[ Past midday, nearer to evening, enough of the afternoon spilled like rust-ink in a weighty sky. Midday consumed itself differently than intended, with duties he chooses not to name.
He knows himself, slithering close. Knows he reeks of remains, of dust and bone and filth of dirt and vine lining his silks. Knows, too, the discourtesy of bringing death before another cultivator without the formalities of purification rites —
...but, all the same, here he finds himself. He taps Wei Ying's door with Bichen's hilt once, then again, and waits, hand out like every beggar who's pleaded for alms in the market. ]
no subject
He knows himself, slithering close. Knows he reeks of remains, of dust and bone and filth of dirt and vine lining his silks. Knows, too, the discourtesy of bringing death before another cultivator without the formalities of purification rites —
...but, all the same, here he finds himself. He taps Wei Ying's door with Bichen's hilt once, then again, and waits, hand out like every beggar who's pleaded for alms in the market. ]
The flower.