westwhere | bygones be bygones

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bygones be bygones

BYGONES BE BYGONES

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Welcome to the finale log event, stretching until 22 February. You can find a summary of recent events here. The finale log is broken in four sections:

■ Anurr’s attempt to enter Hatthevar by corrupting party members

■ The citadel’s increasing hauntings and abductions (largely CR-building scenarios)

■ Investigating a ghost ship, for final clues

■ The fall of undead creator Matthias

Thank you for being here & enjoy!

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WALLS, WAILING

The tide of war are turning: his scorpions and sand lurkers defeated by Emilia, Wrath and Benedict, the undead Brotherhood’s foremost general, Rathakku, pulls back his armies. A handful of monstrous creatures remain and will grudgingly serve the trio as their new masters.

Wind master Anurr, foe of the Brotherhood and its maker Matthias, continues assaulting the citadel with ceaseless blizzards. Those exposed to the storms may hear dark or saccharine voices that corrupt, threaten or woo them to open one of the four (north/west/south/east) gates of the citadel and allow Anurr’s forces inside.

■ Those prone to loneliness, despair or self-doubt are the most vulnerable to Anurr’s coercion and can easily turn aggressive, if anyone attempts to prevent them from their goal. A burning need to free the winds and a hatred of Hatthevar overwhelm you, while Matthias’ very name sets you off in a rage.

■ Those coerced are invulnerable to Anurr’s blizzards and the broader cold but highly susceptible to heat and flame. Their skin turns pale, limbs stiff and nearly gelid. They are slower but much stronger, and their touch can chill. They must be warmed — either by fire-side or trapped into heated rooms — to regain control of themselves. It may take up to 48 hours before they’re fully back to normal, waking up at night with a longing to walk into the wind.

■ The gates of Hatthevar remain guarded by enormous man-eating ghosts, but these sentinels have been worn down by war and are more easily overcome. Pass them and your companions and open the gates — and you will win Anurr a healthy advantage.

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A HAUNTED PLACE

Two of Matthias’ beacons have been conquered by Vanessa, Wrathion and Five, who retain them as long as they stay along. Inevitably, they are often hunted by spirits.

Not realizing why his summons have weakened, Matthias directs more and more energy towards the three beacons under his control. The turbulence agitates the spirits of Hatthevar, who become secretive, paranoid, prickly and increasingly riotous.

■ Some scatter quickly as they see you — others gang up, mutinously targeting ghost slavers or anyone who reminds them of those who wronged them when they were alive. Hauntings multiply, while ghost slavers take advantage of the riots to conquer parts of Hatthevar.

PART & WHOLE

Combative crowds, often led by ghost slavers, are especially drawn to characters who own any of Matthias’ limbs or organs. Promised rewards, they seek to abduct such owners or anyone unlucky enough to be mistaken for them, dragging them to decrepit, barely standing and abandoned Whispering Houses while they barter payment from Matthias.

■ Ghosts are fiercely attentive but also superstitious watchmen: spook them, organise a rescue party or sneak out.

■ Watching the walls, you see ink brush paintings of the silhouettes of men, their beady eyes sometimes shifting to look at you. At other times, their limbs seem to shift minutely, as they begin to run towards you, until shadow men burst out of the wall to detain you. They pull back, if you also stop moving.

■ Those who possess Matthias’ parts may find ghosts are unusually submissive to them. Their tokens will likely get seized, if they are captured.

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TROUBLED

Hatthevar succumbs to hauntings, friendly or foul. On any given day, you might experience:

■ THE BURIALS: Come morning, your shoes might be missing, buried in the nearest dirt patch — or you yourself might be entombed in the gardens, forced to dig yourself out before you suffocate. The crystalline sound of chiming bells can lead rescuers to you. Ghostly hands might try to hold onto you, if you are dragged out.

■ THE FACELESS: Lithe faceless dancers dart through the crowds of the ghostly bazaars, carrying demonic wooden masks that they place on the faces of stunned passers-by, fleeing thereafter. The victims now look like the demonic masks, while the masks have copied their likeness. If this happens to you, run after the faceless dancers, steal the mask and put it back on your face to recover your original appearance.

