Valeriy is a man of unadulterated strength. Stern, strong, very loyal, it's no wonder the Fatui took him in. It's also no wonder that one of the harbingers, a lantern fae with a tongue made of diamond, and a smile so sickeningly friendly, find him very, very intriguing.
The first time he saw you was like any other Fatui when someone worthy steps into the role of a harbinger. That day, you we're given the title in front of all other Fatui members under the name Brighella. He learns that you've come from the reconnaissance faction, and that your ability to shape shift landed an audience from one of the harbingers themselves. When he looks back, he's surprised to see your eyes gaze onto his. You had a sweet smile, and eyes almost like cresents when you grin, like a cat who plays with its food, almost like a hyena. It was then and there his life changed, both for the better and for the worse.
The second he saw you, you were a burly man, who had forcibly caught his attention by being an additional soldier that was unaccounted for, attending his general assembly. The worst part, he did not even know you were there! You were so inconspicuably dressed that the moment he passed by your form, he couldn't mistake the smile you had on your altered face. He shivers as a burly man smiles at him in that way. 'Please never do that again unless you're in your own appearance.' He'd have to request that of you the moment the two of you become close... Not that he had plans of getting close to you.
The third time, you weren't even supposed to be there. It just so happens that you're where he planned to be. In a cafe that was bustling with people despite the setting sun. The only seat left is right across from you. Even now, your face is altered to look different, but the way you smile still lifts the veil; mischievous and cunning.
"Valeriy, right? It's nice to meet one of the Fatui's most loyal generals," you say, demure as you pick up your cup and drink.
"My, you're more handsome up close too." He clears his throat, pretending he did not hear that. The blush on his cheeks betray him, and your annoyingly sly grin only makes it redder.
"Is this another one of your disguise?" Valeriy asked, eyeing you. You look different from when you've stepped onto the Harbinger role, sporting human ears instead of your usual long elf-like ones. "Why? Wanted to compliment me too?" You tease, but Valeriy's more focus on prying out some kind of information on you. He thinks it's because he's suspicious, but is it really about suspicion when his lack of information is causing him to fill in the blanks of who you are as a person?
"Why do you change your face?" He asks, drinking his cup of coffee.
"Hm?"
He glares, but it's not from contempt. "Don't think I didn't notice you in my general assembly a couple days ago." You grin almost immediately.
"Oh! You noticed?"
He reaches for his nosebridge and massages the area like it has been on his mind for a long while (it has, in fact) "You have a distinct grin when you feel like you've been found out." You laugh, and it sends a warm feeling to his chest.
"So why?" You hum for a bit, your index finger tapping onto your chin.
"Well, it's fun to dress up as a human," you reply, and move closer to him. He instinctively leans in as well, as if you're telling a secret. "Besides, being a harbinger is already too much attention. I like blending in with people." When you pull away, Valeriy's a little disappointed.
"I see what you mean. Recon meant that you're used to hiding in the shadows, I surmise. That or it's fae nature."
"Well, yes and no? Being in recon meant I have to gather information while not letting information about me out. Otherwise, that's a trail for enemies. Not good." You take a sip of your drink of choice, relishing in the flavors.
"As for fae nature... I will ignore that the way you said it sounded quite racist. It's not because I'm a fae. Even being fae brings attention, let alone a lantern fae." You'd rather not deal with the high fae society and their prying eyes. It was hard enough that your brother left you in the claws of the high fae society, sneaking away to become a lightkeeper. The audacity! "I like spectating. Shape shifting helps me dive into that mindset." Before you leave, you smile at him, that weird playful grin that looked a little too fake, but somehow it's so you, beaming with such amusement.
"You're good company. We should do this sometime."
The fourth time he sees you, you were in your very own training grounds, a heap of mess, honestly. You had your weapon drawn as you parry the attacks of five of your troops He has seen your training, building the mental capacity of your recruits, teaching them to be a vacuum of information. He's not sure how, but he remembers the way one of his troops talked about your training as he had relations in your squad, how extremely observant his friend has been since being assigned to you.
You did not alter yourself this time, and Valeriy somewhat liked how you looked the way you are; focused yet lax, watching the expressions of your troop. And when the timer ends, the troop bows and leaves before another one takes the spotlight. He leaves fast because any more and he would be an example. When he comes back to your spot, the recruits stood in lines of ten, presenting their findings. Your training ground is cluttered, yes, but each item held information.
"How many bottles are firewater?"
"Six!"
"What did soldier 9 said to soldier 10?" The two soldiers in question looked at each other palely.
"The training looked too basic!" Some of the troops laughed, and others shot the two a glare.
"What was the joke soldier 67 said to soldier 57?"
"This training is brig-hella!" There's a few groans and a few laughs in the crowd. Even Valeriy couldn't help but groan at that joke.
"Anything else?"
"General Valeriy was watching the fight two minutes in!" He blushes furiously at the fact that he'd been found out, by one of your troops nonetheless.
"Good job! You noticed things outside the training grounds. That's important." You clasp your hands together as the troops relaxed. This went on until the last troop, asking everything that has happened within their fight. What made everyone astounded was how you remember things, how they'd make something up, and you'd hum and say, "That's unfortunately incorrect, soldier 17 told soldier 18 about a cat he rescued and named it Snowy, not Blizzard. Incorrect names can kill the mission, soldier 80. Fact check, soldier 17 and 18?" They nodded with their jaws open.
"The training might be done, but don't be fooled. You must remain vigilant all the time, because you might not notice, but General Valeriy has come back from his patrol, and is currently watching us again." When you meet his gaze, it's that same grin on your face. Are you trying to cultivate a humiliating environment for him?? "I am adjourning this team building. Good job, everyone. We'll be working on stealth this time."
"How do you do that?" Valeriy asked when you near him.
"Do what?"
"Remember everything that has conspired during an eight-hour long field day?" He gestures to your fun little training ground. "You keep tabs on the conversation of your troops, and know just when I am watching you."
"Lantern faes have extraordinary memory, but realistically, it's decades of practice." You grin and stare at his own indigo eyes, that same playful grin that he's seen you bear, that it's almost your signature.
"As for watching you..." your gaze glosses over to him, index finger tapping your chin. "Well, I know the sounds of most of the Fatui. You wear heavy garments, and walk heavy as well. It's very you." Just as you were about to pass by him, you stopped, smiling at him with something that's... weirdly not the smile he's used to seeing you with. This was more intimate, more sincere, more humane.
"You should try walking light next time. Maybe you could surprise even me, Mister Loverboy." You walk away laughing, and he's in distraught. Have you really known all this time?
There was also something within where one of the rare times he had seen you, was when you weren't being anyone. In fact, you were just a lovely little lantern. The first time he had seen it, he wondered why you were alone in the meeting table. The way you present yourself is just how you would present yourself when you're not being a person, embellishments and intricate designs that ties to your very own attire, the small charm on the top; it's unmistakably you. He doesn't know that much about lantern faes; it's a rare kind after all. He wonders if you feel cold. Even if you were an azure flame, and that maybe you're warm considering that blue flames are hotter than your typical, he felt the need to carry you to his quarters, provide you with warmth even from the bedside. God, what was he doing?
And when you wake up in the dead of night because the sounds of the outside world is different, you're surprised that before you is a sleeping general covered in blankets. 'I specifically slept in the meeting room so I could sleep more before the early meeting...' you pouted. 'I need to take revenge.' You slipped onto his own bed, waking him up, and shutting him up just as fast when you wrap your arms around him. "I specifically slept in the meeting room so I could be early with the meetings, so i'm bringing you down with me."
I hope you know, he didn't get a wink of sleep after that. Scratch that, you definitely knew.
I think there’s a severe lack of Genshin Characters x Fatui reader.
Now I’m not talking Harbinger reader, I’m taking those grunts, those “what are they feeding the people in Sneshnaya,” Mirror maiden and Oprichniki Reader. Add on a subversion of expectations on top of that.
