[Pray, hope, and don't worry—unless one is standing by the well when a blade comes hurtling out of it; in which case, do worry. Whether the blade strikes the ground or the foot of an unfortunate veteran hoping to help a newcomer, Somnus appears in a flash of blue sparks, connected to the weapon by his grip on its hilt.
A flattened white anemone rests in his other palm. Unsheathing the blade from where it has seated itself, he addresses the nearest passerby:]
Hail, stranger.
B. Your god is in another church
[The letter bids him to head for Bluo, and he intends to go there. Once he makes it to the house, he's out and about within the hour. The church, with its dichotomy of repairs against the parts of it in disrepair, draws his footsteps.
There he sits on the frontmost pew, where he looks down at his upturned hand. The same flower from before is even more crumpled now, unsightly for something of its nature. A thought nags at him and he wonders how the idea came to him in the first place: pass the flower on to wash his hands of its insipid aroma. What does that mean for the one receiving it?]
Pretty words truly are precious.
[Even alone, the insincerity shreds his true words. Or perhaps he's not alone.]
Bluo. Closed to Lan SiZhui.
[By the time Lan SiZhui swings around, Somnus has come and gone, then come back again to settle in the living area. When his gaze falls on the youth, he pauses first.
no subject
[Pray, hope, and don't worry—unless one is standing by the well when a blade comes hurtling out of it; in which case, do worry. Whether the blade strikes the ground or the foot of an unfortunate veteran hoping to help a newcomer, Somnus appears in a flash of blue sparks, connected to the weapon by his grip on its hilt.
A flattened white anemone rests in his other palm. Unsheathing the blade from where it has seated itself, he addresses the nearest passerby:]
Hail, stranger.
B. Your god is in another church
[The letter bids him to head for Bluo, and he intends to go there. Once he makes it to the house, he's out and about within the hour. The church, with its dichotomy of repairs against the parts of it in disrepair, draws his footsteps.
There he sits on the frontmost pew, where he looks down at his upturned hand. The same flower from before is even more crumpled now, unsightly for something of its nature. A thought nags at him and he wonders how the idea came to him in the first place: pass the flower on to wash his hands of its insipid aroma. What does that mean for the one receiving it?]
Pretty words truly are precious.
[Even alone, the insincerity shreds his true words. Or perhaps he's not alone.]
Bluo. Closed to Lan SiZhui.
[By the time Lan SiZhui swings around, Somnus has come and gone, then come back again to settle in the living area. When his gaze falls on the youth, he pauses first.
He needs to watch himself.]
You must have received the selfsame letter.