■ THE WATCH: Walking through the streets of Hatthevar, you find yourself visibly, unmistakably watched by an increasing number of people. First, they only steal glances; then, one or two point you out; small groups begin to whisper about you; finally, you notice whole crowds are standing eerily still, watching you covetously and seemingly struggling to keep themselves back from assaulting you.

MASTER GAO’S HUMBLE HOUSE

Least said, soonest enjoyed of Hatthevar’s new fashion of culinary delights. Amid a pick-up in crime, the street food vendors disperse, leaving behind a smattering of secluded establishments drenched in dizzying incense and patroned by… ethereal diners.

Master Gao’s family restaurant promises a once-in-a-lifetime experience, amid ghosts, ghouls and the monstrously dead. Take a seat at a private table, where you are treated to a pleasantly sweet, liquorice brew — then informed politely that you have been lethally poisoned and will die within two hours. Already, you feel your body feverish, overly stimulated, your thoughts given to wonder.

Focus, focus: the antidote, says the listless waitress, is in one of the numerous incoming dishes. A game to focus you on enjoying your meal. Even one bite will heal you.

THE MENU

Still on the fence? Reviewers say:

★★★★☆ Came for the bao buns, stayed for the screams of endless agony.
★★★★★ most places on lotus street went to the hell dogs, master’s gao stays lit, the demon bacon’s sizzle drizzle
★★☆☆☆ Two stars for the incredible heart of virgin sacrifice, cooked al dente. But this will be our last visit, after unprofessional staff treated us as if we were at our first cannibal rites.
★★★★☆ Hand-made blood pasta, rolled like grandma used to make.

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THE HEADLESS DANCER

Five and Wen Kexing share that word on the street is Matthias has favoured two hideaways. The most widely known one, where you are headed first, is the Headless Dancer: a ghost ship that appears on nights of the full moon in the misty lagoon near Hatthevar. Half-sunken and ragged, the Headless Dancer appears like a conglomerate of titans’ bones, carved and welded together. It is a proper sea vessel, atypical to sail through a lagoon.

Your objective is to search the ship for any sign of Matthias.

■ As the vessel passes, you hear a staggered, loud rattling: the chattering teeth of the skull heads that shape the ship’s hull. These hungry mouths reach to crush and gnaw you, if you fall in the waters close to the ship.

■ A pirate crew is hard at work to keep the vessel afloat. At first, the men appear normal, but their skeletal, corpse-like appearance is revealed when they come under moonlight.

■ Many crew members ignore you, chained to each other and the deck and condemned to perform their tasks while singing their ol’ song. Only the captain speaks liberally: cursing, whipping his men and carrying a bundle of chains as he makes his rounds. Hide — at times helped or betrayed by crew members — or risk getting chained down by the captain, your powers entirely muted until you are released.

■ Midway through your visit, the ship sails back into the fog, beneath a strange wave of clouds shaped like enormous fish and sea life . Spears and chains that resemble fish spines plunge down to pin the ship in place: they fly across the deck, at times skewering and stabbing crew members. Take cover or jump overboard.

■ After a few moments, the spear-chains latch onto the vessel’s sides, turning it over and submerging into the lagoon. Instead of sinking, the Headless Dancer breaks water, once again upright… in strange new sides (the ‘Other Side’) in the middle of an intensely violent storm of blood. The previously skeletal crew and captain are now fully human and are struggling desperately to keep the ship from sinking, despite furious winds and the vessel taking substantial amounts of water. You understand quickly this is an illusion or memory of some kind: there is no saving the ship. Spend the last few minutes before the Headless Dancer sinks trying to stay afloat and search the captain and main passengers’ cabin for clues. Within 20 minutes, you hear the mast of the Headless Dancer give way, while the rapidly flooding of the hull causes the ship to break in half. You fall unconscious, waking up battered but alive in the real-world shores of Hatthevar, the splinters of the Headless Dancer’s deck stuck beneath your nails.

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HE BLEEDS

Following our latest vote, the People have overwhelmingly chosen that undead creator Matthias will die.

Carrying out the plan is open to everyone, whether you did or didn’t get involved with the voting — jump in freely!

