westwhere | the sunken

the sunken | moonrise

THE SUNKEN | MOONRISE

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The final Arc VI event lasts three days ICly and until 23 July OOCly. Yancai goes back another two years in time to the Huntress’ visit, Miang-Si’s corruption and the memory-meddling rite of the ladies of the lake.

The party can choose to stay neutral, only heading to the House of Commerce to access its now-active beacon — or they can inevitably get mixed up in the affairs of Yancai and endanger the village’s time loop.

For a quick catch-up: the latest clues | everything about Arc VI.

BOAR’S HEART

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Rattled, on high alert, feeling watched and skin prickling from static electricity, characters wake to find Yancai has gone back another two years in time. It is now nearly dry, barring rare waterways. Mould is absent. The village bustles with activity: a heavy influx of new arrivals comes by sea, and frequent fishermen’s and merchants’ markets set up in the open road — enjoy fresh fish delicacies, discounted pearls, rare cloth textiles and dyes that include the unique Yancai green!

■ No more hauntings take place, and only one moon loiters above the village. Villagers still remember the party under their false identities.

■ Word has spread of the conflict between elder Quanze Tsaymien’s council and a beautiful woman who has taken up in the forests at the village’s outskirts. Gossipmongers say she wastes away in the woods weeping — while ground cracks beneath her feet, grass wilts, waters poison and animals drop dead nearby. Young men are drawn to her and are later forcibly recovered in a state of rambling, feverish exhaustion. Village healers gladly accept your nursing help.

■ Village elders have given the woman — correctly identified by the party as the Huntress — until the following sunrise to leave Yancai on pain of death. You have 24h to encounter her.

■ The forests are livelier than in previous iterations of Yancai, but you feel perpetually… watched, as if sharp eyes follow your progress. These heavy gazes may belong to the young men bewitched to protect the Huntress, or to razor-clawed venom-spitting creatures that hunt her.

■ You may find some of the aforementioned creatures bleeding on the forest path. They possess slightly above canine intelligence, cannot communicate in human tongues, and hesitate to let you approach — but nursing one might reward you.

■ The death-touched (necromancers, those who died or revived, or otherwise marked) may optionally feel compelled to join the Huntress. Physical distance dwindles her pull, as can your own magic or solutions.

■ Luck (?) leads you to a silent and bloodied forest clearing, come sunset. Here, two dozens of Yancai’s recent dead have risen alive and surround the Huntress, some battling the creatures that assail her, while she speaks to 16-year-old village beauty Miang-Si. There is a gaping, if regenerating hole in the Huntress’ chest; in one hand, she holds her yet-beating heart she cuts in several parts she wraps in parchment. She asks Miang-Si to bury these pouches near Yancai to ‘hold her power close,’ in exchange for permanent and ever-blossoming beauty.

■ Wait as the Huntress and her forces retreat — then catch up to Miang-Si, capture her, or find the pouches. The ground where they are buried is desaturated, brittle, nearly pulverised. Hawks and ravens circle above and plunge down to claw at intruders, or attempt to pick up children or feebler adults. To the magically or death-sensitive, the pouches emanate a revolting aura of withering death.

■ Beware if heart pouches were buried beneath aged, thick trees — their roots burst out like nooses and writhing spiders’ legs, looking to either slam you against the tree trunks or entrap you within.

■ Finding at least two heart pouches prevents the dead from rising in Yancai in the years to come! Keep the heart cuts fettered — touching these parts directly can overwhelm you with the need to consume this or other hearts, to compensate for the sudden and unfeeling… coldness in your chest.

WAKE, UNWAKEFULLY

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Sunrise finds the Huntress gone from Yancai — while waves of the dead rise from the sea to attack the village. Some come chained, or dragging pieces from the casket-ships in which they were set for water burial.

This is the first undead attack witnessed by Yancai villagers, who are largely clumsy, slow and petrified. Some sentimentally believe their revived relatives never died and plead not to kill them. Many are caught in undefended areas, such as open port harbours, fishing boats, markets — and need help to travel to their families. The Huntress’ spell starts dissolving by midday, with the dead largely pulling back into sea and lake waters

■ Beware the village waterways: touching the water replenishes the strength of the dead and saps yours. Look closely at the bottom of the waterways, and you find them lined with dozens of resting corpses. Some wake slowly, as they clutch shards of glistening black mirror — best to… use a very long oar… or plunge very quickly to recover shards.

