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Owner	Pose
Chuyao He	Carrier pigeons find their way to both Wrath and Lilian, each with a little clasp around one leg. The trained birds approach calmly, inviting both recipients to undo the clasps before fluttering off. Inside, there are rolled strips of paper, each containing a similar message from Chuyao.      'I have secured a meeting. Please meet me at the warpgate in Lin'an City at your convenience, and be ready for a carriage ride. From Lin'an to our destination is a journey of just over a day.'     The message is short and hardly does service to the region or the city, dreamlike in its beauty. Surrounded on three sides by mountains and nestled against the broad and majestic Yangtze river to boot, Lin'an is wreathed in etheral, gossamer mist from above, shot through by the sun in a stunning fashion. High emerald hills covered in trees flank the city like sleeping guardians, while massive tamped earth and stone walls form another layer of defense. Built into the foot of one such grand hill, presiding over the city, is what must assuredly be the imperial palace of the Song emperor. The palace is like a microcosm of the city itself; save the absence of a bay, it seems to have a carefully cultivated mix of natural and manmade features, crowned in a misty wreath.     Towers along the walls and the masts of visiting trade ships alike occasionally poke over the glazed tile roofs of the city's many buildings. People, drawn carts and carriages alike teem through the neatly paved streets, shaded on either side by the curved roofs of buildings or the boughs of strategically planted trees. A lake to the west of the city reflects the radiant sun on placid waters, shot through with two causeways leading into and out of Lin'an. Pagodas, shrines and natural beauty dot the western shores of this lake. Bridges large and small are a common sight; two are visible from the warpgate alone.     The warpgate, then, is a pair of Zhejiang maple trees with smooth, dark grey bark. Their many slender branches intertwine to form a natural, shaded arch with a thick canopy of three-lobed leaves. This gate is located just outside the city's main gate, affording a view of a main thoroughfare. As with Longqing Town, guards are nearby, but whatever governor is in charge of the city only seems concerned with taking names down for anyone who intends to enter the city. Accordingly, they are posted at the manmade gate, rather than the warpgate proper. You are therefore both free to meet Chuyao, who waits near a stable where several horse-drawn carriages also wait.     "Dame Commander, brother Wrath," Chuyao smiles, offering each a fist-in-palm greeting and slight bow. "This humble scholar is pleased you could make it. I have already settled my lodgings with the stable keeper. The coachman will take us as soon as you are ready."
Chuyao He	Although he'd been light on details in his letters, and at the gate of Lin'an City, the carriage ride offers more privacy. Even if the coachman could hear the discussion, he knows where everyone is going already. Paved roads give way in places to dirt roads. The countryside is sweltering, just as in Lin'an, but the even beats of Two Rivers keeps air circulating in the carriage, allowing its occupants to mostly focus on conversation or the scenery as it passes by the windows.     "Hundreds of years before our state of Song," explains Chuyao, glancing out the window as the sun creeps past its zenith and into its descent, "There existed here a state known as Wu. It came to pass that King Helü of Wu became aware of the famous swordsmith couple, Gan Jiang and Mo Ye, for they were known across the Central State." The carriage trundles peacefully down a dirt road; Lin'an grows smaller and smaller behind you, as do its vast hills (mountains, some might call them; the size is enough to invite debate).     "The king demanded that they forge him a pair of special swords in three months' time. For such a request, they determined that mountain air would be best, for there would be less wood energy present to restrain the metal as they worked it." Terraced hills worked by suntanned farmers slowly crawl across the windows. "However, this came with its own challenges; when they built their blast furnace, they found the air too thin to fire it as they were used to."     "Mo Ye deduced that this difficulty could be overcome with human qi," Chuyao continues, still diligently fanning to help the carriage overcome the sweltering late summer heat. "Some tellings of the story say that she offered herself as fuel to save her husband; others say that the children of the surrounding villages, or their own child, blew into it while she and Gan Jiang tossed their cut hair and fingernails into the furnace."     "Where the story does not differ is that the Wu emperor did not understand what he was asking; a one-of-a-kind masterwork meant for the hand of an emperor cannot be made in three months; certainly not by smiths as devoted to their work as Mo Ye and Gan Jiang, and certainly not *two*." The terraced rice paddies give way to pockets of thick forest; waning sunlight streams through canopy like grasping fingers. "Nevertheless, when Gan Jiang returned to present the masculine sword after three *years*, the king was furious and had him executed. Gan Jiang imagined this would be the case. Having left the female sword with Mo Ye or their son, depending on the recounting, Gan Jiang was ultimately avenged, and the Wu king lost his head to the very sword he commissioned."     "The Langya Sword Pavilion was built on the very same mountain, named Mount Mogan after the two smiths, in the infancy of our state of Song some two hundred years ago. It is therefore the oldest of the major schools, having lasted so long even into this time of tumult due to its abstinence from politics--for the most part, at least--and its remote location."     "The Pavilion does not give out their works to just anyone, you see. Like you, brother Wrath, they are under no illusion as to the purpose of weapons, and know that they, as weaponsmiths, share responsibility for what is done with their work. Therein lies the personal risk I mentioned. Perhaps its first master chose the location of the school as much to learn from Gan Jiang and Mo Ye's ultimate fate as from their legacy as craftsmen; suffice it to say its adherents are honed to be as formidable in battle as they are at the forge. If they do not believe me worthy to wield Two Rivers, they will want it back, and they are capable of forcing the issue."
Lilian Rook	Carrier pigeon! Lilian has always wanted to receive one of these, just a little! She doesn't really know how it got to her, but it probably has something to do with martial arts! Gosh she hopes the travel time is a day round trip though. The idea of sitting in a carriage for twenty-four hours sounds like a nightmare. Or maybe 'a day's travel' means eight hours?     For the sake of halfway fitting in, as is often one of her many habitual-yet-on-purpose halfways, Lilian has fondly selected the red and white outfit Tamamo sewed for her what feels like an epoch ago, very vaguely classifiable as 'action miko' when divested of any specific shinto ornament once used for a cover identity. The fact that it has become slightly outdated in its measurements in certain places over the years since doesn't seem to be able to dissuade her from wearing the most authentic thing she can get on short notice. If it is anyone's problem, it is Wrath's, not hers.     Chuyao talking about 'male and female swords' is kind of her problem, though, in a 'quietly hyperfixating on it and being sweaty' way.     §What the fuck makes a sword 'masculine'? Is this a Chinese alchemy thing? Is mine 'masculine'?! A guy made it after all! But like, guys are always making swords! And wielding them! It's mostly a guy thing! So what's a feminine sword?! Do I put a pink ribbon on it or what?!§     "Oh goodness. That actually is quite an old school." Lilian says, politely invested. "I'd assumed some amount of prestige legacy from how highly you spoke of them, but I see we're dealing with almost 'mythically ancient'. I'll have to be careful." She doesn't specify what she has to be careful of or how she plans to be. Hearing 'Gan Jiang' just keeps firing the wrong neurons right now. "If they're going to track every individual piece, somehow learn of what's done with them, and then martially reposess them if they dislike the wielder, I almost wonder why they bothered to be a swordsmithing school at all. Or perhaps the rest is an apparatus that grew up around the simple vanity of masters in the art."
White	Being contacted by pigeon is new and novel to Wrath, but having seen this kind of thing in a movie before makes it less confusing than it might otherwise be. He has plenty of time to make his preparations and inform his allies of where he'll be, getting things in order after checking his non-uniform formalwear from the other day to make sure everything is still neatly in order, to fit in a slightly difficult conversation over radio before he has to depart. The main difference this time is that he wears one sword- Genbu, if Lilian bothered to remember their names- on his right hip affixed to his belt.      Following the missive's instructions has him appearing from the warpgate, drumming his fingers on Genbu's grip while quadruple-checking the note to be sure he hasn't missed anything. He ends up pausing after stepping through, looking up from the small paper and noticing the beautiful vista like it's taken him by surprise, with a slight flinch. Anyone watching can see him put a little spin into his first couple steps, keeping forward momentum while trying to take in the surroundings, without hesitating *too* much to risk lateness. This kind of natural beauty is a little intimidating at first glance, but at the same time, it's memorable. Even the gate itself is a work of art, and he's only seen the relatively crude-looking ones back home for the most part... It's just a shame he doesn't quite know who he'd tell about it back home. Maybe Ariel, if she ever has the time to hear about it.      Giving his name as Wrath to the gate-guards is about as awkward as one might expect, so he does his best to use a bashful smile and a polite tone throughout the interaction, to be as disarming as he can manage without creeping into the other end of the proverbial valley. Finding Chuyao thereafter, he returns the bow briskly, at a deeper angle, and comes back up looking a little relieved not to be navigating on his own anymore. "It's great to see you, Jianya-san. And you, Dame Commander; I hope you've been well." He manages to say it without seeming immediately nervous about offending Lilian, so it seems like his good mood for the day is overriding his usual anxieties somewhat! "I'm ready whenever you are, I have everything I need." He's not carrying a travel pack, but magic solves many such problems.      After getting into the carriage, Wrath tries to politely give the others whatever space he can without squishing himself into a corner too much, and rests his sheathed sword upright between his knees on the floor so that it doesn't poke out away from him. It takes him a little while, but not too long, to adjust to the motions of the carriage; it's not his first time, just the first in almost a year. He listens to Chuyao mostly in silence, but after a while of his gaze flitting between the scholar's face and the swaying fan in his grasp, Wrath makes a small 'slicing' gesture with two fingertips in the air, and reaches into his pocket-space to produce a... Mace! A mace whose head is so frozen-over with frost that the steel beneath is obscured within a solid block of ice. It's on the lighter side, and doesn't seem to be all that practical as a weapon, but he lays down a cloth and sets the frosty bludgeon down on it, letting the air cool somewhat as Chuyao's fanning circulates it. He didn't seem to be struggling much with the temperature, but finding a chance to help in some small way has its own obvious appeal, to him. Enough to smile lightly to himself for thinking of it, before focusing on Chuyao's story again and letting his expression drift slightly southward in absorbing it.
