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@predvestnik
# 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐕𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐍𝐈𝐊 — From the dawn of time to the end of days, I will have to run away. I want to feel the pain and the bitter taste of the blood on my lips again. This steady burst of snow is burning my hands. I'm frozen to the bones, I am. ✦✦✦ ( ♪ )
𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 ✦ 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐁𝐔𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐒 ✦ 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐊 ✦ 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑
. . . SHARING THIS JOURNEY WITH: ccaptain. aguilareye.
I must say I'm all melted at the birthday asks and others I've been sent. 🫰🏻 Everyone is so creative and thoughtful, I cherish it greatly. Sobbing on everyone's DOORSTEPS.
Tartaglia's long lost twin: Blade.
Why... why are you posing like that on a moving train...
People in my phone, the new carrd is almost ready and I'm very proud of it. I shot myself in the foot with the home page, I have no idea what text I will toss in there yet but almost everything else is set. Only missing the verses page because I want to expand on his HSR and Abyssal Heir ones.
"Dearest Comrade, while you are down there in the waters may you perchance find any sea glass or stones with a magnificent shine, do bring them to the surface. We could even trade." c:
the cold is gentler in the water as heat is redistributed so pleasantly as to almost make it a world of its own, touched most tenderly by the climate. From across the bank where Tartaglia steers himself at the edge, Flins' presence is noted beyond the sound of his voice rising in simple request — warmth reaches distinctly from where the Ratnik stands, something Tartaglia doesn't remember noticing but that now becomes glaring against the stark contrast of his cooled skin. For the span of a single pause to consider, the Harbinger simply stares up, and then his silence is undone. First by a sigh broken in the wake of a light chuckle, then by a response.
❛ Alright. Anything goes? ❜ He pushes lightly against the shore, drifting slowly backwards and further into the waters. His hair is combed up and back where the strands can't block his view. ❛ I'll see what I can find, don't leave yet. ❜
His smile stretches into a confident grin. His time in Liyue had required a modest study in gemstones, but he doesn't dare labeling himself an expert. Merely an enthusiast by convenience, it might pay off now.
Moonlight fractures around him as he cuts beneath the surface to stalk the contents lying near the lakebed. There, he drags his hands along the bottom, sorting through scraps and sediment until the pebbles come in colors other than gray.
❛ Are these good? ❜ Tartaglia shakes his head, a deep breath cutting his voice as rises above the water again.
Many stones of varying sizes are laid at the edge. Some are colored but dull; fewer of them, shiny. On top of them, he also drops two coins.
❛ They look common to me, but let me know what you think. This way I know how to look better for what you want. ❜
“oohhh and indirect kiss 🥺” ok school girl ass
❛ You drank my saliva. ❜
"Shh." Venti suddenly appeared before Childe, grinning that mischievous grin of his, a finger to his lips to signal Childe to keep quiet. He grabs him by the arm, and into the wind they both disappear. It is only the feeling of rushing wind and free falling for a moment before they materialize somewhere that should be familiar to Childe- the Fortress. Specifically, the fighting ring.
"Happy Birthday~ Just call my name when you want to leave, m'kay?"
the suddenness of it all pushes him a step back, caution flared to its maximum until the Bard's figure is properly recognized. This is a trickster god, he knows as much, and precisely because of that he knows it will be dire to predict what is running through that mind of his.
So he accepts it. Well, at least in the narrow interval he's given to react to Venti's whims.
Not a word is said until the environment is completely changed to something as familiar as it's ironic. The humidity is unmistakable, just like the sound of anything against metal — boots, water droplets, tools being hammered, so on and so forth.
The Fortress of Meropide is hardly a place he will forget. Now he is back... for his birthday.
Past the initial adjustment to the quick switch, Tartaglia gathers enough of himself to be amused (and even charmed) by the choice. The ring is empty, yet he doubts that his presence will go unnoticed for much longer unless he actively works for it. Alas, that would waste Venti's thoughtful gesture.
❛ You really planned for everything, I'm impressed. ❜ Tartaglia's laugh is low and breathy in the precise way he's learned to keep it in order to avoid echoing through the empty chambers. His tone is equally kept at a whisper's volume, and he tilts in Venti's direction to keep it even more reserved, an unserious brand of humor wrapping around his next words. ❛ Are you not staying to be the first? ❜
I'm thinking a lot about how Childe behaves when he's on his own x when he's with other Harbingers. I honestly interpret him putting on a performance and I don't think it's on purpose. Away from their eyes, he's shown to be much more... disciplined, diplomatic and even carefree. Whereas he behaves immaturely and abrasively around them.
