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WHO: Lan Wangji, a triad of misfits, perhaps everyone ever — OPEN FOR BUSINESS ~~payments cash upfront~~
WHEN: first half of July
WHERE: canyons, mountain roads, encampment
WHAT: in which stone is struck (badly), ghosts are drawn into conversation (worse), and small children cry (inevitably)
WARNINGS: blood rains, talk of harpies, Lan Wangji
NOTE: happy to put up a starter for you, if you want to join in on this dubious fun, or feel free to bring your own! Lan Wangji is... drifting... between phantoms, investigations, watches and the stone canyon.

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The Dark Lord is certainly nothing if not always ready to do violence, but in sharp contrast to the wild look of Lan Wangji right now, Archeval is glancing the other man up and down in the dark with a cool, professional calm.

"Yes, no kidding," he sighs out with his usual drawl, but manages to keep his sarcasm to those three words given Wangji's very obvious distress. It's a bit startling to look at, coming from someone who usually seems so unshakably collected, and Arche is more than a little surprised he's being allowed to see it--

"...Hold a moment. If he's supposed to be right on the other side of here--..."

Just briefly, he closes his eyes. Always trickier finding someone he doesn't know, of course, but if he can just search for a sense of presence on the other side of this mess of rock-- if it is just rock, anyway--

His mind snags on the sensation of life in the very near distance, standing out brightly from the death the rest of these mountain paths are drowning in. It's indistinct, something coming between his power and the minds on the other side, but still absolutely there-- He breathes a sigh of relief as he steps closer to the cliff face.

"I can feel a presence... presences?... on the other side of this stone. He lives," Arche declares quietly.

As he speaks he starts to feel along the stone in the dark where Wangji has been pounding at it, wondering if there's some hidden mechanism they might stumble on, the off chance this is all less supernatural and more some ancient civilization's idea of security. Hm, they need more light--...

"Not impossible to cut through this with my lightsaber, I think, or yank something free. But it will depend on the thickness. Far easier if we could figure out exactly how it is he ended up inside and simply reverse it. I don't suppose you'd let me have a look at your hand...? Would likely make this whole process go faster."

"A presence," he murmurs back, eyes bright and wild and nearly white over, glazed with the impossible veneer of hope, thin but resolute. He lives. Of course he lives, the device's communication would not arrive with Lan Wangji on its lonesome, for all he has feared, cripplingly, the possibility of staggered answers — that Sizhui might speak to him moments before the missive arrives, and that he might pass unto death, heartbeats after.

It was so simple, once. A blink, and the slip of flimsy footing, and Wei Ying thrust unto the greedy mouth of yawning disaster. But Archeval speaks the word, and Lan Wangji is fool enough, weak enough, ached enough between one harsh-rasped breath and the next to believe him. Let it be so.

"My hand." For all the hate of errant touch, he does not hesitate, bloodied palm crawling, half-swatting, stripped of coordination — striking Archeval's wrist arm first, then his wrist, then the palm, before fingers claw in a thin grip. He is here. For his son, for making the process go faster, he surrenders all ease. "Take what you require."

Life and strength and blood and warmth and whatever else is Wangji's to give, let it go shared. Sorcery is this — he knows, saw the boy-king kill, when Unhalad fell. The covenant be so.

And yet it's not at all what Wangji's frantic thoughts seem to have concluded. Fresh red blood smears dark over Archeval's black glove, their hands clasped together for a moment, but Arche ignores the warm stain entirely in favor of turning Wangji's hand over palm-up to squint at the torn flesh in the dark.

He holds the hand steady, drawing his other one lightly down the flesh in front of him, across the wrist and over the palm. It's a matter of moments -- a small thing like this requires little effort, less thought; he's been knitting up his own training scrapes since the very day Zash taught him his first life-preserving ritual, and this is barely worse than those. Besides which, he has plenty of fuel to work with. Those fresh dark smears dissolve and vanish into nothing, and his heart pounds a little more in sympathy for the safety of this son than he'd like to admit, and a second later Lan Wangji's palm is whole again. The pain should be mostly gone, but undoubtedly Wangji will still notice a subtle queasy feeling of wrongness. Or then again, at the moment perhaps he won't notice it at all, considering just how wrong everything around him currently seems to be.

