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A simple mission, they said.
Nothing above, what could potentially be a fierce, they said.
This spirit, although of the troublesome sort that did nothing but serve to be an absolute nuisance, should take them less than an incense sticks worth of time to quell. Between two martial gods, such a thing is easily handled.
They fucking said.
Irritation has Feng Xin’s muscles pulled taut, and he has to flex his fingers to keep them from going numb, waiting from his perch nestled in a canopy of trees. Gilded golds and muted greens almost serve to camouflage him, matching the background in the now ebbing light of the setting sun.
Somewhere out there, is Mu Qing. They’ve exchanged no words since they split ways, but he’s out there, dandy with his predictably unbothered air about him. Even so, he lets his eyes close, and focus lets him probe at the lingering energy signatures until he finds it. A notably cold power some distance away, one that crackles a bit against his. He basks in it for a moment before wisely pulling back.
Wisely, he thinks, even though he knows the source thought about reaching back. Hovering close, as always, but never actually pursuing whatever hidden wants lay there.
Now really isn’t the time for that, anyway. Feng Xin needs to focus, needs his eyes and the perfect precision they gifted him with. He needs the rounds of experience solidified by eight hundred years of marksmanship to avoid missing his target. Being distracted by someone else’s essence does them no favors, even if this is more of a game.
A tiresome game of two dragons against a fucking mouse.
As annoying as it is, Feng Xin’s job is to lay in wait, his shoulders rolling in anticipation. He isn’t really sure what convinced him that playing like this was necessary, he’d rather spend time together elsewhere. But Mu Qing is particular, so particular in fact, that he made an argument in favor of wasting time. Not that Feng Xin can remember the words he used anymore.
Makes him wonder what about it was compelling at the time, if it was compelling at all. He might have just agreed to get Mu Qing off his case, following directions is easier when he doesn’t care. All he remembers is being angry, thinking Mu Qing arrogant, but that isn’t anything new.
He shakes his head, again. Because really, he normally has so much more focus than this. Stray thoughts have him in a bind and it’s Mu Qing’s stupid fucking fault frankly. The idiot, plus the things he conjures. A laundry list of shit that Feng Xin pretends he doesn’t care that much about sometimes.
A voice bubbles in the farthest corners of his mind, and Feng Xin finally manages to shove unnecessary thoughts aside. He brings his bow forward, reaching for his arrows and setting one in. Muscle memory lets him settle, pulling at the ready once he’s rested the arrowhead in the nock of his bow.
We’re coming, the voice murmurs with clear cut indifference Feng Xin has come to be able to pick up.
Feng Xin doesn’t bother answering, because he can both feel and hear it. Well trained ears catch the rustling of leaves, power rushing to the forefront. Heavy and cold, the both of them, but it’s nothing that Feng Xin busies himself being troubled over. For now, at least.
It’d be a lie to say he wouldn’t be checking for injuries once this stupid game was over, as well as give Ling Wen shit for her lackluster mission assigning this time around.
Out in the clearing just ahead of him, finally, a dark figure gets thrown clear across the field. It crashes ungracefully into the ground, uprooting flowers and whatever odd plant stood unfortunate to lay there. Puffs of dirt obscure his vision momentarily, leaving him squinting uselessly to get a better view. Until another black clad figure breaks free of the forest, landing cleanly.
From the tip of his arrowhead, Feng Xin can feel the pride that oozes of Mu Qing’s saber as he stands refined. His saber, hilt held tight against dexterous fingers, is covered in some dark substance, it marring the white blade.
Mu Qing himself looks rather indifferent, the sheer extent of his rage often reserved for their brawls. As the cloud of dust is swept away by the wind, the other figure--a rather stupid malicious ghost by Ling Wen’s standards--finally raises itself from the ground. The head on it’s shoulders lops over to one side, hanging loosely from the neck, looking positively grotesque at it leers at Mu Qing.
The fucker is taller than him, a feat in it of itself, donning a rather nice array of mouths along its body. Teeth clack, as it shudders.