White	"Literally 'putting themselves into the craft', then... That sounds awful for the family. I guess I see why the school would be built there, if that story's lesson... Is one they'd want people to consider naturally, and all." Hearing more specifically of the personal risk to Chuyao, Wrath glances at the fan again, then his expression shifts a few times. First guilty, then pensive-defensive, then a sort of forced relaxation and acceptance. "... If they don't think you're worthy, then I doubt they would think better of me. We'll just have to do our best, then. If anything happens, we'll deal with it together." And in the meantime... He'll hope nothing happens in the first place. Fortunately, he can be normal about Lilian's clothes. Which is to say, she gets one slightly surprised look on first contact, then Wrath looks at his own clothes like he's not sure he chose correctly by committing to his formalwear over his kimono, and then he visibly discards the thought as a now-unsolveable problem, because slipping off to change his clothes *now* will just make him look like a creep trying to match with her.
Chuyao He	Wrath is, surprisingly, received matter-of-factly by the guards. If he bothers to peek at the register held by one of them, he can see, mixed in with normal names, things like 'Dark Heavenly Dao,' 'Little Bastard' and 'Stops Oppression Sun Han.' The name is honestly less curiously received than the horns.     "Brother Wrath has brought a sword, I see; this is a good idea. The master of the pavilion will want to see what you can do, both in the making and the using of such a thing. You did say before, that you are not certain how much of your sorcerous skill will transfer to the non-magical way, but perhaps the master of the school may see it differently, or else see some commonality between them."     Chuyao idly smooths the seat of his more formal black-and-white shenyi robes with the hand that isn't cooling the coach, offering an answer to Lilian. "News travels quickly in the rivers and lakes," he says. "Even a secluded place like the Sword Pavilion keeps abreast of information--and they, in particular, make records of all the works which they produce. Some are considered lost, it is true--but, as for the question of 'why...'"     "I, the ineloquent scholar, believe they began with the intention of protecting themselves from the whims of the powerful. First, the isolation, then the martial arts, and when they realized that this could also allow them a say in who *wields* their works, the rest developed into what it is today."     Chuyao ruminates on it, on 'the vanity of masters,' with a thoughtful expression. "To impose one's will upon the rest of the world, could indeed be called a kind of vanity..."     He blinks out of his pondering at the sight of Wrath's ice-mace. "Ah, brother Wrath," he says, sitting up in his seat. "What a clever idea! If only such a thing could be put into a home during the summer..."
Chuyao He	As time passes, the air conditioning becomes less and less necessary, until at night, when it's not at all so. Chuyao passes the time in whatever way Lilian and Wrath prefer, from silence to conversation to storytelling. He knows a lot, it seems like! The carriage pulls to a stop the next day, in the early afternoon. There is almost nothing to indicate that this is *your* stop, except for the confidence of both the coachman stopping and climbing off of the seat and Chuyao's own confidence in exiting the carriage and offering Lilian a hand. Tall firs stand a solemn watch over both the dirt road and a long, steep ascent of stone stairs, under slow and grinding assault by the elements. Wild orchids grow along either side of the staircase, vines cling to the slim trunks of the firs as tenaciously as the thin green patches of moss do to the stairs.      Dried leaves and needles lie on either side of the stairs like autumnal rivers frozen in time--the stairs are swept. Compared to Lin'an, the ascent to Mount Mogan is cool, crisp and refreshing, though there is a certain tension in the air. These people have agreed to meet Lilian and Wrath, but may have a grievance with Chuyao. He'd said, in his explanation of the five elements, that wood insults metal; an axe may fell many trees, but each one chips away at it and dulls it. Maybe this is another reason why the Pavilion would be at the end of a wooded path; to remind that even a flawless sword must still be maintained and kept sharp.      The walk is long enough to reflect on this, long enough to put the outside world out of the mind, and to focus on the next few steps, one after the other, until the firs give way to simple stone walls with black glazed tile gables. The apex of the staircase puts you on a small preface to the Pavilion. Two disciples in breathable grey robes and tabards fastened with blue sashes stand alert on either side of a circular entryway. "What are your names and your purpose for visiting?" asks the one on the right. These two seem roughly Lilian's age.      "Chuyao He, earnestly wish my name to be reported to the officer of communication."      That name sees both disciples tense, slightly, a subtle shift in posture which all three of the visitors are able to detect, in their respective ways as informed by their areas of expertise. "Wait here," says the one on the right. The one on the left disappears into the complex.      A few tense minutes pass, before a man closer to Chuyao's age in black robes and a similar sash arrives. His hair falls in neat locks around his jaw, much shorter than Chuyao's. A sheathed sword rests faithfully at his hip, just below the belt on which its scabbard slide rests. He has piercing brown eyes with an intensity like a stoked fire, his defined eyebrows making the intensity all the more evident. His mouth is set in a stern frown. "I'm Hong Li the Seeking Sword. Dame Lilian Rook and brother Wrath, Master Fu will see you. Chuyao He, you come along, as well."      Bamboo shoots form a kind of natural curtain around the exterior walls in places. Past that circular entryway, there is a courtyard made from the same simple, polished grey stone as the walls and the weathered stairway, in evenly spaced bricks. Careful borders are made for grassy medians where wild flowers grow, and the occasional fir towers. In the courtyard, a senior student oversees pairs of sparring juniors, patrolling the battles, occasionally pausing them to correct stances or arm placement.      Above the shouts of sparring students and the whip of peacebound swords against wrists, ribs and each other, the distinctive clang of metal being worked rises, much like the plume of smoke that rises from the blast furnace which you can spy a student tending to, across a walkway as you pass. This walkway is lined on either side with long, grassy medians full of wildflowers--and dull, chipped swords planted somberly in the ground like headstones.
White	Hearing his choice to come with a sword visibly carried be approved of, Wrath becomes just that tiny bit more relieved. "I'm glad I wasn't out of line then. If they want to see my umm, mundane work, I can produce that for them too. But I'm most proud of Genbu so far, so I thought I'd lead with it." Being praised on his air-cooling solution too has him rubbing the back of his neck bashfully. "Oh uh, yeah! Eventually, people start making machines for this, but depending on where you live they can be expensive to run and maintain..." He then thinks back to Chuyao's wonder when overhearing the explanation of how a steam engine works, and seems to smile thoughtlessly to himself. It helps him find a little more wonder in some of the things he'd taken for granted in his past life, too.      By nightfall he's tucked the mace away again, wiping up any moisture that might have gathered from its presence so that he doesn't leave the carriage any less neat than when he arrived. He spends some of the trip lapsed into a silent, thoughtfully absent calm, but for as long as Chuyao is happy to speak, Wrath keeps trying to think of more ways to prompt him, or fun little facts that he can share in return. He's likely to bring up city subways, competitive chess as an online community, some light mentions of how schools are run in modern-day Japan, and other relatively innocent topics that don't directly connect to the subject of the trip or either of their work. He glances at Lilian now and then too, trying to figure out how to politely prompt her as well, but it's noticeably harder to speak to her without bringing up work; he doesn't know jack about her interests outside of 'swords', so the best he's liable to come up with is asking if she has a personal tailor who makes clothes like the ones she's wearing. He can't tell that the fit isn't perfect at a glance! If it helps though, he does ask Lilian, "Hey, want me to ask Wakaba to send anything over? She could probably get you a pillow." He has one of her spiderlings in his storage space along with his swords, it seems like. Overnight, it seems like he only truly indulges in light dozing when conversation lulls, and he doesn't seem to ever fully slide into deep sleep that a hand waved near his face won't rouse him from. If the others seem to intend to stay up the whole time, he even produces some canned coffee from the pocket-space for the two of them. It's not just White that used their first trip away from home as an excuse to raid a vending machine for familiar comforts...
White	When they do reach their stop, Wrath puts full trust in Chuyao's confident exit and follows him out, stepping aside to brush his clothes out gently while Chuyao offers Lilian a hand. Shading his face against the daylight while he straightens back up, Wrath lets out a small sigh and adjusts his back a little, trying to subtly shimmy and stretch some of the stiffness of the long ride out of his spine. "... The Demon Realm doesn't have this many beautiful natural views. It's a little sad."      Following the path with the others, Wrath is just behind Chuyao for most of the walk, nervous to stray from the path by mistake but taking in as much as he can see along the way. Only once they stop at the foot of the pavillion itself and are questioned does he step forward to be alongside Chuyao, about to give his own name before it seems it's made redundant. He's more than capable of waiting at the door, only showing unease in the mild drumming of his fingertips at the hilt of his sword before he thinks better of it and folds his arms instead. He frowns a little, again, hearing Chuyao set apart negatively from himself and Lilian... But he holds his tongue. He knows it won't do any good to complain here, and instead just casts a brief glance sidelong at Chuyao with a small, grateful nod before stepping forward. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Seeking Sword-san. Thank you for your guidance."      Following Hong Li's lead, now, Wrath's footsteps subconsciously shift to be quieter and gentler while he observes the way the grounds are arranged, the space for flowers, the students hard at work in their training. The things that steal his attention most clearly, though, are the smell of smoke, and the ground-planted swords that line the path amidst more wildflowers. The former gets him to inhale with a slight relish, only for the latter to draw a fixated gaze. "Are they... Failed products? Or... No..." He realizes it might not be appropriate to ask, and instead takes just a moment, a second if anything, to kneel lower along the side of the path and examine the chipped blades with a thoughtful frown. "... Is this to memorialize the sword, or the person who wielded it?"
