( The man Enam, their shepherd-guide, has begged of them his flowers, round and clever golden swells of mystery that have eluded Lan Wangji for the better part of the half-shi. No matter the promised reward; he intends nothing past offering recompense to Enam, who has acquitted himself of their rearing with the animal kindness of a bird forced to accept a cuckoo's offspring. It is Lan Wangji's understanding that the group is not always... finely mannered.
Over a day stretched taut and wild and long, ungainly past midday, he has not been alone in the hunt. The syrens came, fled, deserted them, waters spumed and maddened in their wake. The prior savage, blood-curdling electric restlessness has dispelled itself into blunt silence. Since, they've walked the same radius, like a spillage of red-luck beads.
...except for the one traveller Lan Wangji has glimpsed, now and then, who has been seemingly tormented by their outfit. Then, by their helmet. Their path. Perhaps, throughout it all, by the tragedy of human existence. Wangji is not often lent to curiosity, but he admits... an occasional penchant. Here. Now. With the latest bundle of worthless flowers flickered at his feet.
Their fresh gear is the one great neutraliser, reducing all party members to an amorphous, red flag. Lan Wangji cannot tell faces, names, the tells of strength or gender. Uniformed, they are all as one: scarlet, squeaky, sweating, sordid legion. Height alone satisfies him, seeding fertile ground for the riddling. The wanderer is slight, the breadth of their form fettered. A woman, or a child, or perhaps Shen Qingqiu. But then, no mortal peril blinks into the horizon, and the scant youthful faces in their numbers comport themselves with... dignity.
Therefore, he faces, through exclusion, a woman, step thunderous and purpose unknown. He waddles towards her with the patience of a man who has learned his gear no more flatters or allies him than do riding leathers. It thrives on him, a placid weight likely to animate itself at the dark of Lan Wangji's last hour, only to point and laugh at him. There is evil in this red contraption. Lan Wangji likes it not, but accepts it as his due, an exorcist studied in sacrifice, penitence and ill luck.
For now, he approaches the woman (?) at fair enough of a distance that he invites neither her wrath nor that of the whispered, yellowed haze of pollen that swarms them. She appears... frustrated. Angered? Adrift. He suspects why. )
You seek — ( The pause, inevitable. )Privacy? ( ...how else to ask of a woman if she is possessed of relief only distant bathing room facilities may meet? ) We left abandoned shelters an hour northbound.
allayar | just going to wildcard WTFery based off your prompt, don't mind me
Over a day stretched taut and wild and long, ungainly past midday, he has not been alone in the hunt. The syrens came, fled, deserted them, waters spumed and maddened in their wake. The prior savage, blood-curdling electric restlessness has dispelled itself into blunt silence. Since, they've walked the same radius, like a spillage of red-luck beads.
...except for the one traveller Lan Wangji has glimpsed, now and then, who has been seemingly tormented by their outfit. Then, by their helmet. Their path. Perhaps, throughout it all, by the tragedy of human existence. Wangji is not often lent to curiosity, but he admits... an occasional penchant. Here. Now. With the latest bundle of worthless flowers flickered at his feet.
Their fresh gear is the one great neutraliser, reducing all party members to an amorphous, red flag. Lan Wangji cannot tell faces, names, the tells of strength or gender. Uniformed, they are all as one: scarlet, squeaky, sweating, sordid legion. Height alone satisfies him, seeding fertile ground for the riddling. The wanderer is slight, the breadth of their form fettered. A woman, or a child, or perhaps Shen Qingqiu. But then, no mortal peril blinks into the horizon, and the scant youthful faces in their numbers comport themselves with... dignity.
Therefore, he faces, through exclusion, a woman, step thunderous and purpose unknown. He waddles towards her with the patience of a man who has learned his gear no more flatters or allies him than do riding leathers. It thrives on him, a placid weight likely to animate itself at the dark of Lan Wangji's last hour, only to point and laugh at him. There is evil in this red contraption. Lan Wangji likes it not, but accepts it as his due, an exorcist studied in sacrifice, penitence and ill luck.
For now, he approaches the woman (?) at fair enough of a distance that he invites neither her wrath nor that of the whispered, yellowed haze of pollen that swarms them. She appears... frustrated. Angered? Adrift. He suspects why. )
You seek — ( The pause, inevitable. )Privacy? ( ...how else to ask of a woman if she is possessed of relief only distant bathing room facilities may meet? ) We left abandoned shelters an hour northbound.