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westwhere2022-09-24 07:00 pm
groundrules) wrote in westwhere2022-09-24 07:00 pm
Entry tags:
- 2ha: chu wanning,
- 2ha: mo ran,
- arc iv,
- arcane: caitlyn,
- arcane: vi,
- arcane: viktor,
- doctor who: river song,
- doctor who: the doctor,
- harry potter: hermione granger,
- kingdom of the wicked: emilia,
- kingdom of the wicked: wrath,
- legend of fei: xie yun,
- legend of fei: zhou fei,
- mcu: kamala khan,
- mcu: yelena,
- oh! my emperor: su xunxian,
- original: red,
- penny dreadful: vanessa ives,
- shadowhunters: alec lightwood,
- shadowhunters: magnus bane,
- star trek: christopher pike,
- star trek: jim kirk (aos),
- star trek: leonard mccoy (aos),
- star trek: spock,
- star wars: finn,
- the unwinding,
- umbrella academy: allison,
- umbrella academy: five,
- untamed: lan sizhui,
- untamed: wen qing,
- warcraft: anduin wrynn,
- warcraft: wrathion,
- warframe: kahl 175,
- x-men: charles xavier
the unwinding
Heya! Let loose for Serthica’s Unwinding — our event spanning 24 September-15 October that doubles as a test drive.
This round’s test drive participants do not require an invite to apply. Applications open over 8-14 October. Enjoy!
SPILL THE TEA | DRIP BY DRIP | ALL A DREA —
✘ NEWCOMERS | BARRELING IN
Soaring seagulls and splintered silence. You awaken on the shoreline of steampunk citadel Clockwork Serthica, recovered by the irritable witch Karsa.
She shares translation and communication devices, scarce healing and a rapid briefing: you have reached a world where undead forces seek to weaponise you in their battle for dominion. Karsa’s employer, the Merchant leads travel to beacons meant to return you home.
Other otherworlders have already infiltrated Serthica. Karsa steers newcomers into the impoverished underworld of the Mouse House, to board a rickety coal train serving the citadel.
- ■ Silver tongues can win you passage.
■ ...alternatively, hide in the obscenely large whiskey barrels the train also smuggles in.
■ Mid-voyage, the train quakes, slamming you into walls and windows. Around you, the stench of bleach, the warm crackle of embers and static magic that builds thick, nearly electric.
You feel faint and fainter, when you overhear Karsa’s murmured, “It’s too early” — “find” — “find” — “it’s like a drea” — “don’t unwind” — “all child’s play.”
✘ OLD TIMERS | INHALE-EXHALE
Eidris, Minaras, the Neutral Zone: all abuzz with residential whispers of imminent Unwinding — an annual fixture natives dread without fully remembering.
- ■ In the two days leading to the Unwinding, characters struggle to tell apart or remember the physical features of natives.
■ Some locals steal you into dark alleys, where they become suddenly stiff, emitting a rusty, guttural Ke-ke-ke sound. They do not recall this after.
The Unwinding kicks off at 6am, when both Eidris and Minaras are overground. Jim Kirk’s fixed music box begins to play, its chipper rural tune overtaking your thoughts: “Up the mountain, in the grove, hand in hand to Ke-ke-ke — Ke-Waihu, fresh harvest’s a treasure trove, each fall we feast anew.”
Earth shatters seismically underfoot, magic depletes, the citadel’s clock tower strikes 6:00 — and an urgent communication from the Merchant is interrupted by static, “You can we-we-we-…-stand it, the white man come — remembrrrrrrrrrrrr live, you are alive, do not be convinsssss —ssss — ssssd otherwisssssss —”
✘ DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE
Down and down, you tumble, Alice — through a cavernous tunnel that widens and chokes arbitrarily. Sometimes you float and fly, sometimes you’re thrust sideways. Mostly, you keep falling.
- ■ Beware objects falling into you: from grand pianos to mystical balls of fire, stray beds, love letters and sharp-pointed weapons. Even a blood-spattered umbrella that shields against anything.
■ You’re dropped unceremoniously into an underground lair, as items keep falling down. Unclaimed, they disappear within minutes. Three jackalopes smoking opiate pipes point you indifferently towards a locked door. On its handle sit a bone dice and a note instructing, ROLL FOUR TO OPEN.