Lilian Rook	'It's great to see you, Jianya-san. And you, Dame Commander; I hope you've been well.'     "Despite certain people's best attempts." is Lilian's reply to Wrath. It's a good thing they're such close friends who are very familiar with each other! Otherwise he might not know who she's talking about! She glances him up and down once, which doesn't help, and seems vaguely annoyed that he'd change his attired after she'd finally recalled what his dress sense was like. At least she doesn't wildly stand out as a begrudging tagalong.     He earns himself his first stare better than 'frosty apathetic' when he plunks down air conditioning though. This girl grew up in fucking England, so there's no way she doesn't appreciate it, even if those clothes are supposed to help deal with heat on account of being made by a sun goddess bunrei and all. She herself has come with one of her less aggressively modern bags, fastened around her waist instead of crossbody for its size and her general expectation of not having to bring all of her usual gear. The fact that she has her sword isn't obvious until Chuyao comments on it, and she suddenly remembers that neither of these people would know.     Twisting the varely visible chain around her neck, she pulls the ominous black pendant out from under her clothes, disengages the clasp with a gesture she's done thousands of times before, twirls it around her fingers until it lands in her palm in the same one, and then brandishes an invisible blade. By the time its imagined length would hit the floor of the carriage, a column of inky black smoke has poured out and burnt off her hand, resting on a solid shape that makes a dull thunk against the floorboards. Sheathed in a Lycian scabbard for no reason but aesthetics, Lilian rests her hands on Night Mist propped against the inside of ne knee in a way that speaks to long hours of habit as much as any mousepad callous on anyone's wrist.     "I thought it'd give you the wrong impression if I didn't diclose," Lilian lies, "That this has hardly ever been separated from my person since I was a child." alloying in the truth. "Since you seemed to have the wrong idea, and all." She looks Genbu up and down separately of Wrath, now; frankly with an equally analytical eye, as if the two things were the same amount of important. It results in her faintly smirking at something private.     Unfortunately the carriage ride is long as fuck. Once Lilian has realized this, it's too late to get out of it. She reads the singular book of poetry from the St. Pavlov library she brought with her cover to cover, writes down eighteen full sheets of notes, then through her alchemy text, and then has no more literature. She spends a while text messaging via hotwiring into her own Paladins radio, probably with Tamamo, as well as ostensibly meditating(?), and eventually moves on to internal magical exercises.     An entire thermos of tea slowly vanishes, then the handful of handmade snacks foisted on her, and then the couple of protein bars she had on her. Esperanto conversation trials only keep her interest for a short time, as does humming a few songs that pop into her head while staring out the window. Once she gets weirdly antsy, she starts demanding 'leg-stretching' stops, which then lead into a complicated process of polishing and carving up stones that nobody actually sees her pick up, using seemingly arbitrary selection criteria, and fussily redoes microscopic imperfections on her nails multiple times.
Lilian Rook	After running dry on conversation with a pair of near strangers to the point that she has passionately explained the rules of a dizzyingly complicated two player boardgame 'meant to simulate the concept of swordfighting', leakily relitigated some incident involving a psychiatrist, and wrapped up an exhaustive train of thought about flower language, she eventually nods off, using her own sword as a pillow, then wakes up several times to give Wrath a misgiving glare on each occasion. It's not entirely clear when she slept for real, but all of her other breaks are weird and irregular as well, some left unexplained and Wrath Glared At if he asks.     He gets The Silent Treatment if he seems too disinterested though. Fellas, aren't women so confusing?     Oddly, she thrives with a long walk instead of a long ride. After making sure to let down, brush, and re-tie her hair, Lilian is more than happy to take Steps two at a time until it's oppressively unfriendly to others. It's exercise! In the wilds! It's so obvious that she loves Trees and Flowers and Auspiciously Secluded Locations that it makes her look stupid!     'What are your names and your purpose for visiting?'     Not that it really matters, but Lilian opts for Japanese for everything but her name, including "Dame Commander" and the small half-truth of "Monitoring of Jianya, and advisement to both." In order to be remotely convincing, she has to keep her sword out, but she can't help but feel a little mismatched by how it differs from everyone else's, in several respects.     'I'm Hong Li the Seeking Sword.'     "An honour, I'm certain." she says, now wondering if she should have used a sobriquet. "Thank you very much for your consideration." She enters last, as if she is, indeed, watching Chuyao for funny business. But if someone really wants to pay attention, they probably won't miss her closing her eyes just to breathe in the scent of wild trees and absord the sound of clashing steel.
Lilian Rook	The interpersonal heuristics of the whole trip are slightly absurd. Ordinarily, she tends to be much harder to read, but Lilian has made a regular habit lately of setting herself into a mental stance of sorts where what she's thinking actually shows up as an expression. In a closed space with polite company, it's even more critical to provide up to the minute micro-feedback.     Attitude modifier toward Chuyao He for seeing the guards react to him like that: -4     Attitude modifier toward Chuyao He for him introducing himself openly anyways: +6     Attitude modifier toward Wrath for normal conversation: +2     Attitude modifier toward Wrath for asking about her clothes: -1     Attitude modifier toward Wrath for gifts: +1     Attitude modifier toward Wrath for coffee: +5     Overall though, a teenaged boy, isekai or not, is more within her wheelhouse than a sage of eastern philosophy. By the end of the trip, she appears to have come to some sort of equilibrium, especially time she starts going on about Petra and suddenly stops to consider something ostensibly dizzying. She's even smiling to herself once she's in the courtyard and looking around, dimming only for the 'sword graveyard'.     '... Is this to memorialize the sword, or the person who wielded it?'     "Hmm?" Lilian suddenly turns to look blinking at Wrath. "Why would there be a difference?"
Chuyao He	Eventually, people start making machines for this, but depending on where you live they can be expensive to run and maintain...     "Much in the same way that I feel touched by the poetry of many years ago, it is quite a thing to hear of the inventions of many years yet to be. Comforting, if that makes sense, to know that the ingenuity of the common people in solving problems great and small is like a well that never runs dry." That this has hardly ever been separated from my person since I was a child.      "Truly??" Chuyao leans forward in his seat. "That is remarkable. It is little wonder the Dame Commander sought such a storied teacher as Scáthach. May this unrefined scholar ask who else taught you to wield it, to have known it for so long?" This is taken in with as much riveted interest as the game designed to simulate the concept of swordfighting; he's a layman in that regard, and hearing experts expound upon their fields is something he always enjoys.     His own traveling pack has a pillow for him to rest his head against, and his formal robes actually seem pretty warm. ... The Demon Realm doesn't have this many beautiful natural views. It's a little sad.     "Truly? This humble scholar would have to agree. That being said, brother Wrath is most welcome to visit any time; it has been too long since my poor home has known guests." It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Seeking Sword-san. Thank you for your guidance.     "Master Fu is interested to see if Chuyao He spoke truthfully about your skills. Dame Commander Rook's virtue, meanwhile, is known across many worlds. This is why I am your guide, today." Had Chuyao come alone, the unspoken idea rings, things would be different. ... Is this to memorialize the sword, or the person who wielded it?     Wrath is allowed to examine the blades, and Hong even pauses to give him the time to do it. His second guess is correct, he can tell, without Hong's explanation; that damage is from two places, chiefly. The first is the kind of use that puts a sword to its absolute limit; students who were overcome, outfought, or outnumbered. The second is the kind of dulling that comes from age, and some of these swords bear both instead of one or the other, reminders of battles many years ago. "Dame Rook is correct," says Hong. "For the person who wielded it is also the person who put it into the world. The tradition began with the school's third master. When one of us dies, or is slain, an effort is made to recover their sword to memorialize them here. The wildflowers, meanwhile, surround them to remind us that the work we make does not absolve us what is done with it; a sword is just as capable of cutting what is beautiful as what is ugly."
