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midwesternmayhemTalk.Nov. 10th, 2023
the beginning:
"We can't do this," murmurs the Furnace Master, looking down at the mass of congealed flesh, carefully measured over months of new moon, between them. "This isn't right."
"You promised," you reply.
"You are no longer the Dan Feng I know," he says, and in the sad smile that knifes across Yingxing's face, you see the end.
the shoreline:
The Sword Master visits you once, twice, where you lie in the dirt, surrounded by the twisted abominations of your god.
"I survived losing her," she tells you, not unkindly. Even with her eyes covered, you know she sees the rotting corpse you are clutching, like a child holding a broken toy. "Why couldn't you?"
"You are stronger than me," you answer. She pins you with a broken sword to your beloved like two halves of a butterfly's wings, like a concession. You let her. There is nothing else to do. Nothing left for you.
between the waves:
Some days you are lucid, and these days are the worst of them. You use Cloud-Piercer, the spear crafted by callused hands that you had loved, and cut down wide, bloody swathes of the Hunt. They deserve it, you think, blinded by the grief of having the object of your devotion take his own life instead of taking your hand. The Ambrosial Arbor flowers brightly above the massacre, the gold ginkgo leaves reflecting the poisonous gold now running through your veins.
The foot-soldiers part for their king. The Arbiter-General of the Luofu. He looks like devastation incarnate. He looks like the home you have destroyed with your own hands because you could not bear the meaning of loss. He looks like he wants to cry.
So as he is the arrow of the Hunt, you are the fruit of the Abundance, and where he must take, you must give. You raise your blade. He is the last, the best of you all.
a shipwreck:
"You must be more careful," you chide, clipping the bandages tight over her chest. She has sustained a sharp, jagged cut, across her shoulder, and you both know it was avoidable.
"Thank goodness you're here to patch me up," she croons, mysteriously aggravating as always. Kafka had a way of getting under your skin, and sitting there, a subcutaneous piercing. A tether to reality that you can admit to yourself that you need. She is happy about this.
"I can heal it," you offer, hesitant. Maybe the side effects won't be horrible. Last time you healed a scratch on Silver Wolf and she developed a temporary allergy to penicillin, but you miss being able to touch someone without eventually hurting them.
She takes your hand. Covers it with her own. Looks up sly at you through her lashes, and you are starkly reminded that you are both killers in your own rights.
"Always so good, Dan Feng," she says, saying your name like a curse. In some ways, and in a bureaucratic filing somewhere, she is right.
"We can't do this," murmurs the Furnace Master, looking down at the mass of congealed flesh, carefully measured over months of new moon, between them. "This isn't right."
"You promised," you reply.
"You are no longer the Dan Feng I know," he says, and in the sad smile that knifes across Yingxing's face, you see the end.
the shoreline:
The Sword Master visits you once, twice, where you lie in the dirt, surrounded by the twisted abominations of your god.
"I survived losing her," she tells you, not unkindly. Even with her eyes covered, you know she sees the rotting corpse you are clutching, like a child holding a broken toy. "Why couldn't you?"
"You are stronger than me," you answer. She pins you with a broken sword to your beloved like two halves of a butterfly's wings, like a concession. You let her. There is nothing else to do. Nothing left for you.
between the waves:
Some days you are lucid, and these days are the worst of them. You use Cloud-Piercer, the spear crafted by callused hands that you had loved, and cut down wide, bloody swathes of the Hunt. They deserve it, you think, blinded by the grief of having the object of your devotion take his own life instead of taking your hand. The Ambrosial Arbor flowers brightly above the massacre, the gold ginkgo leaves reflecting the poisonous gold now running through your veins.
The foot-soldiers part for their king. The Arbiter-General of the Luofu. He looks like devastation incarnate. He looks like the home you have destroyed with your own hands because you could not bear the meaning of loss. He looks like he wants to cry.
So as he is the arrow of the Hunt, you are the fruit of the Abundance, and where he must take, you must give. You raise your blade. He is the last, the best of you all.
a shipwreck:
"You must be more careful," you chide, clipping the bandages tight over her chest. She has sustained a sharp, jagged cut, across her shoulder, and you both know it was avoidable.
"Thank goodness you're here to patch me up," she croons, mysteriously aggravating as always. Kafka had a way of getting under your skin, and sitting there, a subcutaneous piercing. A tether to reality that you can admit to yourself that you need. She is happy about this.
"I can heal it," you offer, hesitant. Maybe the side effects won't be horrible. Last time you healed a scratch on Silver Wolf and she developed a temporary allergy to penicillin, but you miss being able to touch someone without eventually hurting them.
She takes your hand. Covers it with her own. Looks up sly at you through her lashes, and you are starkly reminded that you are both killers in your own rights.
"Always so good, Dan Feng," she says, saying your name like a curse. In some ways, and in a bureaucratic filing somewhere, she is right.
appearance
Nov. 10th, 2023 07:56 pm
Things of note:
- broken right horn. sensitive to the point of pain
- earrings don't match. bracers are exact matches. removing half of either of these pairs from his person will prompt extreme violence
- his jacket sleeves are embroidered with white lilies and yellow chrysanthemums
- the soles of his boots leave ginkgo leaf imprints