inbox | eastbound
lan wangji
missives | encounters
lan wangji
missives | encounters
( as promised, a small basket will make its way to lan wangji with haste.
it contains the following:
‣ 2 x herbal remedy infused with energy-boosting properties and emilia's magic, for himself and anyone close to him that might have need.
‣ a candle spelled for clarity, should he lose focus. )
it contains the following:
‣ 2 x herbal remedy infused with energy-boosting properties and emilia's magic, for himself and anyone close to him that might have need.
‣ a candle spelled for clarity, should he lose focus. )
[ He's seen him floating around, so he knows he's still alive. Five left it to his sister to decide what to share with the others, but he owes Lan Wangji a little more than that. ]
I never got a chance to interrogate them. They were already disposing of the body when I checked the night you were poisoned, but I doubt he acted alone. It probably won't be the last assassination attempt we'll see.
I never got a chance to interrogate them. They were already disposing of the body when I checked the night you were poisoned, but I doubt he acted alone. It probably won't be the last assassination attempt we'll see.
( There are things one could say, and then there's this: Wei Wuxian, dropping in through a window in a swirl of half skirts, a basket tied within a shawl that he settles lightly on the table he finds after having made his entrance. He's early; the skies barely blush to darkness, and his clothing is a match to it, blood red only at the collar, showing the layer underneath the satin-black brocade across his chest. )
Lan Zhan, for you!
( The unwrapping of a shall, the reveal of what lays beyond: scent tells of citrus, of fig, fruits fresh and heavy with promise of delight should one dig fingers, teeth, beyond their skin. )
The city has no loquats to boast, but I found what I could that was sweet and good. The oranges were grown in fields not stalked by the undying, which feels notable here.
( Tempered by the days between, and the nights returned to a sleeping, healing bedside, to test pulse with fingers, and sit watch before sleeping. To wake, without having exchanged a single word. )
Lan Zhan, for you!
( The unwrapping of a shall, the reveal of what lays beyond: scent tells of citrus, of fig, fruits fresh and heavy with promise of delight should one dig fingers, teeth, beyond their skin. )
The city has no loquats to boast, but I found what I could that was sweet and good. The oranges were grown in fields not stalked by the undying, which feels notable here.
( Tempered by the days between, and the nights returned to a sleeping, healing bedside, to test pulse with fingers, and sit watch before sleeping. To wake, without having exchanged a single word. )
[ Screamed stilted between layers of glass, and storms stutter before the battered bird of your breath breaks wings against your sternum — and you think, the world has settled and shrieked, in parts of gelid wonder, and still you are whole, feature of fractures and crackling, where your hand's wet red. And when was it, the moment between stink of learning lamp's oil like burnt viscera, and the great grind of Nightless City gravel churned between your whale's teeth, sharpened, when you knew: there sleeps in you starvation to eat the moon's swell in her birthing nights, there wakes in you anger to slaughter tempest.
And you breathed. Became you-I-him-that and distant, 'Hanguang-Jun' and 'this moment' and the animal fractions of you that cannot betray the whole. In sundering, sheltered.
And you pay Wei Ying in the loiter of every inhalation. You do not ask, if Wei Ying comes stranded with twilight and rain, or fresh with the petrichor of dawns after. Barely slip and step and tease yourself into formulas of courtesy: of quieting your wards before the smear of his shadow should strike and ignite them. Of opening your window to him, like the slack mouth of invitation. Of considering your hand on his, then, pivoted, your hand on his offerings, your hand on his possessions, your hand on the lingered warmth of his touch, and beneath the pebbled cicatrices of a fruit, citrus-like, and another, soft.
You do not look up, away, past the measure of his shoulder. If marble bit harder, you'd take the knee. To make waste of obeisance now, before the Patriarch's teeth might fit your jugular, is to dishonour his claim of spoils won. Who are you, but fear of him, bone-ached, marrow-deep?
( 'Lan Zhan.' His gaze wanders. 'Resurrection.' He remembers enough to retrieve each fruit of its confinement, send it tumbled on the table, stab short their momentum. To seek out the dark of Wei Ying's dress, if not his cheek's pallor. ) ]
Apologies. Appetite flees me. [ No. Thinner: ] Fault is mine.
