✦ ɪ ᴀᴍ ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴡᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴋɴɪғᴇ. @divitaclara - Tumblr Blog

an independent, private & extremely low activity single-muse, roleplay blog for AJAX " CHILDE " TARTAGLIA from genshin impact. portrayal is based within media and psychological analysis, and extrapolation ( meta / reasonably integrated headcanon ). this portrayal has been developed and written since 2022. analyses and headcanons are entirely original, divorced from popular fandom interpretation, even if fandom has convergently evolved the same understanding.

Please take the time to review the regulations below the read-more in full before following and proceeding with any interactions.

#pinned.#graphics credit: @bogachs / icon art credit: @kaidenchii_ / banner art credit: @pneech_

[ 🕊️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen did they feel the safest ? & [ 🩸 ]ㅤ.ㅤis there something or someone that, if lost, would break them ? & [ 📜 ]ㅤ.ㅤis there a story they love sharing with others ? !

✦ Headcanon Questions

when did they feel the safest ? — In the cradles of youth — where a boy was only a boy and had yet to earn his spurs as a man — did Childe feel the most safe. There was hardly a worry in the world for Ajax then. With a hearth kindling stalwart in his home, a roof overhead that shielded him from relentless snow, and a full belly — any of life’s trials where that of simple survival ; survival guided by a fatherly hand, and a life guarded by kin. Ajax was cushioned as a child, for his milquetoast temperament was that of cherishable innocence. Innocence that should be preserved in ice, until it slowly thaws in midsummer heat, and blooms into dignity. For as little as his world was kept, his mind would be nursed upon stories of grand adventures, which stoked ambition in his heart. Though those tales were perilous, the danger was a mere figment of the imagination, as the glory of the adventure would outshine any threat. There was nothing to be afraid of. That was before he ever set out for the forest, on that fateful day. Before danger ever made itself a formidable beast, then worthy foe. But is there any reason to feel unsafe now? There isn’t. Not when he is as sharp as a blade, as strong as steel — and many take care to avoid being pierced alive by him. Childe exudes such dangerous confidence now. Yet it was having such child-like bliss ripped from the clutches of the innocence that butchered safety. There will never be such safety quite like those bygone days of halcyon memory.

is there something or someone that, if lost, would break them ? — Teucer, Anton, Tonia — all people that Childe has vowed to protect ; to preserve the innocence of. Be it losing their lives, or their innocence, it is a notion that raises the hairs along his skin. A nightmare that he does not want to deign the thought of. For as their shield, Childe stops at nothing to keep them safe — even if it means keeping them ignorant ; obscuring any morbid truths of the world by coddling their imaginations. There are barricades upon barricades to prevent any harmful possibility, even from the necessary evil that is his own deception. To lose them would gut him, and sprawl his innards out with ire. Not for what had robbed them, but ire for himself. For failure of safeguarding them, letting their innocence be mutilated ; failure to be the illustrious knight they had so thought of him to be. How could he ever look them in the eyes again? How could he ever gaze at his own reflection? Shame is a toxic wash that rusts the allure of his illusions, exposing underneath the ugly fangs of a killer that soothed them lies, and the weak and fragile heart that delusionally believed it was strong enough to keep them safe. Childe would find no forgiveness for himself. A blade to the heart would be the only penance.

is there a story they love sharing with others ? — There are many a story that Childe tells, all regaled with never-ending vigor and enthusiasm ; pride and glory over experiences that were once only dreams. No matter the peril of the tale, living to tell it another day is one of the greatest joys to ever be had. One such tale is the duel with the Outlander — a clash where two like minds had collided with one another ; something as rare as two passing stars in the night. It were as if something that was once lost — or something he never had was found in that skirmish. Yet there are stories that equally are not told. All carefully omitted into inexistence. Never has a soul been told about what transpires within the cracks of the earth. What horror laid upon young such eyes and what violence burrowed deep into bones ; too vile for any humanity to thrive within. The fantastical makes for a better narrative, and shapes a better man.

#✦ ʜᴄ ⋯ ᴀᴄᴄᴇssɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʀᴀɪɴ.#Thank you for sending friend!

✦ aesthetics compilation [ 2 / ??? ]

#✦ ᴀᴇs ⋯ ʀᴇғʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴs ɪɴ ɪᴄʜᴏʀ ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴄᴇ.

They lay in the gentility of the grass after an intense bout of sparring, leisurely catching their breaths whilst observing the darkening hues of the evening sky. After a brief moment of shared, comforting stillness, Kazuha eases himself upright, resting his weight on one elbow as snow-white hair frames the delicate curve of his visage. He leans down slightly towards his companion, and watches how Childe’s exhaustion paints his freckled cheeks a rosy-pink, rendering his boyish features all the more charming. At the sight, fondness swells within the samurai gaze, akin to a claret-colored flower in bloom, “ You are very handsome. ” he mutters softly, his words thickly accented. Childe blinks once, twice, ere a warm chuckle bubbles up from the back of Kazuha’s throat, “ Does it surprise you so? Can a poet not be forthright in expression? ” The corner of his mouth quivers in a playful grin, leaning further down to whisper his next verses in a breath, one gently caressing the Harbinger’s features, as if the moon had landed on his lips. “ Then, let me rephrase: ‘In a dream I saw you— / beautiful in winter's pride. / So fierce was that sight / that the chambers of my heart / burned brighter than any dawn.' "

His chest dips and swells together with the distant beachgrass, whipped by seabreeze. Trickling beads of sweat still cling to his skin, following vigorous clashing of blades ; an entanglement of elements, where their hearts danced — beating so fast and alive upon thrills and adrenaline — a tango between two kindred warriors. Exhaustion laps at his muscles, and so Childe’s breaths slow to shallow repose. An odd moment where he lay down arms, cast aside wartorn armor, and shed all veneers. His companion, the sole beholder of that boy exposed bare underneath ; alone in this world of mundanities — audacious and troublemongering — with his gaze ever affixed above the horizon and beyond the tapestry of stars, seeking to topple the world on its very axis. Though most would never see, through eyes wrought with tears when pinned underheel at his might, Kazuha was unafraid of that blood-bathed beast. Even drawing closer to admire him. Surprise strikes Childe’s unguarded countenance upon hearing something so unfamiliar, and yet so genuine. Ensnared in that net of hair and captivated by that silk croon, a crescent of a smile glitters across the surface of his features, and he laughs so boisterously. ❝ Hah! How splendid of a sight to see. ❞ His blemished hands take in — graceless and firm at its calloused grip — Kazuha’s jaw, and his thumbs stroke over lily-like cheeks. The waver of Childe’s Adam's apple and planted gaze betrays his rapture, the hollowing yearning of a parched man before a goblet that drips from parted teeth. ❝ But a dream is a dream. Isn’t it a tease to only see but to not feel? Now — if you would allow me to be so forthright. ❞ In a heartbeat, that brazen boy takes a reckless plunge ; submerging himself in the depths of sweet union of lips — and sinking indulgently, like deadweight searching the ocean’s sands for home in a tranquil grave. Suffusing ardor through the tidal exchange of tongues, and only ‘til airless do the rolling waves recede to breathe. Childe’s hands trail down to take perch upon Kazuha’s shoulders, drawing into embrace and brushing noses, as he savors the salt of their kiss.

