"My people are of mountains." Hereby solemnly missed, Lan Wangji's longing marrow-deep, gaze glistened with the pangs of recollection. He looks away, as the dagger finds fresh home and Wrathion reimburses him with mouthfuls of water and refreshment.

Another cup, this time only accepted and held between Wangji's sweat-soured palms. He has consumed enough already. Without minor deprivation, his flesh will not acclimate. It has delayed too process, too readily indulged, once already.

"And our bodily cores churn hot."

Like forges, powering their energies, infinitely and mercilessly heated. Absenting any natural or artificial restraint, any counterpoint.