[ Take no offence in this, the decline. ]
And you breathed. Became you-I-him-that and distant, 'Hanguang-Jun' and 'this moment' and the animal fractions of you that cannot betray the whole. In sundering, sheltered.
And you pay Wei Ying in the loiter of every inhalation. You do not ask, if Wei Ying comes stranded with twilight and rain, or fresh with the petrichor of dawns after. Barely slip and step and tease yourself into formulas of courtesy: of quieting your wards before the smear of his shadow should strike and ignite them. Of opening your window to him, like the slack mouth of invitation. Of considering your hand on his, then, pivoted, your hand on his offerings, your hand on his possessions, your hand on the lingered warmth of his touch, and beneath the pebbled cicatrices of a fruit, citrus-like, and another, soft.
You do not look up, away, past the measure of his shoulder. If marble bit harder, you'd take the knee. To make waste of obeisance now, before the Patriarch's teeth might fit your jugular, is to dishonour his claim of spoils won. Who are you, but fear of him, bone-ached, marrow-deep?
( 'Lan Zhan.' His gaze wanders. 'Resurrection.' He remembers enough to retrieve each fruit of its confinement, send it tumbled on the table, stab short their momentum. To seek out the dark of Wei Ying's dress, if not his cheek's pallor. ) ]
Apologies. Appetite flees me. [ No. Thinner: ] Fault is mine.
[ Take no offence in this, the decline. ]
[un: sprite bulb] text; a good week or so after his request
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bearshermark
2021-10-15 11:00 pm (UTC)(link)
Your wire and sheathe are finished. When would you like to collect them?
I get the sense you won't appreciate being asked this, but:
Do you know what happened to the box? Is it with Lee Chang, or do you have it?
Do you know what happened to the box? Is it with Lee Chang, or do you have it?
( Ah, to be a man yet drunk on his raft, drifting into infinity. Alas, writing still eludes master Lan. Excuse his fondness of the video feature, possessed still of... many sighs of chickens.
At least Lan Wangji himself appears more refreshed, dyed in the stark-cast, coagulating pallor of the rising sun. )
Good... ( His mouth is so dry. ) Good morning.
At least Lan Wangji himself appears more refreshed, dyed in the stark-cast, coagulating pallor of the rising sun. )
Good... ( His mouth is so dry. ) Good morning.
[ Lan Wangji was a very easy man to spot. The pristine condition his robes always seemed to be in made him stick out like a sore thumb, especially in bleak surroundings like the ones they all now found themselves in.
She was herself again, though paler than he knew her to be, with even her hair appearing dingy like the color had been stripped away by being exposed to some intense storm.
Despite giving the appearance of someone coming out of the other side of a particularly nasty illness she was smiling broadly by the time she stopped in front of him, a spark of her familiar exuberance peeking out in her bright green eyes.
Without so much as a word Lily threw her arms open and wrapped them around Wangji, pulling him into a tight hug as she squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to tear up. ]
Thank you.
She was herself again, though paler than he knew her to be, with even her hair appearing dingy like the color had been stripped away by being exposed to some intense storm.
Despite giving the appearance of someone coming out of the other side of a particularly nasty illness she was smiling broadly by the time she stopped in front of him, a spark of her familiar exuberance peeking out in her bright green eyes.
Without so much as a word Lily threw her arms open and wrapped them around Wangji, pulling him into a tight hug as she squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to tear up. ]
Thank you.
( ...bear it, as water survives oil. Know it drenches and accosts and claims you, but cannot break the skins of your being, corrupt your substance with your shape. Touch scorches, but does not possess.
He breathes, bends to succumb his body to her capture, bears it. Children wish affection. Sizhui was thin strips of bark expanding barren Wen roots, and his branches choked Wangji's legs, his waist, early.
Morning light fractures the stones of the corridor in a thin mosaic, paints Lily's cheek white. No unnatural edge or growth left to to her, only the exhaustion of a passed fever. )
Unnecessary.
