A twitch of his lips, for all there is a part of him that appreciates the salve of this, over an old, long healed scar; one of many small, unimportant things he could wish had been different, this simple ability to offer tea.
Lan Zhan had, of course, paid put to have it before, in that village of Yiling, below the mountains and the Burial Grounds. Yet there'd been nothing to offer but the lacklustre showing of caves and stone and oh, yes, the hard won, thin health and happiness of those who lived there with him. Lacking so much, but having at least that for comfort warm into the nights that could shriek into their ears with demands from the bodiless dead.
"Thank you," he says, lips pulling up into an easy smile, eyes catching light enough to reflect it back in brightness, "I'm sure the master of the tea house appreciates your praise for their efforts."
Efforts they are, procuring teas to offer when these towns are used as trade-stops more than places sought out for their own merits, excepting the foolish ones who claimed proximity to rights after a legacy that had been whipped out of this region a decade ago. Fewer false Patriarchs these days, until one went further afield, and new names and mythos took precedence.
Still, this is a warmth he basks in, this exchange of pleasantries and deeper meanings, and it's with that in mind that he lifts the cup poured for him, alcohol astringent but not unduly so, a bite promised for the warmth of blood it will draw to the surface on its way down.
"Yiling is humbled," he says in turn, smiling, "To have chance to host Lan Zhan again, after all this time."
Drains his cup in one long swallow, a semi-formal shield of his hand as he does: a cheer, a summation of respect, to the man sitting across from him. Not for his titles, though he has respect for those too, but for whatever he is, this one who could admit to having loved a shade long passed, and who had raised a son to be proud of.
He sets the cup to table surface, one contained and tiny click.
"There's a long road ahead, ah? On a pathway wider than I once thought it was." Perhaps not the broad throughways of the large cities, of places wearing the pride of their passageways in open streets and cheerful markets, but it was not the thin path of animals and mountain destitute eked out in the long shadows of the darkened forests. Broader than a single-log bridge, and sturdier footed, too.
no subject
Lan Zhan had, of course, paid put to have it before, in that village of Yiling, below the mountains and the Burial Grounds. Yet there'd been nothing to offer but the lacklustre showing of caves and stone and oh, yes, the hard won, thin health and happiness of those who lived there with him. Lacking so much, but having at least that for comfort warm into the nights that could shriek into their ears with demands from the bodiless dead.
"Thank you," he says, lips pulling up into an easy smile, eyes catching light enough to reflect it back in brightness, "I'm sure the master of the tea house appreciates your praise for their efforts."
Efforts they are, procuring teas to offer when these towns are used as trade-stops more than places sought out for their own merits, excepting the foolish ones who claimed proximity to rights after a legacy that had been whipped out of this region a decade ago. Fewer false Patriarchs these days, until one went further afield, and new names and mythos took precedence.
Still, this is a warmth he basks in, this exchange of pleasantries and deeper meanings, and it's with that in mind that he lifts the cup poured for him, alcohol astringent but not unduly so, a bite promised for the warmth of blood it will draw to the surface on its way down.
"Yiling is humbled," he says in turn, smiling, "To have chance to host Lan Zhan again, after all this time."
Drains his cup in one long swallow, a semi-formal shield of his hand as he does: a cheer, a summation of respect, to the man sitting across from him. Not for his titles, though he has respect for those too, but for whatever he is, this one who could admit to having loved a shade long passed, and who had raised a son to be proud of.
He sets the cup to table surface, one contained and tiny click.
"There's a long road ahead, ah? On a pathway wider than I once thought it was." Perhaps not the broad throughways of the large cities, of places wearing the pride of their passageways in open streets and cheerful markets, but it was not the thin path of animals and mountain destitute eked out in the long shadows of the darkened forests. Broader than a single-log bridge, and sturdier footed, too.