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Entry tags:
under garden and calicos
WHO: lan boiz.
WHEN: during unkharil event.
WHERE: xichen's badass hovel.
WHAT: dinner and a sleepoverand gossip.
WARNINGS: too much swag.
[ The stone house Xichen has acquired is humble by any measure, but it is also decorated in the flowers gathered from the market with his daily earnings busking with Liebing: a similarly humble new reality, yet one he has taken to easily enough considering how much joy his music brings to heavy hearts. The rugs are roughly spun but thick and the three bedding areas are well-padded against the cold, if plain.
The flowers, though.
They stand in pots on ledges and sills, they hang from baskets by the door in green furls, white blossoms wherever he could get them but splashes of blue and pink and yellow here and there too like a painter swished his brush around the little house and decoration landed wherever it could take root. On the opposite side to the sleeping area is a small stove that the sect leader is tending, food baskets sets aside to keep the meal's components hot while he awaits his family. His guests! While the dumplings and vegetable dishes are simple (a little burned on the corners, perhaps) there is enough for three servings each.
Tea already awaits his guests, ready to be served into the plain brown ceramic cups set on the low table.
With his sleeves tied back and wearing the simplest of blue-and-white robes, a hairstick carved by himself out of wood, Xichen has adapted after months away from the comforts of home to try and create (wherever they are) another, however temporarily. ]
WHEN: during unkharil event.
WHERE: xichen's badass hovel.
WHAT: dinner and a sleepover
WARNINGS: too much swag.
[ The stone house Xichen has acquired is humble by any measure, but it is also decorated in the flowers gathered from the market with his daily earnings busking with Liebing: a similarly humble new reality, yet one he has taken to easily enough considering how much joy his music brings to heavy hearts. The rugs are roughly spun but thick and the three bedding areas are well-padded against the cold, if plain.
The flowers, though.
They stand in pots on ledges and sills, they hang from baskets by the door in green furls, white blossoms wherever he could get them but splashes of blue and pink and yellow here and there too like a painter swished his brush around the little house and decoration landed wherever it could take root. On the opposite side to the sleeping area is a small stove that the sect leader is tending, food baskets sets aside to keep the meal's components hot while he awaits his family. His guests! While the dumplings and vegetable dishes are simple (a little burned on the corners, perhaps) there is enough for three servings each.
Tea already awaits his guests, ready to be served into the plain brown ceramic cups set on the low table.
With his sleeves tied back and wearing the simplest of blue-and-white robes, a hairstick carved by himself out of wood, Xichen has adapted after months away from the comforts of home to try and create (wherever they are) another, however temporarily. ]
no subject
I wanted to learn how to cook us a meal no matter where we are, that way we can always have provisions ready. Peace or not. Wangji, you also deserve it. [ His voice is even and soft, a current of loyalty and devotion running through it that underlies his smile. ] We may not have a sect here to rely on but we have each other and the two of you are always my priority. If I cannot feed my family, what good am I? A sword alone is no real support.
[ The juiciest green beans are deposited in Sizhui's bowl, still a growing boy. ]
What have the two of you been getting up to lately?
no subject
( If I cannot feed my family, what good am I?
It stings, propels him into crisp, vinegared posture. He should have thought to provide for them, for his son, his paltry family. Should have learned the rites of flame and foraging and even — a shudder, long-traversing — hunt to create a meal, a way to satisfy base needs for Sizhui, Wei Ying, Wen Qing.
A sword alone, and Lan Wangji's sits, tenderly poised, balanced on his thigh. He quiets her with a steadied touch on her hilt, and takes his cup with both hands, the first sip strained. Local herbs come too weak, faint in flavour and aftertaste. On the back of his tongue, lacing his mouth — gravel. )
Quieting the dead. Far too many, neglected. ( And hideously tortured, anguished and ignored. Made weak by cruelty. ) Past that, the serpent temple.
( Spoken with the air of a boy who learned, obediently, to relay his every step for his Uncle's pleasure. )