( And he lingers, still as lake water, with the calm expectation that, perhaps, if he is only so small and soft and unobtrusive, he will be let go. )
He breathes, bends to succumb his body to her capture, bears it. Children wish affection. Sizhui was thin strips of bark expanding barren Wen roots, and his branches choked Wangji's legs, his waist, early.
Morning light fractures the stones of the corridor in a thin mosaic, paints Lily's cheek white. No unnatural edge or growth left to to her, only the exhaustion of a passed fever. )
Unnecessary.
( And he lingers, still as lake water, with the calm expectation that, perhaps, if he is only so small and soft and unobtrusive, he will be let go. )
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.
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.
Tomorrow, Wei Ying had pledged, and a second life has made him a man of his word, true. Back to the wall, the zest of morning light thinning fountain waters pellucid, he'd walked the gardens with the distant, melancholy appetite of seeking likeness to Cloud Recesses, in mote or whole or memory. Each day, Taravast's manicured beauty denies him: strange, perfectly rounded flowers graze his ankles. Waters ripple and settle, then chase each other in twinned rivulets. The stoking murmurs and violent haste of servants galloping to fresh posts is barely a bromide, spoiled imitation of Gusu's natural stillness.
Today, he searches the woodened root of a raging, riotous shrub, thinking to find a cousin of magnolias — and only raises his face, blank and easy, between long-blinked moments of anticipation, to discover Wei Ying, a stain of silken reds against the golden artifice of the waiting Taravast. Wei Ying's hand. His swords.
Bidden, he accepts unthinking, unflinching, fingers walking the tired, coarse length of the blade, where time has peeled and spumed steel through snags. He grasps the hilt of one, takes ownership — rises gently with it, awed and validated, as ever, by the twinge of hurt that stabs when he is to have and hold a sword past Bichen, affronted in her sheath. They are ever heavier, her imposters, a foreign weight. He measures the lent blade, turns her in hand, and no fabled heart answers him, only the mechanic solidity of a soul-stripped object that gravity and momentum position in his service.
Still, he nods. Accepts. There is a gentle, lackadaisical moment, when the sun seems to forget Wei Ying is meant for war now, and paints him bright and beautiful in unearned glory. Shameless. Wangji has yet to strike — mulls and meanders to the conclusion that to make Wei Ying even the sliver of a concession is to insult his expertise and experience on one unworthy hand, and Lan Wangji's choice of a soulmate on the other. No mercy. No assaults stayed.
"Until yield or first blood." One bite, no further. This, he commands, where Wei Ying's appetites and the lent starvation of the spirits that walk his bones like second skins might speak a stranger, different compulsion. "Blade alone, or alongside enhancements?"
Talismans, wards, secondary weapons, crafty tricks. Blade engagements grow skill with the sword, ready a man for the critical hour when one instrument alone can be depended upon. True combat seldom keeps to the etiquettes and gentlemen's agreements of the training grounds. They learned this in war, hands filthied and full with dirt trampled by Wen, ashes from home fires. Faces drenched in theatre-plays of pallor, to hide (and hungrily seek) in forests brewed in early-dawns mists.
Today, he searches the woodened root of a raging, riotous shrub, thinking to find a cousin of magnolias — and only raises his face, blank and easy, between long-blinked moments of anticipation, to discover Wei Ying, a stain of silken reds against the golden artifice of the waiting Taravast. Wei Ying's hand. His swords.
Bidden, he accepts unthinking, unflinching, fingers walking the tired, coarse length of the blade, where time has peeled and spumed steel through snags. He grasps the hilt of one, takes ownership — rises gently with it, awed and validated, as ever, by the twinge of hurt that stabs when he is to have and hold a sword past Bichen, affronted in her sheath. They are ever heavier, her imposters, a foreign weight. He measures the lent blade, turns her in hand, and no fabled heart answers him, only the mechanic solidity of a soul-stripped object that gravity and momentum position in his service.
Still, he nods. Accepts. There is a gentle, lackadaisical moment, when the sun seems to forget Wei Ying is meant for war now, and paints him bright and beautiful in unearned glory. Shameless. Wangji has yet to strike — mulls and meanders to the conclusion that to make Wei Ying even the sliver of a concession is to insult his expertise and experience on one unworthy hand, and Lan Wangji's choice of a soulmate on the other. No mercy. No assaults stayed.
