#burial mounds must have been SCREECHING...

[last-in-line-for-hell]

Since WWX is able to hear the voices of resentful spirits due to his cultivation, I wonder if, when he was in Burial Mounds desperately creating his cultivation in order to survive, it just got louder and louder the further along he got...

[yuziyuanapologist]

want the world to believe [yiling laozu!lan wangji - interlude]

[gifset] [part 1] [part 2.1] [part 2.2] [part 3.1] [part 3.2] warnings for minor violence and references to What Happened In The Burial Mounds somehow this is exactly 1k words also. thats pretty neat

They were going to call him Hanguang Jun. Light Bearing Lord. It was the title the Lan elders had set out for him like robes to be worn, and one day, he would step into it and fit it perfectly, like they had all along known that he would. 

But Lan Wangji no longer bears light. Within or without, he is nought but empty darkness, curling smoke, a winding feeling of dread. No matter; he no longer wishes for a title. He no longer wishes to be seen, or praised. He does not enjoy it, this evil that he throws around as power, this resent that he wields. 

A means to an end is all it is, all it will ever be. A strange furious energy that overtakes his body, lashes out with his tongue and his hands and yet follows none of his principles. 

Wei Ying is breathless opposite him, forced across the room by Lan Wangji's own hand, threaded through with resent twining in between his fingers, holding his hand to lead him through the darkest actions of his life. The resent has Wei Ying pressed against the wall, and it's the first Wei Ying has truly seen of his power without doubt of who wields it. He is - afraid. 

He should be. 

"Lan Zhan -" he chokes, spitting the words through the gaps in the smoke over his mouth. "I'm sorry, I - I didn't mean -" 

The truth is that it sticks to him, this darkness. It dug its claws in deep on a graveyard mountain and never let go. 

There’s a kind of pain that’s ever present with it, and it doesn’t matter - it doesn’t matter - it was a worthy sacrifice. That feeling of emptiness in his lower abdomen now turned to a constant stabbing sensation, that sword that he had wrenched from Wei Ying’s vice-like grasp in a cave under a mountain, that sword which he carried with him only for safe keeping - yes, it had saved him. Yes, he had refined it, turned it from blade to seal. Yes, he feels its point carving into his body with every breath.

His sleep is tortured by it, forcing him awake every few minutes dreaming of the slide of fingernail against screeching string, teeth against rotting flesh and bone. Always when he wakes there are tears in his eyes and sweat soaking his forehead and manacles of resent round his wrists, imprisoning him in his own body. 

And so when he had snapped, he had pushed all of that on Wei Ying.

And - what had Wei Ying done to deserve this? What acts had he - does Lan Wangji not know? Had he thrown the punishment without - without -

Ah, the ghost of a touch, calling his hazy overthrown mind back to the cause. Wei Ying, who should have known better, does know better, having seen every flinch at every attempt to reach out. He is usually so patient, so calm, so careful, knowing all along that Lan Wangji has never liked to be touched. 

Still, there had been his hand to the back of Lan Wangji's own, so close to where he could feel - too close - too dangerous - and Lan Wangji had relinquished control to the fear and rage boiling inside of him. Palm to Wei Ying's chest, something had cried with his voice, "Do not touch me." 

And Wei Ying had been thrown back. Lan Wangji had thrown Wei Ying back, or the resent had thrown Wei Ying back - what does it matter? 

Wei Ying had been hurt. Is hurt. And the fault lies in the hands of the one who threw him. 

The resent falters, and releases him. 

Wei Ying coughs once, twice. "Lan Zhan, I-" 

He does not continue, and Lan Wangji does not reply. His eyes are flickering between the one he has hurt and the trails of winding smoke between his fingers. He cannot move. He cannot breathe. He cannot - he cannot - he cannot - 

Wei Ying is hurt. Hand to his own chest where Lan Wangji's hand had struck him, where the Wen brand must still mar his skin, barely scarred over in the inconceivably short time it has been since. 

Lan Wangji's attention wavers. Takes him back to - to - 

"Did you wish you had jumped in front of it?" Wang Lingjiao. Even now, her voice is burnt deep in his mind, a curse, a torture. "Wish you had been so brave as your Wei Ying?" 

She knew. Of course she knew. How - he hadn't known, doesn't know, but - 

A long pink nail scrapes down his cheek, in some parody of tenderness. 

"Sweetheart," she murmurs, a sneer and a laugh twisting through her words. "It's not as though you'll see him again." 

Louder now. "It's not as though they'll find your body. Still, take it as a gift from me. To remember him by." 

Lan Wangji's hand falls to his own chest, making him a mirror of Wei Ying. Still, he doesn't speak. Doesn't meet Wei Ying's gaze. 

"I'm sorry," Wei Ying tries again, still breathless, still - 

No, no longer against the wall. He stands free, now, and wavers as if to move back to Lan Wangji. But no more than a second later he has thought better of it, and moves quickly to the door. He gasps out one last apology - what is he sorry for? - and then he's gone, fleeing so fast Lan Wangji has barely torn his gaze from the wall Wei Ying had been pressed against. 

The black mist still winds through his fingers, sliding smooth around his wrist now, up to the top of his arm, over his shoulder, down to his heart. There it rests for a second, and there it finds its way inside him, filling up the empty space where golden light used to be. Where golden light should be, still. This was never in his future, this was never intended.

They were going to call him Hanguang Jun, but now all he bears is darkness.

[giftwrappingpaper]

wangxian bakery au

prompt: "I'd love to enable a creator to write/draw that self-indulgent niche workplace AU they've always wanted to make."

Lan Zhan finds Wei Ying baking bread in the kitchen of a hole-in-the-wall bakery in Yiling.

-----

A low, all too familiar voice hesitantly calls his name. "Wei Ying?"

No fucking way. Wei Ying looks up, raised eyebrows wrinkling his flour-dusted forehead. Yep, that’s Lan Zhan alright; no matter how many years pass, Wei Ying could recognize that face anywhere. His sharp, meticulously perfect appearance makes him look like a high-fashion magazine model cutout slapped on a stock photo of yellowed plaster and secondhand baking equipment.

“No customers in the back,” Wei Ying advises before returning his attention to the dough in his hands. A picture of informality, with a small smirk playing on his lips — a half-hearted attempt to conceal the shock and surmounting panic bubbling in his gut.

How the hell did he find me? one side of his brain despairs, while the other side reassures that at least it isn’t Jiang Cheng.

Lan Zhan continues his stalwart breach of Burial Bakery’s kitchen. What a rebel. “Wei Ying,” he says again.

“That’s me.”

“You’re here.”

“Uh, yeah?”

“You’re in a...bakery. Baking.”

Wei Ying breathed in the calming smell of fresh sourdough and tangy levain. Thank the heavens he had been able to convince Wen Ning to take a lunch break, leaving Wei Ying to man the kitchen alone. This isn’t going to be pretty.

“That’s kinda what we do here, yeah,” he says, eyes trained on his workbench, crowded with floured bannetons and formless lumps of dough. “A helping hand would be nice. I’d appreciate that much more than the gawking.”

Lan Zhan blinks, jawing clenching and ears flushing. Wei Ying’s smirk lifts into something softer. Even after all this time, it’s still so easy to rile him up.

“How’d you even find me, anyway?” he wonders, stretching his dough flat against the workbench, stopping right when it’s about to rip. Gently, of course. Wouldn’t want to pop the gas built up after hours of proofing.

“The back door is open,” Lan Zhan answers faintly. His expression mirrors the face of a guy after finding a years-long missing sock long since chalked off as having been eaten by the dryer. “I saw you from the counter.”

A quick glance to the entrance confirms this. Wen Ning must’ve forgotten to close the door when he left. Damn, that’s no good. Can’t let the cold air flow in. Might mess with the dough proofing in the walk-in.

“Could you close that for me?” Wei Ying asks, briefly letting go of the dough to rub the back of his neck. When Lan Zhan continues to stand there, motionless like a beautiful, bewildered statue, Wei Ying tsks and says, “I’m not going anywhere, Lan Zhan. Gotta get yesterday's proofed loaves in the oven by the hour.”

Miraculously, Lan Zhan obeys. Wei Ying half expected him not to. He and Lan Zhan have never been the closest of friends; Wei Ying was an annoying student, and Lan Zhan has a zero tolerance for annoying classmates. But people can change, he supposes. It’s been over four years, and neither of them are the same people they were before Wei Ying packed up his things and gave up his cushioned life in the Jiang estate and his scholarship to one of the most prestigious universities in the country to start slumming it with the Wen siblings and A-Yuan in their closet of an apartment.

“Aw, thanks,” Wei Ying says when Lan Zhan returns. He belatedly realizes that he should’ve asked Lan Zhan to close the door behind him as he leaves the kitchen that he, as a non-employee, isn’t supposed to be in. Oh well; Wen Qing can chew him out for all the health codes he’s violating later. Isn’t she supposed to be manning the front? Lan Zhan must have snuck past her to get here, so she’s just as guilty.

“So you’ve been here the whole time?” Lan Zhan says, watching Wei Ying shape the dough. “Since you — left?”

“Basically.” Stitch the dough into itself. Then fold and tuck. Push the dough underneath itself with the palm of your hands to create surface tension, giving the newly formed loaf that tight, professional finish. Took Wei Ying ages to get the method down pat enough to be consistent. “Wanted to get out of the Jiangs’ hair, so I left soon after dropping out of uni.”

Dust the loaf with rice flour. Place it into a banneton, seam side up. Into the rack, then repeat. “A friend of mine had just inherited their family bakery. I volunteered to help out, and it eventually ended up becoming a full-time thing.”

Lan Zhan stands there without a word — not that Wei Ying minds. He hadn’t let himself dream they’d see each other again, hadn’t wanted to get his hopes up that he'd be lucky enough to see a familiar face again after all this time. Damn, he thinks, sneaking glance after glance between the loaves he’s shaping, he’s more handsome now than ever. Who knew the gorgeous teenager he’d harassed throughout two years of university would turn out to become a gorgeous adult who somehow stumbles into Wei Ying’s bakery? Even the unflattering cast of the yellow, flickering overhead light Wen Qing had been meaning to replace can’t wash out how black Lan Zhan’s hair is, how his skin is as smooth as a baby’s. How golden his eyes are, peering at Wei Ying as if he’s the sunrise after a long, cloudy night.

Bah. Where the hell did that come from? Maybe Wei Ying really is as self-centered as Aunt Yu claimed him to be.

“I wasn’t aware of your...baking aspirations,” Lan Zhan says, causing Wei Ying to choke out a laugh. He’d forgotten how funny Lan Zhan could be.

“Me neither,” Wei Ying admits. He sidesteps the kitchen mixer he’d spent the last year fixing up — he’d bought it in a sorry state, but Hobart engines are built to last a lifetime, and he couldn’t pass up the deal he paid for — to place another filled banneton into the rack. “But I’m not too mad at where I’ve ended up. Speaking of. How did you end up here?”

Lan Zhan's shoulders hunch suspiciously, and Wei Ying's eyebrows arch into fucking parabolas. “I wanted bread,” Lan Zhan replies defensively. “So I went to a bakery.”

Wei Ying scoffs, unimpressed. “A bakery all the way in Yiling?”

Lan Zhan glances away. “I travel a lot for work.”

Fine — he’ll let it go for now. “Well, as long as you don’t tell anyone back home about this, I guess it’s fine.” Wei Ying pauses. “You’re not gonna rat me out, are you?”

The thought should scare him, but a traitorously large part of him thrills at it instead. The Jiangs' are a key food supplier for the Lans' hotel chain, so Lan Zhan has to have some form of communication with them. Does Jiejie think about him from time to time? And Jiang Cheng...well. They’re still brothers, aren't they? Surely he must, at some small capacity, miss him.

But no brotherly love, whatever left there may be, could erase this: the cold silence that hung over the Jiang family table whenever Wei Ying would show up for dinner. Aunt Yu’s constant disapproval and Jiang Cheng’s wavering willingness to put up with it. The car ride. The screech of metal. The hospital said their Range Rover flipped four times. Wei Ying must have passed out after the first. But he was lucky: only a broken arm and whiplash. He had lied about being too hurt to attend the funeral.

It had been a good decision to leave. It had to be.

The back of his neck stings; a constant reminder. He hangs his head low as he stitches the dough.

“I’m not going to...rat you out,” Lan Zhan denies. He’s closer than he’d been since the last time Wei Ying looked up, his slack-clad hip brushing against the corner of Wei Ying’s workbench. “Not if you don’t want me to.”

“I don’t. Thanks.” Another banneton in the rack. Slower output than usual. He’s going to have to speed up to reach today’s quota. He gestures to the door. “Now, if you’re not gonna help out…”

Lan Zhan doesn’t take the hint. “You left. Without saying goodbye.”

“Must’ve forgotten to leave a note,” Wei Ying says, nonplussed.

“No one knew where you had gone off to.”

“Kinda preferred it that way.”

“But I didn’t —” Lan Zhan stops. Takes a breath. This is the most emotional Wei Ying has ever seen him, if mildly discomfited could constitute as emotional.

When he meets Wei Ying’s eyes again, his face is in its usual state of aloofness. “I was worried about you,” he tells him. “I wish I had known that you were alright.”

A block of guilt presses on Wei Ying’s shoulders. “Oh,” he says. “Sorry.”

Lan Zhan shakes his head. “Don’t apologize.”

“It’s just — with all that happened with the, the accident, and the handling of the estate —”

“You don’t need to explain anything to me you’re not comfortable with.”

“And my relationship with Jiang Cheng was down the fucking gutter —”

“He misses you.”

“I just felt that it everything would’ve been better off if —”

“I understand.”

“— I just left, y’know?”

At this, Lan Zhan frowns. “I fail to see how your sudden disappearance made anything better,” he says.

“Well, you weren’t there.” Wei Ying sighs, and what little fight he had to defend himself from the past drops to the floor. “I don’t want to argue with you.”

Lan Zhan bristles. “I didn’t mean to — that’s not why I’m here.”

Then why are you here? But Wei Ying is done playing this game. “Look, it’s really nice to see you again. But I kind of have a lot on my plate right now, so if you don’t mind.” This time, his gesture to the door is clear. Leave.

Of course Lan Zhan doesn’t leave; he’s always been so damn stubborn. After a beat, he walks over to the empty sink — Wei Ying prefers to wash the dishes as he goes — and washes his hands. Dries them. Rolls up the sleeves of his button up, revealing forearms Wei Ying can’t help but swallow at. Makes his way to Wei Ying’s side, staring down at the lumps of dough like how a runner glares at the bottom of her shoe after stepping on a pile of dogshit.

“Alright,” he says, “how do I do this?”

Wei Ying blinks. “What?” he asks, like an idiot.

Lan Zhan experimentally cups the nearest dough mound with his palms. It sticks to his hands as he lifts them, streaks of the stuff already clinging to his slender fingers.

“Gross,” he says, monotone, pinching two ends to stretch it; an imitation, Wei Ying realizes, of his own technique.

Wei Ying stares. An incredulous smile spreads across his lips. “You’re —” He laughs. “You’re so weird, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Zhan squints at him, confused, hands still making a mess out of the dough. “You asked for my help.”

Perhaps all those years away from home was enough penance for, at the very least, this. “Yeah," he says, soft. "I guess I did.” Wei Ying sways closer to Lan Zhan’s side. He discreetly sniffs the air in a selfish bid to find...ah, there it is, masked between notes of wheat flour and sourdough starter: sandalwood aftershave, brushing past Wei Ying's nose when Lan Zhan turns to him with an expectant glance.

Wei Ying laughs again. “No, not like that. Like this.”

He lays a floured hand over Lan Zhan’s and, together, they get to work.

-----

also posted on ao3

promo post on twitter

fic commissions

[curiosity-killed]

a bow for the bad decisions

canon-divergent AU from ep. 24 (on ao3)

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12 | part 13 | part 14 | part 15 | part 16 | part 17 | part 18

Note: I’ll be on vacation Thurs—Mon so updates will be on pause till I get back (sorry lmao!)

He is a little irritated, deep in his belly, at being so weak as to need tending, but he lets the warmth of their care offset that frustration. It’s easier today, when everything is bright and warm with happiness.

Then Wen Ning stiffens, twists, and his hand closes around an arrow a hands’ width from Wei Wuxian’s skull. “Wei Wuxian!” calls a tiny figure on the cliff’s edge. He squints, trying to decide if he recognizes them or if they’re some errant cultivator who thinks they can take down the Yiling laozu on their own. The sunlight glints off gold robes and he can just pick out the vermillion dot between their brows. How gracious, he thinks. Jin sect sending a welcoming party when I’m already on my way to them. “Wei Wuxian, remove your curse at once!” “Do I know you?” Wei Wuxian calls back, bracing his hands on his hips.

He has only ever cursed one person, and this Jin disciple certainly doesn’t look like Wen Chao. Even then, forcing Wen Chao to tear strips from his own legs and eat them was more of the blowback than an actual curse, a return on the sentence Wen Chao gave him when he dropped him into the Burial Mounds.

“You! How dare you!” The outrage is familiar, niggling something at the back of his mind. “I know it was you who cursed me,” the man shouts. “Who else would lower themselves to such nasty tricks?” “Who else indeed,” Wei Wuxian mutters, but it’s tired. Mostly he doesn’t care what people say about him, but his patience is thin and strained when it comes to this. What has he done that’s so wrong, after all? He has tried to repay his debts, to protect his family, to live justly. What part of that is so malignant, so repulsive in the eyes of the world? “Is this not your work?” the Jin disciple demands, tugging open his hanfu. “Release me at once!” Even from this distance, the speckling of gory holes across his chest is distinctive. Wei Wuxian recoils, horrified.  The hundred holes curse is particularly gruesome, cruel in both its agony and its appearance. “Why would I curse you?” he yells. “I don’t even know you!” He can pick out the sneer on the disciple’s face, curling his lips in disdain. “Since you are incapable of honor and won’t release me,” the disciple spits. “I will have to kill you!” Amusement creeps up Wei Wuxian’s throat, cold and edged. If they want to kill him, they ought not to have wasted time with such theatrics.

“Kill me? Can you?” He glances toward the archers lining the cliff, eyebrows arched in doubt. “Can they?” They should know better than to think him defenseless by now. Resentment is everywhere; he carries it in his bones.   There’s a small snap beside him, the sound of Wen Ning’s suppression necklace breaking. Resentment rises in a rush, a geyser-roar that echoes in his marrow.   A volley of arrows pierces the sky. Wen Ning throws himself forward, grabbing hold of a boulder wider than he is tall and slamming it down as a shield in front of Wei Wuxian before flinging himself up the cliff. Wei Wuxian tucks close behind his new shelter and waits. Wen Ning had been the one to suggest he go as Wei Wuxian’s companion, and he had gently refused to be put off by protests. It had seemed too risky to let him come among the people who’d had him killed, but now, Wei Wuxian is reluctantly grateful for his presence. There will be a mess, but at least they’ll walk out of it alive. He can feel the anger, the bitterness, crawling up the ladder of his ribs. The injuries the Jin get are deserved, are less than what they’ve earned. How dare they set a trap for him with his nephew as the bait? How petty and despicable. Today was meant to be for celebration, meant to be a bright-glow day of family and joy. Now, they’ve gotten their dirty-gold hands all over it, twisted and reshaped it into another mess that will be pinned to his name. Fine. Let it be. He’s tired of staying politely in his cage, of constraining himself to fit within their mean tolerance. They opened the gate. They carried the stick. “Wei Wuxian, this is the price of your arrogance!”

He turns to see the leader standing there at his side and, oh, he does remember him. Vaguely. Some cousin of Jin Zixuan — the loud-mouthed brat who was in charge of the Wen prison camp that used to be here. “Let’s see your capability now,” the cousin spits, raising his sword. He lunges, throws himself into a flurry of offense. It might be impressive against someone else, someone unused to defending theirself with a flute. But Chenqing is not just a stick of bamboo, and Wei Wuxian is no one else. Lan Zhan insisted on training together during the war, dragging Wei Wuxian out to clearings and small yards in their camps until they were both soaked in sweat. Bichen could not scar Chenqing; this rat-faced junior is little more than a gnat. He skirts out of range of a strike and feels something shift, slip loose from his robes. He reaches, instinctively, for his chest, but the box that should be there is held in the cousin’s unworthy hand. “Give it back,” he demands. This cousin has no right to touch the gift, is undeserving of even knowing it exists. He turns the box in one hand, lips curling in a sneer. “Is this the gift you think worthy of Jin Rulan?” he asks, derisive. “Did you really think we’d let you attend his celebrations? You, the Yiling laozu, at the Chief Cultivator’s own tower?” His hands are shaking, the edges of his vision hazy. The invitation was signed from Jiang Cheng. His brother wouldn’t betray him, not like this, not with family on the line. But— But if the rest of the Jin sect knew of the invitation, knew the quickest path between Yiling and Koi Tower is through this pass— It would be the perfect opportunity for revenge. They might have even encouraged Jiang Cheng to send the invitation, knowing it a better lure than anything signed by a Jin hand. His nails bite into the pad of his thumb as his hand tightens around Chenqing. He can feel the shift, the black-sand blood rising in his veins. If they want a trap then let them have his teeth and claws. He lifts Chenqing to his lips. “Stop! Both of you!” Jin Zixuan’s golden robes are strangely ruddy, as if viewed through bloodied waters. Wei Wuxian is aware, distantly, that some part of him is trembling; his heart is too loud against the bone of his ribs and sluggish. “Zixuan, what are you doing here?” the cousin demands. His voice is too loud, screeching. It would take so little to silence him. A single note, a flick of his fingers. Resentment could curl around his neck, throttle him. A single spirit could bite out his larynx with jagged red teeth. He deserves it. It’s only fair. He attacked with the intent to kill. Isn’t it right, isn’t it only equal exchange, that Wei Wuxian give answer? Did he not ask a question seeking a reply? He can’t kill Zixuan. It takes some effort to remember this. Shijie would be sad. It might be better for her, in the long run, to be free of him but — but she would be sad. He can’t hurt her. His shaking hand closes tighter around Chenqing’s burning surface. He can’t hurt him. Trash — indelible stain — dirty waters —  There’s a crack, the scraping sound of nails against wood. The box bursts, splinters. Rage rushes through him, a river undammed. “Wei Wuxian! That’s enough!” Chenqing shudders with the impact of the sword against her side, and she echoes with his anger, a cave-ring of resentment rippling between them. She hums, high and keening and hungry. “Stop Wen Ning and we can talk,” Jin Zixuan says, as if there is any room for words here. “Don’t make the situation worse. There is still space for common ground.” Common ground? Common ground? Are they not the ones here with blades unsheathed to cut his own neck? How reasonable it must seem to them to ask him to prepare the parched earth between them with his own blood. Of course he must be the one to stop. He is the one broken and snarling and rabid, after all, the wild creature they never should have brought in off the streets. It doesn’t matter how many men he killed for them, how much of himself was carved out in their service. “The moment I stop him, he will be pierced by your arrows and die,” he snarls. “I should stop? What about you?” “Don’t be unreasonable!” Jin Zixuan snaps, facing him fully. “This is a misunderstanding. If you both follow me to Carp Tower, you can stand and give a full account.” He speaks so reasonably, so sensibly. Of course he would believe anyone at Carp Tower would listen to a full account. Of course he trusts in the pulleys and levers hidden behind their golden façade. What cause has he ever had to doubt when his family’s corruption has carried him from cradle to throne? “Jin Zixuan, let me ask you,” Wei Wuxian says. “When you invited me, can you really say you knew nothing of their plan to kill me?” He fumbles through a protest, affronted by the audacity of a claim against him. The Jin sit so high in their tower, so removed from mundane things like blame. They’ve removed the bodies from the prison camp, but this is an old pass and the rocks have not always been so steady. The dead are everywhere, if you know where to look. Wei Wuxian has shared their company as close as lovers and brothers and old friends; they rise up to greet him, eager with relief. Revenge is the sweetest song. There’s a wet crunch: flesh, tendon, bone. The gasp and choke of a punctured lung. Something flickers in his periphery, a figure wound in qi and resentment together with a saber’s edge. The lines of the world are blurred, hazy with the red of spirits hungry for new flesh. They’ve waited so long for their answer, for their peace. They have starved in the desolation of unquiet rest.

“Wei Wuxian! Jin Zixuan!” He’s heard the voice before, rough and hard with command. It’s faint compared to the hisses and screams of his companions. All the world seems shifted on end, a bottle balanced on a precarious edge. Red floods the pass, writhing, crackling, snarling. There are familiar fingers hooking around his spine, slipping into the spaces between his ribs, running lovingly up his throat. There’s a scream, a wet howl of pain. Wei Wuxian, they sigh, whisper, sing. He knows this multitude, has been scoured by this choir. Wei Wuxian, do you remember? He made a promise once, a long time ago. He said he would be their speaker, give breath to their petitions. Blood breaks across his lips, gasps out of his shredded lungs. He promised the world would not forget them; they promised he would have revenge. The world shudders, shivers. It takes more than blood to make an oath like that. He stumbles; his knees shake. A sacrifice isn’t worth anything if it isn’t full-hearted. There’s a dark figure blurred before him, gold laid out in their arms. Shijie must have looked so beautiful at her wedding; he wonders if she’ll forgive him for cutting it short. His legs give out and the dark rises up to meet him. Wei Wuxian — don’t you want revenge?

[angstymdzsthoughts]

The Screams All Sound The Same...

This is a bit more worldbuilding and headcanon at first but there will be angst in later though some content warnings as this implies thoughts of not being human, body horror and eldritch horror as well with canon spoilers and maybe some inaccuracies.

I've always wondered, how WWX seemed in tune with demonic energy? He had only suggested it and never actually tried it before until he had no choice, he didn't seek it out until then. It only ever came to him, as if he were a magnet. So, we're going to be going back, right before his parents died.

Now, they said that WWX's parents died in Yiling and I'm not exactly sure if the Wen Sect were the closest but they are the biggest sect, so therefore, there is a chance their territory reaches that place. Which means we have Wen Cultivators watching over Burial Mounds.

Have you seen that Landborne Abyss? The place where two kingdoms fell to their demise? There had to be some eldritch amalgamations inside that graveyard battlefield, born from resentment, rose from hate, drenched with blood of it's long forgotten enemies and brethren, reaching up to claim back the life it had once before.

The Sects had said that the Wen Sect had grown more arrogant over the years, and maybe, if the reward wasn't big enough or there was no prize at all, they would ignore the monster as it was just a bother to them. And what would they gain from staying in the Burial Mounds?

What if because of that, one of those beings escaped because the Wens have abandoned their posts, not wanting to do with the cursed mountain.

(////)

This is where Wei Changze and Cangse Sanren come in, new parents who loved Wei Ying very very much. They were hired to hunt a beast, lurking near the mountain, scaring the townsfolk so they left their son at the inn and promised to come back.

But the mountain didn't trust cultivators, it did not want them hurting it and keeping it at bay anymore. So that eldritch being? The beast they were talking about, only tasting a drop of being some semblance of life, the hundreds of souls trapped and merged inside who would not let go of this new life?

It could only try to dispose of them, like a cornered animal that was abused and ready to fight, desperate to survive.

The thing looked through the two's thoughts, searching for weaknesses that it could exploit, they were stronger as it was still weak without a vessel but it was in luck.

The two mates had one kin.

And in the darkness, Cangse Sanren saw a child. Her child, out in the forest, where dangers lurk. Changze had already bolted for his son, the instinct to protect his family overwhelming the sense of wrongness. Cangse followed not soon after.

It was what cost them their lives.

Their very own son killing them in cold blood, except it wasn't their son and now the couple would die together, knowing that they had made such a foolish mistake.

The being soon looked for the little one to give their thanks in helping it escape an unwanted death. It had a twisted view of the world, all it knew was that cultivators were dangerous and children were weak but pure.

It did not know it had torn a family apart, it had no morals to begin with anyway.

And they were met with a crying human, calling for the ones that have long since left and the being paused.

It was technically indebted to this young one, it couldn't just leave this runt out here. The child was dying, ever so slowly from the gaping emptiness.

The thing needed a vessel anyway, and it thought the form was rather nice, having tried to mimic it before.

So the being took what it had and gave it all to the child. It could not reverse the dying part but it was much easier to replace it instead.

Now 'it' was Wei Ying for he had long gone to sleep.

(////)

Wei Ying didn't like dogs, they knew there was something wrong, something inhumane about him. It didn't help that their teeth can tear his flesh and the black ink dripped through the wounds.

They were loud and he already had screams echoing in his head all day and all night long. He had tried to scream, tried to screech and howl, tried to maim and maul. But he was just a child and all that came out were sobs, his hands bloody with bites as his nails were too blunt to tear through the fur.

With the mind that unconsciously forgot about the bad, it wasn't long before Wei Ying forgot what was inside him.

It wasn't long before he was found.

Jiang Fengmian had felt it but had dismissed it, ignoring the way his hands seemed to twitch as he held the boy, how he wanted to run run RUN-! This was his best friend and right hand man's son and he knew Cangse could never be anything else other than human.

It must have been because the child was near Burial Mounds, children absorbed the energy of the environment more easily to help them grow and adapt to it.

And as he brought Wei Ying back home, nobody would think of a Sect Leader welcoming a horror into his own home.

Part 1 of ???

[tokensfortalkers]

d100 ONLY IN THE WOOD

From pulsing spiral shells

of perfect, woven red scales

our tribe extracts rich music

to sweat the land in dance

til vice weft seed in set.

The flowers of lava trees open like shattered glass spilling liquids of molten pollen

A single bud rests in a fallow field, shimmering a sign planted next to it reads "Needs blood"

For each fallen limb stepped upon, a tree breaks into splinters; limbs crack at the slightest touch.

Swamps travel swiftly and quickly. The same swamp can be seen many days from many mountains

Rock splits in a cacophonous crack, oozing red and blue liquid, when hardened go back in time.

A craft falls from the sky, blazing with heat and, eventually, berths opportunity

As it's marked, tree hisses -- a faint whistle (Return in 2d10 days to a deflated tree -- and a sapling).

Winds braid walkable paths of leaves in the air. Only as the wind dies, do the leaves fall away

Moles' noses are carved into stones, creating a fern gully of sniffing sculptures

Floating woven metal drip beeswax around a wick of living hemp positioned below an exposed bladder.

Pits in the skin caused by biting insects deepen into darkening and widening maws until the next day.

Boats along the lake shore are all shells for crab-like crustaceans

Footsteps are Taken away -- stored in vials to be poured out for later use.

Illusion barrier of ancients' lost city is on the fritz; such sensually polluting defenses nauseate.

Writing in the fog lights up where fireflies flutter from one location to the next

Oars cause lake water to be shoveled rather than pushed. Water sticks to implements, weighing them

Spiders in the forest have been cursed with human customs. Like to picnic and play volleyball.

Water shrine of exotic wood caused a lake to explode and freeze at the same time, resulting in ice caves.

Single bed and breakfast hosted by a ghost. Good meals, fascinating guest log, excellent books.

Drunk frogs defend an artisan well of wine fed by a massive pitcher plant suffering from allergies

Lamppost mill, owners tend to the lampposts, growing them from single crystals in careful vats.

Servile-yet-serpentile signs read what actions PCs took last, in an attempt to annoy them away

Flash flood is an illusion (unfortunate actions of panicking characters are not.)

Gruesome sculptures with pivots stand before picketed signs reading Tip Me.

Piles of leaves dart about wildly, clamboring in a cacophonous emsemble, deafening all other sound

Wellsprings of gasses hiss in notes. Covering them plays a flute-like melody, enchanting victims

Chasm blows anything blown into it back out and 10x smaller; thrown in again, reverts to normal.

Snails with numbers on shells litter the forest floor and trees. Snails are purple with black spots

Wisps travel from tree to tree like high traffic. Sign posted says Experimental Area: Keep Out

All equipment hums and wilts when held by an owner who isn't at least humming if not singing

Cairns of stacked pumice float from one spot to the next, rearrange their stacks, and continue

Odorous flowers create paths. Follow the fresh bread odor? Or the smoked meat one? Or some other?

Seeds in the shape of fetuses wriggle in warm areas, like in sunlight or the palms of ungloved hands

Pool of glass hatches and walls of plasmatic liquids make a maze of this deathly-still lake

Boxes of quartz contain tiny plants growing tinier morsels. Opening a box usually kills the plant.

Sky flickers between day and night as though it can't remember what time it's supposed to be

Cat rests atop a floating, bloated carcass, pounces upon a mouse, and returns to the carcass to dine.

Fruit dries quickly when plucked, its wrinkles taking on the face of the one who plucked it

Every tree has a name carved into it. A fallen tree's root ball harbors an unearthed prisoner

Boulders crack, revealing stone chicks. it would seem this particular part of the forest is a nest.

Silent beast work tirelessly at weaving spider webs into cocoons for sick caterpillars

Driftwood in the lake each have a hand in their centers bobbing in and out of view

Field of view shifts in parallax, at 5 frames per second. Woodland beasts appear and disappear wildly.

Whispers from holes dug in the ground reveal the names and notable deeds of those buried here

Fire blooms from grasses bent too quickly, their blades passing one another produce the spark.

A thick, sweet pollen clouds vision and clog up uncovered airways, causing light asphyxia

Baubles or trinkets are grown into tree bark, assumedly pulled up by the capillaries by mistake

Breezes fill in pockets of thick air, erupting when touched, causing a furious blowback

Expansive circles or carefully cut and laid stone course a map to old civilizations

Animal path cuts through a canopy of ever-shrinking oaks. Leaves of the oaks drip a shrinking tonic.

At night, animal sounds are mistaken for mad ramblings, philosophical musings, and arguments

Tapestry of quilted hemp died with shells and treated with aromatic oils blanket the area

Cylinders of colossal, rusting, fallen chimes chamber the only accessible paths through the forest

Pustules on the hillside reveal the mad workings of a unindustrialized colony deep below

Flute sounds emanate from cracks in the stone cliff and stop when the cliff is touched.

Sticks crossing one another reveal the true forest floor -- a barren desert.

Howls and screeches leave the players mouths, their hollow words swallowed up by something high above

Animals will only eat from the hand. Beg players to feed them. Starvation abounds.

Blossoms of a tree paint pictures in the sky as they fall. If shaken, produces a vision of the future

Salt deposits litter the forest floor from red trees puking fresh water over themselves.

Tree roots reach out of the riverbed. Stepping into the river inverts the forest's orientation.

Eels swim through the air, casting crude shadows in the shape of animals once presiding here

Croaking of ghostly frogs echo through the forest. Bumping into one causes it to spew fiery vomit.

Red dust litters the forest floor. When exposed to rain, turns into rivulets of blood.

Tress drink so much light, they are too black to see. Useful light is only produce pointing downward

Bushes restructure the limbs sporadically, limbs fighting over sunlight

Herd beasts chew vegetation growing on their backs, reluctantly move only when aggressively persuaded

Ghosts of a pilgrimage performed time and time again fill the ancient steps of this mountainside

Owls with heads turned in the direction of safety become parts of trees when viewed up close

Distending mosses sprinkle spores onto coats and cloaks, turning fabric slowly to more moss.

Dollops of cream leak from fleshy termite mounds. Animals congregate around, lapping the cream

In a stony nook rests a single hut. In the hut rests a single book, in the book, a single word: Run.

Snot eventually pours from trees periodically sniffling and obviously allergic to visitors

Groups of birds vanish from the sky. Reappear again and vanish again in the same spots.

Magenta plants leave the forest floor a royal, mossy color. Sleeping here feels deep. Forever, even.

Every strike makes a weapon sharper, a bow tighter and a blade swifter until, of course, they shatter.

Trees all appear as doors and are, in fact, door trees. Should probably knock before harvesting.

Animals incessantly beg to be ridden and then race at top speeds until players fail Ride checks.

Wood is lopsided. Limbs slowly move between trees to grasp at the light, feverishly and frightened.

Fetid bog's algae moves like lips, spewing low hums, sharing secrets of the wood's history

Jewelry in scattered piles brighten vision when worn and turn to bloody briars once leaving the area

Short afternoon showers morph brambles into herds, twigs into serpents, and rocks into turtles.

Furs nailed upside down to trees speak quickly hushed warnings of what lies ahead

Single silken bamboo drips milky sap from a cut, trapping all who enter until the cut is mended

Animals stop what they are doing to stare at visitors, moving closer and drop dead when touched

Single-occupancy thatched shelters litter the wood where a single well-dressed skeleton lies face up.

Leaf-vested and well-spoken asks to join visitors. Becomes a dagger in an inventory outside the area

Abandoned wine cave leads down, into a burial tomb filled with statues in the likeness of players

Thrown rocks never hit the ground, loop back around behind players in d10 hours.

All wine taken into the wood is greedily hunted by ever-agitated vines eventually hissing, barking.

Well-kept signs argue in text about which way to go and must be separated before being of any use

Shanty ranch house bigger on the inside is home to giant talking bats drinking blood from pet rats.

Fruit launches from trees instead of falling, is picked off by swift birds with sword-like beaks.

Village performs odd festive rituals to entice visitors to move in; keeps a log of failed rituals.

Meticulously decorated massive nut shells are filled with villager bodies (filled with exotic seeds)

Farmers moving a waterwheel state their river's reversed direction just as the river reverts again.

Baby birds fall from nests left and right, crying for help, they beg, plead. Where are their mothers?

Sign reads Wondrous Shop Right At the Boulder. There is no boulder. There is no shop.

Elk sheds, disembodied, crack and strike one another. Best not get between them.

Rivers of trailers filled with kids teaching kids how to manipulate space without time.

d100 Only in the Wood by shwac

[undertangledboughs]

Lupine: What does your name mean? Why is that your name? \ Larkspur: What do you think of yourself?

Yvet’s answers wouldn’t provide much to work with. I wrote a thing instead. Sorry if it gets a little dark! Despite my dumb anxieties screaming about putting a character’s story on a public medium, I’m going to make myself post this as backstory drabble. Help. Thank you for the ask @s-udarshana

Lupine: What does your name mean?

