( From across, on the table, there surges the distant, quiet snap of brutality — the fox body's rancid struggles against her restrictions. The talismans keep, then Wei Ying — whistles, and whatever fit of convulsions seized the resurrected bride passes like froth and spume with the settling of a stormed sea.
What can they achieve here? His hand walks the slope of the girl's ankle bone once more, sensing where thin rivulets of qi bloom into energies the fox phantasm has appropriated, then amplified. Too strong, for one so long depleted, a frail stalk born of riotous root. The tree wants cut. )
Death of the invader.
( But he knows Wei Ying's intrinsic objection, his constant aversion to the cruelty of resource wasted, when energy is so often better repurposed. It was arrogant to assume the Yiling Patriarch's ignorance of power while positing his addiction to the fount. So much of the sects' logic paled before the sun of honest judgement, like the cheek of a feverish courtesan beneath the thick, crackled paints of her debut.
But Lan Wangji prepares to argue the old way of orthodoxy now, its residual, stubborn dichotomies. Black, white. One, the other. Choose, Wei Ying. Choose. )
The curse is too aged. Too settled. ( And they possess Wei Ying's creativity and passion, and Lan Wangji's brute strength, but lack the scholarly, knowing guidance of a grandmaster. They need a firm, wrinkled hand to steer them, lest their ship should crash against stone. ) We cannot break it.
no subject
What can they achieve here? His hand walks the slope of the girl's ankle bone once more, sensing where thin rivulets of qi bloom into energies the fox phantasm has appropriated, then amplified. Too strong, for one so long depleted, a frail stalk born of riotous root. The tree wants cut. )
Death of the invader.
( But he knows Wei Ying's intrinsic objection, his constant aversion to the cruelty of resource wasted, when energy is so often better repurposed. It was arrogant to assume the Yiling Patriarch's ignorance of power while positing his addiction to the fount. So much of the sects' logic paled before the sun of honest judgement, like the cheek of a feverish courtesan beneath the thick, crackled paints of her debut.
But Lan Wangji prepares to argue the old way of orthodoxy now, its residual, stubborn dichotomies. Black, white. One, the other. Choose, Wei Ying. Choose. )
The curse is too aged. Too settled. ( And they possess Wei Ying's creativity and passion, and Lan Wangji's brute strength, but lack the scholarly, knowing guidance of a grandmaster. They need a firm, wrinkled hand to steer them, lest their ship should crash against stone. ) We cannot break it.