[ There, the muted, tender, gasped betrayal of Lan Zhan's attention. Wei Wuxian's got the trick of it. Spend just enough time coaxing ticklish circles in that particular spot and... ]
Lan Zhan, you know perfectly well what I mean. But, admit it, you just don't tickle eno —
[ ...Wei Wuxian's fingers are bound, shamefully captured, the leathered sheath of Lan Zhan's sword calluses armouring knuckles and joints. Yielding, Lan Zhan says, but triumphant. Aghast, Wei Wuxian stares down, clumsy for the light tug he gives to play-rescue his fingers, never quite applying himself to break the clasp. This... was not the plan here.
( Discussed. Agreed. Journeyed for. Done. But at the time of Wei Wuxian's choosing, and this was not that stuttered heartbeat.) ]
...well, well. Attacking while your envoy's speaking, hmmm? What foul play. I hope this isn't the battle honour the mighty Hanguang-Jun is teaching our young and impressionable disciples.
[ As if they ever respected ethics at any point of the Sunshot campaign. As if Wei Wuxian didn't hunt down Wen Chao like a plague-addled dog. As if corpses didn't rise and fall, exhumed by their own rancour, seduced to join cause against Qishan Wen because Wei Wuxian whispered mad folly against the rot of muscle that crowned their jaw, their cheek, that gateway of dissent, the waiting ear.
Days gone. Past irrelevant. His fingers, now. He stares at them, paternally disappointed: ]
Look what you've gotten yourselves into. [ Then, lighter, to voice his captured soldiers: ] Mercy, mercy.
[ Laughter leaves him with another strike of low evening breeze, with chains of sage and poppy stalks, bending and bowing to survive in servitude to the wind. Cowards. And Wei Ying, known Wuxian, known the Yiling patriarch, who has never been cravenly. Who looks up, suddenly alert, in the way of prey catching the scent of their predators.
He looks at his hand, held. At Lan Zhan, sixteen years at wait for it. At the hill around them, deadened and still. ]
All right. Well. Don't tell these fools, but I'm quite fond of them. They don't deserve it, but I'll pay ransom, just this once. Agreed?
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Lan Zhan, you know perfectly well what I mean. But, admit it, you just don't tickle eno —
[ ...Wei Wuxian's fingers are bound, shamefully captured, the leathered sheath of Lan Zhan's sword calluses armouring knuckles and joints. Yielding, Lan Zhan says, but triumphant. Aghast, Wei Wuxian stares down, clumsy for the light tug he gives to play-rescue his fingers, never quite applying himself to break the clasp. This... was not the plan here.
( Discussed. Agreed. Journeyed for. Done. But at the time of Wei Wuxian's choosing, and this was not that stuttered heartbeat.) ]
...well, well. Attacking while your envoy's speaking, hmmm? What foul play. I hope this isn't the battle honour the mighty Hanguang-Jun is teaching our young and impressionable disciples.
[ As if they ever respected ethics at any point of the Sunshot campaign. As if Wei Wuxian didn't hunt down Wen Chao like a plague-addled dog. As if corpses didn't rise and fall, exhumed by their own rancour, seduced to join cause against Qishan Wen because Wei Wuxian whispered mad folly against the rot of muscle that crowned their jaw, their cheek, that gateway of dissent, the waiting ear.
Days gone. Past irrelevant. His fingers, now. He stares at them, paternally disappointed: ]
Look what you've gotten yourselves into. [ Then, lighter, to voice his captured soldiers: ] Mercy, mercy.
[ Laughter leaves him with another strike of low evening breeze, with chains of sage and poppy stalks, bending and bowing to survive in servitude to the wind. Cowards. And Wei Ying, known Wuxian, known the Yiling patriarch, who has never been cravenly. Who looks up, suddenly alert, in the way of prey catching the scent of their predators.
He looks at his hand, held. At Lan Zhan, sixteen years at wait for it. At the hill around them, deadened and still. ]
All right. Well. Don't tell these fools, but I'm quite fond of them. They don't deserve it, but I'll pay ransom, just this once. Agreed?