[ the umbrella is laid tenderly in his hands, broken and battered by weather and struggle and Xie Bi'an's nervous, grief-stricken hands. he holds it to his eye level for a moment, studious and confident in his observations. Wen Ning, his tender-hearted friend, moves back in time with Wei Wuxian as he steps to the back of the standing corpse. The body of Xie Bi'an's handsome friend had been twisted in death, waterlogged and ill-cared for by those who had sought to bury him quickly, to hide the truth of his manner of death with water and sloppily-applied rouge.
behind Fan Wujiu, listening to Xie Bi'an's soft pleas and apologies, he presses the flat of his hand to the broken umbrella; red, electric-hot energy gathers in his palm and sparks forth from his eyes. a delicate, sinister glow that heralds his particular branch of cultivation. as he draws his hand upwards and the umbrella downwards, he draws the glow of a soul from it. the tendrils of sticky soul cling to the umbrella, reluctant to part with the last place that it could be safe, be found by its dearest companion, be left alone in his hands. in one sweep, he feels the echoes of Fan Wujiu's thoughts and emotions towards the one standing in front of his corpse.
he cups the soul in his hand, passing the umbrella into Wen Ning's awaiting arms and presses it between his palms ( nobody but he is aware that souls have the consistency of bao ) before he cups it, red light sparking frightful and sickly from the outer corners of his eyes as he feeds it slowly into the root of Fan Wujiu's spine. silently, he watches it sink in, watches it sit at the surface of his body - before it begins to spread and return to the deceased limbs.
with a finger held to his lips, he peers over Fan Wujiu's shoulder - he'll be silent now, standing at the ready with Wen Ning in case Fan Wujiu's first instinct is to lash out. it usually is, the dead he resurrects haven't normally died a peaceful death. ]
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behind Fan Wujiu, listening to Xie Bi'an's soft pleas and apologies, he presses the flat of his hand to the broken umbrella; red, electric-hot energy gathers in his palm and sparks forth from his eyes. a delicate, sinister glow that heralds his particular branch of cultivation. as he draws his hand upwards and the umbrella downwards, he draws the glow of a soul from it. the tendrils of sticky soul cling to the umbrella, reluctant to part with the last place that it could be safe, be found by its dearest companion, be left alone in his hands. in one sweep, he feels the echoes of Fan Wujiu's thoughts and emotions towards the one standing in front of his corpse.
he cups the soul in his hand, passing the umbrella into Wen Ning's awaiting arms and presses it between his palms ( nobody but he is aware that souls have the consistency of bao ) before he cups it, red light sparking frightful and sickly from the outer corners of his eyes as he feeds it slowly into the root of Fan Wujiu's spine. silently, he watches it sink in, watches it sit at the surface of his body - before it begins to spread and return to the deceased limbs.
with a finger held to his lips, he peers over Fan Wujiu's shoulder - he'll be silent now, standing at the ready with Wen Ning in case Fan Wujiu's first instinct is to lash out. it usually is, the dead he resurrects haven't normally died a peaceful death. ]