■ Carrying a mirror shard puts the dead around you to blissful sleep. Those who possess a cut of the Huntress’ heart can take control of up to 20 of the risen dead. Necromancers can control up to 10, even without such a token.

MOTHER MOON

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Come midday of Day II, Yancai villagers start to move freely and reunite with loved ones. Waters begin to gently rise and flood the grounds, while the first spores of black mould appear on walls.

The first to help the injured are the washerwomen of Yancai, who favour the young and magically sensitive. You notice they work in perfect synchrony and have developed a hand sign language they can teach you. Keep an ear out, and one might entrust they are hedge witches, the so-called ‘ladies’ of the lake.

■ Join them, either invited or unseen, when they gather at one of Yancai’s three great lakes. Each lady picks up one of the silver coins tossed in the water for luck-bearing. Take one yourself, and you will be able to breathe and speak underwater, following as the ladies dive and swim through thin underwater passageways. Beware countless skeletal remains that line the lakes and sinister fish — both burst out to shackle your limbs, or sound the alarm about intruders.

■ You find the ladies have begun to shelter and ward the dead in lake caves, to avoid their rising up again. The ladies re-emerge in the forest, speaking of a protection rite they agreed with the elders’ council. They are not strong enough to break the Huntress’ lingering spell, but hope to later recruit nascent witch Miang-Si, who teases she has power from the Huntress. For now, the ladies have decided to create a five-year time loop, moving Yancai back and forth in time whenever the dead attack.

■ To achieve their rite, the ladies use large pieces of black mirror confiscated from the Huntress’ dead and the energy of the hunter’s moon that shines down a bloody red tonight. Those with a lunar connection feel the moon aches, disgusted by this violation. Even those unaffiliated with the moon feel irascible and prone to violence while under its gaze.

■ Interrupting the rite rescues the moon, earning you a reward, and breaks villagers from the five-year loop, allowing them to live their true lives. It also exposes Yancai to the dead, unless you remove the heart cuts. Co-ordinate and choose wisely.

■ The ladies conduct their chanting, rune-painting and summons throughout the night of Day III in the forest. You have a wealth of options to break their spell: interfere with the magic flows, disrupt the guarded ash circle of convened witches, summon irate villagers to raid, persuade Miang-Si to intervene, break or steal the rite’s black mirror pieces… You can also reach out to the coven’s strongest witches, who agreed to sacrifice themselves to become overseers in the time flux — the Lumberjack, Red Lady, White Woman, Man in Black and the Milk-Toothed Babes. You can still sign up for a RNG draw to chat.

BAIT & BEACON

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To take attention off the ladies of the lake, Yancai’s council organises a sumptuous masked banquet and charity auction for the victims of the undead attack at the lavish House of Commerce. The House has been thoroughly cleansed by the time of your arrival, with only faint, clumsy traces of blood, decay and debris lingering from the previous offensive.

On site, servants are still jittery from the undead assault, while openly armed guards walk the grounds and answer any small provocation. Be kind to the staff or offer sympathy for their likely recent losses, and they might let you in unnoticed, or offer a hand.

■ Anyone who brings an item for the auction or who ~~can pretend s/he~~ possesses massive wealth can join the banquet. Show up with anything you can brazenly talk up as elite, exquisite or one-of-a-kind — or perhaps auction your services?

■ The House of Commerce contains a locked room with the village’s now fully active beacon. The Master of Commerce has the only key-tokens to access this quarter, somewhere in his study room — pick a lock, sweettalk the staff, or work your magic to get inside the study and grab one of the rune-inscribed tokens. The study room brims with scrolls, globes, letters to and from the Dawn’s Reach Trade Company and maps of… Arc I’s Sa-Hareth in the west, where hand-written news reports say the dead are rising.

■ Back at the banquet, the richest wine and… relaxing herbs and powders are offered freely or sometimes slipped into food to ease spirits. Aiming for levity, participants don comical animal masks or play a local game of ‘bait or hook,’ whereby they approach you with the aforementioned fishing bait or fish hook in closed fists, asking you to pick one. Depending on your choice, you must ‘bait’ the audience with a song or dance, or ‘hook’ them in with a joke or anecdote.

■ Around midnight, attendants are invited to an increasingly competitive auction, punctuated by elbowing, loud voices, crowding and the occasional threat. Beautiful concubines might stick to your arms, asking to be purchased this or that (exorbitant) small nothing as a gift. Participate to keep up your cover, but beware landing in hard debt!

