Wei Wuxian's song shifts again, a little shriller, a little faster - honestly, it almost sounds like an old farmer's wife shooing away rogue chickens. The smoke dissipates as fast as it was called up, a last tendril snaking around Wei Wuxian before shooting off between the trees.

"It certainly isn't bad!" He announces cheerfully, spinning his makeshift flute between his fingers. "It'll probably take some tweaking to fine-tune it to its intended use, but it should actually..."

Something is still moving between the trees.

Something growls.

Oh. Um.

That wasn't supposed to happen.

Wei Wuxian whips around, holding his flute out like it's some sort of shield. It isn't. It's just force of habit.