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[dukemeropide]

Wriothesley smiles. “Good eye.” He’d expect nothing less from Clorinde, of course, but it’s not the full picture and the somewhat cheeky look on his face as he follows her to the sofa says as much. Her answer tells him that she’d come straight here from the surface - direct and to the point, much like her personality, unlike the Duke himself, who would have easily gotten himself into trouble wandering the prison to satisfy his curiosity had he been in her place. Still, her observation is valuable.

”Glad to know I’m not just imagining things,” he says wryly and settles into the other cushion. “The prisoners have been more active lately. But only around my office.”

Shifting to the edge of the sofa, he leans forward to fill each cup with a rich amber tea that smells faintly of citrus.

”There’s a new fighting tournament beginning soon. It’s not being organized by the usual Pankration folks, but I still haven’t managed to get a name so I don’t know who’s behind it. Help yourself, by the way.”

Setting the teapot back on its warmer, he slides a tray with an arrangement of small bowls - one filled with sugar cubes, another with sliced lemons, and a third with the glistening gold of fresh honey - across the table to Clorinde, then sits back with his arms crossed. His eyes flicker toward her face to assess her expression, and then rise up to the high ceiling criss-crossed with sturdy pipes. The smile, by now, has left his face, replaced by a look of concentration.

”I do know that the big rumor is that I’ll be entering, but honestly I hadn’t really thought about it. It’s been a while since I’ve been in the ring.” An excuse and a reason all in one - on one hand, he was out of practice, on the other, he missed the thrill of it all. “All these people hanging around the administrative floor are hoping to get some intel on me though, either to help them prepare for the tournament, or to sell off for some extra credits. So…”

Wriothesley turns to Clorinde with a sly look.

”That’s where you come in.”

identifying as a Threat

╰┈➤ Learning to box was never high on Clorinde's list of things to do, but... The recent competition rumored to be taking place in the Fortress of Meropide warrants an overhaul of her combat style. Who better to teach her than the illustrious Duke himself? With @dukemeropide

[dukemeropide]

Wriothesley gives his thanks as the hostess departs. The turn of events hadn’t exactly been anything he hadn’t handled before. There were raucous, dangerous places all throughout Fontaine, if one knew where to look, and a handful of those places - restaurants included - needed full-time bodyguards. He’d probably been to more like that than he had Fontaine’s nicer establishments, and he’d conveyed with his thanks that he’d been impressed by the woman’s poise. Never in his life had he expected such a fancy, upscale place to need that sort of training though, and once the hostess disappears back around the corner of the alley, he turns to Furina with his hands on his hips to comment on the clientele the kiosk likely served.

”Sounds like they get celebrities pretty— huh?” The easy humor of a second ago falls away to the protectiveness he’d just left behind, eyebrows coming together as he steps toward her. All those places he’d gotten used to - they all needed bodyguards for dangers just like this, and concern has him forget his manners and grab for the bag in her hands. “What’s wrong?”

He has the sense not to rip it open at least, even though the colorful paper tears just a little. A weapon. Something offensive. A cruel letter. Poison. He expects all of these things, but what he finds instead is…

He snorts in disbelief. Peers back into the bag, then snorts again and shakes his head as disbelief breaks open into understanding laughter. Half-apologetically, he hands it back to his pink-faced date.

”Well, I’d hate to see it wasted,” he says with a smile he manages to keep mostly free from the embarrassment that itches underneath. “A picnic outside of the city sounds nice after all that excitement. What do you say? It doesn’t sound like your stomach would be opposed.”

End.

Lantern Rite: Wriothesley & Furina

Lantern Rite 2024 | Xinyue Kiosk Dessert Cart

[dukemeropide]

”Aventurine - that’s an unusual name.” The Duke stands in profile, head bowed to pick through a series of tins gathered on his desk. They’re the only things on it right now, besides the phonograph playing its wandering melody, and the automatic kettle just beginning to rumble with a boil. Double-breasted coat hangs off of his shoulders like a cape, its fur collar cutting an imposing, wolfish silhouette that’s nearly at odds with the easy, conversational tone.

”Do you have a preference for tea?” he asks with a glance over his shoulder. In a split second, his eyes flit over his guest from head to toe. Open palms. Inoffensive smile. Steady gaze. Elegance made out of a drab work uniform. This is the closest he’s been to this outlander since his arrival, and the Duke thinks he quite fits the reputation he’s made for himself. Sharp eyes like that could find innumerable opportunities in a place like this, and their odd, two-tone quality nearly captures his attention for a second too long. Willfully, he turns to his boxes again.

