#|| a polar star in darkest depths ; ajax

[inhumanheresy]

@visionhcld

Ajax wakes slowly.

This in and of itself is unusual. Life in the rank-and-file Fatui barracks would ‘cure’ anyone of deep sleeping, especially a boy with his first patchy whiskers growing in, but Ajax had already learned the folly of deep sleep from both the Abyss and his master. Little else teaches the body quicker than waking up midair while getting tossed into a pack of rifthound whelps.

Now, he wakes to a warm bed, the gentle sound of wind weaving through the trees outside, and the scent of tea. Black tea. Smoky. Lapsang. A memory stirs in the unfamiliar fog of gentle waking.

An all-too-familiar ache permeates his body, but even that lingering pain bites less than it normally does after transforming a second time far too soon after another. He slept a long time, then — long enough for his bones to ease, his flesh to remember what it is to be human. …Human-ish.

It takes a moment to orientate himself as he folds back the covers and swings his legs over the side of the bed, but not long. Good. A deep breath, turning his attention inward and consciously feeling every inch of his body. Sensations. Proportions. Reaction time. All right.

When he levers himself up and walks to the dresser where the tea tray sits, his movement is as steady and assured as usual, no tilt in his balance or tremble to his hands as he pours the tea and tosses back the whole cup with no thought to its heat. Luckily, it’s somehow the perfect temperature, and not at all oversteeped.

Ajax breathes deep, eyes closing, as he once again just stands there and feels. The tea burns not unpleasantly down his throat, warming his chest and belly. The little hairs all over his body stand up and tingle at the sudden change in core temperature compared to the outside air, minute though it is, and he downs a second cup of tea, every second making him more assured of whowhatwhere he is.

And giving his mind time to drag forth the memories of what happened before he passed out.

The little round teacup provides a comforting weight and resistance as his hand tightens around its smooth curve.

He sets it back down on the tea tray and leans his hands against the edge of the dresser. Breathes. Breathes.

Then, he straightens, takes the tea tray, and makes his way out into the main room of the house in Morax’s personal domain. The god himself reclines on a leisure couch, reading, as if nothing out of the ordinary occurred here… however long ago it was. However long he’s been asleep.

Ajax makes his way over, setting the tea tray down on the low table near them before sitting back at Morax’s feet with a great sigh, reaching forward to take his teacup and run his thumb across its lip.

“You probably have more questions.”

[inhumanheresy]

@visionhcld

A golden-bladed speartip digs a quarter of an inch into his chest.

Tartaglia inhales with a sharp hiss as pain flares in his left pectoral, Morax’s weight pressing him inexorably down into the dirt with one foot planted right below his diaphragm. The Harbinger raises his hands as his dual swords splash into formlessness on both sides. “I yield.”

The sun is far higher in the sky than when they first began, and the ache of exertion, bruise, and quick-healed wounds is starting to seep into his bones. Even so, Tartaglia slaps Morax’s calf where the god has him pinned down, this loss marking his… Damn, he’s lost count of how many bouts they’ve gone at this point. “Now off. We go again.”

[inhumanheresy]

@inkbloodcd — for Zhongli

The match between Tartaglia and the Traveler this week is a quick one.

It ends with the tip of a crackling, surging spear against the Traveler’s throat, the golden figure groaning and wincing as they tipped their head back in acceptance of defeat. They’d gotten a few good hits in, Tartaglia admitted as he hauled them up off the floor, but their strength had waned sharply in the latter part of the fight.

“Letting yourself slip, Traveler?” “I’m tired, you ass, it happens sometimes.” “It’d take more than the usual adventurer life to tire you out, Goldie.” “Yeah, well, trekking through the desert kind of sucks. On top of that… have you ever run across an ‘Iniquitous Baptist’ in your experience fighting Abyssal things?” “Heard of them, but haven’t fought one. Are you saying…” “Come along, if the Tsaritsa gives you the leave. Your help’d be great against those pyro shields.”

The thought of a fight against an entirely new kind of opponent lends a spring to Tartaglia’s step even once he shifts back to human, binds up a remaining wound or two that he can feel bleeding, and salutes a jaunty, irreverent two-fingered goodbye to the Traveler as both of them teleport away from the Golden House to their respective destinations.

