Three li. Ambitious, but then Wei Ying contorts himself, humbles his ask. The one.
So be it. A third lure spell drawn in careful articulations of smears and flaked paint, on the flank of his robe, crude reinforcement of what his scarce qi cannot ignite, nor his mind ignore. And already, they hunger for him, come like starvelings, crawl, and Wei Ying warns —
More fool of a man, Wangji first looks to him, before scanning the forest with wild, limpid eyes, before spotting the bright shadow of erupting, inching creatures. One. Two, three, the fourth distant. A fifth, betrayed only by rustle of leaves, breaking ground.
— he whispers, "Gratitude."
For Wei Ying's ears, too far-out to hear him. In his hands, the bundle of cord glistens and pulls itself taut, and he does not assault as much as he sets down the web of it, awaiting the first bite. It comes, when they near him (hold), when they lunge (hold), when they nearly claw (hold) — and then the cord rises, snaps released, severing limbs and torsos in its path. The trouble of garrotte extended so loosely: when his hands do not apply pressure, the cut is thin. He sees them bleed, and speculates the traffic of qi his system requires to support itself, to land the killing blow.
Wei Ying blitzes around him like lightning failing to find the core of its outlet. Above, flash of wings, and birds settle in the previously visited tree. He cannot leave the ground — only sends Bichen to stab the husk of the tree and serve as step for Wei Ying's climb, inevitable. And he calls out, "Hasten."
...before pivoting on his back foot to deny a hunting ghoul her pleasure, swirling between another two, drawing the cord to himself and deploying it, this once as it is intended — a weapon of close combat. Behind him, Bichen quivers, prepared to extricate itself from the tree, then pirouette, rise farther, hook again and give Wei Ying a step further. Around them, the stirred dead growl, sound bursting from ribcages that pulverise with age.
"Wei Ying, speak, so you are known," he pronounces, and they know the dagger's struck, the poison's spread, they know it's to say, he cannot rely on sight of Wei Ying alone. Not when he is distant, and the call of blood, gurgling and close.
no subject
So be it. A third lure spell drawn in careful articulations of smears and flaked paint, on the flank of his robe, crude reinforcement of what his scarce qi cannot ignite, nor his mind ignore. And already, they hunger for him, come like starvelings, crawl, and Wei Ying warns —
More fool of a man, Wangji first looks to him, before scanning the forest with wild, limpid eyes, before spotting the bright shadow of erupting, inching creatures. One. Two, three, the fourth distant. A fifth, betrayed only by rustle of leaves, breaking ground.
— he whispers, "Gratitude."
For Wei Ying's ears, too far-out to hear him. In his hands, the bundle of cord glistens and pulls itself taut, and he does not assault as much as he sets down the web of it, awaiting the first bite. It comes, when they near him (hold), when they lunge (hold), when they nearly claw (hold) — and then the cord rises, snaps released, severing limbs and torsos in its path. The trouble of garrotte extended so loosely: when his hands do not apply pressure, the cut is thin. He sees them bleed, and speculates the traffic of qi his system requires to support itself, to land the killing blow.
Wei Ying blitzes around him like lightning failing to find the core of its outlet. Above, flash of wings, and birds settle in the previously visited tree. He cannot leave the ground — only sends Bichen to stab the husk of the tree and serve as step for Wei Ying's climb, inevitable. And he calls out, "Hasten."
...before pivoting on his back foot to deny a hunting ghoul her pleasure, swirling between another two, drawing the cord to himself and deploying it, this once as it is intended — a weapon of close combat. Behind him, Bichen quivers, prepared to extricate itself from the tree, then pirouette, rise farther, hook again and give Wei Ying a step further. Around them, the stirred dead growl, sound bursting from ribcages that pulverise with age.
"Wei Ying, speak, so you are known," he pronounces, and they know the dagger's struck, the poison's spread, they know it's to say, he cannot rely on sight of Wei Ying alone. Not when he is distant, and the call of blood, gurgling and close.