[ Fetching, but Moran's hand withholds itself, and the girl beside him purses her lips with the sullen trade wisdom of a seller who scents, instantly, who owns the coin purse, and how deeply he sets it to tighten.
In Lan Wangji's hands, lace curls like curdled blood, withers and contorts itself around his fingers. He caresses it, once, then again, and a third time with empty purpose, and offers it out to the vendor like the corpse of a dove, or a loved one, lost to war's tidings. Accepting it, she nearly slips it down to waiting, stone ground, where a horse might have walked this same cobble, a rat.
...ah. Wangji's pick, beloved by one and all. ]
It suited.
[ If not the man who is Moran, than the one he might become with the applied artistry of correcting a few minor imperfections: hair, robes, adornments. ]
no subject
In Lan Wangji's hands, lace curls like curdled blood, withers and contorts itself around his fingers. He caresses it, once, then again, and a third time with empty purpose, and offers it out to the vendor like the corpse of a dove, or a loved one, lost to war's tidings. Accepting it, she nearly slips it down to waiting, stone ground, where a horse might have walked this same cobble, a rat.
...ah. Wangji's pick, beloved by one and all. ]
It suited.
[ If not the man who is Moran, than the one he might become with the applied artistry of correcting a few minor imperfections: hair, robes, adornments. ]
Have your say.
[ If... Beitang Moran must. ]