The one that he ends up at is the gate of an adeptal abode in Jueyun Karst.

He activates the entryway, stepping inside Zhongli’s domain with a wince as he rolls his shoulders. Pain seares with each step. His bones keen a familiar ache, the price of his transformation from a human form to an abyssal one, then back again, but it bothers him only a little more than it usually does. That’s not bad. Manageable, for sure.

A Liyuen-style home sits nestled in a cleft of rock made by two weathered karst spires much like the ones outside, stone steps carved out of the base rock leading up to the entry. Boots slipped off at the threshold and a nice breeze making its way in from the open-roofed courtyard rock garden, he pads inside to find his… friend? More-than-friend? Whatever definition that normal people might give to this thing between them that they’ve rebuilt and grown since the Gnosis Incident?

Zhongli should have tea water boiling by this point. It’s become a near-ritual after his weekly fights with the Traveler: bruised, satisfied, and with the thrill of a good battle still singing through him, he drags himself to Zhongli’s abode — some weeks more literally than others — and accepts a cup of tea as he slumps into a comfortable seat, distracting himself from the residual agony in his body by listening to the former Archon speak on anything and everything.

He finds Zhongli spooning out tea leaves for the pot with meticulous precision, his adeptal form looking more natural and at home in this realm than Tartaglia’s own human one does. Clawed Geo-gold hands act with motions so long-practiced that they have transcended ritual and become art, exacting intent in every movement.

Ajax grins at the sight. Though pain still courses through his body, almost-constantly weathering a new flare everywhere from skin to marrow, there’s an air of relaxation and comfort in a moment like this that he cannot help but succumb to.

“Hey there, you old lizard. What’s the tea you’ve chosen for tonight?”

[inhumanheresy]

what does your heart look like?

a compass that doesn't waver

You are someone who is certain of what you want. Maybe you always have been, or maybe you made a discovery that you haven’t been able to tear your eyes away from. Your heart is set and certain. You fight endlessly for your goals. Above all else, you know who you are and what you are trying to achieve. Just be careful not to tear yourself or others apart in pursuit of your ideals.

Tagged by: @fatesweave! thank you Light! Tagging: @visionhcld (Albedo); @poswiecenia (Lumine); and anyone who hasn't done it yet for a muse of your choosing!

[inhumanheresy]

@svnsworn sent:

The walls of Meropide are some of the most defensible in Fontaine - perhaps in all of Teyvat, though Neuvillette hasn't been to the other nations in quite a long time, so he can't say that for certain. But he trusts the establishment itself, as well as all of the guards within it, to ensure that no one leaves once they are brought in. The prisoners are to stay, but those awaiting trial still have a chance to see the world outside these walls again someday. Wriothesly waves Neuvillette through after a thorough pat-down, telling him which cell this particular prisoner is in. There is no need for a guide; Neuvillette has been here many times before. He knows the way. It takes several minutes, but soon, he arrives to find the Fatui Harbinger in a cell, heavily guarded by magic and guards, chained to a wall with just enough space to move around within the confines he is allowed. There is little doubt that Childe could break through these bonds were he to even begin to change into his other form, the one seen within the courtroom before Neuvillette had to stop him. But there is far more at play in Meropide than even just what protects the cells. For a long moment, he simply stares at the prisoner, trying to make some sort of guess as to why the Oratrice gave the verdict it did. Childe did not have anything to do with the disappearances of the girls, and that, it seemed, was what even the end of Childe's trial had been about. Perhaps the Oratrice had seen something deeper, something that the Chief Justice could not. These have been his thoughts for a while as of late. A guard brings a flimsy chair over for Neuvillette to sit on, and he does precisely that, barely making a sound as he does. With legs crossed and hands clasped upon his knees, Neuvillette finally speaks. "The Oratrice is never wrong," he says steadily, gaze holding fast, studying the minute movements that the other man makes. "You are guilty of something. Perhaps more than you let on." He lets the statement hang in the air; he does not know how he will answer. Asking outright might get nothing at all, though that would ideally be the way to get any information. Alas, that has not proved to be the case in a good many years.

“Chief Justice! Well, of all the visitors I might get, I certainly wasn’t expecting you.”