”I’ve got the usual stuff: blacks and greens from just about every region in Teyvat. Or maybe you’d prefer something more exotic. If it’s on a map, there’s a high chance I have a blend or two from the place.”

When the man does not make a move, the Duke raises his head again to direct him to the comfortable sofa pushed up against the other wall. 

”Please, have a seat.” And then he adds with a chuckle: “For as much as you paid to see me, it better be worth every credit, right?”

　♠　⋮﹒ leave no traces

[dukemeropide]

Folding his arms, Wriothesley let himself relax a little. The atmosphere in the bar was cozy and comfortable, and his bartender, as stern-faced as he was, was no less friendly than what the Duke was used to within the Fortress. The alcohol had trickled down its warmth as well and eased his vigilance, not to the point of danger, but enough that he could be a patron and not a fugitive in this foreign place. It helped that all around him was the chatter of long-time regulars too lost in their own stories, their own friends, their own beers and wines, to cast greedy looks at the one among them who stood out. This was not the Fortress.

He flashed the bartender an appreciative smile and reached out to sip from his glass again.

”So you’re saying you’re the only one who knows how to make this drink, huh? Lucky me.” He meant it, of course. Maybe it was living the life of a convict that had molded his preference for things that one would usually find outside of the mainstream. Hole-in-the-wall restaurants. Books either banned or forgotten. Antiques long past their prime. And recipes passed down through a single family, refined by each generation so that the drink of today was not the drink of yesterday and would not be the drink of tomorrow either.

”I’m in Mondstadt under orders from my doctor,” Wriothesley explained with a subtle, sarcastic smile. It wasn’t entirely untrue - Sigewinne was just as much his doctor as she was his coworker and friend - but he liked the truth better when he could wrap it in his dry humor. Rocking onto his side, he laid one leather-wrapped hand on the dented, scuffed top of the Kamera held in a pouch slung around his waist.

”She told me not to come back until I had some memorable stories to share. But she wanted pictures, so it seems this one-of-a-kind drink will just be my private memento from the trip.”

After the 9 to 5 [Wriothesley & Diluc]

[dukemeropide]

Always connections. Wriothesley smiles knowingly. He could have guessed the answer before he even asked it.

”A natural, huh? I guess that means I couldn’t have asked for a better guide.” The path inclines sharply ahead. Although not quite a climb again yet, he grasps the thin trunk of a relatively young palm to help him up the incline. For once, he’s sincere, even if his words still contain that joking quality that they always seem to have when he’s not the Duke.

”Think of me as an absolute beginner,” he adds with a short laugh, pressing his hand off the tree to unconsciously massage his thumb into the place between shoulder and chest. “Plenty of firearms come through the Fortress as contraband, and I’ve shot a couple of them once or twice for fun, but that’s nothing. Couldn’t hurt to get some lessons from someone who actually knows what she’s doing.”

A cliff rises up ahead of them, cut into jagged, step-like blocks. The fronds of trees and ferns brush either side of it, but part open to a bright blue sky where the rock plateaus. Wriothesley stops a few steps back, shields his eyes and cranes his neck to see over the top of it. He can’t tell what lies ahead, but that gives him an idea. He glances at Navia’s back.

”What do you say to making a little wager?” he asks with a smile in his voice. “If this isn’t the mountain’s peak, I’ll give you one of the rifles in the Fortress’ storage room.” No guarantee that they even still work is implied. “But if it is…” A thoughtful hum. “You’ll have to find a blend of tea I’ve never tried before.”

And deliver it to the Fortress by hand.

Solstice 2024: Wriothesley & Navia

hike to the cathedral

[dukemeropide]

A note is left with the plush - he's a bit too intimidated to hand-deliver this one.

Dear Duke, although this tea is not consumable, I hope it makes a fine addition to your collection nonetheless. I once again thank you for your help and grace during my brief time at the Fortress. I hope we may cross paths under more positive circumstances in the future. - Freminet

Here in the depths of the sea was a world built of brass and iron, of scars and hardship-hardened bodies, of underwater gloom and even darker darkness, kept in motion by cogs both metal and flesh. It was a place of hard edges, guarded eyes, and bone-deep cold, where the stains on the walls outlived those that had left them and the sun was a long-forgotten myth. Greys and browns made its palette, flattened into a sepia gradient by dim, ancient lights. Anything that arrived soft was chiseled into angles sharp enough to cut.

The Head Nurse represented the sole resistance against the Fortress’ merciless wear, and she would try to undo that which had been done to the Duke: stickers on his clothing, colorful drawings pinned to the walls of his office, and sometimes hand-sewn plushes hidden where she knew he’d find them.

