Wei Wuxian (
acrookedpath) wrote2022-08-04 03:19 pm
[pfsb]
The lantern is done. It's a momentous achievement; a culmination of all of Wei Wuxian's work since he first arrived at the inn...
And now it means he doesn't have a project to work on anymore. The agony!
He'll think of one soon enough. In the meantime, he's settled for sketching out an update to the Compass of Evil, whittling away at a block of wood Madam Bar provided him. If he has all the tools of a thousand worlds at his disposal, it should be no trouble at all to fine-tune the instrument.
And now it means he doesn't have a project to work on anymore. The agony!
He'll think of one soon enough. In the meantime, he's settled for sketching out an update to the Compass of Evil, whittling away at a block of wood Madam Bar provided him. If he has all the tools of a thousand worlds at his disposal, it should be no trouble at all to fine-tune the instrument.

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With that, she opens the door and steps through into what looks like a small library.
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"Your collection?" he asks Moiraine.
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She opens the door again onto a neatly kept sitting room. The apartment's small kitchen is to the side, and the bedroom lies behind a door on the other side of the sitting room.
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Silver-gold light glimmers at her fingertips for an instant, harder here to see than it was in the bar, but visible to a discerning eye all the same. She flicks the weave at an empty spot against the far wall, where a series of small paintings hang, only for them to vanish entirely as the illusion dissipates and a bookcase filled with scrolls and journals and a set of wooden boxes appears.
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(Yet.)
"So what is in all of these that requires their hiding?"
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Perhaps it is like the restricted section in the Cloud Recesses library, and if so, some of these may be dangerous. Lan Wangji is under no misconception that such a thing would stop Wei Ying if there were need, but still. He joins him beside the bookcase.
Behind them, the Aes Sedai observes, as unruffled as ever. "They contain a number of things. Histories, personal journals, records of weaves and other techniques, letters, and artifacts of sorts are among them." Her dark-eyed glance is sharp and keen as she watches them.
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As if reassuring Lan Zhan that yes, he will not grab for something dangerous without warning, he clasps his hands behind his back as he peers closer at the shelf.
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Some few of the books on the hidden shelves are of the sort that have been printed rather than handwritten. Several are of poetry, including a copy of The Tower, by Yeats, which stands next to a thick dark tome with a red rose on the spine and a well-worn copy of a Bible marked with a narrow blue ribbon. Scrolls are likewise bound with ribbon and neatly stacked beside a polished wooden box with the only pattern to it from the wood-grain of its making. There is no sign of a lock.
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She does not miss the swift, wary glance that Lan Wangji casts her, but does not let herself react to it.
The book is damaged, as it happens, and missing quite a few pages from the back. The title embossed on the front cover, above the image of a man standing in a field of red roses, is The Dark Tower.
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He lets the book fall open. It feels a little wobbly and lopsided from the missing pages, the spine gaping too large; the rounded lettering sweeps into the clean, precise angles of a thousand brushstrokes.
I denied Discordia and regret nothing; I have spat into the bodiless eyes of the Crimson King and rejoice; I threw my lot with the gunslinger and the White and never once questioned the choice.
Wei Wuxian huffs the smallest breath of a laugh, and there is recognition in the sound.
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He slips a finger into the gap of the spine, studies the book another moment, then closes it to return it to the shelf.
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Well, she didn't object to him touching the book, so! He moves on to the little wooden box, tapping its side once, twice, before he opens the lid.
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Inside the box, a gleaming black raven's feather lies beside a few other objects on top of several folded letters and pages torn from a book, the front of which says Coda. Found. A sprig of bright red amaranth wrapped in green rosemary perfumes the air with a faint scent, and light gleams from a silver coin of the same sort that she had given Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji earlier. Beside the coin lies a shattered cuendillar seal, the two halves of the Flame of Tar Valon and the Dragon's Fang divided with their edges crumbling into dust. At the end of the box lies an ivory bracelet in the shape of an acrobat bent backward in an arc, hands grasping ankles - and to those who can sense power, it radiates incredible potential.
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That bracelet in particular -- its aura seems to bend the air, like the weight of its power has wrinkled reality itself. It reminds Wei Wuxian a little of the statuette Moiraine let him hold once. What had she called it? And that cracked seal that raidiates the faintest smudges of resentful energy, like grave dirt...
His hand hovers over the open box, as if pressing down against the strange energies that rise up.
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Lan Wangji whirls in an instant, placing himself between Wei Ying and Moiraine, Bichen drawn and leveled at her throat.
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He'd expected the reprimand (though did not expect it to come quite that swiftly) and had been all set to wind up into no worse than a dramatic pout in response. But now --
Almost as fast as Lan Zhan moves, he does, too, stepping around him to throw an arm across his husband's chest.
"Lan Zhan." His eyes stay fixed on Moiraine for a beat, then shift to Lan Zhan. "Don't. There's been no harm done."
You don't have to protect me. Not now.
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"You are not hers to chastise."
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Cautiously, Wei Wuxian moves again, settling his hand atop Lan Zhan's sword arm. He tries to catch his gaze.
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"Your point has been made, as it were." Deliberately, she allows the glow around her to fade, although she holds herself open to seize it again in an instant if need be.
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Slowly, he presses on Lan Zhan's arm. He knows Lan Zhan won't lower Bichen unless he truly wishes -- not with that arm strength! -- but just as Lan Zhan wants to make his point clear, so does Wei Wuxian.
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He will not apologize, not for this, but he cannot help the worry that flickers in his eyes.
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