Tartaglia saunters towards his ‘guest’ until he’s nearly at the bars that separate them, enough slack in his chains to gesture, but not to actually reach said bars. He grins broadly and with an impish cheer, an expression wholly unsuited for a man imprisoned, shackled under elemental-suppressor cuffs, and fed what must be the most atrocious fare in the entirety of Fontaine.

At the Iudex’s opening statement, Tartaglia tsks, his eyes, sharp and strangely indigo, fixing on Neuvillette with an assessing, interested gaze. “And yet you make that statement here and now, the very first thing you say to me after that absolute farce of a determination. Sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself here more than me, Monsieur Neuvillette. Maybe, despite your words, even you aren’t absolutely sure that your little Justice Machine is one hundred percent infallible?”

The Harbinger spreads his arms with a jangle of chains in a theatrically wide gesture, the thick metal cuffs stark grey against scarlet chitin and wrists black as pitch, the armor of his transformation dissipated but his body still apparently stuck partway into the change that he’d initiated in the courtroom.

“The audience in the opera house at the time certainly didn’t sound convinced of its correctness when it spat out its judgement receipt. Sure, I may be guilty of other things — tipping at Liyuen restaurants despite the local custom there, for instance — but I did not lie when I said that I have nothing to do with that kidnapping, dissolving, whatever-you-want-to-call-it case.

“But besides that—” Tartaglia starts to cross his arms over his chest, finds that the length of the chains won’t let him do so unless he backs up, and settles for stepping forward, his reach just enough to drag one claw down the side of a bar, his gaze never wavering from Neuvillette’s stoic lilac stare.

“—your machine’s errors aside, I accepted your leveling of those charges for the sole reason of participating in your nation’s tradition of trial by combat.” Skreeeeek. “A right which I was not offered. Now, I’m no lawyer, but shouldn’t that fact alone invalidate the court’s decision?

“Tell me then, your Honor: where am I to find justice in Fontaine?” He leans forward, chains pulling taut, and drags one talon against the metal yet again — skreeeek. “Because there was none present when the Oratrice named me ‘guilty’.”

[inhumanheresy]

Yana is no healer, so she has no choice but to place her trust in the doctors and caregivers at the hospital. They have the experience and knowhow to ensure that Tartaglia is given the best fighting chance to pull back from the precipice of life he dangles from, yet there is no small part of her that feels helpless that she cannot do anything more than watch, wait, offer her company to his unconscious form and remind him that she still needs him.

Arlecchino had briefed her on what happened in Fontaine, with the primordial sea and what information she could glean and deliver from the events that took place, and Yana would be lying if she tried to say that her immediate thoughts weren't to condemn Fontaine to an early oblivion, raze it to the seabed, freeze the ocean and smite the people. The Chief Justice. The Archon, had she not already abdicated. Though Yana raged within her palace, screaming, cursing, swearing damnation upon Fontaine and the Primordial Sea, the exhaustion that followed her storm reminded her that Fontaine could not help its location, what resided beneath.

No, if anything, her Tartaglia was brave for fighting so long against an unimaginably difficult beast, staving off the effects of the Sea so he could live - and she focuses on that instead of the helpless anger she feels at not being able to do anything. At being unable to have helped him then, and still now.

The room clears when she arrives to visit, interrupted only occasionally by healers checking in on him. Her hand rests against his forehead, her frown soft and her eyes melancholy as he fights for life. Always a fighter, even now. "Come back, my Tartaglia," she says softly, not the first time she has said these words since he was returned to Snezhnaya, but, as with every other time she has spoken them, she hopes this time will be the last. That he will awaken now. "I need you back here."

A voice registers at the edge of his senses, soft and foggy in such a way that the words themselves escape both understanding and recognition, but the sound feels warm. Familiar. It draws him towards it in both a want to understand and a desire to be close.

His eyes flutter open, vision hazy in the way of a long, restful sleep. Within that unfocused gaze is… white? Blue? There are pale, cold colours that remind him of… of home, of the last sprint back to the house through the snow and the spruce and the fir, scents sharp and clear aside the muscle burn. Of the glacier that rests in the mountains above Morepesok, expanding and contracting with the seasons like a living, breathing thing as it accumulates snow or lets meltwater flow down to the sea during summer for the salmon runs.

