#also we got some rat server content instead of just au content!

[impawsiblecat]

100 Days of Deathduo

Day 10-Rat Server/canon compliant

Flower Language (Four times deathduo sent each other flowers in the mail and the one time they didn't need to)

    Clover passes by the attachment beet root field often while she expands the Wheat. And every time, without fail, it makes her think of Icee. Icee, who isn’t here, who has moved away out of some misguided self sacrifice. She misses them, so much. She could visit, its true, but it wouldn’t be the same, and Icee always seems apprehensive when she comes.

It doesn’t stop her from missing them. Perhaps she could send a letter to the ocean in hopes that it would arrive at Icee, like it has before. 

Her mind made up, Clover pauses the expansion of the field and goes to her basement instead. She sees her chest filled with flowers and greenery on the wall, and it gives her an idea. She sends Icee a letter, while remembering all of the ones she had sent before, and all of the responses she had gotten.. She roots through her garden chest for the perfect flower, pleased when she finds one that will convey her meaning well. Clover tucks a Zinnia into the pages of the letter, and puts it in a waterproof box.

She hopes that the currents find Icee, just as they have before.

Icee worries about Clover, sometimes. She seems lonely, even though Icee is the one in Iceelation, and sometimes there are bags under her eyes, and the letters she sends by ocean sound tired. So yeah, Icee is worried. They left for a reason, and that reason is so that Clover, and everyone else, would be happy and healthy and safe. And Icee can no longer be there to make sure Clover doesn’t get lost in the endless planting.

Icee is too scared to visit, away from the snowy temple she has called her home. She saw what she did to the snow globe, to all of the places she had visited often back home, and she didn’t want that to happen again. But she also doesn’t want Clover to forget to take care of herself, and to overwork herself like she is prone to do.

A care package it is, then. Icee packs a box with some soup, a story they had written, and a letter reminding Clover to take some breaks every once in a while. A bundle of lavender is added after a moment’s consideration. It is sent to Clover sson after, and Icee can only hope that Clover listens to the message conveyed.

   

    Clover notices a box that has washed up onto where the Wheat meets the sea. It isn’t an uncommon thing anymore, seeing a letter, or box filled with the goodies Icee loves giving so much, oftentimes a flower conveying some sort of message Clover needs to look up and deduct the meaning of. What is a surprise is the flower that is included this time, a lily of the valley.

    It is only when she reads the letter that she realizes why Icee sent it to her, and that is because it isn’t meant for her. Icee has requested that Clover put it at the home of Present >3. The date the letter was written on was the day of the anniversary of Icee’s Present >3’s death, no matter if there is a current reincarnation of them somewhere. 

    Clover does as Icee asked, visiting the snowglobe and laying the flowers on the empty bedrock box. She gets some lily of the valleys from her own chest afterwards and places them on her memorial, sitting and thinking of her own guilt and grief.

    Afterwards, she sends Icee a letter back, with a pink carnation. Sometimes it helps, knowing that someone else also shares her grief and guilt, as much as she doesn’t want Icee to feel that at all.

    Today is a day, that is for certain. It’s one of those days where Icee reflects on every single thing she could have done different, one of the days she stews in her past mistakes and regrets. She feels bad for leaving Clover alone, for disappearing with nothing but a hastily written letter. She feels bad for staying as long as she had, long enough to watch as unnatural snow and ice piled up inside Clover’s base. She just feels bad, in general. 

On instinct, they write a letter to Clover, full of apologies and things they wish they could have done differently. They think of Present >3, of the abandoned pizza shop, of an icy skeleton spawner and pets left abandoned in the snow globe. They read the letter before sending it, and then crumple it up and toss it out. Clover doesn’t need to hear those burdens. 

Instead, Icee just sends a few flowers. Yellow tulips, a symbol of their apologies, and a reminder that Icee appreciates Clover. They can only hope that meaning is given to Clover, that she realizes that Icee wishes things could be different.

Ever since Icee has been in regular contact with Clover, they have been running out of gifts to give them. And now Clover is coming over for a rare visit, and they still don’t know what to give. Their diamonds have been depleted, through no fault of their own, mind you. It isn’t their fault that armour trims had come out and Clover didn’t have any. And what else were they supposed to do when she had mentioned needing ores for her projects? So yeah. Icee is out of diamonds. Broke, some might say. It’s fine.

    But it does mean that they do not have anything for Clover. Well. That’s not true. They have deepslate. And stone. And more deepslate. But they have a feeling Clover doesn’t really need that. Icee digs through their enderchest, looking for anything they can give that doesn’t have sentimental value.

