( Death, decay, mould, lichen. A vast corruption of wasteland, like seas divided to reveal their innards bare, their sands dwindling, their stone coarse. He walks on and feels the forest in motion, an answer to Ellethia's artificial flourish — accelerated, corrosive death.
When he breathes, nothing breathes with him — only the woman Moiraine, a wandering and adrift visitor better informed of their fresh circumstances, for how she bides her words, how she doles each out like silver shavings. He struggles even with a handful of steps, feet peeled from silt and flickered mud with bolstered difficulty, as if the earth itself intends to stitch him stuck.
Gusu Lan boasts forests, green vibrancy, rivers aflow. Skies bereft of shadow. Life. This — he turns, grasp of his sword ragged when he wonders what might yet come of his blade's shimmered aggression, should he visit it on this land. Mere heartbeats ago, branches teased his forehead, lashed his back. Bushes and leaves rustled, crushed underfoot. Now, this — surely, only bloodshed cannot dispel what exorcism should wither. )
Curse or sickness?
( As if they are not both troubles of the root. As if Lan Wangji is even peripherally positioned to take blade or spell and unearth the cause, when he must devote the better part of himself — whatever it may be, whomever might have received it in loan — to trailing after the slithered fox creatures. No hunt this, only the finding. They will win the day bloodlessly, or name themselves fools. )
huntiiiiiiiiing............... but without a hunt
When he breathes, nothing breathes with him — only the woman Moiraine, a wandering and adrift visitor better informed of their fresh circumstances, for how she bides her words, how she doles each out like silver shavings. He struggles even with a handful of steps, feet peeled from silt and flickered mud with bolstered difficulty, as if the earth itself intends to stitch him stuck.
Gusu Lan boasts forests, green vibrancy, rivers aflow. Skies bereft of shadow. Life. This — he turns, grasp of his sword ragged when he wonders what might yet come of his blade's shimmered aggression, should he visit it on this land. Mere heartbeats ago, branches teased his forehead, lashed his back. Bushes and leaves rustled, crushed underfoot. Now, this — surely, only bloodshed cannot dispel what exorcism should wither. )
Curse or sickness?
( As if they are not both troubles of the root. As if Lan Wangji is even peripherally positioned to take blade or spell and unearth the cause, when he must devote the better part of himself — whatever it may be, whomever might have received it in loan — to trailing after the slithered fox creatures. No hunt this, only the finding. They will win the day bloodlessly, or name themselves fools. )
Distraction?