■ The dice can only be thrown every 10 minutes and feels too monstrously heavy to lift otherwise. Each roll makes the effect of the previous throw disappear. If you get:- one: gravity fades, the dice floats out of reach. ( The jackalopes enjoy the breeze. )
two: the floor, barring a few narrow steps at great jumping distance, is lava. ( The jackalopes check ‘hell’ off their vacation list.)
three: an irked dragon coils beside you. (The jackalopes prepare to tan.)
five: the thrower grows and grows and grows, until they must contort creatively to fit inside. ( The jackalopes charge rent. )
six: the room fills with water that nearly reaches the ceiling. (The jackalopes are competitive swimmers.)
seven: everything about your companion irritates you. They even breathe wrong. ( The jackalopes find this awkward. )
eight: The floor slowly expands into quicksand. ( The jackalopes hoverboard. )
■ Roll four and the door creaks merrily open. A second note slips loose, I’m sorry. Head in, your newfound possessions abandoned — and keep U n w i n d i n g. - one: gravity fades, the dice floats out of reach. ( The jackalopes enjoy the breeze. )
✘ SPILL THE TEA
You wake, dressed to the steampunk nines, at a tea party, alongside a companion and a slew of eerie guests: cog droids, faceless people and animated human-sized burlap mannequins. You only hear static and white noise when they speak.
When you leave the table, a fox butler passes you the empty kettle, asking you to, ”Make tea and finish here”.
- ■ You’re inevitably stuck in a decrepit dollhouse. Heavily boarded doors and windows ultimately open to show plague sickness in the streets. The fox butler closes them, reminding, ”He’ll make it go away.”
■ Travel a corridor of repeating rooms to reach the kitchens, and don’t dally. Every time the clock strikes a new hour, the partygoers grab their sharpest knife and stalk down the house to pursue you. The frenzy lasts 10 minutes before they return to their seats — barricade in deserted rooms, hide behind curtains or climb up the chimney…
■ For tea, the mannequin cook directs you to retrieve juniper and rosemary leaves from the greenhouse, where plant tendrils try to trap you, leaving marks of mould; rescue the milk container from a cat that’s running on the crumbling staircase, and sugar from a dish in the lavish nursery room, where ghostly hands might seek to drag you into walls and send you back down the rabbit hole.
■ Supplied, the huffing burlap cook prepares tea. Just as you’re about to taste the black brew at the party table, a man in white takes and spills your tea out in a plant pot. You only hear, ”You don’t need this yet” — before you’re U n w i n d i ng.
■ On exiting the Unwinding, your pockets burst with plants or leaves of juniper and rosemary. They can alleviate McCoy’s sickness.
✘ DRIP BY DRIP
You wake up in bloodied clothes in a filled bathtub. You are hounded by urgency, as if you’re hunted. The unease never wanes, as you gather your bearings and join the bustling city streets, armed with a blood-spattered white umbrella. In your pocket, two paper notes: CHILDREN LIE and WHAT IS HIS NAME?(
Your memories are confused: half of you is certain you are a content citizen of Serthica. The other riots that you don’t belong. An excruciating migraine strikes when you try to remember how you arrived here.
Gravity’s a loose concept: you walk, or you float. The city is either perfectly still, or inundated with the screeching of hearses and criers. Locals — all faceless, or man-sized burlap mannequins — mill busily, despite the forlorn rain.
- ■ Hold on to your umbrella: linger uncovered in the rain, and your facial features slowly fade, while you desperately try to convince your teammate that you should stay here forever. You recover once dry.
■ The inhuman locals grow increasingly more hostile with time: carriages want to run you over, friendly burlap shopkeepers push you into a ditch. They chase if you ask their name.
■ Happily, this world is vulnerable to your desires: wish gravity undone, and you can walk on walls. Think a river into being, and it bursts ahead. Imagine buildings, and they pop up. Playing God comes at a price of bad luck: the staircase you envisage thins and breaks just as you cross it, your knife rusts after the first swing.
