( Rebellious things. His fire, self-sustaining only until the parchment burns down to tattered crisp, does not spread, leaving behind only a convenient, moderately-size hole that consumes the wall — but not the surroundings.

The rain soothes and stings, drenches and digs deeper. He heaves, more than breathes at the next exhalation, the pull and drain of his qi between flight and talisman leaving him in precarious balance. He is tempted, as children so often are, to swing his arms aside and retain his footing — but corrects himself away from that temptation, at the last moment.

The flight is smooth, nearly gliding. Within heartbeats, a flurry of arrows passes close by, but aims higher, behind them — no doubt at some great threat to the citadel, Anurr or the beast Rathakku, or whoever yet lingers in the shadows. They are not pursued.

This — will suffice. ) Wei Ying speaks to excess when nerves strike. ( Here: a point of commonality. ) Be at ease.

( Yes. Because it is as simple a thing as... asking it done. ) The skies are empty. ( Well, there another arrow flies. ) We shall encounter no — ...scant obstacle.