He thinks this one is one such prank, and crosses the floor to his desk with amusement chasing the day’s weariness from his face. He lifts the stuffed teapot and turns it this way and that, inspecting the handiwork, thinking to himself that this might be another of Sigewinne’s hints to watch his tea intake. But a note then slips out from under it and glides to the floor. Setting the toy back down, he kneels to pick it up.

The neat handwriting gives it away at once - this is not from Sigewinne - so his private smile changes to one of cautious curiosity. Eyes trace each line as he rises back to his feet, and by the end his expression has softened again into something rarely seen beyond the protection of his office.

He remembers Freminet, of course. He remembers how he and the other two kids from the House of the Hearth had learned firsthand how impenetrable the Fortress could be. But at the end of it all, Wriothesley had not been terribly disturbed from his routines, and the Fortress had not lost anything but a couple of workers who’d served their sentence. Seeing them off without a grudge had been the privilege of the victor, but it was maturity that had penned this boy’s truce.

So Wriothesley circles his desk to write a thank-you of his own:

Mr. Freminet, Your thoughtful gift looks right at home with the rest of my collection. As you likely saw the last time you were here, I’ve gotten a lot of teapots over the years, but this one’s the only one of its kind on my shelves. While it can’t be filled, it can join us at the table if you ever decide to visit one day. My invitation to tea still stands for you, Mr. Lyney, and Miss Lynette. I hope you’re keeping those two out of trouble, by the way. Kind regards, The Duke of the Fortress of Meropide

[dukemeropide]

24. How do they present themselves socially? What distinguishes their “persona” from their “true self”, and what causes that difference?

Character Dev Questions | no longer accepting

There is a stark line between "the Duke" and Wriothesley. Something that a lot of people (in general, not just in the game) don't realize is the necessity of a persona when you're a public figure. Cultivating a character separate from whatever you consider to be your "true" personality eases the strain and stress of making difficult decisions, the constant barrage of public opinion and scrutiny, and interacting with others. It's easier to separate your personal feelings from that of public persona because at the end of the day you recognize that the persona is just a mask made for a specific duty. For example, the Duke must punish rule-breakers, sometimes rather cruelly, to uphold peace within the Fortress but that does not mean that Wriothesley is himself a heartless or cruel person.

A public persona also gives some degree of control over how people think about and perceive you. The Fortress' Duke has a reputation of being elusive, intimidating, powerful, and omniscient. Wriothesley himself refutes the idea that he knows about everything happening in the Fortress at any given moment, yet the inmates believe this, and fear of being discovered keeps most of them in line. That reputation serves Wriothesley rather well, so if anything, he feeds into this perception.

I'm straying from the question, however.

The Duke of the Fortress of Meropide is an illustrious leader, as innovative as he is terrifying. He runs a tight ship though, and is quick to fix anyone whose numbers in the production zone are lagging. While judgment and corrections are rarely handed out by the Duke personally, the loyalty of his many guards lends the impression that he has eyes and ears everywhere. His office situated in the center of the entire prison bolsters this idea as well. He is loved by the people for the quality of life improvements he's made to the Fortress, but he is equally feared for his power, which has no checks. To earn a personal visit from the Duke often means that one's fate is on the line, and this often causes inmates to stumble over themselves to try to impress him.

Wriothesley is likewise conscientious of his appearance as the Duke. He dresses in a style that balances practicality with finery, because looking too much like a snobby noble will lose the respect of the people who will see him as out of touch, but dressing like another inmate will lose the respect of the people who will see him as too much like themselves. He instead presents himself as wealthy, yet ready and able to work hard. Clean, but not sterile, put together but not stiff, he shaves daily to maintain this aspect of his appearance. Additionally, the occasional flash of his boxing gloves - whether for maintenance or for use - will straighten out any inmate who knows the Duke's reputation as a Pankration champion.

Behind the mask of the Duke is someone who is softer and easier to get along with. Wriothesley is, in general, a laidback man with a good sense of humor. He's hospitable and friendly, he empathizes with the people of the Fortress, because this is his home as much as it is theirs, and he has a curiosity and willingness to learn that he keeps separate from the Duke's steel-clad image. However, this, too, is another persona. I would argue that "Wriothesley" is a character he adopted on the day he was sentenced to the Fortress. Discarding his name, his birthday, and all of his past connections and being thrown into a place where no one else knew him allowed him to be reborn as someone else. Wriothesley is the wily inmate who overthrew the previous administrator, the quiet boy who learned through observation how to wield the elements without a Vision, the constant underdog in the Pankration ring, and the bullheaded, tenacious, almost masochistic teenager who refuses to give up or rest no matter how many times he gets knocked down.

