westwhere | [ CLOSED ] These are my confessions

Entry tags:

[ CLOSED ] These are my confessions

WHO: Wrathion, Wei Wuxian, Marcos, Anduin
WHEN: Early March, Mid March, and toward the end!
WHERE: Ke-Waihu Burial Grounds & Wrathion's farmhouse accommodation
WHAT: Curse breaking, Healing
WARNINGS: Talk of death, grieving, some discussion of fantasy-esque-wounds. Depression Vibes. More TBC, there's plenty of places this nonsense could go

Atonement is something that had been on Wrathion's mind well before they arrived in Ke-Waihu.

He has, after all, much to atone for: Wrathion is not unaware of his own sins. He wears them like heavy chains around his neck, visible to all who know him.

A black dragon. A betrayer, someone who turned on the only friend he had. A schemer. A risk.

Reputations like that are hard to wash away, yet Wrathion has tried.

Everything he has done has been to atone. For his actions, for his family's actions, for his actions toward his family.

For the damage that cannot be undone.

Now, on top of that, he has been asked to atone for others.

Frustration crawls under his skin, a tingling desire to do something about this. To protest it, to reject the additional burden --

Yet it seems rejection is not an option, not if they wish to continue on with this little group. Not if they wish to follow it until it reveals the path home.

Wrathion is not a dragon used to humbling himself on behalf of others, he's still new to do it himself. He can try, though.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Wei Wuxian pauses, before he shakes his head and laughs, a low, rolling sound.

"He's practised for a different audience. Lan Zhan's never been easy with people," he says, and it's explanation without apology. Lan Zhan tries, and learns, and has come further in ways that perhaps would not have changed so swiftly at home. One year in this world that is not theirs to hold, and Lan Zhan has been learning to adapt.

It's not equally easy for all.

He comes closer, crouching down to look at the grave markers and read their characters, hand touching his pendant.

"That he's trying at all means he thinks you're a person he cares to assist." Done poorly or done well, it's progress.

"You can see their graves given proper acknowledgement. Clean them, leave offerings, acknowledge them. Did you want me to see if their spirits in particular happen to linger?"

A pause, as Wrathion considers this answer. Wei Wuxian does not sound judgemental about it, but nor like he disagrees. He is resigned to this behaviour, perhaps. It makes him wonder if Anduin speaks of him the same way, explaining for him.

"He cares more for the dead than the living. On that, we will never agree."

Still, he gestures at the graves.

"Communing with spirits is not within my abilities, unless they show themselves. If you don't mind."

He would appreciate knowing if he should expect... restless activity in this area while he works here. Better to know than to be surprised after all.

"... Ah, is that what it sounded like?" He looks back over his shoulder to Wrathion, expression more serious, lips pulled p in a small, genuine smile. "It's wrong, but I can understand why it'd seem otherwise. Lan Zhan cares more for the living than the dead. He also cares that the dead are respected, such as they can be, within the confines of his teaching. One he's... stretched, more than others of our kind of cultivation have."

He stands again, stepping back and pulling the flute he carries out of his waistband. The song he plays is not a command, but an invitation: the energies here he'd felt were not ones yearning for immediate attention, but they respond now, enough that Wrathion might see the evidence of some as black smoke, stirred and coiling around grave markers throughout the graveyard. None are quite so strong as to take on a form that Wrathion might see beyond the swirl of smoke, and none try to possess either of them: Wei Wuxian wouldn't allow it, if any had tried.

It does make for a poignantly strange visual nonetheless.

When he pulls his flute away from his lips, he cants his head, squinting as he listens. "Oh, there's plenty of those lingering here... one of them sounds lost." He glances to a further corner, where a voice only he hears asks if anyone's seen her shoes. Then he blinks, shaking his head, and focussing back on the graves that Wrathion is most concerned with. Most show some sign of something hovering over them, the black smoke indicating a spirit stirred up from some more quiescent state to one of larger awareness.

"Most yours are here to some extent, ah? Not all of them feel angry." A pause, and he listens again, eyes flitting between a handful of graves. "These ones are willing to forgive. Those ones," he gestures to several others, "Aren't as ready to do the same. Probably that's who we'll need to negotiate with."

It is indeed what it seemed like to Wrathion, and he isn't certain he believes Wei Wuxian that it is otherwise.

He'll wait for that to be proven to him, but he's polite enough not to argue the point. The man cares about him, it wouldn't do good to persist in complaining about Lan Wangji to his face.

The flute, however, is interesting, as is the impact it has. In Azeroth, any lingering spirit he'd seen was clearly visible and had the form it held in life. There's none of this strange, smoky affair. It all seems to make sense to Wei Wuxian, of course, so perhaps Azeroth is the outlier in that. Perhaps lingering mists are the norm.