Chuyao He	Flowering willows adorn the back of the complex, where the bulk of its buildings lie: lodgings for the students, an armory guarded by two senior students, and the grand hall. All three are made of lacquered wood, painted white to complement the grey stone, with steely blue gabled roofs that match the simple gabled eaves on the exterior walls; a dull red on the support pillars and dougong provide a splash of color that's appealing without being ostentatious. The Understanding parses the tasteful gold-on-black signage well enough to know which building is the great hall, even as Hong leads you there.      The great hall's interior has a lacquered hardwood floor, adorned with a red carpet bearing gold trim which leads from the entryway to the master's seat at the end of the hall. Simple but well made chairs flank the carpet, as sunlight streams in through open keshan windows made from stained wood. Two potted plants rest on pedestals near the entrance, while two standing lanterns burn steadily at the opposite end of the hall, reaching what the sun can't quite illuminate.      The master of the school is a man with an almost supernatural air of dignity that is only enhanced by the kiss of the forge on his hands and face. His long, unbound white hair is a flowing, wintry mane that frames an ever-appraising pair of vividly amethyst eyes resting below a fine silver brow. He is flanked on three sides by swords--racks on the left and right, and hanging on the wall behind him--whether they're of his make or of a previous master's is uncertain. His seat is like a throne, wide and commanding, and it's hard to see where his hair and beard end and his flowing white robes begin.      Ranks of elder students, each wearing three (!) swords at their backs, stand guard over the hall along the red carpet. Lilian and Wrath are guests of interest; Chuyao is watched as if he might steal something. He stops a few steps shy of the slightly raised lacquered wood platform which the master's throne rests upon. Taking a knee and bowing his head, "I, Chuyao He, scholar of the late generation, respectfully present myself to the venerable master."     "I am Xiaogong Fu, master of this Langya Sword Pavilion. Rise, Chuyao He. There is a matter I would settle with you, before I may see to my other guests." Master Fu nods towards Lilian and Wrath, then pauses. A faint buzzing is heard. He narrows his eyes, closes them. In one fluid motion he reaches behind his robes, procures a deadly sharp jian sword and cuts the wings from a fly. Swords like that are designed to be moved quickly and with ease--but his motion, even as he flicks miniscule viscera from the blade and sheaths it behind his back, is nothing so much as the pinnacle of that philosophy. The whole thing is over in scarcely the time it'd take to draw a breath of surprise. Master Fu doesn't even pay it any thought, instead continuing with his wishes as if it hadn't happened. "You have lived in hiding for some years, stalking the shores of the rivers and lakes. Rumors abound regarding your conduct. Some say you are a brazen collaborator with bandits, racketeers and Jin invaders. Others say you are a rare man of virtue from a den of thieves.Seeking Sword Hong Li will separate fact from fiction."
Chuyao He	Hong circles around Chuyao and draws his sword in the right hand as the scholar rises. Chuyao holds out a hand towards Lilian and Wrath; the gesture is simultaneously meant to comfort and to express 'it's best if I handle this myself.' "This lowly scholar's own actions have brought such suspicion; I ask that the Dame Commander and brother Wrath allow me to suffer them myself."      A gentle breeze picks up outside, blowing cool mountain air through the great hall. Chuyao and Hong both allow it to gently cool their faces, each briefly closing his eyes. When each man opens his eyes again, a staredown ensues, ten paces between them feeling like inches.      Two Rivers drops from the sleeve of Chuyao's robe and into his left palm, folded shut and grasped tightly.      Hong advances like a bolt across the hall, shouting and coming to a stop at a perfectly measured distance for his edge to threaten Chuyao's throat with a frighteningly fast step-lunge. Two Rivers unfurls in the space between heartbeats, the hammered-silver triptych of the giant Kuafu's arrogant demise twinkling in the streaming sunlight as it stops the point of Hong's jian and turns it aside in one swipe, Chuyao's upper body leaned forward and to the opposite side to both evade and advance.      A vicious back-and-forth follows, with Hong's flexing steel straight sword flying furiously against the black steel brise fan like flashes of lightning across the night sky. Chuyao respects the difference in reach but does not allow it to intimidate him, even as Hong's edge passes a hair's width from his nose with one particularly adept stroke. The scholar keeps his head and upper body in constant motion, floating the fan across his abdomen, face and shoulders to deflect Hong's thundering blows and keep them from his vitals. "Tss! Tss! Pssh!"      "YAHHHH!" Hong makes a whipping, advancing overhead horizontal which leaves his leg exposed. Chuyao decisively exploits it to seize the initiative before the swordsman realizes, stepping close for a check at Hong's inner leg that buckles his stance, followed by a lightning-fast follow-up straight from the same leg, aimed at Hong's head. Hong narrowly avoids it and tries to ward off Chuyao with a lateral-upwards slash, less powerful for his compromised stance as he rises. Rather than swat it as before, Chuyao circle strafes along ts arc and catches the sword in the space between his open fan's slats, flicking his wrist to form a trapping plane. With his sword trapped, Hong is on the defensive, first from an advancing push kick, which he takes to the stomach, then a knuckle strike aimed at his extended wrist, which he narrowly avoids with a backwards leap.
Chuyao He	Chuyao tenaciously maintains the trap, leaping in time with Hong. A couple of the elder students have to scramble out of the way to avoid being bowled over by the two of them--Chuyao and Hong both land on the back of a chair each, an end table between them. A tug of war over control the sword follows--legs checked by Chuyao and found solid, a snap kick from Hong battered aside at the ankle by Chuyao's elbow. The two men maintain their balance masterfully atop the backs of their respective chairs. Hong frees the sword by striking it vertically free of Two Rivers with a rising kick to Chuyao's wrist, but the scholar's relentless, offense-as-defense style puts Hong in the difficult position of having to give Chuyao high ground or stay in a range less disadvantageous to the scholar. He chooses the latter, hoping for a decisive opportunity, and finds none. Chuyao makes a flurry of his own, oppressively reducing the power of Hong's swings by sheer pressure, sidestepping, swatting with the fan, menacing his wrist with the hard edge of the fan when he goes for a thrust, mixing in push kicks and leg checks with alternating uses of Two Rivers as a bladed weapon (open) or a blunt one (shut), the rapid opening-and-closing of the fan proving a distraction all its own. At this closer range, Chuyao can also use his free hand, striking with his fingers half-closed to use the middle knuckles as jabbing points, or--a wild hammering hook with his fist closed all the way, snaking around to threaten a hit at the back of the head. Hong overextends to avoid it, his balance teetering until Chuyao's low push kick obliterates it entirely.      The swordsman falls into the chair, angling his sword up to parry and kicking the chair across the wooden floor just to get some breathing room, but Chuyao flings a capped calligraphy brush from under his sleeve, nailing the chair to the ground and sending Hong tumbling to the ground with a startled shout. The scholar's controlled low leap lands him just outside of a getup swing, his body poised to react--     "Enough." Master Fu's voice is not nearly so loud as Hong's battle cries or Chuyao's controlled breathing. In fact, it's barely conversational in terms of volume, but it brooks utterly no argument in the way that only someone who has spent a lifetime on a craft can muster. "Hong Li, I did not teach you that overhead technique. I see the principle, but it needs work. You leave your leg exposed. If Chuyao He were here with ill intent, he could have broken it."      Hong, chest heaving as he gets to his feet looks a confused mix of embarrassed, winded and proud. "Thank you, master," he settles on, offering a fist-in-palm bow, first to him, then to Chuyao, who returns the gesture, then clears his throat and sheepishly removes the calligraphy pen from the leg of the chair, setting the furniture back into its place.      "I, the master of this Langya Sword Pavilion, thank my guests, Dame Lilian Rook and young Wrath, for their patience. Those swords--did you make them yourselves? The craftsmanship is unlike any this office has seen."
Lilian Rook	'Truly??'     Humu humu. This guy gets it.     'May this unrefined scholar ask who else taught you to wield it, to have known it for so long?'     Riding high, and lulled into a sense of mundane security by the length of the trip, Lilian answers to an extent she usually doesn't quite. "Originally it was just a gift. Bestowal? Well, Aoibheil, a distant ancestor of mine, whose spirit watches over a family reliquary, gave it to me when I was very young, I suppose because she saw that holding a sword would put my mind at ease in ways that others didn't realize at the time. It made my father furious, since he was forbidden from even entering the place, having married in but being unable to fully take control of the house, but in the end, it was impossible to separate from me."     "As you can tell," she says just a tiny bit smugly, "It's far too large for a child to wield, so I studied under her, in some capacity or another, for years, until I grew up enough to manage it. I believe she was partial because I made for the third woman in the family to ever take it up, including her. She said it suited me best out of anyone who lived since her."     'Comforting, if that makes sense, to know that the ingenuity of the common people in solving problems great and small is like a well that never runs dry.'     Hmm. Lilian will end up remembering this when she has the time to contemplate various long-held stances about Extras, once she isn't still deeply troubled by how a sharpadonty identified her as having 'arcanist blood'.     'Master Fu is interested to see if Chuyao He spoke truthfully about your skills. Dame Commander Rook's virtue, meanwhile, is known across many worlds. This is why I am your guide, today.'     She barely holds back something like 'Oh my, you're going to make me blush'. Because this is serious context, in a serious place, with serious men. It makes her think about how much time she's spent fucking around with Elites, talking to metaphorical walls and getting to know nothing about them.     'The wildflowers, meanwhile, surround them to remind us that the work we make does not absolve us what is done with it; a sword is just as capable of cutting what is beautiful as what is ugly.'     "That's reassuring to hear." Lilian says, instead. "It takes a refined eye to perceive that swords and flowers are things that belong together. The pedestrian, unlearned way of things is to perceive a dichotomy; that swords are a shining tool of justice, or that they are vile tools of bloodshed, and to uncomfortably ignore the incongruous contexts that arise from them having no inherent value but for being extensions of will and vessels of thought." Whoops. That was too much opinion for a casual introduction. Lilian folds her hands behind her back and wonders how much Multiversal news reaches here instead.     For the first time in a while, she isn't reminded by touch that she hasn't had the chance to exfoliate the callouses on her fingertips. Not in a way that worries her, at least. This just seems like a place where it doesn't matter like that.     'Seeking Sword Hong Li will separate fact from fiction.'     Lilian isn't entirely clear on the decorum of the situation, given it's non-standard even for the historical records she has, but she knows well enough that Chuyao is serious about his self-reflection, and more importantly, on what she calls 'surrendering to the process'. She knows well enough not to intrude unless necessary, nor to present herself as flattering or obsequious, and so she remains at a respectful distance, at the opposite flank as Wrath, and does her best to look patiently accommodating. But the smear drawn by light reflected in rapid saccades, zigzag following the motions of Xiaogong's sword, is pure, incurable reflex. Visual acquisition of a weapon as a clear and present threat, just from a gut feeling at the moment he stood from his seat.