According to his character stories though, Wriothesley has never forgotten who he was before he came to the Fortress. At the very center of his person, he holds onto his old name and memories of his old family. He is the "young psychopath." The "culprit of coldblooded patricide." The "sewer trash." The "scummy urchin." All the things he had been in an old life. He's still all of that, neither good nor bad.

[dukemeropide]

36. How much do they rely on their minds and intellect, versus other approaches like relying on instinct, intuition, faith and spirituality, or emotions? What is their opinion on this?

Character Dev Questions | no longer accepting

Wriothesley seems to rely primarily on intellect, instinct, and intuition. Intelligence and wit are probably his strongest, albeit often overlooked assets. You don't often expect this from the scarred, fist-fighting musclehead, especially in media full of anime tropes, but a number of NPCs are quick to tell you about how smart the Duke is as soon as you walk into the Fortress for the first time. He reads a good bit - we see this from the scattered open books in his office - and he never turns down the opportunity to learn - we know this, too, because he tells the Traveler that he'd listened to an old historian prattle on about Remuria, which helped him understand what might be sealed under the Fortress and inspired him to design the Wingalet project. Given how early he ran away from home, and how he'd sought out meka apprenticeships to figure out how to design his own weapons at a young age, this propensity for teaching himself has been with him since childhood. Likely born out of necessity. Had he the resources growing up, he might have even been labeled as gifted.

Instinct and intuition both feed into and inform his intellect, however. One might consider this the streets smarts to balance out his book smarts. He has a good eye for patterns, as we see in his character quest when he breaks down the habits of the Beret Society, and he has enough faith in his intuition to gamble when it will pay off for him, like when he baits Dougier with the fear rock. We also never see him indecisive, which is likely owed to the trust he has in his own instincts. He has a keen eye and knows exactly when to act. The fighting ring probably honed this part of him.

The order of his intellectual processes seems to be instinct or intuition pinged first, then a more methodical testing gets applied to that. He grew up around researchers from Fontaine's Research Institute, so it would be no surprise if he picked up the scientific method from them. Emotion, faith, and spirituality seem to have very little influence on him. There are moments when we see Wriothesley get emotional (e.g. the end of his character quest), but he is also remarkable at keeping himself controlled and levelheaded. He blames the murder of his parents on his own anger, so he's probably intentionally repressed the power emotion has over his decision-making over the years. For better or worse.

As for faith:

Wriothesley: Where there's water, there will be ships. People believe that hope can always be found at the end of a voyage. Paimon: Do you believe that, too? Wriothesley: To a point, I think. As you've already seen, I have a whole factory's worth of labor, materials, and technology at my disposal. Certainly can't hurt to give it a try.

Wriothesley: Indeed. It's just as the prophecy says. If this gate fails, then everyone will be dissolved into the sea. Traveler: Do you believe in prophecies? Wriothesley: To be frank, not really. But sadly, that hasn't stopped this prophecy from proving all too accurate.

He is skeptical at best. In his voice lines, he mentions that he likes stories that are hopeful, but I think he keeps his expectations low. Prophecies, archons, miracles, fairy tales - they have their use, but they're not consistent enough to be relied on.

[dukemeropide]

21. What kind of relationships do they tend to intentionally seek out versus actually cultivate? What kind of social contact do they prefer, and why?

Character Dev Questions | no longer accepting

One of Wriothesley's regrets is that he can't trust other people, which naturally impacts his ability to develop relationships. He understands this about himself well enough that he can articulate it in his voice lines, so I believe that he's pretty conscious of it. That is to say, his relationships are almost entirely professional and he prefers to keep them that way. There is value in networking, and you can see by the number of characters who know of him that he's prolific with his connections and reputation, but he views himself as a businessman first and foremost. Who you know can make all the difference in securing funds for a new project, or hiring some extra protection to deal with a rowdy gang of inmates, or even opening up unique avenues to limited resources, so he likes to keep a wide array of acquaintances. He isn't picky about what kinds of people he throws his lot in with though. Some wayward pickpocket could be just as useful to him one day as someone rich and socially powerful. Wriothesley is nothing if not resourceful.

While Wriothesley is amicable and easy to get along with, I do think there's a callousness to his use of relationships. In Navia's voice line about him, she says she's been told not to trust anything he says. Wriothesley implies that he has no qualms with cheating. And in in his character quest, he manipulates the Traveler to help him oust Dougier and his schemes. The game presents this trait in a, if not entirely positive, lighthearted way, but that's because the playable characters in Genshin are very rarely allowed to be anything but Good. Clorinde and Emilie's voice lines about him imply that there's likely shadier things afoot, so I do believe that Wriothesley toes the line of morality more often than not. Realistically, this is the only way someone would be able to gain power over a pseudo-meritocratic society of criminals and keep it.

