[ There is a game in it, a play, an art. Xie Lian offers his hand, and whatever beat Lan Wangji's heart carries staggers, and his feline eyes open, gaze slant. He watches, considering, the fine point of his attention like a spear of nestled, pale sun bereft its target. Drifting from each soft pad of Xie Lian's fingers, assessing their ground for weakness, finding it bare more than barren. A picture, poorly painted.
Behind, the dragon heaves. He cannot hesitate — not with the waters rising, with action and response due, with their options slim and dwindling. With his bones heated, but his mouth dry, and what toll will trust take? He has no silver shavings here, only paltry alms to give. And yet: ]
no subject
Behind, the dragon heaves. He cannot hesitate — not with the waters rising, with action and response due, with their options slim and dwindling. With his bones heated, but his mouth dry, and what toll will trust take? He has no silver shavings here, only paltry alms to give. And yet: ]
How?