[ Stretch of wan gold, winter's sun come early morning: the market crowds of the Lunatia Square, and still Wangji knows that cloth.
It creases, folds and layers exerted past the graceful fall of a robe that obeys form, more than bursts of boyish movement. Composure is not for the young. Disciples, his uncle no doubt endorses, do not belong in the dress of man, but fettered in tears of linen and tatters to enlighten the merits of need.
Not so, upheld in the house of Lanling Jin. White thread spells out the peony, a forgiving tell for the gaze that missed red spatter on the boy-thing's forehead. Young, Wangji reads, man's face but the cut of a child's eyes. They gave them swords when their days numbered so little. Bichen tasted of Wangji's grip as many years ago.
The market clouds, flurry of men passing under storm of neon glare. Light, sound, everything in this world, to excess — only the one deficit: a boy of Lanling Jin, travelling alone. Is a peacock still handsome, if he is not seen? Perhaps this is why his sect only journey by the dozen, given the chance. To bear each other's mirror, or witness, or the hat of their snivelling, treacherous —
Step weighed, Wangji bides the moment when enough of the crowd parts before him to cross it and present himself, barring the boy's path. The Jin have no taste and less spine for violence. Bichen rests easy this fine morning.
In one hand, a choice bundle of his brother's gift, ripe loquats. The other, tied neatly by greeting forms at his back. What could be more peaceful than — ]
Lanling Jin. [ Of Jin Guangyao, quickest to slither among toothed vermin. Disciple, burdened with the task to answer a senior, even of another house. ] Your master?
[ If there is none, the boy will need herding. There are enough of the Lan students here to procure him companionship, and Wen Ning to guard him, besides. ]
acshuuuuuuun
It creases, folds and layers exerted past the graceful fall of a robe that obeys form, more than bursts of boyish movement. Composure is not for the young. Disciples, his uncle no doubt endorses, do not belong in the dress of man, but fettered in tears of linen and tatters to enlighten the merits of need.
Not so, upheld in the house of Lanling Jin. White thread spells out the peony, a forgiving tell for the gaze that missed red spatter on the boy-thing's forehead. Young, Wangji reads, man's face but the cut of a child's eyes. They gave them swords when their days numbered so little. Bichen tasted of Wangji's grip as many years ago.
The market clouds, flurry of men passing under storm of neon glare. Light, sound, everything in this world, to excess — only the one deficit: a boy of Lanling Jin, travelling alone. Is a peacock still handsome, if he is not seen? Perhaps this is why his sect only journey by the dozen, given the chance. To bear each other's mirror, or witness, or the hat of their snivelling, treacherous —
Step weighed, Wangji bides the moment when enough of the crowd parts before him to cross it and present himself, barring the boy's path. The Jin have no taste and less spine for violence. Bichen rests easy this fine morning.
In one hand, a choice bundle of his brother's gift, ripe loquats. The other, tied neatly by greeting forms at his back. What could be more peaceful than — ]
Lanling Jin. [ Of Jin Guangyao, quickest to slither among toothed vermin. Disciple, burdened with the task to answer a senior, even of another house. ] Your master?
[ If there is none, the boy will need herding. There are enough of the Lan students here to procure him companionship, and Wen Ning to guard him, besides. ]