Oct. 9th, 2023 09:43 am
open post: in a carefully staged pavilion
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peaklordshenShen Qingqiu is luxuriating in having his cultivation restored. He's also steeling himself for his next conversation with Luo Binghe, trying to engineer everything about it so he doesn't fucking die. The combination means he is being... maybe a little bit extra.
The Mansion's closets have a strange way of giving him the clothing he's used to; apparently both as Shen Qingqiu and—before that. He ignores the array of jeans and Naruto t-shirts and selects a set of fine silk robes in greens of deepening hue, so that the crossed layers at his throat imitate the sequential layers of a bamboo shoot: from forest green passing through spring green and jade to near-white as they reach his skin. He also takes great care with his hair and his guan—he can't look like a slob in front of the Emperor.
There are several beautiful Chinese-style pavilions on the Mansion grounds1, and he chooses one in the shadow of a blossoming cherry tree. The sun is high, painting dappled shadows across the floor of the pavilion as the blossoms sway in the breeze. He fetches a small writing table and sets it up on one side of the pavilion. Under it he tucks the congee, rescued from the rice cooker, which is...well, it can charitably be said to smell like it might be edible. As long as Binghe doesn't think he's being intentionally poisoned, maybe it'll be okay?
He takes great care with the invitation. He considers writing it with the very expensive pen Crowley had conjured for him, but it feels wrong, not to grind his own ink for it; disrespectful, somehow. Thankfully he keeps an extra brush and ink stone in the qiankun pouch in his sleeve. He crumples up several drafts before he's happy with his calligraphy,2 and decorates the edges of the page with bamboo leaves and elegant black lotuses.
If he were really doing this properly, he'd have taken the time to boil some cherry blossom petals, distill their steam into perfume, and then add it to the ink—but he'd felt like he was risking his life just going back into the kitchens for the congee. It's the most likely place for Luo Binghe to be, after all, since there's no throne room or audience hall here, and the whole point of the invitation in the first place is for them to meet on Shen Qingqiu's respectful and very much non-confrontational terms.
He folds the invitation and marks it with Luo Binghe's name and a small talisman that both seeks his former disciple and makes sure he's the only one who can open it. With a wave of his hand he sends it wafting away on the breeze, and then settles back. To wait. He has a small stack of parchment at his elbow, so when Luo Binghe arrives—or if anyone else should happen upon him—he can pretend he had something occupying him rather than just sitting here, paralyzed with anticipation.
1 As established by Temeraire.
2 This is definitely just him being obsessive and a perfectionist. As Peak Lord of the scholar's peak at Cang Qiong, Shen Qingqiu's calligraphy is impeccable. He's won contests.
The Mansion's closets have a strange way of giving him the clothing he's used to; apparently both as Shen Qingqiu and—before that. He ignores the array of jeans and Naruto t-shirts and selects a set of fine silk robes in greens of deepening hue, so that the crossed layers at his throat imitate the sequential layers of a bamboo shoot: from forest green passing through spring green and jade to near-white as they reach his skin. He also takes great care with his hair and his guan—he can't look like a slob in front of the Emperor.
There are several beautiful Chinese-style pavilions on the Mansion grounds1, and he chooses one in the shadow of a blossoming cherry tree. The sun is high, painting dappled shadows across the floor of the pavilion as the blossoms sway in the breeze. He fetches a small writing table and sets it up on one side of the pavilion. Under it he tucks the congee, rescued from the rice cooker, which is...well, it can charitably be said to smell like it might be edible. As long as Binghe doesn't think he's being intentionally poisoned, maybe it'll be okay?
He takes great care with the invitation. He considers writing it with the very expensive pen Crowley had conjured for him, but it feels wrong, not to grind his own ink for it; disrespectful, somehow. Thankfully he keeps an extra brush and ink stone in the qiankun pouch in his sleeve. He crumples up several drafts before he's happy with his calligraphy,2 and decorates the edges of the page with bamboo leaves and elegant black lotuses.
If he were really doing this properly, he'd have taken the time to boil some cherry blossom petals, distill their steam into perfume, and then add it to the ink—but he'd felt like he was risking his life just going back into the kitchens for the congee. It's the most likely place for Luo Binghe to be, after all, since there's no throne room or audience hall here, and the whole point of the invitation in the first place is for them to meet on Shen Qingqiu's respectful and very much non-confrontational terms.
He folds the invitation and marks it with Luo Binghe's name and a small talisman that both seeks his former disciple and makes sure he's the only one who can open it. With a wave of his hand he sends it wafting away on the breeze, and then settles back. To wait. He has a small stack of parchment at his elbow, so when Luo Binghe arrives—or if anyone else should happen upon him—he can pretend he had something occupying him rather than just sitting here, paralyzed with anticipation.
1 As established by Temeraire.
2 This is definitely just him being obsessive and a perfectionist. As Peak Lord of the scholar's peak at Cang Qiong, Shen Qingqiu's calligraphy is impeccable. He's won contests.
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1 He won't - at least not in the flirtatious way. Not that he's uninterested, somewhere deep under it all, but he is, as Sagramore has surmised, thoroughly distracted.
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