Now imagine someone from Nod Krai with an Oprichniki reader specifically. Let’s go with Lauma first.
Warning this is wordy and incredibly open ended.
She’d been on edge since you arrived in the area, large form and concealed features put her and many others on edge. But the animals are calm, the Rimehorn don’t tense when you walk past with heavy thumping steps, the Blunthorn Rhinos don’t charge you, Puffins don’t scatter, and yet she can’t get answers, to the animals your just the large person that comes through sometimes. what finally gets her attention and eventual answers are you and Chic Badgers. They roll happily over for your hands to scratch, reach up your legs to demand pets or food from you without fear. It’s with them she finds out how you’d freed one from a trap, and despite its dismay had tended to it wound and given it a piece of food before simply leaving. You hadn’t left them or harmed them, you simply aided them left them be, and of course word had traveled among the animals. While others were still weary the badgers loved you. You were warm, you give great pets with your large hands and didn’t get angry when they nabbed a piece or two of food from you.
After that, she’ll definitely be approaching you next time she sees you.
self indulgent childe x reader!! i wrote the first 2k words of this back in january, finished it in honor of him getting re-announced with snezhnaya! if any of it's wonky, no it's not
Notes: Snezhnayan!Reader, Fatui!Reader, Childe calls reader “starshine” cause I think it’s cute. no warnings!! just cute fluffy fluff
You’re barely a passing thought to most people around you. You work diligently in the palace—menial office work, nothing special—and you keep your head down. It pays for a quiet little place on the outskirts of the city where you indulge in your artistic urges. No one sees them, and no one sees you.
That’s fine by you.
So when the ginger Eleventh Harbinger comes flying into your little space, sending papers flying to the ground, you’re a little baffled. You’ve heard rumors of the Eleventh—bright, energetic, eager, naive, bloodthirsty—and you can’t say you’re thrilled he’s standing over you like he knows who you are.
“Hello, starshine,” he greets breezily, like this is something he always does. You’ve never seen him in person before this, much less do anything to be called starshine. “How are you?”
“…Can I help you, Lord Tartaglia?” you ask quietly, leaning back in your seat. His face is too close to your own, even with the added distance. You could’ve sworn he was in Liyue.
“No need to be so formal!” Tartaglia sits down on your desk like he belongs there. “I saw you help patch up recruits earlier today. You have very sure hands.”
“…Can I help you, Lord Tartaglia?” you repeat, not really wanting to acknowledge whatever can of worms he’d just handed you. You don’t want anything to do with a Harbinger.
“I’d like to walk you home—surely you’ve done enough for today?”
You blink, then blink again. You’re unsure you even heard him. “Excuse me?”
He gives you puppy-dog eyes that you can’t bring yourself to refuse. You know his innocence is false, that much is clear by the way his smile seems sharper as you accept his offer, but it’s just convincing enough to have you dropping your guard. Just a little.
Just enough that he’s holding your hand, walking you down the same unsafe, unlit path you walk every night. He chatters the whole time about anything that comes to mind, until eventually it loops back to you.
“You know, it’s crazy that I never noticed you,” he comments, squeezing your hand, “you’re so beautiful, obviously skilled. It’s rare someone doing office work has hands steady enough to help out on the training field. That, in and of itself, is impressive. Worthy of attention.”
“I’m just doing my job,” you answer, trying to shrug off the praise he’s so easily giving you. “I’m nothing special, really.”
He shakes his head, stopping under a flickering lamp and lifting your hands. He holds them gently, thumbs tracing your knuckles. “Any hand that can stitch up a wound is special.”
The kiss he places to your knuckles makes you shy away, and he willingly lets your hands slip from his grip. “Thank you, but… I really need to be getting home. It would be undue to let you into my home so late. I can make it from here.”
To your surprise, he lets you walk the short distance remaining alone. When you look back, you don’t even see footprints in the snow.
He doesn’t give up on you entirely, though. From then on, it becomes a routine—he crashes into your little office space, offers to walk you home, and talks about whatever comes to his mind on the way there. Inevitably, he asks you questions about yourself, but he never pushes when you give him vague, cautious answers.
A month exactly from the first time he came barreling in, he comes in with quiet footsteps and tired eyes. Instead of his brash, cheerful demeanor lighting up the room, he’s dull.
“Lord Tartaglia?” you ask, already clearing the space he usually takes up on your desk. Instead of taking the spot, he comes behind you and presses his face into the crook of your neck.
“Hello, starshine,” he mumbles, lips warm and chapped against your skin. You squeak, attempting to jolt forward away from him. You only succeed in banging your knee into your desk, cursing loudly at the pain radiating through your knee.
“My Lord, this isn’t appropriate,” you manage through gritted teeth. He’s undeterred by your complaints, nuzzling against your neck and pressing his face into your hair.
“You smell good,” he tells you after several moments, ignoring your squirming. “Fruity.”
“My perfume,” you answer, trying to push his head away. “This isn’t appropriate, my Lord.”
He hums, lifting his head at your prompting. When he looks at you, his eyes seem tired, unfocused. “Let me walk you home.”
For once, you can’t help thinking that’s a terrible idea. He’s different today—more vulnerable, maybe?—and you can barely handle him on a normal day.
So you’re not entirely certain how you end up at your front door, Tartaglia holding your hands. He hadn’t spoken much on the way here.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, pulling you closer. “Talented, skilled. I can’t understand why you hate to hear that so much.”
You go to pull your hands away, but he doesn’t let them go this time. He kisses your knuckles, a smattering of them in quick succession. “Why won’t you let me compliment you? You’ve earned it.”
“I’m not doing anything special,” you say for what feels like the thousandth time. You’re still not sure why he pays you so much attention.
He hums like he doesn’t believe you, lashes fluttering. “You’re kind to me. That’s pretty special,” he mumbles, head dropping to your knuckles. “You listen to me ramble on about things that aren’t work. About my family. You give good advice.”
“You’re my superior, you’re asking,” you stutter, looking down at him. You’ve always had to look up, and for some reason the difference makes you squirm. “I can’t refuse.”
“You could,” he refutes easily, “this isn’t work.”
The silence lingers between you, snow gathering on your coat and your hair the longer you stand there. After a while, you start to wonder if he’s even going to move.
“Goodnight, starshine,” he finally says, righting himself and giving you a tired smile. With one last kiss to your knuckles, he leaves you there by your door.
—
After that night, things return to normal. Well, normal by Tartaglia standards. He comes into your office, all energy and cheer, and spends the rest of the evening chattering ceaselessly.
You hate to admit it, but you even start to like it. He fills the silence with easy, affectionate stories about his family, about the kids in Liyue. It’s comforting in a way. So much so that, after a while, you don’t notice how close you’ve gotten to him.
“Hey, starshine,” he greets, cheerful as ever. He sits on the spot on your desk you reserve for him, lanky legs knocking into your chair and your knees. You don’t mind so much, looking up from your work.
“You’re in a good mood, my Lord,” you comment, fingers curling around his calf to stop him from kicking you. “A good day on the field?”
“Very,” he agrees emphatically, “I got off early. You were helping the medics again today.”
“They need a bit of extra help sometimes.” Like always, you brush off his comments. “They taught me the basics. It’s no big deal.”
“It is a big deal,” he retorts. “Your hands heal! That’s a big deal!”
You start to turn away from the attention, like you always do, but he grabs your wrist. Before you can protest, he’s pulling you up out of your chair and between his legs.
“No, no, don’t run,” he coos, brushing his fingers against your cheek. “You deserve to hear it, starshine. You matter, you’re important. I see how hard you work, how much care you show others.”
Now you really pull against him, trying to step away from him. For the first time, he doesn’t let you. The arm holding your wrist instead loops around your waist, pulling you in. His other hand doesn’t leave your cheek, keeping your face turned toward him.
