He may not receive answers for words, but for this time, he receives an answer by his idea: a warmth under his palms. Once. Twice. Then gently, or just tiredly, is shared another feeling in his mind: something trying to seep in, to confuse, to rattle minds. Thrashing, trying to consume.
A memory, one that eases way, and a small beat of gratitude is given before apology. A memory; it's easier to recall than to formulate impressions, and that's what the statue does: it shows to Wei Wuxian a memory, one that can't weave and imitate his energy as it would prefer, but still, it does its best to polish it.
So there's a discomfort, a shudder to go through his body, like a force attempting to take a seat in place of where Wei Wuxian's existence sits, cramped in a tight space.
But for it:
The land awakens its eyes, the span of its vision entirety, everywhere. Enshala has called from the South. Danger, watch out. A red sky, coming with the wings of many, carrying this new sky with them. You attempt to grant Enshala power, but the connection snaps.
Mamali, Omerka. You try to call them. Inji, Rosha. You call, but the East does not reply. You know the storm is coming for you, and there is panic in your heart. But you must not waver. This is your home. You must protect it, you must warn your heart to the West.
Shrinlo, you call out, linked to the heart amongst the trees of steel, mountains of stone. Shrinlo, call the people. Watch out. Beware. Danger. You cannot linger for details you do not know, cutting the communication, gathering yourself.
The red storm draws nearer, and before it even reaches, you feel its tendrils. Claws, attempting to dig in.
You will not let it. You will fight back.
The imagery dies away, fading to the darkness of one's mind usually is. The whisper of an apology left with it. Even with the energy given, there is the weariness, a struggle remembered in the memories, an exhaustion attempted to keep down.
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A memory, one that eases way, and a small beat of gratitude is given before apology. A memory; it's easier to recall than to formulate impressions, and that's what the statue does: it shows to Wei Wuxian a memory, one that can't weave and imitate his energy as it would prefer, but still, it does its best to polish it.
So there's a discomfort, a shudder to go through his body, like a force attempting to take a seat in place of where Wei Wuxian's existence sits, cramped in a tight space.
But for it:
The land awakens its eyes, the span of its vision entirety, everywhere. Enshala has called from the South. Danger, watch out. A red sky, coming with the wings of many, carrying this new sky with them. You attempt to grant Enshala power, but the connection snaps.
Mamali, Omerka. You try to call them. Inji, Rosha. You call, but the East does not reply. You know the storm is coming for you, and there is panic in your heart. But you must not waver. This is your home. You must protect it, you must warn your heart to the West.
Shrinlo, you call out, linked to the heart amongst the trees of steel, mountains of stone. Shrinlo, call the people. Watch out. Beware. Danger. You cannot linger for details you do not know, cutting the communication, gathering yourself.
The red storm draws nearer, and before it even reaches, you feel its tendrils. Claws, attempting to dig in.
You will not let it. You will fight back.
The imagery dies away, fading to the darkness of one's mind usually is. The whisper of an apology left with it. Even with the energy given, there is the weariness, a struggle remembered in the memories, an exhaustion attempted to keep down.