#✦ ɪᴄ ⋯ ᴇᴀsʏɢᴏɪɴɢ sɴᴇᴢʜɴᴀʏᴀɴ ᴋɴɪɢʜᴛ.#bushiido.

genshinmp3

Visit Original Link

All-Conquering Tide from The Shimmering Voyage Yu-Peng Chen, HOYO-MiX

#tbt.

✦ Headcanon : Dynamics Within Childe’s Family

As we know, Childe has an incredibly large family — consisting of [two] older brothers, [two] older sisters, Childe himself, Tonia, Anthon, and Teucer. Childe’s relationship with the youngest three are well documented in canon, but there is not much information about his older brothers and sisters, and neither his parents. I want to talk loosely about Childe’s relationships with his older siblings, and as well as his parents and briefly later parental figures here.

Unified by the care of their youngest sibling, Ajax’s elder brothers and sisters doted upon him, truly. Where mother and father couldn’t tend to their youngest son, the eldest possessed him within their duties ; his sisters combed his knotted hair when dirtied, read him stories before bed — his brothers indulged him in fantasy play, and protected him from other children when his timidity would be attacked. Ajax would look to them for comfort and security when there would be none elsewhere. Yet gradually, a fissure grew between them all. Childe became estranged from his eldest siblings. Many of them now have grown too large and gone to roost elsewhere beyond the seaside hamlet of Morepesok. However, these fissures were not caused by the passage of time or when his siblings left for new horizons. These cracks erupted over night. It was when their youngest disappeared one day, descending them into a frightening unknown — and then reappeared, a different boy from the one they knew before. What was once a humble way of living became fraught with disorder. They reconsidered : no, what came back from the forest that one day was not their brother, nor a boy, but a wild beast that fought tooth and nail, unprovoked. His mother and sisters could only stand by in horror, as his brothers attempted to tame the creature that ate at the same dinner table as them. But this petulant animal would not be subdued so easily. The quarrels at home were as incessant as the ones that sprung outside with the villagers. Even the deft hands of the Fatui were no match, and the eyes of his siblings averted, for they could no longer gaze upon their dear, little brother. It wasn’t an honor for him to be plucked by the Fifth — it was a relief.

Childe’s eldest siblings still linger on his mind, with mere curiosity of their whereabouts and successes, as he tends to the imaginations of his younger, starry-eyed sister and brothers. Those days of differences flash in passing thought, stoking cinders of discontent, for they had turned their backs on their youngest and deserted him in a crucial moment of wanted recognition, of coveted familiarity. He feels that the disdain that his eldest siblings hold for him is a wrong, as the Tsaritsa’s banner soars overhead and how his barbarity now serves for the good of the great land of Snezhnaya.

Every day at sundown, when Ajax would return from long days of ice fishing, his mother greeted him — pulling him into her arms and planting soft pecks on his speckled cheeks. Raising the fish in his hand, Ajax would proudly show her any of the day’s catches, and his mother lauded him as her most dutiful son. With the fishes that he caught, she prepared dinner, and over dinner Ajax recounted all the stories that his father had told him ; insisting that one day he would venture out into the unknown too. She had hope that he would some day. And that day came sooner than expected. He vanished, and for three days, his mother had gnawed her nails raw in worry. She never knew what had become of her child, nor whether he was dead or alive. All she wished for was to hold her son in her arms once more. Her son would be found by her daughters, and what she took into her clutches was not a boy she knew. The next days were spent feeding that thing ; looking on in terror as her other sons aimed to pacify its hunger for bruises. Her eyes were as dry beaches when Fatui officers came to assess and relieved her of it.

In spite of the scars left behind, Childe’s mother still embraces her son. With caution in her eyes, hesitation at her arms, and trembling kisses — she quivers : ❛ I’m proud of you, my brave knight. ❜ She still offers dinner and a bed for her son, but she turns away from him, never keeping that uncanny man in her sights. Childe basks in her endless hospitality and treats her as he always has since he was a boy, with meticulous grace. Yet he notices how their gazes never meet ; he notices the tension and tremors in her hands when she clutches him ; he notices the silent tears that stream down her crestfallen face, as she mourns the loss of her gentle son. For her sake, he never worries her with his affairs. Allowing her to cling to the boy that she once knew and loved, rather than the stranger that parades her son’s face.

As the sun first peaked over the horizon, Ajax’s father would gently wake him, calling to his son from slumber to leave and fish with him as early as the whales breached with their young. His father taught him everything that he could know about their snowy land — its flora and its fauna — its beauty and its hostility — and how to survive it. Illuminating him to the ways of Morepesok’s people, from chopping lumber to foraging berries ; maintaining rifles to hunting game ; chiseling through the ice of the deepest lakes to butchering with precision their catches. Their bond was not only that of passing survival on to the next generation. It was on those frozen lakes, between the long waits of biting fish, that Ajax’s father threaded their bond closer. He regaled his son with his adventures from the past, and the great triumphs of heroes in legends. His imagination would be whisked away by those awe-inspiring tales, swelling his small world in mythical detail, and his heart yearned deeply. That was the life that he coveted : one of boundless adventure beyond this hovel in the snow ; wishing that, someday, he would become one of the very heroes in those stories. His father imparted living to his boy, and he also imbued into him what to strive for. Perhaps becoming like those heroes would make his father proud.

As if that wish had been hooked onto a pole and cast out into the oceans of constellations, fate’s whims broke open the maw of hungry earth and swallowed that boy whole to grant that very wish. Deep within the Abyss of the planet, where the branches of dreams fall and wither at the twisted roots of nightmares ; survival no longer were matters of the mundane, but blood-curdling trials on an ever dire scale — where to die was in the slain carcass of the self and to live was to be reborn in the placenta of strife. Nourishment only bred the bottomless appetite for more, more conflict, more havoc, more conquest. And when Ajax crawled out from that hole in the barren snow, that is what he craved. The world now lay at his soles as something to be challenged, as something to be conquered. His return heralded horror and antagonism that ached the hearts of youths and adults alike. There Ajax’s father would find him at the nucleus of every dispute — unscrupulous and quenching reforged strength in the tears of others. At the sight of his father, a smile scrawled itself upon Ajax’s ragged features, silently yet eagerly screaming : look at me and what I’ve become — a man worth being proud of. His father never averted his gaze, only seeing what was once a lamb now a snaggle-toothed wolf snarl at him. The sorrow of seeing his dear son mangled burrowed deeply upon his face. He called upon the Fatui, hoping to quell and scavenge what could be left of his son.

