In his mind's eye, the construction abbreviates itself to sharp edges and dark corners and plain lines that insult the sophisticated architecture of a temple in aged luxury, but yield him the plan, plain: here, in the labyrinthine borrows, the dead wait their drops of holy water like heavens' alms. Above, the altar plugs flows, denies passage. Between them, the distinct but negligible separation of filth and gravel, tattered remains and detritus.
Crush the twinned ends, and the old masters' precaution to separate the temple attendants from the baths and the old graves, and hold on knife's blade, balanced, the living and the dead. Strike down, from the altar, or above from laired, chased ground. Better still.
He does not hold Wei Ying's starless gaze for the proposal. Would not presume, knowing it like a threadbare knot, fraying close to dissolution. ]
Take the child. [ The rabbit, once more elevated. Wei Ying's young, the crippled, the weak, the poor, those forever in want of salvation. ] Head to the altar.
[ And the shiver, the great, treacherous inevitability, that Lan Wangji should have to trust in Wei Ying to trick his pursuers out of the labyrinth, to reach the outside again, whole — as much, if not more than Wei Ying must trust in him to bide his time here, unharmed. Watching. Waiting.
His hand tickles the air surrounding the walls again, if only to feel the dragon's breath of captive heat, threatening its burn once more, to thrill himself with the delicious tangs of bearable agony. Quick, you are, to lick flame on him, but not quick enough. For he is of Gusu Lan, and the Lan are of winter, and ice will bear you down. ]
The talismans will alert me of sundown here. We strike at one time.
[ Time passes the quicker here, its many costs frail. He need not be exposed to the hunt of the dead as long as Wei Ying will wait above.
Tenuous, but he may prevail here. Wei Ying, for his part, must cut new path to reach above the grounds. ]
no subject
In his mind's eye, the construction abbreviates itself to sharp edges and dark corners and plain lines that insult the sophisticated architecture of a temple in aged luxury, but yield him the plan, plain: here, in the labyrinthine borrows, the dead wait their drops of holy water like heavens' alms. Above, the altar plugs flows, denies passage. Between them, the distinct but negligible separation of filth and gravel, tattered remains and detritus.
Crush the twinned ends, and the old masters' precaution to separate the temple attendants from the baths and the old graves, and hold on knife's blade, balanced, the living and the dead. Strike down, from the altar, or above from laired, chased ground. Better still.
He does not hold Wei Ying's starless gaze for the proposal. Would not presume, knowing it like a threadbare knot, fraying close to dissolution. ]
Take the child. [ The rabbit, once more elevated. Wei Ying's young, the crippled, the weak, the poor, those forever in want of salvation. ] Head to the altar.
[ And the shiver, the great, treacherous inevitability, that Lan Wangji should have to trust in Wei Ying to trick his pursuers out of the labyrinth, to reach the outside again, whole — as much, if not more than Wei Ying must trust in him to bide his time here, unharmed. Watching. Waiting.
His hand tickles the air surrounding the walls again, if only to feel the dragon's breath of captive heat, threatening its burn once more, to thrill himself with the delicious tangs of bearable agony. Quick, you are, to lick flame on him, but not quick enough. For he is of Gusu Lan, and the Lan are of winter, and ice will bear you down. ]
The talismans will alert me of sundown here. We strike at one time.
[ Time passes the quicker here, its many costs frail. He need not be exposed to the hunt of the dead as long as Wei Ying will wait above.
Tenuous, but he may prevail here. Wei Ying, for his part, must cut new path to reach above the grounds. ]
Go safely.