“Tartaglia, this isn’t—I’m just doing my job,” you stutter, avoiding his gaze.
“Yeah?” he asks, a challenge you should not give into. You nod anyway. “Then you should be able to accept a compliment. You work hard.”
“I work… normal,” you mumble. “I work and then I go home.”
“Alone?” he asks, dipping his head to speak into your ear. “That doesn’t sound like a good life to me, personally. Work hard, go home to nothing? No recognition for anything you do. That’s not fair.”
You’re really squirming, now. His breath is warm where it touches your skin, his hand is burning your skin through your clothes, and he’s paying you far too much attention.
“Let me take you home, starshine.”
They’re the same words he says every night. Tonight, they’re different. Charged.
You aren’t sure why you say yes. You aren’t sure why you let him into your home, or why you close the door behind him. You expect him to immediately press you into the door, kiss you stupid, let his hands roam all over you.
Instead, he takes your hands, kisses your knuckles, and drops to his knees. He looks up at you, lashes batting at you and a small smile on his face. “Whatever you want, yeah?”
You sputter, unsure of what exactly you’re supposed to do. You have a Harbinger on his knees in front of you. Not exactly a position you ever thought you’d find yourself in.
“I-I… what?”
“What do you want from me? You’ve more than earned whatever you please,” he says simply, calmly. His hands hold yours reverently.
“I don’t—“
“You do.” He tilts his head, trying to put the puzzle pieces together. “You can’t live without wanting anything.”
Your silence drags, but he waits patiently. He looks up at you, rubs your knuckles with his thumbs, and waits on knees that are surely getting sore on the wooden floor. That alone makes you want to run away from him, from whatever he’s offering. You only get as far as letting your back hit the door.
“You,” you finally whisper. He looks surprised, and he’s about to get up when you clarify. “Not… not like that. Not yet.”
He blinks, then settles back on his knees. Your stomach churns at the sight of it. The Eleventh, yours to command—at least right now. You hate it.
“Not like… this, either,” you clarify, kneeling down with him. You pull your hands away, only to settle them on his thighs. “I just want you to be with me.”
He hesitates, then he shakes his head slowly. “That would be selfish of me.”
“Maybe I want you to be selfish.” You’re pretty sure you don’t want him to be. You’re pretty certain that whatever he wants from you, you can’t take it.
He takes your hesitant permission as truth, though, hands settling at your waist before lifting you up. Before you can protest, he’s got your legs wrapped around his waist and your head pressed into the crook of your neck. Again, you really expect him to do something. Again, the something he does is far from what you expect.
He carries into your room, looking around curiously at the decorations, at the sketchbook on your desk. He doesn’t linger long, favoring instead to plop you unceremoniously on your bed. You don’t get two words of annoyance out before he’s on his knees again, head buried in your lap.
“This okay?” he asks, like he hasn’t just transported you against your will and claimed a spot on your body as his resting place. For some reason, you can’t find yourself to be bothered by that part anymore—he looks so soft like this that you can’t deny him.
“You… can’t be comfortable down there,” you murmur, hand hovering over his head. You don’t want to overstep.
He takes that as permission, nuzzling into your thighs. “You like me down here.”
“I don’t,” you correct immediately. It’s not quite the truth. You do enjoy his head nestled in your lap, his hands gently curled around your calves. “I mean, I do, but I don’t. I like that you feel I’m safe enough to do this. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
He looks up again, shaking his head subtly. “You don’t need to worry. I’m happy right here.”
Looking down at him, you can't help sighing a little. Sure, he's pretty there, and you aren't really bothered by it. It wouldn't be a problem to let him stay there. Except… you're tired. You'd pushed yourself today, not to mention the emotional turmoil of Tartaglia actually making a move on you.
"Lord Tartaglia…" you pause, recognizing that that isn't appropriate for what's happening right now. You don't know how else to get his attention. "Tartaglia, you don't need to be on the floor."
He laughs, pressing closer so his chest is flush with your legs. "I thought I already said I was happy down here?"
You know how to get what you want from him—he'd made it clear earlier: just say so. You don't feel comfortable telling your superior what to do. Instead, you try to redirect his wants. "Would you be happy laying on the bed? Cuddling?"
"…Not as happy," he says, lifting his head from your lap with a pitiful pout. You feel guilty for interrupting his moment, despite having been speaking the whole time. "Do you really not like it?"
"No, that's not—" You hesitantly lift your hands over his head, caught between wanting to card your fingers through his hair and wanting to drag him onto the bed with you. "I'm just… 'm tired. If I were working or sitting and reading it would be fine, but I'm tired."
He hums, seeming to consider your words. After a moment, he nods, pushes himself up from the floor, and gestures you to get comfortable in bed. You shake your head, instead taking the chance to get away from his overwhelming presence to change into comfortable clothes. You throw your most oversized clothes at him—which, luckily, you have plenty of for the sake of comfort—and run off to the bathroom.
When you come back, he's sitting on the edge of the bed in clean, comfortable clothes that are… a tiny bit small on him. You stifle a laugh, trying to remind yourself that he is an intimidating, bloodthirsty warrior. He smiles freely, an infectious joy radiating off of him. He beckons you closer, fingers immediately curling into the fabric at your waist to pull you onto him.
In maybe 10 seconds, you're flipped onto your back and he's practically on top of you, face pressed into your chest. Like this, he's reminiscent of a big dog that doesn't realize it's not the size of a puppy anymore.
"This okay?" he prompts, fingers pressing into your waist and lashes fluttering against his cheeks. You aren't positive he'd move now even if you said it wasn't.
"…Yeah, it's okay." And, even though you'd said it because you didn't want to protest even more than you already have, you realize that it is okay with you. It's a natural progression from where you were before, from the casual touch he'd initiated before tonight. He's not asking for more than what he's already taking.
Just as you come to that conclusion, you feel a vibration against your chest. At first you think he's humming, but it becomes apparent that he's purring. He doesn't seem to notice, and if he does he doesn't think to comment on it. You can't draw your attention away from it.
"Are you purring?"
"Hm?" A pause, punctuated by a dreamy sigh. "Yeah. I do that."
"Because you're happy?" The dreaded thought hits you: what if you've upset Tartaglia?
He shakes his head, feeling blindly for one of your hands. Before you can ask why, he places it on top of his head. You take the hint, scratching gently at his scalp and playing with his hair. "Because I'm comfortable."
"Oh," you squeak, surprised but pleased by his correction. The purring continues, loud and vibrating through your body. "Good. That's good."
You fall into silence, playing with his hair and enjoying the weight of his body half-thrown over your own. Eventually, you doze off into a deep sleep.
You wake up to the sunlight filtering through your window, bright in spite of your efforts to keep the light out. You're late.
You're late.
Tartaglia is still draped over you, sleeping soundly. You hate to disturb his slumber—gods, he looks so gentle like this—but you push him off you anyway. He grumbles, dragging himself up just enough to look at you with annoyance, "What was that for?"
"I'm late," you tell him, running to your closet to get clothes. "I can't be late! I have work!"
"You've not taken a single day off since you started working," he says slowly, looking at you like you've lost your mind. "I'll approve your leave. Come back to bed."
"I can't just… not go into work. That's my livelihood."
"Did you hear me?" He drags himself out of bed, half asleep but purposeful. "I'll approve your leave. You got sick overnight, couldn't come in. It's fine."
You start to argue, but he cuts you off with an arm around your waist and a hand over your mouth. He shakes his head again, then presses his forehead to yours with a big yawn. "Starshine, just come back to bed. I promise it's okay. No one's losing their job for two sick days."
He tugs you along, back toward your warm, cozy bed where you're promised his warm body against yours and the tempting cocoon of sleep. You search for an argument—letting down coworkers, paperwork piling up, not wanting to get put on watch. They're good, valid arguments, mostly. They evaporate under the heat of his hands on you and his whispered reassurance.
