[pfsb]

[acrookedpath]

The good news: the energy-revealing array works!

The bad news --

It's not bad news, he insists to himself. It just... is. It's a complication, a hole in the road, a little snare tripping him up. That's all. It doesn't have to be more. It might not even be in the first place, yes? He is dead, Lan Zhan is alive, of course seeing just how very alive would stir something in him. That's all it is.

Right?

Never mind that he's fairly certain if he placed the same array on Harrow, or Tom-gongzi, or Ingress, he would not have been struck the same way. That -- it's ridiculous, this is all ridiculous, and that's why he's out here by the lake, standing on a flat rock with another array of talismans fluttering in his hand.

The key is not just luring resentful energy from the forest, despite the suppression around the inn. It is how swiftly he can do it. During his coffee-fueled spree of work last night, he drew up some new lures that ought to work faster than a traditional set. Now he scatters them in a wide circle around his feet, gestures sharply, and sends a bolt of red energy into the yellow paper slips.

Silently, in his head, he begins to count. One... two... three...

At the count of thirteen, something boils at the forest's edge, dark and oily.

Wei Wuxian smiles and lifts his flute to meet it.

Comments

[we_bring_hell]

Harrow does not like to be outside. In fact, it's her penance for breaking silence to take these walks every day. She is not wearing her robe, which is too hot, but is in her habit of trousers and high-collared long-sleeved shirt.

She stops at a respectful distance to watch Wei Wuxian at work.

[acrookedpath]

The lures have coaxed the resentful spirits as far as they will go; he makes a note to strengthen the array next time, to see if that might overcome more of the inn's suppression and shave the count down to less than ten. (Less than five would be ideal, but that will likely take several iterations.) He sounds the first notes of his song to seize hold of the energy and drag it closer.

Harrow has seen him when his necromancy activates: the wisps of smoke that rise from him like a living creature, tendrils wrapping around his fingers and seething across his robes. This is different, though. He is not trying to utilize an unfamiliar source like Harrow's thanergy; this is his element, the thing he knows best, and the smoke is rich and dark as it winds around him like an embrace.

Long vines of resentful energy arc over the lake to join Wei Wuxian. The music takes on an unearthly hum as he gathers the source close.

[we_bring_hell]

She watches silently but with interest as the resentful energy draws closer. This is an excellent chance to see the difference between thanergy as she knows it and his preferred energy source; and a situation where she does not intend to distract him.

[acrookedpath]

This is a test to see not only how quickly he can summon resentful energy from the forest, but how much. It will not do if he can call it to him within five seconds, only to find there's so little in his hands that he can barely defend himself.

It turns out there is quite a lot to summon -- more than he realized. There have been deaths here; even murders, rare as they might have been. It is such a relief to call out and be answered so definitively. Why didn't he try this sooner?

Soon, Wei Wuxian teems with the swirling black smoke. He keeps a tight leash on it for a long count of ten, remembering how it feels to let it course through him; finding relief in that, as well.

Then, gradually, the music shifts. He would not be so careless as to overcome the inn's suppression, summon ghosts, and refuse to banish them once he's done. He plays a tune not unlike Rest, but firmer, an order rather than a gentle coaxing: go, sleep, leave me, and do not come back until I wake you again.

The smoke thins. The tendrils slip free of him, slinking back to the forest's edge.

Before long it is only him on the rock, lowering his flute with a satisfied sigh as he watches the spirits retreat into the woods.

[we_bring_hell]

When his work is done, she approaches. "Greetings, Wei Wuxian."

[riddleofthebelow]

Tom wonders as he walks out back to the lake - a place he's visited even less than the bar itself of late - what's going on with Ingress. She's never visited with this much frequency since she was a young teenager still homesick during her transition to her new world.

She insists everything is fine, and she seems well enough. Ingress doesn't lie, but he's not sure she's telling the whole truth. If something is wrong, if anyone in that blasted realm of child-stealing companions is treating her poorly, he will... do something she would highly disapprove of because she's a grown woman living her life and can handle herself, thank you very much.