Maybe it is due to the much undeserved troubles churned by his son taking its toll, but now Childe’s father lies ill and bedridden. Medicine is a frequent purchase of Childe’s, an obligatory favor from son to father. On return trips to home, every night Childe takes to his father’s bedside, apprising him of his duties and ordinary escapades in distant lands ; omitting that of the heart racing battles and formidable foes he faces, but not erasing the glory he has brought to the motherland. Taking his father’s hand into his, Childe’s eyes beseech his father’s evermore : please look at me and what I’ve become — a man worth being proud of. And all that echoes in his father’s eyes is disappointment and silent rancour, for forsaking the innocent dreams of his beloved son. Without a ❛ goodnight ❜, Childe leaves his father’s side to dissolve those moments of bittersweet nostalgia in the dark.

In the aching absence of that once true bond, Childe unknowingly searches for shadows of his father ; starving for glimmers of acceptance in the gazes of his superiors, the Fifth and the Ninth. Kneeling to their every beck and call as a hound would, ready to satisfy, and eager for gracious praise from its master to be doled out. So desperate for the warmth of blood to embrace his true nature.

#✦ ʜᴄ ⋯ ᴀᴄᴄᴇssɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʀᴀɪɴ.

closed starter for @bushiido.

The night was clear, unclouded and dark of any illumination that would outshine the stars that distantly flickered candle-like. The soft roar of flames and crackling pops of immolated wood united with the choir of midnight cicadas’ crepitation, all offering melodious life and lullabies to an otherwise still night. He laze by the campfire, lit half-moon and warmed by the blazes of the fire. Night still cast on his back, ghosting a summer’s cold breath across his diaphanously dressed back that felt as distinctive as oil in water to the reposeful heat. His clothes still clung to his skin, dampened earlier from oceanic escapades, and here by the fire that they had stoked to life together he would dry by the heat. Childe’s eyes rest shut, with only occasional flutters of his lashes to disrupt the pacific countenance strange for a known Harbinger like himself.

A deep inhale would stir Childe, flushing a faint and benign consciousness to his features after he had dipped into shallow sleep. One eye of his opened to peek to his left under heavy eyelids and uneven bangs to catch a glimpse of his kindred warrior, vigilant and offering tender care to a hand that he had never seen bare before. The edge of Childe’s brow raises in intrigue and his posture shifts upright, though still languid in movement and weight. Supporting himself all on one hand, his other hand reaches out across his abdomen to seize just what had caught his fancy.

Childe’s hand, once fair and attractive, now disfigured — bent and knotted from repetitive breaks of the bone and dislocations of the joints, and negligently healed ; blushed by bruises of new and old acquisition — shadows over Kazuha’s. Without the usual garb of rustic bandages and with the fresh bandaging incomplete, he could now behold all the features of the rōnin’s trained, formidable, hands. A slender and crooked finger of Childe’s traces along the venous scarring that raised Kazuha’s dermis to soft peaks of an eroded mountain range that reached across the entire plane. His finger traverses upwards the backside of the wrist and over the metacarpals to the knuckles. His other digits descend upon and invite themselves between the crooks of Kazuha’s fingers, just below the faces of the knuckles. Childe’s hand fully eclipses Kazuha’s, perhaps uncomfortably so with the uneven juts of his marred fingers. Yet the satin glove that dresses his hand cushions such juts and prevents rough calluses from chafing skin. Childe rotates both of their palms skyward, having pursued the trail of familiar scarring.

Apart Kazuha’s hand gently comes, pried open like a clam to unveil its hidden pearl : smooth skin that appears to have been melted repeatedly ; sloughed across the palm, like hot wax trickling down before it solidified in place from cooling air. This was a process characteristic of fierce surges of electricity. Tartaglia knows, from the Delusion that rains down violent lightning upon anyone unfortunate enough to be its witness. His lips curl up and he is covertly boastful with his query, ❝ Is this a prized keepsake of yours? ❞

Childe is brazen, yet only inquisitive. Scars are cherished possessions. Symbolic of a warrior’s triumph to surmount the throes of combat and challenge. Without the title of ❛ Tartaglia ❜ and the blessings bestowed unto him by his sovereign, scars were all that he had to exhibit his pride when blades were sheathed. Much to his admiring gaze, Kazuha was adorned by them. He was familiar to some, ones that were obtained as a wanted fugitive. Childe’s hold loosens and his fingers rest to cup the rōnin’s. ❝ You’ve pointed out many a mark on your body to me, and all with stories to accompany them. Yet — I don’t think I’ve ever had the delight of seeing this one. ❞

#✦ ɪᴄ ⋯ ᴇᴀsʏɢᴏɪɴɢ sɴᴇᴢʜɴᴀʏᴀɴ ᴋɴɪɢʜᴛ.#bushiido.

bushiido

Divitaclara asked:

“ I really cannot express my gratitude enough that you would accept my initiation to visit my home and country, Kazuha. ” Childe rest sedately at the far side of the den, speaking softly over a room as quiet as night and as still as ice in the early morn; with the residents — отец, мама, Тоня, Антон, Тевкр — still fast asleep. Only they stay up through the evening and night, although without vigilance as they chat away as if making up for lost time together. The light of dawn barely breeches the room, and the fire upon the hearth simmers. “ Visitors here are seldom, and that is so because of the trek. That's why I'm grateful you made the journey. But it's no skin off your back, right? ” He jest, with a little sense of pride that his companion enjoyed every step of the way here by his accounts. Some odd weeks ago a letter had come into his possession, heralding the fruit of a proposition he had given his companion long ago. It took careful orchestration, but he made certain that he'd have time to meet in everwinter's land. Something that he so eagerly awaited for, for what felt like an eternity now all condensed to a blink of the eye. In ever-present chill that creeped its way under skin and bone, Childe's expression was resolute of warm, homespun hospitality and ebullience to his words. “ And it's quite fortuitous that you're here around this time of year! Some of the earliest snow falls around this time. It's rather special that this is the time of year that you were born as well.” Childe hops to feet, light and fleet-footed as to not cause any commotion, but still to display a tireless eagerness in motion. In just a few steps he was before Kazuha— “ There's a spot I want to take you to that's most beautiful at dawn to commemorate today, the day of your birth. ” —to cordially invite him once more with a graceful, outward extension of his hand, “ Kazuha — will you, please, accompany me? ” ( Birthday date offer for the birthday boy, Kazoooo~ Pardon the roughness of the writing. )

❛❛ It is my pleasure to discover new locations on my travels. You need not thank me, I came willingly. ❜❜

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞'𝐬 𝐚 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐭𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦, soothing and peaceful, as they sit by the window, exchanging little discussions wedged ‘tween pleasant stretches of quiet. They’ve had come-and-go conversations over the last half-hour whilst the pre-dawn blackness gave way to deep blue, the two of them speaking less on impulse, and more on the ebb and flow of mild inquisitiveness for one another— and there is a contentment to be found in casual acquaintanceship. Throughout his days as a fugitive in his homeland, spent fleeing from prying eyes and the vehemence of hunters, every meeting seemed dire and needless if it did not serve a purpose. It feels now, to Kazuha, a privilege to indulge in a connection like this: inconsequential, and pursued for the simple sake of wanting companionship.