Matthias will be discovered in the second lair location uncovered by Five and Wen Kexing — the Whispering House of Hatthevar’s foremost wish maker, the Red Lady. He dwells on the first floor, which has been turned into an immense room decked in dark mirrors, whose windows have been entirely barricaded.

There are two types of mirrors: some show you exactly what you most wish to see, progressively captivating you while rapidly depleting your stamina and vitality, until you are reduced to dried husks and bones within the hour.

Looking into the second type of mirror, your character sees a person of tar that reaches out to touch them until their hand exits the glass. Upon contact, your character is overcome by a feeling of intense, spreading coldness, as if their insides are being infested by a rapidly propagating alien creature. They may feel its highly primitive, emotion-led thoughts: a jumble of jealousy, the wish to have a shape and manifest, hatred that your body is not malleable, fear, hunger. The creature takes your body over within the hour.

You can escape both types of mirrors if you cover them, do not look into them, or if someone breaks the thrall (by taking your attention away from the mirror or by physically removing you).

Matthias is often away from his hideaway, giving you valuable time to plot and tinker.

Killing him will involve:

■ Scouting the Whispering House. The Red Lady, a powerful sorceress, is unlikely to allow intruders to go where they please inside her home. But the ‘I’m just a poor wish maker, looking for the bathroom’ excuse is a time honoured classic!

■ Using Matthias’ severed limbs and organs to reduce his power: this can be done by destroying the parts. Fire will do the trick.

■ Setting down traps (tentacly or otherwise!) in Matthias’ quarters to detain him.

■ Creating an illusion or shapeshifting someone to look like Matthias’ daughter Cosette and distract him, when he returns.

■ Feeding Matthias a memory potion that will force him to remember his part in Cosette’s demise.

■ Killing him. Per RNG gods, Emilia gets the dubious honour of delivering the killing blow (most likely, with help from a special tool obtained from the Headless Dancer). Everyone else is still free to char, sting, entrap or force feed memories to Matthias!

Since several people might get involved, it’s probably logistically easier if you play out prep work or threads in groups of no more than 2-3 and assume other party members are around.

You can either NPC Matthias yourselves in your threads or ask for mod involvement.

Note: everyone who threads out any of the events of Matthias’ capture or demise can “inherit” some of his power over undeath once he is killed. Your character will then have to choose what they do with this power (keep, transfer or disperse it).

QUESTIONS

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( Oh ye of little, Wen-bound faith. He does not attempt to discipline his most volatile of companions, does not corral or coax him. Instead, brows pinched north-wise, he looks on incredulously as Wen Kexing takes on magic previously unseen and capitulates, waiting —

For the inevitable.

Yes, the creature makes fast attempt to move. Yes, Wen Kexing pulls back. Yes, it is all some shade of profound predictability. His smile is only the corners of his mouth, sweetened.

Then, politely, he summons a pierce of parchment like bound spiders' webs, nearly threadbare — hard times, scant resources. The clan would be shamed by such resourcing, Wei Ying glad of his practicality. )

What talents past your... ( Mouthing. ) Bloodlust?

Oh, you're in a funny mood, aren't you?

( He might have actually liked Lan Wangji, if this specific bitchy side of him had been given light before now. Instead they have but a handful of ill-fated meetings between them, bitterly stagnant. )

I have many talents, Master Lan, do you want them alphabetised or in order of just which are my most profound? Though I highly doubt you'd approve of them if we go with the latter. They're hardly useful here.

( He is desperately curious, narrow eyed as the figures subside a little, Wen Kexing hovering still like a spectre and glancing Lan Wangji's way. ) 1

( Why is this man —

Why is this man.

The Heavens help and restrain and reinforce him, the ghost of his discipline, the last shallow dregs of his patience, while he rolls his eyes to the waiting Heavens and gently, firmly rasps out, voice like rust peeled off a well-worn blade: )

What talents that may assist in either your protection or our offensive?

( He will survive this. He will survive this. He will survive this.

...he only needs to insure that Wen Kexing will, also. )

Aiya, I have survived thus far, haven't I? Just because they managed to trap me once doesn't mean I've simply forgotten all my martial arts.

