[ In spite of the surging guilt rising steadily as the tide within the whole of his ribcage, there's still no switch to video. Banking that collecting feeling he holds fast on this choice of communication with the perception that he's presently withholding things from Shen Qingqiu (a truth) in so many more ways than the man yet knows. ]
The majority I've seen are Moonblessed. Which makes healing an easier task for the most part.
[ There's a futile attempt at taming that impulse he sees settle over Shen Qingqiu like a visual aura, all set determination that he already knows isn't about to budge. When has it ever?
He knows better than most how Shen Qingqiu is not a man of half-hearted measures, but one who is unrelenting in the face of whatever he's settled is mind on. ]
Even without the use of a sword there's still transportation for tomorrow.
[ He buckles, letting slip the reason why he's stranded instead of swiftly returning to Lunatia in a reverse of the journey Shen Qingqiu now plans.
Leaving both of his weapons behind for a shuttle trip that had barred the open-carry of weapons, had spelled disaster when he had anticipated only smooth sailing and an enjoyable reprieve from Xinmo's influence. Not that distance was any true cure-all for something that powerful, nor his often slighted luck improving in this land.
To be so powerful and yet wind up injured twice has to be something to muse over when he doesn't feel the need to ignore that fact. ]
Shizun. You cannot carry everyone back, even if I know you'll want to.
[ The video shifts because he's already taking to the air, his secondary sword, the only complete one he has, flashing with a light almost as bright and pure as his Xiu Ya. The video flickers off as he turns it to audio only, not wanting to inadvertently cause any motion sickness (silly as it is) as he flies out, passing through the city's protective barrier as easily as air. ]
You have just said there's transportation set for tomorrow. This Shizun won't need to carry everyone back. Just one.
[ Not because he's callous, though he can be at times, usually through oversight. But because as angry as this overall makes him, knowing that somehow, the worst of it has been avoided, and the Moonblessed can heal each other in their unconventional way, doesn't leave him feeling better about Binghe.
His stubborn disciple, his obstinate Binghe, is not so easily given to even doing what he should, and he's great at falling into what he shouldn't, and the truth is, Shen Qingqiu's fucking worried! He's worried! He feels like he's living in a state of worry, alright?! It's really fucking tiring!
Or the flying is, but covering that distance is nothing on a flying sword. He's landing in the small village soon enough, having lapsed into silence and his own thoughts even if he refuses to end the audio feed on his end, subjecting Binghe to the whistling of wind. He stands there in the outskirts of it, and his second sword sheaths at his side with a flick of a hand seal. He strides into the village, casting his eyes around, and demands rather than asks: ]
[ With only the white noise of wind rushing at break-neck speeds to fill in the silence of their call, Binghe's heart sinks ever further where it should rise into an exhilerated flutter.
It isn't that he ever enjoys a reprieve from Shen Qingqiu's company. Every departure from his side is neither comfort or a relief, typically more a gaping void in the nights he spends alone and recalls lying tangled in sheets and nine tails and Shen Qingqiu's arms. Every night alone had only made his mattress too spacious, the covers too cold without shared body heat circulating, and the absence of arms around him like a loss of Binghe's own limbs.
But he's keenly aware that these circumstances are different that the normalcy of their days spent apart for sensible reasons. The crash landing he's gone through bodes results which too closely mirror a bloody demise that he knows, without the need to interrogate his master, left a living scar under his breastbone which haunts him over Binghe's death.
And with his Shizun's arrival, Binghe suspects there's no postponing the inevitable. Of rewinding the clock, revisiting that fateful day with his present wounds, only to undo any progress made in putting such memories behind them.
Had he more time, more chances to passively absorb contact from the few Moonblessed whom he'd helped and in turn asked to hastily bandage wounds upon his chroma-depleted form, all of that could be avoided. But even without Xinmo here to siphon away his chroma quickly as he earns it, the battle before their crash and the escape to survive it has drained him enough that it would likely take a while to platonically recharge. A precious little extra bit of time he apparently no longer has any hope of getting. ]
Shizun, I was wrong. You were right, that I should be more mindful about my levels.
[ Desperate times mean even he isn't above measures of equal desperation, including futile attempts to defuse the situation before it escalates. If he beats Shen Qingqiu to the punch, admits his guilt in how he's ended up by acknowledging his mistakes, his Shizun may not feel the need to point that fact out to him. They can bypass a potentially distressing situation. But only if Shen Qingqiu is satisfied that a lesson has been (finally) learned, with future dangers warded off. But it's just a shot in the dark, without any certainty to work.
He's also dawdling, buying a few moments to consider how long it would take the other man to suss him out and if he can try to heal himself further even if it means a tradeoff of tapping into his already low chroma reserves. ]
I'll admit that. So promise me you won't be angry first, and I'll tell you where I am.