Circling back to the question, I don't know if "cultivate" is really something Wriothesley does with relationships so much as "maintains." Sending gifts to business partners, for example, agreeing to favors, helping others out if it's within his power to do so, because he knows gestures like these go a long way in keeping yourself in someone else's good graces, even if you rarely speak. A few boxes of tea sent to a business partner on her daughter's birthday could become 500 tons of ore at a slashed rate. There is, however, no emotional investment in these relationships. As for social contact, Wriothesley as "the Duke" prefers very little. The mystery of his persona serves him quite well, so he avoids the spotlight and makes himself a limited commodity within the Fortress. The inmates there consider meeting with him to be on par with winning an audience with the king, after all. Without his title, although these situations are much more rare (and in fact he seems uncomfortable outside of the Fortress), he enjoys mundane pleasures. Picnicking with a friend. Enjoying the weather at a cafe. Talking over a pot of tea. It's these moments that one might find themselves likelier to pry a personal fact or two out of him, but he's still frustratingly difficult to get to know on a deeper level.

[dukemeropide]

31. Is there anything that counts as a “dealbreaker” for them, positively or negatively? What makes things go smoothly, and what spoils an activity or ruins their day? Why?

Character Dev Questions | no longer accepting

I've been turning this TCG line over in my head for a few weeks now:

Wriothesley: Evidently, accepting your challenge despite being unprepared wasn't a particularly wise move…

I think it's interesting that when you invite Wriothesley to a friendly TCG match, he acts like he doesn't want to be there (versus the serious match, where he seems more interested), and blames his loss on knowing he was unprepared but accepting anyway.

Contrasting this line, which he says when you lose a serious match against him:

Wriothesley: Looks like I came better prepared than you did. How did I prepare? Well, I read the rules, of course, then looked back on some of my previous duels... Why, what did you think I was going to say?

Even though these are lines for the TCG, I do think they reflect Wriothesley's character more broadly, too. This isn't the only time we see him touting preparedness. He gets pretty cocky during his "negotiation" with Lyney in the Archon quest, too, because he knows he holds all the cards and he's on his home turf. The deal didn't turn out entirely in his favor, but he still got something out of it in the end. I think this also explains the difference in his attitude in a friendly TCG match versus a serious one. We can assume the friendly match is a spur-of-the-moment thing, where the Traveler just pops the question out of the blue and Wriothesley accepts, and the serious one has a longer lead-up to give both contestants more time to get their decks in order.

Because when you win your match against him in a serious duel, he's much more complimentary:

Wriothesley: A textbook victory, assuming there was no cheating involved. Although to be fair, even if there were, it would still count… as long as you didn't get caught, that is.

This leads me to believe that Wriothesley really doesn't like being unprepared. Winning and losing doesn't matter to him (and neither does cheating) as much as whether or not he was ready to face the challenge at all. And all of that is just another facet of his surprisingly careful and conscientious character (we love swerving tropes in this house).

So tl;dr: Is there anything that counts as a “dealbreaker” for them, positively or negatively? Preparedness for sure. He will likely turn down any situation he doesn't feel ready to tackle. This is probably the trait to which he owes his survival in the Fortress.

[dukemeropide]

Wriothesley has been here before: rundown and desperate in front of a deadend. He’d had the Gardes after him more times than he cared to remember, usually for no other reason than the fact he was a grimy, starving kid who’d dared show his face around these pristine streets (the sewers, after all, were where the bent, dirty, and destitute were supposed to stay, and in turn they’d be granted charitable ignorance - or so was the popular idea). So as this thin, ragged boy scrambles on his knees to clasp pleadingly at his legs, he feels a twinge of sympathy. It’s encounters like these though that highlight the great irony of his position as the criminal who’d made his way into power on the right side of the law.

But it’s that position that has taught him how to chisel his expressions out of ice, too, because sympathy, among all else that had made him soft, has little room in the Fortress. Unmoved, arms crossed, he’s suddenly all frigidity and muscle as the boy bows his head and, with trembling hands, raises the package wrapped in nondescript brown paper.

”I promise…” the would-be thief whimpers.

The Duke lets him wait in silent suspense for a moment, but eventually obliges. Unfolding his arms, he takes the package wordlessly and begins to shed its wrappings. The paper is wrinkled, the twine loose, and he gets the impression before he even uncovers its contents that this had been a crude gift. When he pulls out the canvas with the brightly colored paint splattered on it in some vaguely familiar shapes, he fits the pieces together.

