A man in exile becomes a thought exercise in amusement, Wei Wuxian too far beyond tired and exhausted of his situation in a soul-sick way to do more than stare at the door to Lan Zhan's collective 'family' home, shut in his face. Mud flecks him thoroughly, fur wet, the smell of himself calming only now because it's too nuanced to compare to the weak sense of scent he prescribed to knowing of wet canine in unfortunate incidents of his youth.

There's no helping it. He'd continue to sleep in the garden, but there are too many who traipse through come morning; there are too many dogs in this village for him to rest easy anywhere, less so now that he is this, easily conflated for the spirits and the hauntings which plague the town, not unfairly. Or not wholly unfairly, he thinks; not that it finds justice stitched into those moments where equality might once have started to bloom.

Quick steps, and he hurries through the still empty streets under the lingering drizzle, heading for what he hopes might be sanctuary, if he can find a way to communicate it. Slips from shadow to shadow, leaps high to break up any trail, then finds himself at last at the home where his son rests, he hopes: and there, applies a paw to the door, flinching away from the sound of his own scraping nails, and hopes it's Sizhui who answers first, and Sizhui can sense something of his self, his energy, his anything that is not a fox, a threat, a danger.

(Though he is, he supposes, all three, at different times. The fox part being most recent, and most horrifying.)