■ Most banquet goers pretend they are indifferent to the undead attack, but some question whether the woman of the forest was to blame — while others mention that the mysterious, far too independent coven of the ladies of the lake is meeting even now, and might be cursing Yancai.

■ However you spend your night, the witch Karsa asks you to infiltrate the House of Commerce by dawns and attempt to leave through the beacon. This will only be possible if at least one person has picked up a key-token…!

QUESTIONS

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( It should not startle him, should not stutter the drag of his breath, should not have eluded him — the possibility of a necromancer exercising his skill to pure, practical purpose. He knows, instinctively and academically, that Wrath lacks the... natural compulsions that fetter the creativity of lesser, ethically crippled men.

And his dead hold the line, abide discipline, every shiver of their muscles and line of their bodies glistening in careful, rigid coordination. Unnaturally aligned.

A pale shadow on the dock's ledge, he watches the waters as if they might open before him like a map uncharted, and he might know them with the instinct and covetous yearning of a sea traveler, setting upon his first journey. The waves whisper none of their secrets; the dead, immobile beneath, betray them all.

And sunlight spears, reflecting on sunken mirror glass. )

Send them escort, as I dive. ( Lan Wangji's hands, after all, do not lack precision. ) You have better vantage above.

( To direct one corpse against another, should the hour of violence come. )

( Well, on occasion, the devil is actually quite fortunate.

And a ruler knows how to delegate. Wrath appreciates not having to get a single article of his clothing wet or dirty. In his own world, even a single cufflink being out of place would be reason for many to doubt his rule in the Underworld, and he does like his clothes being perfectly suited.

He will gladly let Lan Wangji take the dive instead. Of course, Wrath's shirt is already folded at his feet, and he will leave it there for the time being. Without his shirt on, four of his tattoos are more visible: the Latin words at his back and under his right clavicle, the tattoo of crescent moons and a dagger and flowers upon his forearm, and the gold serpent spanning his hand, the entire length of his arm, and shoulder. )

I will keep the dead below from you. You can see the shards?

( Wrath can see them, sense them. He turns to the Undead and lifts his hand. They all stand in a line, waiting like soldiers - incredibly unskilled soldiers. )

( He can see the unflinching, unapologetic partial nudity of Wrath's body, laid obscenely bare. Entirely devoid of silks or the inferior textiles foreigners weave around their bodies. Sun kissing and meandering, inks transgressing against skin.

It occurs to him, all at once, that Emilia has wedded a slaughterer, a demons' king, a menace, a man absent base morality — ...and an exhibitionist. Among all these sins, the precepts of Gusu Lan struggle to know where and how to issue their first condemnation. Wrath is a gift of collective outrage that keeps irredeemably giving.

For a heartbeat, staggered, Lan Wangji tips his head, interest feline-like and gaze blade-thin, slanted — tempted to inquire if perhaps all men of Wrath's strength can only commit their feats and their follies without the petty diversion of those strange complications, his clothes. Then, far too self-aware, politely compensates by drawing the wealth and waters of his white silks to round Lan Wangji's own body.

...he will float, it strikes him, like a jellyfish, or spinning sugar, once he hits the lake's surface. No matter. Here, his boots are propelled to the side. He is now hereby equipped to avail himself of his task.

There are dead, and there are mirror pieces, known to Lan Wangji through the terror of their qi — ...no. Not that. Their energies. The absence of such. )

I feel them. Violations against nature. Irregularities. Their energies — wrong.

( A fine, adult articulation of their circumstances. He trusts Wrath will somehow know. Then, murmured: )

Send your creatures first. A diversion. ( Then Lan Wangji may slip in, once Wrath's dead have roused the interest of those who sleep. )

( Wrath raises an eyebrow with a wicked, little smirk when he sees the expression on Lan Wangji's face as if daring him to make whatever commentary he might like. He has the sudden thought to remove the remainder of his clothing if only to see if he can draw out the words, draw out the reaction. ~~And honestly if those words were spoken out loud, they would likely make Wrath genuinely laugh. Of all the possible manner of actions mortals have decided are sins...~~ There is the story that is told of the Garden of Eden - the terrible serpent who tempted them to eat from the apple and realize their own nudity was wrong.

However, there is a mirror to retrieve which takes priority, and he does appreciate the help (demon manners and the like) so he turns his attention to the waters again for the time being. )

Then that will make them far easier to find.