"I didn't agree to two sick days," you finally manage, even though you hadn't even agreed to one before two seconds ago. He just laughs, rolling onto his side and pulling you against his chest.
"Really?" A kiss to your forehead, squeezing you against him. "I agreed to two sick days."
"…We'll discuss it later."
Who are you kidding? You can't deny him another day of simple comfort. You might not have been lonely, but you appreciate the company regardless.
" In the name of Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa — begin. "
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i. ONE ❆ THE MACHINE'S GAMBIT —
chapter description | With your return to his side, Pierro moves forward with the Tsaritsa’s plan. Let the trials begin.
word count | 5.400
noteworthy warnings | none of this is canon; ooc; gn!reader; canon typical violence; descriptions of death;
“So you’re just going to go along with it?”
There isn’t much for you to pack. Besides the clothes on your back, a few spare garments, and your polearm, the room looks just as it did five years ago. Five years of nothing, and suddenly he cares about your return? There’s more to this than what the Jester is letting slip.
“What else was I to do?” You sling the small bag over your shoulder and look between your friends, truly defeated. Lev’s glare is stone-cold to the floor, and Katerina has already cried every tear she could. Masha continues her angry pacing.
“We could have fought this,” Katerina finally says.
“We wouldn’t have lasted a day.”
“We could have tried!”
Masha’s anger is valid — out of all the people here in Lomas, she’s had the worst run-in with the Fatui. Her late child’s tombstone is a heavy sight at the edge of town. Still, this choice was the best option, or she would have been buried in the snow alongside him.
You don’t know the right words to say, nor can you think of the right thing to do but stand there in anger, sadness, and despair. You want to tell them everything will be fine, that it’s just some formality — but having the head of one of the world’s greatest organizations here offers no reassurance.
Your door opens suddenly, and all heads turn.
The rifleman from earlier enters, a sour expression on his face. “Enough goodbyes. We’re leaving. His Grace awaits.”
You adjust the items you carry. There will probably be no coming back here; you don’t know if you’ll ever see any of them again, and all you can offer is a sad smile. The weight of farewell fills the room, and all at once they rise to embrace you. It’s a brief moment — watched closely by the eyes at the door — but one you’ll cherish for as long as you can.
They pull away, and you steel yourself before moving past the rifleman and out into the village plaza. All the families have left their homes; each offers a nod, and some children wave as you pass, as if this were some official send-off. The moment feels too sweet for what you’re about to walk into.
A carriage waits at the village entrance. The horses leading it are bulky, fitting for the size of the carriage — large and heavily built. The interior is spacious, wide enough to house a small table between the seats. Pierro ushers you in first, and with one last sorrowful glance over your shoulder, you step inside.
It’s only the two of you when the door closes. His men walk beside the carriage in case of an attack you know no one would be foolish enough to make. Pierro leans back in the seat across from you, eyes closed. The gesture reminds you of younger years, and you wish they were fonder memories.
You don’t bother asking where you’re going; you know it would fall on deaf ears, and it’s not hard to guess you’re heading straight into the heart of the capital. The journey is silent. You pass through the thick forests and travel farther still until you reach the first enclosure of the city’s high walls.
Snezhnaya’s capital is divided into three sections: the lower district, home to common citizens, vendors, and restaurants; the mid-level, housing the Northland Bank and other influential landmarks; and finally, the third level — home to the Fatui’s main base and another building you glimpse in the distance, encased in ice.
That last place is what truly catches you off guard — and it’s the only thing that makes Pierro speak.
“The Fair Lady rests at peace. Her Majesty granted her a front-row seat for the battle to come.”
You stare at him, unsure what he means, but when it comes to the Cryo Archon, you know better than to question what lies beyond mortal comprehension. You drop the subject.
You don’t have time to ask anything else anyway; the carriage halts in front of a giant mansion you know all too well.
The doors open, and Pierro gestures for you to exit first. The quiet of the night greets you as you gaze up at the building in disdain. It wasn’t so long ago that you fled this very place, and now you walk back into it willingly. You want to curse yourself, but it would do little good — you’ve already walked into his hands again.
The Jester places a hand on your shoulder, like salt on a wound.
“Welcome home.”
He speaks plainly, and you do nothing but let him lead you through the doors. The hallways are long and just as tall as you remember. Like the exterior, little has changed — besides a few unfamiliar faces. Various soldiers stop and bow in respect, and you feel their lingering gazes as you walk close behind him. Being near him might seem like protection, but you know it only paints a target on your back.
Pierro leads you to a spare room. It’s larger than the inn rooms in Lomas — perhaps twice the size — and holds two beds with identical dressers on either side.
“Am I expecting a partner?” you finally ask, your throat dry from hours of silence.
The man doesn’t answer at first. He goes to the other bed, running a hand along the comforter before stopping at the end and glancing back at you.
“You know the answer to that,” he says. You turn away, choosing not to play his game. Moving to place your things in a drawer, you stop short when you find clothes already inside.
Pierro continues.
“Rest well. We’ll meet tomorrow for the start of the trials. Be ready. Think of that as my gift for your return.”
He gestures toward the clothes. A familiar design from your past, re-tailored to fit your build now. When you lived under the Jester as his disciple, you wore nothing else, for anything different would have killed you. The clothing is insulated to keep you warm and made of material strong enough to resist a hilichurl’s blade. You learned that through his cruel training — the hard way.
“I’ll come for you in the morning,” he says at last before he’s gone.
The door closes, leaving you alone. Standing in the quiet room, you should feel peace — but this is the Fatui. Peace never lasts long.
You move quickly, shoving the heavy mattress of the second bed against the door. Locking it won’t be enough to ensure safety, nor will the unbarred windows. You hurry to lock and shutter the window too, dragging the vacant dresser to block it as well. The heavy scraping might attract attention, but at least there will be a struggle if anyone decides to test the No. 1’s new recruit.
You take a moment to change. You hate the man, but you value your life — and these clothes are your best defense against the unknown.
Just as you throw your last leg through the pants, the doorknob rattles. You freeze.
The shaking stops, then starts again moments later. You move as quickly and quietly as you can, changing and reaching for your dagger just as you hear the telltale clicks of lockpicking.
You weren’t planning to sleep tonight anyway, and given how long it takes before the intruder gives up, you know it’s for the best. You glance at the clock on the nightstand.
3:42 a.m.
The clicking starts again.
It’s going to be a long night.
You wake to the sound of Pierro’s voice. It startles you enough to spring from bed, dagger drawn and pointed at him.
“I see you slept well.”
You can’t tell through the haze of fatigue, but you’re certain he’s mocking you. Your eyes dart around the room as you try to steady your breathing and lower the blade. You hadn’t slept long — you remember the sun barely peeking through the cracks in the curtains before you must have dozed off for a moment. That doesn’t surprise you. What does is how Pierro entered without you waking — and how the room somehow looks exactly as it did before you barricaded it, with no sign of disturbance.
The man pats down a pillow and looks you over, faint approval flickering in his eyes.
“You remember. That’s good. Come now, you should eat before the trials begin.”
He doesn’t wait for questions. With his usual, unreadable calm, he leaves the room expecting you to follow.
You take a second to get your bearings, grab your polearm, and fall into step behind him. The halls stretch long, your footsteps echoing faintly against the polished floors. You continue to feel the weight of curious eyes from passing soldiers as you’re escorted toward what you can assume is the dining hall.
Your suspicions are confirmed when Pierro pushes open the double doors to reveal a room full of people gathered around a lavishly set table. The moment the two of you enter, conversation dies. Every person rises to attention.
Pierro strides to the head of the table while you remain by the door, scanning for a seat. Of course, the only empty ones are the two flanking his own. You hesitate, then stalk forward, feeling the pressure of judgement following your every move.
As you pass, you take stock of the attendees. It isn’t just anyone — the entire roster of current Harbingers is present, each accompanied by their own chosen candidates at either side. The ages range wildly: children sit by the Knave, while seasoned veterans flank the Rooster. The sight alone promises that the trials ahead will be… lively.
