westwhere | sa-hareth | arrival (mingle log)

People whose only care is what food will be on the table the next day usually care little who holds the seat of power. A lesson many who want to conquer said seat should do well to remember, really. We all deserve to be humbled every once in a while.

[But it's true that people seem very accepting of the fact that there are just... undead people who apparently lord over them. No one seems to care that much.]

I am also curious of how we came to be here of course, but also about how mysterious 'benefactors'. Who here has an interest in saving us and making us escape? What will they expect in return? Money is all well and good, but not easily obtained.

[He gives a small sigh. Not understanding the language adds to the difficulty, plus, this is a cosmopolitan city, which means it is difficult to discern which customs are native and which ones are from other places but tolerated because it is good for trade.

He feels the familiar rush of his power almost a second too late, stopping in his tracks after a stumble before he sprawls onto the cobblestones. On his forehead, the sigil of the Aquarius starts glowing, and his eyes take on a purple silvery sheen.

It hasn't happened a lot since they've recovered, but then, it never does. a Star Master doesn't use his powers as a daily occurrence anyway, but Moran even less than some of the others, who can at least summon it at their will if needed. Moran is just lucky that in some important moments, it decides to cooperate.

The vision, as usual, lacks context and will not be easy to interpret until much later and more circumstances come out, but one this is clear...]

I do believe they might want to get us out before some sort of conflict breaks out. There appears to be more than one faction of those unfortunate souls vying for control.

[ Impulse, habit, the educated gamble: half a blink, and the body beside his stumbles, and Lan Wangji's arm's learned in the way of an instinctive catch, splaying to the side to break a fall that never brokers itself. He waits, but Moran recovers, his breath and his stance and his footing — until he can be trusted to hold and keep himself, Wangji's hand slow to withdraw from where it perches to fetter the man's shoulders.

Wei Ying's likeness in many things, then. So be it. Inevitably, they lure attention in ways Lan Wangji wishes tapered and tame. A small girl, shielding behind her mother's skirts, seem to draw her carer's eyes, pointing the fumbling Moran. A break seller stares, brazen, before Moran's stability convinces him that all is well enough, and better to leave strangers to their own affairs. ]

Walk. [ Walk, then. Walk, Lan Wangji's fingers tentative on Moran's elbow, short of claw and hook. If they are mobile, they limit their exposure. ] Master Moran. [ Firm, slow. ] You have a sickness?

[ Fair arguments before, better discourse — but shadowed by silver, glimpsed, and the electric taste of magic in vicinity. No matter distant threats, if only lives in a body so close to Wangji's own.

Careful calculation depends on disclosure. Do they trust each other enough for transparency? Have they earned it so? ]

[The little stumble, and the glowing show, attracted some attention, no wonder, and Moran does start walking again when prompted. He's fine, not showing any sign of being weaker or even overly affected.

The hand on his shoulder made him bristle in a distant way, and he squashed it down, not wanting to attract more undue attention and also understanding the gesture was born of concern. he has not disclosed his full identity to many of the new companions so far, so can he be annoyed at what they cannot possibly know? That would be unfair.

But he does gently take his arm back. He can walk unaided just fine.

Now, disclosing about this... Well, it was only a matter of time before this would happen, and he has no reason to hide it.]

Hardly, Master Lan. Although I was born with it, it is no weakness of mine. Not that it is entirely pleasant either, mind you, but it is no hindrance.

In my world, we have Star Masters. I am one of them, and this is simply how my power manifests.

[ Matter ended, arm removed. He allows himself the indiscretion of delay, hovered at Moran's side, until his flesh proves as strong as the spirit that exorcises Lan Wangji's caretaking. How often has Wei Ying protested supervision? Enough so that his twin might inherit the scraps of Wangji's residual, absent attention.

In the great bright light of sun light, scattered by snow, they walk slower than the natives. Snow is a kindly friend in Cloud Recesses, thin, fine and easily dispersed by disciples assigned the morning duties. Here, slushed, part sullied, part pure gravel, speckled with broken ice slate, the snowed urban road requests care. Beside them, merchants and natives have learned the better pace. ]

Your power?