( Relying on sight alone would not be wise. )

Go. Find one of your brethren and occupy their attention. ( They plop, ungracefully, one after the other into the water to seek out the undead directly beneath. ) ...you'll go in fully clothed? ( that would make swimming exceedingly difficult. )

Barrier against claws.

( A simple, limpid, foregone conclusion. As if Lan Wangji, who has battled every manner of absurdity, comes well equipped with precautions against the natural, animal ferociousness of the undead. Roses are red, gentian flowers blue. Step buy step across the pier, dead things, Lan Wangji comes to you.

He thinks, fool of a man, that bravery is constructed of such petty, routine moments that are consigned into history because of potent, unforgettable remarks. That he should leave Wrath with final words, blessings for his family, well wishes for his friends. His legacy.

And so, murmured: )

Tell Sizhui to keep a clean-shaven cheek. ( There. That part of the formalities, done. His son will truly never want for sharper wisdom. All hail near-death experiences —

And then, in a clutter of spumes and lace work of rippling waters, Lan Wangji dives in. Cold, the first inevitable conclusion. Whipping, crawling, vicious against his skin. He thinks, first, only the shock of collision. Then, a grasp.

He breathes, and the hurt of hands raking his skin spreads like wildfire. Bats them away, kicks, strikes against the dead — but then, Wrath's creature intercede, and it is beast against beast, Lan Wangji deftly forgotten. In his lungs, stranded, dwindling air supplies burn.

He plunges deeper, until the dark in one of the undead man's hands draws him, and he is pulled close, he wrestles for it, wrenches free — cuts his hand on the edge, and it's the raw, metallic scent of his blood that draws them, and they come for him like snakes. Another one of Wrath's allies intervenes —

And a third catches him by his arms, first stirring him to jolt and shake and look to unsaddle him, before the undead thing pulls him up, swimming with Lan Wangji beside it. They break water — he does not look behind himself, sea weed of his hair draining over his face, only blindly offering out the shard behind himself. Wrath will be there, the pier. Somewhere. Anywhere. )

Take it. There are more — ( He must go down again. )

( ...what.

Why would Lan Wangji have him tell another individual words which are so inane at a time like this one where he is about to hop into the waters beneath them to fetch a mirror piece? Wrath is unfamiliar with the way mortals think at times even after spending two years with them, even after countless centuries ushering them into the Underworld, but this is particularly peculiar.

...

As Death, Wrath has heard the last words of many individuals in their final moments, their last breaths, generally pleading but occasionally last words to be given to their loved ones who are near or who are not. Is this...?

Wrath sighs - mildly annoyed that Lan Wangji believes Wrath would allow him to die in the waters below them. He is capable of swimming should it be necessary. He would simply prefer not to. )

You're bleeding.

( Wrath can smell it - the potent smell of fresh blood, and so can the beasts below. )

Get out. ( He will haul him out by his robes like a cat if he must. )

( As commands of withdrawal go, Wrath lacks the distinctly gravelly tone of voice that recommended Chifeng-Zun as a force to be reckoned with: he speaks, and Lan Wangji suffers no extraordinary compulsion to face his enemies with a full heart, his potential lice with dignified resignation and a six-day-old stew with mitigated, reined-in horror. No, Wrath could not have hoped to inspire the youth of the Sunshot Campaign to perform the dance steps of their routine trauma.

He is too... sophisticated. Polite. Reasonable. Lan Wangji, lashes long and weed-like, slow-blinked, watches him with serpentine interest and a healthy, mature understanding that Wrath might raise and drag and shove slap him down, if need be — but he would be of the kind who always abashedly ensures that Lan Wangji is positioned in an aesthetic bundle of dramatic, silken geometries after. He's a dependable force of mayhem like that, is Wrath.

And Wangji, all but tossing the shard at his feet on the pier, is precisely why the Heavens no longer give the sect Gusu Lan any blessings. )

Take it. ( He is bleeding, red wet of his hand warm, but a scratch will not be the end of him. Even the shark-like attention of the hostile corpses beneath does not latch long on his silhouette, for a slip of hemorrhage. ) We cannot waste opportunity.

( This is, as a corpse suddenly plunges out of the water then seems to want to.. thrust itself on Lan Wangji's back... maybe not the best time or place for a domestic. )

( Wrath lifts an eyebrow at him as if he cannot believe he is insisting on returning down into the depths of the water when they already have one shard and the corpses are after his blood specifically. Even now Wrath sees their movement within their water, feels their hunger for more. Mortals are strange (or perhaps this is Lan Wangji specifically that is strange in this instance).