Lilian Rook	The moment it's Chuyao He and Hong Li taking the floor, Lilian catalyzes that thought into the eye-widening compound question of 'Are these 'my people'?'     It's from the opposite end of the Earth as her, drenched in a different sort of tradition and decorum, but is Chuyao's use of 'knights errant' really wrong? Despite how easy it would be to draw parallels, what she thinks of aren't the Anglo-Saxon trappings of feudalism and chivalry she grew up with, but the older things that she had inherited by birth; when the Red Branch was the name on people's lips, and not the Round Table; when knights dueled with each other in the middle of the lodge over matters of love and honoured, and not on tournament fields for the king's commission and virtue before the eys of God.     Her fingers twitch behind her back, then one hand rises inexorably to her chest, pressed to her collarbone as if to still the very same restless feeling that had stirred in her, again; more insistently for its recent repetition, after so long a winter of absence. When her fingers curl halfway against her clothes, one would be forgiven for thinking it's out of worry for Chuyao, if they weren't following the other hand, squeezing the cross of her sword in a grip that subtly rolls back and forth. She holds her breath unconsciously, in some part for the absurd battle happening right before her eyes, but in great part because of the battle between the part of herself insisting that this is 'out of a martial arts movie' and the part of herself which screams that, amongst all Elites and their communities, this just makes sense.     'Those swords--did you make them yourselves? The craftsmanship is unlike any this office has seen.'     "It's no trouble." Lilian says, almost missing the beat. "And an honour to be in your company, as strangers." She tells herself that now isn't the time to get self-conscious about not really being a blacksmith, before answering. "I did not. This sword has been passed down through my family, to those worthy of wielding it, for many generations. It has been worn down and refined many times before. I am merely blessed as to be the latest to improve upon its, and to be given the opportunity to add to its legacy that is the first of its kind."     Lilian adjusts the ratio of her arm's weight balanced on Night Mist as a restless habit. Given that it's already the largest make of sword that anyone carried on their waist, requiring the hilt to sit much higher and further than the belt, she usually prefers strapping it over her shoulder. She hasn't quite nailed down the circumstances that make her feel like she should be switching it up. "If the craftsmanship is something that interests you, it's a topic that I know fairly well, at least. Enough to elucidate, if it would please you."
White	*Earlier*      Wrath seems pleased that he can enrich Chuyao even a little bit, and laughs in a friendly way. "I mean, seeing the way you feel about this stuff... It kind of helps me appreciate it too, y'know? You're right... It's really cool that people never seem to run completely out of new ideas, when they get the chance to work on things long enough." It may come as little surprise that when Lilian calls out Night Mist to show it off and talk about it, Wrath's attention is firmly grasped. He's not so bold as to try and touch without permission, but he's a little less subtle about examining the larger blade than Lilian was for his Genbu. "You mentioned it was unusually rigid because of the material once before, I remember. I didn't get a good look when you helped at Fort Okun, either... I never had much reason to learn a two-handed weapon, myself, so I admit I'm a little out of my element. Sophia's 'Fenrir' is a little bigger, it seems like, but it's kind of a mess too. I dunno how she makes that obnoxious closed-loop guard work as well as she does with something taller than she is..." He hears out more of Lilian's prideful explanation and doesn't seem to notice anything amiss with her verbal relish, if anything smiling a bit more like he's bouyed by proximity. "Training for one sword from that young... Yeah, no wonder you've got deep thoughts about the whole concept. I thought that kind of thing was mostly just fiction, but... I guess a lot of life has felt like it belonged in fiction recently. Night Mist, huh..."
White	He carries on absorbing the bout, a slightly frenetic energy in his eyes as he struggles to not just see the overall scope of what's happening, but catch the tiny details. Flexes in the leg muscles, small shifts in the ankles and hips, it's hard to get everything on a single viewing, and Lilian might catch him gnawing the inside of his cheek anxiously in the process. Before long he's changed from thinking about how to handle Hong's attacks to instead do the same for Chuyao's; how would he deal with this kind of close combat? It'd be hard, he's never seen anyone on the battlefield seriously try to fight this way. He might be lucky that he has such a number of 'spare' weapons...      The men fight while balancing on chairs, they fight while bowling through bystanders, and it's all so comprehensive that Wrath finds his breathing reacting in lieu of his restrained voice. Rather than cheering disruptively or speaking, he gasps quietly or sucks in a wincing breath of air through his teeth at close calls. The show of intimidating in-fighting, and those metal fan techniques... He's sure he never would've seen anything like them, if he never came here. He just feels a little too strongly about the danger of it all to feel guiltlessly glad to be observing. When the Master finally calls for a stop to the match, Wrath finally starts to let tension bleed out of his body again, mindfully adjusting his hand so that he's not deathgripping the hilt of Genbu in plain view. He finally thinks to look over at Lilian again, seemingly using her own expression as a gauge of... Something or other. Maybe checking if he's the only one overexcited by the situation.      But that passes, especially as he's addressed again directly; Lilian has the right-of-way on account of gathering her thoughts faster, but Wrath isn't altogether far behind either. "... It's no trouble!" he starts, carefully unfastening Genbu's scabbard from his belt. Once Hong Li is finished fixing up some of the mess from the test-match, Wrath holds it out politely atop both palms, offering to let him bring it to Master Fu if it would be appropriate. "I did make this one. I have an... Ability, that lets me create magic weapons. But other than what I've learned on my own to try and improve, I don't believe I'm a particularly good smith. I believe that if I can learn to make and use a sword properly with my own hands, I'll be able to improve creations like this, too." If Hong Li does take it, even just to inspect it himself, Wrath slightly more quietly adds, "That one is named Genbu. It has a sibling I named Suzaku, but I believe Genbu is the better product. Even if slightly."
White	*Currently*      While he's knelt by the planted swords, Wrath turns toward Lilian when she asks him where the difference lies. He meets her eyes like he's looking for a clue, then looks down at the ground calmly as if to stop himself from 'cheating' at some kind of quiz, and really contemplates it for the assumed meaning. Hong's explanation then gets him to nod steadily, totally accepting that answer as he pushes himself back up from his kneel and gives the memorial one more long look with his hands on his hips. "... I see. I'm glad I wasn't too far off the mark..." As his hands slide off his hips, one hanging loose while the other resets to its usual resting 'thumb around tsuba' position, he nods at Lilian, then Hong Li. He seems grateful, but his expression is a vague sort of solemn, mild frown. "Thank you both. I'm still a bit behind on... Things like this." He seems ready to continue, but he'll be thinking about the memorial for a little while longer; he's the kind who doesn't grasp these kinds of traditions immediately, but has to slowly nudge his understanding into place over time, with care.      He's less touristy about looking around, after that. He still takes in the environment, building a mental map out of habit, but gradually he's less focused on the place as much as the people. Brought into the great hall and before the master, Wrath observes Chuyao for signs of what the proper show of respect would be and follows his example in imitation of the gesture. He waits for his own turn to speak, and it's only because one of his hands is still at casual rest against his sword and holding it steady that reflex allows him to push it partially out of its scabbard when he senses the lethal draw of the master's jian. It's with tangible effort that he reassesses the situation, calms his nerves with a slow exhale, and firmly tugs Genbu the inch and a half back into its scabbard with his thumb. He knows he would've been late. 'Okay,' he thinks, 'The master is trying to... Make an impression. Sure. That isn't so strange. Just... Let Jianya-san focus. He'll be fine.' There's a sharper attention in his gaze now, though, red eyes fixed on Xiaogong Fu either to learn or be wary, up until he hears Hong Li assigned as arbiter of Chuyao's character.      Wrath's heartrate spikes again a bit, it's true. He doesn't have the same accumulated sense of calm that most of the others in this room have, when blades are drawn. But he recognizes the gesture from Chuyao, and he recognizes the test for what it is, even if he has to filter it through old half-remembered martial arts movie tropes. He stands back up from where he'd attempted to imitate Chuyao's show of manners, and takes one firm hop away from the center of the room, clearing a wide enough space that he won't be in the way of either participant. "... Good luck, Jianya-san. Give it your best." It's a sort of lukewarm encouragement, and it maybe feels a little inappropriate, but he's holding onto what little he knows of the man and trying to hold faith, even if he has to tighten his grip a bit while he observes in order to restrain the urge to move.      It doesn't take long for Wrath to start imagining how he'd handle Hong's attacks, if he were in that position. That first lunge... Scary. He could probably stop it, but not get a clean counter out of it. Wrath knows he's a little slow at the first step, better than most do. So he'd be recovering by the next strike; he'd use his second blade to compensate. Recieve, pivot, push aside, step in. Hong Li is agile though; Wrath would have to advance in with a thrust, but slice outward in the same breath and then use that moment of threat to make space... And he'd just be back in neutral again. Four moves just to deal with the first lunge safely? He really needs the help, he feels like...