( For a moment he entertains the idea of just fighting Lan Wangji himself, but no. No. He is trying to help. )

I'm still breathing, so I can fight. But you've just told me I must be still, so I implore you, oh great Master Lan, what is it you think we should do here?

( Sarcasm, dripping. He is apparently now just very tired. )

( Expire, promptly and with due aplomb. Do not exercise vengeance against each and every one of Wen Kexing's ancestors. Be stone, unyielding, unmoving, resilient

Absent that, his emptied hand extending before he may will himself into oblivion: )

Hold my hand. ( There are kinder ways to enter the Heavens, but here comes one — )

And do not fear flight.

( And its brother. )

Lan Wangji. ( Faux scandalised. ) I'm not that kind of girl.

( It is perhaps a blessing that Lan Xichen has already shown off his aerial skills, that sweet time he got too drunk to contain his excitement. He doesn't think Lan Wangji knows about that, and he's too good of a friend to snitch but Wen Kexing can guess at which way the man before him thinks they may escape. A brief moment of pause as he scans the room around him before he does the unexpected and takes the hand offered, clasping it tightly.

Cheerful. ) We'll tell no one of this! I have a reputation.

( Boldly, he gives the hand he's holding a little shake. Come on, Hanguang-Jun, show off. )

You have shadows and dregs. ( This, muttered briskly under his breath, manner unbecoming. Uncle would not be pleased. But then, Uncle would not favour a miscreant who submerges himself in bloodletting and warfare without ado, and so perhaps this is a lost venture, from start to finish.

He captures Wen Kexing's hand, first tenderly in the way in which one might begin to escort children. The grip steels, savagely done. He tugs — Bichen called to the side, unfettered and left to float, rises to knee's height, still demanding the effort of a climb. She is not a creature to bow herself completely, no matter the bluntness of her riders' rank: her master and an... honoured guest.

At the last moment, it strikes him he must step up first — and does, coaxing Wen Kexing behind himself, so that Lan Wangji might have the freedom of his hands, waving the crackling, first-bursting parchment.

Wen Kexing may wish to hang on. He is not invited. A rascal will know the way of it, in his bones. )

Fend for your face. Eyes. Likely debris. ( Explosions, it emerges, are ugly work. ) Mind yourself. People care.

( About Wen Kexing. A most novel fact. )

( A strange desperate urge to giggle alights in Wen Kexing's throat as he steps onto the sword, one he does his best to swallow down but still somehow finds it's way into his exhale either way. It is not daring, however, that has him folding an arm around the second young master's waist, he actually does keep it as proper as he can. He knows that this is simply a way of escape, and that Lan Wangji in not leaving him to die, is giving him a gift. Still he watches the shadows, shivering, needy, fingers clawing at the boundary. They will break through if given reason, have moved to the outskirts thusly. )

Well, you do the same then.

( An agitated burst of brusque care, this is Wen Kexing when he is clinging to his smoke and mirrors. )

If you go blind and we both fall to our deaths I'll be displeased. A ghost even you can't banish, Master Lan, fair warning.

( But here he is obediently tilting his head down, obscuring it from where the worst of the damage might come. )

You will not perish here. ( This much, he can pledge with a honeyed tongue. There is solidity in Wen Kexing's arm that seeks him, a sense of earth, anchoring. He feels — alive. Claimed, solid. Wen Kexing may not wish it so, but in the face of magical exertion, every man is reduced to power and the flesh that is stripped of it, and there are times when Lan Wangji thinks himself no more, no better a sum of his parts than the whole of his blistering core.

The parchment in his hand comes rabidly, violently, brightly alive — aflame. He throws it out first, straight at the wall, with limited, arrogant impatience. Fire should not readily consume plaster, but the house is ancient, the bones of its walls are wood.

He thinks he hears the screams of men through the crackling of flames, but only shadow reveals itself in stains like mould, like spreading ink. All too suddenly, the wall is no more — and Lan Wangji's arm rises to fend and protect his face — and Bichen bears both men, and she is more alert in this than he, darting them outside and taking to air, where the crisp reality of the constant rain will soon eat at their bones.

Blood, again. He does not look back. )

...safe? ( And softer: ) Afraid?