White. White and frosty and home.

“My Tsaritsa,” he says, and his voice creaks out with the gritty, halting depth of long disuse, almost unintelligible. “I—”

A cough interrupts him, a second and more, the need to forcibly clear his throat after so long without speaking, but his words, though still grinding against his throat with the accumulated rust, are a touch clearer after he does so. “Your Majesty.”

Emotions softens his words despite the roughness of their actual delivery, or perhaps softens is the wrong word — Tartaglia’s entire countenance perks up upon recognizing Her presence, even as addled as his perception is right now, and his face brightens in Her presence even when his eyes cannot.

“The battle.” He breathes it, earnest and eager, and the rise of his chest isn’t as high as it should be— or is it? “There was—” Another breath, heaving, now that he’s wakeful and alert. Ish. He remembers— he remembers stars-roots-water, the bright, thick, familiar tendrils of a tree reaching down-up through a vast sea that he somehow remembers both above and below him, but the constellations are different, and the overwhelming presence that he dreamt when he first fell into the Abyss, but now he is ready—

His hand twitches; he manages to move his arm somewhat, reaching for Her, his guiding star—

“The battle. How did it end?”

[inhumanheresy]

( 💧 ) SCENE 92010 ADVENTURERS' GUILD, SNEZHNAYA SHE'S LUCKY THAT out of all she packed with her that a multitude of coats was one of them, 'fore understandably so . . finding herself in the nation of cryo would lead TO FREEZING TEMPERTURES. SHE SNIFFS, FEELING as if even what she wore at current wasn't enough to save her from the chill or whatever affliction may affect her in future. she sighs, taking the mora from katheryne thanks to the simple COMMISSION SHE TOOK earlier in the day. BUT . . FURINA FELT as if she was being watched - though even more so than before. the moment she'd arrived in snezhnaya she noted that a lot of citizens ( and the fatui, but that was to be expected . . ) looked her way for longer than SHE'D DEEM POLITE but now ? IT FELT TARGETED. she turns her head, finally catching ginger hair - oh ! ❝ MONSIEUR TARTAGLIA . . ❞ if any of the fatui harbingers she had to come across, it had to be the one that had not just been declared guilty in her court but also the one she OWED THE MOST thanks too. HOPEFULLY HOWEVER . . hopefully he didn't hold a grudge for the first bit.

Snow falls gently today, rather than sheeting in a torrential whiteout blizzard; it’s a day for many to walk outside and enjoy the sunlight. The breeze from the ends of his long, heavy cloak swirls the flakes as he passes. Tartaglia is a regular sight amongst the people of Snezhnaya’s capital, and as such his presence is one tactfully, thankfully ignored by most save sightseers or the most ardent of admirers.

Even so, the Katheryne posted at the guildfront would, as per her programming, report his appearance to The Marionette as a matter of course — she does like to keep an eye on all the other Harbingers’ operations and locations via her thorough, extensive network — but his being in Zapolyarny City will hardly be a crumb of note beside the presence of the former Hydro Archon.

Childe notes with approval that Furina has chosen fur and thick wool for her attire, long boots over leather leggings that, given their extra width over what he remembers, are undoubtedly lined with a thick layer of insulation.

“Mademoiselle Furina! Well, out of all the people I thought might one day visit our great motherland, I admit your name wasn’t amongst them.” He sends her a radiant smile, all good manners and propriety, though when they’d last seen each other, he’d challenged her to a fight in front of a full courtroom.

“Forgive me for not offering to kiss your hand, as I believe is custom in Fontaine, but it’s a mite too cold outside for that kind of greeting, wouldn’t you say? And if I’m mistaken altogether, then I’m afraid I’ll just have to ask for your forgiveness. That, or you could simply challenge me to a duel for the insult...?”

[inhumanheresy]

@visionhcld — give me your magic lad

Ajax enjoys the theatre.

This particular stage is hardly fit for performances one would see in the Opera Epiclese or the Zapolyarny Grand Theatre, but it sees regular attendance from the local middle and working classes of the Cour de Fontaine, whether it hosts musicians, actors, comedians, or even apparently the occasional author reading a 'sneak peek' chapter of their latest book. A variety of cafés and bars set out seating and tables where the back of their buildings open up onto the partly-covered shared courtyard to take advantage of the entertainment.