Garnet eyne gaze at the hills, at the bare trees, at the frostbitten flowers sparkling under morning light, immortalized in time ; here and there the cold silk canvas of the snow was piled magnificently on the pines. It also lay thick on the icy surface of the nearby river, but curiously, there were places where there was no snow at all, and where the pond was boldly daubed with great, white patches akin to the clouds in an ornamental painting. As he goes to take another sip of his warm beverage, he could spy a thick-furred fox burrowing its winter home into the soft soil.

❛❛ Snow gives all of us a youthful feeling. And would it be quite untrue to say that I, who still had not reached my thirtieth birthday, now felt some youthful stirring within me? ❜❜ The rōnin answers lightly, turning his attention back to his companion. There is a boyish glint within dead-sea hues, the fire illuminating the copper of his hair and the freckles on his cheeks, the slight redness of the tip of his nose. Domesticity suited him, he thought, thus did fondness seeps into the softening of the wanderer’s expression, etching itself into a smile that did not seem to falter nor fade, like a mead of poppies burgeoning ‘pon the roric ruins of his being, ❛❛ As it descended mildly from the sky without any interruption on my way here, bathing me within it, I forgot the kinks of anxiety in my heart and seemed to return to some more gentle spiritual rhythm— as if I were being bathed in music. It’s a good feeling. ❜❜

Yet as they gave themselves over to such wishful thinking of normalcy, the both of them knew they were ill-suited for such a tranquil way of life ; their hearts were enraptured by a wild fancy, reminiscent of a couple of trapped birds fluttering to break loose— they needed to run, to escape, to hound the elusive beast of freedom. As they each went about their rapid journeys, their encounters were brief, but of great consequence: they offered one another a gracious reprieve from the tumult of their self-imposed reality. The simmering fire of the hearth blossoms to nostalgia, reminds Kazuha of the way Childe’s looks in the dimming embers of a campfire: he recalls with longing that the smell of the grass and of the night trees had been an indispensable part of his desire— in their own globe, stripped from their burdens, the two of them were whatever they wanted to be. More often than not, that is nothing but birds in the trees, seashells gracing the shoreline, the sand written by the waves.

❛❛ I am grateful for your family's generosity, and for the warmth of your home. ❜❜ He mutters after a moment of silent contemplation, closing both eyes and bowing slightly. Upon reopening them, he is greeted with an extended hand and the Harbinger's wild gaze, wild grin. Such grand self-confidence stirs up memories of Isamu ; men like them live drunk off luck and looks, destined to fall— to be a warrior was to forge ever upward toward the peak of manhood, there to die amid the white snows of that peak. Without a care, they pave their ways to a higher degree of purity, to a nobler level of tragedy ; only heartbreak awaits for those getting involved with the likes of such ilk at the end of the road, Kazuha knew, all the same he takes his hand, feeling bold and daring, a sensation that his company never ceased to arouse within him. Childe was drenched in the arrogance and theme of a blazing man set afire by his own passion, marching ever forward towards his doom, and like a moth to the light Kazuha treads on his heels, eager to transcribe his myth not through vacant language and empty poetry, but through his own flesh, his own soul.

❛❛ Lead the way, I shall follow. ❜❜ He seals this oath as if it were a breath, tenor dulcet-sweet.

⸻ Perhaps it is only human to gravitate towards what destroys us.

#✦ sᴀᴠᴇᴅ ⋯ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴏʀᴇᴅ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀɪᴇs.#ough... they're so painfully precious to me...

rakuychi

ありがとうスネージナヤ😭

再掲‼️

X: @rakuychi

#✦ ɪᴅ ⋯ sᴛɪʟʟ ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀs ʀᴜɴ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ.#Absolutely love these.#I love artwork that depicts Childe with his younger self — what he was and what he aspired to be — juxtaposed to what he became.#I love whale fall imagery for Childe to. I love it as representation for the desecration of the self.

✦ aesthetics compilation [ 1 / ??? ]

#✦ ᴀᴇs ⋯ ʀᴇғʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴs ɪɴ ɪᴄʜᴏʀ ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴄᴇ.

bushiido

#𝐁𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐈𝐃𝐎 is a highly private, selective writing blog on permanent, extremely low-activity portraying KAEDEHARA KAZUHA, the wandering samurai, from mihoYo's genshin impact. mused since august 2021 and re-established in 2026. characterization is based on personal headcanons and diverge significantly from his canon counterpart, based primarily on historical influence ( edo period, zen buddhism, haiku, etc. ) unaffiliated with any fandom. please ♡ or ↻ if you are interested in interacting!

#!!!!!! it's the boyfriend!!!!!!#Follow Childe's boyfriend or else they're both coming to get you

pneech

christening

#✦ ɪᴅ ⋯ sᴛɪʟʟ ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀs ʀᴜɴ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ.#This is genuinely so beautiful. I love the symbolism behind this

lavender03

The abyss changes you

#✦ ɪᴅ ⋯ sᴛɪʟʟ ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀs ʀᴜɴ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ.#I'm sorry to this artist for reblogging this once every few years but this is a forever fav and always relevant to my portrayal

bogachs

The Regrator patiently waits for him at the base of the grand staircase, which ascends gracefully to the left and right of the palatial, circular entrance hall, the latter bordering on sacrilegious in its Fontainian-neo baroque opulence of bas-reliefs and gold. Shimmering chandeliers dangle above like low hanging fruits, whilst sumptuous rugs are weighted down by ornate furnishings upholstered with brocade. Upon every surface, treasures gleam in the shafts of light that pierce through arched windows ; ormolu clocks, sculptures, jewel-encrusted vases, the impeccably carved walls decorated with life-sized victorian style portraits and framed detailed oil paintings of Teyvatian landscapes. To a great many of Petrichor’s citizens, Vincent Voclain’s manor— which was situated high up the city where the air is cool and fresh, the outlook broad and beautiful, and where there is silence in the heart of business,— is a monument to Teyvat’s most illustrious artisans, with an interior he himself had meticulously designed ; a delicate marriage between traditionalism and modernism, and gold, so much gold, spilled and sprinkled so that the rooms shine with it.

