( They do, now. And he should not speak the words, should accept the inevitability of Beitan Moran's existence as a single, independent soul, and yet: )

Red suits that face. ( The rains. Wei Ying's ribbon, its absence in Beitang Moran's aesthetic ever a point of contention between them. He does not insist, only cleverly bows his head to accept that, ah, it is a taxing and most exhaustive thing to be proven right, again and again and again, beneath the careful watch of the — blood-weeping — Heavens.

Now, then, they scuttle north-bound, evading resolutely the path of puddles. )

Slavers. Spirits to release.