”M-my little sister… gave me that…” the boy explains, voice trembling with fear and the tears he tries to bravely hold back, “b-before she went to live with another family.”

The painting itself looks to have been put together by a child no older than three or four. It’s mostly bright colors suggesting shapes of simple things: the sun, the water, a tree. The central figure is, however, a tiny alien. Blue-and-pink-skinned with big, round eyes and curly antenna sprouting from its head. It resembles the sea hares native to Fontaine’s waters in a way, but Wriothesley recognizes the artist’s true intent: a melusine.

”Let me guess,” he starts as he looks over the top of the canvas and down at the boy now curled in on himself on the ground, “Someone saw this and thought it was an offensive caricature.”

“I-it’s not!” The boy snaps his head up. “I promise! She just can’t draw that well yet!”

Wriothesley folds the paper over the canvas and hands it back. “So you ran because you thought the Gardes wouldn’t believe you?”

”Y-yeah… and then someone else shouted at me while I was running. He said I’d stolen something from his shop. I didn’t though. I promise! This is all I have.”

With a soft huff, Wriothesley glances over at Kaveh. “Well? Should we believe him?”

The World, A Stage [Open]

[dukemeropide]

”Lady Furina?” Wriothesley slows his jog to a not-entirely-graceful slide down the north-facing slope of the dune, the soft, loose sand slipping under bare feet. In a series of imagined worst-case-scenarios, Fontaine’s former archon and most beloved idol being barreled over by a half-naked runaway sheep probably should have been somewhere on the list, and he rushes to her in some polite effort to check that she’s alright. She’s on her feet, at least. A little ruffled, but not too banged up, thankfully. In fact, she probably looks better than him, soaked from head to toe as he is, except for some irregular splotch between his shoulders where the sheep’s frantic splashing couldn’t reach.

His eyebrows lower beneath the hair hanging over one eye, heavy with dripping water, and he uselessly extends to her one hand as if to help her back to her feet or check her for injury.

”Did that scream come from you?” The pressure of time makes him more blunt than he might have been under other circumstances. Noticing that his palm is coated, not just in the little white scars of a reckless past he ordinarily keeps hidden, but the sticky wisps of wool, he quickly retracts it to rub futilely against the leg of his equally wet and hair-covered pants. Then his eyes catch a flash of white between the wiggling palms near the tree line and he pulls away from her apologetically.

”You’ll have to excuse me,” he starts, already walking rapidly in that direction, glancing between the underbrush and the thunderstruck (sheep-struck?) Lady Furina. “I have a criminal to catch.”

Solstice 2024: Wriothesley & Furina

sheep washing

[dukemeropide]

”Photographs and now an interview?” The Duke chides, but underneath the disapproval is a note of interest. “You’re a presumptuous one, aren’t you?”

The other man opens his mouth with the start of an apology, terrified eyes fixed, not on a face anymore, but the tightening shape of a fist - a subtle threat on the cusp of being not-so-subtle anymore. He takes another step back and one of his companions yelps behind him when his heel crushes her foot.

”Have you found her yet!?” Someone else asks testily, and the crowd surges forward around the spectacled man and up to the steely-eyed boulder keeping them from crashing like a wave into the room.

”Lady Furina didn’t hire a bodyguard! I saw her on set this morning!” A cowardly skeptic says from the safety of the back. “If you ask me, this has to be something more. Why else would she be so secretive? This man is—”

The Duke huffs like a bull and the crowd shrinks back again. “If you want your questions answered, I’m afraid you’ll have to schedule an appointment,” he insists with a practiced, mechanical smile.

”Your Grace—“ whispers someone from the other side of the door behind him, lost under the chatter of curious fans and barely discernible by Wriothesley’s ear. He takes a step back into the doorway, tilts his head to listen again.

”Your Lady is safe and sound now.”

Your Lady? Surprise catches him by the throat.

”Come with me,” the voice continues, “and I’ll lead you out as well.”

Wriothesley swings his attention out across the reporters again, weighing his options. It felt like a blind leap, and he hated blind leaps, but he decides, after a moment, to trust this voice. To the rest of the crowd, he announces:

”Alright, alright. Wait out here for a minute and I’ll call her out.”

”Finally!” The ringleader with the Kamera sighs. “We just want some photographs!”

The door shuts. Wriothesley finds himself face-to-face with one of the kiosk’s waitresses smiling politely.

”This way,” she says. Wriothesley glances at the table, considers Lady Furina’s empty place for a split second, and then grabs a chair to tuck under the door’s curved handle.