"Until yield or first blood." One bite, no further. This, he commands, where Wei Ying's appetites and the lent starvation of the spirits that walk his bones like second skins might speak a stranger, different compulsion. "Blade alone, or alongside enhancements?"
Talismans, wards, secondary weapons, crafty tricks. Blade engagements grow skill with the sword, ready a man for the critical hour when one instrument alone can be depended upon. True combat seldom keeps to the etiquettes and gentlemen's agreements of the training grounds. They learned this in war, hands filthied and full with dirt trampled by Wen, ashes from home fires. Faces drenched in theatre-plays of pallor, to hide (and hungrily seek) in forests brewed in early-dawns mists.
Wei Wuxian does not seek early beds. Not without exhaustion chasing at his heels, spiritually or physically, and it has been a different sort of dance that's become their nightly rituals, even when they're locked in daytime arguments. Laying head to pillows, side by side, whatever the bed is or isn't, whatever ground or platform or stuffed mattress is found underneath. He sprawls across surfaces he knows, and while the city runs itself to ruins and hope, himself helping on both sides to different extents, there is still a room with a hearth that burns, not to keep out the cold, lacking that strength, but to keep a light there even when the light-orb lit lanterns falter.
Magic of light, rather than fire. Steadier, those lights, but he flickers as the flames do, banked and tamed, not the weapons they are in his hands or the hands of witches or Lan Zhan, flames beckoned and cast and curtailed and consuming, like curiosity and silence.
Wei Wuxian sits upon the bed, draped in robes, cleanshaven. Papers in hand, quill that never writes as properly as he wishes even when the ink is smooth as silk and endless as regrets. Cloth folded bundle under the crook of one propped up knee, while he sketches through considerations, waiting.
Magic of light, rather than fire. Steadier, those lights, but he flickers as the flames do, banked and tamed, not the weapons they are in his hands or the hands of witches or Lan Zhan, flames beckoned and cast and curtailed and consuming, like curiosity and silence.
Wei Wuxian sits upon the bed, draped in robes, cleanshaven. Papers in hand, quill that never writes as properly as he wishes even when the ink is smooth as silk and endless as regrets. Cloth folded bundle under the crook of one propped up knee, while he sketches through considerations, waiting.
Before, blood and wine. He wets his lips, loosens his tongue, declines the second sip and the slow-trickled lethargy that honeys his bones leaves him syrupy, slow, distanced from himself. Alert, in the way of animals that recognise the critical loss of their senses and must compensate with slow, tactile, strategic precision.
He thinks, I could yet stumble to sleep, one more day gained. Thinks, It is not so cravenly a thing, to withdraw and seize a better battle. Thinks, I have asked nothing of you since your return. I ask now not to speak of this.
Haunts, pale silhouette chased by sickly, wan candlelight across corridors and the snares and snags of hounds, outside, of men turned beasts and hunting their freedom. The bleeding has done. The slaughter. Sticky-sweet, his fingertips reek of red, even now he's thrice removed their viscera, salting the remains. There is a gutting of him, as if he is husked and set to dry, and he stares before him at his known, pulsing heart.
There. That. Wei Ying's quarters, so seldom entered fairly, formally, without the subterfuge of docile roof tile and yielding eaves. The door squeals rust and heft, like an anguished pig before the blade. Do not cut, but inside, Wei Ying's cradled in his darks and the many fine foibles that paint a man tame, swept in sleepy majesty. He wonders how many talismans sleep purchase Wei Ying's relaxation. Thaws and bristles, and turns his face when the diffused beam of his gaze lands on Wei Ying's cheek, like barren land unspoiled. Ah. I bound you when you looked just so.
The door whispers shut before him. He does not prowl. Click, then clank, when one knee hits the floor, strength and lacquer misjudged. On old wood, scratches spider and lent light dapple bite wounds. The second knee, muted. The ghost of wine ashes his mouth. His fingers spoil the arrangements of his hair, before they free his headband, pulled taut and straight for display in both hands, and he kneels with it as he did with the discipline whips once, holds the pose and feels heat lick the bones of his back.
"Close family may touch this ribbon."