Where is the logic in this foolhardy decision if this can even truly be defined as a decision at all? There is usually more rational thought involved in a decision beyond 'There is a chance I will not die if I follow this clearly dangerous path'.

And so following the order that is decidedly not followed (which is the man's right) and with a corpse lunging out of the water at him, Wrath reaches down in one fluid motion with demonic speed and if Lan Wangji does not manage to wriggle away before he can, Wrath will pick up Lan Wangji by the collar like a mother cat might carry a kitten around by their scruff.

Once he is out of the water, Wrath will take the shard from him, and then deposit Lan Wangji on the pier in a wet heap. )

( He is... lifted. Raised. Gently but unapologetically transferred, like a bulked good.

Were he unwounded, he might deign to react in ways more artful and diplomatic than the flurry of arrested, fruitless kicks and squirms he delivers in thin air. But he is a target, this much is plain. The dead come for him, and in the end he concedes, restful and unmoved by the time Wrath delivers him to the pier.

He even yields enough to wipe the flat of his palm against the robes Wei Ying had wished untouchable, and accepts the shard in his grasp, unwavering. Then, raspy, as if it is ripped from him: )

You might have trusted me.

( Not... that there is a whiff of resentment over this incident. )

( Wrath lets out a small, thoughtful noise as he rolls his shoulders back and then releases another breath, wishing for a battle which is unlikely to come with any kind of satisfaction. He is paying attention to the dead and the water behind them, but none appear to be coming up on to the pier at present. Even if they did, they would be easily dispatched by the two of them. )

I do not hear a 'thank you'. ( Mortals truly are so impolite. ) And I did. I trusted you would remain true to your word and follow your reckless path forward.

( And so in that, there was a manner of trust there after all, but Wrath will carefully pull out a handkerchief to wrap the shard up with. This is hardly the time to examine it further, but he does wonder if he would be able to siphon some of his own curse into it like he had theorized with the mirror still buried inside of Five. There is a pause as he straightens, eyeing Lan Wangji's wet form at the moment, and Wrath looks almost amused at the sight. )

... thank you. ( For retrieving the shard. A moment later, the hell hound puppy, Yadid, comes up on the pier with half of an undead body in the three of its mouths. )

...unnecessary between us.

( The giving and receipt of thanks, the formulaic, pretend-politesse of formalised gratitude. They both know: Lan Wangji is not a creature of innate gratitude, too covetous, too wrathful, too visceral. And Wrath is — Wrath, shaped human, but Lan Wangji expects, more a culmination and aggregate of power, than a being of the world.

What point then, pretending they are mannered? He shrugs once, one shoulder only answering the summons, the other stiff, restive. Turning a hand to it reveals the work of battery, some bruising. More hurts his body incurred, but that tired, exerted nerves did not record.

...Wrath's... creature presents itself, cadaver in its trifecta of hungering mouths, and Lan Wangji mutely gags, impossibly repulsed. )

Retain the shard. ( But then, he supposes, an explanation is ever necessary. ) Its energies disapprove of mine.

( ...corrupt them, as things are. )

Good manners are never unnecessary.

( But Wrath does understand the sentiment beyond all the rest - it simply will not stop him from being polite in turn, from giving thanks when it is needed. Wrath genuinely means his appreciation when he gives it, and so he does not find them to be empty platitudes in the slightest.

He raises an eyebrow.

Wrath does intend to keep the shard, but this explanation is not very thorough. )

...how is it they disapprove of yours?

As yours does. ( Bland, blatant, undiluted rigidity. He affixes Wrath with a baleful glance and thinks it not unlike skewering a wall of steel, rock or debris. Immutable power gazes back at him, bearing a man's likeness.

It should startle Lan Wangji, but he has grown — and he shudders, partly for the spikes and slides in temperature now he has escaped wetness, partly for the energy and enthusiasm that have depleted his body now its trials of slaughter are done — accustomed to Wrath's manner. He comes, the dead follow. Things or creatures die.

If there were a play written, they would have successfully satisfied the first acts, and so now Lan Wangji must migrate them, amid stench of humidity and decay and eroded wood and rope's bind, towards their disturbing conclusion. )

Incompatible. My energy is — cleansed. ( But then, he feels the rare, if incendiary impulse to clarify, unbidden. ) Not uncompromised ethically, but purified by my core. The energy of a living thing, exposed only to life.