    They find a shulker box with flowers in it, leftover from an adventure from days long passed. It is one they have been finding themselves using often, lately. They sort through the flowers, and gasp when they find the one they are looking for. It's perfect. Icee grabs a sunflower, ready for Clover, and they start planning how to sneak it into her inventory, a sign that she is loved and appreciated and cared for. 

    When Clover eventually comes, Icee is overjoyed, and they feel the warmth that comes along with their friend. It eases their loneliness, the visit, and they manage to sneak the flower into Clover’s pocket for her to find later. It is so lovely, being able to give the gift in person, being able to see Clover, and all Icee can think about is how happy they are in this moment.

Zinnias- used for friendship, also used to tell someone that you miss them

Lavender- calming, I used it to mean take care of yourself because i couldnt really find too many alternatives

Lily of the valley- grief, death

pink carnation- depending on the situation this can be to show someone they are loved, or it can be for rememberance. i used both, here. There are other meanings too, but i did not use those ones.

Yellow tulips- used for apologies, can also be use dto convey appreciation. These can also mean positivity and optimism, but I did not use those here.

Sunflowers- cheerfullness, optimism, happiness, friendship

[queenmorgawse]

a story about blood

a small piece about xy and wwx’s relationship in an au in which xy met yunmeng jiang sect quite earlier in his story. written for @baebeyza for the yiling wei server exchange. 

“Get lost, you damn brat!” 

The child scrambles off the road just in time not to get crushed by the next cart, cradling his wounded hand. Whatever reply he had dies in his throat, replaced with white-hot hatred almost too violent for his body to contain. 

When he makes to stand, a purple-clad arm grabs him and pulls him upright. “Hey, you alright?” 

Xue Yang almost spits in the stranger’s face. Who is he, to offer his pity? He didn’t stop Chang Ci’An, or shove his words back down his slimy throat. Everything else is secondary.

The boy in the purple robes doesn’t seem to share his thoughts. Either he’s oblivious to the daggers Xue Yang glares at him, or he simply doesn’t care. When he drags Xue Yang along, he has no choice but to follow. The teenager is bigger and stronger than he is ⎯ though it’s not saying much, given an underfed street rat must weight about as much as a drenched kitten. 

Before he can say anything, he’s sat down at an innkeeper’s table, facing another uniformed boy with a furrow between his brows, and the one who pulled him from the street has taken his maimed hand in his, pulling various bottles of salve from his sleeves.

Xue Yang snatches it back with a hiss. The nails of his good fingers rake across the back of the boy’s hand when he reaches for him, making him recoil in return. “Ow, what the hell?”

“That’ll teach you to pick up strays, Wei Ying,” the other grumbles. Xue Yang dislikes him on sight, with his lordling airs and the haughty purse of his lips. 

His friend - Wei Ying - has already recovered, rubbing at his grazed skin. “Shut up, Jiang Cheng,” he snaps back, though not unkindly. His eyes - gray as storm clouds - drift over to Xue Yang again. “I’m just trying to help, you know? Stop the bleeding.” 

“You’re a cultivator,” is all Xue Yang says. “Like the man in the cart.”

Wei Ying’s face falls. “Oh. Oh, no, I’m not like that.” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Listen, if you don’t want me to touch you, it’s fine, I’ll just hand you the bandages, okay?” 

Xue Yang eyes him warily, then nods toward the steaming bowls set on the table before him. “And I want the soup too.”

Wei Ying throws his head back and laughs. “Okay, okay! Anyone ever told you you drive a hard bargain?” He slides a set of clean linen strips across the table at Xue Yang, who pounces upon them and stuffs most of them into his pockets before setting to wrapping up his still-bleeding hand. It’s a clumsy job, but better that than let some stranger move him around like a straw doll. 

When he’s done, he unceremoniously grabs one of the bowls and all but dumps the contents down his throat. The soup burns his palate, but when the hunger that’s been hounding him around starts to wane, it’s more than worth it. 

Wei Ying and Jiang Cheng watch him eat, one with bright-eyed fondness and the other with mild indifference. 

“What do you want?” he asks when he’s done eating. It’s simple enough : in his life, no one has ever given something without asking for a favor in return. Though he fails to see what he could give some pampered young masters in exchange for his care, he has no doubt they have some ideas.

“Your name, first.”

“Xue Yang.” So he thinks, anyway. Whoever his mother was barely lived long enough for him to remember the sound of his own name in her voice. 