Visibly, this thing is unafraid. Unafraid of one of the southern god’s of war. A mistake on its part.
Feng Xin readies himself again, tired of this game, sure he could take this thing out in one fell swoop when he hears Mu Qing call to him unexpectedly. His voice rings clean in their array.
Not yet.
Feng Xin’s lips immediately form a thin line.
What the fuck do you mean? Not yet?
On the impromptu battlefield, he can see Mu Qing readying himself again. He knows well enough, he’s seen it so many times. Meanwhile, in his ear, the asshole’s tone is crystal clear.
I mean, not yet. Or does the great Nan Yang ZhenJun have trouble following simple orders?
Feng Xin’s eyes narrow as the figure standing before Mu Qing lurches slightly, flopping head nestling into the crook of its chest. Morbid, ready to fall off, dead eyes rolling to look at Mu Qing who couldn’t look more disinterested if he tried.
And he knows the bastard is trying his utmost best, ineffable airs his strong suit.
Fine, you get one fucking shot. This thing lands one hit on you though and I’m pinning it to the floor and ending this. His answer comes gruff, staying his place, uninterested in lowering his weapon.
Even from his position, he manages to stop Mu Qing’s vague amusement. At what, Feng Xin can’t discern because he’s not actually looking at him. Something like that is too risky, it’d give away his position in a heartbeat if that thing is observant enough. Not that Feng Xin cares too much, in the end. Between the two of them, maybe it wouldn’t take two sticks time but it certainly wouldn’t take all fucking day.
Mu Qing just has a habit of needlessly over-complicating the shit out of things when he has the spare time.
When he finally charges forward, Feng Xin knows where he’ll hit first. Centuries worth of experience come back to him, watching Mu Qing, saber aimed and ultimately missing when the spirit evades.
That’s because he often starts with a test blow, a broad swing of his saber, holding no real intent to connect a hit but rather measure the speed and resistance of the enemy in question. Calculating eyes will observe, and in mere moments he’s moving again.
Delicate silk robes draped over a deceptively lithe looking body, Mu Qing often plays up his misleading appearance to his advantage if needed. Wide saber with an incredibly heavy weight, one well worked hands have carried since they were young. When he swings, he will often pour a predetermined amount of force into a hit.
Corded muscle he knows lies in Mu Qing’s legs allow him to thrust his weapon forward, then, drag it in a long sweep to the side when the move fails to land its mark. He uses the weight in the saber’s handle to carry large swipes down, reducing effort while maximizing effectiveness.
And if that doesn’t connect? Mu Qing taps into that all too readily available reserve of spiritual power to strengthen his grip, and at the last minute, correct the trajectory. His movements more akin to a dance than anything else.
While a farce, he’s almost grateful he gets to witness this side of Mu Qing since it’s not one he often sees. When the two of them clash, it’s with hands and bare teeth. Its growls and raw spiritual power until one of them is pressed into the ground under the weight of their own loss, still fighting anyway.
Feng Xin isn’t particularly good at swords fighting anyway, strength better suited to archery, but what he’d give to take Mu Qing on in his realm of expertise. Just to see what he’ll do, because Mu Qing is a lot of things, and one of those things is being neurotically thorough.
One hit lands, finally, when Mu Qing decides to stop being an asshole. And just as he’s readying to jam his way through the midsection, long tendrils spear out of the main body. Mu Qing throws himself clear out of the way of most of them, only to get nicked on his exposed right hand.
Feng Xin, no longer interested in waiting, lets an arrow fly immediately. Then another, in quick succession. One to pin teh stupid thing to a tree, and the other for good measure. Because why the fuck not.
Mu Qing finally casts him a glance, looking less than pleased, eyebrows furrowed deep.
Prick, I was in the middle of something.
Feng Xin makes a face, finding himself readying another arrow uselessly against the string before nailing the stupid fucking thing dead center. A third wasted arrowhead, with his power? Now that, he doesn’t have much of an excuse for.
He shrugs, watching as Mu Qing inspects the scratch to his knuckle before saying.
Shouldn’t have hurt my boyfriend.