[ To... stumble? No. Never mind the first impulse to ridicule, the second to doubt. Power was the coin of their arrival, the lure that secured the interest of the creatures who pursue them, even under conceit of shadow and cloak.

Whatever Star Masters achieve, it is done strongly, or well. ]

Your power drains.

[ Yin, to some degree, surely, if it consumed the man's resources, drew out his fatigue. No matter the recovery, however briefly, master Moran faltered. ]

The Star Masters each rule over one of the constellation of the Zodiac, and in turn it gives them and their people their power. There are thirteen... well, twelve of us, now. I am the Star Master of the Aquarius.

[Master Lan hasn't really inquired as to what exactly the power is - or rather, he may have, in his own economy of word, but Moran is choosing to understand that he did not.

The other man's next word actually take him by surprise and his eyebrows raise slightly.]

I am impressed that you could feel that just from witnessing it once. Yes, our powers do drain our life force when overused, which is why we tend to avoid it unless absolutely necessary.

Unfortunately, my power is the only one that cannot be activated voluntarily. It happens when it wishes to, and I have no control over it.

[ The man who shares the lines of Beitang Moran's face in abstraction, who wears them better — he obscures more finely, too, though far from Lan Wangji to criticise a game of ill-played deception.

Powers that drain life force when overused — not merely deplete qi, for trickled, tense restitution. Does life force replenish itself, fairly and easily, without incentive? Does the man before him survive as a shell, hollowed further even for the accident of magic that Lan Wangji now witnessed? ]

Apologies. [ Soft, bartered. Taut, for how Wangji seeks access, words that will not hinder, accuse, perceive. ] Your constellations are unknown.

[ Aquarius, not Dragon or Rabbit, Rat, Rooster and Dog. No doubt, a different approximation of the same stars' twining, viewed from alternative vantage. All the same. ]

As is your power.

[ Anonymous, left without detail. Purposefully, though Lan Wangji cannot accuse, when Bichen sits a cavernous absence, searched every few hours at his hip and sash, as if she might yet incarnate in his keep again unknown to him.

The ask itself lacks courtesy. He knows: some abilities belong to the sect more than the person. Beitang Moran might prove unable to speak of that which is not his in more than name. ]

[This is what happens when there aren't that many people who can call you out about obscuring things to your face without literally risking their lives for it, Wangji. Moran is a diplomat on top of a soldier. His game is usually letting the other party know he knows stuff without saying he knows stuff.

he sighs a little upon hearing the name of the constellation rings no bell.]

No need to apologize for that, Master Lan. I honestly should have thought of that, with how everything else is different... and yet, strangely, our languages so similar that we can understand one another. How odd.

[But then, Master Lan asks again without asking, and Moran smiles. Not apologetically, no, a bit knowingly, just to tell the man, yes, he understands, he heard the unspoken question.]

There's not much point to me trying to hide it. As you can see, it happens rather at unawares, and it is noticeable when it does. It will come out, sooner or later. As for what it does...

It shows me the future.

[ Scrying in water and flame and the throw of bone dice, the seaweed of dregs that adorn a tea cup — an art disclosed and known in abstract, if never in the familiars of a nearby practitioner. Empathy, the closest spell: watching back, but still peering through time and hidden depth, carving out meaning. No cultivator has perfected the habit of fortune telling, past employing matchmakers and astrologists and the finery of battle instinct.

He does not control himself — does not guard his face, steel his eyes, lessen the quiver of his mouth. Stares, pure disbelief drawing his hand on Moran's elbow, returned, each breath sharp, as if — in the tension of his stupour — he might glimpse somehow the gylph on the man's forehead, like a scar revived. ]

The future.

[ A dreadfully alluring, sinful proposition. A better man, a true wise elder, might abstain from questioning that which time itself has yet to reveal. There is debt yet between Wangji and the sect Lan, between the chief cultivator and his people. He does not repay it here, loitered among strangers. ]

Do we escape here? Return as we were? What do you see?

[ Nothing, he knows in reason, not when the... convulsion took mere moments, when Beitang Moran seems to have extricated himself of it without gasp or epiphany. ]

[It's almost a little comical to Moran, because where he is from everyone knows who he is and what he can do and it puzzles absolutely no one. It is simply a part of life like any other. The slack-jawed, wide-eyed surprise is in fact funny enough to warrant a smile... at least until his arm is grabbed again and the smile falters a little.

he's doing to try and extricate himself again - stars, but this man has a strong grip.]

Master Lan, it does not work like that.

Just like I do not choose when my power manifest, I likewise cannot ask me to show me events that I personally wish to know about. It shows me what it wishes, and more occasionally than not, what will be significant. But it can be hard to interpret properly, or act upon.

[But this vision concerns them all, so he might as well share.]

There are two factions of those undead soldiers. At some point in the future, there will be a battle between them. I cannot tell you where or when, just that this will happen. I can only surmise that our benefactors would like us to be out of town before it happens.

[ A gift... imperfect, immature. A talent that possesses its wielder, more than it gives of itself. That speaks of no certainties, no particulars, no graphic or conditional circumstance.

What would it sword mastery be, if Lan Wangji could not control his blade? Could not decide when he grasps its hilt, which way to swing its course, how to interpret its swing? If Bichen merely visited its strike upon him, and his sword arm were the instrument, not she his extension?

Gathered, black daze, his gaze on Moran is apt to stab. Useless. ]

All this was known before.

[ Barring the inevitability of war staining the citadel grounds again, easily concluded. Two factions of dead, to hear from those who walked the spectre of the jailhouse — to hear the citizens, who knew of conquest twice over, strife among their dead war masters.

Unkind, to name Beitang Moran's weakness to his face, so like Wei Ying's. Better to spare him. ]

Now, underscored.

[Moran is extremely aware that his power can and will look useless to many. It is only in very specific circumstances that it manages to be immediately reliable. More often than not, it serves as an ominous kind of foreshadowing.]

I am sorry that I cannot be more precise. I only saw some bits of a battle. All I can say, with absolute certainty, is that it will come to pass. All of my visions come to pass, no matter what.

[So it's no use trying to find a way to circumvent the events in them.

He takes in the glare, shakes it off as well as the words, and the attempts at salvaging what the other man probably saw as a slip of the tongue, albeit a revealing one. All of a sudden, he looks a little tired, but in a more bone-deep, weary way than his mid-twenties should bring.]

Seeing the future is not a blessing, Master Lan. It's a curse. At certain times, it will help. At others, it will simply outline your own lack of power in changing any of it. There are too many parameters in making any single event happen.

It helps in combat, every once in a while. For the rest it allows me to make slightly better informed decisions about the future of my country, and even then, I can never be certain that I am making the right choices.

I apologize for not being more useful at this time. And I cannot guarantee I will be more useful later on, at least with this. Thankfully, I have other talents than this.

Edited 2021-04-05 12:43 (UTC)

[ Beitang Moran's excuses. Apologies. And later, in the hour of combat —

But what use, by then, if they've come to sword and blow? Foreknown is forearmed, yet true wisdom and knowledge combine to diplomacy. And Zewu-Jun's art traded war for lightning's spark of a smile, at every turn.

What even lesser use to waken Beitang Moran to his futility? He is not of children's make, not pale and sheltered, not swaddled. He knows, by the deep-sown lines of his contrition, the truth of his... ability. Unreadable in today's sighting, prone to leaving him minutely vulnerable in an open street. If Lan Wangji reserves alms and fortune silver for beggars and strays so often, he may yet discover the last dregs of kindness for an ill-stitched companion. ]

Each man brings use before the heavens.

[ He inclines his head, lets men and women walk past them, the smell of morning's toasted nuts and pastries rise, beside the stench of spread fish. Vendors, discovering their wares.