”Alright then. Lead the way…”

Lantern Rite: Wriothesley & Furina

Lantern Rite 2024 | Xinyue Kiosk Dessert Cart

[dukemeropide]

There were very few people in Fontaine - in all of Teyvat, really - who could simply walk up to the door of the Fortress’ central tower and expect to meet with the Duke. Even prior appointments were next to impossible, and so rare that usually the first trial was to convince the guards who stood watch all hours of the day that you deserved to cross the short bridge over the tower’s surrounding moat and touch the door at all. And the second trial was whether or not the door would open.

Unless, of course, you were the Champion Duelist Clorinde. For her, the guards had parted without a word, and the massive steel doors had rumbled open as if they’d been expecting her.

”Now isn’t this something.” The Duke stood in the sliver of space between them, which was wide enough for two people to comfortably stand shoulder-to-shoulder but which was, compared to the rest of the massive, ironclad entrance, hardly an opening at all. Clorinde’s status earned her something else, too: a hint of playfulness thawing a frigid countenance, steel blue eyes softened almost imperceptibly in lieu of a welcome, all like a hidden code from one impassive, stone-chiseled face recognized by another. To the guards who pretended that they weren’t watching, and the prisoners idling nearby who hardly pretended at all, this exchange was within normal parameters for the elusive administrator, however rare his appearances were: cold, but not quite icy to an unexpected visitor, but since that visitor was a Champion Duelist from the surface, equally respectful.

”If you’ve come down here to fetch some paperwork on Neuvillette’s behalf, I’m afraid that’s not quite ready yet.” He unfolded his arms and stood aside to allow her into the office. “Fortunately, you’ve caught me at a good time. Come in. I was just about to have my afternoon tea.”

When the doors finally rumbled shut again, and he was certain that several feet of iron and bronze blocked them from any prying eyes and ears, Wriothesley unleashed a much more welcoming smile, albeit one that was still rather mild compared to sunnier dispositions. Contrary to the front he’d put on, he had indeed expected Clorinde’s arrival, and upstairs alongside the hissing teapot, he’d set out two teacups and their matching saucers.

”Sorry about all that,” he apologized, eyebrows lifting in a sign of sincerity. “But I have to ask now: what do you think of the Fortress today? Get a good look?”

identifying as a Threat

╰┈➤ Learning to box was never high on Clorinde's list of things to do, but... The recent competition rumored to be taking place in the Fortress of Meropide warrants an overhaul of her combat style. Who better to teach her than the illustrious Duke himself? With @dukemeropide

[dukemeropide]

“Yes, Your Highness,” Wriothesley says through a teasing smile, even though Navia has already marched ahead in a show of her independence. An independence that had, perhaps for a moment, been undermined by his help up onto the rock, but which the Duke does not quite recognize beyond a small, almost imperceptible tickle at the back of his mind that something might have gone wrong. He follows after her nevertheless in good spirits, eyes flickering up through the canopy as they step deeper into its dappled shadows to find the sun’s angle. They still have some time yet before sunset, but they also still have trail yet to walk.

“Would the Lady entertain an idle’s mind’s question or two?” he continues in his teasing way, readjusting the strap across his shoulder as they venture single-file between the grasping branches of overgrown trees.

“I’ve been wondering: When did you learn to shoot? From what I know of Fontaine’s laws—” Which is not as much as one might expect from a member of Fontaine’s law enforcement. But exactly what one might expect from a former criminal. “–it’s hard to get permits without being trained for the Maison Gardiennage. These rifles don’t look like some dangerous DIY project either.”

Solstice 2024: Wriothesley & Navia

hike to the cathedral

[dukemeropide]

”You know that just about everything in Fontaine is powered by Arkhe energy, right?” Wriothesley glances down at Lady Furina for a glimpse of understanding as the elevator trundles deeper into the sea. He isn’t sure how widespread the knowledge is on the surface, despite how prevalent its effects are throughout the nation. He’d heard very little about it in his younger years, and might have remained ignorant for the rest of his life had tragedy not brought him to this place, where he’s since crossed paths with a number of engineers and scientists well-versed in the topic. And, of course, the vein of neon green-gold crystal upon which the Fortress sits like a ticking time bomb had forced itself into the Duke’s priorities after the disaster that rendered the research institute skyborne.

”Well, some of it’s mined from geodes called Arkhium,” he continues. Arms folded, he looks away to the smoky glass that separates them from the metal walls sliding by outside. “We’ve got a sizable vein of it running right under us, and for a while, this place was the biggest Arkhium refinery in the nation. It’s used in meka, so having the power source right where the parts are made makes things easier, not to mention cheaper. Only problem is that it’s incredibly unstable. That’s the reason it can be used for energy, but just look at what happened to Fontaine’s Research Institute.”