Tartaglia appears marginally less misplaced amidst such obscene extravagance in the aftermath of preening himself. Polished light reflects on his rosy-freckled cheeks, a replication of his defunct boyish self, as he descends the red-carpeted steps with a leisurely gait. In tandem to the porcelain paleness of his now blemishless visage, he assembles quite impeccably the illusion of a charming foreigner of patrician pedigree. At the sight of him, Pantalone hums his approval as he pivots towards the entrance. ❛❛ You shall get the opportunity to peer along the sights. Nonetheless, you ought to remain at my side, this shall facilitate matters. I do not wish for you to go running off now lest you lose your way ⸻ i have more important matters to concern myself with than supervising you. ❜❜

He pushes in through the heavy wooden doors of the estate leading to the spacious front area, thus guiding Tartaglia to stride past well-organized and well-arranged extractions of the world and life ; immaculately trimmed boxwoods demarcate the main pathway from the meandering steps of the hedged gardens. Shy rockfoils blossom in the flower beds, as cecilias and qingxin stretch in their yawning white in the low flocking shapes of pale groundcover blooms. The thick, waxy foliage sparkles in the glow of the setting sun, where purple and green, yellow and dark blue, all throbbed and boiled up and seemed like a single color in which now saffron and vermilion was the dominant hue. Once they reach the end of the path, he circumnavigates a rotunda of rosebushes ere proceeding outward to a section of topiaries, clipped into unobtrusive shapes, beyond which looms the main iron gate. The crudely cut silhouette of an attendant lounging about in the shade stands next to it, who promptly adjusts his posture dramatically upright and rushes to open the gate the moment he sees Pantalone and his guest approaching. « Bonne soirée, Mr. Voclain. » the man intones in fontainian with a courteous bow of his head as they carry onwards towards the city.

A sky-line cab awaits them further on. The driver offers them a reverential bow as well, his eyes somehow drawn to Tartaglia’s unfamiliar features.

« Souhaitez-vous vous rendre en ville, Mr. Voclain? »

❛❛ Conduisez-nous sur la place principale. ❜❜

« Bien sûr, Mr. Coclain. Installez-vous, je vous prie. » the man turns around hastily and begins shouting to the engineers operating the railing system, « Un taxi en direction de la Place Principale du Centre de la ville, et plus vite que ça ! »

❛❛ Come along. ❜❜ The banker beckons the Eleventh Harbinger over as he enters the cabin, settling himself comfortably on the downy seats. The instant the metal door closes behind Tartaglia, the cabin begins its languid descent through the thin cocoon of clouds, swaying to the music of gears scraping unto steel rails. Through the windows, numerous other cabs and light airships could be seeing eclipsing the sky in a twisting maelstrom, weaving to and fro like a haze of insects with the largest amongst them, ‘La Baleine’, dominating the horizon like a great seabeast made of copper and alloy, its snout piercing the dark autumn dusk in a trailing plume of steam — a grand procession of Fontaine’s as yet unparalleled technology.

Their ride comes to a halt near the central basin of the main plaza. One of the loafing men at the corner, noticing who is in the cab, dashes forward to open the door in the hope of earning a few coins, but is elbowed away by another loafer, who has rushed up with the same attention. The alabaster silk of the Regrator’s coat slithers at his coltskin boots as he steps from the cabin, his regal figure outlined against the bedazzling lights of the streets. Nonchalantly, he tosses a mora up in the air to the desirous dawdlers, ere continuing on his way. Behind him, the gesture precipitates a fierce quarrel to break out — a blow is struck, and in an instant, the plaza becomes the stage of a little knot of flushed and struggling men, who strike savagely at each other with their fists and sticks over measly gold. A pair of policemen move to intervene, whilst a number of better-dressed people, who had watched the scuffle without taking part in it, crowded in like a band of vultures famished for the spectacle of scandal. Pantalone pays no heed to such a loathsome demonstration of human’s selfishness.

If evenings atop the city were seductive, the nights were ravishing. The lamps that lace every building and walkway produce the most elaborate demonstration of electric illumination ever attempted in Teyvat and the first large-scale test of alternating current. These were important engineering milestones, however, what visitors adored was the sheer beauty of seeing so many lights ignited in one place, at one time, akin to getting a sudden vision of the heavens. Every building, including the Palais de Justice, is outlined in white bulbs. Giant searchlights have been mounted on rooftops and sweep the grounds and surrounding neighborhoods. Large colored bulbs light the hundred-foot plumes of water that burst from the fountains. Here, the lights and the infilling darkness served to mask the many flaws of the city— amongst them, the unspeakable debris of innumerable luncheons, the intense stench of rust and grease, the impurities of the water, the poor souls crushed by the din and filth of the gentry— and to create for a few hours the perfect illusion of an artificial paradise of richness and splendor.

The Regrator finally comes to a standstill near a toy shop entrance, wheeling to face his company and direct his gaze to the asphalted path neath their heels. ❛❛ The sewer system connects the entire nation through countless many pipes buried deep underground. They are the veins of Fontaine. It is through them that the energy is supplied to Petrichor’s heart — this is where we are. ❜❜ The vibration of vehicles engines and the plosive rhythm of hooves on granite echo in the streets as landaus led by mechanical horses gusting steam into the murk above pass them by. A maddening, ceaseless chorus of noise and bustle.

❛❛ The locals say that Petrichor is alive, that it lives on as its own organism through the mechanical rumble of the flow of its blood, through the breathing rhythmical rotation of its gears ⸻ after all, have you ever seen another city like this? With as many plates, as many tall towers? Whenever a new skyscraper is built, countless old buildings are inevitably torn down. It is this thick layer of dust, accumulated over hundreds of years, that made today's Fontaine. The wealthy construct cemeteries inside cities where land comes at a premium, and the commoners, with little to their name, have no choice but to cast ashes out beyond the city orbits. ❜❜ The hum of human industry fill out his momentary pause whilst amber eyne gaze skyward, through cinder and smoke drifting like soiled gauze and onto the gods abode, Celestia, hovering over Fontaine's unerring hammer of justice. ❛❛ A wondrous city whose grandeur and beauty exceed itself, situated just under the vicinity of the gods. What do you suppose Focalor is trying to accomplish? Is this merely an act of folly, brought upon by solid ignorance, or nothing short of hubris, a confidence in the necessity of her aggrandization? ❜❜

divitaclara

❛ Remain at my side. ❜ That was a wish that the young Harbinger begrudges to fulfill, yet he does so with obedience and hardly no gripe. His short time within the city's outskirts prior to their rendezvous was quite the maze to navigate, despite the instructions given. Not only that, but there truly was little power that he held to grant him the full self-government to communicate, commune, and immerse himself in any facet of the nation without hitch. So, Childe shadows his senior and uses what little autonomy he has to intersect closer encounters. Many of which remained truly distant from him, entirely unreachable be it by lofty cable cars and barricading windows, or the unfamiliar tongues, or the frequent beckons of his tutor. A foreigner like himself couldn't feel more ostracized than this; no matter how engrossing or homely the spectacles were. Amidst all, one most mundane exchange stood out to Childe. Not for the exchange itself, but for something that rung in his ear off-note within the superficial formalities that were dispensed between Pantalone and one meager butler. Voclain.

