Permission given, and the body accepts what his has to offer, the careful intrusion of qi that flows into form, seeking to knit and heal in the way he's been learning here, in the flesh and not the meridians which before had been his understood ways. He cannot fix without too much of a drain; blood encouraged to clot, skin guided toward its earliest reknitting, flesh that webs toward itself and remembers the dream of how it'd been whole, of one cloth, unsundered.
A distraction that furrows his brow, this concentration he offers, that looks up to hear the echo of the dragon's angered lament, Lan Zhan raw, his chest shadowed with the echo of a cry that doesn't quite form right. Wei Wuxian doesn't look toward the dragon, brilliant alabaster cutting through air and water with the finesse of a creature born to do both, and to offer no apologies for either. The tower shudders under its awe and bulk, protesting with the groan of ages and the staccato fall of decorative spikes, upthrust and crushed before the dragon's might. They hit the lower parts of the tower, the base, the moat, cracking off ice and into iced water.
"Yes," he says, but he looks at Lan Zhan, not the dragon, and long lashes have only lowered with the focus he finds he still needs in this new art, the healing that is different and yet akin to what he's witnessed, been subjected to, by the kindness of known hearts. Wen Qing, Lan Zhan.
Blood bound and binding, and he blinks, parts lips with his tongue held within, wet and cold and bittersweet. No dragon dies today by their hands, or by their help. Saving, and saving the innocents of the citadel, requires yet more of them still. The irreverence, when he's already accepted the binding, comes as expected:
"You should simply ask me to wear rogue for you sometime."
Though he lacks the energy to make it sound like he would in better situations, where they were not injured or wet or in such dangerous environs, where innocents in their gluttony lie ripe for the picking of a force of nature given form. A tease ahead of another tease as they rise, and he does laugh then, short and true.
"Two hundred if you want me believing I have a chance to win. Come, we've a dragon yet to coax." And always, always more innocents to help save, as much as they could. For all innocent could be relative, and for all the people trapped were fewer in count of the powerless and more often in the power and wealth of those who were not entirely innocent at all.
no subject
A distraction that furrows his brow, this concentration he offers, that looks up to hear the echo of the dragon's angered lament, Lan Zhan raw, his chest shadowed with the echo of a cry that doesn't quite form right. Wei Wuxian doesn't look toward the dragon, brilliant alabaster cutting through air and water with the finesse of a creature born to do both, and to offer no apologies for either. The tower shudders under its awe and bulk, protesting with the groan of ages and the staccato fall of decorative spikes, upthrust and crushed before the dragon's might. They hit the lower parts of the tower, the base, the moat, cracking off ice and into iced water.
"Yes," he says, but he looks at Lan Zhan, not the dragon, and long lashes have only lowered with the focus he finds he still needs in this new art, the healing that is different and yet akin to what he's witnessed, been subjected to, by the kindness of known hearts. Wen Qing, Lan Zhan.
Blood bound and binding, and he blinks, parts lips with his tongue held within, wet and cold and bittersweet. No dragon dies today by their hands, or by their help. Saving, and saving the innocents of the citadel, requires yet more of them still. The irreverence, when he's already accepted the binding, comes as expected:
"You should simply ask me to wear rogue for you sometime."
Though he lacks the energy to make it sound like he would in better situations, where they were not injured or wet or in such dangerous environs, where innocents in their gluttony lie ripe for the picking of a force of nature given form. A tease ahead of another tease as they rise, and he does laugh then, short and true.
"Two hundred if you want me believing I have a chance to win. Come, we've a dragon yet to coax." And always, always more innocents to help save, as much as they could. For all innocent could be relative, and for all the people trapped were fewer in count of the powerless and more often in the power and wealth of those who were not entirely innocent at all.