He stops for the ribbon, bled on its wilted branch.
Tries it, with distant but remembered awareness, for shadow traces of magical residue, before he deigns to drag it close, scent of it sharp and familiar with fingers coiled and crystallised to retain it. A keepsake, like leathers and bones and antlers of a ruined beast, like blood spattered in the liminal space between fang and mouth's corner. This is his prey, learn him.
Around him, talismans catapult into petty explosions, motes of dust and tender flame. Enough bitterness lives in him to severe contact with the last of his spells, so that they no longer feed those parting few heartbeats before Wei Ying condemns them to callous explosion. Waste your own energies, Wangji has a scant rivulet to draw from, his found dry.
Before him, Wei Ying is a pale arrow, the smear of a weeping constellation. Fast. And was it Yunmeng who taught him the run, or was it despair at the feet of Yiling, after? No matter. Drawn to a knee, Lan Wangji sweeps the ground until pebbles reveal themselves wickedly thick and he collects the fattest, throws them in a fast, mean, strong fusillade, aiming for where Wei Ying's feet might next land —
And dashes after him, calligraphy a clumsy perversion of sweat and saliva on crude parchment, casting out the string binding talisman, should his prey fall. "Better for you to yield early."
Somewhere, out there, Wei Ying either curses the ingenuity of his own talisman creation, or laughs the Lan's work of mimicry.
no subject
Tries it, with distant but remembered awareness, for shadow traces of magical residue, before he deigns to drag it close, scent of it sharp and familiar with fingers coiled and crystallised to retain it. A keepsake, like leathers and bones and antlers of a ruined beast, like blood spattered in the liminal space between fang and mouth's corner. This is his prey, learn him.
Around him, talismans catapult into petty explosions, motes of dust and tender flame. Enough bitterness lives in him to severe contact with the last of his spells, so that they no longer feed those parting few heartbeats before Wei Ying condemns them to callous explosion. Waste your own energies, Wangji has a scant rivulet to draw from, his found dry.
Before him, Wei Ying is a pale arrow, the smear of a weeping constellation. Fast. And was it Yunmeng who taught him the run, or was it despair at the feet of Yiling, after? No matter. Drawn to a knee, Lan Wangji sweeps the ground until pebbles reveal themselves wickedly thick and he collects the fattest, throws them in a fast, mean, strong fusillade, aiming for where Wei Ying's feet might next land —
And dashes after him, calligraphy a clumsy perversion of sweat and saliva on crude parchment, casting out the string binding talisman, should his prey fall. "Better for you to yield early."
Somewhere, out there, Wei Ying either curses the ingenuity of his own talisman creation, or laughs the Lan's work of mimicry.