The vibrations were palpable to the sole through boot and cobblestone, thrumming indeed like the alive veins of a creature. The centerstage was Pantalone's, where directly under empyrean light he spoke criticism and bitter truth. Childe's gaze shifts, from the cobblestone streets that his boot strokes a single short line across, tracing the city's arteries, to the bastion above. Celestia was the only celestial body that had not been blotted out by artificial clouds, light pollution, or even by smog in the most impoverished of areas. It was eternally there to oversee. How truly insignificant one could feel under the microscope of the divine. They certainly appeared that way to those that dwelled in the realm above. And the Delusions that defined their status and defiance to holy dogma was nothing but a chuckle to them. How wrong their arrogance and vanity would be proven, once their seven pieces were knocked over and seized right from their hands.

A fire of pale light was ignited in Childe's breast, swelling to great heights with the deepest inhale of atmosphere through his nose ; raging as he held that breath in his lungs which press taut to the thoracic, and only simmering down to a gentle yet persistent heat when that clutched air glides back out.

❝ Fontaine is indeed eye-catching. I won't deny that. ❞ Childe's voice swells too, like that flame. Abating also, yet remaining scathing in nature and intent. ❝ All gods like to flaunt their feathers in a display to impress, whether their intended audience be that of whom stand below them or that of whom are above them in the pecking order. I think it's rather ironic that she resides this close to her own grave, especially knowing how quickly her ostentation could prove to be unimpressive or an impediment. ❞ His sight lowers back to his senior with poised insouciance in the creases of a faint smirk — in the dangerous, razor-sharp gleam of his pale eyes — and in the position of his hands that which rested on his hips.

❝ I couldn't care less about what her intentions are, though. As long as I get to participate in the show, her reasons are irrelevant. ❞ Succeeding a rest, that arrogantly blithe tenor of Childe's shifts to something buoyant, that which casts aside everything in opinion and posture that he had exhibited. His features were clement, and his shoulders soft rather than rigid, with hands that comfortably tuck in pockets. ❝ Anyways… Did we not come out here for a night on the town? Sure, the gondola ride here gave me some sights to feast upon, but nothing beats strolling the streets yourself without any leash to hold you back. Let's live the high-life a little. You might be accustomed to it here, but I certainly am not — and neither am I going to pass up the opportunity to become just acquainted with it. ❞

He had quite enough of the Regrator's guided tour, as insightful as it was. Whether the glamor of Fontaine was nothing but a façade, a foundation to conceal its ugly blemishes, it did not matter when it was so tangibly there to experience for the sake of experiencing. The edges of his lips curl to a soft smile that which lift the apples of his cheeks, and Childe swivels around on his grounded heels to face posterior to the street. He needn't at all search for a focal point of interest as the wide window of a shop, so fantastical that his enchantment was instantaneous, graciously greeted him. Aureate, silver, and copper surfaces, and neon hues, all shimmering under warm radiance as many clockworks powered infinite amounts of wondrous toys and automata, entirely visible from just the front window. It was like a fated encounter. Perhaps if Pantalone had not blinded him so, he would've already dove into the seemingly amorphous and undulating mass of mechanical delights.

Hardly a moment was put to waste before Childe had pushed his way through the shop's doors and into the symphony of tickings, chimes, and whirs ; a quieter melody, with the percussion of his boots atop polished hardwood, in comparison to the deafening cacophony outside. His eyes with bright, bejeweling reflections darted round voracious, never lingering on one item for another machine would shift in his peripheral and draw his attention. Simple music boxes that played without operators and autonomous orchestras, droids that sketched and metal marionettes that enacted scenes from rhymes, tripedal constructs that's joints jived, and clocks in harmonious sync all lined the walls, shelves, and stands. A laugh bubbles from a waxing smile of Childe's. Although a far cry from the playthings and knick-knacks that entertained his youth and now only befriended silence and dust, each product elicited familiar euphoria.

However, he wasn't going to shop for his own satisfaction, for there was no need to. As nostalgic as this joy was, it was a trivial mean to fulfilling the pleasures that he personally sought. Yet these were the pleasures of precious people elsewhere, and so, Childe's treasure hunt began. A music box for Tonia, an artistic android for Anton, and… He scoured thoughtfully and examined every merchandise, searching for the most grandiose of mechanisms. Something that would top most. The bigger, the better. That's what brought Teucer most happiness. A particular glimmer from across the shop captured Childe's focus. With his arms embracing and carrying several items, he strode from one side to the other, to where he had yet to fully investigate. Many of these contraptions were of a large scale, but there was one that dwarfed them all, rivaling even himself in stature. It was still, non-performing, isolated in a corner.

Childe came to stand toe-to-toe with this behemoth of a machine, inquisitive with his shoulders leaning forwards and his gaze sizing it up. It was comprised of a slumped head with features, arms, and a torso were all discernible aspects, and uncannily human in sculpt too. It seemed far too large to operate, hence its idle nature in the vast sea of gears, pipes, and wires that all moved on their own volitions. Peculiarly, there was a designated track fit for the single and sturdy wheel that which the colossal construct before him possessed. That track snaked behind a labyrinth of counters, shelves, and isles. In the midst of Childe's curious inspection, an abrupt click and crescendoing whir echos from inside the defunct automaton. Then its slouched head rears itself into good and steady posture, and the humanly features light up alive.

Color the Harbinger impressed. But what else could it do, he had to wonder. His head tilts a couple degrees and he waits. It speaks from lips frozen stiff with chopped up syllables from a database that are stitched together to mimic Fontainian speech, and then Teyvat's common language. ❝ Hm? Oh... ❞ Childe's lips parted and brows raised, puzzled yet intrigued even further. By its synthetic speech, it denotes itself as the shopkeeper. ❝ I had thought that this was another product, and yet… Surely, there's a human shopkeeper around, no? ❞

#✦ ɪᴄ ⋯ ᴇᴀsʏɢᴏɪɴɢ sɴᴇᴢʜɴᴀʏᴀɴ ᴋɴɪɢʜᴛ.#bogachs.

bogachs

From his periphery, the Regrator follows the movements of Tartaglia as he strides across the balcony and comes to an halt beside him, palms onto the ivory handrails, the disturbing flatness of his eyes regaining their azurite vibrancy — ephemeral wonderment lures out his slaughtered innocence like the sun back to its humble roots, causing Ajax to appear younger, his figure silhouetted peaceably in the light red alpenglow. As the latter gorges himself on sights of the most fastidious aestheticism — every extravagance human beings can dream up crammed into a singular horizon, Pantalone recalls his own boyhood spent piling the spines of pithed losses like pebbles, till the day his sacrifices earned him the right to stand atop this balcony and witness how life seemed for the wealthy and privileged within the confines of such grandiose places, where they could not see what rot ate away at the foundations of their comfort. He, too, had been momentarily dazzled by this brilliant display, a view so foreign to a child of winter used to the barrenness of the northern frostlands, before his cynicism, that insatiable beast, had reminded him of the harrowing reality of his surroundings: that below that luster there is a rancid hell with people like himself festering in the waste of this city of saints, weak, cold ; eaten raw by maggots, poverty and ever-present dread — because the gods, as well as their own kind, had abandoned them, spur them to the ground and through the grit and grime of this existence without a sliver of mercy.