[ He doesn't answer. There's unequal parts of anger and concern and a lingering fear that doesn't shake off, because it can't, anymore than the nightmares have ended. He's walking and silent, letting Binghe speak to an audience of whoever catches the words, because it's not fair, and he refuses to give that ground. He won't promise to be anything less than he is. If that's angry, then that's angry. If it's everything else, then it's also everything else.
This isn't a large village. It's prospering, in recent months practically blossoming, but it's no city, and Binghe is a recogniseable figure even in those city crowds.
Shen Qingqiu doesn't want to put memories of the rooftop of that fucking casino behind him. Not if Binghe hasn't learned one damn thing, if he knows he's neglecting his levels, when he could ask for the simple helps or offer even to carry the injured and spent the time hauling them around gathering chroma from the contact. Where he could clasp hands with those who couldn't fight to help fuel the fact he could, where there are a dozen little things that don't give away the sanctity of himself in order to be a functional fucking person here.
How is he handling Xin Mo, if he is at all, how is he handling his own nature's balance, how is anything stable if he can't even—he doesn't fucking know!
Only that he's angry and scared and fucking concerned, and Binghe was delaying, which heightened each of those emotions.
When he does find Binghe, he's Shen Qingqiu in every sense of the word, expression cold, countenance untouchable, and he's by Luo Binghe's side almost as soon as he lays eyes on him. They don't have anything like teleportation, but they move more than fast enough to be invisible to mortal eyes. ]
You admit your mistake.
[ He says, fingers curling into a fist as leaves his fan tucked into his waistband. His eyes flick over Binghe, cataloguing injuries and bandages, his overall state, before returning to his almost eye-to-eye stare into Binghe's face. ]
Yet you've learned nothing. In how many months, you've chosen to learn nothing.
[ His voice sounds less cold then, more resigned, distressed, and yes, angry, as well as... concerned. Because nothing in how he holds himself now speaks of violence; nothing in how he stands before his disciple, who he'd thought for years would be the end of him in a way far different from the end Shen Qingqiu had found himself facing, speaks of the desire to hurt. ]
We're leaving.
[ He reaches out to capture one of Binghe's hands, his other forming a seal that sends his no-longer-rental-sword flying out of its sheath, hovering steady and silver in light over the ground, ready for them to mount. Shen Qingqiu does so without comment, attempting to tug Binghe along with him, his mind far away from the chaos that had been before this place, trusting that the report of no casualties or soon-to-be-fatal injuries is true enough that people with the right skills and supplies will be better able to help than one fucking Peak Lord of a Scholar's Peak.
Instead, he can get the one fool he cares about most home, and for fucks sake, maybe lecturing him this time will have some effect. Or else he has no idea what the hell he'll do.
It's the same lack of clear path forward that haunts his mind when he orders the sword to fly with a thought, sending them soaring back toward the city that doesn't feel like home, but that is far more hospitable than so much of the rest of this foreign world. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
permavoice
The majority I've seen are Moonblessed. Which makes healing an easier task for the most part.
[ There's a futile attempt at taming that impulse he sees settle over Shen Qingqiu like a visual aura, all set determination that he already knows isn't about to budge. When has it ever?
He knows better than most how Shen Qingqiu is not a man of half-hearted measures, but one who is unrelenting in the face of whatever he's settled is mind on. ]
Even without the use of a sword there's still transportation for tomorrow.
[ He buckles, letting slip the reason why he's stranded instead of swiftly returning to Lunatia in a reverse of the journey Shen Qingqiu now plans.
Leaving both of his weapons behind for a shuttle trip that had barred the open-carry of weapons, had spelled disaster when he had anticipated only smooth sailing and an enjoyable reprieve from Xinmo's influence. Not that distance was any true cure-all for something that powerful, nor his often slighted luck improving in this land.
To be so powerful and yet wind up injured twice has to be something to muse over when he doesn't feel the need to ignore that fact. ]
Shizun. You cannot carry everyone back, even if I know you'll want to.
no subject
[ The video shifts because he's already taking to the air, his secondary sword, the only complete one he has, flashing with a light almost as bright and pure as his Xiu Ya. The video flickers off as he turns it to audio only, not wanting to inadvertently cause any motion sickness (silly as it is) as he flies out, passing through the city's protective barrier as easily as air. ]
You have just said there's transportation set for tomorrow. This Shizun won't need to carry everyone back. Just one.
[ Not because he's callous, though he can be at times, usually through oversight. But because as angry as this overall makes him, knowing that somehow, the worst of it has been avoided, and the Moonblessed can heal each other in their unconventional way, doesn't leave him feeling better about Binghe.
His stubborn disciple, his obstinate Binghe, is not so easily given to even doing what he should, and he's great at falling into what he shouldn't, and the truth is, Shen Qingqiu's fucking worried! He's worried! He feels like he's living in a state of worry, alright?! It's really fucking tiring!
