( His attention shifts toward Jacob's call-out, and he nods, though the gesture might be list between wind tugging at his hair (sorry, Jacob, for what is likely trying to fly past you in all its lengthy glory) and his lifting the flute to his lips. The music that comes out is both louder than it should be, and too soft sounding to cut through the chaos below — yet it does, as Lethe responds and takes them closer to the area of the southern end, and the lurching figures halting with equal lack of finesse.
They orient toward him, as the commanding, cutting sound of his flute directs them to stop. Directs them further, when in the small area he's projecting his song, his will, toward, each dull bleeding body orients his direction, some twitching, none breathing, fear and terror and incomprehension still highest in their fractured minds.
The change in his song is akin to a marching order. Leave, it says, For you are the dead, and your place is not among the living. A song for the truth of death, and Lethe rumbles at the sound of it, in pained recollection, and Wei Wuxian breathes through the honesty of it, which lacerates as his chest, this dictation to the newly slain, these people who do not deserve to be told so firmly when he prefers a conversation.
But they do not have that time. Not in this chaos, not as shouts and shrieks and screams and the beasts ravage in their own fears, as the dark waters bloom like fungal growths below. )
Where next?
( A calm voice, not soft because the wind would swallow it whole if it were, but firm. Unyielding. )
no subject
They orient toward him, as the commanding, cutting sound of his flute directs them to stop. Directs them further, when in the small area he's projecting his song, his will, toward, each dull bleeding body orients his direction, some twitching, none breathing, fear and terror and incomprehension still highest in their fractured minds.
The change in his song is akin to a marching order. Leave, it says, For you are the dead, and your place is not among the living. A song for the truth of death, and Lethe rumbles at the sound of it, in pained recollection, and Wei Wuxian breathes through the honesty of it, which lacerates as his chest, this dictation to the newly slain, these people who do not deserve to be told so firmly when he prefers a conversation.
But they do not have that time. Not in this chaos, not as shouts and shrieks and screams and the beasts ravage in their own fears, as the dark waters bloom like fungal growths below. )
Where next?
( A calm voice, not soft because the wind would swallow it whole if it were, but firm. Unyielding. )