Change the landscape, preserve the man. Substance trumps form in this: no matter the subterfuge of their encounter, they are still at odds with their scenery, crisp and stiff and too pristine, against grey slate and chipped brick and the transient, muffled crowd's swarm at a brimming tavern. Revolution stokes the appetite for courage; drink kindles that flame. And in the white roil of unmitigated sound, they are only another pair of ghostly, blunted voices.
Sat quickly, for the midday hour, when the place of business still mulls its prospects as an inn's meal keep, or the transition to nightly brews. Amused — that he is here, that matters of the citadel's state require them outside the places where such strategies are critical — Lan Wangji briskly shifts the wave of his whites from where the sleeve threatens to sweep their groaning, crackled table.
"Water," murmured cordially for the pleasure of a serving girl who hopes, no doubt, to earn her establishment the friendly ghosts of errant coin. His gaze wanders the boy, stumbles on his youth. Nearly retreats, but for distant, baleful awareness that to dress a man in the years of his flesh is too often to serve him unkindness. For the young man, then, he instructs wine of the season — too fresh for diligent fermentation, more colour and juices than the cloying aftertaste of hard drink. To wet the tongue, then whet it.
Once the serving wench excuses herself, "For your stomach and its strange business."
Of which, Lan Wangji suspects, he will deeply regret the knowledge, but favour having it all the same.
no subject
Change the landscape, preserve the man. Substance trumps form in this: no matter the subterfuge of their encounter, they are still at odds with their scenery, crisp and stiff and too pristine, against grey slate and chipped brick and the transient, muffled crowd's swarm at a brimming tavern. Revolution stokes the appetite for courage; drink kindles that flame. And in the white roil of unmitigated sound, they are only another pair of ghostly, blunted voices.
Sat quickly, for the midday hour, when the place of business still mulls its prospects as an inn's meal keep, or the transition to nightly brews. Amused — that he is here, that matters of the citadel's state require them outside the places where such strategies are critical — Lan Wangji briskly shifts the wave of his whites from where the sleeve threatens to sweep their groaning, crackled table.
"Water," murmured cordially for the pleasure of a serving girl who hopes, no doubt, to earn her establishment the friendly ghosts of errant coin. His gaze wanders the boy, stumbles on his youth. Nearly retreats, but for distant, baleful awareness that to dress a man in the years of his flesh is too often to serve him unkindness. For the young man, then, he instructs wine of the season — too fresh for diligent fermentation, more colour and juices than the cloying aftertaste of hard drink. To wet the tongue, then whet it.
Once the serving wench excuses herself, "For your stomach and its strange business."
Of which, Lan Wangji suspects, he will deeply regret the knowledge, but favour having it all the same.