Or the flying is, but covering that distance is nothing on a flying sword. He's landing in the small village soon enough, having lapsed into silence and his own thoughts even if he refuses to end the audio feed on his end, subjecting Binghe to the whistling of wind. He stands there in the outskirts of it, and his second sword sheaths at his side with a flick of a hand seal. He strides into the village, casting his eyes around, and demands rather than asks: ]
Where are you?
no subject
It isn't that he ever enjoys a reprieve from Shen Qingqiu's company. Every departure from his side is neither comfort or a relief, typically more a gaping void in the nights he spends alone and recalls lying tangled in sheets and nine tails and Shen Qingqiu's arms. Every night alone had only made his mattress too spacious, the covers too cold without shared body heat circulating, and the absence of arms around him like a loss of Binghe's own limbs.
But he's keenly aware that these circumstances are different that the normalcy of their days spent apart for sensible reasons. The crash landing he's gone through bodes results which too closely mirror a bloody demise that he knows, without the need to interrogate his master, left a living scar under his breastbone which haunts him over Binghe's death.
And with his Shizun's arrival, Binghe suspects there's no postponing the inevitable. Of rewinding the clock, revisiting that fateful day with his present wounds, only to undo any progress made in putting such memories behind them.
Had he more time, more chances to passively absorb contact from the few Moonblessed whom he'd helped and in turn asked to hastily bandage wounds upon his chroma-depleted form, all of that could be avoided. But even without Xinmo here to siphon away his chroma quickly as he earns it, the battle before their crash and the escape to survive it has drained him enough that it would likely take a while to platonically recharge. A precious little extra bit of time he apparently no longer has any hope of getting. ]
Shizun, I was wrong. You were right, that I should be more mindful about my levels.
[ Desperate times mean even he isn't above measures of equal desperation, including futile attempts to defuse the situation before it escalates. If he beats Shen Qingqiu to the punch, admits his guilt in how he's ended up by acknowledging his mistakes, his Shizun may not feel the need to point that fact out to him. They can bypass a potentially distressing situation. But only if Shen Qingqiu is satisfied that a lesson has been (finally) learned, with future dangers warded off. But it's just a shot in the dark, without any certainty to work.
He's also dawdling, buying a few moments to consider how long it would take the other man to suss him out and if he can try to heal himself further even if it means a tradeoff of tapping into his already low chroma reserves. ]
I'll admit that. So promise me you won't be angry first, and I'll tell you where I am.
no subject
This isn't a large village. It's prospering, in recent months practically blossoming, but it's no city, and Binghe is a recogniseable figure even in those city crowds.
Shen Qingqiu doesn't want to put memories of the rooftop of that fucking casino behind him. Not if Binghe hasn't learned one damn thing, if he knows he's neglecting his levels, when he could ask for the simple helps or offer even to carry the injured and spent the time hauling them around gathering chroma from the contact. Where he could clasp hands with those who couldn't fight to help fuel the fact he could, where there are a dozen little things that don't give away the sanctity of himself in order to be a functional fucking person here.
How is he handling Xin Mo, if he is at all, how is he handling his own nature's balance, how is anything stable if he can't even—he doesn't fucking know!
Only that he's angry and scared and fucking concerned, and Binghe was delaying, which heightened each of those emotions.
When he does find Binghe, he's Shen Qingqiu in every sense of the word, expression cold, countenance untouchable, and he's by Luo Binghe's side almost as soon as he lays eyes on him. They don't have anything like teleportation, but they move more than fast enough to be invisible to mortal eyes. ]
You admit your mistake.
[ He says, fingers curling into a fist as leaves his fan tucked into his waistband. His eyes flick over Binghe, cataloguing injuries and bandages, his overall state, before returning to his almost eye-to-eye stare into Binghe's face. ]
Yet you've learned nothing. In how many months, you've chosen to learn nothing.
[ His voice sounds less cold then, more resigned, distressed, and yes, angry, as well as... concerned. Because nothing in how he holds himself now speaks of violence; nothing in how he stands before his disciple, who he'd thought for years would be the end of him in a way far different from the end Shen Qingqiu had found himself facing, speaks of the desire to hurt. ]
We're leaving.
[ He reaches out to capture one of Binghe's hands, his other forming a seal that sends his no-longer-rental-sword flying out of its sheath, hovering steady and silver in light over the ground, ready for them to mount. Shen Qingqiu does so without comment, attempting to tug Binghe along with him, his mind far away from the chaos that had been before this place, trusting that the report of no casualties or soon-to-be-fatal injuries is true enough that people with the right skills and supplies will be better able to help than one fucking Peak Lord of a Scholar's Peak.
Instead, he can get the one fool he cares about most home, and for fucks sake, maybe lecturing him this time will have some effect. Or else he has no idea what the hell he'll do.
It's the same lack of clear path forward that haunts his mind when he orders the sword to fly with a thought, sending them soaring back toward the city that doesn't feel like home, but that is far more hospitable than so much of the rest of this foreign world. ]