■ Your pursuers abandon you, when you reach a deserted marketplace and encounter a drenched, battered boy wearing a fox mask. He is playing with paper boats in the middle of a large black puddle. You feel deep and building hatred for him.
■ Seeing you, the child mentions one of you previously tried to kill him. He offers his name, in exchange for your umbrella:
a. Refuse or dally, and dark hands rise out of the puddle to pull you and your partner in, scratching you bloody. The last thing you see, before you wake up in the bathtub again (or out of the Unwinding), is a man in white who collects your umbrella. He holds it over the child, scolding, ”Did you forget again? This one never hurt you.”
b. To surrender the umbrella, step on the paper boats as you cross the puddle to the boy. Walking straight on water feels like stepping on knives. The child accepts your umbrella, whispering his name is ”Hyang-Won”, before you start to fade out of the Unwinding.
✘ IT WAS ALL A DREA —
New or old, as the Unwinding ends, you wake up in Ma’am Mariol’s modest orphanage in the Mouse House. Mariol, the orphans and Serthica at large recall nothing about the Unwinding. Karsa, who dragged you in, is pale and exhausted, her memory patchy. She urges everyone to recuperate before heading back overground.
- ■ Your body shows only a fraction of any damage sustained in the Unwinding.
■ Ma’am Mariol’s labyrinthine home offers limited accommodations: share beds, floors, and household chores, while the orphans led by curious Gavroche, peer in.
NOTES
- ■ You can make network posts outside of the Unwinding.
■ Feel free to mark if you're a test drive tourist or an old timer in your top level!
■ The Unwinding is a shifting of realities not a dreamscape.
■ You can opt out of the Unwinding by keeping characters in the Mouse House. Here, nothing seems amiss.
■ QUESTIONS!
this is................ "rustic"
( He had anticipated the privilege of three heartbeats to right his breathing. One to gather his bearings. Another, to negotiate a diplomatic response.
Instead, the girl navigates the room like a river's tempest, erratic and efficient and strange, as if circumstances of great and eerie urgency are simply — hurdles in the string of her daily feats. As if each day, when Lan Wangji combs his hair and rights his silks and thinks of the merits of spiritual enlightenment, she does first-hand battle with the inhabitants of foreign walls.
Perhaps that is, in her village, neighbourly.
He does not flinch. Does not defend himself, even as the door clangs and clatters and another creature from beyond rams the heft of its body into the wood's span, and his wards hiss, fizzling. He holds the line. )
...step beside me. ( Ah, but to borrow his brother's grace. ) Please.
( The man who breathes as if every righteous exhalation brings him steps closer to the heavens is, as it so happens, also the lone bearer of a weapon. She glistens, sheen of viscera pleasantly thinned on her blade, caught in the spasming clutch of his hand. )
We pace ourselves. Count, then open the doors. ( And softened: ) You bear any weapon?
( Name it coincidence when his gaze drifts pointedly down to the vase. )
no subject
Having manners while the angriest tea drinkers I've ever met try to murder us? That's impressive.
[ When he asks if she has a weapon Clara holds out her arms in a do you see a weapon? gesture until she follows his eyes and Bob's your uncle. ]
...Oh. You know what, you and all of this [ she gestures at his magic at large ] are both gonna be fun to unpack later. [ She picks up the vase that has a nice handle for swinging. ]
For now, I'm ready on whatever your count is.
no subject
( ...three, he does not whisper back, but ostensibly holds his sword hand to the side, Bichen steadfast and taut and ready, trembled by the great sullen divides and reshaping of energies through his wards. His magic blinks deadened. Pulses alive. He waits, and —
Three, another creature pushes and throws itself chest-first against the door's span.
Two, growling intensifies on the other side, feral and quick.
One, the hard scratch of heels, the creak of wooden board —
— and Lan Wangji dissolves the wards, hastens the door open, brings Bichen down in a flickered, abortive arc, prepared to cull and amputate —
Only to strike air. Face nothing. Blink, entrapped in stupor, when the turn of his head reveals a string of party guests pairing obediently on their walk down the staircase, retreating to the hall room. Two even seem to be conversing politely, pointing to the unfortunate state of the torn curtains.
