Jin Ling glares with equal skill, and Wei Wuxian looks about as cowed as one would expect a capable adult (more or less) to look when faced with an apparent teenager's wrath: which is to say, he doesn't look intimidated in the slightest. Speculative, certainly. Were he younger, or trying to make a point after having been slighted or wronged, he might have pressed. As none of that was presently the case, he simply smiles, and repeats: "A-Jiu, then!"

Call him uncle, call him nine, call him long, it didn't much matter to Wei Wuxian. No, what matters are those bowls, ready to be brought back to yet another cupboard.

"I have no idea what half those things are," he says, tipping his head toward the cutlery in the baskets next to the stacked bowls, "But they go in all the drawers near where you entered. Why does one of them look like some kind of farming tool?"

Forks. What were they even.