There's Enough Salt Down Here for Mummies, All We Have is Necromancy Mum
It was the best of times, it was decidedly not actually the best of times, but also not the worst of times, which said something about his life expectancies in general. Coming out of his first narcotic spell haze to find himself staring down at the most decidedly wretched and strange manifestation of what surely wasn't a puppet, surely was some poor being caught in some level of decay had set thoughts about demonic cultivation a'twirling in an entirely useless manner, given as soon as they occurred he was struggling to fight off the depths he was sinking back into.
He'd firmly clawed his way out by the time the night of rescue arrived, leading to a series of events that culminate in cautiously stalking his way through the latticework tunnels with a ratty bleached-out, more than slightly salt-encrusted blanket tossed over his shoulders and worn like a sad, poor man's cloak, and a lantern burning and tied off to a long pole that's seen better days. Listening, and having a dark cloth to drop over the lantern as long as he avoided the open glass panel, was doing wonders getting through since he was separated from other living souls.
Which may or may not explain why, when he ran into another living soul, it was while his lantern burned merrily on its side on the ground, and Wei Wuxian was spidered up a wall, ratty blanket covering most of him while salt was generously covering his back, and he was moving his hand to indicate come here while murmuring intently, "Down the left tunnel, now."
Dropping from where he'd been perched, he darted for the lantern, hid it within his ratty blanket cloak, and promptly heads for said tunnel. Elsewhere something wheezed like an asthmatic dog trying not to snore when it had a lung infection.
Dewdrops On Roses, Whiskers on Patrons
For the lucky soul in their situation who met him that first day of his arrival, Wei Wuxian was a smile and then a long, hard stare at the warm millet served with more plentitude than he strictly deserved. He stared into his bowl, nonplussed, mumbling about spices, and why this of all things was familiar, before settling in with the slack faced determination of a man ready to internally complain about the spice of hunger because if nothing else, that is more groundingly familiar than the rest of this, so far.
In the day and days that follow he was nothing but smiles and light flirtation and a quick learner of what smaller things needed doing (the mending, ah, he managed it in the chunky style that said he was immediately not managing it past his first darned stocking) until he could get himself errands for petty cash that was leading to more coin, or at least opportunities to work on lightfinger skills he'd pretended not to need for a good chunk of his life but was falling back into with all the grim faced gusto of a man who stole knockoffs of his own inventions from the charlatans wandering around claiming to be him, only better funded.
As one does.
It also means he makes efforts to learn the faces of those in the same situation, popping in and out to say hello and introduce himself and catalogue each of them in this situation. Which may well be why he showed up with a second cup of weak tea, or the morning rations of millet, or at one point, a series of partly burnt flatcakes which were more than edible if one scraped off the extra carbon, and handed it to one of his fellow escapees.
"Here," he said, settling down on some nearby surface. "Have anything exciting planned for the day?"
Lock Target: Market Forays and Other Miscellaneous (Mis)Deeds
He moved to act as errand boy, as dirtied and bedraggled denizen, as a shadow on the street, as no recognised face, and while some of the time it was to legal and unremarkable means, others, it was less so.
Wei Wuxian lingered over the combs he could afford without having the memory of Wen Qing telling him we can do without, and stares at the unremarkable wooden comb that has teeth wide enough without being too uneven, and no particular carvings etched into its handle, but something like the waves of a storm at sea. "This one," he said to the shopkeep of the small store, who'd been watching him half out of boredom and half out of keen suspicion, but the understandability of his speech and the quality of his smile has them narrowing their eyes and smiling in return.
When he'd filched that particular quartz earlier, he'd kept a less quality one dangling around his neck, and a small coinpurse tucked away like he'd eyed more of those moving through town did. If the point was familiar enough patterns in a twice-ravaged and conquered city that saw plenty of naval merchants in and out, he could fit himself in well enough for now, sweeping back out into the streets with another goal in mind. Paper, this time.
