"Enough to yet pin you to the ground," he trickles down, poison drip and drip and dripping, target aimed, bow strung.
Enough qi restored to Lan Wangji, then, to conclude the threats and conversations that matter. He... suspects, with a cautious glance and a brief assessment of the stretch of Wei Ying's limbs, lean, the fragile concavity of his wrists and ankles, prone to crumbled breaking. Most days, the simple teardrop of qi strength turns battle odds inevitably to Lan Wangji's favour — but here, now, brought to a level, Wei Ying's experience sharpens the sword of his quick wit.
The question of who would win the conflict Lan Wangji means to stoke on principle begs itself. Finds him accepting of compromise, sedate as he kneels, the span of his white silks weeping on the floors beside him. The truth: he is half returned to himself, a vessel unfilled. Aware of his body, more for its fatigue, its glimpsed recovering wounds, its failures. The little he offered Wei Ying was hardly Wangji's own to give, and yet.
A gentleman would find the better manner to refuse a gesture so freely awarded. Let no man mistake Wei Ying, styled Wuxian, of Yiling. Let Lan Wangji too remember, snorting once over his spoiled lather bowl, before dipping one cleansing cloth, rinsing it, and setting it aside for his own use, only to hold out its sibling and entrust it into Wei Ying's care. If he has progressed enough in his recoveries to deny qi, then he may set himself to honest work.
"Mines, emptied." No. He remembers the stench of the caverns, the lack of damp, the harrowing sickness of startled, dead energies. "Haunted. Wei Ying?" Another heartbeat. "Chenqing."
Absent, or unseen before Wangji's eye. As is Bichen.
no subject
Enough qi restored to Lan Wangji, then, to conclude the threats and conversations that matter. He... suspects, with a cautious glance and a brief assessment of the stretch of Wei Ying's limbs, lean, the fragile concavity of his wrists and ankles, prone to crumbled breaking. Most days, the simple teardrop of qi strength turns battle odds inevitably to Lan Wangji's favour — but here, now, brought to a level, Wei Ying's experience sharpens the sword of his quick wit.
The question of who would win the conflict Lan Wangji means to stoke on principle begs itself. Finds him accepting of compromise, sedate as he kneels, the span of his white silks weeping on the floors beside him. The truth: he is half returned to himself, a vessel unfilled. Aware of his body, more for its fatigue, its glimpsed recovering wounds, its failures. The little he offered Wei Ying was hardly Wangji's own to give, and yet.
A gentleman would find the better manner to refuse a gesture so freely awarded. Let no man mistake Wei Ying, styled Wuxian, of Yiling. Let Lan Wangji too remember, snorting once over his spoiled lather bowl, before dipping one cleansing cloth, rinsing it, and setting it aside for his own use, only to hold out its sibling and entrust it into Wei Ying's care. If he has progressed enough in his recoveries to deny qi, then he may set himself to honest work.
"Mines, emptied." No. He remembers the stench of the caverns, the lack of damp, the harrowing sickness of startled, dead energies. "Haunted. Wei Ying?" Another heartbeat. "Chenqing."
Absent, or unseen before Wangji's eye. As is Bichen.