You knew. You above all read and wrote the rules once and again and nearly in perpetuity. His brow is too languid to crisp, to wrinkle. Let this moment pass by him, through him, river water. He is not privy to it, only meat and crumbling bone before Wei Ying's assessing gaze, found wanting. An object.
"Once, in our ancestral cave. The rite of your rescue borrowed the forms of wedded claim." Sneering, snarling, the animal that lairs in him shows its teeth. He cannot sate and appease it, only contain, conceal, bury. Stone, gravel. He is. Breathe, survive. What is right, and what is wrong?
"You did not knowingly consent. It does not bind." He wants the wine returned, to gulp it, to sear his tongue. "What difference, now?"
Take the ribbon. Put it to fire. What difference? A city burns.
He thinks, I could yet stumble to sleep, one more day gained. Thinks, It is not so cravenly a thing, to withdraw and seize a better battle. Thinks, I have asked nothing of you since your return. I ask now not to speak of this.
Haunts, pale silhouette chased by sickly, wan candlelight across corridors and the snares and snags of hounds, outside, of men turned beasts and hunting their freedom. The bleeding has done. The slaughter. Sticky-sweet, his fingertips reek of red, even now he's thrice removed their viscera, salting the remains. There is a gutting of him, as if he is husked and set to dry, and he stares before him at his known, pulsing heart.
There. That. Wei Ying's quarters, so seldom entered fairly, formally, without the subterfuge of docile roof tile and yielding eaves. The door squeals rust and heft, like an anguished pig before the blade. Do not cut, but inside, Wei Ying's cradled in his darks and the many fine foibles that paint a man tame, swept in sleepy majesty. He wonders how many talismans sleep purchase Wei Ying's relaxation. Thaws and bristles, and turns his face when the diffused beam of his gaze lands on Wei Ying's cheek, like barren land unspoiled. Ah. I bound you when you looked just so.
The door whispers shut before him. He does not prowl. Click, then clank, when one knee hits the floor, strength and lacquer misjudged. On old wood, scratches spider and lent light dapple bite wounds. The second knee, muted. The ghost of wine ashes his mouth. His fingers spoil the arrangements of his hair, before they free his headband, pulled taut and straight for display in both hands, and he kneels with it as he did with the discipline whips once, holds the pose and feels heat lick the bones of his back.
"Close family may touch this ribbon."
You knew. You above all read and wrote the rules once and again and nearly in perpetuity. His brow is too languid to crisp, to wrinkle. Let this moment pass by him, through him, river water. He is not privy to it, only meat and crumbling bone before Wei Ying's assessing gaze, found wanting. An object.
"Once, in our ancestral cave. The rite of your rescue borrowed the forms of wedded claim." Sneering, snarling, the animal that lairs in him shows its teeth. He cannot sate and appease it, only contain, conceal, bury. Stone, gravel. He is. Breathe, survive. What is right, and what is wrong?
"You did not knowingly consent. It does not bind." He wants the wine returned, to gulp it, to sear his tongue. "What difference, now?"
Take the ribbon. Put it to fire. What difference? A city burns.
((ooc: i am SORRY this is so late, holidays happened & i got sick, but now i have enough brainspace to throw this together so LMK IF you want me to change/add anything!!!))
Anduin recognizes that he will need allies, in this. Wrathion seems willing to have his back regardless as to whether he believes his plan is foolish or not (he hasn't been able to glean Wrathion's honest opinion of the matter, though that fact in and of itself would lead him to believe that it wouldn't exactly be his first choice...). Given the potential scope of the fall-out, however, Anduin really would prefer to have at least one more on his side should this get hairy. He doubts that infiltrating the palace and getting past the guards will be all that difficult for the three of them, especially when one of them is a dragon. That having been said --
He's got to make certain that Wangji is actually on board with this.
They have arranged to meet in person to have a more candid discussion. Anduin does not trust the network for this conversation, and he hopes that Wangji will at least understand that sentiment. He has only met the man once, spoken to him twice, and he cannot say for certain whether he will agree to this himself, from their brief conversation earlier that day. He seems a man with a solid head on his shoulders though, so if he will not aid in Anduin's plight perhaps he may at least guide him in the right direction...?
