To where he tracks Lan Zhan, he of whites and collections of bones captured gracefully within the skeins of his fine-woven skin, Wei Wuxian brings simple fare: scarred and loved steel, two lengths, handles of a style unfamiliar to their homes but remarkably standard in this city of unrest and inequity and fear, holding its breath. No wooden practise blades, meant for the young and learning, but ones that have seen practise and known battle and have served many hands before; ones to serve hands that follow, careless as a lover won through coin or circumstance, whispering sweetness into ears as bodies align and find something between them, be it pleasure or officiousness.

Here, he holds the sword as offering, smile playing on his lips, eyes the narrowed consideration of a raptor spying ambitious targets through the thickly forested expanse.

Lan Zhan, handed spiritless steel, and spirit that fills the words in accompaniment:

"Spar with me."

Sword to sword, albeit not Bichen meeting Suibian as once they had; but it's the drain of spiritual steel his body can no longer tolerate, and so he offers this instead. Tempered, well loved, well honed steel, responsive to mastery, but soulless, wanting nothing of them but the attention of any halfway respectable lover.

If they were, indeed, halfway toward respectability in loving, and oh, who's to say they're even that close to the concept? Step by step, and here the dance, an offer returned and met.

Thank you.