You rest your polearm beside your chair and sit, reaching for a slice of bread — only for a man to cough delicately into his hand. You glance up, bread still in your fingers. The man stands near the Regrator — Pantalone, as he prefers to be called — and gestures beside you, though clearly directing his attention to Pierro.
You ignore him, choosing instead to continue filling your plate. You aren’t here for pride or honor or whatever illusions drive the other recruits. Making a good impression serves no purpose. Most of the Harbingers already know you as a runaway, and it’s not as though they respect one another — so the formalities are meaningless to you.
Pierro doesn’t react. He sits, and the room follows his cue. Breakfast resumes, subdued. No one dares raise their voice above a whisper. From the murmurs that reach your ears, it’s clear the other candidates are already plotting. Forming alliances, testing who might be friend or foe.
You study them carefully. Many meet your gaze; most look away quickly. It’s obvious — you’re either the greatest threat in the room or the most dangerous unknown. For a few their eyes are sharp with malice, a reminder to stay alert. The empty seat on Pierro’s other side doesn’t help. Every other Harbinger has two with them. Unlike you. You’re alone, isolated, an easy target.
You pluck a grape from its stem and chew slowly, thoughtful. Maybe you should consider a plan of your own — forge an alliance, perhaps, or play the waiting game and let the rest destroy each other first.
Pantalone is the one to shatter the silence, laughing far too loudly for the room’s tense decorum. The sound draws a roll of the eyes from the Marionette and a small, stifled laugh from the Damselette. Too perfectly timed to be spontaneous. You don’t doubt it’s rehearsed.
“Although this feast is a perfectly good show, dearest director,” Pantalone drawls, “what exactly are we doing here?”
The room stills again. All eyes turn from one figure of power to the next. Pierro dabs his lips with a napkin before standing. His voice is calm, almost lifeless, yet every word cuts clean through the silence.
“You are gathered here today because it will be the last time you see one another as comrades. You all serve under some branch of the Fatui but from this point forward, you stand as equals, fighting for a single goal: to join our union at its pinnacle. There will be no special treatment, no cutting corners. The next moment could very well be your last.”
“This feast is a good show,” he continues. “I allow the melodramas to play now so that business may proceed undistracted. The trials have been chosen. All that remains is to begin.”
His words freeze the air. No one dares move or speak.
No one except one.
The youngest Harbinger — Childe, the one whose name travels quickest through rumor — lets out a laugh, smacking one of his recruits on the shoulder as he teases him for looking terrified. Across the table, the Knave — head of the House of the Hearth — sighs audibly and rises.
“Well, now that the pleasantries have been spoiled,” she says, “you are all to report to the courtyard. There, you will learn the details of the first trial, and the journey will begin.”
She says nothing more. Her candidates move first toward the doors, and gradually, the rest follow including you.
Though Pierro seems indifferent, he’s not called the Jester for nothing. He thrives on theatrics, always pulling strings for a larger purpose or spectacle. Still, you admit — just for a moment — it almost felt pleasant. The clinking of plates, the murmured conversation… if you closed your eyes, it could almost have been the Larimar Tavern again. Home.
You hope they’re all well.
The walk to the courtyard is short. There, you can finally see your rivals firsthand: fifteen of you in total, all vying for a single place.
The chatter dims as the Harbingers emerge on a balcony above. It isn’t Pierro who speaks first, but the Marionette, hoisted high by her ever-present ruin guard. Her voice, amplified through unseen speakers, carries easily across the courtyard.
“You all know who I am, so I’ll skip the introductions. I will proctor the first trial, and it goes as follows: several crates containing confidential Fatui technology have been… misplaced. You will locate these crates and establish a clear retrieval point for collection. Do not attempt to carry them yourselves — or I will disqualify you for so much as a speck of dust on my precious equipment.”
A few murmurs ripple through the crowd, but no one dares voice a complaint.
“Whether you work together or alone, I couldn’t care less,” she admits dryly. “Recovering what was lost is your only priority. Any questions can be directed to Katherine of the Adventurers’ Guild. You have two days. In the name of Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa — begin.”
Her words snap like frost. She lowers her paper and fixes her gaze on all of you below, waiting for the inevitable scramble.
It doesn’t take long. A few voices whisper echo before someone breaks into a run for the exit. You watch as one of the mayor’s candidates tries to request a horse — only to be flatly denied. “No special treatment,” the guard reminds him. His rank means nothing here.
To your right, you hear others forming small alliances — the Marionette’s and Pantalone’s candidates leaving together.
Slowly, the courtyard empties. You linger, the last to move — not out of any grand plan, but to assess what you’ve learned. The Marionette is the only Harbinger truly obsessed with machines, which means she likely tailored this trial for her own advantage.
It’s a standard task, something given to rookies. You shouldn’t have expected much — especially from someone who despises humanity as she does. There is a catch somewhere along the lines. Still, you’ll need to make your move before the others get too far ahead.
With no real leads and only fragments of information, you descend the mountain, passing through the upper districts until you reach the lowest level in search of the Adventurers’ Guild.
By the time you arrive, the sun has reached its peak, and the working class is on break. The streets bustle with structured chaos, workers moving in streams toward cafés and market stalls, voices blending with the toll of the distant bell tower. You keep your head low.
The Guild’s booth stands at the square’s edge. Behind it, a woman waits, gaze forward and posture unnaturally straight.
You step directly in front of her before she reacts and realizes you're there.
She greets you in a rehearsed tone — “Ad astra, abyssosque” — introducing herself as Katherine. You don’t bother with pleasantries. Instead, you reach into your pocket and flash your Fatui insignia.
Instantly, her demeanor shifts. The mechanical rhythm of her voice doesn’t falter as she recites the details.
“Recruit registered: The Jester’s faction. Welcome. Out of the six packages marked for retrieval, two have been located and are currently en route to base. Four crates of confidential material remain unaccounted for. I cannot provide exact coordinates, but reported sightings are as follows.”
You didn’t expect specifics — it would be too easy. However, you’re grateful when she pulls out a map and marks several key landmarks to narrow your search.
She lists three locations you barely recognize: a Frostmoon Scion encampment, a clearing near a prohibited zone, and a shoreline you vaguely remember from childhood. None seem worth the trouble until she names the fourth.
“…and finally, a pack of hilichurls were spotted within Rosgrave Forest, tampering with a discarded Fatui convoy. Would you like me to repeat the selection?”
“No, that’s fine. I’ll be heading there now.”
Rosgrave Forest. Another woodland just off the main city road. The difference between it and the Gopeysk Forests lies in the sheer number of monsters that roam its depths. From hilichurls to abyssal corruption, it isn’t a place ordinary people can traverse without hiring a mercenary to watch their backs. That being said, it’s the only area familiar enough for you to form a potential escape route… should things go astray.
You turn away, ready to leave, until Katherine calls after you. Looking back, you see her extend a device you don’t recognize.
“This is a recommended tool from Marionette. Please establish a retrieval point and use it to bring the materials home.”
The tool looks somewhat like a beacon crossed with a remote control, though it has no buttons to press. You take it anyway, and the woman smiles faintly before returning to her rigid, lifeless stance — the same she held when you first arrived.
You decide not to think too much about it and glance up at the sky. No clouds. The sun still sits high. It’ll be dark by the time you reach Rosgrave on foot, you assume — and with a heavy sigh, it’s back to walking.
Thankfully, your time in Lomas kept you active, and traveling long distances has become second nature. Although you hate to admit it, you owe Pierro some credit as well. The thermal suit helps ward off the growing chill of Snezhnaya as you make your way toward the forest. Without you would have stopped to make camp several times due to frostbite.