Bichen rests a hard weight in hand, waiting. Perhaps they'll turn. Perhaps this is the game of it. Perhaps — ...another guest, fettered in burlap skins, rights the rug she displaced when rushing down the stairs. Truly, a domestic criminal. )
...they are dispersing.
( An... ticlimactic, with certainty. )
no subject
Grip tightening on the handle of the vase, Clara swallows heavily and takes a deep breath, wetting her lips and training her eyes on the door. On two, she exhales while stepping forward, and on three, Clara gets ready to play defensive. When the magic dissipates, the door opens much faster than when she'd had to practically throw herself into it.
Her eyes see that no one is there before her mind actually registers it. After putting down the vase - careful not to toss it aside and break it - she very slowly creeps forward, poking her head out from behind him. Clara searches for words after stepping further into the hallway cautiously. With hands on hips in her new steampunk outfit, she looks at the guy with the magic who probably just saved her life. ]
I'm gonna go with brainwashed, you?
no subject
( Artfully, their pursuers seem to now be retreating in a semi-orderly, pointedly elegant fashion, nearly challenging Lan Wangji to find fault. He hesitates — first, to blink the world in and out of existence, to reframe the cause and evidence of his stupor. Then, to gently coax from within himself the conviction that the moments that preceded this were honest and comprehensive and true.
In his hand, Bichen remains, taut and hungered. He teases her, thumb dragged emptily over her length, splitting skin that qi replenishes rapidly, to give her a taste of red. If you draw a sword, you owe it blood spilled.
Stepping ahead of the girl, he opens himself to any residual threat, casting a sharp glance to take in the corridor, the rooms, then start them for the slippery coils of the lacquered staircase. )
Caution. ( And less... wit. Though it has been the privilege of Lan Wangji's survival in this world to make the serene acquaintance of women possessed of a sharpness of tongue that surpasses acuity to achieve feats of sword forgery and needlework. ) We do not know which behaviour spells their fever. This, or the hunt.
( Perhaps earlier, the guests lingered on their best behaviour, and were immersed into their frenzy by curse or especial circumstance. Or perhaps they have, all along, merely falsified their good conduct, to lure them into an initial conviction of safety.
Better not to trust. )
no subject
And so is this guy with the sword.
She very nearly whispers what the fuck under her breath. The danger is obviously the most important to figure out, but she has so many questions about the magic and his weapon. Mostly how? Although, he seems like the brooding, intense type even outside of chaos. Maybe it's best to stick with the action. Still, Clara can't help but note: ] Not a man of many words, are you? [ Reaching back for the vase, the room is left behind her for good. ]
Just before, the clock chimed. I remember because it was otherwise quiet and scared the absolute shite out of me. This was after the talking fox told me to make tea.
no subject
( ...ah. She heard too, then. The crystalline, careful scratch of sound, like nails on glass, like breaking. The clock did spew its pretty sounds, and Lan Wangji considered the possibility of causality, only, absent further evidence — )
Here, clocks chime for the newborn hour. ( Forgive a man his oblivious, if brutal condescension. ) We cannot say with certain —
( Only, his gaze scouts the corridor, the belly stretch of great, groaning wood, how the hallway fills out with shadow and haze — broken by glistened, cold, metal beads and trims and hardware. Filigree. Some mounted on furnitures, other as emblems darkening walls.
Many, crowding the clock — a thin, fragile, dainty old man, tongue-hands wagging just past the new hour. He nods the girl over. )
We may force the new hour, sooner. ( Tinker with the hands, until they point, artificially, once more to a fresh hour, before its rightful time. ) Test their response.
( ...and chance slaughter again. )
no subject
The clock gives her the actual creeps, the general ambiance around it menacing as if it holds onto darkness. She's silently thinking she has to stop reading so much horror, when an absolutely insane idea makes itself known. When Clara looks at him, he might as well have grown a head on either shoulder. ]
...Or we could make the tea. Either we have an hour to figure it out, or we set off the murder alarm early and they attack us again. That's if the clock is the trigger at all.