He pauses, still staring at the darkness beyond the window, to let his audience piece the parts of his story together into a tapestry of impending disaster. Another one in a lengthy slew marring Fontaine’s recent history.

”Don’t worry,” he turns to Lady Furina then with a smile that’s as teasing as it is placating, “if that rumble earlier had come from the geodes, we’d be sky high by now. Our destination is actually one of the oldest parts of the Fortress, from back when this place was a proper prison. Now that the Wingalet has had her maiden voyage, I intended to get started on renovation plans down here, but it’s been abandoned for a few years now and the last administrator hardly cared about its upkeep.”

Lifting one hand from his bicep, he invites her to fill the space with a guess about what the problem might be, and to hear - whether between the lines or spoken directly - how dangerous she thinks this task will be, whether or not she wants him to escort her back up to the Production zone where he can deliver her to a trusted guard who will entertain her in his office until he’s finished with his survey. But before either of them can say another word, the elevator lurches violently with an ear-splitting screech, knocking even the unflappable Duke off balance and shooting a rare look of shock into his widened eyes. He catches himself, palm thrust against the wall, peering down at the former archon enshrouded by his shadow below. Then the light flickers, buzzes, and burns out, plunging them both into charcoal twilight.

　PARADE OF THE LADY ｡

[dukemeropide]

The massive iron doors slide open with a thunderous rumble that, for a bar, eclipses the delicate piano etude crackling from the phonograph on the second floor. Even the walls built by the very same iron, hammered into thin plates and bolted together with rusting screws, shudder with the effort it takes to pry into the Fortress’ central keep, but its elusive Duke hardly glances from the curling strokes of ink he pens onto one of many sheets of paper spread across his sturdy, crescent-shaped desk. His head cants to one side, however, listening for the halting footsteps that hesitate at the bottom of the spiral staircase, dark lashes of half-lowered lids still fanned over his cheeks as he writes without pause. The door isn’t locked; he leaves it that way during the day whenever he retreats to its quiet solitude, knowing that neither quiet nor solitude last long in this place. This is one of a dozen intrusions today alone, but by now his guards have grown swift and efficient with the delivery of their reports.

Whoever this is still has not come up though, and this finally piques his curiosity. At the end of a line, he dots a period and sets his pen aside. Only then do footsteps finally begin their climb to the top, slowly at first, then more deliberately when they realize that there is no turning back. When a head finally crests above the floor at the top of the stairs, the Duke receives him expectantly from his tall-backed throne.

”Mahaut,” he says by way of greeting, each syllable chiseled from ice, steel blue eyes made of exactly that. His arms in their usual black leather wrappings are crossed over his chest as he reclines in the chair that dwarfs even a man of his stature - compensation, some might say, and the Duke himself would agree, but this is a vestige of a cowardly man intimidated out of his own job. Occupied now by the prisoner daring enough to seize it, with the fearsome three-headed wolf looming behind like some glowering demon, it represents power itself. Mahaut presents himself before it, board straight, arms rigid by his sides after a quick salute over his heart.

”Forgive me for the intrusion, Your Grace.”

The Duke nods to dismiss the formalities. Get to the point, it says, and so Mahaut does.

”There’s a prisoner hoping to meet with you. Fifteen minutes is all he asks.”

Dark eyebrows quirk up slightly, a nearly imperceptible sign of interest. “Did he pay you?”

Startled, Mahaut glances away to weigh his options, even though he knows there is no path here but truth. Pale green eyes raise back up from a divot in the floor. “Not yet, but—”

”How much?”

”Er, seven hundred million,” Mahaut admits sheepishly. The Duke pretends to consider the number, the fate of his guard, the legitimacy of the credit coupons, but this response is carefully controlled. He knows - and has known for some time - that the curious blond outlander would eventually make his move, declare a challenge of some kind, and he knows that there could be no one else behind this exorbitant bribe. When the last notes of the etude fade into the mute scratching of the needle on the disc, he nods and rises to his feet.

”Send him in.”

The answer startles Mahaut a second time, but he quickly composes himself, expression hardening when he salutes again.

“Understood.”

With a bow, the guard excuses himself. The Duke sweeps together his paperwork, thumping it into three separate stacks, which he hides away in a drawer. Then he circles around the desk to flip the record over and set the needle back into place. From the flared, tarnished horn drifts the somber notes of a new etude. Below, the door rumbles again.

Outside, Mahaut delivers the results of Aventurine’s gamble: “You’ve been allowed in.”

　♠　⋮﹒ leave no traces