Hours pass, and soon night consumes the bright sky. Rosgrave is as dismal as you remember — trees growing thick and clustered, only breaking near the mountains or where other vegetation forces its way through. In the dead of night, the darkness works both for and against you: it hides you from sight, but it also hides everything else. The monsters here are adapted to the cold, far more than you, and memorizing your route feels impossible. Still, you leave a trail by marking the trees, piercing their bark with your blade.
Even so, with the moon rising, the convoy remains unfound. Doubt creeps in.
What if the convoy has already been scavenged? What if the cargo’s been retrieved and you’re just wandering aimlessly? With fifteen candidates and only six objectives, there’s no telling how quickly this could all be over. Maybe you’ve already failed.
Your insecurities fester until the guttural cry of a hilichurl snaps you back to reality. Instinct takes over. Quickly, you stumble back and duck behind a tree for cover.
Peeking over, you spot two of them. Their blue skin and frost-covered masks mark them as Cryo-affiliated. Luckily, you haven’t been noticed yet. They grunt and gesture at each other, their strange language echoing through the quiet. Beyond them, you see nothing but more trees. One — the one with the crossbow — yells and swats at the other, irritated by his aimless digging. After a few moments, they stalk off together.
You can’t tell whether they were part of the group that ransacked the convoy, but you’re done second-guessing. You follow, keeping a safe distance.
Hilichurls aren’t known for their intelligence — at least, not these types — so the risk of being spotted is low. They’re noisy, too, making it impossible to lose them. After a few twists and turns, they lead you to what looks like a small camp near a cave.
Hidden behind the trees, you count four: the two you followed, one a Cryo archer and the other a Cryo grenadier; another archer; and a red-skinned Pyro berserker. Not the worst odds, if you plan it right. With the element of surprise, you could take them out one by one before the others react. The only real issue is the open terrain — fighting in the clearing would leave you exposed, but drawing them into the trees could throw off their aim.
No more waiting. You set your plan in motion.
Kicking through the snow, you find a rock. You lift it carefully, take aim at a nearby branch, and throw. The idea is simple: make a noise to draw one away, take them out, and repeat until the camp is clear. No room for error.
Unfortunately, you didn’t account for the uninvited company.
A sudden thud makes you flinch. A body hits the snow from where you threw the rock.
“Ow.”
A boy — no older than fifteen, and one you recognize as the one sitting beside the Knave — rubs his shoulder, grimacing. It’s not broken, but the fall’s loud enough to alert the camp. The hilichurls turn, spotting him instantly.
The boy laughs nervously, even offering a small wave. Then comes the war cry.
An arrow flies past, narrowly missing him. He dives behind a tree, rolling for cover, but his safety is short-lived. The Pyro berserker ignites his weapon and charges.
You hesitate.
The right thing to do is to save him. That’s who you are. But deep down, somewhere darker, you hear another voice. It tells you to leave him. To take the prize and run. To stop letting mercy weigh you down. You didn’t come here for friends.
Another scream cuts through the air.
Not from the boy. Something worse.
He’s nimble, darting from tree to tree, dodging the berserker’s blows and the Cryo arrows. But then, from the cave, the ground trembles. A Mitachurl emerges, massive and snarling. It slams into the snow pulling up a Cryo slime, then it forces it into his arm fusing the ice into a solid shield.
The danger spikes instantly.
A child can’t survive this, not alone.
Without thinking, you charge.
With all your strength, you hurl your polearm. It whistles through the air and pierces one of the archers square in the chest. The others react too late — then too fast. A volley of arrows rains down, forcing you to dive aside just as a Cryo slime bomb explodes nearby. You sprint to the trees, ducking another arrow and circling around a large oak.
Your only weapon lies skewering a corpse.
The Mitachurl bellows, charging without warning. Quickly, you move again. Its impact shatters its own ice shield and splinters the tree you hid behind. Heart hammering, you don’t sit for long.
The boy’s nowhere to be seen, but you can’t afford to think about that now. You have to survive this.
You dart back toward the camp, making for your polearm. As they reload, you shove the dead body off the weapon and grab its fallen crossbow as well. You move for the trees again, struggling to string it. The effort costs you awareness.
“Look out!”
The boy’s voice cuts through the chaos — but too late.
The explosion hits first. A hurled Cryo slime detonates beside you, sending you crashing into the leg of a construct. Frost bites through your suit. You gasp, trying to recover, but the Mitachurl is already charging again.
You brace for the end—
—and flames erupt.
A molotov, or something like it, shatters against the Mitachurl’s shield. The fire eats through it, melting the ice to water in an instant and burning the fur on its flesh.
Another follows, landing at the monster’s feet and sending it stumbling back a few steps. The boy appears at your side moments later, tossing yet another molotov at the remaining hilichurls before scooping you up and leading you into the trees. In his arms, your body heat rises instantly — the Pyro Vision hanging at his hip explains why.
He props you against a tree and offers your polearm. You take it gratefully, and he peers past the trunk to check if you were followed.
The boy’s hair is brown, and his clothes mimic that of a Pyro slinger like a child playing dress-up. You notice the small vials strapped near his Vision, glowing faintly orange the closer they sit to it. He looks back at you, giving a quick once-over to see if you’re hurt, and for a fleeting moment, you feel like the child instead.
“Uhmm— I can get the big one if you handle the little guys,” he says timidly, as though afraid to push you too far.
It’s dangerous — leaving a kid to deal with a Mitachurl isn’t something you’d ever be proud to admit — but given his Vision and your current condition, there’s little room for argument. You nod, and a small smile flickers across his face before he quickly grabs for his vials.
Using the tree for support, you force yourself to stand. The earlier explosion left you battered, but not beaten.
The boy offers two vials, then spits lightly on both, and they flare to life with Pyro energy. Visions work in strange ways, and you try not to grimace as you take the volatile orbs in hand. He nods once, determined, and runs back toward the camp. You follow out of instinct and worry.
You both charge the camp. He veers left while you break through the trees into the clearing.
A war cry echoes.
The Mitachurl digs into the snow, reaching for another Cryo slime but stops short when a bomb bursts against its back, flames licking its fur. It howls in pain.
You don’t have time to focus on the boy. Arrows whistle past as you charge headlong into their line of fire. Hilichurls train, but they lack precision. Their shots are easy enough to dodge until the grenadier starts hurling slimes, each one shaking the ground on impact. The combined assault leaves no opening to advance.
You can’t throw your polearm again, not after that last hit. Clutching one of the glowing vials, you aim for the grenadier mid-reload and hurl it.
The vial bursts against the ground, erupting into a wave of fire. Snow sprays in every direction, and when the haze clears, only a pair of charred legs remain.
You’d comment on the destructive power — but there’s no time.
With one down, you charge the last archer. Its shots are frantic now, wide and clumsy. Panic is your ally. You close the distance and slice its throat cleanly. The body collapses face-first into the snow, you kick the crossbow away.
You don’t rest. You turn ready to help the boy only to find a mound of burning flesh where the Mitachurl once stood.
The boy stands before it, the monster’s mask in hand, eyes gleaming with something wild. For a heartbeat, your chest tightens.
Don’t forget — these are a Harbinger’s chosen.
The thought strikes you like a blade, and your grip tightens around your polearm.
After finding himself, the boy’s expression softens. He runs over, smiling wide.
“We did it!” he shouts, raising his hand for a high five.
You think to turn away — to remind him there’s still work to do — but the joy in his eyes stops you. He’s just a child.
Your palms meet with a sharp clap, and his laughter rings through the night. He grins up at you, a tooth missing from his smile.
“What’s your name?” you ask.
“Call me Boris the Bombardment! It’s what they call me back at the Hearth.”
Fitting, you think. But what on earth is the Knave letting these kids get away with?
“Alright, Boris. Let’s see if these guys left anything useful.”
You toss the words over your shoulder as you head toward the cave. Beyond the large entrance, there’s not much: tracks in the dirt, clusters of crystal in the walls, signs of an abandoned mining effort. More hilichurl structures crowd the area, but there’s no sign of the convoy or the cargo.
Doubt creeps in again. But Boris wouldn’t have been staking this place out for nothing. Something must be here.
You search deeper, shoving aside rags and poking through the makeshift shelters until you spot a crate with a cracked lid. You approach cautiously. It’s intact. The hilichurls must have tried to pry it open before giving up.
Relief washes through you. The fight wasn’t for nothing.
You pull out the retrieval device Katherine gave you, turning it over in your hands to find a way to activate it — until the sound of splintering wood snaps your attention to the crate.
Boris is there, swinging a club at the lid.
“Wait—” you start, but the top’s already off.
The boy peers inside, curiosity bright in his eyes — until it isn’t.
He stumbles back with a scream, falling hard onto the ground.
You rush over and look for yourself — and your stomach turns.
The crate is filled not with materials, but bodies. Or rather, parts. Mechanical limbs and heads — each one identical to Katherine’s. Arms. Legs. Multiple faces. Their hollow eyes stare up at you through the dim light.
The sight chills you deeper than the frost ever could.
You slam the lid shut.
Boris still sits on the ground, chest heaving. You toss him the device gently, and he fumbles to catch it.
“Do you know how it works?” you ask.
He looks it over, then nods slowly.
“Can you start it for me? We’ll get you home after.”
He stands, fiddling with the device. You watch him closely. You’re not great with children—but Lev’s daughter taught you one thing: they’re stronger than they look.
After a few tense moments, Boris returns. The beacon glows faintly, pulsing in a steady rhythm. He smiles, proud but uncertain of what it’ll do. You don’t know either, so you both decide to stand guard outside until help arrives.
The “help” comes in the form of a Ruin Guard.
You hear it before you see it — the rhythmic thud of heavy footsteps shaking the trees. You brace for a fight, but the machine doesn’t attack. It marches past, straight toward the cave. Without hesitation, it reaches in, lifts the crate as if it weighs nothing, then turns and leaves.
You and Boris exchange a look. Then he grabs your hand.
“Come on!”
You barely manage to protest before he’s dragging you after the machine.
Following it seems smart — it knows where it’s going — but your confidence falters as Boris scrambles up its side, climbing until he’s perched proudly on its shoulders. Dangerous, reckless…but he’s laughing.
You climb after him, less graceful but determined, until you reach the top. From this height, the world stretches far and clear. The capital glimmers in the distance.
Boris raises his hands in triumph, shouting a cry of victory that echoes through the cold.
And you realize, almost numbly—
The first trial is over.
Two more to go. And the next Harbinger will be decided.
The thought hits you full force, heavy as stone.
You told yourself you weren’t doing it for the illusions the others have and yet you are one step closer to his goal.
What will you do if you reach the finish line?
a/n | omg hey yall its been a minute... so sorry for the random delay in posts i have been writing so much lately for classes that I needed a break from a keyboard but I got my mojo back so updates will becoming a lot sooner than what they have been !!
morbidial (fatui x abyss!reader)
child neglect, mention of death, violence
00 — remember me.
it’s not that you don’t remember, it’s just that there’s a lot you don’t. it’s painful, to reach out into whatever clear corners were left in your mind to find any trace of you and not those of a creature from the abyss. whether it’s some spell of subserviency, some sick side-affect of the void, or your own mind, you just can’t remember.
but you do, don't you? you choose to forget. you can try to convince yourself that it’s to keep the abyss from having any more leverage on you, but that’s a lie. you don’t want to remember because you still mourn, you keep mourning a life you never had.
of course you remember a soft hand swiping over your face, to wash dirt and grime off of you when they first found you. you remember the same hand pushing you away when you cried, because snezhnaya does not believe in tears.
you remember her too. you remember your mother. you remember her gentle laughter and her close-eyed smile, you remember her scornful glances and the way her hands tensed at loud children. you remember her disappearing for months for work and returning with the nice men and their big guns.
you remember your siblings welcoming her back, the elder girls and boys clapping and bowing, while the younger ones sprang and beamed at her. you remember wanting to do the same, but feeling lightheaded and ill when you saw her. weariness, you learned later, was what you felt.
you once wanted, so bad, to be a part of the big family you lived with. barely eight, with big, hopeful eyes, clinging to the coat of the man who brought you there, staring up at the big colosseum of a house and the many children running around there.
you had once been so ecstatic to start this different life, after the troubling one you had so far, seeing all the children laugh and run around. but you were a hare among rabbits and a dog among wolves. your life so far had made you too harsh for the innocence of a normal childhood and too weak for one of hardships. you tried to blend in, but it was hopeless. did you try too hard, or not try hard enough?
trying to join in on games was easy at first, everyone was excited at the prospect of a new playmate, a new sibling. but when you recoiled too harshly at being touched and caught in a game of tag, they pulled away, awkward. you liked to draw too, but showing others your pictures made you shy and embarrassed, but the children thought of you as egoistical. small things, very, very small things, made you too odd to be around.
the other children would find your unblinking stare unsettling, and your stillness unnerving. it wasn’t that the house of the hearth didn’t have its own black sheep, but let us not pretend you were a lamb. an ugly duckling, who wasn’t a swan chick in the wrong nest, but a loon out of water.
eventually, your oddity just became you. you didn’t understand why nobody at all talked to you. the children in your years swerved around you, not wanting to attach themselves to a weed like yourself, and influenced by their elders, the new children avoided you like a plague.
it was… unbearable. your situation is so pitiable and morose that you fell into a mood too sombre for a little youth. isolation and loneliness sent you into a dark place, and the fragile hope that rested in your bones was shattered with every rejection you received. a little child, depraved of the stimulating feeling of joy and the company of your only community. a little child, taken from one poor family to another. a bird first held under the water, and then taken away to be held under sand.
nobody saw you. nobody at all. not your absent mother, not the caretaking mistresses, not your “siblings”, nobody. you had managed to get through it for the first year, but your peace had cracked quickly after. loneliness had irreparably, irreversibly, permanently been changed into a different person. at some point in your childhood, you became violent, scratching at anyone who came too close, and sneering at just about anyone with cutting words. you had hoped your outbursts of anger would have made you more noticeable, and the scolding of others made you beam with satisfaction.
only until of course, the scoldings thinned out, and the house left you be, hoping to satiate you with silence and alone-time. you could have laughed at the irony of it if you didn’t feel so ridden with despair, your ears perpetually ringing from the quiet, your efforts truly were useless weren’t they?
your only method of releasing any pent up energy and dismay was the training your mother insisted every child in the house must participate in. beating at dummies with a stupid wooden club to hopefully beat away at your steadily growing morosity as well.
your… vigor, if you could call it that, finally got you noticed. by one person, an old lady who patrolled the corridors, playing the role of a “captain” for all the children who trained.
she alone patted at your scars, giving you the simple opportunity of being more. more than your siblings. your depravity allowed you to cling onto any such praise, lighting a bit of a darker competitive streak in you, a blaze of fury stifling down anybody else who even tried to overtake you.
your “captain” prodded at the monster you were becoming, encouraging scuffles rather than reprimanding you for them. she didn’t defend you when the mistresses shrieked over your teeth biting into a girl’s arm, or your foot to a boy’s jaw, letting you snarl back at them yourself.
she created a small young beast, wrapping the thread of your broken heart and fragile soul around her wrinkled fingers, letting you rely on a person you thought truly valued you. perhaps she truly did. you chose to ignore, to forget the bite in her voice when you couldn’t perform well, pushing with more determination to make her proud of you again. you chose to remember her wired hands pulling at your face, joyful of your violent drive and cold sophistication.
your wooden club was replaced by a sword in a month, and your opponents went from dummies to the nice men with big guns who agreed to the lady’s offer to spar with you. you’d always stop at a blade to their throats, a victory, or a breathless lean against your weapon, a failure.