There is a fascination in observing what admiration for the art of this city has been driving him being snuffed out like a candle capped, as the Regrator sees realization slowly dawning upon Tartaglia’s features akin to dripping tar, stripping his candor for that wonted mask of apathy. It is only when emptiness subsumes the latter that Pantalone, at last, turns towards him, his hands now elegantly folded behind his person. ❛❛ Mr. Paulet wished to broaden his clientèle by branching out into the automatons business — i took a sponsorial interest in his innovative venture and offered him the benefit of a few financial favors in exchange for an annual return of 40% on my investment, returns which turned dismal these last few months. Further scrutiny disclosed that the man had been gambling away his profits in speculation, undoubtedly in the vain hope of amassing even more of a fortune, whilst only paying me a fraction of the returns he was acquiring, and the staggering size of the sum he owed me would have taken him the rest of his miserable life to reimburse in full. ❜❜ he explained in a darkly eloquent tone, pausing shortly to get Tartaglia’s full attention, ❛❛ Greed is the currency of ignorance. It is an aspect ingrained in humankind ; indoctrination in the numbing act of indulging in hedonism. Mr. Paulet bit off more than he could chew, his ambition had gotten ahead of his ability to pay off his debts. When cautionary warnings are blatantly ignored, pain alone can thus serve as a reminder, ❜❜ his lips cant into a vulpine curvature, ❛❛ This is no grudge, Tartaglia, but an example ⸻ those who owe the Northland Bank’s will pay the blood debt with interest. ❜❜

As before, his gaze turns towards the Palais de Justice sprawled atop the water's surface, the perennial flow of waterfalls cradling it in their seam-foam embrace. ❛❛ Drink in the sight of this magnificent illusion, and hold onto it. Once we’re in the city, you’ll miss being so mistaken. ❜❜ Pantalone retreats from the balcony in order to don a tailored white coat, sewn with the threads of delicate golden embroidery, a contrast to his customary obsidian attires. He adjusts the garment without looking in the mirror with practiced ease, fitting it to his desired level of sublimity, and speaks from over his shoulder. ❛❛ The bathroom is situated on the left side at the end of the corridor. Fix yourself up would you, you look like a disheveled mess. Join me downstairs once you're done. ❜❜ He did not wait for Tartaglia’s response before picking up his hat and descending the alabaster staircase to the front door of the manor.

divitaclara

Perhaps he should have kept his mouth shut, never made a single utterance again, and continued to dine on the glittering sights of Fontaine just a little longer. Here he had again provoked the spiel of the Ninth Harbinger. Though, he would have not enjoyed just standing in silence next to Regrator — even if he could slip under a self-induced hypnosis that purposefully left him blissfully ignorant of the nation's truest nature as a comforting sedative — but neither would he like to remain cast in the dark any longer than he already had been. Childe knew so little behind the purpose of his presence here. Just that only Pantalone cherry-picked him amongst all their esteemed and capable comrades to be a companion, or more like to be a gun to wield. Childe's eyes may still have been occupied by the magnificence of Fontaine, which transcendent quality was undeniably dulling to drab impressions and ambivalence, but his ears were captured by Pantalone's effortlessly spoken and perfectly accentuated speech. ❝ I see that this is turning into a lesson. ❞ Childe murmurs to himself, outspoken by his colleague.

His hands may have been worn and calloused, and stained with the rawest substance of life ever since what felt like his birth. So deeply stained, in fact, that it was now nigh impossible to wash away the caked crimson grime from the valley of his palms, the creases of his crooked fingers, and the crannies of his nails. This kept him wise to the verity of this world, but the dye that accented him was only a token of a culler's knowledge. There is more to being a Harbinger than just being savvy in the art of blood-spill. Before his inauguration, these lectures from the Ninth were commonplace, as they were the impartments of a mentor's wisdom to their apprentice. As it was meant to be by the will of the Tsaritsa through her Fifth proxy. He stands now on equal ground with his senior, as Tartaglia the Eleventh Harbinger, but this still remained to be the only guidance offered to Childe. Childe's head tilts towards the other and his eyes freeze over Pantalone, whose face is illuminated by the distant radiance which brought them both front and center like two actors on a stage. The lesson that was to be taken away from Mr. Paulet's predestined encounter with Tartaglia lands firmly, leaving the impact of what felt like a bruise to his skin.

❛ But what makes you so righteous enough to preach about greed? ❜

A retort that settles itself on the end of Childe's tongue but never makes its way past his teeth and lips. The only thing that speaks for this objection is the flattening of his features ; falling from wide-eyes of a dependent child seeking counsel to scornful doubt as his gaze narrows. And his eyes shadowed every motions of Pantalone's, always keeping the face of the other's as his target. The glacial gleam of Childe's glare was deceptive to the true intent behind his eyes, with how they mimicked that of a predator's stalking. Childe would never strike, however. Only impose his silent judgement. Eventually it thaws, as Childe takes one last glance out into Fontaine, which does not linger for long. He would do as his senior commanded him to do. In quick beats, Childe makes his way to the washroom and encloses himself in ; strips his hands bare of his gloves and allows his hands to lax under the gentle cascade of warm water ; and massages the tension from the muscles of his cherubic face.

... ... ...

Childe took longer than what was likely necessary, but to meet standards, he had to ensure that he was blemishless. That there be no dirt or blood between the grooves of his boots' soles ; that any unnatural folds and creases to his coat and under-clothes be ironed out ; that jewelry and hair be repositioned back to its flattery ; and that any scrapes to his skin cleaned to a deceiving, translucent pink. ❝ So — what's up? Are we going out for a night on the town? I didn't quite get the chance to sightsee much before arriving here. ❞ Childe speaks with a jovial chime to his voice, as he reaches the last step of the stairs.

#✦ ɪᴄ ⋯ ᴇᴀsʏɢᴏɪɴɢ sɴᴇᴢʜɴᴀʏᴀɴ ᴋɴɪɢʜᴛ.#bogachs.

bogachs

𝐀𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬, Petrichor’s cobbled streets, as ever, glitter with sapphire resplendence— upraised passageways give rise to great buildings lined with gaudy florals, to manors beset by scenery forged, to expansive walls that scrape the heavens, to marble-cut monuments of angels galore, wind-waken at the edges yet still impressively sublime in character, to zeppelins and golden roads and canals charting the endless torrents of refined wonder. In the distance, foaming white waterfalls baptize the chiseled structure of the Palais de Justice in saltwater gloria, its magnificence looming upon the marrows of men with unequivocal righteousness and equity. Below, a miasma of cinder flecked smoke blackens the streets ; the ceaseless passage of trains, grip-cars, trolleys, carriages, at times reducing visibility to the distance of a single block. In poor neighborhoods, garbage mounds in alleys and overflow giant trash boxes that become banquet halls for rats and bluebottle flies. The corpses of dogs, cats, and destitutes remained where they fell. In winter, they froze into disheartening poses ; in summer, they ballooned and ruptured. This was Fontaine, in all its crudeness and artifices.