But if she asks him to check on the squid for her, he's going to do that every day. He can at least do that.

He smiles when he hears the flute and sees Wei Wuxian's black clad figure in the distance. He waves but stays quiet as he approaches, not wanting to disturb the man at his work.

[acrookedpath]

Wei Wuxian catches sight of him from the corner of his eye. He dips his head in a brief, acknowledging nod, then shuts his eyes to continue working.

Resentful energy zigzags across the surface of the lake, sprinting toward Wei Wuxian as if it were a pet reuniting with its owner. He uses the music to sweep it close; black smoke boils around him, stronger than Tom witnessed during their trip to the Underside.

He can gather more than he thought he might. Was this truly all he needed? The knowledge that he only needed to call a little louder to the resentful energy of this place?

He does not want to admit how much relief he feels at that.

[riddleofthebelow]

The dense black clouds swirling around Wei Wuxian makes Tom think of Dementors flapping above him (and hopelessness and numbing cold and knowing deep in his marrow that there could be no escape). He can’t suppress the shudder that goes through him.

But he can’t feel this resentful energy, even as it manifests in increasing density. It doesn’t endanger him just by existing. He does wonder what would happen if he were to cast a Patronus. He’ll have to ask if Wei Wuxian would like to experiment later.

He’s also had thoughts about Knightsbridge and what could happen if that malignant and deadly darkness could be controlled.

There’s a rock that’s good for sitting - most of the ones near the lake are - so Tom decides to dust it off with a wave of his wand and settle upon it.

He’s curious as to what Wei Wuxian will do with the energy he’s summoned.

[acrookedpath]

There are no enemies to attack. No fierce corpses to animate. The answer, then: he doesn't appear to do much.

It is a test now, to see how much he can hold onto, and for how long. He has spent over a month barely utilizing his tricks, and there is a slight ache at the back of his head, as one's arms would ache at lifting an unaccustomed weight. But Wei Wuxian adjusts easily -- as he always has -- and begins another slow count in his head as the smoke grows thicker and thicker around him.

At thirty, he pauses long enough to catch his breath. A few wisps of smoke try to eel away, but swiftly, he grabs hold with a different song: one meant to push the ghosts back into the forest, once more outside the bubble of suppression that surrounds the inn. The cloud sinks to his feet and shivers back across the water.

Only when the smoke is completely gone does he exhale, turn to Tom, and smile brightly. "Hello, Tom-gongzi!"

[riddleofthebelow]

“Hello,” he responds with a grin (because how can you not respond so to Wei Wuxian?)

“Are you attempting something specific today?”

[lightamidchaos]

Wei Ying was not in the inn's common room, when he returned to it. Nor was he upstairs in his room.

When he opens the door to the lakeside, however, the sound of the flute is instantly recognizable.

Unerringly, his eyes follow the sound, and he sees Wei Ying on the rock by the shore, surrounded by swirling black smoke amid a set of spirit lures.

Lan Wangji steps silently out of the inn, allows the door to close behind him, and starts slowly toward the lake.

[acrookedpath]

The music shifts as he approaches, winding down from the clarion call of Wei Wuxian's summoning to the firm guiding hand of Rest. It does not have the gentleness of Lan Zhan's own music, though; this is a song that will brook no argument from the spirits it commands, like a stern father marching his child to their room.

Go, it says, and sleep until I wake you again.

The cloud of resentful energy loosens its hold on Wei Wuxian, rippling back across the water to reconnect with the spirits that hover at the forest's edge. He brings the music to a close, smiles in satisfaction, and moves to tuck the flute away in his belt.

[lightamidchaos]

"Your lures worked."

It is an observation, not a question, as it is impossible to mistake either the existence of that much resentful energy, or Wei Ying's command of it.

(It does not occur to him that, given the amount of focus he had been using, Wei Ying may not have noticed his approach.)