White	Genbu is a katana suitable for either one-handed or two-handed use, but its length is more suitable for one hand. The blade is a light green, fading to white along the edge and decorated with smooth, symmetrical fingers of yellow lightning along both flats. It's of relatively typical length, but the breadth of the blade is slightly enlarged so that the edge protrudes slightly further out, deliberately raising the weight a bit beyond what a normal person would find comfortable for its length. The guard is a tortoise-shell design, and while the blade is safe to touch it causes a faint sensation of 'humming' in the fingerbones. The handle-wrapping has been redone many times, and the cap at the base of the grip is lightly scratched from what look like deliberate uses of that tiny, hardened surface to parry in emergencies. The weapon as a whole is in remarkable condition for how clearly often it has seen use though, and that's primarily owing to the abnormal rigidity of the blade and its hard-to-observe ability to self-repair. The repairs to all but the blade, though, he's clearly had to do carefully by hand with his limited knowledge.
Chuyao He	The pedestrian, unlearned way of things is to perceive a dichotomy; that swords are a shining tool of justice, or that they are vile tools of bloodshed, and to uncomfortably ignore the incongruous contexts that arise from them having no inherent value but for being extensions of will and vessels of thought.     Lilian can see the +5 written on Hong Li's face; centuries before the triumph emoji, his brief, emphatically agreeing nod is the spitting image.     --- I am merely blessed as to be the latest...     "Hm... this office would not dare ask to hold a family heirloom. To look at the size of it, it would seem that it is at the limit of what may be worn at the waist, though, Dame Commander Rook holds it as an old friend." His amethyst eyes focus on the sword and how she holds it, how its weight rests against her even in its idle spot. "Though I am not familiar with its make, I would hazard a guess to say the balance point is..." he points *exactly* at where it is.     "Moreover, the width of the blade seems as though it is particularly suited to parry, which pairs well with the length, suited to controlling a broad sphere of space around the user. The handle implies two hands, at that. This is an interesting paradigm..."
Chuyao He	Enough to elucidate, if it would please you.     Master Fu nods, eyes briefly closed, indulging a slight smile. "If Dame Rook would be so kind, this office does notice that it does not flex against the floor even slightly. This, I presume, would make it particularly well-suited to thrusts against armored enemies. What is it made of, may I ask?"     Wrath presents Genbu, and Master Fu takes it, assessing the weight in his hands. He examines the scabbard, runs his index and middle finger across it, and nods, then gently but confidently unsheaths it, resting the scabbard in his lap. He holds it up to the sunlight, letting the light glint off of the blade... "Hm... another interesting paradigm. Almost like a saber, but the grip is two-handed. The patterns here... Damascus? No, the striations don't match. Almost like imperfections, but too perfect not to be there on purpose. Young Wrath, you have an excellent eye for beauty. Let us see if your hand can coax function from dead steel..."     He gently sets the scabbard aside, standing up and turning aside from Lilian and Wrath so as not to point the sword at them as he tests it. "With such a shape, such a grip, the center here, and one edge... yes. Like so..." He feels out a sha-no-kamae stance, sword parallel with his waist, held out behind him, and advances into a testing upwards stoke, nodding. "Something like that, yes?" He looks towards Wrath, continuing, "The point would also seem adept for controlling space, like so..." He crosses his grip and holds it out, blade up in an o-gasumi stance. "From which, one could..." Slowly, he uncrosses his hands and goes for a sharp overhead downwards flick. "Very interesting," he concludes, taking the scabbard, sheathing the sword and offering it palms-up back to Wrath. "Dame Rook, Chuyao He, would you accompany young Wrath and I to our forge?"     Hong Li makes to return to whatever post or duties he'd been in the middle of, turning to leave. "Stop there, Hong Li. This office has not dismissed you just yet."     "Master?" The tone is probably familiar to Lilian; that tone a student of the martial arts takes when they fear they've displeased their teacher.     "I know that you're frustrated the other students won't spar with you. I acknowledge the importance of your learning. However, the martial world has much better options available for you than the Tiger's Den." At the mention of that place, Hong's face goes white and he all but freezes, his intense brows lifted in shock. Master Fu continues placidly, without so much as acknowledging his student's surprise. "For every skilled fighter in that arena, there are three pampered, ill-tempered nobles' sons who think they can fight 'no holds barred' as the rules state, but quickly resort to fixing matches or poisoning drinks. Go to one of the open conferences in Lin'an, Longqing or even Chuxiang."     Hong looks momentarily stunned, but the fire returns to his eyes as he realizes the praise mixed in with the discipline, taking both to heart with a firm nod. "Yes, Master Fu!"
Chuyao He	Master Fu dismisses Seeking Sword Hong Li with a nod, then returns his attention to Lilian, Chuyao and Wrath, gently sweeping his palm towards the door of the great hall. As he passes to lead his guests to the smithy, they can see his jian, sheathed on a scabbard with a slide at his back; much like Hong Li's, that allows him to change his draw position. His scabbard is treated hardwood with a lacquer finish--a terrific scar from a lightning strike on the tree that made the scabbard is preserved through this lacquer, emphasized with engraved iron fittings. Just behind the understated crossguard is an orange pressed tassel, resembling the feather of a bird.     The forge is an outdoor affair that rests on the other side of a narrow but deep manmade canal. A nearby well serves as the source of water. The anvils are likely different from the *shape* Wrath is used to, but an anvil is an anvil is an anvil. Another student, his robes rolled up at the sleeves and a black scarf binding his hair, offers you all a fist in palm greeting, standing at attention until Master Fu gives him a nod to continue sharpening his sword with a grindstone.      "Young Wrath, I understand you've come here seeking tutelage. This office acknowledges your talent. Tell me, what is the reason a sword is made? What is its purpose?"
White	Wrath does his very best to sit still when Master Fu begins to stand, the momentary impulse to warn him toward caution having to be mindfully, firmly pushed down while he clamps his mouth shut. He checked time and time again to make sure that Genbu wouldn't release any magic today without his meaning it to, so that it could be assessed as a proper sword and not just a magic wand. More than once he starts to shift as if to gesture or instruct, only to restrain himself again over and over; reminding himself of who he would presume to give advice to, and why he is here to begin with. His sheer effort not to give unwarranted advice leaves him slightly slow to unclamp his jaw again and half-voice his inner fretting. "As I should have expected... You take to it quickly despite the umm... Privileges, I took with the design." Once Genbu is sheathed again, Wrath steps forward at a half-trot and bows slightly as he recieves his weapon back in-hand, carefully reaffixing it to his belt; even if he was willing to offer it up for examination, it's clear he has some amount of emotional investment in the sword, and felt a bit restless without it. Even then, while checking the fixture of the scabbard at his side, he still manages to snap his attention back upward when he puts together the invitation to the forge, and he has to exert his restraint yet again to try and subdue the stupid smile creeping into his face. It's a good thing, right?!      Overhearing Hong Li's advice from the master, Wrath can't seem to help, given his positive mood, giving the man a little grin and a thumbs-up. He'd been anxious, before, about Chuyao's safety... But Chuyao handled the test with grace, and it seems like the outcome became a well-taken lesson. With how Wrath is trying to follow that kind of example-of-attitude, it'd feel wrong not to give him at least a little encouragement, even if it comes from a... Well, a near-stranger. He hopes it's not taken poorly, even if it isn't quite proper. "Good luck, Seeking Sword-san. I hope you find a good match."      But, he's been beckoned along, and he's quick to follow in the Master's wake, trying to quell his racing heart and conduct himself properly. Fu's weapon, and particularly what Wrath can divine of the scabbard's origin, catches the boy's attention for a long moment while they walk. He can't help but wonder if some appreciation for things like that helped warm the Master's impression of him, after handling Genbu, but he's not brave enough to ask that directly. Instead he focuses on taking in the sight of the forge and the space surrounding it, the tools at hand, and the work the other student is proceeding with when they arrive. The other student finds the fist-in-palm greeting returned, as Wrath finally seems to feel like just little enough of an outsider here for it not to be some kind of appropriation, and instead just a motion at good manners. He's a little clumsy about the imitation the first time, but he'll improve.
White	"Yes, I was kindly recommended to meet with you on Jianya-san's advice." he first answers Fu, and he opens his mouth to start rattling off any number of reasons for a sword's making, but halts himself before he can lift his voice. The Master wants *an* answer, not... All of the answers he could think of. He was about to appear very thoughtless, wasn't he? It takes a little while for him to whittle down the many into an acceptable few, and then a nearly-satisfactory, albeit not happy one. "... I think, if I put aside semantics... Swords are made for protecting people. Someone who can use a sword can protect himself, or the people within his reach. Whether against animals, monsters, or other people. But..." He confesses at the end, admitting the fluidity of the answer, "That's just what I want the answer to be. Even I could argue it another way, if I wanted to." Maybe that honesty will be well-recieved, or maybe it'll be taken as flippant, but he seems to feel that the point is in what *he* makes swords for.
