[ ...the draft, before the creak, the imbalance against his back, the glimpse of a different dark, in the sliver of bed quarter that reveals itself.
It chills him, where the sweat of a day's wander cascaded down the steps of his spine. Begs him to shift, even before instinct consumes him, to stab the tip of Bichen, unsheathed, behind him without turning — slipping it at the lowest point of the door's opening, angled widely to pierce inside without striking Wei Ying's legs.
The rest of him stays as still as the moments before found him: waiting, back to the door, even as his sword secures it can't close on him again. ]
Sit with me.
[ On the floor, like peasants and children and men without care for status, dignity and form. ]
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It chills him, where the sweat of a day's wander cascaded down the steps of his spine. Begs him to shift, even before instinct consumes him, to stab the tip of Bichen, unsheathed, behind him without turning — slipping it at the lowest point of the door's opening, angled widely to pierce inside without striking Wei Ying's legs.
The rest of him stays as still as the moments before found him: waiting, back to the door, even as his sword secures it can't close on him again. ]
Sit with me.
[ On the floor, like peasants and children and men without care for status, dignity and form. ]