( And he, a mote of dust, well-travelled. He feels compact, condensed. Too much for the chewing, the spitting, the breathing. A hardened thing, weighted. If he attempted to run now —
But he is still, breath-still, grave silent. The stubborn heat of fresh explosion, exacerbated by wizardry fire, warms the glass under his hand even here, at distance. The blunt moons of his nails rattle it, scratch. He turns once more, and this time, Anduin stands before him: a fresh face, withered by artisanal exhaustion. So deprived of rest and sleep, shadow wrinkles find even the cheeks and eyes of babes.
A better man might presume to ask Anduin if he can be relieved of service, but Wangji's healing qi is a crude instrument, ever best directed towards arts of hostility. It crackles mute and mired in the rush of it, the hunger to raid the streets again and meet blood with blood, shed streams on whimsy.
An animal would do so. He is here, tame. Courteous: )
Wangji, sect Lan. We came of Sa-Hareth. ( And the longest, most anemic pause. ) There, too, we were instruments of bloodshed.
no subject
But he is still, breath-still, grave silent. The stubborn heat of fresh explosion, exacerbated by wizardry fire, warms the glass under his hand even here, at distance. The blunt moons of his nails rattle it, scratch. He turns once more, and this time, Anduin stands before him: a fresh face, withered by artisanal exhaustion. So deprived of rest and sleep, shadow wrinkles find even the cheeks and eyes of babes.
A better man might presume to ask Anduin if he can be relieved of service, but Wangji's healing qi is a crude instrument, ever best directed towards arts of hostility. It crackles mute and mired in the rush of it, the hunger to raid the streets again and meet blood with blood, shed streams on whimsy.
An animal would do so. He is here, tame. Courteous: )
Wangji, sect Lan. We came of Sa-Hareth. ( And the longest, most anemic pause. ) There, too, we were instruments of bloodshed.