareness, than it might be otherwise. But it calls, and commands, and he steps forward, and: the men's voices echo, cries that should be words but warp in the roiling cry that rises from the resentful energy of what may well be called a monster, surging against Wei Wuxian's call not toward him, not toward Lan Zhan, but back toward the darkness and the pounding feat of those who pursued that which had escaped.
All of that which had escaped.
The crippled child claws at the ground, pulls themselves forward, eyes watering, or crying, or both. Everything in Wei Wuxian's chest feels stifled, his stomach sick, when the monstrous spirit pulls free, with a backlash that hits the child, lifting them just enough to send them rolling and crashing into Wei Wuxian's legs. He doesn't stumble, but does rock back, the shock of it more physical than spiritual, this conglomerate of mismatched features collapsed over his feet, wheezing out a breath and trying to curl up, to make itself small.
He grimaces, crouching down to lay a hand on fur, his other cleaving strong to Chenqing. There is life beneath his hand, and pain he can guess from the flinch to the sight of what his eyes take in at a close glance, fleeting. The touch of death he'd first felt has receded, put the potential for it remains. Still, that taste on his tongue fled with the monster of resentment that had been playing guard and hatred against those who consume, those who desire a power beyond themselves.
He can make guesses, and he strokes a hand over the malformed head, speaks simply: )
Be still.
( And who is to say if the creature understands, but it curls tighter, tucked against Wei Wuxian's legs, shivering.
Chenqing comes back up, but he pauses, asks of Lan Zhan without looking: )
Handling the spirit won't be an issue, but I don't know what the men will bring.
( This is not a good place for swordwork, but the work he does can work, but what benefit of what doubt needs to be given? This is a muddy situation, and there is something bent and broken in more than body in these depths. )