Wildcard
( Hit me up with whatever! I'll match your tagin style, went with prose for my ease. )
no subject
It was the best of times, it was decidedly not actually the best of times, but also not the worst of times, which said something about his life expectancies in general. Coming out of his first narcotic spell haze to find himself staring down at the most decidedly wretched and strange manifestation of what surely wasn't a puppet, surely was some poor being caught in some level of decay had set thoughts about demonic cultivation a'twirling in an entirely useless manner, given as soon as they occurred he was struggling to fight off the depths he was sinking back into.
He'd firmly clawed his way out by the time the night of rescue arrived, leading to a series of events that culminate in cautiously stalking his way through the latticework tunnels with a ratty bleached-out, more than slightly salt-encrusted blanket tossed over his shoulders and worn like a sad, poor man's cloak, and a lantern burning and tied off to a long pole that's seen better days. Listening, and having a dark cloth to drop over the lantern as long as he avoided the open glass panel, was doing wonders getting through since he was separated from other living souls.
Which may or may not explain why, when he ran into another living soul, it was while his lantern burned merrily on its side on the ground, and Wei Wuxian was spidered up a wall, ratty blanket covering most of him while salt was generously covering his back, and he was moving his hand to indicate come here while murmuring intently, "Down the left tunnel, now."
Dropping from where he'd been perched, he darted for the lantern, hid it within his ratty blanket cloak, and promptly heads for said tunnel. Elsewhere something wheezed like an asthmatic dog trying not to snore when it had a lung infection.
Dewdrops On Roses, Whiskers on Patrons
For the lucky soul in their situation who met him that first day of his arrival, Wei Wuxian was a smile and then a long, hard stare at the warm millet served with more plentitude than he strictly deserved. He stared into his bowl, nonplussed, mumbling about spices, and why this of all things was familiar, before settling in with the slack faced determination of a man ready to internally complain about the spice of hunger because if nothing else, that is more groundingly familiar than the rest of this, so far.
In the day and days that follow he was nothing but smiles and light flirtation and a quick learner of what smaller things needed doing (the mending, ah, he managed it in the chunky style that said he was immediately not managing it past his first darned stocking) until he could get himself errands for petty cash that was leading to more coin, or at least opportunities to work on lightfinger skills he'd pretended not to need for a good chunk of his life but was falling back into with all the grim faced gusto of a man who stole knockoffs of his own inventions from the charlatans wandering around claiming to be him, only better funded.
As one does.
It also means he makes efforts to learn the faces of those in the same situation, popping in and out to say hello and introduce himself and catalogue each of them in this situation. Which may well be why he showed up with a second cup of weak tea, or the morning rations of millet, or at one point, a series of partly burnt flatcakes which were more than edible if one scraped off the extra carbon, and handed it to one of his fellow escapees.
"Here," he said, settling down on some nearby surface. "Have anything exciting planned for the day?"
Lock Target: Market Forays and Other Miscellaneous (Mis)Deeds
He moved to act as errand boy, as dirtied and bedraggled denizen, as a shadow on the street, as no recognised face, and while some of the time it was to legal and unremarkable means, others, it was less so.
Wei Wuxian lingered over the combs he could afford without having the memory of Wen Qing telling him we can do without, and stares at the unremarkable wooden comb that has teeth wide enough without being too uneven, and no particular carvings etched into its handle, but something like the waves of a storm at sea. "This one," he said to the shopkeep of the small store, who'd been watching him half out of boredom and half out of keen suspicion, but the understandability of his speech and the quality of his smile has them narrowing their eyes and smiling in return.
When he'd filched that particular quartz earlier, he'd kept a less quality one dangling around his neck, and a small coinpurse tucked away like he'd eyed more of those moving through town did. If the point was familiar enough patterns in a twice-ravaged and conquered city that saw plenty of naval merchants in and out, he could fit himself in well enough for now, sweeping back out into the streets with another goal in mind. Paper, this time.
Wildcard
( Hit me up with whatever! I'll match your tagin style, went with prose for my ease. )