Arche catches his eye insistently for a moment as he lets the other's hand go again.

"Focus," he says firmly.

"Can't examine this wall with a ripped-up bleeding hand, and can't get things done if you don't even stop to breathe. Help me check the walls. There might be a mechanism to open them from this side, and if not--"

He shakes a last drop or two of stray blood off dirtied fingers to pitter-pat against the ground, then a moment later his lightsaber buzzes to life, violet glow sweeping across inches from the stone to better see by.

"Then I'll start carving."

Flesh, stitching back unto itself. Blood, sinew, skin. A ghostly miracle of surgery before eyes thin and small like unbled slashes, frowned as Archeval's work completes itself. Light runs riotous across the canyon, blinds him, bolstered by white stone. He blinks against it, wet toxicity staining the corners of his eyes, and focuses as he is called upon —

On feeling. Invasion. His hand. His hand, subject to Archeval's ministrations. A great, surreptitious intrusion that overcomes his body without cascading through his meridians. No deluge of qi, wave or spuming, no violence of crude healing. Only — the phantom texture of withered flowers grazing his fingertips, death and decay and the taste of displaced, cloying oud. Foreign sorcery reeks of this to him, ever has.

After, Lan Wangji recalls manners: recalls his hand and awards the nod, soft gratitude. His hatred of assistance in minding his body is no fault of the man unwarned. And then his hand drifts, a natural, no longer ached extension, touches the wall where it's sturdy, and the carvings that Lan Wangji has not yet reduced to dust, and he supposes, there is advantage in this, in healing. Advantage in all things.

"Sizhui pledged to shine fire light brightly." Talismans, if no moss or wood available. "I have seen no flame."

Buried beneath, the ache of it: no fire perceived, and no puncture wounds of hole in the walls also, and how do they breathe within their cage, how long until they suffocate?

With no telling exactly how thick the barrier is between them and the other side, Archeval doesn't exactly relish trying to carve through potentially several feet of solid rock with nothing but his lightsaber and the Force, but as they sweep the side of the carved wall together it's increasingly looking like that might be the only practical option -- 'practical', in this case, being a very relative word. Any mechanisms that might exist here aren't popping out to Arche's eyes, and while he's familiar with the style of many cultures' ancient ruins this decidedly isn't one of them, making it doubly hard to guess based on instinct. Simply sweeping the whole thing over in the dark with lightsaber and torches would take nearly as long with no guarantee of finding anything useful, so as their initial examination seems to turn up only artistically carved stone with nothing in the way of switches, gaps or levers, certainly no glowing firelight like Wangji mentioned -- at last Arche takes a step back from the cliff face with a deep sigh and a groan of distaste, to start tracing with his eyes where he might begin his attack on the rock.

"Can't believe I'm saying this, but if we have no better ideas, I suppose I'm about to start hacking away at a solid damned rock wall. If there's anything around listening that doesn't want your nice carvings torn up this way, just for the record, this is entirely your own damn fault and you should just spit out the boy so you can avoid this fate--"

He sets his saber's tip to the edge of the stone and begins to slowly push his way forward. In theory, this shouldn't be that different from carving through some particularly thick starship doors, but it's not like he's ever done this before--

"This can throw up sparks, so watch your clothes," he informs a little absently, concentrating on holding the blade steady as he begins. "Let me know if you think you can start to see anything from the other side..."

Sparks. Flame, then, to look at the blinding span of it, shaped like a snarled and dormant serpent — the insertion tepid, but certain. Stone yields to it, as Archeval applies himself, bending back and lowered shoulder and the escalating tensions of concentration.