Standing upon his balcony fair, the Regrator considers this contradictory tableau he had once abhorred— scorning it still, his fangs curled inward beyond observing deeds. When all others would look upon architecture so grand, the kind of such that would befit the mead-ridden halls of kings or the silver-lines of gods in their multitudes, what he notices instead are the back-alleys still choked with blight, with deluging debauchery that no adornment could banish. Whilst Fontaine weans its children on opulence and glittering falsities, he was a child to its hideousness, left to suckle from loneliness’ itinerant preacher — his white-clad silhouette, as if strung from spliced snowdrops, paints a far too immaculate image against this dystopian backdrop.

The sound of movements has him turn towards the entrance to welcome his anticipated guest, frowning in displeasure at the sight of darker beads of purple-claret dripping from his talons to the pristine floorboards beneath his feet. ❛❛ Would you have preferred for me to welcome you with some tea as you willy-nilly do as you please and dirty my residence? ❜❜ He considers him, breathless and disheveled, without pity, ❛❛ Do not speak to me of courtesy— if you possessed any regard for it, you would have cleaned yourself up before entering. As expected of someone like you ; a dog so quick to bark against his master is fit for naught but skinning. ❜❜ The 11th Harbinger does not even bother to heed his grievances, instead proceeding further into his home whilst leaving a trail of bloody footprints in his wake. Pantalone’s sighs, he will have to commission an agent to clean this up before the fluid does irreparable damage to the timber.

❛❛ ⸻ With Mr. Paulet disposed of, i expect our ties with his steelwork enterprise to be more amenable to compromise. ❜❜ He trusts Tartaglia’s expertise as a bloodhound, if nothing else, well enough to expect the task to have been carried with precision ; untraceable. Clean. Permanent. ❛❛ Your presence by my side would have not only been that of a stranger but also unexpected, a hindrance far more than help— the wealthy listen better to one of their own. I know my way on the proscenium of conspiracy and political machination. You, on the other hand, are far more suited as the centerpiece in the backstage of coercion, where you can dispense with niceties ad nauseum and indulge in your proclivity towards violent delights, to your heart’s content. I’m doing you a favor. ❜❜ His gaze drifts back to the balcony, posture as poise as ever, towards the flawed pigmentation of the horizon and the peerless extravagance of the city’s upper echelons, in contrast to the rotten grime and filth Tartaglia must have trudged through on his journey here, in order to remain unseen from prying eyes.

❛❛ Behold, our grand and glorious Fontaine. It is so splendid and magnificent, solemn and refined, with a perpetual aroma of vanilla and sugar wafting in its air. All of this is a reward for abiding by the law. All of this is proof of our Archon’s benevolence. ❜❜ He smiles, a thing so cold, ❛❛ Yet this paradise is only a paradise because of the harshness of the wastes beyond. ❜❜

divitaclara

Fit for naught but skinning? The last glance of Childe's eyes dedicated to Pantalone remained fixated — narrowing — on the other Harbinger and never pulled away again to return to admiring the home. With a rigid frame, Childe's shoulders jerked back as he pivoted on his heel to completely face Pantalone. All that was placid to his features had washed away in an instant to visible vexation with how his brows furrowed, his lips pressed tightly to concealed clenched teeth, and his fists balled under the heavy coat that dressed him. But then the corners of his lips pulled up and curled to a smirk of arrogance.

❝ You wouldn't even dare to try. If you consider me a dog then — I'm much too reliable than other mutts to toss away just like that. ❞ Pantalone should know that well enough, if Childe's presence here wasn't enough of a confirmation of that fact to himself, to which he held with confidence in his comfort to act defiantly. He'd bare his teeth now, if it weren't for the continuation of the other's monologue. Though irritable and patronizing, it filled too much of the air for Tartaglia to even instigate their bickering further.

Following the gaze of his senior Harbinger, Childe's sight is pulled along in tow to the balcony, open, with framing curtains adrift in gentle drafts. In stillness, his eyes of dull frost lingered upon the cresting resplendence beyond that shed light into the residence like pale moonlight. A moment's breath is taken, then as if under hypnotic influence, guided by the assistance of florid speech, Childe's feet motion him forth. His body sways further across the reaches of the floorboards and towards that light breaching, beckoning from the balcony, until he passes through the gateway between the free-flowing drapery. His gloved hands blindly outstretch, awaiting for individual digits to ghost over sturdy handrails til they do, and then curl over and palms embrace in solid grip. Shoulder to shoulder at Pantalone's side, there Childe's eyes could fully soak within the glow of Fontaine's grandiosity from the breath-taking heights of a gilded globe's pole.

Persuasion was an unneeded tool, as the wonder that flooded Childe's eyes and caught the light of dazzling building-tops, immaculate sculpts, and rich azure waters that which he basked in was genuine. From high reaches such as this, Fontaine was mesmerizing with its imperfection-less beauty and the glow of its luxury that cast a bright shroud over all. His memory could momentarily lapse into believing that this was all that Fontaine was, if Childe's heavy eyelids that fell briefly did not conjure the contrasting images of what that shroud concealed underneath itself. The reflection of which still clung to the back of his eyelids. From below and in the depths of Fontaine, he recounted how stifling it was. The streets with grime deeply ingrained within them, the air thick with perturbation of the impoverished and pollution, and the stars blotted out by smog between pillars that reached skyward. What could he say? — when his eyes opened. There's a hideous reality to everything that's seemingly beautiful and noble.

Tartaglia pushes himself further onto the ivory handrails, propping himself up by his elbows and resting his chin atop interlocking fingers. Only his eyes periodically shift over his shoulder to glance at Pantalone. ❝ I take it that you have had your eyes on his business for some time now, correct? For the lengths that you have gone to orchestrate this — don't tell me that we're only here to act on your grudges. What else is on your itinerary? You've been keeping it under lock and key. Unless you're that homesick. ❞

#✦ ɪᴄ ⋯ ᴇᴀsʏɢᴏɪɴɢ sɴᴇᴢʜɴᴀʏᴀɴ ᴋɴɪɢʜᴛ.#bogachs.

my-video-game-blog

Visit Original Link

#tbt.#Let me have this one fam...#Nothing captures a wanderer's spirit better than this song.

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

✦ ɪ ᴀᴍ ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴡᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴋɴɪғᴇ.