un: absterge | video

[downswing]

( Dark and damp and Lan Wangji's pallor strained under moonlight. Behind him, flickers of broad, long temple columns — and the smoke smears of... ghosts, gathered. He seems short of breath, the silvered sheen of his sword half drawn from her scabbard, a spate of parchment papers littering the walls: active talismans. )

They have crowded their halls of the dead, to excess.

Here, the key withholds itself. Who hunts the other locations?

( And a pause, hesitant — whether to find his words or, absently, slap another talisman on the spirit that looms with a gaping maw behind him. ) Ke-Waihu stands safe?

( ooc: forwarded dated to the group's incursions in Ke-Waicai. Feel free to run into him in person, if you're also chasing the haunted temple key! )

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[cairhien]

We know it is here.

( it's what they've been told and whilst she doesn't say that we can be certain of it's certainly implied )

And we will search. I've had more difficult tasks before.

[downswing]

( And he, but to raise the dead now would seem the lesser task. The temple's eye has barely open. There is, in the thick wet of it, a strain, as if whatever magic sleeps here will not linger long dormant.

He intends to be well rid of the ground, like a visiting headache. Turns, and stare long, eyes owlish-sweet — )

A needle among grains. ( The dissatisfying conclusion, with his compliments. The night is still young, new in her fetters. If his hand did not twitch on the silvered tear of his sword, perhaps he could hope to encounter what they seek.

If he were given to softer arts, to diplomacy — )

We may splinter paths. ( Divide, conquer. And yet, in the dark... ) Or inquire with the dead.

[cairhien]

I'd prefer not to separate.

( they could, it may be fine, but it's a different thing separating on a path with someone you're bonded to compared to a companion you're not. she cares for his safety )

The dead may have little to offer us.

[downswing]

Perhaps.

( But there's an easing to the corner of his mouth, mellowed and warm, glimmer of tenuous expectation.

His hand lingers over wafts of cold air, fingers drummed and dancing between wisps of power that can comingle, converge, coagulate. He does not summon, not yet, not absent Moiraine to watch over him.

His back is cool, licked by tongues of terror. His scars could weep for it. He does not underestimate threats unseen. )

Defend the perimeter. I may ask.

[cairhien]

What will happen?

( she expands her weaves, adding more in, the ball of light floating higher above them as her hands come together to form a barrier around them, blocking anything external, anything physical from actually touching them.

they don't need to be attacked whilst they're vulnerable )

[downswing]

( At first, nothing.

Then, bite of teeth grazing, the great wild maw of power, when the pass of his hand summons the wide white expanse of his guqin — each of the instrument's strings in acute, shrill resonance with the wagging tongues of dead things, wandered.

He plays, perfunctorily, obediently. It comes off, less a tune than a strident confluence of sound, meandering between sacred embellishments and the gossamer of syntax. There is an edge to musical sorcery that hints blasphemy. A savagery, where the dead are both coaxed and compelled.

They speak back in hundred-tongues, some unheard, some returning the sounds of his play. To translate their micro-aggressions is the gift of the interpreter, the sophisticated practitioner — more so when the spirits retaliate without a firm knowing or disposition for formalised sound. It is at times, no different than two bordering nations, speaking each other's tongues: words are shared, meanings hold elusive.

He plays. Narrows his eyes, tempers his hand — until, walk of his hand again, the guqin dissolves like smudge and smoke. Strain turns each breath rasped after. Euphoric. )

They are too ruptured. Absent... awareness. Many too ancient to recall their names, their bodies. No matter our question.

[cairhien]

( she listens to the whispers, feels them there but can't tell what they say, what they want. but he can and that's a strange beauty, for a man to have a gift that isn't cursed, to trust it.

but he isn't of her world and this, what he can do is usual for them, is usual in his world.

so she waits, keeping cautious eyes around, waiting for him to tell her something )

Is there anything that they do remember?