He thinks, more fool he, that the creature's well swollen, broad span will protect him — that the blaze strikes at its front, and he swerves at the back of it, and it'll be fine, it will all be fine.
Then fire strikes. Envelops. The wyrm's protective layer of frost dissolves quickly, in hard fissures, and Lan Wangji finds himself collapsing into the skin-scale back of the beast, now that the chill has been removed. He breathes with it, feeling it — somehow more livened. Pities it, barely an animal, brutally disposed but intrinsically unable to understand the damage it causes.
Lan Wangji's mouth meets the scale nearest, brushes it, nearly fond.
Then, he pulls at the cord strings, throwing himself back towards the spine of the creature to inject distance and also to — tug. The wire catches, winds, cuts. Frosted blood spills each way, part dark water — fountain-like.
It is not enough to kill it within instants, but the wound deepens, blood-matter wells, the creature's waters spill and ebb and flow. It begins, slowly, to drift down, wings batting in a dissonant brutality, as if it still believes it can float or fight or regain its footing.
The trouble now is, between the wyrm's confusion, the blood, the scattering of wings — how the beast's body begins to roll and tip mid-air, lacking balance — Lan Wangji can barely catch a glimpse of anything below.
Emilia will be there, surely. When has she ever failed to be there, for him? She took his mother's death for him. She will come.
no subject
( There. Blaze.
He thinks, more fool he, that the creature's well swollen, broad span will protect him — that the blaze strikes at its front, and he swerves at the back of it, and it'll be fine, it will all be fine.
Then fire strikes. Envelops. The wyrm's protective layer of frost dissolves quickly, in hard fissures, and Lan Wangji finds himself collapsing into the skin-scale back of the beast, now that the chill has been removed. He breathes with it, feeling it — somehow more livened. Pities it, barely an animal, brutally disposed but intrinsically unable to understand the damage it causes.
Lan Wangji's mouth meets the scale nearest, brushes it, nearly fond.
Then, he pulls at the cord strings, throwing himself back towards the spine of the creature to inject distance and also to — tug. The wire catches, winds, cuts. Frosted blood spills each way, part dark water — fountain-like.
It is not enough to kill it within instants, but the wound deepens, blood-matter wells, the creature's waters spill and ebb and flow. It begins, slowly, to drift down, wings batting in a dissonant brutality, as if it still believes it can float or fight or regain its footing.
The trouble now is, between the wyrm's confusion, the blood, the scattering of wings — how the beast's body begins to roll and tip mid-air, lacking balance — Lan Wangji can barely catch a glimpse of anything below.
Emilia will be there, surely. When has she ever failed to be there, for him? She took his mother's death for him. She will come.
...surely.
He jumps. )