( He smiles, without clarifying, as guard, not as fuel to his husband: he understand what answer was given well enough. Then what comes, comes, and the chatter of resentment peaks and whines and soars, crying, as the bat-wyvern slips and clatters and climbs lower, lower, to then meet Lan Zhan's steel.
They want to strike even before he calls the note for it, wrapping around and fettering wings, a dark and quiet to most ears howling of anger, of grief, and of intention. There's the question being asked, and he whistles another note, answer coming in voices that overlap and whisper, shriek, or moan. Size limits, such as it is. But life does not, much as the lift itself can repair, the broken and degraded coming back to whole again and again, cyclic.
He remembers the tower, and he answers, his song left on a lingering note, his lips already aching. )
Handful, not counting this one.
( The bleeding creature that shivers and lashes and then goes still, held across the breadth of the shaft, downturned. Dying, yes, he can feel it in its way, but still alive now. )
More large bats? I don't know how large they meeeaaaah!
( Flapping of wings, and bats a third their height drop down, deadly in a dive. Wei Wuxian hurriedly resumes his song, the raw strength of it less melodious in parts for the lack of his flute's finesse, and the resentful energies thrust upward, the bat-wyvern born aloft and turned into shield, smaller bodies hitting and shrieking in shrill high notes as they make contact, thud, thud, thud.
The hurried nature of his manipulations makes for little room where they hold, and the invasion of the wyvern's dying mind turns it spastic, not smooth at first. It comes near to knocking him down, does likewise with Lan Zhan, in its progress upward, leaping, to intercept the bats falling thick as hail, heavy as boulders.
no subject
They want to strike even before he calls the note for it, wrapping around and fettering wings, a dark and quiet to most ears howling of anger, of grief, and of intention. There's the question being asked, and he whistles another note, answer coming in voices that overlap and whisper, shriek, or moan. Size limits, such as it is. But life does not, much as the lift itself can repair, the broken and degraded coming back to whole again and again, cyclic.
He remembers the tower, and he answers, his song left on a lingering note, his lips already aching. )
Handful, not counting this one.
( The bleeding creature that shivers and lashes and then goes still, held across the breadth of the shaft, downturned. Dying, yes, he can feel it in its way, but still alive now. )
More large bats? I don't know how large they meeeaaaah!
( Flapping of wings, and bats a third their height drop down, deadly in a dive. Wei Wuxian hurriedly resumes his song, the raw strength of it less melodious in parts for the lack of his flute's finesse, and the resentful energies thrust upward, the bat-wyvern born aloft and turned into shield, smaller bodies hitting and shrieking in shrill high notes as they make contact, thud, thud, thud.
The hurried nature of his manipulations makes for little room where they hold, and the invasion of the wyvern's dying mind turns it spastic, not smooth at first. It comes near to knocking him down, does likewise with Lan Zhan, in its progress upward, leaping, to intercept the bats falling thick as hail, heavy as boulders.
Small boulders. )