Tonight, he's not part of the audience, but up on the stage, wearing an ill-fitting, faded navy suit and acting.

His is only slightly greater than a bit part — a scruffy, morose drunk of a down-on-his-luck businessman, always found feeding the gulls on a park bench in the three times he gets a scene, but one with enough experience in the world to banter back and forth with the lead actress about people, expectations, how much a person can or should change themselves to achieve their dreams, and what it's all worth in the end.

Usually when he takes these small, one-off parts with a local troupe, he's cast in more bombastic or physical roles — or simply takes them, though he's still somewhat surprised that functionally kicking Liu Su off of the teahouse stage to spin a more entertaining tale only got him a mild scolding — so to act as a character that is reliant on the nuance of his line delivery, subtle motion, and reserved body language is a fun change from his usual fare.

The last contribution of his character is that of absence. The lead walks by his empty park bench, chatting with a friend, and the audience is left to interpret this as they will. Childe quite likes this ending of his role; for all that he's fond of being straightforward in reality, the drama of his character's contribution being left up for interpretation and never confirmed either as right or wrong makes for good play material.

Their stage bows are taken to a smattering of applause and a few whistles, and with that he's off, quickly changing out of the provided clothes and ruffling his hair now that it's free of his character's flat cap. Childe is only just settling his mask back where it usually rests cocked to the side of his head as he weaves over to one of his more favoured cafés and flags down a waiter.

"Fireweed tea, if you would, with sweet briar hips. No, don't worry about a table, I'll just find myself an open seat."

[inhumanheresy]

❝ your work friends looked after us again ! one was really grumpy though . . not real nice . . but big brother is home again, so it doesn't matter, ❞ cue teucer hugging childe's arm after excitedly bounding on over to meet him after time apart.

Ajax laughs and ruffles his littlest brother’s hair with a rough tumble before leaning down to scoop Teucer into his arms. “Aww, did you miss me, malysh? It hasn’t been that long since you saw me in Liyue. Have you been behaving for Mama and Papa?”

He won’t see Papa during this visit, save perhaps in passing. Mama does a good job of pretending that The Incident never happened. However, their father still mourns the gentle and innocent child Ajax once was, the untried boy who sat bright-eyed at his knee listening to his stories, who had not yet tasted blood and true hardship, and Ajax wonders if part of his avoidance is also anchored in regret over taking his third son to the Fatui recruiters.

“Speaking of behaving, remember what I told you the first time you found one of my work friends, Teucer? You can’t let anyone know they work with me, ‘cause then everyone will want to talk with them and get them to show off all the cool toys, and they’d never get any research done!” Ajax bops his brother’s nose with a gentle fingertip. “And you wouldn’t want to keep them from making awesome new friends for Mister Cyclops, now would you?”

How on Teyvat Teucer had become observant enough to pick out the plainclothes Fatui he’d stationed to protect and keep watch over his family, he still doesn’t know. Damn, but those skills could make the kid a fine agent or marksman one day.

[inhumanheresy]

@poswiecenia tagged me here, but none of the answers for that quiz were accurate (highly inaccurate for this blog, that quiz was not designed for fucked up villains), so I'm interposing this meme here instead

LET ME ASSIGN YOU A LOVE LANGUAGE

a knife called grief

You have left your house, you have left those people behind, but what are you going to do about the memories which have taken root in you? You can run but not without them. You want someone to sit with you on this cool marble floor while the sun burns everything. You want them to cut your rotten heart and theirs too. You want to sit with it in front of you, let them see you with all your flaws, which haven’t been your fault but you have been made to believe so, and you want them to love you anyways. Because you know you’d do that for them.

tagged by—  @inkbloodcd, you little shit, Because Morax, and @cybrvce for Yana, you know why tagging— nobody else is following me here and that's by design lmao

[inhumanheresy]

Liyue is so vastly different than Sumeru in so many broad ways that it's overwhelming to try and take it all in with just one awed stare at the sheer enormity of differences. But Dehya wears that look for a long minute, trying to decide what to focus on first, before deciding that it would be much easier to just go into the city, start small, get some food and drink, walk the streets, look at the vendor stalls and shops. She's ready to be done walking, as most of her trip from Sumeru was done on foot, but resting can wait for later, after she's had a look around and sound her way to an inn.

