Bichen, straightened, a graveyard for the thinning deluge. The blood rains dilute with each passing hour, exorcised by dawns. He knows — has known — for days of journey, and still his stomach roils, revulsion like thick bile when he see the sword so stained.
For the blade's sake, he should yet sheathe her. The woman looks the part of innocent or sorceress, her skills elsewhere placed — not in her thin arms, or narrow waist, or the loose economy of her footwork, impractical in swordsmanship. If she means to attack, she will call on her magic or her allied creatures, and Lan Wangji will need to retaliate with the full, white wrath of a different arsenal than the blade. Bichen is useless to him now, only a harsh dissonance of shifting air, when he turns or straightens the sword to follow the woman's breathing.
No point in crude cruelty. No honour in the greeting. The sword stays, Lan Wangji's grip lax on her hilt. They are too laden, rain-wet and off-balance, for ceremony. He blinks, and his lashes drop blood from above.
And is Lan Wangji certain that the beasts are foe, sooner than friend? Attacks indicate it. At length, the only constants of the journey have been the army that haunts them, the canyons unending, the blood rains of each night, and the winged creatures engaging in hostilities from above. "Your name."
no subject
For the blade's sake, he should yet sheathe her. The woman looks the part of innocent or sorceress, her skills elsewhere placed — not in her thin arms, or narrow waist, or the loose economy of her footwork, impractical in swordsmanship. If she means to attack, she will call on her magic or her allied creatures, and Lan Wangji will need to retaliate with the full, white wrath of a different arsenal than the blade. Bichen is useless to him now, only a harsh dissonance of shifting air, when he turns or straightens the sword to follow the woman's breathing.
No point in crude cruelty. No honour in the greeting. The sword stays, Lan Wangji's grip lax on her hilt. They are too laden, rain-wet and off-balance, for ceremony. He blinks, and his lashes drop blood from above.
And is Lan Wangji certain that the beasts are foe, sooner than friend? Attacks indicate it. At length, the only constants of the journey have been the army that haunts them, the canyons unending, the blood rains of each night, and the winged creatures engaging in hostilities from above. "Your name."