Children in Yvet’s homeland aren’t properly named until their 8th month, after the moon’s blessing has been given to them by the senior Mender. A pudgy baby with large petal pink eyes and tiny stubby ears fell forward flat on her face instead of choosing one of the objects placed before her. Wailing cries were tended to with soft cooing comforts and the baby was soon laughing again. Most of the ceremony was now finished, and they waited for the last of it with bated breath. The old spirit-hearer smacked her gums and squinted at the babe, waiting for a choice to be made. An arrow, feathered and painted in bright colors was ignored by the child. A crystal tipped branch sparkled in the sun and tempted, but remained unclaimed. A chipped old spear tip from a great ancestor, completely failed to grab her attention. The babe reached out for a flower growing out of the cracks of the treehouse and yanked it free in a fit of giggles, waving it around to the disappointment of the elders surrounding her. The old shaman laughed with the child and named her Fjola, after the Lupin flower crushed between fat fingers.

Larkspur: What do you think of yourself?How many share a similar fate, the trait of the door that must not be unlocked? Those heavy realizations about ourselves that we push to the farthest corner of the mind, oft forgotten with help from ill conceived vices of drink and the flesh, if our strength wanes so thinly. Memories we dare not even share with our dearest loved ones for fear of total rejection, as we reject the self so harshly - perhaps worse even than those who cherish us ever could. Yvet, despite all appearances of demure goodliness and bookish innocence, was no different. We all have our ghosts, adventurers more so.

—

She’d never relished the hunt, or stepped forward to make the final kill - even when it meant the honor of bringing the forest’s bounty home, and highly desired praise from those stoic and strong hunters that strode alongside a rambunctious set of youth, teaching them the ways of the land through grueling training regiments. Yvet, as she was not called in those days, found reasons to stay in the back of the hunting party, and become lost when she was not. She hated the braying cries of the dying beasts and the glassy wide stare they fixed her with, as if accusing her of some wrongdoing. Even if she /were/ fleet of foot and true of aim, she would have liked it no more. 

When the leaflets dropped, a scant number of her kin left the woods, taking the long harrowing path towards the unknown. After that, they weren’t content with drawing small numbers out through intriguing maps and honeyed words - the Rava had something they wanted. The first time it happened, she was held in a rictus of fear as a fully grown man in curious armor roared and charged through the underbrush, weapon lowered and closing in on her. Instincts born from turns of practice swept back in a rush, with hands moving to draw the symbols in the air to make the elements dance, she knocked him backwards off his feet with a blasted gust of wind. He’d fallen hard - winded, ironically. Vjkta’s familiar svelt figure swooped in from the side to slip her spear through a weak point in the man’s armor, but she paused before ending it, meeting gazes with him ere the blade pushed between armored shells. The warrior flexed and yanked her weapon back, tossing a playful grin of shared camaraderie back at Yvet. The young girl trembled with shock, but the older warrior didn’t seem to pay any heed to it.

Left there alone with Vjkta silently slipping away, she heard them move around her - scouting with bird calls and animal sounds thrown back and forth. The mimicry was near perfect, but only just. Her large ears could tell the difference where other’s could not. She knew not what to do. Her mind turned to activity and action where reason and understanding were beyond it’s current ken. Leaving the man untended to felt wrong, it only made the pit in her stomach yawn wider. Giving him Vieran rites was likewise not an option. So the girl created her own ritual to see his spirit safely into the lifesteam, hoping it might forgive her. Hauling rocks large and small to cover his body with took a good part of her day, but the child was determined. It wasn’t enough, and she sent a trickle of encouraging aether into the earth until it responded to her song and a carpet of moss grew over the cairn, making it look like an enchanted hill. Over time, tall blooms of Larkspur popped open and garnished the burial mound, growing in bright azure stalks. And though she was supposed to hate and revile the fallen figure, she couldn’t forget how he’d called out the same word over and over during the last moments of his life - a litany for his god, for someone else?

Years later, after she had matured into adulthood, it wasn’t any easier. Intruders for any reason were not permitted, at the pain of death. This was no idle threat, and remained a warning well known to the outside world. This was the Law, the way to honor her people and keep the old Ways. They were so different from each other, soldiers all; faces of many ages and races felled by her mastery of magics as she aided her sisters. Yvet always tried to be quick about the deed, to make it painless and avoid needless suffering. But her hand oft paused. The ones who’d pleaded and cried, and begged to let them return to a wife or a child especially haunted her. She did what she could to settle debts - taking personal effects and dropping them off at the edge of the wood. Smashed pocket chronometers, lockets with shorn hair, rings, medals, letters unsent; she robbed the dead in an effort to bring closure to anyone that might come searching for them. But Yvet herself was unable to share in any comforting sense of closure afforded to others.

—

A single orange light in the great dark, a single fire in the outer edges of HER forest. The gangly child moved silently through the dense green despite being all knees and elbows and looking anything but graceful. Amber light revealed an old hyur, illuminating all the crags and scars on his weather-worn face. A beast at his side, the likes of which she’d never seen. What were they doing? What did they want? The young viera followed their tracks day to day, seeking answers. Against the rules, she told no one of the outsider. What was he looking for? She had to know. On the third night when she crept close to listen to him sing his strange songs at the crackling fire, she was suddenly yanked bodily up into the air by her ankle.

“What do we have here, Elliot?! FINE RABBIT STEW!” he bellowed, laughter splitting the cold air. The child twisted and swung her body wildly, trying to kick him with her free leg. The huge bear of a man only chuckled as he took her back to the campsite, held aloft and upside down, flailing and screeching about his doom in Vieran. Etgar and Elliot taught her many things in the short time they remained as unknown and unwelcome guests on the edge of the Rava’s domain, but most importantly, they’d taught her not to hate outsiders.