Lilian Rook	'Thank you both. I'm still a bit behind on... Things like this.'     "It can't be helped." Lilian says, as her own way of pardoning Wrath. Because she's speaking Japanese, she has just Said The Line. "You've chosen an especially weighty tradition to adopt." she says, eyeing his katana.     '... Good luck, Jianya-san. Give it your best.'     "I'm not certain that luck will have anything to do it." Lilian comments, almost idly, between the order and the bout. In that short period of silence, she says, "At least, I doubt the Master would ask to see something where luck would matter to what he's gauging."     . . . . . . . .     'Hm... this office would not dare ask to hold a family heirloom. To look at the size of it, it would seem that it is at the limit of what may be worn at the waist, though, Dame Commander Rook holds it as an old friend.'     Lilian blinks. Her expression doesn't change, but that alone is probably enough to convey the nature of her surprise. "It is indeed slightly too large for my build, but the intended size of this make of sword is that the blade alone should be the length of an entire dao. Its nature is to serve as a weapon to fight armoured opponents and spearmen, without unacceptably compromising its utility as a swordfighting weapon. As such, its length and weight is necessary, and only those with exceptional physical fitness are known to master it. In this way, it is perhaps somewhere between the practice of a sabre and spear." She says it all so formally, and yet there's a deeply restless impulse behind her voice.     "As I've disclosed to Jianya, it has hardly left my company since before I was quite old enough to swing it." Gratefulness is implied in her tone that he doesn't ask to handle it. She doesn't even glance down to follow his finger; she knows he's right. Instead, she answers by drawing it, slowly enough to not provoke, pulling back on the locket of the scabbard in one tenth ratio to withdrawing the blade. First taking it in two hands, angling it forty-five degrees away from her body, she gently releases the pressure of her left hand pushing down, and rotates her right hand to rest partially palm up. Night Mist tilts forward precariously, then rocks back, settling into perfect equilibrium at the crossguard, balanced atop her index and middle fingers.     "It's as you say. The weight of the blade is counteracted by the tang running the full length of the hilt and an extremely dense metal ending. The unusually long grip, relative to your swords, allows principles of leverage to be used to maneuver it quickly, using the lead hand as a fulcrum, provided one has the sense for it. Furthermore, several techniques can only show their potential when the wielder wears armoured gloves, which are uncommon and difficult to make. In my homeland, it is seen as a weapon fit only for elite fighters, and one through which the fundamental quality of a martial artist may be easily seen; even though they might learn the use of multiple weapons, the talents they gather in doing so are inevitably at least partially applicable to wielding a sword such as this."
Lilian Rook	I'f Dame Rook would be so kind'     Lilian pauses. "I had expected a master of the swordsmith's art, but you've already surpassed my expectations by understanding so much at a glance." she says, inclining her head. So long as it doesn't agitate anyone, she walks close enough for Master Fu to better see, and turns the blade up to rest flat on both hands. The pitch black of most of the sword is obviously unusual, in that it only seems like black iron at a distance, blackened steel at middle distance, and something more like finely polished jet black glass. The amount of cleaning it'd take to shine as it does is nothing small to think about.     "Lodestone; or rather, the mineral found within it. It isn't ordinarily a material worthy of swords, but various wicked spirits are weakened by its touch, and its presence helps protect one from sorcery and curses. It obtained its current durability from being broken and reforged countless times, whereupon the powers that have stained the blade through its long use are folded into the metal, and strengthen it." It'd be difficult to actually see any signs of breakage, though. Not only due to the colour, but the fact that great care has been taken to etch intricate designs reminiscent of flowering vines along each fuller, tinted red where blackened steel would expose silver instead. The edges lose their colour as they narrow, becoming frosted-translucent, indeed like looking through misty crystal, probably to blame for the glassy sound it made as it was drawn.     "As far as swords go, it's not something I'd recommend without a pressing need to combat dark arts. The sheer hardness is excellent for penetrating armour, as well as tough scales and shells, but I must admit that it's an ungentle thing to use. One must be willing to absorb the full weight of every blow with their own body, as well; grounding in hand to hand fighting is necessary to achieve the ability to not harm oneself on an instinctual level, seeing as unarmed martial arts include techniques for receiving blows and avoiding damage to one's extremities already. Though this sword is beloved to me, a steel weapon would be preferable in most situations within 'the rivers and lakes'."     Lilian thinks on something for almost long enough for the pause to be impolite, then turns Night Mist over the edge of one palm and drops it partway to grasp the hilt, point down. "I'm afraid it has no magical properties of its own, save it being bane to certain enemies. It is merely an excellent medium for . . . qi, I suppose. Though only someone versed in the more esoteric arts would notice." She kinda doesn't want to be the one with the sword that can't shoot lightning, but she also clearly takes a certain kind of backward pride in it. An appreciator of simplicity, perhaps? Only the material is particularly exotic, and the etchings are the only embellishment. Even the grip wound over a solid metal handle is relatively understated.
Lilian Rook	'With such a shape, such a grip, the center here, and one edge... yes. Like so..'     Lilian's surprised stare transitions into one of open fascination. She has a moderate amount of experience with katana fighting; the two schools aren't tremendously similar, but they do have significant overlap. The fact that an old man who finds a two-handed grip to be novel, the way he intuits the intent of generations of swordsmiths just by touching it is so impressive that she doesn't even try to hide it. Her gaze wanders from Genbu, to examine the particulars of Master Hu's stance, weight, center of gravity, torque, recruitment, and grip; none of them leave her underwhelmed. "Very impressive." she says, as an obvious understatement. "I begin to understand the philosophy of the four major weapons, seeing this for myself."     ' I acknowledge the importance of your learning. However, the martial world has much better options available for you than the Tiger's Den.'     Well now she raises an eyebrow at Hong Li. So he's actually the hot-blooded starlet type, despite his demeanour. Everything about her gaze says 'how very fascinating'.     'Dame Rook, Chuyao He, would you accompany young Wrath and I to our forge?'     "I would love nothing more." Lilian says, brighter. The act of sheathing Night Mist is polished over a hundred thousand repetitions, so she thinks little of what it's like to see her reverse her her grip twice overhand in a single sweep and blind pivot it into the scabbard with a satisfying snap.
Chuyao He	In my homeland, it is seen as a weapon fit only for elite fighters, and one through which the fundamental quality of a martial artist may be easily seen; even though they might learn the use of multiple weapons, the talents they gather in doing so are inevitably at least partially applicable to wielding a sword such as this.     Master Fu strokes his beard, nodding thoughtfully. "A spear and a dao together in one weapon demonstrates several crucial skills. The management of space and weight, the alignment of an edge, the importance of the shoulders and hips. Put in such a way, it is little wonder the weapon has such a reputation."     Inspecting it more closely, his amethyst eyes are alight with quiet interest and fascinated appraisal; much like his swordwork, his eyes waste no movement either. "I see. I had thought it to be like Two Rivers, but... hm. Lodestone... to use it *with* something is one thing, but to make it entirely from that mineral... that must have taken a great deal of patience and care, for how brittle it must have been. It appears well-cared for, also."     "Had you not told me of its reforging, I would have been hard-pressed to see it--that would be the floral motifs, then... yes." He listens to her explanations of its differences compared to steel, nodding, his full attention given to her once his visual assessment of the sword up-close is done. "This office will take note of the properties of lodestone iron; if there are yet virtuous exorcists in these modern times, such a thing may prove useful. As a medium for sword qi, yours in particular must surely be all the more so; the precision which such a rigid weapon demands to align the edge is complemented very well with the breathing techniques for enhancing cutting action." He offers her a crisp fist-in-palm salute and a nod of his head.     "I, the master of the Pavilion, thank the Dame Commander for showing such a weapon."
Chuyao He	........     Along the way to the forge, Master Fu strikes up a bit of additional conversation. "The Dame Commander's school of swordwork is impressive in its novelty; in your sheathing alone, this old man was given to ponder. Dame Commander, young Wrath, what are the names of the type of swords these are, and, also, the names of *yours?*" He presumes that such weapons as those have names, as surely as rain comes from clouds. It just is a fundamental fact of the world; weapons specially made for certain purposes, aside from those of their peers in the same family, have names. That's just what I want the answer to be.      "A noble aspiration, but one which you recognize is an aspiration, and not a fact. This is preferable."     "Even your sword and Dame Commander Rook's, made according to disciplines this office has never seen before, have the same purpose--to be wielded. To wield a sword is to be willing to use it; to put its edge against your enemy until one of you submits, or is defeated, or is slain."     "Centuries ago, Gan Jiang and Mo Ye made swords for a petty tyrant; therefore, the first act that 'Gan Jiang, the sword,' was used for, was petty tyranny, killing the smith for daring to work the metal properly and unhurried. To say, 'it is for protection,' this is only true if it is wielded for such. If you made a sword for a murderer, then the sword is for murdering, and you have abetted such an act. Chuyao He's missive stated that you were aware of this. Given my doubts as to his character, I had to be sure. My apologies to you, and to the young scholar."     Chuyao shakes his head. "The venerable master caused no offense to this unrefined scholar. Rather, it is right and proper that those who have done harm carry the responsibility and the consequences for the harm done."     Master Fu nods. "Then, young Wrath, if you wish to be my student, this office shall give you a day to make a sword. The coal for the furnace is there," he says, gesturing towards a large tub with a calm sweep of his hand. "Junior brother Jia Haohao can provide you with ore, tools, and other materials. As you develop it, keep your responsibility as a smith in mind--make something worth being discerning in who shall be allowed to use it, regardless of the particular type you intend to make. If you wish, you may ask the other students to instruct you in how the straight sword or saber are made, if you are unfamiliar with these. If there are no questions, this office shall leave you to your work."
