( ...ah, the sweet, sibilant sight of younglings cooing, coiling around Wrathion as if they're lizards on hot stone, soaking in sun. There must be a draw to the dark of him, how the infant lizards twine and search Wrathion's legs to climb up the steps of his spine, while those possessed of strength in their burgeoning wings scatter the bones, spread out thin membranes. They cannot yet fly.
Wangji's stillness speaks for him, draws him down like collapsed marble. He breaks the descent like a fall, on one knee, then its brother, then the dragons gather and swarm — until his fingers insinuate themselves, serpentine and demure, catching the dragons where bones knot into wings and their young, shedding skin itches like pox. He scratches there, tip of his nail scrying sweet mewls of dragon pleasure. Aiva, tense like a brittle sword, watches on.
He says, softened: )
They appear... ( But then, others have spoken the words before him. He brings no epiphany, no wisdom. Only the dulled, bruise hurt of reiteration. ) Dead.
( More so, when the pass of his hand summons forth the half-coagulated silhouette of his zither, and he touches and teases strings, to signal in tongues of qi. He speaks, and yet — )
no subject
( ...ah, the sweet, sibilant sight of younglings cooing, coiling around Wrathion as if they're lizards on hot stone, soaking in sun. There must be a draw to the dark of him, how the infant lizards twine and search Wrathion's legs to climb up the steps of his spine, while those possessed of strength in their burgeoning wings scatter the bones, spread out thin membranes. They cannot yet fly.
Wangji's stillness speaks for him, draws him down like collapsed marble. He breaks the descent like a fall, on one knee, then its brother, then the dragons gather and swarm — until his fingers insinuate themselves, serpentine and demure, catching the dragons where bones knot into wings and their young, shedding skin itches like pox. He scratches there, tip of his nail scrying sweet mewls of dragon pleasure. Aiva, tense like a brittle sword, watches on.
He says, softened: )
They appear... ( But then, others have spoken the words before him. He brings no epiphany, no wisdom. Only the dulled, bruise hurt of reiteration. ) Dead.
( More so, when the pass of his hand summons forth the half-coagulated silhouette of his zither, and he touches and teases strings, to signal in tongues of qi. He speaks, and yet — )
No ghosts answer.
( Well, then. The zither, released, dispels. )