( White of their white thunderous, roiling, glistened. Less peace than absence, a sterile hell. No, that is what sleeps beneath our floor boards, that is what waits.
Here, in the forest's cradle, only the dissonance of steps either weighted and strong, or airily skidding. Their breaths clumsily spelling out betrayal in condensation. The animal stench of blood and soot, and the strange gravel of saltpetre that the watch towers line in their cannons to retaliate against fresh flame from enemy catapults. They reek of their despair, the futility of Alem's dwindling defences. Its starvation.
Throughout this, the defenceless suffer. Even the royal-born unspared, the prince Haiva — the man, crippled by years of sickness — begging relief. A fraction of Lan Wangji wished to lend himself to the hunt to resolve his plight. The remainder merely keeps his eye trained on the chasm of white nothing at the woods' periphery, thickets drowned under the evening's snow. Rare berries line the land like pox marks. He has foraged too little, his purse starved.
And then there is his ward, his companion. Clara, who never earnestly complains of a given task or circumstance, but is still frail and small despite herself, betrayed by her bones. Who all but cursed Lan Wangji's wraith-like resignation to the ebb and tide of another war. He haunts her like a scavenging bird, never far from her shadow, while their path deepens in the woods, ever silent to excuse her from the displeasure of his company —
Until they hear it, blood-curdling susurration. Not yet within reach, but close. So very... close. Invisibly so. Perhaps the river... buried beneath snow? Then, they must take caution, as they near a ravine, with their footsteps. )
waterrrrr
( White of their white thunderous, roiling, glistened. Less peace than absence, a sterile hell. No, that is what sleeps beneath our floor boards, that is what waits.
Here, in the forest's cradle, only the dissonance of steps either weighted and strong, or airily skidding. Their breaths clumsily spelling out betrayal in condensation. The animal stench of blood and soot, and the strange gravel of saltpetre that the watch towers line in their cannons to retaliate against fresh flame from enemy catapults. They reek of their despair, the futility of Alem's dwindling defences. Its starvation.
Throughout this, the defenceless suffer. Even the royal-born unspared, the prince Haiva — the man, crippled by years of sickness — begging relief. A fraction of Lan Wangji wished to lend himself to the hunt to resolve his plight. The remainder merely keeps his eye trained on the chasm of white nothing at the woods' periphery, thickets drowned under the evening's snow. Rare berries line the land like pox marks. He has foraged too little, his purse starved.
And then there is his ward, his companion. Clara, who never earnestly complains of a given task or circumstance, but is still frail and small despite herself, betrayed by her bones. Who all but cursed Lan Wangji's wraith-like resignation to the ebb and tide of another war. He haunts her like a scavenging bird, never far from her shadow, while their path deepens in the woods, ever silent to excuse her from the displeasure of his company —
Until they hear it, blood-curdling susurration. Not yet within reach, but close. So very... close. Invisibly so. Perhaps the river... buried beneath snow? Then, they must take caution, as they near a ravine, with their footsteps. )
Running water. To the north.