"Is it all you hoped?"

[acrookedpath]

Wei Wuxian yelps, whirling around to Lan Zhan so fast that a few of the lures almost go airborne.

"Lan Zhan!" He presses a hand to his chest with a nervous flutter of laughter. "You startled me. Must you always be so quiet?"

He is not going to stare, he tells himself. He will not.

[lightamidchaos]

He freezes in his tracks and stares at Wei Ying in confused surprise.

"I ... was not trying to be?"

A beat.

"I am sorry. I did not mean to startle you."

[personaltaste]

Yong-ha is laughing as he stumbles through the Bar door. He misses a step, catches himself, and turns it into a spin with a twirl of his newest jeogori — very fine, very pink silk patterned with white flowers. Once again, the hapless servants charged with enforcing Sungkyunkwan's curfew were no match for Gu Yong-ha.

Particularly a Gu Yong-ha who has regular access to a magical public house that can spirit him away through any door, granted, but he has always been able to avoid, coax, or bribe his way out of any trouble with the university.

He makes his way to the Bar, where he greets her with tipsy cheer and engages in a spirited negotiation that ultimately leaves him 70 coins lighter and now the proud owner of a little porcelain pot with intricately etched designs over a copper-red underglaze. It's as fine as any ceramic from the kilns of Gwangju, with the added benefit of depicting a vastly more interesting tableau that will be the envy of the entire East Wing.

Much to celebrate, but Yong-ha has learned from experience that some patrons don't welcome the lighting of a pipe indoors. He winds his way through tables, absently cataloguing persons of interest as he goes and filing them away for later, and steps out the back door.

Whistling to himself, he tosses his new little treasure up and down with satisfaction. About to tuck it away into a voluminous chartreuse sleeve, he pauses as distant music reaches his ears. Interesting. And Yong-ha is always in the market for interesting.

He strolls toward the lakeshore, following the sound.

[acrookedpath]

As he walks, and the melody grows louder, a change comes over the music. Light as the flute began, it now seems to sink with the weight of an eerie resonance; it is not a song played for practice or pleasure, but something infused with an unearthly hum that makes the hairs on the body stand up.

It fits well with the tall, willowy man standing atop the rock on the lakeshore, eyes closed as he plays, serpentine black smoke rising all around him. More of it winds across the lake from the spirits hesitating by the forest, swirling about his feet, rising to join the rest.

He is so absorbed in his work that he does not notice the other man's approach.

[personaltaste]

The unnatural melody, the solitary figure dressed in black, the undulating shadows — it's like something from the stories that haunted Yong-ha's nightmares as a child; tales of murderous water ghosts and hungry goblins.

Yong-ha's feet slow, a ball of dread forming in the pit of his stomach.

He has, he feels, a reasonable level of wariness when it comes to the supernatural. He receives scorn from classmates for jumping at things that go bump in the night, but Gu Yong-ha is no fool. His highly rational caution has been challenged by Milliways, where he has met demons, goblins, ghosts, and even a gumiho, who was much less bloodthirsty and much more polite than he'd been led to believe.

He wants to make connections, to learn, to entertain himself, but he also doesn't want to be eaten or dragged kicking and screaming into the realm of the dead. It's a delicate balance.

Yong-ha's steps drag further — torn between intense curiosity and the rabbiting of his heartbeat; between making sure he's at an angle where he won't startle the musician from behind and not actually certain he wants to be seen by them — and then he finally stops in the grass. He stands at a fair distance, pipe and ceramics and curfew all forgotten, and watches.

[acrookedpath]

A few strands of the man's long hair lift in an unfelt breeze. The smoke grows thicker, clambering over his arms as if trying to drag him into the lake -- but he does not move, sturdy as the rock upon which he stands. Whatever holds sway in those shadows will not sway him.