Lilian Rook	'I see. I had thought it to be like Two Rivers, but... hm. Lodestone... to use it *with* something is one thing, but to make it entirely from that mineral... that must have taken a great deal of patience and care, for how brittle it must have been. It appears well-cared for, also.'     "The story is that it was once only a simple knife, and became a sword by the constant addition of new material, each time it was broken. So much concentrated energy in a small item would risk it becoming cursed, but being diffused throughout a long blade allowed it to be worked into a state of harmonious equilibrium." Lilian says, ostensibly happy just to share the story. "As a thing that has grown, and that is damaged and restored stronger in cycles, I imagine the motif of climbing flowers reaching full bloom was something many saw as appropriate." she says, now tattling on herself a little. "I agree with it, in many more senses. A sword isn't meant to be an immutable crystallization of one idea. It's something built to be used. Things that are used should be able to change, whether through wear or innovation, or both."     'As a medium for sword qi, yours in particular must surely be all the more so; the precision which such a rigid weapon demands to align the edge is complemented very well with the breathing techniques for enhancing cutting action.'     Lilian holds down a laugh; even if it were for good reasons. "Goodness. Even talking about breathing techniques in the presence of what passes for the rivers and lakes where I'm currently stuck residing seems to only draw blank expressions or uncomfortable admissions to nothing but intuition. It's deeply refreshing to speak to someone who knows more." Finally, she gives up enough to just smile about it. She's energized.     . . . . . . . .     'The Dame Commander's school of swordwork is impressive in its novelty; in your sheathing alone, this old man was given to ponder. Dame Commander, young Wrath, what are the names of the type of swords these are, and, also, the names of *yours?*'     Let it not be said that Lilian isn't clearly interested in the forge itself. The fashioning of Night Mist is something she loves as a piece of mythopoetry, but she's had to learn things about construction very recently, in order to outfit her Trídéag Fixers. While scanning around, trying to learn what she can by mere sight first she answers gladly. "Claíomhmór. But it's just a way of saying 'great sword'. And . . ." Lilian twists her lips at the corner. "It's old enough that the style of writing has changed, though it's done so more quickly than here. There's some argument whether it would have been Dúnmharfóir san Oíche-Ceoch or Dubh-Ceobhrán Marfach, or whether they're simply sobriquet and casual names. The best translation in any language is 'Night Mist'. An allusion to its long use as a weapon most often used outside of the light of day, to slay the dark powers that prowl at night."     It isn't a reach or an afterthought, but a tightly intertwined impulse, that compels her to say, "I rather like 'Two Rivers'. In form, name, and imagery. It's reassuring that Jianya wields it both with seriousness and humility."     'To wield a sword is to be willing to use it; to put its edge against your enemy until one of you submits, or is defeated, or is slain.'     She wasn't asked. This isn't her topic. She doesn't need to be taught, much less evaluated. But Lilian can't help but say something as she walks, because this is a core fixation.
Lilian Rook	"A blade is something that divides in two. It can cut apart, to remove, but also cut open, to allow. If what is on either side of the edge is different, the blade separates, and diminishes. If both sides are the same, it differentiates, and expands. I think that even the philosophy that the purpose of a sword is determined on one's perspective and intentions doesn't touch the truth. If there is one, it must be close to 'the purpose of a sword is determined by what it cuts, and nothing else'."     There is a distinct sense that it's Wrath she's talking to, much more than Master Hu. Perhaps because he would already have considered this, in her mind. Or perhaps because it's something that she can share which seems more personal than most things, given present company. "Though I suppose that's simply a more specific way of saying 'its purpose is to be wielded', in the end, hah."     'Junior brother Jia Haohao can provide you with ore, tools, and other materials.'     "A day?"     Lilian can't help a little bit of emphasis. A tiny bit of shock, but intrigue at the ostensible unreasonability of the request. "If Wrath is to stay, then would it be an imposition of me to spend time here as well? It is so that I have begun to teach my own students, as my master has suggested I should one day. It would benefit both them and myself if I were able to test your students while I am here." A beat passes. "Not to mention, perhaps, it might satisfy Hong Li. I've no wish to overstate myself, but if he and any others like him are starved of novel experience, I would gladly put 'the seeking sword' to the test against 'the winter bloom'."     Stated to absolutely no one is the fact that this is the first time Lilian has ever asked to spar with anyone in her life. "And any others who might feel the same as him." she says, and glances at Wrath.
White	*Pre-Forge*      Hearing Lilian speak about her blade and associated technique seems to inadvertently hammer down several curiosities Wrath had been withholding quietly, even without being her primary audience. In particular, his eyes widen slightly in sudden understanding when the multidisciplinary needs of Night Mist in particular are specified, like something's slotted more neatly into place in his brain where before the proverbial cogs wouldn't quite fit together cleanly. "I hadn't thought of the connection with a spear... It's far outside of my comfort zone, so I wouldn't have put together the principle on my own. Umm, thanks, Dame Commander, Fu-sensei." With a sort of self-abasingly dull chuckle he muses, "I feel like if I get distracted for a second, I'll miss something important..." But, he seems just as relieved to have caught on at all. In direct, immediate practice of that musing, he's paying rapt attention when Lilian sheathes Night Mist, and he's so stunned he finds himself leaning left, trying to see more about the angle of the scabbard and the position of her fingers... But, damnit, he's too late. He can't just ask her to do it again, can he? Well... If he ends up begging her after hopefully surviving a day with Gebura... Maybe he'll catch it again then.      Later, along the way when asked about sword-names, Wrath seems to proverbially stumble a little bit, visibly unsure he's gathering the right inquiry from Fu's phrasing, but taking his best guess. "Ah, well, I'm still filling in the gaps for terminology, but- The broadest name is 'katana'. Gebura-san reminded me that uchigatana is more specifically correct, but if there is a name for the slight changes I've made in the dimensions of the blade... Well, I'm not aware of it yet. I... Began making swords before I could properly study them, so I hope you'll forgive my embarrassing lack of knowledge. I'm working on correcting that, though." He probably misses the importance of asking 'the names of *yours*', since he's already given the names of Genbu and Suzaku; he seems to be assuming that was more for Lilian.
White	*At the Forge*      Wrath takes being told, gently, that he spoke wrongly with a small nod and a brief closed-eye frown. The precise kind where you can tell he had a closer answer, but felt more strongly about the one he gave. "... Yeah. You're right. I twisted the premise, a bit." Hearing Lilian's own perspective on the question helps him reconcile the distance in answers, and whatever interpretation he reaches seems to encourage him slightly. A small breath in, a matching exhale, and he resets his posture, steels his gaze and nods again. Even if mostly for show to reassure Chuyao that his efforts today weren't wasted, he gives him a strong and clear-eyed look, then smiles the next moment. With the uncertainty peeling away his mannerisms change all too easily, and confidence soaks back into him bone-deep now that he has a Task to complete. "Thank you again, Jianya-san. I hope you don't mind if we talk again soon, and I complain a little about whatever I'm stuck on?"      Before the sentence is even finished, he's taking stock of the forge and unfastening his nice black jacket, taking it down two thirds of the way before shrugging his arms out of the sleeves and letting it hang from his waist. He's got what looks like a black silk vest on beneath the jacket, sleeveless and tight against his skin; someone with a keen eye might pick it out as strangely durable even, as if it were a very thin kevlar vest. Something White made for him, no doubt, since the boy isn't nearly as immortal and impervious as several of his allies are. Around his arms, particularly the shoulders and his forearms near the elbows, there are a number of hard-to-hide scars from burns, both flame and acid. Healed over, but not enough to disappear entirely. His palms are as calloused and his fingers covered in as many cut-scars as one might expect for a 'Sword Demon', but they're the least of his self-conscious woes. They're something to be prouder of than a pair of horns and sharp teeth.      But, with his arms bared, he's already drawing a small notepad from hidden space, scribbling out a small list of crude reminders. It's not a full outline of the process, he's not so effortless that he hasn't memorized at least the broad strokes enough to complete a work on his own volition, but he's putting a fine point on the things he knows will be time-sensitive before stowing the notes away again. Writing them, itself, was more the point it turns out. Hearing Lilian's shock over the time limit makes Wrath turn halfway back to her and laugh jovially, not mockingly. There might be a slight edge of suppressed mania too, but he's not gonna be the one to mention it! "Well, he probably just wants to see how far I can get, right? Remember that story Jianya-san shared? Everyone here will know rushed work doesn't work."
White	Wrath takes a moment to pick out Jia Haohao and politely, *excitedly* ask him the great favor of retrieving a relatively specific selection of tools and materials, rather than leaving it up to expectations and the judgement of another; he curiously requests less wood than might be anticipated for the task.      He finally turns back to Lilian with an apologetic hand-over-heart. "So either he wants to make sure I know it too, or he wants to see what I'm going to cut corners on, or he wants me to ignore the time limit and push myself. If it's the last one, then he'll tell me when I show him the day's work, right? He's a kind teacher, he's got something in mind." Maybe the sheer degree of trust he has in Fu's intentions should be worrying, but he's been swept up by Chuyao's kind educational tone and relish for growth, and he's seen how Fu speaks to his students too. He feels like... 99% sure that as long as he provides something informative of his abilities, even if it doesn't turn out well, that it will work out in the end. He's feeling so good, in fact, that he doesn't even stutter when he catches onto Lilian's glance and implication. "I was going to make a set of knives for Angela-san too. If you'd like a set as well, I'd be much obliged, as soon as I won't be distracted working on this!" The boy knows how to give a bribe already... And he sounds maybe a little too enthusiastic, for how nervous he was being around Lilian just this morning even.