Belatedly, it strikes Lan Wangji he owes words arid in his mouth, gratitude that excuses himself. Only couples his hands before him in a thin, twisting bow and presents his token thusly, once and the deed done. He rights himself after, merciless when he casts a ward of modest protection around them — anemic, versus Wei Ying's performances, but a competent variation to see the chips and rubble strike and echo off their persons, without landing the blow.

"The guqin could — " But his breath staggers, and he knows the deceitful doubt that houses itself in his heart, knows the folly of his proposition. What is not dead yet might still die, if Lan Wangji unseats the pillars that hold the skies of the room of captivity. His weapon excels at crude offensives, unsubtle hostilities, carnage.

Only talismans still serve him in this, and he launches three more, splayed in tight and thin-skinned triad around Archeval's sword work, to secure his prey. He dares not speak his truth, until an exhalation cuts and dissects his lungs, and he releases it, carefully.

"If we encounter corpses within, flee the premise." One body, above others. Let Archeval the price of bearing witness.

His lightsaber, as always, weighs nearly nothing in his hands, but what it lacks in physical presence the solid stone wall makes up for in plenty. With no other method to brace himself as he shoves his way into the rock, Archeval can only hold himself steady with the Force, carving inward further and slowly further--... He breathes a sigh of relief at that welcome assistance from Wangji as he stops a moment to wipe away some of the sweat beginning to bead on his brow, then keeps going. He pierces inward nearly to his saber's hilt, his emitter almost scraping against rock -- carves upward, then downward, then inward again when there's room, flinging aside chunks of stone with the Force before it can all tumble down onto his feet. This is hard, rough work, especially with only his own strength to draw on.

"Very well, if you insist--..." he sighs, teeth gritted as he bends to his task; it's very possible that in a few minutes he's not going to be in a state to argue the point.

Of course, there's always one potent card he has yet to play. The whole reason he began drawing spirits to himself in the first place was for times of extremity like this, and part of him instinctively wants to reach out, to try to add Unhalad's power to his own, but -- the temptation is there and he forces himself to step back from it, to properly concentrate on the moment again. He can do this, even if it's slower going than he'd like. He's only barely begun to get a grasp on Unhalad's nature at all, not even managed to communicate yet; unleashing so much extra power unprepared, no idea what he's dealing with, could well end in a horrific blunder. Lan Wangji won't thank him for accidentally bringing down a whole cavern roof on top of his son's head, so better to stay the course for now--

Between the two of them, somehow, painstakingly, they manage to knock a hole through just large enough to admit a human being. Arche staggers and reaches out a hand to catch himself against the carved wall after flinging the last chunk of rock to one side, breathing hard as his saber beam vanishes into the darkness. The Force makes all things possible, but that certainly doesn't mean they're always easy.

"I need... need just a second... I'll follow you in," he pants out. "And for stars' sake don't go too far alone."

He should assist the man, raise him. Break his fall or steady his feet, drive his arm around his waist, bring him higher. Become backbone and anchor and the eldest of stubborn willow trees.

Does not. Bolts past Archeval like white light in summer storm, clawing at the last of the rock between him and the open pathway, nail biting in, red at corners, wrenching stone, weed, gutting out the remains. He thrusts himself in, knees yielding, balance broken and nearly knelt by the time he's spanned half his distance — a supplicant, forehead bowed and the empty line of his gaze diffuse and distorted, and the bloodied hand of the lady sweeping his mouth.

Stone, still. Statue. Cloth and linens and wards each way, calligraphy stale and smeared, greyed out. He parts his lips and takes silent anointment, each breath confession and communion, and breathe what rock and earth did, exhales.

"He..." This, face tight and crumbled. One finger trailed through dirt, as he takes the knee. This is the toll of Sizhui's absence. "He is not here." No. Again. "There are not here."

"Wh-- what-- You're kidding, that can't--"

The words are still a little breathless as Archeval follows behind at last, ducking through the gap he's made to stare around with increasingly alarmed confusion. They've certainly gotten somewhere, though. It's dark, but he raises his saber to stare around again some more -- the purple glow reveals some kind of ornate statue, detailed carvings on the walls, some sort of... tags, cloth and paper and wood, hung on cords around the room. It would be a fascinating if unsettling find under better circumstances, but local archaeology is hardly the reason they're in here right now.