I'm scratching my beard as I try to piece together if it has to do with his contempt to even being there, part of him not outgrowing that brash teenage asserting a place among "the big shots". Fact is that every time he's shown on a mission on his own, he's quite different.
it's simple enough. a block with her sword, three fingers tightening on his collar to toss him across the field. the end to a good fight is always bittersweet. skirk's blade dips to touch the ground, tip digging into soil, and she rests in that still position, still poised should childe charge her once more.
he's ... improved. of course, the usage of when and not if is not lost to her. bright-eyed and handed, self-assured in his victory over her as if it'd come in only a matter of days ( as if it had not taken a decade for him to last more than a moment against her strikes ). still, only a fool would deny his progression. he's capable of keeping up with her, now.
it doesn't mean he's bested her, though. “ you hope for the impossible, ” she says, then pauses. “ but perhaps i'll use my other hand. now get up. we are not done yet. ”
arrogance was not always his to claim, it was inherited and tempered, carefully measured against the growing wisdom to know when to leash it before failure. Some have called him deluded for the manners with which he boasts about the day he will surpass the seats sealed behind heaven's doors, not once casting doubt on the notion. His reasoning is simple, far too simple: he will, for no reason other than he wants to. And this, for as long as he lives, is a desire he refuses to let be rivaled.
For this reason, his master's use of impossible spurs him on rather than pose an obstacle he can't eventually jump over.
❛ If someone reached it, ❜ he muses, for himself and as a candid commentary, ❛ it means it's possible, and I want to get there. ❜
Even then, his resolve doesn't negate how precise Skirk's assertion is. They are not done yet. Not with this fight, not with their respective journeys. Bridging his abilities to hers means to chase a mark that, too, keeps on moving farther than ever each time. That alone is challenging, yet he knows to look for different frames of reference in the meantime. It shows in his bladework — so similar to hers, but uniquely his all the same.
Tartaglia nods, now more stable on his feet and a fraction more capable. Earning a fight where his master uses both hands highlights his previous thought, really opens another door. Her perhaps of today was once a never, meaning that any impossible is just as transient.
His hand swipes across his forehead and down the side of his face, riding it of sweat and debris clinging to his skin. For a moment, he considers replacing the edges of his sword for his bow, but gives it quick consideration to weigh in whether his arrow is truly faster than her or the desire to prove himself is clouding his judgment.
This is not a chance he is willing to waste
❛ ...I'll get it this time. ❜ As if he hasn't repeated it for himself each time he fell by now.
His grip tightens around the hilt. The energy coursing through it rouses, reshaping the single blade into a spear he knows all too well. When he dashes forward, its tip pierces cleanly through the air, easing his stride, and his stance forgoes its flair in favor of greater discipline as he sweeps a narrow arc toward where Skirk's feet would've been.
Look at this right now.
if sandrone can take the wingalet, he can take the Pankration for a day, right? Money shouldn't be an issue, maybe he can even write it off as birthday bonus in the ledger and see the Duke-
conversations through the night have led him here, rising from his position by the campfire with a modest curve made wider by the shadows cast beneath his lips. It's a bold, if not unexpected move which guides him around the fire toward Flins, his poise kept pristine despite the alcohol still warm in his throat. Tartaglia extends a hand, palm up, and hides the other behind his back — more for flair than any depth of intention — as he falls into an elegant arc.
The silence is fleeting; the unspoken invitation in Tartaglia's gaze toward Flins is given shape, at last, by the quiet spill of his words. "Let me steal you for a dance, dear Ratnik."
For the briefest heartbeat, The Lightkeeper only looks at the offered hand.
The campfire crackles between them, embers lifting into the night like tiny wandering stars. Around them, laughter and conversation of their friends and comrades continue in soft, distant waves, but they blur into little more than background noise.
Flins' gaze drifts from Tartaglia's upturned palm to the crooked smile beneath it, reading the practiced flourish, the confidence worn as easily as a favorite coat.
A dance. He asks.
There had been a time when invitations like these belonged to another life. Bright halls. Polished floors. Boots that stepped for celebration instead of pursuit. Before rifles. Before graves. Before azure flames became more familiar than candlelight.
A quiet huff escapes Flins, somewhere between amusement and disbelief. It's not the first time he's danced with a charming enemy and my, does this opportunity keep presenting itself.
Flins lets the silence linger just long enough to become teasing before slipping his gloved hand into Tartaglia's. His lantern sways gently from where it hangs at his hip, the azure flame inside giving away to rose tint color before burning again with its usual azure color.
"One dance, dearest Fatuus," he concedes, his gloved fingers curling with surprising warmth around the Harbinger's hand.
"Although," he adds, allowing Tartaglia to lead him away from the firelight.
"I should warn you." His striking, pupilless yellow eyes catching the glow of the flames as they turn.
"I am out of practice and may not know the contemporary dances of your … Majesty's court. Do forgive me, Mr. Tartaglia, if I stumble."
I'm not big brained enough to elaborate on the connection, but Sandrone talking about math and music theory being similar is important to Teyvat's laws.
So... having a severed soul is one way to not be recognized by the ley lines and fate. Like corrupted data. I knew a guy like that once.
I'm not big brained enough to elaborate on the connection, but Sandrone talking about math and music theory being similar is important to Teyvat's laws.
I CAN'T.
