( For the second time in a paltry collection of days, he finds himself shivered and chilled in Wrathion's vicinity.
For the second time in a paltry collection of days, he does not grasp what they are confronted with, past the sinister, insidious understanding that they've crossed into territory unknown, where the dead and dying and strange appear... adverse to the living.
Before, the woman of the rivers: a signal that the dead were in some manner inconvenienced by the living. Here, now: signs of demonic energies hunting down those with live. Symmetry. Sacrilege. His teeth, absently, chatter.
The Jatharin accepts a long reel of whitened... string? )
Local vernacular. ( Jatharin, perhaps nomenclature aimed at a slayer. Perhaps mere shrapnel inherited from a dead tongue. Alem seems a many-limbed creature, born off the bones of those it has displaced and invaded. Who knows what manner of beings sleep in their tombs?
No matter. First, on tip of Lan Wangji's tongue, the practicalities: a slip of drenched parchment, torn from the inexhaustible reserves of his qiankun purse. A treasured commodity, lit up with sparks and dregs of qi — a warming talisman, best suited to bloom the temperature of a delayed evening meal, not thoroughly mispurposed. He does not position it on Wrathion's shoulder, so much as, waves of his sleeve silks cresting, lets it saunter down. ) It will not keep long.
( Only until Lan Wangji redirects the better part of his attention elsewhere, to likely slaughter. We must all prioritise in this life and the next. )
no subject
( For the second time in a paltry collection of days, he finds himself shivered and chilled in Wrathion's vicinity.
For the second time in a paltry collection of days, he does not grasp what they are confronted with, past the sinister, insidious understanding that they've crossed into territory unknown, where the dead and dying and strange appear... adverse to the living.
Before, the woman of the rivers: a signal that the dead were in some manner inconvenienced by the living. Here, now: signs of demonic energies hunting down those with live. Symmetry. Sacrilege. His teeth, absently, chatter.
The Jatharin accepts a long reel of whitened... string? )
Local vernacular. ( Jatharin, perhaps nomenclature aimed at a slayer. Perhaps mere shrapnel inherited from a dead tongue. Alem seems a many-limbed creature, born off the bones of those it has displaced and invaded. Who knows what manner of beings sleep in their tombs?
No matter. First, on tip of Lan Wangji's tongue, the practicalities: a slip of drenched parchment, torn from the inexhaustible reserves of his qiankun purse. A treasured commodity, lit up with sparks and dregs of qi — a warming talisman, best suited to bloom the temperature of a delayed evening meal, not thoroughly mispurposed. He does not position it on Wrathion's shoulder, so much as, waves of his sleeve silks cresting, lets it saunter down. ) It will not keep long.
( Only until Lan Wangji redirects the better part of his attention elsewhere, to likely slaughter. We must all prioritise in this life and the next. )