[ Her voice is a whisper, but none of the are you out of your fucking mind? in her tone or expression has been lost. ]
no subject
( They lock horns in this, the moment drawling. Perhaps Lan Wangji's second and third heads are assisting him in the battle. Or perhaps he is simply glass-eyed but stubborn-strong, ignorant of where the girl and he fail to meet in understanding. )
Better to know what stirs their wrath than learn unaware.
( After all, the devilry you know. But he sees her, small and sharp and quick-witted and agile. Sees her, defenceless, but for the glass-porcelain abandoned in her hand. A fool's weapon, desperate. Were she thrust before a keen-fanged threat, how would she give answer?
Easy, for the man with the silently sibilant blade, the blood rust on him, the years of drills and practise — to propose violence. Humility dawns late on him, draws his shoulders down. He starts them on the narrow path, eye affixed on the looming kitchens. )
Tea will want brewing. Come, mistress.
no subject
If something tries to stab me, you can kill it. [ Wouldn't the Doctor hate to hear her say that? Or would he? Hell if she knows anymore. ] And calling me Clara is fine.
[ She pauses just a beat as she falls into step beside him. ] Thanks. For the magical protection I mean, don't think I said it before. [ What with the walls moving and people trying, then not trying, to murder them. ] Is that...learned? Genetic? Mix of both?
[ Even in dangerous situations, Clara always wants to know more, though she's mentally sticking by her assessment he doesn't talk much. ]
no subject
( ...is he a hunting hound, then, that his companions so often feel compelled to send him in chase of an elusive kill? Perhaps there is space for wonder, for a private reckoning with the weapon he has created himself to be and the quality of person who possesses him in his arsenal. He surrounds himself with bloodied hands. Find his edges red-stained.
But then, this girl-child wishes to know the make of him. He crisps, passing one row of corridor doors, another of openings, a third of — dark gashes in the wall like toothless mouths, and another of the same doors once over — )
Discretion is a virtue.
( His, in relation to the secrets of the clan. Her — with respect to her general silence. He stills, suddenly, hand soft over the door's frame, peering in. Steeling his gaze ahead, he yet speaks aside: )
Our cook... possesses no face.
( And is carefully polishing her utensils, for all she lacks sight. )
no subject
Try to be less transparent, you nearly gave away all your secrets just then.
[ She does go quiet, glancing at him out of the side of her eye. He's one of the more intense people she's ever met and she wonders how old he is. The general vibe is old, but she figures there's no point in asking - at least not right now. In the kitchen doorway, her head pokes under his to look around him and truly, she is Weirded Out. ]
Guess that explains why we need to make the tea for her. Don't understand why the fox can't do it. [ The fox that has forever ruined her crush on Disney's Robin Hood. ] Do you think it can hear us?
[ Clara starts to walk around him slowly and into the kitchen proper, her footfalls nearly silent as she keeps her weight on the balls of her feet. Years of dance when she was younger helps when needing to be stealthy. It's a practice she rarely gets to exercise with the Doctor. ]
no subject
( He feels not unlike the master of a cat, seeking to herd his animal towards righteous habits, hoping she might yet be coaxed. The girl trickles in, silent like morning light seeping.
To her merit, whatever other her missing parts from a supernatural whole whole, the kitchen's cook hardly takes notice. She seems instead to buzz from one task to the next, chopping diminutive half-moons of celery, stripping leaves of parsley, cleansing fresh fruit for a smooth cut. Idle hands, be not stitched of burlap.
Lan Wangji, firmer of footing, melts his back into the token half-bow of greeting and inserts himself seamlessly into the kitchens, when it is hardly answered. And to the girl, softened: )
We have entered her domain. Desirous of assistance. ( Slow, owlish blinks later: ) Why hide?
no subject
She is good at what she's doing, I'll give her that.
[ Almost as if Clara's been heard, the lady of the kitchen seems to stop and turn to face them; before Clara can toss over her patented 'I told you so' look, there's movement. A door on the opposite side of the kitchen seems to lead to what looks like a sunroom with plants - at least for now - and the mannequin extends an arm toward it. ]
There, through there? You want us to go into the room?
[ Clara counts the space of two heartbeats before the cook turns again to her duties, task assigned. ]
no subject
( First alert, then neglectful. It feels as if the cook is a the mildew-rag simulation of a person, an artless doll performing the one task set before its sights. He lingers, discreetly, another shadow at her side, intruding with the trinket of his touch on her elbow to draw her unseeing, scratched eyes towards him.