In time, the music shifts again. It loses some of its unsettling resonances: now it is clearer, a little sweeter. Too sharp to be a lullaby, but perhaps sewn from similar cloth. Thus soothed, the smoke loosens its grip on the man and begins to drift away.

Soon he stands alone on the lakeshore. Just as the smoke faded away, so too does his music drift into silence. He finally lowers the flute with a satisfied sigh and watches the ghosts vanish into the forest.

Only then does he turn -- and jerk back a little, startled, before breaking into an incongruously bright grin. "Ah! Hello there!" he calls to Yong-ha.

[personaltaste]

Yong-ha's curiosity just barely wins out over his ingrained fear, if only because the smoke never takes recognizable human form or moves toward him. He flinches backward when the musician jerks, but holds his ground.

If only every scholar who's ever mocked him for fleeing from imagined ghosts could see him now! That's only one person, granted, but Yong-ha is satisfied all the same. Or he will be once icy terror stops coursing through his veins, anyway.

The stranger doesn't look terribly intimidating. An interesting style of robes, more similar to those Yong-ha saw once on a trading voyage than any worn in Joseon but still unfamiliar. If he's a jeoseung saja, he's a friendly one — it's difficult to imagine a grim reaper with a smile like that. Yong-ha swallows; recollects his tattered dignity.

He lifts his eyebrows personably. "That's quite a trick!" he calls back. "I haven't seen its like before." And he has seen his fair share of tricks.

[weird_cop]

Well, that's bloody weird, innit?

Sefton had been hanging out by the fighting rings, wondering if he couldn't persuade one of the ninja who come here if they wanted to go a few rounds and kick his arse.

But then obviously another magic user doing a type of magic he isn't familiar with yet is going to be more interesting, so he gravitates that way.

Kevin is a stocky Black man in clothes that very much mark him out as a twenty-first century westerner: Adidas trainers, tracksuit bottoms, a red hoodie that he has up against the Scottish autumn. He's also drinking tea from a mug that portrays the London skyline as he watches.

[acrookedpath]

Speed is of the essence. So is the amount he can draw: too little and he will be useless, too much and he will pass out on the lake shore as he did during Harrow's ritual -- or, worse, lose control and threaten the entire inn.

(Not that he expects to encounter as much resentful energy as was in that tomb. If there were a source that powerful in the forest, he would not have struggled to call forth the energy as much as he has.)

So the ribbons of smoke that cross the lake to join him are thin at first, mere wisps of shadow. Soon they are streams, then rivers, then oceans waves that crash over Wei Wuxian and nearly obscure him from view. The music rises high and eerie above it, and he closes his eyes and concentrates, testing his strength of will against the ghosts.

He comes out victorious. Of course he does. Shifting to Rest, he banishes the energy back to the forest; the smoke unwraps from around him, some sinking into the rock, most of it skittering away to the woods.

Only then does he realize he's being watched.

"Ah!" he exclaims, turning swiftly to the stranger with a grin. (He is used to seeing such clothing these days -- so many of the inn's patrons hail from worlds so different from his own.) "Hello there!"

[weird_cop]

"Alright?" Sefton detaches a hand from his mug in order to wave, but only after he's watched the very last wisp of visible energy vanish back.

And now he's looking at Wei Wuxian like he's an interesting case to be cracked - which of course he is. Sefton quirks a grin.

"You get the result you were after?"

He had the look of an experimenter, and as an experimental magician himself, Sefton can relate.

[acrookedpath]

"I did!" Still beaming, he kneels to sweep the lures into a lopsided pile before hopping off the rock. "I was not entirely sure I would -- it is a problem I have sought to solve for over a month. But at last -- "

He waves the little cluster of yellow paper.

" -- I have the beginning of a solution."

[weird_cop]

"Brilliant." Sefton grins back, infected by his energy. "I love that first rush of getting to the answer."

It's liek that breakthrough on a case. He sees it on Ross, but he feels it himself often enough. When the first string you pull actually shows up as being attached to something.

"What was the problem?"