( There is madness in this man, a lack of moderation. Wei Ying might say, he knows laughter.
And there is a wonder in Lan Wangji, wilted to the floor like a plum blossom past its blooming season, if he is the spectator, accomplice or subject of John Constantine's latest farce. If this is all an elaborate game the man and the deathly, enormous, glaring creature of these halls play together, at Wangji's expense.
Cards, then. He has heard of this, at court, in certain circles. Some of the sects, lent to indulgence, find it fashionable.
Though he does not favour the exercise, Lan Wangji affords it every last trickle of his concentration, frowning at the dancing spread before him, at John Constantine's wastefulness of... dexterity? Sorcery? Perhaps the twain. He chooses a card in dim, hollow light, and slips it down on hard stone, for John Constantine to turn over. And he hisses: )
no subject
( There is madness in this man, a lack of moderation. Wei Ying might say, he knows laughter.
And there is a wonder in Lan Wangji, wilted to the floor like a plum blossom past its blooming season, if he is the spectator, accomplice or subject of John Constantine's latest farce. If this is all an elaborate game the man and the deathly, enormous, glaring creature of these halls play together, at Wangji's expense.
Cards, then. He has heard of this, at court, in certain circles. Some of the sects, lent to indulgence, find it fashionable.
Though he does not favour the exercise, Lan Wangji affords it every last trickle of his concentration, frowning at the dancing spread before him, at John Constantine's wastefulness of... dexterity? Sorcery? Perhaps the twain. He chooses a card in dim, hollow light, and slips it down on hard stone, for John Constantine to turn over. And he hisses: )
We lack the time for play.