you, for once, felt complete. worthy. useful. even more so when your opponent grumbled congratulations, surely you were allowed a little smugness at fighting grown men and winning.
your mentor passed shortly after you came of age. you mourned for two months and a half, grieving the one person who gave you a glance that lasted longer than a second. the familiarity of your life fell and faded quickly, your spars less frequent and your days more empty.
you didn’t feel upset. she had been ailing for a while, and her death must have brought her peace. peace that you would cherish for her, in the place of her withering corpse. you were old enough to contribute to what she and the house had trained you and your siblings so long for, the mother government of snezhnaya, a nation you’d never even gotten close to visiting.
your years there, however few, got you a strange reputation. right from the very start of your soldiership you were avoided by those under the knave, your mother, and the others caught along quickly. your team of weaker gunmen and hammer-wielding men were assigned to you simply so you could keep them alive long enough to fulfill their own duties. you found it nearly disgusting, the lack of their ability and their belief in their own contribution to the motherland. what did they think they were contributing to, sitting around while you hunted food and intruders alike? useless folk. all of them.
you tuned it out, your irritation, as you have and would many times over. your goals did not sit still like your comrades, but changed by the will of your leaders. did you consider them worthy enough to listen to? maybe not, but the sense of security you got in following orders, anchoring yourself in a community, gave you life.
then came the abyss, with her gentle hands, whisking your alice liddell self away into a wonderland, and you found security in being powerful.
dear, (name), how does it feel to hate enough to floor cities to the ground? to feel angry enough to swipe your claws at any man remotely brave enough to approach you? to be stealthy enough to evade your weak life in the overworld for centuries, and strong enough to keep yourself from dwelling over it? you have become one of the many gems from the abyssal cave.
beautiful thing, do hope that the prince and his people do not bore themselves out at musing over you.
your peace comes in fragments, make them whole. at least, live trying. your stillness becomes that of a lynx, and your unblinking eyes that of a snake. your harshness is the beak of a loon. your claws are sharp and your canines sharper. they adore you more than anyone else ever has.
value it, value them.
don't forget.
interaction appreciated !
ㄟ( ▔, ▔ )ㄏ i will probably continue the sagau series as well, but i'm a little demotivated to finish it. i am planning to turn this into a series, please do share ideas and thoughts >< it does help in keeping that drive to write a bit.
im gonna write headcanons any way contains dottore so be warned
Each one of us has borne witness to the absurd callousness of the foundational principles of this world.
So, let us don our masks in mockery of the world as we go forth and rewrite the rules of destiny.
—Pierro, Mocking Mask
>mc is a Kätzlein . basically she's related to diona . the snezhnayan bloodline branched of to mondstat . so mc has pure Kätzlein .
>mc's appearance is based of lest from arcane . i love lest i love snow leopards so combine them both you get mc .
>she has neutral relations with the harbingers . bit close to signora(hehe). but is super close to tsaritsa as her majesty favour her more than other harbingers , thou mc doesn't know why but the others know damn why the majesty is very affectionate towards a cat . and that to a snow leopard .
>has a big family ( i wont kill them off . i am going to keep this angst free)
>is very close to family . has a young sister and a baby brother sister being 15 and babybro being 7. has many uncles and aunts , grandparents and a loving mother and father .
>papa's girl
>often found patroling snezhnaya's boarders with natlan and fontain and sumeru .
>probably the only nicest harbinger . is aloof but understanding . often found spacing out with her tail in mouth ( the tail part is rare)
>has a pyro delusion and cryo vision .
>looked up to the captian once . admiration stop when she saw him speak with pierro regarding his heart . admiration turned into adoration
>she doesn't like dottore at all . killed half his segments when she found out he experimented on collei
>loathed the previous knave(crucabena i think) tolerates arlechinnos presence . only keeps conact due to mc wanting to talk to lynette who she belives is part of the clan mc is from
>signora and her relation was strange . it was sad and funny at the same time , imagine a old witch whos trying to run away from a oversized house cats advances . mc sense sadness in Rosalyn and made it her personal mission to bring any kind of happiness . ( she did)
>joined the fatui to become harbinger as the human population threatened her bloodline . got what she wanted in the end .
>whenever she's around pierro , she feels conflicted - whether to address the solemn look on his face or that his eyes show a deep hatred for something
>she despises childe . cause mans be all ways trying to fight her .
she has a mutual realtionship with pantalone
same with Pulcinella and sandrone
so far these are my mc and fatui head canons so far . i plan on making memes next . ( i just love snow leopards there so autistic coded )
Their names are Laureate and Colleen, and they are twins with Colleen being the oldest by three months. Laureate is the left one, and Colleen is right one
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Your nobody special, just a Pyro fatui agent that was assigned to the house of hearth since your one of arlecchinos best she partnered you with two of her orphanages children Laureate and Colleen an exceptional duo who always got things done and who also share everything.....including you
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Who fell first and who fell harder
Laureate fell for you first after you bravely saved her from falling to the infamous traveller's blade and defeating them in combat after that she always asked to spar with you and secretly would gush about your combat prowess to her big sister who would in turn always chastise Laureate for garnering such feelings towards her comrade and especially since your their senior
Of course, thinking back, Colleen sounds like quite the hypocrite as she was the one who fell even harder for you over the course of her and laureates time under your tutelage, it got so bad that now whenever she feels stressed she wraps herself up in the Hoodie she borrowed stole from your room and pretend it's you comforting her with that beautiful voice of yours
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How did they confess
At first, they had no idea what love was since they were raised to be effective agents, so this Is all new territory for them, the only kind of romance the twins were exposed to were from the romantic novels and pieces of smut fiction laureate would read in her off time so their confession was quite.....extra
It was supposed to be a normal night off for you, but when you were told by a suspiciously giddy lyney to go and meet arlecchino at the hotel debord you were mildly annoyed at being given a new assignment so quickly only for that annoyance to become confusion as you enter the hotel and are met with dim lighting as well as laureate and Colleen awaiting you near a candlelit dinner table and a pair of rainbow roses in hand
Y/n: What is.....all this?
Laureate and Colleen exchange a look before nodding and approaching you only for Colleen to hug your left arm and Laureate to hug your right as both your arms are between their modests chests the twins kiss either side of your face making it heat up immensely
Laureate: we've both recently become romantically infatuated with you soooo~
Colleen: we decided that in order to ensure our shared love for you doesn't cause any unwanted rivalry between us, we've decided to [blushes] share you.......but only if you want to be with us
Y/n: i...I mean you're both amazing and everything, but.....really me?
Laureate: oooh sister our darling senior agent seems to doubt his abilities to pleasure us~
Y/n: W-wait that's not-
Colleen: Well, now that just won't do [starts dragging you to the dinner table], come along after we enjoy our dinner-
Laureate: [leans close to your ear] You can enjoy us Aaallll night long~
And that's exactly what you did, as it turns out twins do share everything, and I mean EVERYTHING........in the morning how ever even though arlecchino was happy for you three she wasn't happy about the multiple noise complaints the house of the hearth received
His eyes were the first thing you’ve noticed about him ever since you arrived at the camp for your first mission.
And (oh my goodness) did he look cute when his brows furrowed in seething anger as your colleague’s trembling voice reported how he failed to find any clues about the traveler’s whereabouts.
But, well now, you kindaaa couldn’t care less about the blonde-haired traveler, whoever was partnered up with who, whoever was in charge of what, or whatever this mission was about…
Because your only focus was on him! His beautiful, beautiful, stunning, jaw-dropping beautiful, beautiful-
“…you are wasting my patience. Perhaps you should use those pretty little ears of yours to keep up for once.”
You were so caught up on admiring his jawline that you didn’t notice him standing with his arms crossed right in front of you!
As the booming sound of his voice ping ponged the walls of your brain, and the fading jingles of his hat echoed throughout the camp, you felt as if you’ve just ascended to Celestia because oh my goodness did he just call you pretty?!
