There's no acknowledgement beyond the flicker of a glance, a blink and the lowering of Chenqing. Wei Wuxian reaches into the front of his robes, pulling free a stack of thin talismans. He holds them up, facing Lan Xichen, showcasing what was written in scrawling seal script: fire.

Simple, economical, unlikely to burn far, but fire, and further detailing of burning in circles.

"Have you your own?" The question asked, the answer predicted: no, for he's already halving his number and handing them toward Lan Xichen with a steady, considered gaze. Exhaustion rides each of them differently these days, and this still doesn't touch the reserves of normal, natural endurance Wei Wuxian has cultivated where his core remains nothing but a shallow pool of his body's natural resources, nothing further. Not even resentful energies. Not for a long, long time.

"These dead are held off by fire and light. Mark individual houses, we can defend better for a time. Mark the whole of an island, we might hold it longer."

Might, maybe, with the driving belief that they will. A panting Lan is not a man so spent of his energies. Wei Wuxian, calculating to the last of his own qi, knows that very well.