Oh. This is... this is not ideal. Especially when he's as drunk as he is.
He didn't bring any talismans along, and he could smack himself for it -- he brought his flute but no talismans? For all he knew, London Above could have been be just as barren of resentful energy as the inn, and yet he brought his flute? And if he can write a decent spell in midair when he can hardly stay upright, it'll be a miracle.
There's still the knife. Ingress said she had one, too. He's trying to bring all his scattered concentration to bear, as if he could sober up by force of will alone.
And as he does, the back of his neck prickles as if in a sudden chill.
He can sense it. The house they passed -- he thought he'd felt something, a little whisper of darkness reaching out for him, but he'd flicked it aside with a laugh and continued on. Now that he's reaching out in kind, though, it brushes its fingertips over him again, more insistently.
There was death here. Not just death: desecration. Bodies dug unceremoniously from their resting places by thieves looking for coin, brought to a man who cut them apart to learn their secrets. They still cling to its walls centuries later.
And they are angry.
Wei Wuxian smiles. Carefully, he lets go of Ingress and takes a step back. His hand dips into the satchel and comes out with his flute.
"Still laughing, eh?" sneers the teenager. His eyes flick to the flute, dismiss it as a poorly improvised weapon, and go back to Wei Wuxian's face. "Won't be for much longer, shithead."
It's probably going to be the worst music he's ever played. But he has enough muscle memory, and if he digs his fingers into his last tiny sliver of sobriety and holds tight for just a few minutes...
He sounds the flute. Instantly, it reverberates with an unearthly hum as the resentful energy leaps from the building, eager as a pack of wolves unleashed on flock of sheep. He pulls it around himself in a thick swirl of black and thinks of every terrible rumor of the Yiling Patriarch ever shared; every tale of the monster who consorted with demons and slaughtered the innocent. He sculpts the energy as if it were clay until it looms as huge and dark as a nightmare, stirring his hair, his eyes fixed on the gang the whole time.
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He didn't bring any talismans along, and he could smack himself for it -- he brought his flute but no talismans? For all he knew, London Above could have been be just as barren of resentful energy as the inn, and yet he brought his flute? And if he can write a decent spell in midair when he can hardly stay upright, it'll be a miracle.
There's still the knife. Ingress said she had one, too. He's trying to bring all his scattered concentration to bear, as if he could sober up by force of will alone.
And as he does, the back of his neck prickles as if in a sudden chill.
He can sense it. The house they passed -- he thought he'd felt something, a little whisper of darkness reaching out for him, but he'd flicked it aside with a laugh and continued on. Now that he's reaching out in kind, though, it brushes its fingertips over him again, more insistently.
There was death here. Not just death: desecration. Bodies dug unceremoniously from their resting places by thieves looking for coin, brought to a man who cut them apart to learn their secrets. They still cling to its walls centuries later.
And they are angry.
Wei Wuxian smiles. Carefully, he lets go of Ingress and takes a step back. His hand dips into the satchel and comes out with his flute.
"Still laughing, eh?" sneers the teenager. His eyes flick to the flute, dismiss it as a poorly improvised weapon, and go back to Wei Wuxian's face. "Won't be for much longer, shithead."
It's probably going to be the worst music he's ever played. But he has enough muscle memory, and if he digs his fingers into his last tiny sliver of sobriety and holds tight for just a few minutes...
He sounds the flute. Instantly, it reverberates with an unearthly hum as the resentful energy leaps from the building, eager as a pack of wolves unleashed on flock of sheep. He pulls it around himself in a thick swirl of black and thinks of every terrible rumor of the Yiling Patriarch ever shared; every tale of the monster who consorted with demons and slaughtered the innocent. He sculpts the energy as if it were clay until it looms as huge and dark as a nightmare, stirring his hair, his eyes fixed on the gang the whole time.
Come and fight, it says. I will annihilate you.