"...but I felt them. This makes no sense. They're still--"

He tiredly reaches out to prod with his senses, the Force still coming easily enough for such a small thing, and -- yes, it's still there. That feeling of nearby life, diffuse and hard to pin down, but still absolutely present.

"...I'd swear I feel perfectly normal sentient life. There's... certainly something about it that's off -- harder to perceive than normal, but someone absolutely should be here--"

His gaze turns toward the dimly-lit statue, the dusty and tattered and unfamiliar-looking strings of tags. The presence of life isn't the only thing he can feel in this little room, of course -- the sense of something being held at bay here is ominously tangible.

He's wary of intruding too much in a place like this, but they can hardly just give up and wander off again with Lan Wangji's son still misplaced; so he glances down with a furrowed brow at Wangji for a moment before turning away to start examining -- very carefully, watching where he steps and where he touches -- the four walls of the area. The glow of the saber marks his passage as he moves through the dim chamber.

"...this sort of phenomena isn't exactly my field. But we certainly can't just quit now," his voice filters back through the dark to Wangji's ears.

"Any ideas...?"

Edited 2021-07-14 04:25 (UTC)

They are still —

And yet, they are not. Absent, for the eye to see, both Sizhui and — the girl. Dread makes hollow home in Lan Wangji's bones, paralysing him with damp, growing stickiness. The mould of his heartache simmers. He reaches in, clumsy-handed, for another try of the quartz stone, willing his son's answer, releasing a great sigh no lesser than a world's exhalation, when Sizhui deigns to respond.

Soon, he means to scream, but rage ever absents itself, when he's shattered on his knees, Soon, one day, you will learn the misgivings of a father, you will learn to answer the heartbeat your name is called, you will live with terror of empty silence. But not yet so.

Around and about him, Archeval paces like an animal caged, storm current without outlet. The red skin of bruised stone, rusted from where copper must reveal itself in sharp percentage, gives under Lan Wangji's hand. He raises himself, one knee, then the next, and he is upright — learning. First, his words, then the pace of his blinks, then his composure.

Until, finally, "They live. Elsewhere."

Here is only the anchor under his hand — through happenstance, the hand of the lady, as if a saving grace determined to raise him. He walks the soft lines of her hand, grasps the intricacies of her likeness. Strange, but not unexpected.

"The statue is a tribute." No. He aligns With it, flow of its energies dead and wakeful and alive in his bloodstream. No. "An omen. I believe it intends us no harm."

...or assistance. But then, his gaze chases the room, its litter of wards, and he thinks, before Archeval might commit the error, to pass the warning. "Do not touch wards. Often active, howver long the passing of time."

"Wards?" echoes Arche's voice back through the dim room again.

"Ah. These items on the cords, I presume. Very well. As a rule I do try not to trifle with anything in a strange ancient ruin when I'm not entirely sure whether it's there to kill me or not." The words are a low drawl, slowly growing more properly audible, as he and the glow of that saber move in Wangji's direction again.

"...an omen," he repeats to himself softly when his feet come to a stop next to Wangji, giving the stone sculpture before them a solemn stare. He sees the life-size image of a young, beautiful woman, staring ahead with an equally heavy expression -- hands held before her, seemingly stained with something dark. That bit at least feels familiar. He's certainly borne witness to his fair share of old sacrificial altars in his time, though who can truly tell if that's what he's looking at right now--

"Whatever happened in this pass, it certainly feels as though this little room was -- very connected somehow." His voice holds a faint hush.

"Those carvings on the walls -- very specific. I noted an entire army, depicted in detail. And some of -- perhaps what they call sorcerers around here, if I had to guess. A few beings making ritual gestures, and... fire raining down on the army. Fire and flood, or some kind of wave, at least."

Archeval pauses for a second before giving a deep sigh.

