[ He wears surprise with grace — has been told so, before, by men who would have reaped greater joy from his consternation. Hands staggered over the dra... gon's foot, bound in supplication, dressing more of the wound with the last of the dark-wetted filth, and thinking, surreptitiously, to spy the telltales of Wrathion's sect: is there a curvature to his talons that should have indicated, perhaps, the previous shape of toes and fingers? A turn of his belly that might have once jutted out as a man's firm-edged ribs? A knowing, wry quality to his muzzle, a bluntness to his teeth?
...no. Nothing that Lan Wangji's eye perceives. Less than his mind might have intuited. Were Lan Wangji's qi present, he might have tasted the air for the turbulence of energy that so often sticks in the wake of spell craft, like the electric residue of lightning. Might have searched for granules of Wrathion that the environment, scabrous, cannot hide.
Instead, he only nods, half in greeting, half to admit he has fallen prey to the trickery. ]
Well met.
[ He expects, for the lack of urgency or imprecation, for the stillness of the crea — of Wrathion's composure, like lake waters in summer form, that this is no curse, no devastating metamorphosis of the man's body into a strange, sinewy serpentine shape. Rather, it appears at last fractionally: something old, something borrowed. When light stabs the dark of the dragon's flank, something blue. ]
We both show face to the heavens, beast-like on this day.
no subject
...no. Nothing that Lan Wangji's eye perceives. Less than his mind might have intuited. Were Lan Wangji's qi present, he might have tasted the air for the turbulence of energy that so often sticks in the wake of spell craft, like the electric residue of lightning. Might have searched for granules of Wrathion that the environment, scabrous, cannot hide.
Instead, he only nods, half in greeting, half to admit he has fallen prey to the trickery. ]
Well met.
[ He expects, for the lack of urgency or imprecation, for the stillness of the crea — of Wrathion's composure, like lake waters in summer form, that this is no curse, no devastating metamorphosis of the man's body into a strange, sinewy serpentine shape. Rather, it appears at last fractionally: something old, something borrowed. When light stabs the dark of the dragon's flank, something blue. ]
We both show face to the heavens, beast-like on this day.