Here comes the real demand, then. He tenses, bracing himself for some other thankless task, maybe even money.

Instead, Wei Ying leans forward, drumming his fingers on the table. Jiang Cheng opens his mouth as if to try and stop him, then seems to think better of it and closes it, staring off to the side with a sullen look. “We saw you fight earlier. You don’t have technique, but you’re pretty fast on your feet, right? Xue Yang, have you ever been to Yunmeng?” 

-

Yunmeng is unlike anything Xue Yang has ever seen. The people there never sneer at him or kick him around, though that might be due to the new set of purple robes Wei Ying clumsily ties him into upon arrival. 

They're the nicest clothes Xue Yang has ever owned, though he gets blood on them less than a week later, viciously knocking the teeth of a too-touchy disciple with his wooden sword during training. Wei Ying has to wrestle him away by the neck of his clothes, loudly apologizing all the while. 

After, as he sullenly nurses the bruised cheek his opponent left him right after he got his hit in, Wei Ying and Jiang Cheng's shijie ( she's your shijie, too, Wei Ying told him solemnly, so you take care of her ) sits him down and serves him freshly steamed buns and a bowl of pork ribs and lotus soup.

Xue Yang doesn't dislike Jiang Yanli. She doesn't look like much, but he can tell being mean to her is not a wise choice – not only because he's been here long enough for him to notice her brothers glaring daggers at anyone foolish enough to be even mildly rude to her, but also because he might actually feel bad if she gets that disappointed look about her again. 

“You've got to get a hold of yourself, A-Yang,” she chides gently as she ladles another serving into his bowl. “One day, it'll have worse consequences than a bruised ego.”

“So what do I do?” He peers at her defiantly from behind his mop of dark hair. “Let people...do whatever they want? Like I'm small and–” Weak. Too weak to afford not being the first one to strike.

Jiang Yanli smiles a small, sad smile, and reaches to pat his head. She stops just short of touching his hair, her gaze interrogative. 

Xue Yang huffs and doesn't duck away. 

“It's alright, A-Yang.” Her voice is so soft, full of pity. Her hand is warm where it lays on top of his head. “You don't need to be strong all the time anymore. We'll be here to protect you.” 

He wants her to shut up. He wants her to never stop talking again. 

-

Jiang Yanli is a liar, Xue Yang thinks, as the Lotus Pier comes crashing down around him. Her words ring in his ears as he crawls through the smoke, close to coughing his lungs out, the only thing holding him back the looming presence of Wen troops among the ruins. 

It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that she isn't here, or that Wei Ying and Jiang Cheng's fates are uncertain, or that the people he reluctantly started calling his martial brothers and sisters lay in pools of their own blood around him. The other shoe had to drop eventually. 

Not all of the cultivators involved in the massacre of the Lotus Pier die at the Yiling Patriarch's hands. Some breathe their last in the dark, as a sword called Jiangzai carves their flesh off their bones, piece by piece.

Wei Ying finds him again, a handful of months later. There is little left of Yunmeng in him, save for the silver bell he tied to Jiangzai's hilt in a fit of sentimentality. 

“You’ve been busy,” his shixiong remarks. When his eyes sweep over the scene - gore strewn across the floor, the white of Wen robes almost entirely overtaken by grime -, his eyes glow red as coals.

Xue Yang shrugs. “No more than you have, apparently.” His sleeves are meticulously clean, though his boots have been steeped in blood for longer than he cares to count. Jiang Yanli would point out the change in him, the cruel edge he always carried with him sharpened to a fine point.  

Then again, Wei Ying - Wei Wuxian, really, as few dare call him by his birth name now - is not the way he used to be either. Something about him reminds Xue Yang of a corpse risen from the grave, no longer afraid to die, inevitable.

He doesn't flinch when he looks down at the corpse Xue Yang made. It barely resembles a man anymore : lingchi has made a puddle of flesh out of him, white bones peeking out of the crimson wreck. 

“I’m surprised no one’s come after you yet. Does everyone approve of your methods?” Even as Wei Wuxian speaks, he sounds like he already knows what answer to expect.

“Am I supposed to care whether they do?” Their home didn’t burn, as far as Xue Yang’s concerned. Well, the Cloud Recesses did, but he’s never known the Lans to be the vengeful type.

Wei Wuxian breaks into a grin. It should have been familiar, as the same lopsided smile he sported whenever his kite flew higher than any of the other disciples or when he pulled one of them into the lake by their ankles, but it is frightening now.

At least, Xue Yang imagines it should be. In it, he can only find a mirror of his own. 

“Anyway,” Wei Wuxian continues with a tilt of his head towards the corpses at their feet, “I came to take care of these, but it looks like you’ve got everything handled.”

“I want to come with you.” The words slip past his lips before he can think them through. “That’s not all of them. Wen Chao’s not dead yet.” 

Hatred stays with you, he realizes. After so many years without truly feeling it, Xue Yang finds that he hasn’t forgotten its taste.

For the first time since the beginning of their talk, Wei Wuxian seems to waver. “Are you sure?” His gaze takes on a wistful tinge, like the words in his mouth aren’t his own. “Whatever happens, no one will ever look at you the same. You’ll be walking the single-plank bridge with me.” 

The implication hangs in the air between them : one stumble, and he will fall. And, of course, there will be no turning back from this.

“You think I don’t know that?” Xue Yang crosses his arms, chin raised, defiant. “I’ve already gone this far anyway. If you can do it, I can do it.” 

Something tugs at the corners of Wei Wuxian’s lips, almost like a smile. 

-

“Eat or I’ll pour it down your throat myself.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Wen Qing.” Still, Wei Wuxian reaches for the bowl. Up close, Xue Yang can see what the man himself is refusing to admit : that he’s grown thinner and gaunter with every passing day, crumbling into a shell of himself. 

Taking advantage of Wei Wuxian’s distraction, Xue Yang skirts around him and snatches up a page of his notes. It’s covered in scrambly handwriting, as if jotted down in a hurry, but he’s had enough practice by now to decipher the bare bones of it. 

“What’s a…” He squints. “...Stygian Tiger Seal?”

Weu Wuxian whirls towards him, wild-eyed. “Put it back!” 

Xue Yang raises his hands, cocking an eyebrow at the other. “Not until you tell me what it does.”

For a moment, he thinks Wei Wuxian might actually strike him. He draws himself up to his full height, resentful energy gathering around him quiet as thunder ⎯ and then the fight goes out of him, and he slumps onto the slab of stone he calls a chair again. “It’s supposed to help me,” he explains, running a hand through his soot-stained hair. “It should control the corpses better than I do on my own, like a catalyst.” 

Xue Yang considers the notes with newfound interest. “It could change everything.”

“If I manage to do it,” Wei Wuxian points out. “And if I do, you’ll have to keep it to yourself.” At the lack of change in Xue Yang’s expression, he adds, “I mean it. In the wrong hands, it’ll be carnage.”

And what do you plan to bring with it, if not carnage? 

He can see, though, that Wei Wuxian will not answer him. The Yiling Patriarch is already lost in thoughts again, half-emptied bowl abandoned on the side as he grabs a stick of charcoal and starts to sketch, muttering something about swords and giant tortoises.

For lack of something better to do, Xue Yang gathers a few more scrolls from under his nose, settles into one of of cave’s corners and starts to read.

-

For better or for worse, Wei Wuxian’s prediction comes true. When, under the cover of night, Xue Yang comes to see the remnants of Nightless City, he can find no other word to describe the scene but carnage. 

-

On the last day of autumn, a young man boldly strolls into the Unclean Realm. The cultivators who first run into him will remember him grinning even as his throat bobbed against a saber’s blade, upper lip pulling up over little sharp teeth, until the Sect Leader steps in to break off the fight and announce - to everybody's surprise - he will receive his honored guest in his own desk.

“That artefact you mentioned...” Nie Huaisang starts, snapping his fan shut once the door closes behind them. For a moment, two beasts seize each other up, black against gold. “Do you have it?” 

“I thought your being daft was only a facade, Headshaker,” the other snaps back. Still, he reaches into his sleeve. Nie Huaisang’s gaze follows his hand as it draws out a slab of stone shaped like a tiger’s head, crude in design yet unmistakable. 

Half of the Stygian Tiger Seal dangles from the young man’s hand. Nie Huaisang has had the occasion to see the original once - granted, from a distance, and not for very long -, but he can tell that though this is a an attempt to recreate Wei Wuxian’s invention, it’s a skilled one. “It’s rather pretty, but does it work?”

His interlocutor shrugs. “You don’t have the other half, do you? I thought you’d have it ready, since you were only in the market for half of it.”

“I will procure it,” he says, perhaps a little more forcefully than he meant to. “In the meantime…”

Nie Huaisang considers the missing half, his eyes heavy-lidded. When he looks up, his gaze has taken on a sharper glint. “It seems we’ve got ourselves a deal, young master Xue.”