By her leave, then. )
What do we seek?
( Plants, he sees them, lush leaf and curled tendril, sprawling fat and with fine heft, collapsed across pots and floors. But is there a flower she wishes plucked, must they wilt and weather and crisp it?
...no, the mannequin turns to him, grave and silent, and then she retrieves and presents a small brittle pot. When she taps its side, he knows, Such as this one, and nods his gratitude.
To the sunroom, then, Lan Wangji's step careful so the girl might walk beside him. )
She intends for us to find similar recipients of leaf and tea dust.
no subject
The rosemary I recognize. Not sure about the other. [ Which stands to reason, she'll look for that one she knows with eyes and nose, turning to do exactly that. ]
This is the part where you share something with the person you've rescued. [ She looks over her shoulder at him. ] You've definitely saved people before, you must know how it goes; you're the attractive but silent broody type with a sword. [ Going back to rifling through plants, she continues. ]
What planet are you from?
[ Clara can't work in silence, waiting for the clock to strike and test Lan Wangi's theory. ]
no subject
Juniper. Leaves thickly clustered, akin to bulbous braids.
( There, hearty instruction. Let it never be said that Lan Wangji, gently melting to take the knee, does not provide an education. He's quick to peruse the gallery of pots and cups and chipped recipient, some forlornly brimming with dirt, others with pebbles. A handful, with long stale detritus of plants that must have been once intended for a collection that failed to materialise.
He thinks, at first, to strategically forget the question. Then, to pointedly neglect it. At long last: )
You oft encounter phantasms, moons and stars?
( ...if she is so driven to explore the possibility of alien life form. Then, absent-mindedly, with a short kick as he turns over the leaves discovered in a small covered pot — )
Beware the slithering roots.
( About those plant tentacles roiling and squelching on the floor, seeking to entrap their ankles. )
no subject
Probably about as often as you avoid answering questions.
[ That has to be an exaggeration. There's no way she's been to that many different moons, stars, and planets combined yet. She's peering at an unusual looking plant and kicks away a root that's just about to cover the top of her boot. ]
I don't make a habit of giving away my life story without learning anything in return. [ Clara pauses as she grabs a sprig of rosemary. ] I'll give you this one. Yes, I've encountered other planets and moons. Never met a real ghost, though. Thought I did, but she was stuck in a pocket universe that sometimes bled into mine.
[ Clara says this casually, moving to the next table and being careful not to actually crush any roots under her foot. She doesn't want to hurt the plants, not if she doesn't have to. ]
no subject
( Their search dallies. He knows so, fingers fumbling and stiff and slow, and the pace of his discoveries cluttered, poorly measured. Leaves and dirt and debris, and scattered pots, bereft pans in his wake. He listens. )
You give of yourself too freely. ( Just as she condemns that he offers the scraps of himself, the tattered pages. Words come cheaply, whispers in the wind. Scattered with the breeze. He breathes. ) Perhaps I intend you harm.
( And so, he might make blunt and cutting weapon of the knowledge bared before him. He could be such a villain as this, she cannot know him. What is it, to have rescued her life once? A brief stay in his step, barely an inconvenience. )
As perhaps you intend me.
no subject
[ At this point in her life, Clara's already been the most afraid she could ever be (though there's worse to come, and she doesn't know it yet), and now, right now, he doesn't make her afraid. At least, not more afraid than the entire situation in general. ]
I'm flattered you think I could somehow get a hand on you before you killed me with that thing, but no. [ She's (badly) pantomimed using a sword. ] I don't have any interest in killing anything. In fact, if we can figure out this tea before you have to kill a brainwashed houseguest, that'd be amazing. Any luck?
[ She peers at a root that's coming from under a table, slithering and seeming to be reaching blindly for anything. When she murmurs curiously, it's to the plant. ]
What are you? Where are you from? Here, or somewhere else? Oh, the Doctor would know. Probably.