And so she does, spending the day meandering without purpose, buying some snacks (and promising herself to go back for more later, because damn that's good), finding her way to the harbor and watching the sea, the ships, taking in the scent of the salty air. It's so different than the dry desert she hails from, and she can feel that same awe from esrlier beginning to fill her mind again. It's incredible.

As the sun sinks towards the horizon and paints the sky with pinks and yellows, she tears her eyes away and glances around. She still has yet to find an inn, but food and drink feels more important. She could go for some wine - or something harder, but she'll save that for when she isn't brand fucking new to the city. A man catches her eye, a mask affixed to the side of his head, the silhouette of what reminds her of a Fatui. Not unusual, there's Fatui everywhere, but he looks far more relaxed than most she's seen. With a smile, she moves towards him.

"Hey there," she says with an air to match what he exudes: casual, friendly, but still with an edge of alertness disguised behind a grin. "You know of any good places here to eat? Preferably with a decent wine to go with it."

Childe heads out of work just before the sky and clouds start turning colours, the sun not yet all the way behind Mount Tianheng. Instead of heading straight back to Baiju Guesthouse, he slips his hands into his pockets and ambles his way southward through the throngs of people on the main street, debating the pros and cons of picking up groceries versus finding a place to eat for dinner against the murmuring backdrop of the crowd.

He has yet to make a decision when a call in a distinctly non-Liyuen accent catches his attention, almost as striking as the visage that accompanies it — a lilting woman’s voice, probably a low alto, he thinks, whose consonants terminate in an unfamiliar manner. Her hair is… wow. That mane alone is extremely eye-catching with its luxurious volume and streaks of gold. The woman wears dusty travel clothes, ones mostly well suited for the heat and humidity of Liyue, but not of any style even remotely close to those worn by people in the harbor.

That leather will be miserable to get out of.

“Depends; do you know how to use chopsticks? My usual dining company is very insistent that,” he folds his hands behind his back as he draws himself up perfectly straight — thanks owed to his old foot-soldier training — and affects a deep, Liyuen-accented voice, “‘Liyuen cuisine can be properly appreciated only when one dines with the appropriate utensils, as the chef and tradition intended’. Restaurants up on Feiyun Slope share that idea, and while you can forego chopsticks there, they’ll give you judgy looks.”

Childe chuckles, his posture relaxing back into his usual lanky ease, and thumbs over his shoulder towards the less-upscale district of Chihu Rock. “But I happen to know that Wanmin Restaurant keeps forks on hand for foreigners; there’s good food there too, and they’re not far from a little hole-in-the-wall place that serves good baijiu and beer both. Chef Mao at Wanmin lets customers bring their own alcohol to the tables so long as nobody gets rowdy.”

The mysterious woman doesn’t look like she’s from Mondstadt or Fontaine, despite the immaculate eye-shade and lines of kohl that would meet the approval of even the strictest salonnière, so he doesn’t extend his hand for an introduction. Instead, he gives her a friendly little two-fingered wave. “Call me ‘Childe’.”

[inhumanheresy]

@svnsworn, continued from ask here:

Ah, leave it to Qiqi to unknowingly cause a stir over a little misunderstanding. It's sweet, even if the situation could have been dealt with properly if Baizhu had been around. Alas, he had been dealing with his own business. His amusement is evident, however, in a lingering smile and affectionate laugh as he pats Qiqi's head and ushers her into the back to fill orders. He expects that all company would leave, but Childe has decided to stay for reasons that Baizhu already suspects, but is confirmed when the Harbinger speaks again. Baizhu is familiar with the Harbingers, including their activities of late that leave a sour taste in many a mouth, but Baizhu isn't one to turn someone away unless absolutely necessary. Usually that's in a medical sense, but, in truth, he is intrigued by what sort of proposition this man could have for him. Coconut milk aside, as he said, Baizhu finds himself wanting for little that he can't obtain in some way on his own. Well, save for the one thing he desires above all else, but it's doubtful that anyone can offer that to him. "Oh?" he says with a curious quirk of a brow, his smile still in place as he eyes the other man. He had begun to pick up a brush to start working on notes, but his attention is given entirely to Childe. "What sort of trade might you be thinking of? I'm afraid I don't think I will be able to offer much outside of the pharmacy." Not entirely a lie; he can practice medicine wherever he goes, and has found that other places have new plants, herbs, fruits, seeds, nectars - so many things that has helped him considerably. But he isn't about to sell himself to a buyer that may not have his, or his pharmacy's, best interests at heart.