That is the hope, anyway. Anduin really hopes this isn't about to blow up spectacularly in his face.
Anduin recognizes that he will need allies, in this. Wrathion seems willing to have his back regardless as to whether he believes his plan is foolish or not (he hasn't been able to glean Wrathion's honest opinion of the matter, though that fact in and of itself would lead him to believe that it wouldn't exactly be his first choice...). Given the potential scope of the fall-out, however, Anduin really would prefer to have at least one more on his side should this get hairy. He doubts that infiltrating the palace and getting past the guards will be all that difficult for the three of them, especially when one of them is a dragon. That having been said --
He's got to make certain that Wangji is actually on board with this.
They have arranged to meet in person to have a more candid discussion. Anduin does not trust the network for this conversation, and he hopes that Wangji will at least understand that sentiment. He has only met the man once, spoken to him twice, and he cannot say for certain whether he will agree to this himself, from their brief conversation earlier that day. He seems a man with a solid head on his shoulders though, so if he will not aid in Anduin's plight perhaps he may at least guide him in the right direction...?
That is the hope, anyway. Anduin really hopes this isn't about to blow up spectacularly in his face.
( ooc: no worries at all! )
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.
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.
... that sure was meant to be voice but now imagine him speaking from a random void
weifinder
- 2022-01-23 06:33 (UTC) - Expand[following this almost immediately.]
You are aware that Wei Wuxian has been changed into a fox, right?
You are aware that Wei Wuxian has been changed into a fox, right?
[the night of the break-in, as she runs into the forest on Wen Qing's tail, she has one moment of clarity, to tell someone what's happened. and here is her chosen one:]
Lan Wangji! Do you know a woman named Wen Qing? [the sounds someone makes when she's running] Nevermind - we're chasing something in the forest and -
[and then she nearly runs into the spot where the naga and Wen Qing are. DASHES behind a tree at the last minute, heart in her throat, and the talisman in her hand, clutched tight.]
Ass... [catches her breath.] Assistance would be - required.
Lan Wangji! Do you know a woman named Wen Qing? [the sounds someone makes when she's running] Nevermind - we're chasing something in the forest and -
[and then she nearly runs into the spot where the naga and Wen Qing are. DASHES behind a tree at the last minute, heart in her throat, and the talisman in her hand, clutched tight.]
Ass... [catches her breath.] Assistance would be - required.
Lan Zhan, concerning the different energies behind the volcano's pressure... I can't get in close, but it's probable that my particular skills will be useful in drawing out some of that pressure at a reasonable rate.
I don't want to do it blindly, or on my own, ah?
I don't want to do it blindly, or on my own, ah?
( He asks.
This, first, foremost, must be prized: that Wei Ying coaxes caution to himself long enough to abide Lan Wangji's tentative paranoia. That he strays from reason with steps stayed by knowing.
Reward it with enough silence to cut and cauterize Wangji's incipient indignation. Enough ice to chill his fire. Breathe: )
Ah.
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
[She smiles to herself before continuing]
I've been practicing, you see. This is one of my favorite poems. I've wanted to write it down for you to keep. It makes me think of you.
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
[She smiles to herself before continuing]
I've been practicing, you see. This is one of my favorite poems. I've wanted to write it down for you to keep. It makes me think of you.
( a scroll, tied with blue ribbon. there are pages within it, seven in all. each an ink drawing of lan xichen;
1. presiding, official, as a younger man, at the time of their entry into the finishing school of gusu from before the war;
2. smiling with the ease of a man grown used to it, holding a tea cup in hand, relaxed but present still in awareness of his position;
3. softer, in a moment suggesting for wei wuxian to go to the cold springs, apology and awareness and a kindness that he bled more red than his heart's blood in his face and eyes;
4. the look of him as he looked upon his brother, the fondness and the pride and the hopes, none pointed, all soft and presumptive;
5. the exhaustion of a man whose foundations had been so shattered he was unaware of his feet being on any kind of ground;
6. lan xichen, on his flue, playing a melody that wei wuxian remembers now, could play if asked, as he remembers so many things that are and are not inconsequential, forgetting others he certainly aligns as inconsequential;
7. sitting, serious and earnest, wine cup in hand, asking for wei wuxian to do the impossible, or to be as he is, and to leave lan zhan out of it.
there is no summation he can offer, only moments pulled out of memory in no order to make sense of them, these facets of one man, a sect leader, a brother, a nephew, a human whose blood-sworn brothers had torn each other apart, and he, unaware of what needed saving. of there being such deficits in the first.
wei wuxian leaves no note. he simply knows his husband sleeps sooner than he does, and with the haunts that stalk the ships, with the events that stir and shake, these are inks of a time and place divided. protected in their oilskin wrapping, tucked under the bench, safe from easy, errant steps, but not all things.
lan xichen, remembered, living man that he remains, by wei wuxian. )
1. presiding, official, as a younger man, at the time of their entry into the finishing school of gusu from before the war;
2. smiling with the ease of a man grown used to it, holding a tea cup in hand, relaxed but present still in awareness of his position;
3. softer, in a moment suggesting for wei wuxian to go to the cold springs, apology and awareness and a kindness that he bled more red than his heart's blood in his face and eyes;
4. the look of him as he looked upon his brother, the fondness and the pride and the hopes, none pointed, all soft and presumptive;
5. the exhaustion of a man whose foundations had been so shattered he was unaware of his feet being on any kind of ground;
6. lan xichen, on his flue, playing a melody that wei wuxian remembers now, could play if asked, as he remembers so many things that are and are not inconsequential, forgetting others he certainly aligns as inconsequential;
7. sitting, serious and earnest, wine cup in hand, asking for wei wuxian to do the impossible, or to be as he is, and to leave lan zhan out of it.
there is no summation he can offer, only moments pulled out of memory in no order to make sense of them, these facets of one man, a sect leader, a brother, a nephew, a human whose blood-sworn brothers had torn each other apart, and he, unaware of what needed saving. of there being such deficits in the first.
wei wuxian leaves no note. he simply knows his husband sleeps sooner than he does, and with the haunts that stalk the ships, with the events that stir and shake, these are inks of a time and place divided. protected in their oilskin wrapping, tucked under the bench, safe from easy, errant steps, but not all things.
lan xichen, remembered, living man that he remains, by wei wuxian. )
( And if, in this world, this lifetime and the next, eyes shuttered, breath bated and heartbeat stormed, he retains nothing of material value —
Hand trembled, he will keep this, oh, he claims it. Every piece of frayed parchment, every ink stroke, every touch and tear of Lan Xichen's likeness.
He is, he sleeps on paper, his brother is loved. )
[ It's a tight deadline that Lan Wangji set, but as it turns out Wrathion has two whole days where he's watching over Anduin's unconscious form. Doing something else, then, is a blessing so he spends less energy catastrophising.
The four packages are in cloth cut-offs tied with rope, which is all he really could find, but with notes who each is for.
Emilia: Medium weight silver chain necklace from which hangs a rose pendant with a pearl in its petals. Leaves and thorny branches wind halfway up the chain. The warm pink pearl at the centre of the pendant has a shimmery, fiery glow enchantment licking from it is just enough to warm cold fingertips when held. It's mostly for the aesthetic, though. A tiny crescent moon hangs from the fastening, with BP etched into it just barely readable.
Sizhui: Simple but elegant silver hair pin with cloud patterns carved along it, a pearl finishing one end on a larger but still relatively conservative cloud carving. The pearl has a faint glow to it from a trace of Light magic, just enough to induce a feeling of calm if it's concentrated on. Just under the cloud on the end, BP is etched barely readable.
Moran: An elaborate silver hairpin with several sculpted cherry blossom flowers on the end, one of which has a pearl nestled in the centre. There's a faint thread of magic surrounding it that gives the pearl a soft glow, just enough to give a small boost of energy when focused on. On the back of one of the blossoms, BP is etched barely readable.
Allison: A small pendant with a pearl around which is wrapped a silver branch design, with small leaves, as if it's growing out of them. There's a thread of magic giving the pearl a slight glow, just enough to give a small boost to strength when needed. He includes a leather cord just in case she doesn't want to add it to her existing chain. On the back of one of the leaves, BP is etched barely readable.
