( Sight, touch, listening. Three of the bluntest, most obvious senses, excellent for detection and investigation. Coupled — and he sees the young man at last, lean and muscled and crafted as a complement to his sword, perhaps grown with it in hand — with skill, and that creates a promising, uniquely competent and equipped pursuer of the dead.
For safety or coin or mere duty. Lan Wangji cannot begin to comprehend the rules that govern a world so callous towards its own children. No, it must be despair and survival that define it, sooner than dignity. This service that Lockwood and his kin and kind perform is, surely, a work of last resort.
And it is an art perfected. As Lan Wangji — frail, somehow brittled by his fresh understanding, not even troubling himself to nod along — advances further, returning Tykhe's eye on sword's tip — )
You were correct.
( They reach a nest of deadened things and spiritual energies, a presence so compelling that Lan Wangji senses it with minimal exertion. There, beyond toppled walls of weeds and ivy: the sister Cassandra, pale and nearly dissolved, entirely translucent. Her mouth, wailing unheard.
Now, Lan Wangji's part to play: whispering energy in a piece of talisman to activate a lure and draw Tykhe, blindly, behind him — and waving Lockwood on: )
Bring her. The sister. ( One mute, the other blind. He suspects they must be delivered together, hand in hand. )
no subject
There is method to your people's madness.
( Sight, touch, listening. Three of the bluntest, most obvious senses, excellent for detection and investigation. Coupled — and he sees the young man at last, lean and muscled and crafted as a complement to his sword, perhaps grown with it in hand — with skill, and that creates a promising, uniquely competent and equipped pursuer of the dead.
For safety or coin or mere duty. Lan Wangji cannot begin to comprehend the rules that govern a world so callous towards its own children. No, it must be despair and survival that define it, sooner than dignity. This service that Lockwood and his kin and kind perform is, surely, a work of last resort.
And it is an art perfected. As Lan Wangji — frail, somehow brittled by his fresh understanding, not even troubling himself to nod along — advances further, returning Tykhe's eye on sword's tip — )
You were correct.
( They reach a nest of deadened things and spiritual energies, a presence so compelling that Lan Wangji senses it with minimal exertion. There, beyond toppled walls of weeds and ivy: the sister Cassandra, pale and nearly dissolved, entirely translucent. Her mouth, wailing unheard.
Now, Lan Wangji's part to play: whispering energy in a piece of talisman to activate a lure and draw Tykhe, blindly, behind him — and waving Lockwood on: )
Bring her. The sister. ( One mute, the other blind. He suspects they must be delivered together, hand in hand. )