"...but no doors, and no clues about where your son is. I didn't even notice that so much as the dust on the floor of this place had been disturbed." His lips purse, expression turning grim as he continues to watch the silent, solemn gaze of the stone woman, staring back all impassive to their current plight.

"Has he made any progress himself, wherever he's at right now...?"

"This land reeks of burning," he concedes, and rises to initiate — the woman's hands heavy and round and full in his grasp, giving him anchor. He feels himself compelled to mimic her, as if she might join him in movement, in exhale, in wonder. As if she might stir, if only he persuades her to surrender the secrets of her breath.

And yet she holds his gaze, stone unflinching, ribs unrisen, the base, immutable wealth of her inflexibility a hard constant. Behind him, Archeval prowls and meanders, dragging the heat of his sword, the quiet fire of his impatience. As if his son waits — and more fool Lan Wangji, withholding his truths, the scant, scattered gravel of revelation permitted to him. To them. Lan Wangji has drawn Archeval into this matter, like lace spooled back to hand.

"They walk down a steep path. Abyssal." And softer, "He claims he will not fall."

And there is dread in Lan Wangji that fuels the sudden, inexplicable calm of him, a sea before ice, waiting the freeze. Nothing will come of his search, but he complies, setting to search the room, each wall — scratching skin and joint and palm, examining for weight and pressure points between rock cuttings. Hunting.

"Entrance points may withhold themselves."

"Well, it's worth a try." Archeval gives a sigh as he moves to join in once again, to make another slow circuit around the walls, the various carvings, while Wangji does the other half of the room. With other options exhausted, an unpalatable answer looms before them -- the thought that this might not be a problem they'll be able to solve with ingenuity alone, that Wangji's powers might not apply to this task and that the Force isn't always compatible with what they call 'magic' around here. But that would leave them at an impasse with nothing to show for their efforts, so...no sense just stopping before they're completely sure there's nothing to be found.

They probably should have brought torches or the like, but Wangji had been too frantic to slow down for that earlier, and now they're already here; at intervals Arche makes do with tossing his saber up into the air to keep it hovering there, casting an eerie purple glow over large swathes of the room. His black-core crystal makes a poor substitute for real lighting, but as Arche makes another circuit around squinting at nooks and crannies and carefully feeling for the sorts of mechanisms that hide in such ancient structures, he's increasingly starting to feel that going back for oil and torch and lantern would be a waste of time anyway. Much as it rankles to admit defeat--

"...I'm not sure this is something you and I are going to be able to solve," he sighs out at last, disgruntledly, about the time their mutual search of each half of the room has brought them standing close together again.

"There absolutely should be beings here, by all my senses and instincts, and yet there are not. If I had a better knowledge of the supernatural properties of this place, of this world in general... perhaps. But at this point I can only think something is going on here that we don't fully understand."

Creatures, absent where Archeval's strength betrays them. Where Lan Wangji's senses, his knowledge of the quartz stone, intuits they should lie. He hesitates, hand soft and mind emptied, thoughts liquefied and cold and moulding. A mind's temple, no different than this, and the Lady's hands wet before, and Lan Wangji's dripping with tension, crackling through pores like the breath of dust that washes over the walls.

He says nothing, unto no one. Retreats, and only finally remembers — vengeance, then. Let him lead with that, as Wei Ying's powers have woven before, wrenched from nothingness into being. Let him use, as he summons his zither with the pass of a hand and whispers it alive, the first ring of his music rousing a turbulence of sound in the small confinement. He must play with caution here, where waves of strength can fracture walls, where rock holds itself too brittle.

No matter. Play he will. And with the music, force and compelling spirits to answer, the hundreds of voices that fragmented off living bodies once, to combine in one voice here, whole. Qi language, rightfully exerted.

Eye-slanted and jaw stiff, it occurs to him, after a few exchanges, to translate for Archeval's pleasure:

"My son and his companion are unharmed. Not in this room." And without sparing a glance away from the state, hands drifting over the zither string. "The spirits here. If you have questions, name them."

...after, he might wish to explain just how Lan Inquiry performs its duties.

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