[ She misses him and thinks about what he'd do here, in this situation. Fix the tea or try to figure out the Butter Knife Murderers? Clara's focused just long enough on the root and lost in her thoughts, that she doesn't notice a different plant before it's wrapping around her wrist with surprising speed, causing her to jerk and call out in surprise. ]
no subject
I intend no harm.
( Unto you. Unto the wakeful world. But then, she does not require his caveats, his justifications. When the next plant drips down the gilt of its pollen dust, he wrenches his hands away from its sting, nearly — oh so nearly &dmash; tempted by the unkindness of a curse.
No such discourtesy. She is a woman still. Between the absent shakes of his head — no, lend him another few heartbeats, he turns on the next bowl of leaves, while tendrils of a potted creature slither at his feet — he hears her. A girl... fixated on questions. The doctor she wishes to consult, no doubt relying on a medic's deep acquaintance with herbs. )
We number healers. They will ask samples.
( The beam of his gaze narrows, landing on the girl with an air of sullen, stubborn expectation. Then, on the scissors on the table a handful of steps beside her. Cut. )
The doctor will assist. ( Wen Qing does not lack in the civility to refuse a patient or a scholar. )
no subject
It's good there are doctors here. After the things I've seen? I wouldn't be surprised if there are people who need medical attention. [ She realizes he's misunderstood but doesn't bother to correct. What does it matter when the Doctor isn't with her anyway? Even if he was with her, she isn't ready to deal with an angry old man. ]
Any luck finding the juniper? I'm starting to feel like I'm in a bad remake of Little Shop of Horrors.
[ Clara doesn't expect him to understand that reference (she'd bet he isn't from a world that has Broadway or the film), but it's all she's got. ]
no subject
( No merchant trades in open horror, only in the bloodshed that follows once he has shortchanged you. Lan Wangji, who has never encountered a sliver of silver he would not rightfully waste in the first hand that beseeches it, knows this, if nothing else: there are no little shops of fright.
If anything, what hunts them would be hosted in a palatial abode. He hesitates, gaze first diluted, then gaining focus, while plant tendrils braid and slither and twine around his ankles, climbing his calves. He knows, distantly, he should chase them away, barter his limbs free.
Knows too, under the cold glide of sunken light that washes his hands, that they have no time. Whatever spurred their fellow guests to hunt them will resume shortly enough. A simple matter of personal safety cannot dally them. And besides, with the clang of the next pot lid — )
In hand. ( He holds it up and out to illustrate &mdash juniper, freshly plucked, tightly stored, a small pot's fill. Enough to brew countless infusions. The Heavens be thanked —
Just as a great, beastly vine throws itself at his waist, and forgive him, Clara, if he can't be troubled to forewarn when he tightens the lid back on the small pot and throws it over for safekeeping. Catch. )
no subject
Just as the clock chimes. Already, Clara's putting the pot under one arm and reaching for the scissors Lan Wangji helped her with earlier. It's almost as if the plants are angrier; more tendrils are lashing out, and she has to try and avoid them. It slows her down, and she looks toward Lan Wangji again, calling out to him. ]
If it's the clock, we're outta time.
no subject
( And so, more tinny, threadbare screeching.
He hears the wet of vines first, the crackling of ground, the sudden, animal stampede of the guests raising themselves, storming their dining table. Chairs shriek, cast aside. Floors groan.
There is a moment when Lan Wangji considers the inevitable strategy governed by his natural resources: to bring up his blade, to punish the girl with isolation behind him, to lend himself to carnage. Bichen thrums, a quiet reassurance in his hand, watchful and waiting and thirsting. The odds do not favour him, one against countless, with a young one to defend and the plants at his back. Talismans might bide time to —
But then, the greenhouse door creaks open in slow, sinister susurrations. His gaze falls on it, tension commanding his arm taut. Behind him, a large, carnivorous plant's roots coil and turn for the entrance.
...movement, he realises, absently. These creatures lack the intelligence to know friend from foe, and so he dances a few steps back, waving the girl over, and pressing himself against the wall — breath nearly a charcoal smudge of itself, an afterthought of condensation. He signals for the girl to join him, mouths: )
Be still.
( As the plant tendrils and roots and vines swarm and assail the first dinner guest who rushes in, fire poker in hand. )
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