̶W̶R̶A̶T̶H̶I̶O̶N̶ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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westwhere2023-02-25 12:16 am
blackscales) wrote in westwhere2023-02-25 12:16 am
Entry tags:
[ ACTIVE ]
WHO: Wrathion & fellow siege survivors
WHEN: Part 2 of the siege
WHERE: Various locations in and on the borders of Alem
WHAT: Investigation, crafting, pacing, thinking. Some closed prompts! You can throw a new one at me, or plan with me here for me to write something custom.
WARNINGS: None to start, beyond some bad mental health situations going on here.
War was something Wrathion understand. He'd never had a childhood, not really. Never really had friends. What youth he had, as he grew far too quickly, had been taken over by his dark purpose. By the threat of Deathwing --
( A shadow of dark wings, a deep voice, metal plates, magma held into shape --)
and all those who would have killed him for being related. For wanting his freedom. The threat of his family, turned to insanity, and then the threat of invasion, of the armies of the Burning Legion, the threat of N'Zoth who sough to turn him as he had his father --
An endless sea of troubles.
Watching Irenia bank and turn back towards Alem, Wrathion feels as if this place is not so far from Azeroth. Endless threats, all of them dire. None, individually, feel quite on the scale of threatening the entire planet but... all of them have the potential to certainly build up if left unchecked.
The sight of her brings dark, brooding fears to the surface. What if he dies here, and is brought back as she was -- a tool to be turned against friends? To be used to spread destruction? Following in his father's footsteps, haunting these mountains as the Aspect of Death.
There are those who believed his corruption inevitable. Perhaps he has been foolish to think he could ever escape such a fate, but still.
One thing at a time.
WHEN: Part 2 of the siege
WHERE: Various locations in and on the borders of Alem
WHAT: Investigation, crafting, pacing, thinking. Some closed prompts! You can throw a new one at me, or plan with me here for me to write something custom.
WARNINGS: None to start, beyond some bad mental health situations going on here.
War was something Wrathion understand. He'd never had a childhood, not really. Never really had friends. What youth he had, as he grew far too quickly, had been taken over by his dark purpose. By the threat of Deathwing --
( A shadow of dark wings, a deep voice, metal plates, magma held into shape --)
and all those who would have killed him for being related. For wanting his freedom. The threat of his family, turned to insanity, and then the threat of invasion, of the armies of the Burning Legion, the threat of N'Zoth who sough to turn him as he had his father --
An endless sea of troubles.
Watching Irenia bank and turn back towards Alem, Wrathion feels as if this place is not so far from Azeroth. Endless threats, all of them dire. None, individually, feel quite on the scale of threatening the entire planet but... all of them have the potential to certainly build up if left unchecked.
The sight of her brings dark, brooding fears to the surface. What if he dies here, and is brought back as she was -- a tool to be turned against friends? To be used to spread destruction? Following in his father's footsteps, haunting these mountains as the Aspect of Death.
There are those who believed his corruption inevitable. Perhaps he has been foolish to think he could ever escape such a fate, but still.
One thing at a time.
no subject
The man is going to freeze. His clothes will be wet, and then walking through these icy woods with that clothing he will become ill. He will not warm up properly, and he will develop hypothermia no doubt. Someone will ask Wrathion why he let him get in, and he will have no answer beyond well he didn't ask my opinion. The man waves at him and Wrathion, disinclined to freeze longer than he has to, shrugs his bag to the ground. He begins to unfasten his coat, dropping it down and pulling his shirt over his head. He's just added that to the pile, thinking about how yes, these waters certainly won't heal, when the splashing gets his attention. The dragon is half expecting it to be Lan Wangji, emerged from the water angrily to make some abrupt comment about how his bared skin is inappropriate. ]
What is it?
[ As if the man, who is actually still submerged, might answer. He kicks off his shoes and socks to pad along the bank quickly, frowning into the water. The movement, then bright gold eyes, catch his attention. He gestures quickly, a sharp burst of magic hitting the top of the water to catch the mermaid's attention and then illusions filling up the bank. A small swarm of equally undressed copies of Wrathion, all pooling magic ready to defend Lan Wangji against this wet woman if she decides to pick a fight with him.