Past the earliest, most primitive allures, the stalls of textile vendors, stretches of gold-spun linens, li of gauze and lace-dappled silks. The colours, tender here: whites for the season, greys for the early-come nights. There, a violence of reds and sincere verdelite. ]

Your errand. [ A pause, then: ] Perhaps, if we broker trade. [ If the seller has cause to lend them kindness. ] Ask of rumours.

[ Wei Ying, decisively, would be the better instrument for this undertaking — his sibling of another mother will have to do. ]

[Moran is glad to be brought back to what took his steps here. They can discuss the philosophical implications and relative usefulness - or uselessness - of his power in some other place, some other time, away from more prying ears. They can understand one another without the crystals, but who knows who else, in the crowd, maybe carrying one.

Moran has his, borrowed, and hopefully can make use of it to charm some of the vendors. He might not have the gift of the gab in the same way his strange twin does, but he does inspire trust, and his smile makes him accessible. He's also been living in a court where knowledge was very much power to stay alive, and extracting information from unknowing target is a consummate art he has practiced before.]

The vendor is this one, I believe.

[He indicates a slightly larger stall, where the fabric are of slightly better quality, and much more colorful and gauzy for some of them. And he bows his head in greeting to the man tending to it, and his female companion. She looks too young to be a wife, maybe a daughter or an apprentice? The girl gets a charming smile before Moran explains, in simple words, that he is picking up an order that should already have bene paid for, and hands out his list.]

If you do not yet have everything, we'll simply take what has arrived and you can tell us when to expect the rest.

... And if I could trouble you to see your blues, maybe? For myself.

[ An errand, for collection. And a private pleasure, before Lan Wangji's flickering gaze, caught and held and ricocheting from thread of silver and gauze thinned as if glass, and thickened wool spun in the colours of the fanned-tail peacock.

Moran and the girl exchange their pleasantries, while Lan Wangji allows himself the grievous indiscretion of loitering between the bundles on display — so often, a privilege beside his brother, to walk the length of a tailor's halls, and know Zewu-Jun may see every li of silk purchased, if Wangji wishes it done.

What is not yours may not be touched. Thieves lose hands daily for lesser defiance. He knows, oh, he knows. Still, the blunt, salt-chipped ends of Wangji's ill-trimmed nails tickle the frayed edges of clustered hemp and unwinding, gold rich cottons. Warmth unexpectedly quickens in his veins, spurs him. He returns to hisc company, core of hard trim held reverently in his open hands, as if he presents a map of aged parchment for Moran and the girl's inspection, not — ]

For your colours.

[ — red, thick, twice woven embroidery of poppy and golden thread. Ah, to have Wei Ying's colouring and Lan taste. Your luck, master Moran, is boundless. Now, if only you have the coin for lace that costs more than most robes. ]

[Moran is busy examining some deep blue fabric when Master Lan comes back carrying his boon, looking almost entreating.

The Prince gives it a look, his eyes appraising. Nice fabric for sure. Probably way too expensive too purchase, because neither he nor Xunxian have unlimited funds here, as unfair as this is. But there is one problem here.]

It is very fetching, Master Lan, but I do not wear reds. Those are Fire Sign colors, not mine.

[ 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. ]

Have your say.

[ If... Beitang Moran must. ]

The red might suit Master Wei more than myself. He wears the color better than I do.

[Certainly with more ease too. Moran doesn't know if the colors have any specific meaning to him and Master Lan.

He returns to some of the blue fabric, which is also too expensive to purchase now, but inquires as to whether it might be possible to pay for it in installments, or maybe set it aside for a later purchase, with the understanding that should he not do so by the agreed upon time, the merchant may of course dispose of it again to his liking. A small amount of coin as a deposit seems to sweeten the deal, and Moran flashes another charming smile at the girl, whose cheeks color slightly at it.]

Say, have you been having trouble with some of the ... soldiers, around lately? We have been hearing some strange noises at night, and people say there have been deaths, and some trouble near the mines.

[ There is always trouble, just as there are handsome men begging arrangement. The girl speaks one of these things with her mouth, the other with her eyes — the third, quiet condemnation of Lan Wangji, haunting the stalls, tracing the grease and sweat and dust and humanity of his fingers' touch in invisible print on her wares.