"Well," he allows, "less angry is good."

Negotiation with the undead is not how he'd been expecting to spend his time, but whatever helps at this point. He tilts his head curiously, running his eyes along the grave markers.

"A small mercy, given how full of horrors this world appears to be."

"Any world has its share, but yes... this one leans heavily in those directions in recent decades." Slavery aside, as that predated the horrors of the undead lords. Enough misery to spread around out of people's own machinations, but he can't think all of them inclined toward selfishness over all else.

"Though Master Scorpion is rather fond of seeing everything on fire as we go along. Now..."

He lifts his flute, playing again, listening to the loudest, angriest voice first. Each, heard in turn, though not all can say much: it's not so much a question and answering as a cajoling, the words that were offered, and the patience behind his listening. To Wrathion, it's an extended period of time watching the shadowy energies ebb, flow, surge, take more form, then lessen.

In a word, an eerie one-man symphony, but the energies don't rile up, become agitated. Whatever Wei Wuxian appears to be doing, it does not enrage.

Master Scorpion. The Merchant, perhaps? The range of nicknames the man has seems to grow every day. Wrathion watches in silence as Wei Wuxian plays, uncertain if saying anything would... interrupt the ritual. If any energy in the whole place is resentful or agitated, he is probably part of it in truth -- but he isn't dead, and cannot be placated by music.

That he's aware.

Arms folded, Wrathion carefully moves up and down the row so he can better watch the reactions to the music. His movements are slow, cautious, as if anything too sudden might cause disruption -- like the spirits here are wild animals who are being gently tamed.

What cost this negotiation? He is already here, tidying the place, putting it to rights, watching over it to prevent further defilement. Will he now also be running errands? Anduin listens all day to requests at the house of the old wise man, he supposes he cannot argue that errands would be beneath him when the High King of the Alliance is solving minor disputes and giving advice.

The Merchant has so many names, and Master Raven might be one of them, but the Scorpion is who bared his tail to Wei Wuxian, venomous and vengeful. Also cunning, calculating, an ally by choice, and one who did not weep for the particular hardships of the chaos they strew behind them, ever effecting this world on their small, tipping scales.

When the songs finish, he pauses for quiet breath, regards the graves and the stories shouted at him by the dead, cried out to him, when he needn't ask. To Wrathion, it becomes simple:

"Planted flowers for that marker, incense for the one to your left. This one requests a burnt offering of your words—do you write? Some sort of heart confession, something that pains you. Those three require payment to their descendants, in the form of... ah, livestock, that's what it was. The one to your right asks for blood. Not life's blood, I said it wouldn't serve anything, but he wants blood in willing sacrifice. Left vague," he says, looking to Wrathion, looking somewhat fey himself, "Make use of that, ah?"

Quite the list of tasks. Wrathion feels as if he should have been taking notes. Still, flowers and incense are easy. A burned confession is a little obscure, but Wrathion supposes he can do that. Does the language used matter? The writing here is similar to Mogu or Pandaren. A blood sacrifice is a little much, but he supposes he can work something else.

He frowns in thought, hesitantly turning this over, then finally asks:

"How much livestock were they imagining?"

He's not keen to wipe out all his finds buying animals to donate, so he'll have to work something out. A single cow is different, however, to a whole herd.

"Enough to make up the weight of their loss. Which... unless you have an idea, is likely to be poultry or a suckling pig, or perhaps a goat, if too much of them had been taken."

All livestock, without getting into the exorbitantly expensive to purchase, and often equally expensive to maintain. Oxen, horses, donkeys, the larger animals needed more grazing, and the way of this region was not one that supported plenteous foliage. Not even the dead were free from that understanding.

"Ducks, geese, chickens... More reasonable means. Which they will," he says, giving a firm eye to the gathered spirits all represented in their smoky manner, "Accept."

As has been agreed. Then rest, for those who linger, perhaps. That final sending is one he can help with, even and especially here.

Hmm, well, that's a wide range of options. He's sure he can manage at least one of those.

"I'll see what I can find," he allows, unfolding his arms and turning more fully to Wei Wuxian. "And what is the cost of your services?"

He has helped him, after all, taken the time to do this. Nothing, in Wrathion's experience, is entirely free -- and he'd rather not owe a favour. That can be taken advantage of.

He lifts his brow, smiles and shakes his head.

"Offer your services to those of us who need them, in time. You know your strengths."

Which is a directive, just not aimed at benefiting Wei Wuxian himself in a direct way.

"I prefer not to leave a debt unpaid."