( He still wants to laugh, isn't sure whether it is the situation or the exhaustion that is causing it. Surprisingly, he doesn't want to upset Lan Wangji even more, either because he wants to save his own skin or because he knows just what it takes to rally beyond revulsion and aid someone like him. The heat of the fire steals his voice regardless - and he was chastised for the idea of arson - his chin dipped down away from the flickering flame. He does not spare those creatures trapped within the wall a second glance. )

My Qinggong isn't that bad! ( Voice raised to be heard over the wailing, stomach lurching slightly as they're lifted. He's actually quite good at gaining his own height, knows the top of trees like the back of his hand. The nausea must be from the source, it isn't his power propelling him. The sudden rain is a shock, cool against his back. It is that upon which he mentally blames his shiver. ) Master Lan, I think you just wanted all the fun of setting a blaze yourself.

( It is much easier to joke than to deal with reality. )

Aiya, I don't blame you. You should always do rebellious things when you can.

( 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.

( There is something unsettling about the fact that Lan Wangji might have some understanding of Wen Kexing. It does not even matter that it comes from knowing someone else, no. In fact it somehow makes it worse. Wen Kexing's glib tongue has always been a weapon, even more so a shield. From even before he knew how to make himself sharp in physical affairs he always had that heat behind his words, that runaway desperation that ran circles around whomever he needed it to. His teeth snap shut, the click loud. )

Just -. ( A breath. ) Concentrate on not getting us shot down like ducks.

( He will have to return to where they kept him soon enough. They had taken his fan, and while he has others now, he wants that one. If it's been eaten by fire he might be cross. Still, there's time. A moment or two to gather his thoughts. Contrary to popular belief he is not infallible, they managed to get the drop on him simply because he has been overworked. )

Why were you there? Coincidence?

( You may wish, he does not say, to speak to the men who possess the arrows.

But then, Wen Kexing never lent himself tot he practicalities of survival, and Lan Wangji languishes, briefly, in the arrested state between drifting and perfect suspension, balance safe, secure but slow.

He directs the sword, swerving, until the pointy ends of the incoming arrows are far too distant and low-flying to tickle their feet, let alone imperil their progress. He does not ask how Wen Kexing is navigating the challenge, gut-born or otherwise, of their travel. Better to distract. )

I wished to see the abductors. If they sought our kind or mere spirits for enslavement. What they knew in truth.

( ...then Wen Kexing arrived and, presumably, Lan Wangji got very bored. )

( He is navigating it just fine, thank you very much. Which means he's just focusing on a straight line across Lan Wangji's shoulder and not looking down. )

Mm. Do you think that's why they took me? Enslavement. I wouldn't be very good at it.

( He's not going to pretend he wasn't captured, Lan Wangji has already seen proof enough of that, the same way he already knows a little too of the nauseous angry child he can be. He was there when the Ghost Valley Master haunted him, after all. Still, he can't be serious even now.

He also knows exactly why he was taken, but the more distance between himself and that the better. )

Is that what you've been doing this whole time? Tackling slavers?

( Hopefully he never finds out Wen Kexing gave up Five. In his defence, he planned to return. )

( Easy, for the next steps of the flight, nearly smooth. Transitioning from hard escape to simple drift, with minimal obstruction. He tires: he knows so, irrevocably. Bichen carries him swiftly, but its exertion and that of the talisman remain.

No matter. For once, Wen Kexing's chatter serves a palatable distraction. )

It is our duty. ( No: Wen Kexing despises empty conviction, unwon fealty. He fails, as do juveniles and miscreants, to understand a need beyond his own. ) Our vocation.

( That which pulses and beats in his chest like a second, stormed heart. Cloud Recesses raised neither cowards nor soldiers — but priestly hermits, men of devotion. )

You have no love of the sects. Yet they serve purpose. Should defend honour.

They only defend honour when it suits them.

( Sharp, and then, wilted. ) No, who am I kidding? You and your brother are made of the same shining cloth, and from what little I've heard of your son that's been passed down too. ( There is ... warmth in his voice, a little. Lan Xichen has certainly won Wen Kexing's strange loyalty and despite the fact that he and Lan Wangji fight every time they meet, he thinks he'd still step in were the man in need. He did, when it was Wen Kexing. He does not consider this man an enemy. ) Maybe the Lan are just different, how would I know? I've only ever seen them use their power for wrong.

