...they say, eight turns of their clock, four shichen. A transformation measured in humiliation, comedy, whimsy and fleeting danger, and the rushed heartbeats of a creature too damaged and small to post a threat to anyone but itself. His husband will not linger a... toad, Lan Wangji is told, and this assurance alone spirits him.
White meets rust. A cutting, glacial gaze locks onto a bulbous stare. As she parts, viciousness strikes, and Lan Wangji retaliates with a lock of the witches' lips through the silencing spell — small harm though it will shed upon her, for how her captors think her tame, now that her leash has been pulled, now that her chains wail, now that she retires beside them. No matter. She will hurt for her arrogance, shadow sunken and gaze grave as she flees the dwelling, no sooner than Lan Wangji — pacified by her caretakers — takes the knee.
Wei Ying's bundle of deadened silks and lines, first: neatly, strategically folded and eased into the wealth of Lan Wangji's qiankun for safekeeping. Then, calmly, in cupped hands, he accepts the weighted burden of the toad, lifting Wei Ying's tirelessly complaining form up and up near Lan Wangji's face, where man and slobbery, slimy creature may cross glances.
Then, by way of humour, he unhinges his maws, before snapping down, masticating air with a look of perfect, bored indifference. After a pretend swallow, "Too many bones."
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...they say, eight turns of their clock, four shichen. A transformation measured in humiliation, comedy, whimsy and fleeting danger, and the rushed heartbeats of a creature too damaged and small to post a threat to anyone but itself. His husband will not linger a... toad, Lan Wangji is told, and this assurance alone spirits him.
White meets rust. A cutting, glacial gaze locks onto a bulbous stare. As she parts, viciousness strikes, and Lan Wangji retaliates with a lock of the witches' lips through the silencing spell — small harm though it will shed upon her, for how her captors think her tame, now that her leash has been pulled, now that her chains wail, now that she retires beside them. No matter. She will hurt for her arrogance, shadow sunken and gaze grave as she flees the dwelling, no sooner than Lan Wangji — pacified by her caretakers — takes the knee.
Wei Ying's bundle of deadened silks and lines, first: neatly, strategically folded and eased into the wealth of Lan Wangji's qiankun for safekeeping. Then, calmly, in cupped hands, he accepts the weighted burden of the toad, lifting Wei Ying's tirelessly complaining form up and up near Lan Wangji's face, where man and slobbery, slimy creature may cross glances.
Then, by way of humour, he unhinges his maws, before snapping down, masticating air with a look of perfect, bored indifference. After a pretend swallow, "Too many bones."