( Sweetheart, not to you. But then, they are not men of saccharine endearments, of vulgar intimations, of open, aggressive, demanding possessiveness. There are words that sunder them, that trickle lost between them, that would poison the well of waters that have cleansed them of coy, perfunctory formality — that have stripped them down into their tender truths.
This, wind lashing their cheeks and tangling their hair and loosening their balance on the sword — this, then, is who they are. Small, for how much power they hold in greedy hands, between Wei Ying's mastery of death-anointed armies and Lan Wangji's direction of the blade.
Beneath them, Wei Ying's legions rally, and it is resentment that coaxes and directs them, that routes their ferocity and their spindly, clawing hands to turn on Rathakku and his creatures, that keeps them attentive and ferocious, cruel. The stench of blood blooms, corrosive.
He did not think they had yet their waters to spill.
We can burn them, says Wei Ying, and he means to bite back, But they are not husked. Only, he reconfigures his efforts — turns, air shifting, to summon his namesake guqin and wield it one-handed, the groaning vibrations of qi joining in to detract from the hostilities waged against Wei Ying's rising contingent. He cannot spare time and energy towards the war effort, not with so much of himself set to the task of holding Wei Ying steady, one arm belting his waist. But still, before the guqin is dismissed: )
You shall not fall to require catch. ( Lan Wangji, embittered by sudden purpose, will not allow it. ) Make haste, Patriarch. Earn your name, its reputation.
no subject
( Sweetheart, not to you. But then, they are not men of saccharine endearments, of vulgar intimations, of open, aggressive, demanding possessiveness. There are words that sunder them, that trickle lost between them, that would poison the well of waters that have cleansed them of coy, perfunctory formality — that have stripped them down into their tender truths.
This, wind lashing their cheeks and tangling their hair and loosening their balance on the sword — this, then, is who they are. Small, for how much power they hold in greedy hands, between Wei Ying's mastery of death-anointed armies and Lan Wangji's direction of the blade.
Beneath them, Wei Ying's legions rally, and it is resentment that coaxes and directs them, that routes their ferocity and their spindly, clawing hands to turn on Rathakku and his creatures, that keeps them attentive and ferocious, cruel. The stench of blood blooms, corrosive.
He did not think they had yet their waters to spill.
We can burn them, says Wei Ying, and he means to bite back, But they are not husked. Only, he reconfigures his efforts — turns, air shifting, to summon his namesake guqin and wield it one-handed, the groaning vibrations of qi joining in to detract from the hostilities waged against Wei Ying's rising contingent. He cannot spare time and energy towards the war effort, not with so much of himself set to the task of holding Wei Ying steady, one arm belting his waist. But still, before the guqin is dismissed: )
You shall not fall to require catch. ( Lan Wangji, embittered by sudden purpose, will not allow it. ) Make haste, Patriarch. Earn your name, its reputation.