“Ah, but I am very much interested in the services your pharmacy can provide, Baizhu-yisheng!” Childe leans his cocked hip against the pharmacy counter, all smile and easy confidence as he kicks one foot back behind the other. While he’s not unfamiliar with the owner of the pharmacy, neither is he familiar with the man. All of their previous interactions were in passing, short and businesslike as Childe purchased painkillers more potent than much of those the regional Fatui headquarters stock, or extra bandages and ointment for his own use.

Still, Baizhu’s reputation both as a doctor and a shopkeeper precedes him. All sorts of rumours abound on the streets of Liyue Harbor — Doctor Baizhu is a miracle worker, Doctor Baizhu makes medicines that smell and taste bad enough to wake the dead, Doctor Baizhu sold something to the Fontaine ambassador that cost half her wallet, and the like.

While the rumours run the gamut of painting Baizhu as scheming or benevolent, one piece of information remains constant: the man never turns away any person truly in need.

“Though not all of our organization are involved in combat, the Fatui are a military; many of our agents risk danger and physical injury daily, and while wounds aren’t an everyday occurrence, thank the Tsaritsa, they are hardly uncommon. Fatui field medics perform admirably, but some cases remain beyond their help and need the expertise of a trained doctor. I propose that, in return for reduced prices, Bubu Pharmacy would become the Liyue Fatui branch’s priority clinic for both wound treatment and medicinal resupply.”

The Harbinger spreads his hands in a wide, magnanimous gesture, eyebrows rising in question. “A fair deal, wouldn’t you say, yisheng?”

[inhumanheresy]

@poswiecenia — Sigewinne starter

Tartaglia vaults the gate of the Pankration Ring almost before the commentator has announced his victory, not particularly interested in sticking around for the crowd’s adulation and attempts to suss out the identity of the ‘masked fighter’. Really, he’s almost surprised at the sheer difference in perception created by a covered face, lack of gloves, pants a different colour than his usual wear, and no shirt. Though his hair narrows down the list of suspects in the Fortress, there are enough redheads here that being ginger isn’t an immediate tell.

He'd rather they not find out. If people realize who he is, there’s a chance they’ll stop lining up to fight him, and the matches in the ring are the greatest enjoyment he can get down in Meropide.

He’s nearly out the door when he jerks to an immediate stop instead, lest he run smack into a figure in the shadows that maybe comes up to his elbows.

The head nurse. Shit.

He doesn’t need any medical attention. Sure, one of his opponents today was quite skilled with her knife and grazed his upper arm when he blocked a stab, and his knuckles wear a thin smearing of blood, but he hesitates to categorize such inconsequential scratches as ‘wounds’. Really, he just needs a shower.

His best, sunniest smile stretching wide behind his mask, visible at the sides and through the laughing theatre grin, Childe thumbs over his shoulder towards the Pankration Ring. “Sigewinne, right? Good thing you’re here. You should take a look at the third contender I fought — busted my knuckles on his jaw, but I think he came away the worse of us from that.”

The organizers splashed water on the man’s face and handed him an ice pack after the bout, which means that Childe’s Abyss-tainted, corrosive blood probably won’t start eating through the guy’s skin for a while, but Childe isn’t about to stake money on that, and a possible dislocated jaw serves as a solid excuse to slip past the little Melusine.

[inhumanheresy]

for @inkbloodcd

Ajax sighs, stretching out some of that sweet, deep ache as he rolls onto his side, Morax beside him as the adeptus' breath slowly evens out, both of them floating back down from their respective highs. He smirks, reaching over to trace one of the bites he'd left at the junction of throat and shoulder, not quite drawing blood but more than deep enough to bloom a blue-black bruise below the skin.

