[ Like a child finished with his toy, or Jin Ling with his latest adornments, Lan Zhan discards his crown with no care for the jewellery smith who forged it, wove it, beat the startle and haze out of its shine. Wei Wuxian... stares, lost, then found, then the littlest bit numbed by the poison of power traversing his limbs. Say the word, and Lan Zhan will enact it. Suggest, and he'll lay down his life's possessions. It trickles through him like congealed oil, the sudden, limpid understanding that Wei Wuxian can also control a man who custodes a pulse.
Releasing Lan Zhan, he thaws to a crouch, hand clumsy but sweet-tempered, following the curves of the crown's filigree, the time-carved etchings. Robes are tailored to the wearer, but jewellery too often goes passed down. He rescues the piece, and hears the troubled gasps of generations of Lans, offering gratitude. Looks up, where Lan Zhan lords over. ]
You have no request. [ Tell Lan Zhan that he may — no, that's a demand still. Syntax and semantics favour Wei Wuxian's narrative. There's no corner of broad heavens offended by a silvered tongue. ] You have blind hope and a terrible idea.
[ And the comfort of never knowing his name truly despised, never living in fear of wayward curses — else, Lan Zhan would not have presumed to scatter his belonging on open ground, when at best peasants or looters might recover and melt it for gain — and at worst, a more knowing hand would use the crown as groundwork for spells.
Never mind. To the satchel it goes, awkwardly fitted until the boiled leathers bulge and mould, the teeth of its edges dragging over Wei Wuxian's hip through the cover. He raises himself, remembering with a murky sigh to pass his fingers through soft side strips of Lan Zhan's fallen hair and lift it like weeds behind his head, where Wei Wuxian can't see his own work, but lifelong practice guides him to bind a half tail. Small mercy for the hair pins that used to cinch the crown. The most infamous delinquent, yes, but not even Wei Wuxian volunteers his hair down completely in public company.
There. Stepping back to squint in the dark, Lan Zhan looks... much.. better already. Yes. If he thinks it often enough, it will turn true. ]
my work here is done
Releasing Lan Zhan, he thaws to a crouch, hand clumsy but sweet-tempered, following the curves of the crown's filigree, the time-carved etchings. Robes are tailored to the wearer, but jewellery too often goes passed down. He rescues the piece, and hears the troubled gasps of generations of Lans, offering gratitude. Looks up, where Lan Zhan lords over. ]
You have no request. [ Tell Lan Zhan that he may — no, that's a demand still. Syntax and semantics favour Wei Wuxian's narrative. There's no corner of broad heavens offended by a silvered tongue. ] You have blind hope and a terrible idea.
[ And the comfort of never knowing his name truly despised, never living in fear of wayward curses — else, Lan Zhan would not have presumed to scatter his belonging on open ground, when at best peasants or looters might recover and melt it for gain — and at worst, a more knowing hand would use the crown as groundwork for spells.
Never mind. To the satchel it goes, awkwardly fitted until the boiled leathers bulge and mould, the teeth of its edges dragging over Wei Wuxian's hip through the cover. He raises himself, remembering with a murky sigh to pass his fingers through soft side strips of Lan Zhan's fallen hair and lift it like weeds behind his head, where Wei Wuxian can't see his own work, but lifelong practice guides him to bind a half tail. Small mercy for the hair pins that used to cinch the crown. The most infamous delinquent, yes, but not even Wei Wuxian volunteers his hair down completely in public company.
There. Stepping back to squint in the dark, Lan Zhan looks... much.. better already. Yes. If he thinks it often enough, it will turn true. ]
Well... that is a look on the young master.