To Moran's question, she laughs — Chaos is cordial, red and blood are routine. The cold buries all, and peace reproduces like rabbits. They have had no fresh quarry this season.

Alone, Lan Wangji feels that child again, destitute trailing after his brother's robes. Feels misplaced like a piece of torn parchment, adrift in a summer breeze. Hesitates, hand hovered over a fresh single string of red, humble, barely ribbon-spun. Cheap, but even Wangji has the coin for it. ]

You preferred the old — regime to the new?

[ Ah, but she wants his trade. Will tolerate him, for that one lace's purchase, will swallow around the indignity of his question. A clever girl, sharpened by experience.

'At least with these ones, we know what they want. Don't get in their way when it's cold, they won't cross yours. The others... never much telling.'

He does not ask, how can a people tolerate their tyrant? Only toys with the string more, as if this one purchase is troublesome and a great investment. ]

Master Beitang. Lend your counsel.

[ Pretend, he should not have to indicate, that the matter of the thin ribbon is grave and sophisticated enough they may yet stall their time here, asking more questions. ]

['Don't get in their way when it's cold.' An interesting turn of phrase. Does it mean they are more active or aggressive when the temperature drops?

Upon being asked, he comes closer to examine the ribbon, tracing a finger against the grain of it.]

You should get it for Master Wei. He might enjoy having something else than a woman's tie to hold his hair.

[And he might enjoy getting it from this young master here, maybe. Probably.]

We do have a cold front coming up soon. [Addressed to the girl, even though he he is still looking at the ribbon.] It might be more prudent for us to stay inside, then.

[ ...ah. Thinking of master Wei so frequently, bidding master Wei's gifts bought. Then, even Wei Ying's mirror-image bends the knee to swear him a fealty of affections. Mere days in, a wistful suitor. The disciples who already trail in his wake will pale and wither to hear of a challenger of sterner, gentlemanly make.

His hand does not wilt on the ribbon. Does not withdraw, for all instincts of bitterness beg him to bruise the string and spit, Take it, then. The wretched snake of jealousy for the one friend he's earned in two lifetimes rattles, coils, aches to strike.

The girl speaks before he may appease it. Don't mind her saying, but the gentlemen don't look as coarse as the men of these lands. Best they stay in, and don't call the wind in their homes. Lock their windows and their doors, stay in their beds. Why, wrap warmly in this sheepskin she hastens to produce for them, stretched large and long and curled like babe's locks, big enough to engulf the size of her.

With a whispered voice and the shake of his head, Wangji counters: ]

We take the string.

[ Clatter of coin in his purse, swiftly relieved. Two pieces, barely finding each other's company in the yawning dark of his satchel. Do not ask, he warns Beitang Moran with dark eyes and gaze alone. The girl, gratified, rushes to take his gold and knot the string, to surrender it over after. ]

Shall we consult fishermen for our lunch meal, master Beitang?

[ Beitang Moran's turn to pay, to be certain, if they're to reap the gossip of fishmongers. ]

Edited 2021-04-11 21:59 (UTC)

[Master Wei is a very lovable fellow whose company Moran greatly enjoys, and it only has very little to do with the fact that their faces are remarkably similar.

And Moran, while rarely inclined to notice when people hold affection for his own person, has not been insensitive to those who gravitate towards his unlikely twin. He knows this young master in white and gravitates towards him very naturally.

Moran compliments the sheep skin, and looks very sorry that he cannot purchase it at this time, but does mention he will give a word of it to the mistress of the house as she might be interested. And asks for the girl's name, so he may pass the offer along properly.

He bids adieu gracefully, carrying the wrapped bundle of fabric he did pick-up for his actual errand.]

Why not? Since we are already here, we might as well.

[And food, unlike cloth, is an expense more easily justified.If not used just then, it can be gifted to the brothel's kitchen to share with everyone and earn a bit more goodwill.]

sa-hareth | arrival (mingle log)

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