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westwhere2021-03-27 06:48 pm
groundrules) wrote in westwhere2021-03-27 06:48 pm
sa-hareth | arrival (mingle log)
WHO: Everyone ever + the local Sa-hareth squad.
WHEN: Arc I: Sa-Hareth arrival.
WHERE: Sa-Hareth citadel, salt mine, the old jailhouse,
WHAT: Our intrepid heroes get commandeered into the frosty unknown.
WARNINGS: the glorious undead, background House of Dew mentions, at least one person's terrible sense of humour.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
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. ]
no subject
[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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.]