Any mark more shallow on Morax fades fast. Incredibly fast. Damn the innate healing factor of a god for never letting him savor the imprint of his hands on Morax's hips or lingering nail rakes down his back or the marks of light, sharp nips on his inner thighs or the nape of his neck.

At least he can appreciate these while they last. He swipes his thumb up to press against the pulse-point beneath Morax's jaw, listening for a hitch of breath, feeling for the lean into the pressure or away to follow the guiding touch.

What am I but a bruise, ever fading fast?

He breathes out, stroking that pulse.

"Do you ever scar? Or is that something not possible, what with how fast you heal, or if wounds don't stick with you through shifting your form?"

[inhumanheresy]

@inkbloodcd, from here:

despite its apparent suddenness, the gesture is entirely expected and welcomed, too, of course. morax had sensed it, smelled a now familiar need the very moment tartaglia had appeared, a shadow lurking at the other side of his door. and so, he'd simply waited, willing, for the man to properly approach, breath held behind a jaw too tense, footsteps too heavy as he quickly crosses the floor. and then, that breath once held releases. and the force that meets him is enough to send any other man to his knees, tumbling to the floor. but, he is ready as ever, an ever opposite, but equal force of his own. those teeth, sharp, hold nothing back. and in truth, he would not have wanted them to. a moan of both amusement and pleasure escapes him. and when they break— only to breathe— his own teeth seem to sharpen. he grins. and then, he bites back.

It is a pleasure unequaled to meet Morax and encounter a power steady and rooted enough in its surety to meet him in a clash of force and will and want that he does not bowl them over but makes them both realign their footing, angle, point of interception.

His open-mouthed, sharp-toothed kiss? devouring? lands at the corner of Zhongli-Morax Morax Morax's mouth but the pressure behind his insistent need skates his aim inward, his teeth catching Morax's lower lip and savaging it before plunging his tongue into his mouth and curling it against the soft palate, flicking demandingly against the hard, but then blood—

Damn dragon decided to get his fangs out, huh? Exulted, elated, Tartaglia breaks the kiss as Morax does, licking across his teeth and savoring the taste of his own tainted, acidic blood, his tongue sliced open by the needle-point of one of Morax's canines, his lip not only split but carved open from that bite, a chunk of flesh parted and sure to scar.

That moan, though, drives him to greater heights than even the collision with an equal, bodily or otherwise.

He smiles, broad and open-mouthed, the sparking stretch of skin providing an assurance that Morax's bite will leave a permanent mark, another crease on his lip, and in return he digs his thumbs into Morax's hips where they slide from sturdy bone into giving flesh and he sinks them in, pulling the two of them body-to-body.

His own canines flash in his wide grin as he presses his forehead to Morax's, settles the side of his larger nose against the other's, and uses the honorific that has long since become superfluous between them—

"Miss me, xiansheng?"

[inhumanheresy]

"Here, let me." His tone is light but still brooks no argument as he snatches up the hairbrush and settles in behind Morax, deft fingers having already made fast work of the tie at his nape. "You just relax and I'll take care of this for you."

Ajax knows the drill; start at the ends and work your way up. He cards his fingers through Morax's unbound hair before he does any brushing, damp-earth brown flowing soft as silk between them, bark-patterns in an ancient tree.

As the gentle touch reaches his crown, Ajax's pinky bumps one of the antlers that rise in a graceful, branching curve from the adeptus' head, the honey-gold a bright, luminous contrast against the darker hair. His nail scratches across the base of it, a fleeting touch against the bone, and it's— he's just now realizing that they're soft.

The radiance that illuminates the tips, much as it does the patterns that run like leylines over Morax's body, softens at the edge, and this close he can see the minute layer of fuzz on his antlers that dissipates the light. Like snow-haze.

"Huh." A few more strokes, assuring himself that all large tangles are out, and he gathers the long queue draping down the dragon's back to start his brushing at the end. First, though, he reaches up to run the back of a curious finger down the length of one of those velvety-soft antlers. "Do these need any special care, too?"

for @inkbloodcd, you filthy, filthy enabler. this is only what you deserve.