Hopefully, she decides the odds are decidedly not in her favour. ]
no subject
( ...Wrathion, who does not join him. Who waits and bides his time at the river's edge, as if a maiden facing disaster.
No. As Lan Wangji breaks water, lone — two flowers trapped in hand, one bloomed the other unfurling, should it make the critical, the impossible difference — he sees tens of Wrathion. An indisputable dozen.
Inevitably, he turns to face the wrong one, thinking foolishly that his voice comes somehow sharper, more limpid. )
A woman. ( Breathless, savage, raw. As if the shards of glass are ribboning his lungs, like they lick hurt onto his back. ) Come, then go. She... did not approve. Of something.
( Of his descent in her waters, or the collection of flowers, or something more distant, more indistinct. )
no subject
Well, it seems you have your prize even without my assistance.
[ He'd been stripping off all ready to climb in! He's not sure if he's relieved or simply faintly embarrassed at having been no use. Even this close to the water, he shivers in sympathy. ]
Free yourself of the water. You will need to dry off, as soon as you can.
[ He holds out a hand, either for Wangji to hand off the flowers so he can steady himself or for him to take for leverage. Either works. ]
no subject
( His... prize. He hears the words but misunderstands them, gaze soft when it lands on the petals in his clutching hand, indifferent to the shivers that rattle him. Cold courses through him like summer storm's lightning.
He does not move to offer them to Wrathion. Withholds himself, paralysed by drippings of hesitation. )
I do not know... whether to relinquish what the dead do not wish gifted.
( These flowers, strangely lifeless in his stiff hand, joints stiff and steeled around them. He chokes them like he might a throat. If they are not present, if they perish —
There is no choice to fathom, to wonder of. What is it that the woman fears, that she denies, that she wishes undone? Is it Haiva's fate? Will the flowers give him death or ruin? Are they as likely to sabotage him as to bring him health?
...or is it that she does not wish him healed? )
no subject
That I cannot answer for you. What did she look like? Haiva's missing paramour, perhaps?
[ Why would she stop them? The person who could tell them is her. Leaving Wangji for the moment, since he seems disinclined to move just yet, Wrathion drifts slowly along the bank to scan the water. ]
Did she threaten you?
no subject
( A simple thing, born of generations of educated hubris: the men of Cloud Recesses do not bow their backs to spirits, do not flee them. They compel, they tame. The monster between them is not the one devoid of flesh.
He waits, briefly transfixed, for Wrathion to complete his search, starting the slow preparations of righting the many wrongs that have burdened his silks with cold water, his limbs with frost. First, a piece of talisman parchment ignited to warm him — insufficient to defend him from the worst of the chills, though his core will anticipate that danger.
Then, more clumsily, he starts to drip his steps after Wrathion, to move and force himself into motion. )
She bore a likeness to the missing woman. ( Whether he would name her Haiva's, Deimar's or her own is another matter. ) She felt... distraught.
( As spirits ever do, denied their closure. But then: ) Resigned.
no subject
Well, I suppose you've confirmed she died. We still don't know how. Drowned, perhaps, if she's here in the water? An accident, or something more sinister?
[ There are, as always, far too many questions. His gaze drops back to the water, thoughtful. ]
I'm assuming she lacked a tail?
[ Wangji, surely, would have mentioned that detail. ]
no subject
( A tail. He frowns, felled by the bluntness of his question — by his own impossible resignation before the debris of his answer.
He looks away. Shudders, once, and after, he will blame the chill. For all that winter does not visit him with a clutch as tight as the rest of their companions. )
It was mere blinks. I did not — ( Search, look down, think to. ) See.
( If he had to choose his priorities, he would not have numbered this as one. )
Apologies.
no subject
Unless it's other people asking him for them, then they need to stop worrying.
Still, Wrathion nods in acceptance. He shivers again and turns back to the bank, begins to pick up his clothing to... redress. Since he got undressed for nothing, as Wangji has mostly achieved this all himself. Wrathion is just moral support, decoration, half-undressed-man putting himself forward for the next Akhuras charity calendar of men performing daily activities. ]
You still have the flowers. The choice now is only if you choose to give them to the prince or not. Keep yourself warm, I can light a fire for you to dry off by if we gather kindling.
[ He pulls a tunic back over his head, shivering again. The fire is also for him to warm up a moment but he is not mentioning that. He is fine. ]