Offer your services to those who need them is too broad a request for someone who takes obligations seriously when asked, but who equally has a clear priority list that doesn't necessarily match everyone else's.

"Then you'll have to ask again later, I'm afraid." He shrugs, but it's not much of an apology, nor is it meant as one. "Unless you'd prefer to talk about your skills, so I know what's reasonable to ask--or assume we'll both be around for it to help. Curses here I've already handled," more than one, but he doesn't choose to dwell on that anymore than he dwelled on any other curse he'd been inflicted with in his life, "Protection of those I care for deeply is something already in place. I'd rather your cooperation work for the group as a whole at some point, when within your powers, to facilitate our return to our worlds."

As he looks across the graveyard, listening to the mother mourning her daughter, for a death she will not claim in clarity. Cannot claim, he suspects, not as old as her ghost appears to be, too deteriorated by the experience of time.

He lofts an eyebrow at that, thinks a moment about his answer. The wording of it has to be careful, so as not to give offense if he can help it.

"This group already has my support, when we're not too much in disagreement."

He cannot promise always, because if it does something too at odds with his principles he might have to step back, but in general the group not collapsing is to his benefit. He does, after all, want to go home.

"But I'm recommend myself if you need anything made or repaired. I have some tailoring skills, jewelcrafting, blacksmithing. I can also do enchantments, although the difference in materials and their natural properties means it may take a little research to manage the correct effect."

Wei Wuxian doesn't pretend to look uninterested, though the predominant emotion to accompany it is outright curiosity, not avarice.

"Really, you're far too fascinating not to work with on the blacksmithing and enchanting alone. What styling of enchantments? The word and the concept is more one I encountered here, we craft talismans or arrays in my home, and blades might be made spiritual in nature, but it's not exactly enchantment."

He has entirely gone off topic, right here, in the cemetery. Which in fairness to Wei Wuxian, is the type of place he's had to be very inventive in for survival purposes in the past.

Hmm, how to explain.

"Adding a property or embedded spell to an item. Common enchantments include gloves that helps you increase the speed you can perform small tasks for everyday use, adding a specific property like elemental damage to a weapon and so on. I have specialised in more... intricate and specific enchantments in the past. One of my first significant commissions was a pair of daggers that allowed their user to sustain faster attacks, and which slowed the speed of a fall when held. They were to be used in the assassination of a flying target."

So, in that sense, a slower descent if the wielder fell was... useful in case things went awry. Dropping from a great height was not to be recommended, after all.

He nods, taking in the possibilities and weighing them against what he can do: inscribing, inscription, yes he knows that form. Still the idea of doing so for.. well, that is a curiosity. Enhancing speed? How does it borrow the energies to do that? Yet that, too, is something an individual world might explain.

"Similar principles to what I know, but a different approach and way to think about them. I take it flight isn't something available to most those in your world, not even extraordinarily accomplished martial artists?"

"Some, by manner of natural ability or shape-changing, or priest might slow their own when trained to do so. Most, however, simply employ the use of a mount with wings."

A gryphon, a phoenix, a winged horse -- the range is fairly wide. Such things are common enough that flight is fairly normal, just not... so much without assistance from wings or a winged creature.

"Oh." He pauses, lifting his brows. "See, back home, we only fly swords."

If they fly at all, and anyone not a cultivator of a certain rank of core strength, with their own spiritual blade they could keep adequately flush with qi, did not fly. Leap great distances due to internal arts, certainly!

"Don't tell me donkeys have wings where you're from?" Little Apple with great grey-brown wings going after a whole apple tree flits through his mind, and he's so off track, one might think he's trying to forget where they are.

He also waves his hand, and shakes his head. "Ah, you can tell me as we leave, or sometime later. So fascinating, how each world we come from carries such different normals for us to see!"

Fly with swords...?

He's imagining swords that are enchanted in some way, the way he once enchanted daggers. The visual is obscure, but the reality is nothing that Azeroth can really imagine as practical. Nothing that Wrathion, therefore, can picture.

"Of course," he allows, hesitantly shooting once glance back around the burial ground. Is Wei Wuxian trying to get him to leave? He supposes he has his answers, and most of them require him to fetch something or perform an action. Still, he hadn't particularly objected to the quiet.

Then again, perhaps it isn't best to stay here all day when he'll need to watch over it at night too.

"Horses," he says, turning toward Wei Wuxian. "I must confess I've never witnessed a flying donkey, but horses yes -- among other things."

He tilts his head towards the exit, takes a slow step away from graves and back towards the village.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ CLOSED ] These are my confessions

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

we can likely nod to ending this thread here, if that sounds okay?

Sure!