He is absolutely ready to just silently drop these off where Wangji will find them and leave it be. ]
The four packages are in cloth cut-offs tied with rope, which is all he really could find, but with notes who each is for.
Emilia: Medium weight silver chain necklace from which hangs a rose pendant with a pearl in its petals. Leaves and thorny branches wind halfway up the chain. The warm pink pearl at the centre of the pendant has a shimmery, fiery glow enchantment licking from it is just enough to warm cold fingertips when held. It's mostly for the aesthetic, though. A tiny crescent moon hangs from the fastening, with BP etched into it just barely readable.
Sizhui: Simple but elegant silver hair pin with cloud patterns carved along it, a pearl finishing one end on a larger but still relatively conservative cloud carving. The pearl has a faint glow to it from a trace of Light magic, just enough to induce a feeling of calm if it's concentrated on. Just under the cloud on the end, BP is etched barely readable.
Moran: An elaborate silver hairpin with several sculpted cherry blossom flowers on the end, one of which has a pearl nestled in the centre. There's a faint thread of magic surrounding it that gives the pearl a soft glow, just enough to give a small boost of energy when focused on. On the back of one of the blossoms, BP is etched barely readable.
Allison: A small pendant with a pearl around which is wrapped a silver branch design, with small leaves, as if it's growing out of them. There's a thread of magic giving the pearl a slight glow, just enough to give a small boost to strength when needed. He includes a leather cord just in case she doesn't want to add it to her existing chain. On the back of one of the leaves, BP is etched barely readable.
He is absolutely ready to just silently drop these off where Wangji will find them and leave it be. ]
( Handsome work, from the main body of each piece to the delicate filigree, from practicality to decoration. He lingers over each gift, treasured and worthy, Sizhui's pin earning place of pride in Wangji's admiration.
Curt, elegant gratitude is insufficient. Between Wrathion and he, words seldom transgress to convey the true meaning of both hearts. They are... opaque to one another.
And so he seeks out rare transparency, hours later, with the delivery of a letter to Wrathion's resting place — coarse but clean parchment, ink too thickened but fair. The finest quality he can hope to negotiate at sea: )
Unworthily, I thank the heavens that bore you with hands, discipline and disposition for true skill.
|
蓝
忘
机
un: nutcracker, voice. a day after the thread in her inbox
snowcleave
2022-08-04 04:37 am (UTC)(link)
[ She's told Xie Yun she would send her regrets for her behavior so that he doesn't have to, and Fei isn't the sort of person to go back on her word, even if she isn't the most forthcoming with a standard, polite apology.
And so, delivered with all the gentility of an elderly person who doesn't know if their phone call has connected– ]
Lan Wangji?
And so, delivered with all the gentility of an elderly person who doesn't know if their phone call has connected– ]
Lan Wangji?
( hey look we're all back in town and well over a month later, here is wei wuxian, in a tired break between working mccoy's situation with everyone else and the nightmares wrath and buddies discovered, tied right into the mystery of the crashed airship...
he is here, draping an arm across his husband's shoulders, and asking in a low murmur: )
Xiao Bichen, mm?
he is here, draping an arm across his husband's shoulders, and asking in a low murmur: )
Xiao Bichen, mm?
( ...ah, but for that lone antidote against routine, that one riotous condiment, the ginseng of his life —
Stone weight on his shoulder, his husband. Lo, behold. The true Bichen, strip of frost pallor born and stretched, turning beneath Wei Ying's throat — never tasting past insinuation. )
Xiao.
( ...brows perched, amusement fettered. Truly. )
( the wind is audible, and then muffled as he cups around the pendant to speak, having reached out to his husband. hard to have much nuance in tone against that backdrop, so here are the words, louder to be heard, windstruck. )
Lan Zhan, we return within half a shichen. Meet me in port. Please?
Lan Zhan, we return within half a shichen. Meet me in port. Please?
Edited 2022-10-10 21:52 (UTC)
Lan Wangji, you have my apologies for neglecting our acquaintance and then approaching you in such a way. Yet I wish to speak with you, if you have the time to spare for me?
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