Well, then clearly he's passed out often enough to be able to speak definitively on the subject, and besides, now it's a matter of honor, or something. He still doesn't need to be told even once to sit down, however, much less twice; very privately he will allow it's probably a good call, and his consciousness may not be fleeing but it's definitely hedging its bets and cataloguing the exits. No amount of sulking can entirely camouflage how getting off his feet was less a choice and more a compromise, or how deliberate the act of focusing has become, as he sits with his arms braced at his sides and his eyes pinning nothing to the floor. This isn't his first run-in with unexpected consequences of being reduced to a powerless state, but it's souring into one of the worse ones very determinedly. He barely even cares that he's been mocked about ghosts by Li Lianhua, who again has no right to be standing on that high ground, however it's meant.
Though the rest of the words serve their presumably intended purpose of luring him out of a kind of encroaching mental greyness, even if it's only for a round of beleaguered staring at the terrible man who is texting through his tribulation. Not incomprehension, but definitely a little bleary to be being asked for such a report. Di Feisheng would not have said there were ghosts if it were similar circumstances to the last "ghosts" they encountered, so he's not sure it matters as much as it usually would, what numbers they have and from which traditions they hail. But he will answer nonetheless, with a bit more vitality than he's got for the process of disrobing. It should feel like going the wrong way to lose any layers while this cold, but it mostly just feels difficult, or doesn't feel at all, which is worse.
"Two, maybe three, if it was even the same ones. They could nearly disappear," because they were snow spirits, and not just people taking advantage of poor visibility conditions, is how he would like to continue this briefing, but he's reached a point in his sluggish compliance that calls for first concentration and then dismay. The familiar discomfort of peeling fabric away from a wound is deceptively absent and then shockingly present in a way that strikes him even paler, too late to avoid. It hadn't been easy to see--still isn't, really, not the way any twisting to try and look sounds a warning--but a new consideration is taking shape nonetheless. "...The blades might be poisoned."
no subject
Date: 2024-01-20 05:12 pm (UTC)Though the rest of the words serve their presumably intended purpose of luring him out of a kind of encroaching mental greyness, even if it's only for a round of beleaguered staring at the terrible man who is texting through his tribulation. Not incomprehension, but definitely a little bleary to be being asked for such a report. Di Feisheng would not have said there were ghosts if it were similar circumstances to the last "ghosts" they encountered, so he's not sure it matters as much as it usually would, what numbers they have and from which traditions they hail. But he will answer nonetheless, with a bit more vitality than he's got for the process of disrobing. It should feel like going the wrong way to lose any layers while this cold, but it mostly just feels difficult, or doesn't feel at all, which is worse.
"Two, maybe three, if it was even the same ones. They could nearly disappear," because they were snow spirits, and not just people taking advantage of poor visibility conditions, is how he would like to continue this briefing, but he's reached a point in his sluggish compliance that calls for first concentration and then dismay. The familiar discomfort of peeling fabric away from a wound is deceptively absent and then shockingly present in a way that strikes him even paler, too late to avoid. It hadn't been easy to see--still isn't, really, not the way any twisting to try and look sounds a warning--but a new consideration is taking shape nonetheless. "...The blades might be poisoned."