( A pause, tipping his head back a little so he can look at the stars and how much closer they are like this. )

There was a time it might have been written for me, you know? My father tried to leave me at Siji Manor. He hoped I'd make a good disciple, or he'd hoped I'd be safer. But I didn't want to leave him. Or my mother. I didn't want to be raised by strangers. And so I went with them. Sometimes I wonder. Maybe Qin Huaizhang would have had a better influence on me. Or maybe having Ah-Xu for a shixiong would have had me behave better. Or maybe I would have ended up the same either way.

( A beat of silence, and then. )

It makes me angry, Master Lan, it makes me so angry. You tell me sects have a duty to protect and all I can wonder is why didn't they? They turned their backs on us. It only makes sense I do the same.

( I know nothing to his manor, of the men you mention. I do not know your purpose. But then, Wen Kexing speaks and spills the venom that has begun to take a hold of his body and weaken it, and Lan Wangji does not choke with the tacit dagger's stab of his companion's frustration, does not wither with it.

Bichen holds in flight, shifting in slow, incremental descent. Not here, not with arrows and flying creatures still assailing the skies, but she begins, and it will be a pleasant reunion, dust motes returned to land. Unlike Lan Wangji — startled, staring — she is not lost. )

It is easy for men to be base and fickle. ( To renounce their duty, like spitting in the face of their ancestors. To know nothing of their shame, a troubled and cracked mirror. To remove themselves from their calling. )

But this is no easy world. And you live through complicated times. ( Nothing excuses you. ) Be the better man. Because it pleases you to.

Don't you find it exhausting?

( Quiet, watching the skyline over Lan Wangji's shoulder instead of looking down as they begin to dip, nausea still sitting heavy in his stomach. ) Choosing to be good while everyone else cheats and schemes and backstabs?

( Maybe it helps that Lan Wangji has the conviction of a clan behind him, they're all similar enough stock, they all follow the same rules. Wen Kexing thinks about what might happen to him if he ever tried to emulate the same virtues where he came from. How quickly would his throat be slit in the night, he wonders. How long would he withstand it?

A sigh. )

Aiya, no. There's no point wondering. What good will it do me? We can't all be paragons of virtue.

( He should not speak; there is antagonism, but no expectation. He owes Wen Kexing less than he is owed in kind. But it stifles, at times, claws biting his jugular, to be seen but perennially, incompetently misunderstood. Skipped over. What are the burdens of young master Lan, if his nature is shaped to bear them? If his shoulders cannot tremble or droop or fall? )

I have been exhausted each heartbeat of sixteen years.

( Small turbulence of her in drift, Bichen skitters, drops incrementally. They are preparing for a landing — not on hard ground, where whatever pursuers might recall to stalk them, but on a neighbourly, sturdy rooftop that has tasted seemingly little of recent battle. No frost wyrms here, when Lan Wangji crosses the last of the distance in a leap, when he breaks his fall on his arm, when he —

Breathes.

Then turns, calling the sword to gentle descent. ) But it is not such hardship, is it? To live, tired but content. Better than with a heart heavy or a head bowed.

( Can all men make such a claim? )

( They land, Wen Kexing does not try to hide how his first steps from the sword are unsteady. He might be able to use his qinggong to take to the skies but there is a difference between that and holding himself stiff on a blade's edge, and so he takes a moment, hands moving over imaginary wrinkles and a deep, greedy breath of air pulled into his lungs. When he looks Lan Wangji's way there is something in his gaze, assessing and then softening. )

I suppose you have.

( He might be more inclined to morality than Wen Kexing is, but it is still a choice, is it not? The same way Wen Kexing himself is not actually wholly evil, Lan Wangji must not be wholly good. He feels things just the same as everyone else. There is a sigh trapped in his chest that he lets out with bluster, straightening himself out and turning towards the other man. Then Wen Kexing clasps his hands together, gives him a shallow bow. )

Thank you for helping me. I find myself as ever fortunate that Master Lan has been raised to be righteous. ( He glances up, a quick flicker of something at the corner of his mouth. ) And who knows, maybe one day I'll start believing you.

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bygones be bygones

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