( Compared with this shard: cold, feeling deathly, wrong. It has no business co-existing with the likes of Lan Wangji. )

( Wrath can see Lan Wangji's magic, sense it, feel it, and he is correct that it does feel like life- the very essence of life's energy itself inside of him, but that is not at all. The man works so closely and so often with the dead. There is a stain of that too - residual but there just the same.

He could point this out but does not. His expression remains unmoving, unoffended. Mortals have said a great deal about the devil throughout the centuries, and he has never cared what they thought, what they felt (it was only when his wife was forced to live the life of a mortal, to learn and believe all those terrible things herself did he worry, fear).

There is a pause then. )

Life and death are not as different as you make them out to be. One cannot exist without the other, and by that, I do not refer to this mirror nor to the undead shambling around, making a mockery of both life and death.

( None of this exists in Wrath's world - the dead do not linger with the living, but live in the Underworld where he rules. )

It is all about balance between the both of them.

( Irrelevant, but he does not speak it. The glimpsed rarity of this moment is crystalline, cold. Wrath gives so little of himself, of his philosophy past outward arrogance.

The truth is a simpler conclusion, housed between the claustrophobic ribs of Lan Wangji's natural limitations. )

That balance is for the world. ( Yin, yang, death, life. Nature hosts all. Requires them. ) Within my body — ( The lesser instrument. ) — death and life energies are as the marriage of water and oil.

( It is no matter of stubbornness, of academia, of personal volition. His biology rejects the union with the same intensity that Wrath's canine companion refuses the conceit of mannered feeding. )

Forced into harmony, but naturally incompatible.

( Tarnishes, dents, lessens. To unite him with stain is to detract from him, much as sickness wears and tears the veneer of an organism that yet conquers it. He can survive this. He need not thrive. )

I see. ( Wrath has never been alive in the mortal sense. Even before he ruled in Hell, he served in Heaven where he was made, where he existed for a great deal of time, but that is not quite the same as mortal life, mortal death. Even if he can breathe, even if he has a heart beat, even if it is technically possible to kill him with one dagger in particular, he has not known life like the type of energy inside of Lan Wangji.

He has not known growing, aging. However, he has seen life magic before - the strength of it, the way life transforms the world.

There is almost a hint of something amused in his expression. )

And still Wei Wuxian became your husband.

( With his connection to death, with his power over it, but opposites can attract at times, they can slot together, fitting in ways someone who was too similar might not.

Emilia and Wrath are considered to be mirrors of one another - the Goddess of Fury, vengeance, justice. They are alike even if there are ways they are, also, entirely different, opposites (he is of ice, and she is of fire after all, he is of death and she can grow vines and flowers). )

...before.

( And he holds Wrath's gaze silently, molten. Before the mould spores of necromancy, the filigree of quiet, rapid, tempestuous decisions that severed Wei Ying from the righteous path. In a stubborn, fragile, nascent time, when Wei Ying was still the pride of a world undeserving of him.

And now he is this: fractured, sharp bones and scant meat and spite, all of him, tame at its edges. Skill, born of whim and perpetual restlessness.

Lan Wangji should not, perhaps seem so settled, so at ease, bunching the wet strands of his hair in hand and rinsing them of their waters in fast scrunches, before abandoning the task to call upon a warming talisman instead. )

And my music brings him cold comfort. ( Love does not heal all wounds or smoothen all hurdles. It does not suddenly, limpidly remove all obstacles to compatibility. The bridging is artificial, forced. He understands now, with the maturity of a man who has surrendered away his youth. )

You have not failed your wife. Be glad of it.

( Wrath keeps his gaze as he speaks, and he does not interrupt but listens - his music is a cold comfort (the music to cleanse?). He does not think Lan Wangji's music would have any effect on him either. It is why he has never been interested in the playing, the cleansing that was once promised to him by Lan Wangji in the streets of Taravast, following the corpses Wrath and his original hell puppy had left in his wake.

He knows what he is. He embraces it with an understanding about death and demons, about Heaven and Hell, about supposed sins that only have morality tied to them because mortals have decided it so.

There is a pause as Wrath's gaze rests on the mirror pieces within the water - how he wondered if he could utilize them to end the curse, end hers, end his own, or at least syphon some of it inside of the reflection. It is likely another foolish hope, and he is aware of that too. )

I have in the past. ( It's a rare admittance, but one that is true - he failed Emilia before he met her - before he knew she existed, he failed Emilia when he lost her. )

I will not fail her again.

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the sunken | moonrise

i failed to hit you up last time, but this is my hour!!!

YES PERF

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